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“All hail Hera Drakul, Queen of Ravenloft!”
 
Hera looks with approval over her court, bowing and curtseying as low as possible as she strides toward her throne. Her cloak- made from the feathers of ravens and once worn by her father- trails behind her, the weight of it slowing her steps to a stately promenade.

I can’t believe this is happening,

she thinks giddily.

I’m being crowned queen of a place that...well...that hasn’t had a proper sovereign in my lifetime.

I

am their sovereign.

I

saved them from the curse. The usurper is dead, and now the daughter of the true leader reigns. For a time, anyway.

Zeus, standing beside her throne, bows with a small smirk. Like her, he is dressed in black and red, the same colors they found themselves dressed in when they first appeared in Ravenloft only a few short weeks ago. They never did find out why the Dark Powers chose to dress them so oddly, but the style and color marked them for what they were- vampiric nobility. But Zeus always shared her vanity- even now her twin’s white hair magically glows, making him stand out in the cavernous throne room.
 
Hera takes a moment to survey her small court, some newly arrived with the reopening of Ravenloft’s doors, others- like her new friend and lover Jami, who she met during this wild adventure- are here for the ceremony only. With a small smile, she sits, her black gown nearly fading into the shadows all around.

More candles and magical lighting,

she decides.

The court should be a bright spot amidst the darkness. Let them come to me for their light.

“Never before have we had a Queen so courageous and true, the daughter of our own beloved Drakul bloodline. Princess Hera defeated the usurper Strahd and has agreed to take her proper place as Queen.” The Duke, her uncle by blood-bond, stands before her, an ancient, ornate silverite crown heavy with rubies and onyx in his hands.
 
For days she, Zeus, and the Duke had been going over the right of passage to make her queen, and Zeus her heir apparent; and for nights on end, she and Zeus went round and round about it. She had wanted to make him king and rule alongside him, but he had refused time and again, content to be a prince and heir. And now, after it was all over and her friends had all left Ravenloft, it was time.
 
Her uncle steps forward and places the crown on her head, giving her a moment to adjust to its surprising weight. As soon as he steps back and kneels before her, trumpets blare and the court cheers its approval.
 
“And now, for the Bonding,” her uncle says solemnly as he rises. “The first King, who brought Ravenloft into existence and harnessed its power, extracted his heart blood, to be drunk by his successor so they may know the power and knowledge of their realm. Such a tradition has continued, and today our Queen Hera will drink her father’s blood, then withstand a needle driven into her heart to extract her own vial.”
 
A servant appears with a gold jeweled chalice, and the Duke breaks the seal on a small bottle of deep red blood. It had begun to glow since the rightful king’s death, ready for the heir to partake of the knowledge and history of Ravenloft. When her own blood is extracted, it will stay in the vault until her death, and on that day, it will begin to glow and heat itself for her own heir. Hera hesitates, knowing her father was a full vampire and she wonders if it will turn her as well. She glances at Zeus in apprehension, but he only smiles proudly and nods.

No turning back now,

she thinks.

Besides, to turn me is to kill me, and the Dark Powers were very clear about that.

The Duke comes forward bearing the chalice, and Hera stands to accept it. Like the crown, it has been handed down through the generations, both as an important part of the Bonding, and to show that Ravenloft and its mines have always been rich with minerals. Turning it in her hands, she can feel the warmth of the blood through the metal.
 
“Cheers,” she says lightly and drains the cup.
 
The effect is instant and intoxicating. Centuries of history and power surge through her, and she feels glorious and god-like. Her magic goes through her like a tidal wave, and to onlookers, she looks to be both glowing and impossibly shadowed at once.

Happy name day, daughter,

she hears whispered in her ear.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Once she’s fully recovered from the Bonding, Hera gestures to her brother, who in turn nods to Jami. The fire wizard takes great pleasure in kicking one of the minor nobles in the back of the knee, causing him to fall with a cry. Hera walks over to him, the only sound the soft susurrus of her gown on the floor. Everyone around takes several steps back except Jamison, who looks surprised. 
“Eh...sorry,” he chuckles, jumping back and knocking into his brother behind him. "Hey!" he snaps, brushing his wild blonde hair out of his eyes. "Watch it!"
 
“Bits is being

scary

,” his brother whispers, breaking his near-constant silence. The enormous man cowers behind his scrawny brother, large belly rippling with his trembles.
 
“Shut up you!”
 
Hera ignores their antics and looks down at the dhampir trembling on his knees before her. “You opened the gates to the usurper Strahd,” she says slowly, her voice carrying through the silent hall. “You corresponded with him, giving details of my father the king’s itinerary so that he knew

exactly

when to strike. You even disabled the Duke and locked him away before the attack. Tell me, Cousin,” she says, spitting the word out as if it has a foul taste. “How did he seal the gates once inside?” 
 
“T-T-There was a- a deal, Darkness,” he stammers, not daring to look up at her when she rises and begins to circle him. “With the Dark Powers. I do n-not know the details…”
 
“Yet you knew enough to allow my father, your

king

, to be locked out of his realm and hunted down like a dog,” she accuses, her expression as cold and impassive as stone. “Because of your actions, half the court was murdered by his assassins, and the rest trapped within our realm with no escape." Her voice softens, and she lifts his chin with a finger. "Tell me, Nicolae, did you have help?”
 
“Yes!” he cries. “The Marchioness aided me! She swore-”
 
“Marchioness Arianne?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, but otherwise keeping her expression unsettlingly blank. She looks around those assembled, finally picking out the angelic beauty. “Come forward, madam.”
 
Unlike Hera, the Marchioness is a full vampire, dressed in the deepest blue to compliment her golden curls and sapphire eyes, her skirts swirling as she sweeps up the hall and kneels before the throne. “Your Majesty,” she croons, lowering her head.
 
“Is what the Duke’s son says true?” Hera slowly returns to her throne as she speaks. "Did you assist him?"
 
The woman’s head raises, a look of utter sincerity on her face. “No, your Majesty,” she says evenly. “He will say I promised him the blood, in exchange for my help. Everyone knows he cannot bear being only half vampire.”
 
“And did you?” Zeus asks from beside Hera. “Did you promise to turn him fully once Strahd was on the throne?”
 
Arianne has the grace to look away. “I promised Nicolae the blood, yes,” she admits. “But only because we were lovers! I had thought that I could not bear to be without him, but when he opened the gates against the Duke’s orders, my heart turned against him.” To emphasize her feelings, she shoots the handsome man a scathing look. “I would not spit on him were he on fire.”
 
Hera has to stop herself from frowning. Hiding her feelings is not part of her art, but it is always part of her politics.

Zeus would be better at this than I. A gambler gives away nothing, but a courtesan gives away everything.

No sooner had the crown rested on her brow did the Duke bring up the charges against several members of the court- the first being his own bastard dhampir son- accused of aiding the usurper Strahd in his campaign against her father. He was right to do so, of course; they could not be left to plot against her now. She taps her fingernails against the arm of her throne, studying the marchioness.
 
“What would I discover if I cast a spell just now, Arianne?” she asks. “Would I discover that you’re telling me the truth, and you had nothing to do with it?”
 
“He did ask my help, but I never promised him anything,” the woman says. “Majesty, why would I harm my own standing at court? I am your true family- we are bound by blood through your very father! King Vlad was my Maker as surely as he was the Duke's!”
 
Hera nods, considering this. Arianne is one of the few turned from human to vampire by her father- otherwise, there is only the Duke and one other who is said to have died long ago. She is well aware that Arianne is also in line for her throne, and that the only reason Hera holds it is because she is both a

natural

child of the Drakul line and the one who killed Strahd.

However...she

knew

,

she thinks and makes a decision. Rising to her feet, the courtiers all fall into deep bows or curtsies, holding them until they know for sure what she will do. Hera lifts a hand, and a black mist creeps from the shadowed edges of the hall.
 
“He asked you for help, did he?” she asks, a cold smile spreading across her face. From the mist comes darker tendrils, like icy fingers wrapping around Arianne and Nicolae.
 
Nicolae struggles against the shadows holding him, his face fearful. Hera’s heart aches for him- he is dhampir, like herself, the bastard son of the Duke and some long-lost human- but the pain he has caused turns it to stone.
 
Arianne goes pale as she is lifted from the floor, suspended by the tendrils of shadow. “Yes, Majesty!” she screams. “He asked, but I didn’t do anything! Have mercy, please!”
 
Hera steps closer, and Arianne is lowered to eye level. “No, you didn’t

do

anything,” she says, drawing a black-lacquered nail across her cheek. “That is the problem. Tell me, dear Aunt,” Hera croons, “do you love him?” The woman’s face says it all, and Hera makes a clucking sound with her tongue. “What a pity. I’m sorry, Arianne,” she says coldly. “You will have to do nothing once again. But you're good at that, aren't you?”
 
The shadows hold them both in place, and silver bowls appear on the floor. Nicolae’s arms are stretched out, and Hera uses her magic to tear the sleeves away from them. The court watches, murmuring softly as she walks over to her brother, taking something they cannot see from him.
 
“I would do this for you,” he offers softly so that no one else can hear him. “Or the Duke. You do not have to do this.”
 
Hera meets his gaze, her face impassive and her eyes cold. “Yes, I do.” Slipping the sharp onyx claw over her fingertip, she approaches Nicolae. “Ravenloft bled because of you,” she says loudly. “Now you will bleed because of me.”
 
With a quick movement, she slashes both his wrists, watching the blood seep along the cut. He struggles, fighting the shadows, but they hold firm. Hera waves her hand, and a heavily jeweled, silverite chalice appears in it. Catching the first spurts of blood, she drinks, her eyes meeting Arianne’s.
 
“Do you know, brother,” she says, turning to Zeus with a playful smile and a casual tone. “The blood of a traitor tastes rather bitter.” She pours the blood onto the floor, giving the court a cold look. “I wouldn’t have my people drink such a bitter vintage. Drain them almost to death, and throw them to the wolves. Let it be known that I will not suffer traitors to live. When that’s done,” she adds, turning to Zeus, “we’ll continue the celebrations, shall we?”
 
“Of course, sweet sister,” he agrees, bowing to her.
 
“Move the executions to the village square,” she commands the Duke. “I want the people to see that those responsible for their suffering are punished. I will return in an hour.”
 
“Yes, your Majesty,” the Duke says, and snaps to the guards behind him.
 
Hera gives Arianne one last smile and leans in to whisper in her ear. “What a pity,” she murmurs, breathing against her neck. “I’m told you were a darling of the court.”
 
The chalice in her hand disappears in a wisp of shadow, and without so much as another glance, Hera walks out of the hall as Arianne begins to scream.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“That was...difficult.”
 
Hera doesn’t move at the sound of her twin’s voice. “I do not want to talk about it,” she says in a flat voice. “She was family. He was one of us.”
 
“Very well,” he agrees, changing tactics quickly. “You’ve defeated Strahd’s castle of nightmares, destroyed him and his curse, and taken our father’s throne,” Zeus says with cheer. “The Drakul line is once again in power. Are you happy, O Queen of Darkness?”
 
Hera glances at her brother over her shoulder. “Maybe.”
 
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his cheer dissolving.
 
She turns from the lovely view her balcony provides of the forest and leans against the rail. “It’s an awful lot of work, this business of queening. I would rather have left it to you.”
 
“Missing Sigil and your brothel already? What a devoted madam you are,” he teases. When it doesn’t result in the intended smile, he comes closer and leans on the railing with her. “Come now, Ravenloft can’t be much more work than running a pleasure empire, can it?”
 
“That, and more,” she sighs, pushing her hair over her shoulder. “I just thought...I thought I would be fulfilled, being the adored queen of Ravenloft. I don’t mind the work, really, but…”
 
“You’re lonely, perhaps?” he suggests. “Hungry for better company? Take a different lover; it’s unlike you to be without someone amusing. Jamison is hardly worthy of you,” he says with a scowl.
 
Hera doesn’t answer for a moment, crossing her arms loosely. “I don’t know. Maybe it is time for a change. Jamison and his brother

should

be on their way as well, it isn’t safe for them here. It’s just...this place. Our connection to it. It makes me think about Anatoly, and how he betrayed us and I’m furious. And...” she pauses, looking up at her twin as her throat closes on the words.

And I’m going to die. I had rather hoped it would be an enjoyable two years,

she thinks.
 
“And you miss him, even after all this time. I understand. But that wasn’t love, Hera,” he insists softly, coming over to embrace her. “Not for him. That was lust, and lust you know well.”
 
Hera stays silent for a few moments, keeping the truth from him.

I don’t miss Anatoly, I’m glad I sent his death to him. But I want...something else.

“You know, brother,” she says after a while. “I think I was happier in Sigil as the Queen of Courtesans. It felt like freedom, then. There was adventure to be had in that city.”
 
“Perhaps our blessed mother should have named you Aphrodite.” He straightens and claps his hands. “Let’s get you into another gown and start celebrating. That wiry fool Jamison is waiting for you.”
 
“I wish you liked him better.”
 
“I wish he didn’t call you

Bits.

”

One day, sweet sister, you’ll find someone,

he thinks, watching her ponder over a new gown.

And they will be worthy of you in a way no one else ever could be.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alone for the first time in months, Hera trails her fingers along the trunks of trees as she wanders in the Queen’s Forest, taking an hour to herself before the day truly begins. The spirits that normally haunt this place have faded with the dawn, leaving her with only the silence and the knowledge that soon the royal guard will notice her absence and come searching. But for now, the forest is hers alone, and she intends to savor the peace.
 
Zeus has planned an enormous, decadent party to celebrate both their name day and the first anniversary of her reign. Fulfillment in

that

role came slowly, but arrived nonetheless. She loves her people, her place with them. Being queen has given her a feeling of accomplishment that nothing else ever has: not their adventures across the planes or the passion of her many lovers, not even running her pleasure-house in Sigil, City of Doors. That had been a life of indulgence and self-adulation, and though she misses it from time to time, knowing that she is improving the lives of her people and fulfilling the destiny her father planned for them gives her a deeper feeling.
 
But the court continues pressing her to marry, to join forces with a ruler on another plane and bring Ravenloft into a new era. Hera doesn’t see the point of it- in another year she’ll be dead and Zeus will be king. Better he should make alliances than her. She hasn’t even taken a formal lover since sending Jamison away, much to her brother’s concern. He had thought she would take one of the courtiers. It’s not like her to deny herself...well, anything, and she feels strange about her general celibacy. It’s not quite loneliness- not that she would truly recognize such an emotion- but there is an...emptiness there. Like missing someone she’s never met.
 
Shaking her head, she puts those thoughts aside; love is not in her future, and she should accept that getting attached to anyone would end only in disaster. She cannot afford the risk a lover could possibly bring.
 
The thick mist burns away slowly, making her feel like she’s in a fairy tale as trees and undergrowth pluck at her gown and cloak. Dressed in the deepest of red silk with a black velvet cloak to guard against the chill morning, her jewelry and crown sparkling, she knows exactly the picture she makes: a foolish young queen begging for trouble. But she also knows exactly what she is: a powerful sorceress who took her crown with her own bloodstained hands. Someone who is adored and feared in equal measures.
 
And if she were to be completely honest with herself, she finds it all a bit boring and predictable.
 
There’s no excitement anymore, no scandalous affairs with vulgar amounts of money behind them, in fact, she can hardly find time to attend the opera in Sigil with her brother. Ruling Ravenloft should have been her greatest achievement; she was a

queen,

but all she could think was how dreadfully dull it was to spend the day listening to what other people wanted and never having time for her own desires.
 
Humming softly to herself, she pauses when she sees a flash of light off to her left. “Curious,” she murmurs, turning. “No one is usually here this-” She breaks off when she foolishly steps through a tangle of wild autumn roses, her gown catching on the briars as they wrap themselves around her legs from the knee down, stopping her in her tracks. “A mirror? Out here?”
 
A beautiful mirror stands in the smallest of clearings, morning light flashing on the dull glass. Odd in itself, it doesn’t reveal a reflection at all; instead, the glass is a silver whirlwind of what can only be magic; she can feel it pulsing along her flesh, feel her own magic making her blood race in answer. It certainly isn’t anything she’s seen here before, but she can

feel

it’s age as surely as the wind in her hair. It’s only just out of her reach, but the pull of it is undeniable.

Adventure,

it whispers to her, soft and alluring.

What is it?

she wonders, tilting her head. Has a new doorway spawned? If so, it should be secured and determined where it leads. We'll also have to build a permanent structure, a mirror simply won't allow for much to pass through should there be an interest in trade-
 
Suddenly, a body is thrown from

inside

the mirror, a man rolling head over heels across the clearing, and her heart leaps in surprise. She gasps, still trapped amid the thorns, as he lies there breathing heavily. “Hello?” she says softly.
 
He doesn’t respond, so she takes a moment to study him. He is a mature man, at least forty years old, with an untidy beard sprouting and a little gray streaking through his walnut hair. His clothes are torn and bloody, but she can make out a blue and grey striped tabard beneath his chainmail. He is scarred, and injured badly, judging from the blood spreading across his middle.
 
“Hello?” she calls again. “If you’re alive, I can help you. Well, I could help you if you’re dead, too,” she amends quickly. “If you’re alive, please let me know.”
 
“I’m alive,” she hears, followed by a groan. “Maybe.” She sees him open his eyes and turn his head to look at her. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus before they widen in shock. “What is this, some Maker-damned fairy tale? A demon’s illusion?”
 
With a self-deprecating smile, Hera looks down at herself, wrapped in roses and thorns. “I do not know your Maker, but this does seem a bit ‘princess lost in the woods,’ doesn’t it? Perhaps you are here to save me from myself?”
 
“Who are you?” he demands, trying to sit up before groaning and falling back.
 
“Hera Drakul, Queen of Ravenloft. The Raven Queen is what my subjects call me.”

Adventure

. It radiates off him like a heartbeat, and hers thuds in time with it.
 
“Am I dead?”
 
“Probably not,” she assures him. “Although in this world one cannot always be sure. Who are you?”
 
“My name is Tybalt. I’m a Grey Warden.”
 
“Well, I don’t know what that is,” she says pleasantly, “but it is a pleasure to meet you. Can you move, or shall I assist you?”
 
The man sits up slowly, groaning and gasping in pain. “How could you assist me?”
 
“I can heal your wounds.”
 
“You look to be in a bit of a bind yourself.”
 
Hera’s welcoming smile turns into a mischievous grin. “I could assist you from here, should you like. I know a spell or two.”
 
“Are you an apostate? A witch of the woods?” he asks, panicking. “Am I in the wilds?”
 
“Certainly not,” she answers, offended. “This is the Queen’s Forest, and while you might call me a witch, it’s not a term I generally allow. I am a sorceress,” she explains, tossing her head proudly. “And the queen of this realm.”
 
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
 
Hera raises a hand and points to her crown. “Do your witches in the woods generally wear crowns?”
 
Tybalt stares at her, blinking as if seeing her for the first time. “No, no I don’t suppose they do.”
 
“I thought not. Almost everyone here can perform some small magic. Shall I assist you, by healing your wounds, Master Tybalt?”
 
“I won’t be able to help you out of that briar patch if you don’t.”

“Lie back and relax, this will hurt a little.” With a whisper and a wave of her hand, the spell is cast and he cries out in pain, his back arching.
 
“A little?” he gasps, sitting back up after a moment. "You're a witch and a liar, I suppose."
 
"It’s always different for humans, I suppose.” She shrugs and smiles. “Now a liar is different than a witch, and I'll not deny that." 
 
“Are you an elf?”
 
“What I am doesn’t matter,” she says, and waves her hand again, mending his armor and clothing. “There you are, that’s nicer.”
 
Tybalt stands slowly, amazed that his body is no longer in pain. All his injuries, from the broken ribs to the smallest scratch are gone, and his gear looks almost new. “That’s...by the Maker…”
 
“Refreshing, isn’t it? Now, if you don’t mind…” she looks pointedly at the rose vines. "I could do it myself, but it might get...messy."
 
“Of course, your...Majesty.” Tybalt nods and strides over, squatting to examine her plight. “I don’t think we can get you out without ruining your dress.”
 
“It’s only a dress,” she says and shrugs again. “I have others.”
 
He rises and looks down at her with confusion. “You seem awfully calm to have just seen a warrior tumble into a forest out of a mirror.”
 
“From another world, covered in battle wounds,” she adds helpfully, raising an eyebrow. “None of this strikes me as unusual in the slightest. Would you believe me that this isn’t the first plane I’ve walked?”
 
“I don’t understand what you mean, but here we are,” he says, grasping her hands. “I’ll pull, you just try not to get cut to ribbons.”
 
“I’ve never minded a little blood,” she chuckles, tightening her grip on his hands.

Adventure. This man reeks of it.

Tybalt jerks her arm, but she only gets pulled deeper into the patch. “Well blast it all,” he mutters. “I’m going to have to try and lift you out. May I?”
 
Hera gives him a slow, seductive smile. “Please do.”
 
He nods and wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her up and jerking back at the same time. With a curse, they stumble, and Tybalt trips over the edge of the mirror, and they fall. Hera’s head hits the frame as she falls into darkness.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“My lady?”
 
Hera ignores the unfamiliar voice and the concern laced through it, clenching her eyes tight and turning her head away.

Not now,

she thinks,

let someone else handle it. I'm just a queen, not a god.

“My lady? If you’re alive, please let me know.”

What?

Brows coming together in a frown, her lashes flutter before lifting to reveal the loveliest of violet eyes. “I’m not certain,” she rasps, her throat and mouth full of dust.
 
The Grey Warden Tybalt kneels before her, his face full of concern. “Let me assist you,” he says, helping her to a sitting position. “My lady, I’m so sorry,” he tells her. “We tripped, and now we’ve traveled back through the mirror.”
 
She puts a hand to her aching head, the clamor of pain so intense it takes a moment for his words to have meaning. When they do, surprise flashes across her face as she looks around her. “I can just go back...wait, where is it?” she cries in a panic, looking around them. “I must go back, where is the mirror?”
 
Tybalt looks away guiltily. “It had to be destroyed,” he tells her, nodding behind her. “Darkspawn were using it to enter your world, and the only way to stop them was to break the mirror.”
 
Hera turns to see the remains of a duplicate mirror, just like the one in her forest. The dark glass is shattered, magic no longer swirling within, and the frame is notched from multiple blades. That's when she sees the bodies of nightmarish creatures all around her. The majority are small, their skin sickly green like rotting flesh, reminding her of a horde of goblins she, Zeus, and their friends had fought on their way through in Ravenloft’s dungeons. Hera and Jamison had stood together, shielded by their brothers, and used all the power they’d possessed to fill the dungeon with enough fire to destroy them. But these...

It’s too many to fight in the open,

she thinks, studying them closely.

They definitely aren’t goblins. They’re bigger, darker, almost like an orc.

She leans closer, looking down at the mismatched armor they all seem to wear. “What

are

these things?” she asks, horrified by the rictus grin stretching across its skull.
 
“These are the darkspawn,” Tybalt explains softly. “My men and I were attacked here, and the mirror appeared during the battle and I fell in. The battle was still going on when we fell back through. My lady, the mirror

had

to be destroyed, as a Grey Warden I couldn’t allow the darkspawn to enter your world and cause a Blight there as well.” He is again injured, but he is not alone. Several yards away, three other men wait, bandages wrapped around arms and knees.
 
“No,” she whispers, reaching out for a shard. “No. I’d just settled into the crown. I haven’t prepared Zeus for- there hasn’t been enough time. I have to go back. The door is here somewhere, we must find it.”
 
Tybalt puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my lady, but we cannot stay here. I have to move on, and you can’t stay alone. Can you walk? Let me help you up.”
 
She grabs Tybalt’s arm to stay him. “Wait,” she whispers. “Please. Don’t tell them who I am,” she pleads. “Don’t tell anyone I’m a queen.”
 
“What should I tell them? I cannot lie to my brothers.”
 
“If you tell them I’m a famous courtesan, you won’t be lying,” she assures him. “I am. Before I was crowned I was the most famous and adored courtesan across the planes- in many other worlds,” she explains. “Please, Tybalt. Don’t tell them.”
 
After a moment’s hesitation, he nods. “I won’t. But your crown…?”
 
She takes it from him and hides it beneath her cloak. “I’ll just have to sell it when I have the chance. I'm only Hera, a courtesan, remember?”
 
“I understand,” he says and lifts her gently to her feet. “But you must not use your magic here,” he warns under his breath, putting his arm around her to help her walk. “You could be killed for it, and I can’t protect you from the templars.”
 
“Thank you,” she says softly as they approach the group. She winces with every step and looks down to see her skirt is torn up to her hip and her leg is covered in blood-soaked bandages. “What happened to me?”
 
Another man, dressed like Tybalt, reaches out a hand to steady her. “Forgive us, your leg has been hurt, my lady,” he explains. “You were unconscious when you fell through the mirror, and one of the darkspawn cut you before we could get to you. We have no horses, but we can help you walk, or carry you. Ostagar is not too far, we will be there tomorrow.”
 
Hera smiles brilliantly at him, ignoring the pain in her leg. He’s about her height, with a mop of light brown hair falling into warm eyes as dark as newly plowed earth. Slender and pale, he looks like someone more accustomed to a library than a road, but the bow across his back and the long dagger sticking out of his boot gives the impression that he can take care of himself. “I appreciate your help, sir. My name is Hera.”
 
“I am Bertran,” he responds. “You’ve met Tybalt. This is Ivon and Geoffrey,” he adds, pointing to a giant of a man first, and then a weasel-like man who keeps his hands in his pockets.
 
Hera gives each of them a smile in turn. “I do wish this were a pleasure, gentlemen,” she says apologetically. “But might anyone know how to get me home?”
 
“If anyone can help you, it will be the Circle of Magi,” Tybalt explains, sweeping her into his arms and ignoring her painful wince. “Duncan will see that you’re sent home.”
 
"Tybalt, we need to teach you how to handle a woman," she says through clenched teeth. "You nearly gave me whiplash."
 
The Grey Warden chuckles and relaxes his arms a bit so that she may settle more comfortably. "My lady, I know more about handling a woman than any man here."
 
She grins, a bit of her humor returning in the midst of her sudden apprehension. "Funny, so do I."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

She learns that Ostagar is not a city as she expected, but the ruin of a once-great fortress. As they travel, the men tell her of how grand it once was, and the stronghold against what they call Wilder barbarians. They also tell her of the Grey Wardens, an ancient order of heroes vowed to defeat the darkspawn that plague this world. For Hera, an explorer of not a few worlds, it sounds like a grand adventure, but she keeps her mouth shut when she hears the fear and doubt creeping into their voices.
 
“Sir Tybalt, how is your order is so elite?” she asks, staying still while Bertran stitches her skirt during a rest.
 
“We are specially trained,” he explains, handing her a water skin. “Only the best are tested and join the Grey Wardens.”
 
“Grey Wardens are the first and last line of defense against them,” Bertran adds, head down. “We have...abilities, my lady.”
 
“Surely your home has something similar?” Ivon asks incredulously.
 
“Ah...the army is quite small,” she improvises. “I’m afraid I can't really elaborate.”
 
“Well, how would you know, anyway?” Geoffrey chuckles. “You probably spend more time on your back than your feet, am I right?”
 
Before anyone can respond, Tybalt gets them moving again, softly apologizing for the recruit’s rude remark. She shrugs it off, directing the conversation back to the darkspawn and the Blight they face. On this, Bertran leads the conversation, talking excitedly about the different types and sizes, explaining how you can tell a difference just by the shape of their head or the color of their skin.
 
It isn’t long before they start asking about her own life. Hera allows them to believe her human, albeit an exceptionally beautiful one; she’s almost certain telling them that she’s half-vampire would result in a swift death. She tells the group that she was walking in the forest to clear her mind- again not lying- and came across the mirror. She’s not used to being vague about who and what she is, but without her twin- or any comrade really- she’s hesitant to be as brazen as usual.
 
Mostly, she sleeps, the hood of her cloak pulled down over her face as one of the men carries her. She expected to heal quickly, as usual, but something has infected it, and her pain increases instead of lessening. Tybalt mentions something of a taint or poison and increases their speed. Her leg swells and burns, and before nightfall, she shivers with fever. Were she not so unsettled by this unusual turn of events, she would have been worried about her body's sluggish healing.
 
“Ivon, run ahead and see if there is a cart or horse on the road,” Tybalt orders as they make camp. “I would carry you the rest of the way, my lady, but it is still several miles before we reach Ostagar, and I’d rather get you to help quickly.”
 
Dizzy and feverish, she nods, shivering in Bertran’s arms. “I’ll be fine,” she assures them in a weak voice. “This is a minor injury. My family does not get ill.”
 
“I fear you’re the rare exception, then,” Tybalt chuckles, and applies a cool, soothing poultice. "Take this and sleep, my lady. We'll be there soon," he tells her, holding a small bottle to her lips.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Her leg will be fine. I’ve healed it, and the fever is broken. All that remains is for her to wake.” “Thank you, Wynne. Duncan would like to speak with her as soon as she does.” “I’ll send someone for him.” “Ah. Well. He told me to wait if that’s alright with you?” More unfamiliar voices, and further proof that none of this is a dream. After a long pause, Hera opens her eyes slowly after the conversation ends to see the most beautiful human she’s ever laid eyes on. He shines with purity and beauty, a golden nimbus that blinds her. “Oh, you’re awake,” she hears, and he shifts, his head blocking the shaft of sunlight streaming into her eyes and blinding her. “Hello, Hero,” she says softly. The word surprises her, but somehow hero fits this young man perfectly. “Me?” he blushes. “I think you mean Tybalt, my lady. He’s your hero. He’s the one who brought you in.” Hera gives him a shrewd look, still sun-blind. “That may be so, but I know a hero when I see one. Or almost see one,” she adds, holding up a hand to block the light. “Oh. Umm. Sorry, I wanted to get a better look at you,” he explains, twitching the tent flap closed. “Bertran and Geoffrey went on and on about you.” “Bertran is a dear boy,” she jokes and lies back, blinking away the sunspots. What a lovely voice, she thinks. Like a delicious old whiskey. Zeus will be dreadfully jealous. “And Geoffrey is vulgar. Don’t listen to him.” “You...ah...you don’t mind the things he’s said?” “Not really,” she says lightly. “It’s no worse than what’s been said before. Where am I, anyway?” she asks, squinting in the shadows. “An infirmary tent, in Ostagar,” he says. “Do you remember being brought in? Tybalt said you were hurt pretty badly.” His face finally comes into focus, and Hera’s eyes widen. He truly is beautiful, in a very human and real way- not like Hera and Zeus, who look more like gods than mortals. He sports a strong jaw dusted with gold stubble, a nose so perfect sculptors would weep, high cheekbones, and hazel eyes, mostly green warmed with flecks of gold. Right now, they’re staring right into her own, looking stunned. If her heart wasn’t pounding, the call of adventure echoing in her ears, she might wear the same expression. In all her years, she’s never seen a human quite so handsome. He’s just a boy; he can’t be much older than twenty. “Hello,” she says. “My name is Hera.” “I know. I mean- I’ve heard,” he sputters. “I’m Alistair.”  He’s...adorable. Her lips curl into a lazy smile. “A pleasure, Alistair.” “Likewise. Are you feeling well enough to walk, my lady? Duncan wants to speak with you.” “I’m a bastard, not a lady. You can call me whatever you like,” she tells him, clutching the sheet to her chest, unsure of the customs of this place, and experiments with sitting up slowly. The boy quickly offers his hand to steady her, but she is without pain or dizziness. As soon as their hands touch a thrill runs along her arm, making her eyes fly to his face to see if he felt it as well. How curious. Is he to be a patron, then? “It seems I’m well enough. Are your physicians so great they can heal an infected wound so quickly?” “Magic,” he explains, his expression shrouded. Hera feels a slight tremble in his hand before he releases her and backs away. “I’ll give you a moment to dress,” he adds and steps out of the tent. She watches him go, confused by her sudden attraction to him. It’s stronger than she’s ever felt, and in her business, she knows attraction better than most. This isn’t just desire... she thinks. A patron or lover he might well become- but there’s something else as well. Something...different. Stronger. I feel... connected to him, somehow. Oh, what an adventure he and I shall have.  She stands, wrapping the sheet around her. Her gown lay in a blood-red puddle, covered in thorns, mud, and in plush tatters, while her boots rest on the canvas floor. Folded neatly beside them is her cloak, with a bundle of rags on top of it. Investigating, she discovers that Tybalt kept her crown hidden. Pursing her lips, she looks around a moment, thinking of how she might improve her current situation without the use of magic or money. Her eyes light on a pair of shears lying beside a pile of bandages, and she smiles. A few moments later, Hera emerges, her gown clipped to her knees and her inky black hair hanging loose. Around her waist is a length of braided cloth, red like her dress, and at the small of her back, it holds her crown conveniently out of sight with her cloak on. With no one looking, she’d whispered a spell to clean her things, so that she doesn’t look quite like a wandering camp whore. With her boots coming well past her knee, she looks rather fetching. A lost princess, indeed, she thinks, oddly cheerful in spite of her situation. Alistair waits, leaning against a tree, eyes closed. She comes closer slowly, enjoying the simple pleasure of just looking at him before he senses her presence. His eyes spring open, then widen in surprise. “You clean up...rather quickly,” he says. “I travel often,” she explains with a chuckle. “Part of the life, I suppose.” “Of a wh-” he stops, looking a little sheepish. “You’ve been listening to Geoffrey,” she teases, remembering the man’s great amusement in calling her a whore. He squints at her a moment, tilting his head to one side and changing the subject. “You’re taller than I expected.” Hera grins. He’s taller than she is, the top of her head comes only to his jaw, making her wonder if all the men here are so large. Stepping closer, she tilts her face up to look at him better. “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she says. “My father was tall.” “Oh. He was?” She nods. “Was. He died long ago.” “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. Hera’s grin turns into a small smile. “Thank you, but I did not know him. Shall we find Duncan, good Warden?” “How did you know I’m a Grey Warden?” he asks in surprise. Hera laughs. “Well, you’re dressed like Tybalt, and you’ve both mentioned Duncan, so I’m assuming that you’re a Grey Warden and he is your leader.” “That’s a good guess.” The tips of his ears turn pink, and he swings his arms awkwardly as they walk. “Can...Can I ask you a question?” “You may,” she says, grinning. “But only if it’s going to make that flush in your cheeks more charming.” “Um…” He clears his throat, glancing at her, then away just as quickly. “What’s a...courtesan...exactly?” he asks hesitantly. “I mean, I know , but...what’s the difference between a whore and a courtesan?” She bites her lip to keep from laughing. He doesn’t know what a courtesan is? Surely he didn’t grow up among monks? “Well,” she starts, stopping in the shade of a broken down wall. “I suppose you could say I’m a rather expensive prostitute, but that’s a cheap way of putting it.” “What do you mean?” he asks, stopping in front of her. “About it being cheap, I mean?” Hera pushes her hair over her shoulder. “I’m elite. Educated in diplomacy and courtly manners; I can play music, dance, sing, and write poetry. There’s been a lot of money spent to ensure that I am a jewel highly sought after by nobility and royalty to adorn any court or bed.” She steps into his personal space, running a hand up the chest plate of his armor. “What I do is an art, and I’ve spent years honing my skills…” she adds softly, looking up at him. The redness has traveled from the tips of his ears down his throat, and he swallows. “S-Skills?” She nods. “Skills a man like yourself would find rather enjoyable.” “Oh?” “I could teach you things you didn’t know you needed,” she offers in a velvety voice, her fingers brushing the exposed skin of his neck. “You’d need only remember me to keep yourself warm at night.” Alistair leaps away, clamping a hand to the spot she’d touched, his blush deepening even more. “I- uh- you-” he stammers, backing away. Hera smiles sweetly, clasping her hands behind her back. That blush really is charming. “Yes?” “You- um...You walk over there,” he demands, pointing with a shaking hand. “I’ll walk- um- over here.” Her smile widens, and she gestures for him to proceed her. “Lead on, blushing Warden.” “Maker’s breath,” he mutters, rubbing where she’d touched as he walks. He leads her to a tent far away from the rest of the army. Alistair calls out, but when there’s no answer, he tells her to go in and have a seat while he finds his superior. Ducking inside, Hera ignores the camp stool in the corner and turns slowly, learning what she could of the man before she meets him. An unlit lamp hangs above a rickety folding table covered in paper and maps on one side and a narrow cot with a trunk at the foot runs along the other. Between them stands a lit brazier, embers glowing beneath a battered kettle of water. “Hmm, not much different than some of my own tents,” she murmurs to herself, picking up a wooden shield with a grey griffin painted on a blue field. “But this is a little sparse even for an officer at war.” In truth, beyond the larger pieces, there is nothing but a collection of weapons and a pack resting on the trunk. “That would be because I am a Grey Warden, my lady. I require little.” Hera turns, shield still in hand, to face him. Duncan looks a bit like Tybalt with his dark hair and rugged features, but there the resemblance ends. Duncan’s skin is dark as if he’d been born to spend his days in the sun, and if his face bears any scars they are covered by a full, lush beard. Handsome, but with a stern expression that tells her she’ll find no patron in him for the time being.  Zeus would love him, she decides as his dark eyes travel over her. Were the circumstances different, I believe we’d have to share him.  “Forgive me,” he says, breaking into her thoughts and offering her the stool as he sits in the leather and wood folding chair at his desk. “I was with Tybalt. My name is Duncan, I am Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.” “I am Hera,” she says simply, remaining standing while she studies him. Duncan strikes her instantly as someone to trust- as good as any other- so she sits and tells him the entire story- even her being queen and magical ability, using her crown, signet ring, and prestidigitation as proof. She keeps her parentage a secret, still certain that trying to explain what a dhampir is would only result in her death. It doesn’t take very long to tell the tale of her sudden appearance, but Duncan spends a long time thinking it through. She waits patiently while he brews her a strong cup of tea, flicking mud off the high leg of her boots. “Well, Majesty,” he begins, handing her the wooden cup of tea. “I’m afraid the mirror route is lost. It sounds like an eluvian and was simply too dangerous to leave it open once the darkspawn discovered it. Also, the Circle is occupied with assisting us in stopping the Blight before it begins. Although now I’m afraid your people have to contend with what darkspawn made it through.” “My brother can handle them,” she says with great certainty. “I’ve never heard of an eluvian, but I’m certain the doorway that brought me here was no different than any other portal I’ve passed through. Sometimes they need a permanent structure to...hold it open, so to speak. A mirror is unsuited to the task anyway. I need only time and my own power to find it.” “And yet no one can be spared to protect you while you search.” “So you’re saying that there is no hope of my finding help?” she asks, disheartened. The dark-skinned man shrugged. She senses that he wasn’t always the stoic commander before her, and in the back of her mind, she imagines the kind of patron he would be. Thorough, she decides, glancing at his strong hands, a little rough when lost in passion. Not an unenjoyable man. In another time and place, he and I would be compatible.  His voice breaks through her thoughts, and she returns her gaze to his face. “Not until after this is finished, I’m afraid. Nor can I allow you to venture out on your own searching.” Hera sips the bitter brew, thinking. “So, how may I be of help?” “Queen Hera, you can’t. You’re far too important to your realm to get involved. As a visiting monarch, you really should-” Hera waves a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. My uncle is more than capable, and my brother is my heir. My kingdom is in the best of hands, and they will await my return.” “If you survive.” Her smile is strange and sharp. “You will find I’m tougher than you think, Warden-Commander.” Duncan stares for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, you have magic, you could be of use with the Circle. You would have to follow the chantry’s laws, however,” he explains. “The chantry?” “Our religious leaders,” he tells her. “They and the templars control the Circle and ensure that the general population is safe from mages.”  Safe from mages? Preposterous! What kind of world needs protection from its greatest helpers and heroes? Hera shakes her head quickly. “Whatever their rules, I will not bend to their dogma, nor will I allow it to control me or my power.” Duncan takes a deep breath, looking for all the world as if an obstinate noble was the last thing he wanted to deal with today. “I’m sure in this instance King Cailan will make an exception, should you use it to heal and help the living,” he offers. “You’d still have to follow their rules of behavior and provide a phylactery, however.” “A phylactery?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at the word. She’s heard of such things, but never by an organization like this chantry. “You mean a dowsing mechanism? I would be able to be found at any time, in any location?” Duncan nods. “Every member of the Circle of Magi provides one. Our templars use them to find any apostate criminals.” “Templars?” “I suppose you could say they are the sword of the chantry,” he explains. “They guard and discipline the mages within the Circle.” A chill passes through her at the thought of giving them her blood, and she shakes her head again. “Unacceptable. I refuse to be party to such a barbaric tradition- phylacteries haven’t been used in centuries by anyone with pure intentions. Besides, I have a great many skills that would be wasted in an infirmary.” “I don’t think diplomacy and...arts of the bedroom...are going to be of much help elsewhere, Majesty.” “First, let’s end the formalities,” she demands. “I am a queen, yes. But I don’t wish it to be known here. Let everyone believe my story: that I am a bastard courtesan of no little fame. It is true. Second, you should know that I can probably whip that young boy who brought me here, with any weapon you handed me. Possibly you,” she added with a predatory look, “if you’re willing to try. Third, before you even suggest it, I refuse to waste my time hiding in a palace with the other pretty ladies and their fancy dresses.” Duncan gives her silk and velvet a pointed look. “You happen to be a pretty lady in the remnants of a fancy dress.” “I was also walking in a magical forest wearing a crown,” she says crisply. “I like to make a pretty picture.” Duncan sighs and rubs his face briskly. “What do you want? I really don’t have time to chatter about this.” Hera gives him the strange smile again. “I believe I want to be a Grey Warden.” He shakes his head at the idea of this woman joining his warriors. “I already have my recruits.” She raises an eyebrow skeptically. “How many? Three? Four? It doesn’t seem as if there is a line forming. I’ve seen your blue and grey tents, there aren’t so many.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groans with frustration. “With all due respect, your Majesty, you have no idea what it means to be a Warden. Some of these men and women are criminals- murderers and traitors.”“And you have no idea what it means to be Queen of Ravenloft,” she counters, smiling sweetly and shrugging. “You offer the lost redemption in an honorable fight against these darkspawn, I can appreciate that. So what’s one more soldier in your war?” 
His hard gaze lingers for a long time before he makes some private decision. “Will you be able to use a sword and shield?”
 
A cold and dangerous shadow passes over her face, gone almost before he sees it, and she smiles up at him. “Commander, I’d be fine using cutlery.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Duncan, you are

not

serious.”
 
Duncan sighs and lifts his hand to silence Alistair. “I’m not going to argue this, Alistair. She’s a recruit. I tested her myself.”
 
Alistair paces before the large watchfire Duncan built, fisting his hands in his hair. When he’d been told the girl would be joining them, he hadn’t believed Duncan. But now he couldn’t even imagine her lifting a finger against darkspawn. “But Duncan- look at her! How is she going to fight darkspawn? Or even survive the Joining? She’s soft and wears fancy gowns and-”
 
“And I’m right here,” Hera says, coming up behind him. Given an hour, she sold her crown to some shady looking merchants on the edge of camp, purchasing several sets of clothes and gear, and Duncan was good enough to issue her some Grey Warden Recruit armor and variety of weapons- all of which she took, just in case one felt better than the other. The gear was used and looked like it had been pieced together from other kits, but she didn’t mind well-worn pieces; to her, it meant that it was well made and had withstood good use. With her hair braided and pinned around her head, the only thing marking her as wealthy would be the numerous rings she wears and the jeweled collar at her throat. “And quite a lot of people can hear you, Hero.”
 
Alistair’s sneering expression turns quickly to one of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, my lady-”
 
“Hera will do,” she interrupts, then looks to Duncan. “I’m ready.”
 
Duncan nods. “Good. You’re going to join Alistair and the others collecting some documents from an old fortress lost to the wilds. You each have to collect a vial of darkspawn blood, then you can participate in the joining.”
 
Hera nods. “Understood, sir.”
 
She and Alistair walk over to a group of men waiting nearby. Ivon and Geoffrey stand with a third man, younger than Alistair, it seems, looking pale and tired. “You know Ivon and Geoff,” Alistair says, pointing to them. “This is Daylen Amell, a Circle mage from Kinloch Hold.”
 
“A pleasure, Daylen,” she says, shaking his hand. “I’m Hera.”
 
Daylen is tall and thin, and nearly as pale as she is. His fine blonde hair drapes in front of his eyes, and she can tell he has to push it back often. “Pleasure,” he says bitterly. “Sure.”
 
Hera ignores his poor manners and turns to the others. “Shall we?”
 
Duncan bids them good luck, and the five of them make their way towards the tall wooden gates at the far end of the fortress.
 
“Lady Hera.”
 
Tybalt’s voice is so hard it stops Hera in her tracks, making her wince and hope it goes away. She looks hopefully at Alistair, who shakes his head and crosses his arms. She can feel the anger radiating off the Warden behind her, so she turns slowly, smiling placatingly. “Ser Tybalt,” she says sweetly.
 
He grabs her arm roughly and hauls her away from the group, gripping her so hard she’s certain he’ll leave bruises. “These aren’t usually the kind of love-marks I allow,” she jokes, pulling away once they’re out of earshot.
 
“What in the void are you doing?” he demands angrily.
 
“I would have thought it was obvious,” she says.
 
“I didn’t bring you here to join the Grey Wardens!” he nearly shouts, waving his arms.
 
“You brought me here because you didn’t have anywhere else to take me,” she reminds him softly, trying to calm him. “And I thank you for that, but I’m not in your care any longer.”
 
“The void you aren’t! Hera, you’ll die in this Blight!”
 
Hera smiles at the concern in his voice and puts a hand on his chest. “Ser Tybalt, I’m going to be

fine

,” she promises. "I swear."
 
“Hera, we don’t have time for this,” Alistair calls out, and the group snickers behind their hands.
 
“Coming!” she answers and turns back to Tybalt. “You’ve done all you can, dear knight, but this is my choice. Congratulate yourself on bringing in the prettiest recruit,” she adds and pats his chest plate before returning to the recruits.
 
“Everything all right?” Alistair asks as they head for the gates.
 
She glances behind her to see Tybalt watching her sadly. “Not really. But nothing to be done now.”
 
***

It takes Hera a little time to get used to the noise of the Korcari Wilds, filtering out the typical sounds of birds and small animals and instead listening for the stomping feet of a horde of monsters trampling through the undergrowth. The forest reminds her of the depths of the one she first found herself in when she was transported to Ravenloft; full of shadows, fog creeping through the trees, cool gray fingers rising to wrap around their ankles. The distant howling of wolves adds to the eerie setting, making her feel almost at home, in spite of the boggy ground that sucks at her boots.
 
“Stop!” Hera whispers, grabbing Alistair by the belt and hauling him to a stop.
 
“What? Why?” he demands, frowning at her over his shoulder.
 
Slowly, Hera removes her bow and takes a few steps forward, squinting.
 
“What is it?” he asks again.
 
“There’s something...there,” she tells him, fitting an arrow to the string.
 
“It can’t be darkspawn,” he tells her. “I would sense them if it was. All Wardens can.”
 
“How far can your senses go, Hero?” she asks, drawing her bow and taking sight. “Because I can see something that looks like an awful lot like a darkspawn.” She releases the arrow, and a moment later a dark spot on the horizon disappears. “They’re coming,” she tells them, preparing another shot.
 
Alistair lets out a warcry as soon as he sees the darkspawn approach. Hera, remembering well her past experiences, draws away from the group and begins picking them off one by one. Daylen, his staff whirling, takes up a place not far away, shouting in another tongue as his spells fly forward.
 
“Behind you!” Daylen shouts.
 
Hera drops the bow and draws her sword, swinging an elbow into the face of the darkspawn behind her and following it with her blade. Daylen freezes it in place so she can slit its throat as the others come running. The battle is short but bloody. Ivon and Geoffrey both receive wounds, and the party is forced to pause while the injuries are dealt with. Hera wastes no time pilfering the darkspawn bodies, gathering anything of use. It’s bloody work, but it keeps her busy.
 
“Hera?”
 
She looks up at Alistair while yanking an arrow from a body. “Yes?”
 
Alistair rubs his neck, looking grim. “I wanted to apologize. You’re…” he laughs softly and shakes his head. “You’re

fierce.

I’ve never seen a woman fight like that.”
 
“Duncan

did

tell you he tested me.”
 
“Who won?” Ivon asks.
 
She grins, straightening up. “I did. Two of three rounds.”
 
Alistair laughs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Your senses are incredible. How did you see it? It was past even my range.”
 
“I’m a dham-” she coughs to cover her slip. “Damn good shot is all.”
 
“Well, it’s appreciated. Let’s get these oafs on their feet and move on.”
 
She watches him walk away, wondering at the emotions swirling through her.

A beautiful boy. A world overrun by monsters. A dreadful secret and hidden magic. It sounds like a romance novel. Zeus would approve.

“Hey, isn’t that one of the flowers the kennel master was looking for?” Ivon asks. “White, with a red center?”
 
Hera glances at the flower. “Did he say what it was for?”
 
“Yeah, this is it,” Ivon decides. “Said it had something to do with the mabari. Maybe we should take him some.”
 
“You men want to leave the flower-picking to little girls and old ladies?” Alistair asks. “We don’t have time for this, we need to find those documents.”
 
Defiantly, Hera plucks the flower, tucking it into her braid, and glares at Alistair. “Aren’t you helpful,” she mutters.
 
“Let’s move,” he says. “We need to find that tower and gather more blood for you.”
 
Hera and Daylen exchange a confused look. “Why do we need darkspawn blood, anyway?” he asks.
 
Alistair opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again.

He’s keeping secrets,

Hera thinks.

Personal ones or Grey Warden ones? Perhaps they're one and the same.

“You’ll see.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“This is the place?” Ivon asks when they see a series of broken pillars marking the path leading to the broken walls of a circular tower. Alistair nods, pausing and ducking behind some of the rubble. “Darkspawn ahead,” he whispers. “Hera, use your bow and stay back to cover Daylen. Ivon, Geoffrey, with me.” She and the mage nod, preparing themselves for cover fire. On Alistair’s signal, she pops up, firing as fast as she can to distract and hinder the group of darkspawn ahead. Daylen stays beside her, hurtling spells as fast as his staff will allow, one hand almost casually reaching up to brush the hair out of his eyes. “You must have been a formidable mage!” she says as they begin to narrow their attacks to other archers on the edges of the battle. “Not really,” he grunts, hitting his knees and hiding behind the fallen pillar. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he adds, pulling the cork off a bottle of blue liquid and draining it. “I have shite taste in friends.” The skirmish ahead dies down, and they walk over to join the others looting the bodies. “What was that you drank?” she asks. “Lyrium,” he explains, holding out a bottle to her. “Mages use it to replenish our magic.”  It’s a mana potion, she realizes, turning the glowing glass over in her hands. Sorcerers don’t need this sort of thing- our magic is innate and draws from the strength of our spirit- but I’ve seen wizards use something like this. “It’s...cold.” He nods. “But if you drink it, it’s like setting fire to your blood. It doesn’t replenish all our magic, but it’s like a burst of adrenaline.” Handing it back, she stores her bow on her back, setting it in a clever hook placed on her quiver.“Do we have enough vials?” she asks Alistair, watching thick black blood ooze from a slashed wrist into the vial he holds. “Yes. This will do.” “So we’re on to the next bit, yeah?” Geoffrey grunts, yanking on a pair of boots a hurlock wears. “We don’t need everything.” Ivon’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Especially not their boots.” “You might not, but some of us got here flat-broke,” the weaselly man sneers. Hera kicks at a clump of mud, tempted to join him. His logic is sound, at least.  “Well, we have more important things to see to,” Alistair reminds them, gesturing to the broken-down tower. “Like find those documents.” Turning her attention to the tower ahead, she takes in the view. “It’s rather beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks. Large open windows, the glass long gone, take up much of the structure and suggest that the building was once lit every moment of the day. It shares the same graceful arches she noticed at Ostagar, making her guess that once the fortress was larger than the walls now suggest. “Even in ruins, it has some of the old grandeur about it.” “Why am I not surprised that you’re a poet, too?” Alistair chuckles as they pass under the stone arches. “Not a good one, I’m afraid. Zeus was always the wordsmith of the two of us.” “Wordsmith. That’s a five-sovereign word for you. What else will you do for five sovereigns?” Geoffrey chuckles and pokes Ivon with his elbow. Hera raises her chin loftily and fixes him with a cold stare. “Not much. My prices start much higher.” Alistair looks around and sighs. “All right everyone, start digging around for a chest.” “How could it still be here?” she asks. “It would have been protected by magic,” Daylen explains. “Duncan told me there may be some seals I’d need to break.” “We need to be back by nightfall. We don’t want to spend the night wandering around in the dark.” Hera is too distracted watching the muscles in Alistair’s shoulders move beneath his armor to hear him, and pinches herself. “Sorry, what? That’s right, we were-” “No need,” Daylen calls from a place near crumbling stairs. “I’ve found it. It’s broke, though.” “Good! I wasn’t going to say it, but I was going to leave you all sitting right here.” Geoffrey gives Hera a long and lustful look. “Well, maybe not all of you.” She inches away, putting Ivon and Daylen between them as they watch Alistair rummage through the pieces of the chest. “How lucky for-” “Damn it!” Alistair growls, kicking the broken chest. “Where are they?” Hera looks around the ruins, hoping for some clue as to the whereabouts of the documents they had been sent to find. “They must be here somewhere,” she adds hopefully. “We need those!” he grumbled, kicking the chest again. “Those are treaties between the nations of Ferelden, they’re the only hope we stand against forming an alliance with the elves and dwarves to make an army to fight against the Blight.” “We’ll find them,” she assures him, touching his arm lightly. “Maybe there’s a spell I can use to locate them,” Daylen offers, holding a book he has chained to his belt. “Your documents were removed from this place long ago,” a voice says. They turn to see a tall young woman with dark hair, scantily clad, walking out from the ruins. Hera feels an instant connection with this woman: she gives off an aura of seduction and power that Hera both understands and admires. “Who are you?” Alistair demands. “What have you done with the treaties?” “My, you’re a rude one,” the woman cooes. “My name is Morrigan, and my mother removed your treaties. She has them.” “You’re a witch of the wilds!” Ivon accuses. “She’s dangerous!” “She’s a mage,” Daylen says dryly. “An apostate mage, but just a mage.” “He’s right, Hera,” Alistair warns. “They swoop down at night and turn people into frogs.” The woman chuckles and looks to Hera. “A woman? With the Wardens? Interesting. But women's hearts are not so frightened and small as a man’s. You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” Hera grins in reply. “No. I have no fear of frogs and witches.” “Don’t listen to her! She stole the treaties! She’s some sort of...sneaky witch thief!” Alistair insists. “My name is Hera.” Hera ignores his fanatics and takes a step closer. “You said your mother has them,” she says instead. “Would you take me to her?” “This is a pleasant and sensible request,” Morrigan says. “I like you.” “I’d be careful. One minute it’s I like you then ZAP! Frog time,” Alistair says, his voice going alarmingly high when he mocks the witch. “Hush, Alistair,” Hera scolds and begins to follow Morrigan. “Come along, boys.” Morrigan’s mother is waiting for them, outside a shabby little hut in a clearing. Like Morrigan, Hera can feel power all around this woman, but there is something else as well...something that reminds her of her uncle the Duke. Why live in such squalor? Surely two women so powerful could do better than this, even as- what did Daylen call them- apostates? Silently, Hera follows Morrigan, studying the plain rags and deep wrinkles in the woman’s face. Peculiar indeed.  “Finally, girl,” she says to Morrigan in a gravelly voice. “It took you long enough.” “These Wardens have come for their treaties, Mother,” Morrigan explains. “You stole them, didn’t you?” Alistair claims, stepping in front of Hera. Hera raises an eyebrow, clears her throat, and looks up at him pointedly, but he ignores her. Well isn’t he the knight in shining armor? She thinks in irritation. I’m in no danger from these women. We are the same, they and I. Men are such cowards in the face of a woman with power.  “I’ve kept them safe, boy,” the old woman corrects. “And I’m happy to return them to you. The seal wore off long ago.” “You read them?!” he shouts. “Don’t be foolish. I don’t care for your treaties and politics,” she snaps. “I care that the Blight is coming, and much more than that perhaps.” Geoffrey nervously looks out over the landscape. “Um, Alistair, sir? It’s getting late. We have what we need, don’t we?” Alistair sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Fine. But,” he says, lifting his face to stare at the woman, “this isn’t over.” Hera catches the old woman’s reply as they move away through the woods. “No, boy, I know that…”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“The recruits outdid themselves, Duncan,” Alistair says, handing the treaties to Duncan. “A few injuries but nothing major.” “And Hera?” “The best of them, Duncan. I'll admit, I had my doubts, but not anymore.” Standing out of earshot with Daylen, Ivon, and Geoffrey, Hera unbraids her hair and waits calmly as the men fidget and stir beside her. “How can you be so calm?” Ivon asks. Hera shrugs, keeping her eyes on the two men by the fire and pretending her preternatural ears can't hear them discussing her. “I’ve been evaluated and examined my whole life," she explains. "Sometimes naked. All they're doing is standing there talking about us; that doesn’t bother me.” Geoffrey chuckles. “You really are a whore, aren't you?” She raises her eyebrow and shrugs. “If you want to be vulgar,” she says dismissively. "Clearly, you do." “So where did you learn to fight?” he asks, eyeing her with perverse interest. “I’ve had a great many men try and teach me how to defend my honor,” she says highly, pushing her loose hair over her shoulder. “A great many men who paid for the opportunity.” “Well, I’m glad you were there,” Daylen says. “We’d have been overrun otherwise.” “You’re damn good, too,” Ivon added. “Thank you,” she says appreciatively. “I look forward to working with you, gentlemen.” “The four of you will perform the Joining at sunset,” Duncan informs them as he approaches. “I’d suggest you use this time to rest, patch yourselves up, and prepare.” With a nod, he walks away, but Hera runs to catch up. “Ah, sir?” she calls. “I don't really have anywhere to go.” Duncan nods. “I’d forgotten, forgive me Hera. The Quartermaster will see you issued a tent and supplies. You may set up your camp over there, near the other blue and grey tents.” She nods her thanks and follows his directions to the Quartermaster, who does indeed issue her the essentials, and tells her where she can erect her tent. With a cheerful bounce to her step, she heads over to set it up nearby the other recruits, then finds herself a bucket of water, retrieving a ball of soap and needle and thread from her new kit. She guesses at a couple hours to sunset, so she washes her hair and bathes quickly, then sits to trim and hem her ruined gown. By the time she’s finished, the gown has been converted to a snug fitting tunic that falls mid-thigh, and she’s happy that this particular gown had a rather modest round neckline, the oval wide but not deep, so her decolletage isn’t exposed. Paired with leather leggings and her boots, it makes for a sumptuous, almost practical ensemble. It’s her heavy jeweled collar that ruins the effect, but with its rubies and onyx raven spreading its wings over her chest and nearly to her shoulders, she finds it difficult to sell her favorite piece of jewelry. Then she grabs the flower and sets out to find the kennel master. “I heard you were looking for this flower,” she explains. “Oh you found one!” he cries. “Good! We’ve a sick mabari, and this should help cure him.” “What’s wrong with it?” she asks, eyeing the enormous dogs barking like mad. “Darkspawn blood,” he explains. “Sometimes they take in too much, and it can kill them. I have some medicine that will help, but this flower will greatly improve his chances. Unfortunately, it also undoes their imprinting, so he'll need to imprint on someone before battle.” “Interesting,” she muses, watching him tear the flower into some liquid. “Who will be the beast’s new master?” “You found the flower,” the kennel master says. “If you can muzzle and give him the medicine, I don’t see why you can’t have him. He’ll remember his training, but not his name, so you’ll need to rename him, too.” “All right.” She takes the muzzle and lets herself into the fenced in area, where the poor rust colored hound lies. She approaches slowly, and he raises his head, sniffing the air. “That’s it, my boy,” she soothes, holding out a hand and moving slowly. Surely it isn’t too different than any other animal she’s encountered. “Take a long sniff.” She continues to whisper soothingly to him, and he relaxes enough to allow her to slip the muzzle on. “There you are, my dear thing.” “I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” the man says in awe. Hera shrugs. “I’m good with animals. Is the medicine ready?” “Oh, yes,” he says, distracted, and hands it to her. “Just get him to drink it.” Hera puts a little on her fingers and lets the mabari lick it off before setting the bowl on the ground. He laps it up eagerly, then staggers and lies down. “That’s normal,” the kennel master says quickly. “Give him a minute and he’ll be good as new.” Hera crouches beside him, stroking his short red hair. The hound sighs, rolls over, and starts sniffing her. Hera laughs and throws her arms around him. “I shall call you Ares,” she decides. “A fitting name for a war hound.” Ares licks her face and barks happily, and the kennel master shakes his head. “The Maker brought the two of you together,” he says in disbelief. “Here’s a list of commands and attacks he knows,” he adds, handing her a scrap of foolscap. “He’ll eat a lot over the next day or two, so be prepared.” “Thank you,” she says cheerfully. “Ares, to me.” They return to her tent, and she gives him a blanket to lie on while they go through his commands. She laughs at his eagerness to please, and the way he just seems to fit with her, like a missing puzzle piece. Sitting on her bedroll, she pulls her cloak into her lap and sighs. The cloak has to go, she thinks sadly, stroking the heavy black velvet. It’s just too fine for this sort of work. A sturdy wool one would serve me better. I’ll sell it tomorrow.  “Hera?” She lifts her head at the sound of Alistair’s voice. Is it sunset already? “Yes?” “It’s time. Let’s get this done.” She steps out, pushing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m ready. Ares, to me,” she commands, and he looks inside her tent to see the mabari trotting out to her. “Is that a mabari war hound?” he asks in surprise. She nods. “The kennel master said I could have him since I brought the flower to make his medicine. His name is Ares,” she adds, scratching behind his ear and giggling. “My brother is going to hate him.” Alistair shakes his head, then looks hard at her clothing. “You sure you want to wear that? You look a little overdressed.” “I’m sure.” He nods and starts walking. "You know... it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?” Hera smiles and shrugs. “I can handle myself better than most.” His amused grin is lit by the golden sunset, making him look like some sun god, and making Hera feel like a girl again. “I’m starting to get that impression,” he says warmly. Hera, Daylen, Ivon, and Geoffrey follow him to a deserted part of the ruins, lit by torches. In the center of the stone floor is a pedestal with a silver chalice, Duncan beside it. “You all did very well today,” he tells them as they range around the pedestal. “And have earned your right to the Joining. Alistair, if you will.” Hera watches silently as Alistair produces one of the blood-vials they’d collected from the darkspawn and pours it into the chalice. Geoffrey sucks in a breath when he sees the Warden pour herbs into it and stir. Then Duncan turns to them, his face grave. “Join us, brothers and sisters,” he says, his voice carrying strangely through the night. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” Alistair joins him on the last line, their voices a pleasant harmony. “And that one day we shall join you.” Alistair then speaks alone, looking solemn. “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.” The last words hang in the air as Duncan takes the silver chalice and approaches Ivon. “Ivon,” he says, offering it. “What? No, there’s darkspawn blood in that!” Ivon argues. “You must, if you are to become a Grey Warden,” Duncan informs him. “This tainted blood will give you the link to sense their movements and distance. This is the source of our power.” "Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair adds. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon." Looking sick, Ivon steps forward and takes the chalice. “This smells so bad,” he mutters before pinching his nose and downing it. Hera makes a quick retreat when he falls to the floor, twisting and convulsing and screaming in pain. “What’s happening to him?” she demands. “In order to become a Grey Warden and receive our abilities, you have to take in the corruption of the darkspawn,” Duncan repeats clearly, watching. “It seems young Ivon is not strong enough to withstand it.” Hera kneels beside him as his body tenses and goes still. “Poor soul,” she whispers, closing his eyes. “Be at peace.” “Geoffrey,” Duncan calls. The man backs away, shaking his head. “No. No. I didn’t know it could kill us. I didn’t know we could die before we even became Wardens. I have a family. A wife. Wait- I’m lying, but I don’t want-” “I am sorry, Geoffrey,” Duncan says sadly. “This is what it means to be a Grey Warden. You have no choice but to continue with the ritual.” "The price is too high," he stammers, drawing a sword. "There's no glory here!" Duncan draws his own weapon, a dagger so sharp the edge nearly glows in the dim light. "Do not waste yourself like this, Geoffrey," he warns. “No, no!” Geoffrey shouts, swinging out wildly with his sword. Duncan parries, slipping into the warrior's guard, and plunges his dagger into the man's belly. "I am sorry," Duncan whispers, and Hera's hear breaks at the sincerity in his voice. “They aren’t kidding,” Daylen whispers, and Hera shakes her head, putting a hand on his arm in comfort. “It will be fine,” she whispers back. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Duncan apologizes, returning. “But they knew they had no other choice- we cannot allow anyone outside the Wardens to know what gives us our abilities. You become a Warden or die in the attempt. There is no other choice.”  Now I really believe he would kill me, she decides as a shiver runs down her back. Alistair drags Ivon’s body away and returns to stand beside Duncan and prepare the chalice for a third time. In spite of what she's just seen, Hera’s blood races, her wild magic surging, clamoring in her spirit. Adventure! it calls excitedly. 
What can it do? Kill me? The Dark Powers would never allow me to die before their time is up. This is only blood, corrupt though it may be.
 With a steady hand, she lifts the chalice and toasts Daylen. “Cheers,” she says cheerfully, and drinks, forcing the sluggish potion down before she can gag on it. Heat and revulsion rush through her before blackness takes her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” “No, Duncan.” The voice is surprised. “She’s alive.” Hera opens her eyes and looks up into Alistair’s face. “Hello Hero,” she says softly, blinking. She can feel her pulse in her fingertips, accompanied by the tingle of magic. Adventure, it sings through her veins. “Hello pretty lady,” he says, helping her sit up. “We were worried about you. You fainted and didn’t move for a long time. Your hound here wouldn’t let us near you for the longest time.” “Good boy,” she says absently, blinking and looking around. It’s totally dark now, the sun long gone for the day. “How long?” “Several hours,” Duncan said, offering her a hand to her feet. “I’ve never seen a Joining quite like that. I wasn't sure you’d make it; even Daylen’s awake and recovered. How do you feel?” 
Adventure.
 “Alive,” she admits, putting a hand to her head. “Stronger. More...in tune with...something. Darkspawn? I don't know, but I'm starving.” Alistair laughs. “That I can help with. Come on, I bet we can still find Daylen having supper.” He leads her to the mess tent, both of them piling a plate high, and Hera taking a second. She would have preferred the chance to feed on someone, as it satisfies even human hunger faster than food, but she’s hesitant to attempt it here, and though it has great benefits, she doesn’t enjoy it as much as she once did. Daylen is nowhere to be seen, so they find an empty spot and she tucks in, sending a running boy back for more. “You eat like a man,” Alistair laughs, watching Hera take her fourth helping. “Where are you putting it all?” “Tall boots,” she says between bites. “Hides a hollow leg.” Alistair laughs and watches her eat. “Well, welcome to the Grey Wardens, such as they are.” “Do you think I’ll look good in the uniform?” “I think you’d look good in anything,” he says charmingly. “But you have to get rid of...that,” he says, gesturing to her collar. “It’s not appropriate for a warrior. Or practical for basically anybody.” She reaches up to touch the cold stones. “I know. It’s just...it was a gift. But I won't wear it anymore.” “That reminds me.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws an amulet. “This is the Warden’s Oath. Duncan meant to give it to you when you woke, but he had to get back to King Cailan. You’ll meet him soon. It’s our amulet,” he explains, handing it to her. “It contains a trace of darkspawn blood so that you never forget our duty or the ones who have fallen before you.” Hera takes it, studying it. After a moment, she reaches up and unclasps the heavy collar, gathering it up in her lap and putting the amulet over her head. “Now I'm a true Grey Warden?” she asks. His humor shines through, and his eyes squint in a smile. “Close enough, with all that red,” he chuckles. “The Quartermaster will issue you a new uniform and take the recruit set you were given earlier. It’s probably in your tent now. Just watching you is making my mouth water.” Mouth full, Hera raises her eyebrows. Swallowing, she reaches over and strokes the back of his hand. “I think we can sate your appetite…” “For food!” he corrects, blushing deeply. “For food. The Joining takes a lot of energy, I was ravenous for days. Wardens have to eat a lot to keep up our strength. I’m going to get more,” he babbles. “More food. I’ll be back.” Swallowing, she watches him leave and barely holds back her laughter. This could be my favorite adventure yet.  “Are you the new recruit?” a voice asks, and Hera’s thoughts scatter as she looks up at a boy standing beside her, nervously eyeing Ares. “One of them,” she replies as Alistair returns. “Alistair, sir,” the boy says, nodding, “Duncan wants you. He’s in the war council with the King. He said to bring her.” Alistair looks with disappointment at his plate, but nods. Hera drains her cup of water and grabs his bread, ripping a hole into it and hollowing the loaf. “What are you doing?” he asks. “We have to go, you can’t eat anymore.” Before walking away, she grabs a handful of meat with her bare hand and stuffs it into the bread, then plugs it up with the piece she’d ripped out. “Think of it as a meat pie,” she tells him, handing it to him and wiping her hand off on a handkerchief in her pocket. “Blast,” she mutters, realizing what she’s done. “This was silk. And embroidered. And my brother's.” With a sigh, she tosses it into the next fire they pass. Zeus will just have to forgive me. “Duncan, we’re here,” Alistair announces, swallowing his last mouthful. “You needed us?” Duncan stands with a blonde man in golden armor, and they turn when she and Alistair approach. With them is what she thinks is a mage, and another, older man in plate armor. His nose is long and hooked at the end, and his gaze bores into her the moment he sees her. Fury burns in the depths of his dark eyes, making her feel as if he knows exactly who and what she is. All he does is look at her, but she can feel the bruises he would leave on a lover, the wild rage he would bring to bed. His desire would be born from what he cannot have instead of what he can. "That's Teyrn Loghain," Alistair whispers as they get closer. "Be careful around him. He's...intense." "So I see," she whispers back. “Good. You’re feeling all right, Hera?” Duncan asks. She nods, breaking her gaze from the man to look at who can only be King Cailan. “Yes, Duncan.” She makes a gesture, and Ares sits beside her, alert. “You must be the pretty new recruit,” the King remarks, looking her up and down. “I’d heard you’d found yourself a mabari. The gossip doesn’t do you justice.” “It never does,” she tells him honestly. When Alistair bows to the king, she gives him a slight nod, and he returns it with a look of interest. Duncan must have told him,  she realizes and gives him the same elegant bow she would an equal. Alistair snorts out a laugh before attempting to cover it with a cough. “Your Majesty. Duncan, you wanted us?” “Yes,” Duncan says, turning to them. “We’ve decided that you two will light the beacon in the Tower of Ishal, and signal Teyrn Loghain to advance.” “What?” Alistair blurts out, startled. “No, I’m needed on the front line, with the two of you!” “Alistair, this isn’t a discussion,” Duncan says harshly. “It’s an order.” “But I’m a Grey Warden, I should be with the others.” “You will do as ordered. When you see the signal, light the beacon, and Loghain’s men will come in.” A blind man could see the tension among the three of them, so Hera stays silent, only nodding when they walk away. “This isn’t fair! I belong with the other Grey Wardens!” “They must have a good reason,” she offers as they head toward their tents. “Oh, there’s always a good reason,” he mutters sourly. “Go get out of that ridiculous outfit and get ready for a fight. Or at least look like you’re ready for one.” Deciding not to take his attitude personally, Hera nods and goes to change into her armor. It’s pure vanity, but she can't help but notice how flattering it is. Snug black shirt and trousers are covered by a tunic striped alternately with steel scales and blue leather. Over that is a chest plate embossed with the Grey Warden griffin and jointed plates over her hips. Finally, a curious cropped blue canvas jacket that is quilted and studded, with a metal griffin on the shoulder to act as a small shield. With her dark hair, pale skin, and violet eyes, it makes a striking picture. “Alright,” she says as she exits her tent, sliding her weapons into their harness on her back. “Here I...am.” Outside her tent waits yet another nervous young man, pacing frantically. “You’re Hera?” he asks. When she nods, he jerks his head. “Come with me. Someone wants to see you.” “I have to get ready for the battle.” “This is about the battle, ma’am.” He leads her to the back of King Cailan’s tent and whistles. After a moment, another whistle answers, and the tent wall is lifted and she’s ushered in. Cailan stands alone, waiting for her. She waits until the tent wall is let down and footsteps hurry away. “Majesty,” she says, giving him a careful bow, one sovereign to another. “You asked for me?” He nods. “I wanted to apologize,” he tells her. “I would have preferred we meet as equals first, but war doesn’t care for the wants of man.” Cailan comes forward and takes her hand. “You are certain of this? Of staying? I can have you spirited away this very moment if you’ve a doubt.” Hera lifts her chin, feeling dwarfed by such a tall and broad man. “Cailan, this is not my first war. I led an army of six through hell, destroyed the supernatural forces of the usurper who murdered my father, ripped out his heart, and took his crown while covered in his blood. I can handle this.” Her violet eyes grow cold, and she feels her sorcerer’s power surge, giving her a terrible beauty. Cailan’s eyes grow wide. “By the Maker...I believe you,” he says, astonished. “Tybalt said you called yourself the Raven Queen.” “It is a popular name given to me by the people. Officially, I am Hera Drakul of Ravenloft, Queen of Darkness.” “Does Ravenloft have an army? I wouldn’t turn down assistance,” he explains. “We could crush the horde and have a celebration with new friends.” Hera shakes her head. “If I could get a message to them, I would gladly. My army is small and vicious. But…” She lifts her hands in helplessness. “If there was a way to get word to them, I wouldn’t be here now.” “Of course, you’re right. I didn’t think.” He lifts his head, pulling his shoulders back in a look of confidence. “I doubt we’ll need the reinforcements. Loghain is confident this will work, and so am I.” Hera squeezes his hands, not sure if she agrees with him. “I pray it’s so. But Cailan, if I do make it home before this is over, I will return with help. My world is so very different from yours, and our magic is powerful, and would be strange to you. I could command an army of ancestral spirits that would sweep through the darkspawn like a knife through butter.” He gives her a charming smile. “That’s very good to know, but I’m sure we will end the Blight before it begins. You and I will be dancing the Remigold at the celebrations soon: conquering heroes, new allies. You’ll like my wife, Anora,” he adds, seeming to almost believing it himself and making her wonder what secrets lay there. “That sounds lovely,” she murmurs, wishing she could have met these people in an easier time. Cailan nods. “Stay with Alistair,” he advises. “He is loyal as a warhound and will protect you with his life.” “You haven’t told him who I am, have you?” she asks sharply. “I won't volunteer only to be coddled.” “No,” he assures her. “That is simply how he is. You are a Grey Warden now- that means you’re family as far as he's concerned. To him, that’s more important than blood family.” She nods, and they part, stepping back from one another. King and Queen study one another a moment before bowing their heads, Cailan bowing low and crisp while Hera sinks into a graceful curtsy. “Maker keep you,” he says solemnly. “And you,” she whispers before slipping out the back of the tent. Hera uses precious minutes to seek out Tybalt in the Grey Warden camp. “My lady, what are you doing here?” he asks, pulling her away from the other men. “We have orders to make ready, and so do you. Go find Alistair, I'm told you and he will be in the tower.” “I wanted to say thank you,” she says quickly. “For helping me, and keeping my secret.” “It is nothing,” he says quickly, looking around to make sure no one is paying attention to them. “I only wish you had found some other way to be of use. But you’ve made your choice, and you must go now.” Bertran approaches, smiling at her. “Ready for the fight, my lady? Shouldn’t you be heading out?” “Just came to say good luck,” she says. "Foolish woman," Tybalt sighs. Bertran wiggles his eyebrows and grins. “A kiss for luck, my lady?” A few nearby men make kissy noises and laugh uproariously when she gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, Bertran,” she whispers. He blushes all the way to the roots of his hair. “I’ll, um, give you two a moment,” he stammers, nodding at them and stumbling away. “You really must go, my lady,” Tybalt tells her again. “Alistair will be looking for you.” “Bless you, Tybalt,” she whispers, taking his hands. “May your Maker keep you safe.” The battle-weary man gives her a roguish grin. “With luck, I’ll see you in the morning. Maker preserve you, Raven Queen. Save my kiss for the celebration.” Hera grabs him by the shirt and pulls him close for a passionate kiss. A part of her fears this moment, as if it is an ending and not a sweet beginning. If this must be goodbye, she thinks, I would have it be a good one. Around them, Wardens whistle in appreciation. "Do we get in line?" one shouts, laughing. "I want one too!" He sets off a flurry of excitement as others join in the chorus. 
“I want one, too!”
 
“A kiss for luck, beautiful?”
 
“Marcin, I’ll kiss you!”
  “Promise me I’ll see you again,” she says under the cheers and catcalls of nearby Wardens, “and there’s more than a kiss in store for you.” Tybalt blinks rapidly before his face breaks into a surprised smile. “For you, my lady, I’ll make any promise.” “Hera! What are you doing? Let’s go!” Alistair shouts angrily behind her. “Stop kissing Tybalt and come on!” “Come back safe, Ser Tybalt.” She gives him one last smile before running off after Alistair.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

As soon as they cross the bridge, she and Alistair meet with a mage running from the Tower. “You!” he cries, seeing their uniforms. “You’re Grey Wardens! The Tower- it’s been taken!” “What are you talking about?” Alistair demands. “The darkspawn came up from the lower chambers- they’re everywhere. Most of our men are dead,” he adds, gasping for breath. "The bastards are ripping them apart with their teeth!" “Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves,” he decides. “Come with us.” Together, they fight their way through waves of darkspawn in the tower, every second bringing them closer to the beacon. Ares proves his mettle, ripping out the throats of darkspawn right along with them. Hera’s glad of the hound's company as he barrels through their enemy, reminding her of Vincent, a large, four-legged creature she traveled with many years before his sudden disappearance. Vincent would have torn through them, jaws shattering bones, she thinks. Alistair and Hera make a good team- a better team than she’s made with anyone else in her life, save her twin. Not being able to use her magic openly hinders her, so she keeps to Alistair’s shield side, allowing him to bash creatures straight into her attack. They only met that morning, but it feels as if they’ve been partnered for years as they cut a swath through the invading darkspawn. It shouldn't be this easy- I'm not using my magic. I'm not at my best. But it’s almost like fighting with Zeus,  she thinks as they run through corridors and great open spaces. Only...seven hells, it’s so different, too.

I wonder how different it would be if I could openly use my magic? Would we work together just as well, or better?

At the top of the tower, they encounter a creature so large and hideous Hera stops in her tracks. "What is that?" “Ogre!” Alistair shouts over the noise. “Watch the feet, they kick!” “That’s an ogre?” she cries, watching him launch himself at it. “That’s insane!”  In her experience, ogres are largely humanoid, with slack jaws and round bellies, biddable and simple things. This creature is a dark purple, like an old bruise, with curving horns sprouting from its head. To her, it looks like a monster straight from the abyss, and she shudders when it opens its massive jaws- dripping with blood and saliva and revealing rows of pointed teeth- and roars at them. “Are they different where you’re from?” he chats as she follows. “Very!” she answers as they crash into the thing. “Wait- really?” he asks, ducking a fist headed for him. “Is it that different? You have cheese, right?” “Cheese?” she asks, swiping at the ogre’s middle. “Well, yes…but you probably wouldn’t like it.” “Not like the cheese ?” he asks in mock outrage. “You don’t know me, madam.” The mage stays out of reach, adding healing and defensive magic to their attacks. Alistair takes a punch to the gut and goes flying across the room before sliding into a pile of broken crates just as Hera runs up its back and buries her sword in the back of the ogre’s neck. She jerks on her sword, ready to leap off before it falls back on top of her, but it's stuck fast. The ogre teeters and she's forced to ride it as it falls, hanging onto her hilt for dear life and rolling away when it crashes to the floor. "That was impressive," the mage says, helping her up.  "Was it?" she asks, looking around for Ares. She spots him, sniffing at Alistair and whining. “Alistair!” she shouts, running over with the mage. “Are you all right?” “We won?” he asks, sitting up and rubbing his head. Hera laughs and offers him a hand up. “Yes, we won,” she tells him. “This time, anyway. Let’s get the beacon lit.” Hands shaking with adrenaline, they get the beacon lit and run to the balcony to watch Loghain join the battle. As the beacon roars up through the roof in a great column of fire, it easily lights the battlefield below. Being a creature of darkness herself, Hera doesn’t need the added light to see the majority of their support quit the field. Loghain just...left. There's no hope for them now. Heart sinking, she looks over the vast darkspawn horde and knows the cause is lost. “What?” Alistair shouts, pointing. “Look! Loghain is leaving! That bastard! That traitor!” Hera watches in growing horror as the darkspawn overrun the Ferelden army and turns in trepidation when the door to their own floor is broken open and multitudes of darkspawn spill into the room. Drawing her weapons, she looks into the face of her own death, snapping their teeth and coming for them. 
Adventure. Excitement. Desire.
 
What more could I have asked for?
 
Zeus, I’m sorry we aren't together.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Well well, she awakens.” Hera’s entire body aches, but she opens her eyes. “Where am I?” she asks, her throat dry and rasping. Morrigan moves around the room efficiently, stoppering bottles and putting away baskets of herbs and bandages. “Mother saved you and your friend two days ago,” she informs her. “Your dog, too. No easy deed, that. She’s healed your wounds, and you are in the Wilds.” Sitting up slowly, she rubs her forehead. “Was I badly wounded?” “More so than the other. But you healed remarkably fast. Almost...inhuman.” The young woman raises her eyebrows expectantly as if waiting for an explanation. “You are human, are you not?” “Don't be silly,” Hera stammers. Her head pounds and she feels a little sick. “I’m a Warden. We aren’t your typical humans, that's all.” “Is that so?” Morrigan’s tone changes from suspicious to casual as she shrugs. “Well, your friend is outside and-” “Alistair? He’s alive?” she asks, relief flooding her. Why do I feel so connected to him? She asks herself. It’s...I’m not sure. There’s an attraction there, yes, but it’s also beyond mere desire. It confuses and unsettles her- never has she felt anything like this before, and yet Hera finds herself as glad at this news as if she were being told the door to Ravenloft was in the cupboard. “That is what I said, isn’t it?” Morrigan snaps. “And he’s being quite pathetic, I might add. Dress, and come speak with Mother.” “Wait,” Hera pleads. “Morrigan, what happened to everyone else? King Cailan? Duncan? Surely there are other Grey Wardens who survived.” “You don’t remember?” Pity flashes across the girl’s face as Hera shakes her head. “No,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “They are all dead.” “Dead,” she whispers, feeling as if she’s been wounded once again. Duncan. Cailan. Bertran. Tybalt…  “Oh Tybalt,” she whispers, tears filling her eyes. “Not you, anyone but you…” “For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Morrigan says, clearly uncomfortable with Hera’s tears. “I will leave you to dress.” Morrigan goes, and Hera gives herself a moment to grieve for Tybalt, who had brought her on this wild adventure, and died before seeing the end of it. He deserved so much more than death at the hands of a traitor, she thinks, drying her tears. Perhaps I could find his body. Ravenloft wouldn’t sneer at another of the living dead.  Slowly and stiffly, she climbs out of bed. Hera’s injuries are healed, leaving not even a scar under the bandages, but her body aches and hunger gnaws at her. I may have to feed, she thinks, putting a hand on her throat. I haven’t done that since...well, it’s been quite some time. I suppose it was the vial of Father’s blood, and before that, the imposter. But a true feeding? That has been years… She shakes her head, tossing bandages stiff with blood into the fire. I’m not even sure I could manage it here unless I enthralled someone, but Tybalt warned me that flaunting my magic would be dangerous.  
Dressed, she steps outside and into a brilliant sunset.

The sun,

she thinks in a sudden panic and clenches her fists. Without needing to look down, she can feel the small gold band biting into her skin, enchanted to protect her from the light’s draining influence on her dhampir abilities.
 Relaxing her hands, she takes a deep breath when she sees Alistair. He is sitting with his back to the hut, a blanket over his shoulders. If what Morrigan said is true, then the boy has watched everything and everyone in his life die in horror, all the while feeling the sluggish pull of the taint in his blood. Her heart aching for him, she silently comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. She isn't surprised at all when his shoulders shake with quiet sobs.  Bless him , she thinks sadly. He’s too young to have lost so much; he must feel totally alone. Her chest tightens, seeing his despair, and she kneels in front of him. Ares whines and lifts his head for acknowledgment, and she pats him absently. “You are not alone,” she tells Alistair softly, lifting his chin with a finger. The words resonate with power, easing some of the ache and emptiness inside him, and Hera is glad to have learned this trick from her brother. “Listen to me, Alistair: you are not alone, and I am here.” “You’re alive,” he says, a little in awe, his voice catching. He wipes his face quickly with the blanket, scrubbing away his tears. “I thought you were dead for sure.” Hera shakes her head and wraps him in her arms. “It takes more than a few darkspawn to kill me,” she says softly. He’s stiff in her embrace, so she pulls away slowly, giving him a chance to change his mind. His jaw clenches and tears fill his bloodshot eyes, making them seem more green than hazel. “They’re gone, Hera. All the Grey Wardens, the army, King Cailan...Loghain is a traitor.” “And he’s telling everyone that the Grey Wardens are the ones who killed the King,” the old woman interrupts, approaching. “You two are now traitors and king killers.” Not the first time I've been called that, Hera thinks, tilting her head thoughtfully. Except this time it isn't true. “What?” Alistair demands. “That can’t be! How do you know?” “Do you think I am simply an old hermit in the woods?” the woman snaps. “Men are fleeing the horde, anyone with a drop of water or half their wits can gather that much information.” Hera nods, realizing that Morrigan’s mother is as shrewd as Morrigan herself. “And yet he was the one who left.” “And left everyone to die,” Alistair says sadly. “There’s no one to support our claim against Loghain, and an entire army to support his against us. We’re all that’s left.” “We can’t be! Aren’t there other Grey Wardens? Maybe somewhere else?” “Sure, there are others, but I have no way to contact them, and no idea where to even start looking,” Alistair explains. “I...Duncan…” He shakes his head. “The main fortress is hundreds of miles from here, and even if we could make it…we would need an army.” He lifts his hands helplessly.  “What about the nobles?” Hera asks. “Can’t they be called upon?” “Morrigan’s mother said that Loghain has made himself regent,” he says. “It’s going to be a civil war, I imagine.” "So the lord turns his coat and makes a grab for the crown," Hera snorts. "How typical. Is there anything we can do?" Alistair shakes his head. "Loghain will have soldiers out hunting for us." “And yet you must do something,” the old woman says practically. “Just who are you, anyway?” Alistair snaps. “Just some scary witch in the woods?” “Names are pretty, but useless at my age. You may call me Flemeth,” she tells him. “Your witch hunters do.” “Flemeth?” he asks, amazement filling his tone. “ The Flemeth?”  The Flemeth? There's a story there, Hera realizes, turning back to the woman with a renewed gaze. A powerful sorceress if there are witch hunters after her. That would explain the kinship I feel with her, and the power radiating off her. Could she be dhampir as well? No human could command such magic without a terrible price. Seven hells, she must be ancient. “I suppose there are others who could have the name, but I am the only one I’ve known,” the old woman chortles. Flemeth looks them up and down as if settling the fate of the world on two injured Grey Wardens gives her pause. “You have those treaties I gave you, don’t you?” she asks Alistair. “Yes,” he says, curious. “I thought we gave them to Duncan,” Hera interjects. “He told me to keep them,” he explains. “He didn’t say why.” “And they could be used to call upon the nations for help?” Flemeth leads. “Elves and dwarves and mages?” “Yes…” Alistair replies. “Are you implying that we gather an army?” “Well, that sounds like an army to me,” she says with a little sarcasm. “You must do something about the Blight. You’re Wardens, you cannot merely hide.” “We could do it,” Hera encourages, putting a hand on his arm. “We could go to them, compel them to fight. I know how it’s done. When we approach the nobles with an army behind us, whatever petty nonsense they’re bickering about will take second place. We could do this, Alistair, that’s why he left the treaties with you. He must have meant to send you out for just this purpose!” The strain around his eyes relaxes just a little, and he nods. "So can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and... build an army?"“Isn’t that what Grey Wardens do?” Hera asks, somehow making the question sound encouraging. “That’s certainly the impression I was given.” “So you are set then?” Flemeth asks. “Ready to become Grey Wardens?” Hera looks up at Alistair. “As ready as we’ll ever be, I imagine.” Flemeth gives her an approving look and claps her hands once in finality. “Good. My daughter Morrigan will go with you.” “What?” Morrigan and Alistair say at once. “Brilliant idea, Flemeth,” Hera cheers. I like her, she thinks, laughing at the twin expressions of shock on their faces. She reminds me of that tall, angry elf Goddard and Aara keep around.  The old woman laughs as Morrigan sputters a protest. “You heard me, girl. Last time I looked you had ears!” “But Mother, I’ve never been out of the Wilds,” Morrigan stammers. “I’m not ready.” “You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.” “Absolutely not,” Alistair argues. “We need the help,” Hera reminds him, wrapping her hand around his arm. “She’s a witch of the Wilds, and we’re only two Wardens. We need help, Alistair, even if it’s just to get out of the forest.” “Wardens, do you understand?” Flemeth asks grimly. “I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed.” Hera bows her head, her expression as serious as when she met with the Ferelden king. “I understand, Flemeth. No harm will come to her.” Morrigan sighs. “Very well, Mother, allow me to gather my things.” Flemeth follows her daughter, whispering fervently in her ear. Hera tries to listen, but Alistair pulls her away. “Hera, are you mad? She’s a witch, an apostate. She could kill us in our sleep!”  Just like a man, she thinks with a huff. They never stop talking long enough for me to overhear anything. “If I’m not mistaken, I was asleep for two days, and yet I live,” she replies. “We need the help, Alistair, or it’s just you, me, and a dog. Just...just put up with her for a while. Please.” Alistair takes a deep breath and nods. “Fine.” Morrigan approaches, looking just as dejected as Alistair. “Well, shall we? Goodbye, Mother, don’t forget the stew on the fire.” “I lived a great many years without you, girl,” Flemeth reminds her. “I’ll live a great many yet. Do not forget what I have told you.” “Oh motherly love,” Morrigan grumbles as they walk away. “So, where shall we go? I would advise Lothering; it isn’t too far from here. We could be there in the morning if we stop after dark.” “Is it safe to camp out here in the Wilds?” Hera asks, remembering both the darkspawn and the things Bertran and Tybalt had told her about the Korcari Wilds. “Safe enough,” she says with a careless shrug. “I have lived here my whole life. And I know wards to keep the darkspawn from finding us while we rest.” “Very well. Lothering,” Hera says with a nod.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After dark, they make camp, and Hera falls onto the ground in exhaustion, not even bothering to unpack her bedroll. Curling up in her cloak with her head on her backpack and Ares at her back, she falls asleep instantly. But she doesn’t sleep for long. Visions of fire and unseen monsters haunt her, chasing her through the darkness, the snapping of bones and screams of other victims just behind her as she runs. Just before she’s caught, as burning claws wrap around her ankle, she jerks awake. Gasping and sitting up, she puts her head in her hands. I don’t dream, she thinks, trying to breathe slowly. Ares whines and pushes his head into her lap, sniffing and trying to comfort her. It’s not something dhampir do. I always thought that’s why we’re unable to forget anything. I don’t understand, I have no fear of the dark- I am the creature that hunts in the night...what horrors lie in store for me in this world? We do no more than hunt a demon. A simple enough task, given the right help.  
So why am I suddenly dreaming? How many more surprises will Thedas bring me?
 “Bad dreams, huh?” She lifts her head to see Alistair sitting a few feet away, fiddling with an old buckle. “It seemed so real...” she passes her hand over her eyes, trying to clear the images. “I’m fine.” “You don’t need to lie. We all have them,” he says idly, not looking at her. “It’s the taint in the blood you drank. It connects us to the...group mind. That’s how we can sense them. But they’re connected to us, too,” he adds. “The archdemon, it ‘talks’ to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight.” His expression turns unreadable, and Hera feels a powerful urge to reach out to him. “And now it’s just us, in all of Ferelden,” he says softly. “And...and whether or not we even live through this.” “We will, Alistair,” she assures him. “Well, the nightmares get better,” he continues. “Usually, anyway. Some people can’t sleep a full night ever again.” “Are there any other secrets you’ve all conveniently forgotten to tell the recruits?” she asks, running both hands through her hair and sighing heavily. “It’s not that it’s a secret,” he’s quick to explain. “It’s just that...they don’t want to take away from the experience. You’ve suddenly survived a Joining, and you enter this brotherhood. It’s a cause for celebration.” Hera arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize a mess tent and a war council would be a celebration.” “That’s different. It should have been different for you and Daylen. When we get- if we get…” He trails off and his face goes hard. “Nevermind.” Hera goes to sit beside him, careful not to be close enough to touch. They don’t truly know one another, and even though she feels a strong attraction to him, she won’t force familiarity for the sake of physical comfort. “I’m sorry, Alistair.” “Me too.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera watches Alistair as they head toward Lothering. He’s quiet and withdrawn, no doubt grieving for his lost Wardens. Sometimes, he looks as if he’ll cry, but Hera doesn’t interfere, only placing a hand on his arm to comfort him. Having lost brothers in arms before, she understands his pain. Tybalt’s loss is a blow to her as well, and as he was the only one who knew the location of the mirror and the portal connected to it, she’s lost more than a friend and potential lover. Thankfully, Morrigan is withdrawn and unwilling to begin mindless chatter, so the two Wardens are left to their private heartaches. “Lothering is just there,” Morrigan says finally, pointing. “We enter across that stone bridge.”Hera nods, and they walk on until they’re approached by a group of men. “What do we have here?” the apparent leader says, staring lewdly at Morrigan and Hera. “A group of weary travelers, seeking the refuge of Lothering.” “Boss,” one of them says in a slow, stupid drawl. His eyes have a rather bovine look to them as if he once took a heavy blow to the head. “Look at them, I don’t think they’re just travelers.” “All the same,” the leader says, “they have to pay the toll. Ten silvers, please.” “You should listen to your friend,” Hera advises. “We aren’t refugees.” “That’s wonderful!” the man says cheerfully. “But this is a toll for crossing the bridge, otherwise it would be called a refugee tax.” “There isn’t a toll bridge here…” Alistair mumbles. "They've been taking advantage of refugees." “Boss, let’s just let ‘em pass,” the other man urges. “You should listen to him,” Hera repeats. “You’ll pay the toll, or I’ll take it from your dead bodies!” Hera grins and pulls her sword. “You can certainly try.” The battle is short and the bandits give up quickly, throwing their hands in the air and surrendering. After berating them for a few moments about running a shoddy operation, Hera demands they give her everything taken from people and sends them off running for their lives. Sifting through the boxes- full of personal items extorted from refugees- only makes her wish she’d just killed the lot. "It's just a guess, but I'm thinking everyone in Lothering is aware of the approaching darkspawn horde,” Alistair comments wryly. Morrigan snorts. “Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”“Is my being upset so hard to understand?” he demands, rounding on her. “Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”“Before or after I stopped laughing?” she chuckles.Alistair frowns. “Right. Very creepy. Forget I asked,” he ends sullenly. His shoulders droop and he shuffles his feet, watching them quietly. Hera shakes her head and walks on. When he’s ready, he’ll talk, she thinks. “Wait,” Alistair calls, and she turns back. “We need to discuss what to do now,” he says quickly. “We have these treaties, but we don’t know who’s on what side or anything yet.” “What are our options?” Hera asks, setting her things down and resting her shoulders. “We could go to any of the nations- elves, dwarves, the Circle- or to the Arl of Redcliffe. I know him,” he says and takes a deep breath, “he is an honorable man.” “You think we can trust him?” she asks. “Yes,” he assures her with more confidence than he's shown since Ostagar. “Arl Eamon is a good man. He will help us decide where to go next.” Hera nods and picks up her pack. “Then let’s resupply and go to Redcliffe,” she decides and starts walking again. “I have a wonder, Alistair, if you will indulge me,” Morrigan says as they head through the refugee camp. Hera listens with only half an ear, focused on taking in as much of their surroundings as possible and wishing she and Alistair had changed into something other than the blue and silver uniforms they’ve been wearing.Alistair groans in answer. “Do I have a choice?” Morrigan chuckles.”Of the two of you that remain, are you not the senior Grey Warden here? I find it curious that you allow another to lead, while you follow.”“You find that curious, do you?” he says, his voice taking a strange note.Morrigan nods. “In fact, you defer to a new recruit. Is this a policy of the Grey Wardens? Or simply a personal one?” Hera looks over at him, tuning in to the conversation again. “Alistair, if you wish to lead-”“What do you want to hear?” he snaps. “That I prefer to follow? I do.” “You sound so very defensive,” Morrigan teases. “Couldn't you crawl into a bush somewhere and die? That would be great, thanks,” he growls. “Would you two stop snapping at one another for one bleeding moment?” Hera asks sharply and turns on them. “I can’t think with all this childish bickering!” “Oh, I do apologize, Warden,” Morrigan says, her voice dripping with sweet sarcasm. “Shall I be your silent guide?” “Just stop arguing,” she sighs. “Is there an inn or a tavern or somewhere I can get a drink?” she asks them. “I believe there’s an establishment up ahead,” Morrigan informs her cooly. “The building on your right.” “Thank your Maker,” Hera mumbles, and opens the door. No sooner do they enter than they’re accosted by a group of soldiers, shouting drunkenly about how the Grey Wardens failed Ferelden at Ostagar and turned traitor, killing the king. Hera puts a hand out to stop Alistair from storming over, regarding the men coldly. “Were you there?” she asks. “Hey, you’re a Warden, aren’t you?” one of them slurs. “I’ve seen that armor before,” another adds. “Captain, she matches the description we were given earlier. The one nobody had seen.” “Were you there?” she repeats, damning herself for not changing clothes. “Did you actually see what happened there?” “I saw Loghain save us from your treachery,” the leader cries. “He saw you lot for what you are, and now our king is dead!” Hera raises a brow. “Do you understand what’s about to happen, should you continue?” The soldier draws his sword, so Hera draws her sword and a dagger as well. “I will kill you for such slander,” she informs him, pointing her sword at his chest. “I thought you used a shield,” Alistair whispers. “Can you fight like that?” “Oh I’m going to enjoy this,” the soldier says and raises his weapon. In answer, Hera meets the soldier’s steel with her own, deflecting his blow. The brawl begins, drinks go flying when she puts her foot in his chest and sends him floundering onto a table, breaking it to pieces. Ares happily bites and snaps along with his mistress, his jaws breaking at least one arm. It’s almost fun, she realizes when she punches a man in the nose and feels a delightful crunch beneath her fist. I haven't been in a brawl in ages! A strange shout fills the room, and a woman dressed in chantry robes jumps in to help. Hera feels a familiar sensation, very like her brother’s bardic inspiration spell, and redoubles her efforts to end the brawl quickly. Minutes later three men lay dead, and Hera is holding a blade to the leader’s throat. “Take a message to Loghain,” she growls, kneeling and putting a knee on his chest. “Yes, yes anything! Please don't kill me!” he pleads. “Tell him he’s going to have to do better than this,” she says, leaning closer and making a slash across his cheek. “Now go.” She sheaths her weapons and heads over to the bar. “I apologize for the trouble,” she says sweetly. “Those boys got what they deserved,” the man says. “I don’t believe for a minute that the Grey Wardens would have betrayed good King Cailan.” Hera thanks him warmly, passing him a gold coin to make up for the mess before turning to the woman. She’s small with short red hair and wide blue eyes. Alistair is talking animatedly to her, and Hera steps in to keep him from embarrassing himself. “Thank you for your help,” she says, offering her hand. “My name is Hera.” “I am Leliana,” the woman says, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here. And you have a dog! Oh, he’s adorable!” Hera’s brows knit together in confusion. “You’re glad to see us?” “Yes, the Maker sent me a vision,” the woman says, her enthusiasm bubbling over. “He told me that you’d be coming, and I should be here, now, to help. And here you are, just like in my vision!” “Yes...here we are,” Hera says slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Well, thank you again, we should be going.” “But I have to come along!” Leliana protests. “What’s the harm?” Alistair asks, pulling Hera aside. “She was a big help, and she’s pretty handy with those knives.” “Did you not hear her?” Hera demands. “She’s claiming a vision sent her here. That’s pretty crazy, and I fell through a mirror and come from another world.” “Yes,” Alistair agrees, “but she's more like ‘Ooh! Pretty colors!’ than ‘Muahahaha! I am Princess Stabbity—’” Hera crosses her arms, trying not to laugh as Alistair laughs manically. "—Stab, kill, kill!" he continues. Hera groans to cover her amusement. “Don't make me stab-kill you. She's not coming- it’s crazy!” “Warden,” Morrigan interjects. “I believe she may be of help. After all, wasn’t your argument in bringing me along that you needed all the help you could get?” Hera looks from one to the other. “Do you two really want her to come?” she asks incredulously. Alistair raises his eyebrows and bobs his head a few times, and Morrigan nods calmly. “Damn me to seven hells,” Hera mumbles. “I can’t believe this is the thing you two find to agree on.” “It won’t last,” Alistair promises. “I’m sure of it.” Hera turns back to Leliana, who simply stands there waiting patiently. “Welcome to the party,” she says with false cheer. “Oh, wonderful! I just knew you would let me come!” Hera nods, suddenly exhausted. “Let’s get something to drink,” she says tiredly. When they’re all seated, she emptied her purse on the table. “We have...one gold sovereign, thirty-odd silvers, and a handful of coppers. I don't know about your world, but in mine, this wouldn't go far.” “Your world?” Leliana asks. “Are you not Ferelden?” “No, but that’s a story in itself,” Hera explains. “Better explained in camp one night- like your vision, I imagine. Right now we need to focus on money for supplies.” “There’s the chantry board,” Leliana says helpfully. “They pay for small jobs done around the town.” “That’s a start,” Hera says, sipping her ale. “Let’s go there next. For now, I just want to enjoy what might be my last drink for a while.” They all sit quietly, involved in their own thoughts. Hera had hoped that Alistair would put aside his grief and lead them, but it doesn't look like that will happen.  I’d hoped to focus on finding my way home, but it seems I have to get through this war first. I have to get back to Ravenloft. Zeus must have his hands full with chaos; my disappearance will have ruffled all the Raven Court’s feathers.  And yet there was so much to do... Staring into her drink, she taps a fingertip against her lip, thinking about the harvest and if the new granary had been finished in time and if the winter rain would flood the mines again- the million little things that fell into her lap on a daily basis. I’m glad Uncle made me name a regent in case of emergency. Oh, poor Zeus. I’m sorry to have left so much on your shoulders. Suddenly worried about her brother and realm, she gets to her feet and goes to stand in front of the fireplace. Powers help him. “Hera?” Alistair’s voice breaks through her thoughts, and she looks up at him. “Yes?” “Are you all right?” he asks, concern written all over his face. “You look upset. Is it the money? Because we’ll figure that out.” “No, it’s not the money,” she sighs. “Money is easily made. If I have to, I’ll just take my clothes off.” She looks back to the fire, missing the startled look on his face at her nonchalance. “I was thinking of my brother,” she says softly. “He’s been left in charge of my...business, and he doesn't know the first thing.” “If he’s anything like you he’ll be fine,” Alistair assures her. She sighs. “I hope you’re right, Alistair. Otherwise, it will be hell when I get home. If I get home.” “I wish I could help.” She drops her arms to her side. “I understand. I just need to focus on what’s in front of me, not what I cannot control.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Bandits, bears, and bodies oh my,” Hera mutters, reading over the posts on the board. “Well, I guess we’ll just do it all,” she decides, signing her name with a bit of charcoal. “Oh goody!” Morrigan cheers sarcastically. “We’re going to save Lothering from the Blight by doing good deeds!” “We’re going to eat because of doing good deeds,” Hera snaps. “I can feed myself from the land, I have no need of your supplies.” Hera stops herself from sneering at the arrogant witch and points the way North. “The posts all say it’s in the woods north of here. Let’s get started.” It takes all day, but they manage to root out two bandit parties and find a boy’s missing mother. Unfortunately, the woman was dead, and Hera had to deliver a trinket she carried to the chantry to prove it. They make camp that night just outside of town, across from a caged person standing and muttering to himself. Hera gives her tent to Leliana and tries to outfit her as best they can, but Lothering is short on supplies of all kinds. The cheerful sister only smiles and thanks her for the tent, certain they’ll find plenty of gear for her along the way.  She’s a little strange, Hera thinks, watching her settle in while dinner is cooking. Peaceful. Sad. Dangerous. There’s much more to her than meets the eye, I think. I wonder if she’ll ever tell us.  The hours pass slowly once everyone goes to their bedrolls, so Hera approaches the caged man. Calling him large would be an understatement, she realizes as she gets closer. His shoulders are so broad he barely fits in the cage, brushing against the iron with every breath. No chance with this one. He looks like he’s never even thought of sex.  “Hello,” she says, biting her tongue against a giggle. “My name is Hera.” “Either you mock me, or you are a rare human to show manners when so many others show derision.” Close-up, she can see his severe, hooked nose and mouth as hard as stone, but what surprises her is the sight of his lovely violet eyes. They don’t have the depth of blue as hers do and his tight white braids make them look smaller and harsher than they probably are, but she can’t deny their surprising beauty in a man bristling with aggression. “Ah...manners?” she says, reaching for whatever answer he’s looking for. “My mother raised me to be polite. Who are you?” “My name is Sten, of the qunari.” “Why are you in this cage?” “I put myself here.” “Why?” “You are an annoying human to ask so many questions.” “I know,” she tells him. “What did you do to be out here?” “I killed people.” “Why?” “That’s not your business.” “I find myself in need of help,” she says boldly. “Would you like me to see if I can have you released?” “Why?” “Because the Blight must be stopped,” she explains. “You could fight with me as a way of atoning for your guilt.” Sten is quiet a moment. “I will think on it tonight.” She nods. “Can I talk to you some more?” “No. Go away, tiny human.” With a smile, Hera shrugs and wanders back to camp. “That was interesting,” she says with a light laugh. “Was it?” She nods, glancing over at cage just out of earshot. “He’s rather...abrupt.” “Qunari are like that,” Alistair says. “Short sentences. Usually rude.” Hera shrugs again and pets Ares. “I like it; he’s refreshing. It reminds me of someone I once knew.” “A friend?” “Something like that." She smiles as the image of a barrel-chested, white-haired dwarf comes to mind. I doubt Flint would ever think of me as a friend, she thinks wryly. The last time we saw him, he promised to break Zeus' cheating fingers. "Why are you awake?” she asks, pushing the memory away. “Oh, I wanted to see...to check if…” “Yes?” “Are you having dreams again?” Hera frowns and sits near him. “It’s strange,” she says. “I lived my whole life in many different worlds and planes, and never dreamed once. Neither has Zeus. When we were in Ravenloft they began, fleeting things that didn’t matter. But here…” Her frown deepens, thinking of the visions she’s seen in her dreams. “I’m not sure it’s worth all the poetry and songs.” “You don’t like having dreams in general, or having Grey Warden dreams?” “In general.” Alistair tilts his head in confusion. “Whyever not?” Hera purses her lips in thought, trying to find a way to explain it. “It’s as if...it’s like always knowing yourself, exactly as you are, and then finding out that you don’t know yourself at all. That a part of yourself has been keeping secrets. Or someone has been watching you and you’ve found a record of your life.” “What do you think changed in Ravenloft?” She shrugs. “Maybe it was the calling in our blood- nothing felt like home until we were taken there. Zeus had never dreamed before either- but as I said, they weren’t dreams so much as...impressions.” “You miss him, don’t you?” Hera is quiet a moment before nodding. “Very much. Aside from my time training as a courtesan, we’ve never been apart for more than a day or two. I feel...strange without my twin. Like I’ve never seen the world before.” “Is that what it’s like, having a sibling?” he laughs. “It’s what it's like having Zeus as a sibling,” she laughs. “I don’t know what it’s like for others, though I doubt very seriously they are like us. We are…” she pauses, searching for a word. “Close.” “Close like brother and sister? Or close like twins who can read each other’s mind?” “People have thought we were lovers before.” Alistair’s eyes go wide and he stares in horror. “Are...are you?” Hera laughs, tossing her head back. “Of course not! He’s my brother . But we are quite affectionate and know one another so well we can practically read each other's mind. There is a sort of intimacy in that.” She looks down and spins a ring on her hand- it’s exactly the same as one Zeus wears, and a habit they both have. “My mother called us two sides of the same coin. It must be true because I can feel...” She looks up, squinting slightly as she thinks. “That feeling when you can sense darkspawn near? I feel something like that from him, only time and distance don’t weaken it.” “That does sound deeper than just family,” he says, looking nervous. “But I think I understand.” She shrugs. “He’s my other half. The only person I am able to trust and love without reservation. If that makes us strange, I don’t care.” “Oh, I see. I hope you trust me?” he asks. “Being the last Grey Wardens....” Hera lifts her chin and gives him a friendly smile. “As much as one can, without being Zeus himself.” “Well that sounds like a good thing!” he says. “Your watch is almost over, I’ll take over here.” She nods, getting to her feet and stretching. “I appreciate that, thank you.” She pauses, turning back to him. “You said this Arl Eamon raised you?” “Did I say that? I meant dogs. Giant slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact.” Hera grins slightly, eyeing him. “That would explain the smell,” she teases. “Well it wasn’t until I was eight that I discovered you didn’t have to lick yourself clean,” he jokes. “Old habits die hard, you know.” “That would explain the breath as well,” she says in an enlightened tone. “And my table manners too. Though come to think of it, they weren’t that different from the other templars,” he muses. “Or did I dream all that? Funny the dreams you have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn’t it? Are you having strange dreams, besides the taint? If you’ve never dreamed before, they must all be strange, but-” “Only the ones where we’re making mad love in my tent,” she says breathlessly, fluttering her lashes at him. “I...oh, I think I...completely lost my train of thought…” he stammers, blushing. “Oh look...there it is. Let’s see, I’m a bastard,” he blurts out. “And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind, same as you. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be. I respect the man, and I don’t blame him anymore for sending me off to the chantry once I was old enough.” “He wasn’t your father? Do you know who is?” “I know who I was told was my father,” he says with a shrug. “He died even before my mother did, anyhow, it isn’t important.”  I used to think it wasn’t important, too, she thinks. A crown changes that.  “Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as his bastard. They weren’t true, but of course, they existed. The arl didn’t care, but she did. So off I was packed to the chantry at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point. She despised me.” “What an awful thing to do to a child,” Hera says softly, crouching beside him. I was at least loved by my mother and provided for by my father.  “Maybe,” he concedes. “She felt threatened by my presence. I can see that now. I can’t say I blame her; she wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet. I remember I had an amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it. They only thing I had of my mother’s. I was so furious at being sent away that I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered,” he says sadly. “Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything...and eventually, he just stopped coming.” “You were young,” she soothes, putting a hand on his arm. “And raised by dogs,” he reminds her, “or may as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that. I don’t know.” “Zeus is terribly stubborn,” she offers. “All I know is that the arl is a good man, and well-loved by the people. He also was King Cailan’s uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did. Anyway, that’s all there really is to the story. You can’t be interested in all this; why don’t you go on to bed?” She nods, and impulsively kisses his cheek. “Now I know why you and Ares get on so well,” she teases and stands. Alistair lets out a surprised laugh, falling onto his back. “I suppose you do,” he laughs.“Goodnight.” “Hera,” he calls, catching her before she ducks into her tent. “Do you really mean to take the qunari with us?” She nods. “He calls himself Sten, and...Yes. I see something worthy in him, Alistair.” “He murdered people, is what the townspeople say. Could be that we end up his next victims.” Hera shrugs. “I don’t believe so. Trust me, please.” He nods, his face grave. “Goodnight, then.” The next day they finish the jobs and return to the chantry to collect their earnings, then see the Revered Mother about Sten. The old woman puts up a bit of a fight, refusing Hera twice before Leliana speaks with her. The young woman seems to carry some weight with the Revered Mother, and Hera is granted the key to his cage, along with a blessing for protection against him. “Well, Sten,” Hera says cheerfully, standing before him again. “Are you ready to atone for your deeds?” “I don’t see how you can help me do so,” he says flatly. “You’re coming with me, to fight the Blight,” she reminds him. “It’s either that or stay here and stay guilty.” “You do not have the power to negate my guilt.” “No, but I have the power to release you from this cage and give you a chance for redemption. You have the power of easing your guilt.” Sten considers this a moment, then nods. “Very well. Release me, and I will join you in your mission.” With hundreds of refugees in Lothering, there is little to no gear to be had, so they head out, hoping to find something later. As they’re leaving the village, they hear cries of help and come upon a dwarf being attacked by a handful of darkspawn. Between the six of them, it’s handled pretty quickly, and Hera turns to help the man clean up the mess they’d all made. “You’re pretty handy to have around,” the dwarf says, strangely cheerful after such a fight. “I tend to be,” she answers, handing him a box of broken glass. “Name’s Bodahn Feddic,” he says, offering a hand. “That’s my boy Sandal- say hello to the nice lady, son.” “Hello nice lady,” Sandal says, waving at her. Hera smiles at them. “A pleasure, gentlemen. My name’s Hera. You wouldn’t happen to be a merchant, would you Master Feddic?” “I am indeed, Mistress. Might I interest you in a lovely hat? It would keep that pearly skin nice and pale.” “Actually, I’m looking for camping gear,” she explains. “And some armor? Weapons?” Bodahn shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Elfroot and broken glass by the score. Which way are you headed? I might find something on the way to Redcliffe.” “That’s where we’re going,” she says brightly, then wilts. “But you probably don’t want to travel with any Grey Wardens,” she explains. “Well, perhaps not,” he agrees. “But would it be all right if my boy and I traveled with you anyway? I’m prepared to offer you a discount for the protection of a couple Grey Wardens. The dwarves are familiar enough with you lot not to believe the gossip on the surface. And you’ll have the first pick of my stock as soon as I resupply.” Hera raises her eyebrow, considering. “We could certainly use a steady supplier...How much of a discount, Bodahn?” “A deep discount.” With a smile, she shakes his hand. “We have a deal. Let’s get this cleaned up and on the road, shall we?” 
So it was that Hera and her merry band of misfits added two dwarves to their party. She realizes that Bodahn would likely come and go as they moved through Ferelden, moving ahead or staying behind as he saw fit, but she couldn’t see his presence as anything but a good thing. And since he was polite, didn’t have food or spittle hung in his beard, and had yet to ask if she were “one of those blasted Underdark bastards,” she quite liked him.
 Later that night, Hera splits the last of her gear, assuring Leliana she can keep the cozy little tent, and handing a warm wool blanket to Sten, resolving to sleep under the stars and wrapped in her cloak. She’s so tired, and so preoccupied with what lays before her, that she doesn’t bother to eat much of the dinner- a series of gray lumps Alistair threw into the pot with some wild onions- but praises it all the same before heading off to speak with Bodahn about the type of supplies she can anticipate needing. Mentally and physically drained, Hera lays her head on her pack as Ares curls up beside her, getting as comfortable as possible in the grass.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair watches Hera when they make camp that night. She eats little but praises him for the stew. Just thinking about it makes him proud of something as simple as lamb and leek stew- a common Ferelden staple, but always uniformly gray and visually unappealing whenever he makes it. After she sets off across the clearing to speak with Bodahn, the dwarf trader who has decided to travel along with them. When she returns, she passes by Morrigan’s solitary tent for a word, then spends no less than ten minutes with Leliana, Sten, and himself in idle chatter before passing out her own gear to them. She’s held back nothing, giving Leliana her tent and bedroll and Sten her spare blanket, promising them proper gear once they’d reached Redcliffe or Bodhan was able to resupply, whichever came first. Now, she is wrapped in her cloak and using her backpack as a pillow, and he watches her thrash about in her sleep, no doubt having the Grey Warden’s dreams again. The mabari whines and rests his head on her hip, trying to comfort her.  She’s such a capable leader… he thinks. She has to be younger than me, a junior Warden, and a...a courtesan. Of all things, she has sex for money. She’s soft and genteel, but can wield a blade like a demon and commands the affection and loyalty of a mabari war hound. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did she learn to use weapons the way she does?  Why would a courtesan know that, anyway? Somehow I don't think I'm the first to not understand her at all.  He goes into his tent and gets his spare blanket, spreading it out over her. It had been winter when he’d left the chantry with Duncan, and traveling through the gray, snow-covered Ferelden countryside had taught him the importance of an extra blanket. “What are you doing?” Sten asks. “If she had wished for a blanket, she would not have given it away.” “Keep your voice down,” Alistair says in a hushed voice. “It’s cold tonight, we don’t want her getting sick.” “Ah,” Sten says, nodding. “Pragmatic. She cannot defeat the Blight while ill.” Alistair sighs. “Yeah, Sten. That’s right.” “Very well. Carry on.” He shakes his head and sits a small distance away from her. She’s trying so hard to take care of everyone, he thinks, watching her. She just took on the responsibility of all of us without question, with no thought to herself or how she’ll get home if we live through this. Well, I should at least be able to take care of her. I can do that much.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Of everyone, Hera likes to share her watch with Leliana best. The young woman knows a hundred stories and will answer every question Hera has about Ferelden and Thedas. In return, Hera shares tales from her adventures.  One such evening, after describing Zeus’ bold persuasion and how it nearly got them sold to a devil merchant in Sigil and ended up selling the devil instead, Leliana laughs until she's in tears. “Hera, you can spin a tale as well as any bard I’ve ever known,” she laughs. “Did you miss your calling?” “Oh no, Zeus is the storyteller,” she insists. “The libertine life was his calling, and he is quite good at it. My own skills are...different,” she says vaguely. “Sex. Intrigue. Politics.” Magic.  “So you’re a bard after all,” Leliana says softly. “The bards in Orlais are all those things- and are also minstrels.” “Probably the second oldest profession,” Hera laughs. “The first being yours,” she giggles, boldly reaching out to move a stray hair from Hera's face. “Hera...would you be offended if I told you how much I enjoy spending time with you?” Leliana’s eyes are bright, and the faint blush that paints her cheeks is quite lovely. Oh no, here we go again , Hera thinks. “No,” she says slowly. “But Leliana…” “Oh Maker,” she says, her face contorting into an expression of embarrassment. “Oh, I’ve made a fool of myself!” “No,” Hera says, grabbing her hand. “I just want to make it clear that...any ties I make here can’t last,” she explains. “Hopefully, I’ll be going home soon, and I have much to do there. Any connection I have has to be…” She shrugs and decides to speak plainly. “Casual. I don't want you to think that I can afford anything more.” “What if I were fine with that?” Leliana asks carefully. “Then maybe we can come to an agreement,” Hera tells her. She’s heard this a hundred times before, and at this point, can always predict who is actually fine with it and who isn’t. 
Leliana, she feels, is not.
 “What kind of agreement?” Hera shrugs one shoulder. “What do you want? Are you just curious to know what it would be like with me?” “Yes, but…” “I’m not making a business proposition,” Hera tells her. “But after one night, or several, it will come to an end, probably faster than either of us wish. Think about it,” she adds. “I don’t want you hurt at the end, Leliana.” “Doesn't emotion ever play into it?” Leliana asks, raising her eyebrows. “Don’t you ever feel anything for your patrons, or is it all just sex to you?” “Yes,” she says simply, her voice growing gentle. “Of course I feel for my patrons. But I’ve learned to keep a very tight rein in my feelings. Falling in love is not something I’m interested in.” Leliana laughs at her. “Do you have any idea how cold that sounds? You truly are a seasoned courtesan.” Hera looks away, her expression blank, and pokes at the fire. “Sometimes you have to be cold to protect yourself.” The silence stretches between them until Leliana finally speaks again. "Hera, what if you fell in love?" "That would truly be a miracle," she snorts, looking up at the stars. "Love only brings pain, Leliana. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What changes after you become a Warden?” Hera asks as they move ahead of the group the next morning. The Ferelden summer morning makes the trip pleasurable and gives Hera the chance to admire the countryside; for all the rain and mud she’s heard about, the road to Redcliffe is full of trees and blooming flowers, creating a picturesque scene that she’s certain won’t last. Darkspawn or clouds on the horizon will eventually come and put an end to it. She, Ares, and Alistair had left Morrigan, Leliana, and Sten to break camp while they walk to the next village, hoping for merchants with more wares than they can sell. Alistair is certain that Loghain will have eyes out for them, and they do their best to avoid the main roads- good for cover, but it makes it harder to get supplies regularly. “I asked Duncan that, too,” he says, throwing a stick for Ares to chase. “Right after my Joining. All I got was ‘you’ll see,’” he says cryptically, and wiggles his eyebrows at her playfully. “As the senior Grey Warden, I would be well within my rights to say the same.” “Just try that line on me,” Hera teases, putting up her fists. “I have other lines for you,” Alistair says in a lazy drawl. “Trust me.” “Oh please try one,” she flirts, walking her fingers up his chest. “You’ve got me all a-shiver with anticipation.” He swallows audibly, a flush creeping up his neck. “Would...Would any of them work?” he asks in a hoarse voice. Her gaze travels from his eyes to his mouth and back again, and she has to stop herself from leaning forward and taking his bottom lip between her teeth. “Some of them do,” she murmurs. Alistair leaps out of reach when Ares forces himself between them, stick in mouth. “Well! Um. Good to know,” he laughs nervously. “So…Changes?” she reminds him. “Let’s see...” He wrestles the stick back from the mabari, grunting with the effort. “Ares, I can’t throw if you don’t let go! The first change I noticed was an increase in appetite,” he laughs, holding up the stick triumphantly before throwing it again. “I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was starving. I’d slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy. When I’d look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare...then laugh themselves to tears.” “I haven’t noticed anything like that.” “Really?” he asks, interested and amused. “Because I was watching you wolf down food the other day and I thought ‘Ooh it’s a good thing she gets a lot of exercise.’” Hera laughs and smacks him playfully. “What can I say, I’m a growing girl.” “I’ll say!” he jokes. “Uh, I didn’t mean it like that. Heh. Don’t hit me! I bruise easily!” he cries pitifully, throwing his arms up to shield himself. “Oh, and then there were the nightmares.” The playfulness leaves him, remembering the way the darkspawn invade his sleeping hours, taking away the privacy of his own dreams. “We talked a little about them already. Duncan said it was part of how we sense the darkspawn- you remember how I said we tap into the group mind? When we sleep, it’s even worse. You learn to block it out after a while, but at first, it’s hard. It’s supposed to be worse for those who join during a Blight. Have yours gotten any better?” “Not really,” she says vaguely. “It’s too strange to even comprehend.” 
“Some people never have much trouble,” he tells her, voice growing serious. “But that’s rare. Others have trouble sleeping their entire life. They’re just more sensitive, I suppose.” 
 
“Yes, you mentioned that before,” she says.
 
“I did? I did. Right. Well, everyone ends up the same, though. Once you reach a certain age, the real nightmares come. That’s how a Grey Warden knows his time has come.”
 “His time has come?” she asks, throwing the stick for Ares this time. "That sounds ominous." “Oh, that’s right.” Without something to do with his hands, Alistair fidgets, gesturing widely as he talks. “We never had time to tell you that part, did we? Well, in addition to all the all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don’t need to worry about dying from old age. You’ve got thirty years to live. Give or take.” “What? Thirty years?” Hera stops walking and stares at him, unable to take another step. I’m nearly a hundred years old, and I traded centuries ahead of me for Ravenloft. Thanks to the Dark Powers, I won’t even have the thirty.  
But Alistair...he’s so young and new. He’ll have barely started living before he dies.
 “The taint…” He grimaces at the reminder of his Joining. “It’s a death sentence. Ultimately your body won’t be able to take it. When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than...waiting. It’s tradition, and easier than just letting the taint to overcome you.” “So the taint can kill you…” Hera says to herself, slowly following Ares once more. How...peculiar. Of all the blood I’ve drunk in my lifetime...this would have been what kills me. I suppose I should be grateful, knowing I’ll be spared the slow decay of darkspawn blood.  “We’re all going to die,” he says gently. “When Duncan told me, I was angry. He put his hand on my shoulder and said this: It’s not how you die that’s important. It’s how you live.” He tries to grin at her, but there’s none of his sparkle and charm in it. “And you wondered why we kept the Joining a secret from the new recruits! There you have it.” “It seems like such a high price to pay, is all,” she says sadly. “Thirty years...it’s so short.” “You know, Duncan...he started having the nightmares again. He told me that in private. He said it wouldn’t be long before he’d go to Orzammar himself. I guess he got what he wanted,” he says, his voice thick. Hera politely looks away while he takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes. “I just wish it had been something worthy of him.” Hera stops and grabs his arm, turning him to face her. “He will be remembered, Alistair,” she says gently. “As will the others.” He looks at her a moment, the pain he’s been carrying around showing openly on his face. Alistair rarely allows himself moments of mourning; she finds that it makes her want to hold him and let him cry until the tears are gone. “I know,” he whispers. “Ending the Blight...that should make this all worthwhile, right?” “Right,” she murmurs, letting him pull away and start walking. “Worthwhile.” 
Can we stop the Blight? There’s so much about this world I don’t understand- Ravenloft at least spoke to me. I understood its dark horrors the moment I set foot on the soil. Will anything I find here give me something to fight for?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Several days later they find themselves approaching Redcliffe. Hera finds herself glad of her sturdy boots after days of walking and fighting off bandits who think now is the perfect time to terrorize the common man. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but her disgust grows, seeing common criminals feeding off of people running for their lives, as though they were carrion on the battlefield. Each encounter is a battle to keep her power in check and not allow her dark magic to punish the criminals. They get to the top of the hill and pause to look over the village, cut in half by a swift river leading to a lake. It’s set into the side of a large hill, dirt paths leading from the road down into the village itself with stone bridges crossing the river periodically. Redcliffe Village looks as though it would normally be a busy little village, but the heart of the village is full of barricades and one great fire streaming oily black smoke into the sky. 
Where’s the smoke from the forge? Is this a funeral?
 “What is...Maker’s breath!” Leliana cries, covering her mouth. “Are they having a mass funeral? Is there a plague in the town?” Hera arches an eyebrow at her. “Leliana, I thought you were a chantry sister, not a clairvoyant. I was just wondering the same.” Alistair looks down at the village for a moment before turning to Hera. “Look, can we talk for a moment?” he asks. “I need to tell you something. I, um, probably should have told you earlier. In camp, with Sten around to hear it too.” Not quite sure about Sten and his attitude, she had left him and Ares to guard the camp this morning. “Alistair, do we have to do this now?” she asks, gesturing to the village below. “There’s a funeral going on.” “This will only take a minute. Please, I need to tell you,” he says, wringing his hands. Hera studies him a moment. Alistair looks as if he’ll burst if he doesn’t say whatever it is, so she nods. “What’s on your mind?” “I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?” he begins, stumbling on the words in his rush to get them out. “The reason he did that was because...well, because my father was King Maric, which makes Cailan my...half-brother, I suppose.” Hera takes this in slowly. A bastard prince, she thinks, tilting her head. This really is a fairy tale in the making. I should keep a journal; Zeus will never believe it. “So...you’re not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?” she asks slowly, teasing him. “Ha! Yes, I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often.” He takes a deep breath and plunges on. “I would have told you, but...it never meant anything to me. I was inconvenient.” The bitterness in his voice surprises her, and Hera wonders how many times that exact word had been used to describe him as a child. “A possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or coddled me...even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know as long as possible. I’m sorry.”  I can’t hold it against him, she thinks wryly, I have my own royal secret too. But that explains why Duncan was adamant about the two of us lighting the beacon and staying out of the fight. I wasn’t the only royal in danger of being lost. “I understand,” she tells him. His relieved sigh makes his whole body relax. “Good. I’m glad. It’s not like I got special treatment for it, anyhow. At any rate, that’s it, that’s what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that it?” she asks. “You aren’t holding out anything else?” He gives her a smirk, winking at her. “Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no, that’s it. Just the prince thing.”  To be so lucky. “All right then,” she laughs. “So you’re a prince. I find that very…thrilling,” she muses. “Oh? Really? Well, I’ll have to remember that,” he says charmingly as Morrigan makes gagging noises at Leliana behind them. “I think I might have found the one damn thing that’s good about my birthright.” Hera ignores her and gives him a saucy grin in return. “Perhaps you have.” “So there we have it,” he says, letting his arms drop to his sides as his anxiety drains away. “Now can we move on, and I’ll just pretend you think I’m some...nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.” “As you command...my prince. A question,” she adds, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Would you prefer a formal curtsy,” she asks, sinking gracefully to the dirt and miming the sweep of skirts, “or will short-and-sweet work for now?” His face goes flat and he glares at her. “Oh, lovely,” he deadpans. “I’m going to regret this. I just know it.” Giggling, Hera catches up with him, wrapping her arms around his bicep. “ Oh Prince Alistair, ” she coos, fluttering her lashes comically. “What big arms you have!” Leliana attaches herself to the other arm, mimicking Hera. “ Oh Prince Alistair, what strong hands you have!” Alistair shakes them off and points to Morrigan. “Not a word,” he demands. “For a bastard prince reeking of wet dog? Not likely,” Morrigan sniffs, turning her nose up at him. As they cross the bridge to enter the village, the wind brings the oily smoke closer, carrying the scent of burning meat and hair. “Leliana, you’re right,” Hera says, covering her mouth. “This is a mass funeral.” A young man runs up, looking at them as if they’ve come down from the heavens to rescue him personally. The terror stamped into his face makes him seem older than he is, settling lines around his nose and mouth like an old man, and not the youthful roundness of sixteen. “I thought I saw travelers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?” “What’s going on?” Hera asks, noting the bow slung across his back and the large knife in his belt. “Why are you armed in the middle of the day?” “So you...you don’t know? Has nobody out there heard?” His voice jumps an octave, making his voice break. Hera shakes her head. “We’ve been on the road. What is it?” “We’re under attack,” he says, his voice shaking with fatigue and fear. “Monsters come out of the castle every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone’s been fighting. And dying. We’ve no army to defend us, no Arl, and no king to send us help. So many are dead! And those left are terrified they’re next. We need help,” he begs, grabbing her hand. “Hold on,” Alistair interrupts. “What is this evil that’s attacking you?” “Darkspawn?” she asks Alistair. “I-I don’t rightly know,” he says. “I’m sorry, nobody does. I should take you to Bann Teagan, he’s all that’s holding us together. He’ll want to see you.” “Bann Teagan, Arl Eamon’s brother? He’s here?” Alistair asks excitedly. “Yes. It’s not far,” he says, taking Alistair's bag off his shoulders. The idea of fresh eyes on the village's problem breathes new life into him; the boy is bubbling over with energy and something Hera thinks might be a wary hope. “I'll carry this, ser," he offers and then takes Hera's, too. "Yours as well, my lady. If you’ll come with me.” "What of mine?" Morrigan demands. "Are Leliana and I to be reconciled to the shadows of heroism?" "Oh Morrigan, I quite like that," Leliana says. "The shadows of heroism? You're quite poetic when you want to be." Trying not to laugh at the venomous look Morrigan gives Leliana, Hera takes both their packs. "There, better?" she asks, throwing them over her shoulder. The young man leads them down the path, and Hera can see the villagers preparing for battle, but lifts her nose in confusion. The blacksmith’s forge has been out for a long time. There’s no scent of worked metal. Has he been killed already?  They’re taken to the chantry, which is full of women and children, and Hera spots Bann Teagan instantly. A fit man of middle years, he has red hair with a touch of gold, dressed sensibly for a war council, and rather handsome. Indeed, in another time and place, she would have been happy to count a man such as him as a patron. Now, he’s talking with a small group of men and women, giving orders with the easy confidence of a man raised to be noble. “It’s...Thomas, yes? And who are these people with you? They are obviously not simple travelers.” His gaze wanders over them curiously, resting on Hera last and longest. “No my lord,” Thomas replies, “they just arrived and I thought you would want to see them.” “Well done, Thomas. Greetings, friends,” he says, inclining his head. “My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, and brother to the Arl.” “I remember you, Bann Teagan,” Alistair says. “Though the last time we met, I was a lot younger and covered in mud.” “Covered in mud…? Alistair?  It is you, isn’t it! You’re alive! This is wonderful news!” Teagan claps him on the shoulder, smiling brightly before embracing him. “Still alive, yes. Though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it.” “Indeed, Loghain would have us all believe that all Grey Wardens died, along with my nephew, amongst other things,” he says derisively. “You don’t believe him?” Hera asks. “What, that he pulled his men to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory?” He snorts. “Hardly. The king might have been young and inexperienced in war, but he wasn’t stupid, my lady. If Cailan placed his trust in the Wardens, he had to have had a good reason.” He shakes his head, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. “Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king, but I don’t believe it. It is the act of a desperate man. So you are a Grey Warden as well?” he asks her. “A pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances.” “A pleasure,” she says quickly. “My name is Hera. We’ve come hoping to see Arl Eamon.” “You’ve come to see my brother? Unfortunately, that might be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill; no one has heard from the castle in days. No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts. The attacks started a few nights ago; evil... things ...surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault.” “Then we have to help,” Hera decides. “Hera, are you certain?” Morrigan asks. “This is not our battle, and has nothing to do with the Blight.” Hera faces her with a cold look. “It blocks our way to the Arl, and we need the Arl’s help against the Blight. So it is , in fact, our battle and to do with the Blight.” She turns back to Bann Teagan. “What shall we do?” “Thank you, thank you. This means more to me than you can guess. Thomas,” he says, turning back to the boy, “please tell Murdoch what has transpired, then return to your post.” “Yes, my lord,” Thomas says, retreating. “Now then,” Teagan continues, turning back to Hera. “There is much to do before night falls. I put two men in charge of the defense outside. You’ll need to speak with Murdoch, he’s the village mayor, and Ser Perth, up by the millhouse. I can’t thank you enough,” he goes on. “Just knowing there are a couple Grey Wardens on our side changes everything.” Hera nods. “Fine. We’ll go see them. Ah...Bann Teagan?” she asks as the others head toward the door. “Yes, my lady?” “I wanted to talk with you,” she says, drawing closer. “Is there a problem, my lady? We have quite a lot to do.” “No, no problem,” she flirts, looking up at him through her lashes. “I was only wondering why you’re here, and not on your own estate, protecting your wife and family.” Teagan laughs a little and smiles. “Oh, no...no, I’ve never had the pleasure. If I did I’d be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself. If I may be so bold, what of you, my lady? Are you married?” “No, I’m not,” she replies. “I find that hard to believe,” he tells her, giving her a smile that warms her blood. “Surely that is a crime somewhere.” “Perhaps,” she laughs. “But as a courtesan, I have made a lifetime habit of being not married.” “A courtesan and a Grey Warden?” he asks, shocked. “A lady as beautiful and skilled as you must have suitors by the score,” he chuckles, charm returning. “None special enough to tempt me,” she quips. “But Ferelden is a new, wide world for me. Perhaps that will change.” He takes her hand and raises it to his lips. “If I may say so, I do indeed hope.” Hera blooms under his attention, too used to the flirtation of the court and would-be lovers to go without it for long. Alistair’s awkward flirtation has been sweet, and he’s made her laugh, but Teagan is poised under pressure and strikes her as a man who knows his worth. She could do worse than enjoy a night or two in his arms. “Hera?” Her thoughts scatter at the sound of Alistair’s voice. “Yes, Alistair?” “We have work to do,” he reminds her with a huff. Teagan chuckles, patting Alistair on the shoulder. “He is correct, my lady. And I am too bold, this is hardly the time for such banter. Please, accept my apology.” “A handsome man never has to apologize for taking up my time.” Hera smiles up at them and bats her lashes. “I suppose I’ll leave you then, Bann Teagan,” she purrs. “It’s a good thing,” he charms, “I was afraid you’d have me spill all my secrets.” With a mischievous look, she shrugs. “Not in front of everyone.” Alistair makes an impatient sound, grabs her by the elbow, and all but drags her outside. What’s got into him? she wonders, biting back a giggle. He’s laid no claim or made an offer; is he so easily jealous of a little flirtation? He has so much to learn.  They speak with the mayor, a disgruntled man with a heavy mustache watching archers practice and barking advice. He tells them that the village blacksmith refuses to do any work or repairs for them, citing a concern for his daughter. There’s a dwarf in the village who refuses to help fight as well, and must be persuaded to join the militia. Hera sends Morrigan and Leliana to the dwarf, hoping either Leliana’s charm or Morrigan’s frustrating logic will get through to him, and she and Alistair see to the smith. “Hello?” she calls, knocking on the door to the forge. “Who are you? Go away!” “I’m a Grey Warden, here to help,” she persuades. “A Grey Warden? Are you sure?” Hera and Alistair exchange an amused look, each glancing at the other’s tattered blue uniform. “Last time I checked, I was sure.” “Well...ok,” she hears, and the door unlocks, releasing a stench that makes her eyes water. Shrugging at Alistair, they go inside. “Goodness, it smells like a brewery in here,” she coughs, waving a hand in front of her face. “Somebody’s been drinking,” Alistair sings under his breath. “Shut up you,” the smith, a grizzled man with an unkempt gray beard, says. Like any blacksmith he’s enormous, but his size is a hindrance today, making him sway unsteadily. “My girl’s in that castle, and no one will go look for her!” “Is that why you won’t do repairs for the militia?” she asks gently, putting a hand on his arm to steady him. “Murdoch said he’d look if they made it to the castle, but they haven’t,” he sneers. Almost as soon as the words fade, his bitterness crumbles into grief, and he covers his face with his hands. “They haven’t looked, and he promised! Why should I help a bunch of oath-breakers when my daughter is lost?” “I’d be happy to look for her,” Hera says, “except I have an obligation to the militia. But if someone were to take care of the repairs, I could find my way to the castle sooner...” “No you- you will?” he asks, eyes wide. “You’ll find my girl?” “When we get to the castle, I’ll look for her,” she repeats firmly, not interested in negotiating. “That is what you want, isn’t it? You do the repairs for the militia, and I’ll find your daughter. ” “You will? Really? Oh, I’ll get the forge lit now- oh my girl!” he cheers. “But,” Hera says, raising a hand. “What if she’s dead?” “It’ll be better than sitting around not knowing at all,” he says softly, looking at her with misty eyes. Hera’s heart softens. My own father had the privilege of thinking I was always safe before he died. She nods, pushing away the unexpected rush of emotion. “Very well. Do your part here, and I’ll do what I can.” He nods and pushes them out of the smith, his drunken feet finding purchase in the hope of his daughter being found. Standing outside the door, Alistair laughs. “ Wow. You know how to get a man moving, don’t you?” Hera grins slyly and looks up at him. “In so many ways,” she murmurs, putting a hand on his arm. Alistair blushes under her gaze and looks off, clearing his throat. “Right, well. Oh look, a puddle,” he says with too much enthusiasm, and trots off to stare at it, jabbing the mud with the toe of his boot. Hera enjoys a laugh at his amusement as Morrigan and Leliana approach. “That was disgusting,” Leliana complains with a shudder. “Ugh, I’m never letting you negotiate ever again.” “What happened?” Hera asks as they approach. “Did you get the dwarf out of hiding?” Leliana shudders and gags again. “Yes,” Morrigan answers with a smile. “Our friend Leliana had to...persuade him,” she adds with a devious chuckle. “And we found some curious barrels of oil in the shop. The whole place looks abandoned, maybe Ser Perth can use them.” “Good for you, Leliana!” Hera cheers. “You’ve got him in the militia!” Leliana gags some more and heads for the tavern, with Morrigan chuckling behind her. “Don’t get too drunk,” Hera warns, “we have a fight, remember?” The two girls wave in acknowledgment, and Hera goes over to Alistair. “I suppose we should go talk with this knight.” “Yes,” he agrees, looking up from his puddle, the blush having finally faded from his cheeks. “The mill is up there,” he adds, nodding at the enormous windmill at the top of the hill. “That’s where Murdoch said the knights would be.” “Lead on, local boy,” she says with a gesture for him to proceed her. “You know, it’s a bit like coming home,” he says as they climb the path. “It hasn’t changed much.” “You were just a child when you left, right?” “I was ten,” he says, nodding. “The arlessa...well, she made life miserable. It almost made the chantry bearable.” “That’s awful, Alistair.” “Maybe so. But I trained to become a templar, and that’s what lead me to the Grey Wardens.” They reach the top and see the knight giving orders to his men. “Let’s finish this later,” he suggests, and they approach. “Ser Perth?” Hera asks. “Yes, that’s me,” the knight says, turning to them. “Ah, so you’re the Grey Wardens. Bann Teagan sent someone to tell me you were here.” “Yes,” she says, nodding. “Hera. Pleased to meet you.” They talk a while, discussing strategy and the best use of the oil Leliana and Morrigan found. Ser Perth explains how the undead come every night, and how each night they fight them back. Hera assures him of success this time, and meet the others at the tavern to await nightfall. It’s quiet, with only a handful of the militia’s men sitting in a corner whispering to one another. The tavern-keeper is chatty, but Hera would rather order dinner- paying an extortionist’s rate- and join her friends at their table. “So...how did you persuade the dwarf, Leliana?” Alistair asks. “What was his name? Dwyn?” With another shudder of disgust, she tells them about how she had to offer him personal attention to convince him to come out. “Morrigan trapped me into it,” she says, glaring at the witch. “She said she was going to do it, and then when it came down to who was letting him kiss them, he picked me.” Morrigan shrugs. “It isn’t as if I knew he would like you better, Leliana. It just happened that way.” Hera laughs. “Leliana, I commend you. I’ve had my share of dwarves, and they’re….” “Repulsive? Stinking? Rude? Rough?” Leliana lists. “And more,” she agrees. “Thankfully they’re fast, though.” “Thank the Maker it was only a kiss, then. How did you become a courtesan?” Leliana asks. “I admit I am curious to know as well,” Morrigan adds. “You seem so...capable with a blade.” Hera shrugs. “My mother had us trained in the arts when we were young. My twin and I are bastard-born, but Zeus was born to be a bard, and I was suited to pleasure.” “Are you without musical talent, then?” Leliana asks. “I spent many years as a minstrel before going to the chantry.” “Oh no, I can play the lute and harp passably well, and sing sweetly. But Zeus showed more talent than I. So, once I was old enough to make the choice, it was the pleasure-chambers for me.” “That sounds unfair,” Leliana says. “Not at all,” Hera explains. “I wanted it very much. Courtesans in my world are well-educated, poised and elegant. They can wield as much political power and social sway as royalty if they play the game well. These men and women are given many lovely gifts in the form of jewels and gowns and are well paid for their time. It was the best way to ensure my own wealth and freedom, and I enjoy it.” 
“That sounds like the Grand Game in Orlais,” Leliana tells her. “Perhaps you and I can exchange stories later.”
 
Hera smiles. “I would like that very much. And you can teach me some of your songs; my brother is always adding to his collection.”
 
“And how did you learn to fight the way you do?” Alistair asks.
 “And how did you learn to fight the way you do?” Alistair asks.“Many gentlemen think it’s arousing to teach a woman how to wield a blade,” she explains, telling half the truth. “Enough patrons, you become quite good.” They talk a while longer of unimportant things until the sun begins to set. As one, they go to the millhouse, standing out of the way of the oil barrels once they’re set aflame. The dwarf Dwyn and his two human servants stand ready, testing the edges of their weapons on dirty thumbs and giving the knights suspicious looks.  Too few, she thinks, counting the knights and adding it to her estimation of the militia numbers. Too few, and against too many. Hera draws her weapons, waiting as it grows darker. Damn me to seven hells, I should have sent for Sten and Ares.   Will they be as powerful as Ravenloft’s undead? She wonders, remembering how Strahd had called up ancient warriors in an attempt to stop them from reaching the center of the castle. She shudders, recalling the powerful, dark flame of necromantic power- a power she herself can now command- wrapping around dusty bones still strapped in armor; a mockery of the life they once possessed. Had it not been for Jami and his control of fire, she wasn’t sure they would have made it out alive. “Morrigan, don’t hesitate to use fire on them,” she suggests. “I had no intention of hesitating at all, Warden,” Morrigan chuckles. First comes a dull roar, and a strange green fog creeps down the hill. “Necromancy,” Hera murmurs as the first shambling undead emerges from the fog. The closer the fog gets to them, the faster it moves, carrying the stench of rotting bodies. Morrigan casts flame at the barrels, burning away much of it and forcing the gray shamblers into a narrow path for easier disposal. Swollen limbs split from strain before weapons even touch the flesh. Older undead shatter into dry-rotted tangles of bone and leathery skin. Everywhere is flame and the sound of steel on steel, pushing back the first wave even as a runner comes from the village. “They’re coming from the lake!” he cries. “There’s too many!”  Damn. “Ser Perth, can you hold the line?” she asks. *** It is a long battle through the night, and Leliana takes a grave injury before it is all over. As the sun creeps over the horizon, Hera looks out over the village, tired to her core and stinking of rot. Behind her, a mass pyre already roars, devouring the bodies of the cursed dead while the knights and militia of Redcliffe are carried into the village square to be wrapped and cremated with ceremony. Ser Perth had been nervous about leaving so many pieces of the attacking force lying around, so she and Alistair had helped with the cleanup near the millhouse while Leliana was taken back to the chantry for treatment. “Well we’ve done it,” she sighs, stretching her back and throwing a mangled, gray foot onto the pyre. “Redcliffe is safe.” Alistair nods. “Let’s go check on Leliana. Morrigan should be with her in the chantry by now.” Hera makes her slow way down the path and into the village. Thankfully, she didn't take any serious injuries of her own, but her limbs feel heavy and unwieldy and she wishes Sten was there to carry her. He wouldn’t, of course, and would lecture her on her weakness and his rank in the qunari, explaining that it would be shameful for him to carry her about like a child. As they walk, she unpins her hair, unbraiding it to let the waves tumble down her back. “Is it heavy?” Alistair asks, glancing at her. “Your hair.” Hera shakes it out and scratches her scalp, sighing in pleasure. “Yes.” “It’s pretty,” he says, embarrassed. “Like a raven’s wing. Not just black, there are other colors in the light.” Hera smiles at him, a little surprised at the compliment. “Thank you.” His answering smile seems to sneak up on him. “You’re welcome.” “Alistair,” she says as they walk. “If you were raised in the chantry, have you never…?” “Never…?” he mimics. “Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?” “You know what I mean,” she says suggestively, eyeing him hungrily. Nothing makes me want a man more than a good fight.  “I’m not sure I do,” he says hoarsely, the tips of his ears going bright red. “Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?”  Well, I’ve never heard it referred to as eating jellied ham, but I suppose the lamppost works. “Now you’re making fun of me,” she pouts playfully. “Make fun of you , dear lady?” he crows. “Perish the thought. Surely you’ve licked a lamppost in winter?” “More than my fair share,” she quips, laughing. “Given my profession, do you really have to ask?” “Oh, selfish . I myself have never had the pleasure,” he drawls. “Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course, but...you know.” “Oh that’s cute!” she teases as if she hadn’t known from their first meeting. “You’re a virgin.” “ Cute? Well, hearing that from a beautiful woman does make me feel luckier, I’ll say that.” “You think I’m beautiful?” she fishes. The accomplished flirting of Teagan and Tybalt had been gratifying, but somehow hearing it from Alistair means more. Why should his opinion carry more weight? Is it because of this strange connection I feel with him?  “Of course you are, and you know it,” he accuses. “You’re ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you’d probably hurt me for not saying.” “You flatter me,” she coos, looking up at him through her lashes. “That’s what I’m here for. It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.” Hera’s jaw drops and she lets out a shocked laugh. “I can’t believe you said that,” she laughs, smacking his chest. He lets out his breath in a dramatic whoosh . “Oh my lady! I’m injured! You’ve broken my ribs! Ah! I can feel them stabbing me now!” he cries, falling to the ground. “Tell...Tell...I don’t have anything to tell anyone,” he says before groaning loudly and letting his head loll with his tongue out. “That won’t be all that stabs you,” she teases, jabbing him with her toe. “On your feet, Warden.” “Let’s get to the chantry then,” he chuckles, “lest your risque talk makes my ears blush.” “Before we do…” She catches his arm, the other hand sliding up his chest plate. “I want you to know...you could have the pleasure,” she offers, the playfulness replaced by raw desire. “With me. In my tent. Today. We could go right now if you wanted. All you have to do is say the word.” Alistair makes a series of sounds that could almost be words before his tongue starts working again. “Your tent. Ah.” He grimaces, and Hera raises her eyebrows at him until he chuckles and his expression turns playful. “You temptress,” he teases. “You won’t get to me so easily!”  He just- he scowled! Turned me down- and scowled at the offer . At me! That’s never happened! Hera sniffs indignantly and turns her nose up at him. “If that’s what you want, have it your way,” she says haughtily. That...that stings a little. I’ve never had an outright offered rejected...I certainly don’t enjoy the feeling.  “I didn’t mean it like that!” he explains, following. “I- uh-” He sighs as they approach the chantry. “Handled with my typical brilliance, I suppose. Fantastic.”  I can’t really blame him, she admits to herself, it isn’t as if he has any experience. Still, he’ could have spared my ego. Smothering her pride in a feat of will power, Hera gives him a teasing wink but doesn’t say anything else as they climb the steps. Bann Teagan is waiting before a crowd of people, Leliana and Morrigan with him, and gives a moving speech about the bravery of the villagers. Hera withstands the attention, ready for her bedroll and some peace. But she knows how important it is that the people celebrate their victory and pulls Teagan aside. “Let them have their celebration,” she counsels, “but we need rest. Send someone to the camp in a few hours.” He nods. “Meet me by the millhouse at noon,” he decides. “We should discuss how to get into the castle next.” Hera nods, and the four wearily make their way to their camp just outside of Redcliffe. Ares barks and circles her excitedly, and Hera laughs, laying over his back and letting the enormous dog drag her to her tent.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera leaves Leliana at the camp with Sten, knowing she needs rest and that Sten will protect her if necessary, but otherwise leave her alone. With Morrigan, Alistair, and Ares, she makes her way to the millhouse. She slept a while and cleaned up, which brought her a little closer to something like normalcy, but the thought of a true bath- not a frigid scrub in a river or creek- and a bed could tempt her into unmentionable acts. As they approach, Teagan has his back to them; looking up at the castle. The view from the mill is impressive: the village hugs the edge of the lake below, and before them is the great hulk of the castle, a sprawling fortress of mixed stone and styles that’s seen several additions over the years. It is nothing like her palace in Ravenloft with its gargoyles, sharp spires, and shadowy eaves. “Odd how quiet the castle is from here,” he says. “You would think there was nobody inside at all. But I shouldn’t delay things further. I had a plan to enter the castle once the village was secure,” he adds, turning to them. “There is a secret passage, here, in the mill, accessible only to my family.” “So why didn’t you go there first?” Hera asks, frowning. “I had no idea what lurked in the castle, and I couldn’t abandon the people of the village. What if-” he freezes, looking over her shoulder. “Maker’s breath.” Hera turns to see a young, well-dressed blonde woman racing down the hill, calling Teagan’s name. She reaches them quickly, gasping her words out. “Teagan,” she gasps. “Thank the Maker you yet live!” “Isolde, you’re alive,” he says with relief. “How did you- what has happened?” “I do not have much time to explain,” she tells him, ignoring the presence of everyone but Teagan. “I slipped away from the castle as soon as I could once the battle was over, and I must return quickly. And I…” Hera’s eyes become suspicious slits as the woman looks behind her and rubs her hands over her tear-stained cheeks. “I need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone.” “We’re going to need more of an explanation before that can happen,” Hera pipes up. The woman turns, as if seeing her for the first time. I don’t like this, you can almost smell the lies she’s got ready.  
“What? I- who

is

this woman, Teagan?” she shrieks.
 Hera winces at the high pitched, nasal voice of someone who believes to her core that she is above everyone around her. That’s the arl’s wife, Hera remembers. The jealous woman Alistair mentioned yesterday. Probably married above her station and would rather everyone just forget about that pesky little detail. Alistair sighs and steps forward. “You remember me, Lady Isolde,” he says with resignation, “don’t you?” “Alistair,” she sneers. “Of all the- why are you here?” Hera opens her mouth to snap at her, but Teagan speaks first. “They are Grey Wardens, Isolde,” Teagan explains. “I owe them my life.” “And, as I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear, many others in the village.” Hera’s voice drips with acid as she glares at the arlessa. It’s been years since she’s seen Alistair- can she really still be holding such a grudge? If this is how she greets him now, how petty and cruel was she before?  Chastised by Hera’s words, Isolde flushes and bows her head. “Pardon me,” she murmurs. “I would exchange pleasantries but- considering the circumstances…” “Please, Lady Isolde,” Alistair implores, lifting his hands in helplessness. “We had no idea anyone was even alive inside the castle. We must have some answers.” She bows her head, and Hera’s dislike of the woman grows. “I know you need more of an explanation, but I- I don’t know what is safe to tell. Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle, the dead wake and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still, it continues. And I think Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won’t flee the castle...he has seen so much death. You must help him, Teagan. You are his uncle, you could reason with him! I do not know what else to do!” “What about Arl Eamon?” Hera asks. “Does he yet live?” “He is,” Isolde says, turning to look at her. “He’s being kept alive so far, thank the Maker.” “Kept alive?” Teagan asks. “Kept alive by what?” “Something the mage unleashed,” she answers ominously. “So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village. It wants us to live, but I do not know why! It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help!” “Could this evil be some kind of demon?” Hera asks. “I...I do not know,” Isolde tells her. “Oh, Maker’s mercy...Could it truly be a demon? I can’t let it hurt my Connor! You must come back with me Teagan! Please!” “Tell me about the mage you mentioned,” Hera demands, the words ringing with such command that Isolde obeys without hesitation. “He is an...infiltrator, I think. One of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband, that is why Eamon fell ill.” “Eamon was poisoned ?” Teagan gasps. "Isolde, how could this have happened?" “He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s hired him. He may be lying, however, I cannot say.” Hera’s patience with the arlessa wears thin. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling us everything?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Lady Isolde turns on her in shocked outrage. “I- I beg your pardon! That’s a rather impertinent accusation!” “Not if it’s true,” Hera says in a withering tone. “An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage,” Isolde says in a pitiable voice. “I came for help! What more do you want from me? Teagan, I do not have much time! What if it thinks I’m betraying it! It could kill Connor! Please come back with me! Must I beg?” she asks tearfully. Her tears do not move Hera, who has been known to use them to have her own way. “Why must Teagan go alone?” “For Connor’s sake. I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan.” She wraps her hands around the bann’s arm, giving him a wide-eyed, teary look of innocence. “Teagan, I know you could order your men to follow me when I return to the castle, but I beg you not to. For Connor’s sake. You must come with me,” she begs, her voice breaking. “Enough,” Hera snorts, waving Isolde’s emotional pleas aside. “We need to decide what to do.” “The king is dead,” Teagan says flatly. “And we need my brother now more than ever. I will return to the castle with you, Isolde.” “Thank the Maker,” Isolde cries. “Bless you, Teagan!” “Teagan,” Hera warns. He turns to her. “I have no illusions of dealing with this alone,” he says. “You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable. Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you.” She nods. “Please do not take too long. I will be by the bridge.” As soon as she’s out of earshot, Teagan turns to Hera. “Here’s what I propose: I go in with Isolde, and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. Perhaps I will distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?” Hera glances over her shoulder at Alistair, who looks distraught at the thought of Eamon being so close to death. “What exactly am I supposed to do in there?” “I wish I knew,” he sighs. “I don’t know any more about this evil force than Isolde seems to. Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance if you can open the gates from within they can move in and help you. I don’t think there’s anyone else,” he adds. “If you choose not to go, then it’s up to me to do what I can. Here is my signet ring.” He twists it off and hands it to her. “It will open the lock on the door in the mill. Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else- we’re expendable.” “I don’t believe that,” Hera tells him softly, looking down at his hand holding her own. “I will rescue you all, I promise.” Teagan smiles warmly at her. “You are a good woman, my lady. The Maker smiled on me indeed when he sent you to Redcliffe. I can delay no longer, allow me to bid you farewell. And good luck,” he adds, pressing his lips to her hand in farewell. Hera watches him walk away, his ring warm in her hand. I do hope he doesn’t die. “Right then,” she says, turning to her companions. “Let’s see what fun we can have.” “I don’t know if our definitions of ‘fun’ are the same,” Alistair grumbles as he follows her into the millhouse. Hera finds the door quickly and lifts the latch. Thank goodness for darkvision, she thinks, leaping into the dark tunnel below. Being dhampir definitely has its advantages. The air inside is stale and so dark that a human wouldn’t be able to see past their nose. Morrigan jumps in behind her, losing her footing and colliding into Hera. “Forgive me. It’s far too dark in here to see,” Morrigan mutters, steadying herself. “Are you hurt?” Hera asks. “Alistair, we need a torch.” “No need, Warden.” Morrigan taps her staff on the dirt floor. A soft white glow fills the tunnel, revealing stone smoothed by time but overtaken with dust and spider webs. “Handy trick, I knew we brought you for a reason,” Hera says, nodding to the staff. “Do you have to keep contact with it for it to work?” Morrigan nods, leaping out of the way when Alistair jumps down. Above them, Ares lays on his belly, poking his head into the hole. “Come on, you big brave boy,” Hera calls, opening her arms. With a cheerful yelp, the dog launches himself at her. She grunts and staggers back from the impact, but catches him all the same. “How can- you- you can carry him?” he stutters. “How? He’s huge!” Hera cuddles the mabari and shrugs. “I just can. Can’t you?” “Yes, but he’s still heavy! And I’d never let him jump down on top of me!” “A dog is smarter, and a woman stronger,” Morrigan drawls, amused. “Alistair, why are you here?” “Why are you?” he snaps at her. “I’m here because my mother ordered me to come,” she answers. “I did not refuse to lead and then not question our leader’s every move, nor do I badger her with endless questions.” “Stop,” Hera orders. “Both of you. Next time, you can jump in by yourself if it’s going to cause trouble,” she tells Ares as she sets him down. “Let’s go.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“If my guess is right,” Alistair murmurs as they pause at the end of the tunnel. “This tunnel connects to the dungeon. That door should open right into it.” Hera catches an unusual sound and puts her ear to the door, listening. For all the benefits the Joining gives a human, her already superhuman vision and hearing didn’t change, so she’s almost certain Alistair has the same capabilities as any other human and cannot hear the familiar rattle of bone. “There’s something in there,” she whispers. “Alive and moving. Probably more undead.” She draws her weapons and steps back, gathering her strength and kicking the door open. Three undead corpses rush them, only to be frozen in place by Morrigan. “Well that was fun,” Alistair quips, slamming his shield into one and shattering it. “See, our definitions of fun aren’t so different!” Hera tells him, standing back and letting Morrigan freeze the remaining two again so that the bones shatter like a tree in winter. She pokes around in the first few cells, looking for anything useful, but it’s not the sprawling, treasure-filled dungeons she and her brother had crawled through with their companions in earlier times, but neither is it the shadowed, ghost-filled labyrinth of Ravenloft’s castle. It is, like much of Ferelden, simple and sturdy, with few surprises. “H-Hello?” They pause at the sound of a man’s frightened voice. “Is someone out there? Who is it?” Weapons raised, Hera approaches a cell where a man in tattered, stained robes stands. He reeks of fear and blood, and not all of the blood is his, she notices. They tortured him. He must have fought back a little. “You must be the mage,” she says, sheathing her blades. “The one who poisoned Eamon.” “My name is Jowan. I know it looks suspicious,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “But I’m not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I’m…” He sighs and hangs his head in defeat. “I’m a blood mage,” he says, the words clearly causing him personal pain to say aloud. “But I was already imprisoned when all that began. At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men, demanding that I reverse what I’d done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the Arl. That’s the first I’d heard about the walking corpses. She’d thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. She...she had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say that would appease her. So they left me to rot,” he finishes. “And they should,” Alistair hisses. “Blood magic is forbidden, and you know it.” “And will Templar Alistair punish him, then?” Morrigan snaps. Hera shoots them a look that silences the argument before it can begin. “Why did you poison Arl Eamon?” she asks, turning her attention back to Jowan. “I was instructed to by Teyrn Loghain. I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden. That if I dealt with him, Loghain would settle some matters with the Circle. He’s abandoned me here, hasn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart. I never thought it would end like this. Maker, I’ve made so many mistakes! I disappointed so many people! I wish I could go back and fix it, I just want to make everything right again!” “That’s an admirable thought,” she says wryly. Admirable, but can he be believed? She shoots a glance at Morrigan and Alistair, but neither of their faces give away their thoughts. “Well, it’s a start,” he says. “I don’t know if anything I could do would ever make it right.” “None of this explains why you’re here, though,” Hera points out. “You came to poison the arl, but what was your story? Why would they let a blood mage into their home?” “Connor had started to show magical ability,” the mage explains. “Lady Isolde brought me here to tutor him; she was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training.”“Connor? A mage ?” Alistair asks. “I can’t believe it.” “She sought an apostate," Jowan says, his voice heavy with guilt, "a mage outside the Circle, to teach her son so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea.” “The Arl didn’t know?” she questions. “Could Connor be responsible for all this?” “I thought that too,” he exclaims. “Connor knows very little magic, but he may have done something to tear open the Veil. With the Veil to the Fade torn, spirits and demons could infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses.” “I see. How much magic did you teach Connor?” This Fade seems to make everything far more complicated than it has to be. I should ask Morrigan to explain more, and how it connects to their magic. Alistair said dreams come from the Fade, and spirits and demons roam. Could they not just tear down this Veil and be done with all the trouble?  “Some. But he’s still very young- he can barely cast a minor spell, nevermind something more powerful. At least not intentionally. He may have torn the Veil accidentally.” “I think I understand,” she says thoughtfully. “The Arl is a decent man,” the mage insists. “I wondered how he could be the threat Loghain said he was, but I did it anyway. I’m such a fool.” 
“Yes, you are,” she agrees. Hera can hear the cruelty in her voice and remembers the night she sentenced the traitors of Ravenloft.

They were fools as well; he is lucky, I would have simply executed him.

“What do you intend to do about it?”
 “I’m just sick of running away and hiding. I’m going to try and fix it, any way I can. Help me fix this,” he pleads. Hera quietly looks at him for a long time. He’s remorseful, and if he’s telling the truth, he’s done less harm than Sten. And yet his crimes are heavier for being a mage. He’d be safer where he is. “I will, but not yet,” she says finally. “For now, you will stay here.” “I can accept that,” he says quickly. “But if I can be of help…?” “I’ll come back for you,” she finishes. “Till then, behave yourself.” “You are full of surprises,” Morrigan murmurs as they move on. “I half expected you to let Alistair kill him then and there.” “And you would what? Free him and let him run away?” Alistair snarls. “Morrigan, the Circle has rules in place for a reason-” “Oh yes, the cattle usually stay in their fence,” Morrigan argues. “But what about-” “He wants to atone for his crimes,” Hera says flatly. “If there’s a chance, I’ll allow it. After that, he will answer to the Arl, and not any of us.” They move through the dungeon as a unit, taking out undead as they go. Hera feels only the slightest bit of guilt, being partially undead herself, but knowing that these are not sentient beings, they are slaves to whatever is controlling them. As they go up, they pass through the cellar, and Hera pauses when she catches the faint sound of crying. “Who would be here?” she asks and follows the sound to a small door. Beside her, Ares whimpers and paws at the door. “It sounds like a woman. Morrigan, be ready.” Morrigan lifts her staff, a small flame coming to life and engulfing the stone at its tip. Hera crouches to one side, gesturing for Alistair to open the door. He swings it open, and Hera looks in, ready for an ambush. Instead, she finds a human woman hiding behind some boxes, sobbing and begging for her life. “Nevermind, Morrigan,” she sighs, straightening and approaching the woman slowly. She has the same eyes as the blacksmith, red-rimmed and swollen with tears as they are. “Are you Valena?” she asks. “Y-Yes,” the woman sniffs, not moving from her spot behind the boxes. “Who are you?” “Your father sent me to find you,” Hera explains quickly, holding her hand out to her. “There’s a tunnel leading out of the dungeon, you can get out if you run.” “What about the creatures!?” she shrieks. “I can’t go alone!” “We’ve taken care of them,” she assures her, coaxing her out of the closet. “Valena, go to the village. Run.” Alistair hands her a small knife. “Here, in case we missed anything. You’ll come out at the millhouse. Ser Perth will have left a knight or two there, they’ll make sure nothing got in behind us.” “Thank you, ser,” she says tearfully, clutching the knife to her chest. She sets off at a run, her footsteps slapping the bare stone and echoing off the walls. “That was well done,” Hera tells him, surprised at his gentleness. “Yes, well,” he says, grinning. “Not everything can be accomplished by flirtation.” “What do-gooding!” Morrigan cheers sarcastically. “My heart feels warmer for it.” “You have one?” Alistair asks, raising his eyebrows at her. “Shut up, Morrigan,” Hera snaps. “Oh, yes ma’am,” Morrigan pouts, sticking out her bottom lip. “I shall be as silent as the grave.” “Maker be praised,” Alistair mutters. Alistair leads them through kitchens cramped with tables and sacks of goods and then the narrow barracks, destroying small groups of undead stumbling over bodies gone soft with rot. Like the night before, it’s messy work, and Hera’s boots are black with blood and offal when they arrive in the courtyard. They had expected a cool drink of water and a small respite from the undead, sure that the creatures would stay out of the sunlight, but what they find instead makes Hera’s blood run cold. Corpses litter the green summer grass, baking in the sun and beginning to swell and turn purple. On the stairs to their right is a small army of undead, some of them falling apart as they stand. At the gate stands Ser Perth and his knights, shouting taunts and lobbing arrows over the walls in steady waves. In the center of it all stands a massive armored creature, the pure evil emanating from it casting a shadow longer than humanly possible. “Good gods,” she whispers, the words easing out of her as all her breath leaks out of her lungs. It’s huge, easily taller than Alistair and twice as wide, with pitted, spiked armor clinging to a body wrapped in dark rags. Arrows stick into the ground all around it, but it ignores them, brushing off a strike with a frighteningly casual movement. “What is that?”  It looks like...that’s not possible, she thinks, shaking her head. There’s no way one of the gatekeepers could have followed me here. The gates are far from where I was in the forest. In Ravenloft, spirits take similar, nightmarish forms to haunt the gates- the four main paths in and out of the realm- and once terrorized and devoured any who attempted to escape Strahd’s reach. In her own reign, she had transformed them into guardians, reminding all who pass of the power Ravenloft holds and the punishment that awaits criminals. But here, in Ferelden, the thought of such a spirit turning all that cold fury on her makes Hera’s chest tight. Even at her best, a gatekeeper would be a difficult battle she might not win. It had taken six hardened, powerful warriors to take down two during her takeover of the realm. All she had here was a dog and two young companions; compared to Zeus and the others, her new friends suddenly seemed sadly inexperienced. “That is a Revenant,” Alistair says in a low voice. “It’s a powerful demon that’s possessed a corpse. It looks like it’s taken one of the Arl’s knights.” Hera swallows against a rush of gratitude. Not one of mine, then, she thinks gladly. Just some...other horrible nightmare that’s as natural to Thedas as darkspawn. All right. That we can handle.  “Morrigan,” she says, not turning her head in hopes that the creatures surrounding the Revenant don’t notice them yet. “Fire off something spectacular to get their attention on us, then get to the gate, get it open so Ser Perth’s men can come in. After that, stay out of range of the Revenant if you can. Alistair, I’m going to be on your left, and Ares,” she glances down at the dog, and he’s listening attentively. “Alistair’s right.” Ares growls low in his throat in acknowledgment, his eyes never leaving the Revenant. With a deep breath, she twitches her hands, unable to convince her racing heart that this Revenant isn’t in fact, one of her gatekeepers. “Let’s go. Morrigan, start us off.” Morrigan gathers her power into a glowing fireball; stray strands of hair lift off her face as the heat grows before releasing it. The moment her magic is loose, she runs for the gate, leaving Hera and Alistair rushing the Revenant. It’s glowing eyes lock on Hera, and it reaches a hand out to her in invitation. A pull starts in her gut, and when he jerks his hand back swiftly she flies through the air toward it. Her scream is cut short when she slams into its body, the spiked armor stabbing her in the side. Gasping, she struggles to get away, unable to see where her weapons landed. “ For the Grey Wardens! ” Alistair’s battle cry is as welcome a sound as the clatter of his armor behind her. With a burst of strength, she shoves the Revenant away, grimacing as the long spike in her side does more damage on the way out. She scrambles out of the way of a dark, rust-spotted sword, finding her sword in the grass. Behind her, Ares snaps his powerful jaws and keeps more undead at bay while Alistair engages the Revenant. A second cry is heard over the sound of battle as the gate is lifted and the Arl’s knights join the fray. Hera wraps both hands around the hilt of her sword, grinning when flames dance along the razor edge, courtesy of Morrigan. Ignoring the tearing in her side, Hera attacks the Revenant from Alistair’s left, keeping it between her sword and his shield while Morrigan pelts it with magic. The Revenant emits a burst of dark magic, regaining strength and stabbing its sword clean through Alistair’s stomach, lifting him off his feet. Hera can only watch in horror as throws him across the courtyard with a deep, rustling laugh. “Morrigan! Help him!” she shouts, ducking behind it to avoid being impaled herself. It turns to face Hera, raising its sword to finish her and looking more like a gatekeeper than ever. Not one of mine, she reminds herself, taking a deep breath. Foolishly, Hera leaps into the creature’s reach, plunging her sword through the middle as the blood-covered blade sinks into her shoulder. At the same moment, a thick layer of ice bursts out of the shadowy armor, freezing both blades into place. Breathing heavily, Hera puts a hand to her shoulder, gasping as she pulls away from the sword. She can sense the necromancy gone from the Revenant’s remains, so she puts a foot on the body and yanks her sword out. She tumbles to the ground as the body explodes into black shards of ice. Pain tears through her, radiating in blinding waves from her wounds as the adrenaline of the fight wears off. Putting a hand weakly on her side, she closes her eyes and lays there while the sounds of battle begin to fade. “Hera, are you all right?” She opens her eyes to see Alistair, covered in blood but alive and breathing. “Sure,” she croaks, lifting a hand sticky with blood. “Morrigan?” he asks hopefully. Morrigan looks exhausted as well, shadows under her eyes making her look pale. “Put pressure on her wounds,” she instructs. “I must find some lyrium to replenish myself.” The ice encasing the pieces of the Revenant begins to melt, revealing a stench strong enough to make Alistair gag. Lying in the middle of it, Hera silently reminds herself that having enhanced dhampir senses comes at a price. “Maker’s breath,” he mutters, slipping his arms underneath her. “Let’s get you out of this.” “Can I be of assistance?” Ser Perth asks, approaching slowly. Alistair lifts her easily and moves Hera to lie on some square hay bales nearby. “You don’t want to smell that,” he explains as the knight joins them. “We cleared the dungeons and cellar as we came up,” he adds. “You might want to send someone to be sure, though.” “And you opened the gates,” he says cheerfully as Morrigan approaches. “My men and I are eager to see the Arl again. Shall we enter the main hall together? It must be held if we are to gain hold of the castle.” “No, stay out here,” Hera instructs, gasping at the heat radiating from Morrigan’s healing magic. Does everyone’s magic feel different? She wonders as Alistair helps her sit up, rotating her shoulder with a grimace. Or does she just like hurting people? “Hold the gates in case anything comes out. I don’t want to lose the yard if something goes wrong inside.” The knight nods. “Understood. We’ll await your word.” She nods, inspecting the new holes in her armor. “That’s fine,” she says absently, getting to her feet slowly. “Ares, to me,” she calls. “By the Powers, drop that bone! That’s somebody’s leg, you goose!” Ares trots over, and she brushes some of the bone and muck off him. “You’re filthy, you know that?” she tells him, cupping his face in her hands. “You need a bath as badly as I do.” “If we can get control of the castle, you can have one,” Alistair reminds her. “Let’s go see what’s waiting for us in there.” “I have a wonder, Hera,” Morrigan says as they climb the stairs leading to the main hall, “if you will indulge me.” “What is it?” she asks, rolling her shoulder and sighing in relief when something pops. “How is it you are so...in command? You order knights and lords about almost as if you’ve done this before.” “I have,” Hera says too quickly. Damn. “I mean, I’ve been adventuring before,” she amends. “My brother and I chased the wind for a long time before we found our home. When we did, we had quite the battle on our hands.” “And why didn’t the denizens of Ravenloft defend their home before you got there?” Hera stops at the door and turns to the witch. She has no intention of telling anyone the whole truth of Ravenloft and the events that transpired there- there is nothing to be gained by it. “Another time, perhaps,” she lies. “It’s a long story.” “Oh, I do love a good tale,” Morrigan agrees. “I admit I’d be happy to hear that as well,” Alistair says gloomily. “And I hate to agree with Morrigan on anything.” “And yet that’s a second thing we agree on,” Morrigan says venomously. “Alright, you two,” Hera warns and pushes open the doors.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera is expecting a hall full of undead, torturing Teagan and Isolde, Connor lying dead on the floor, and a whole host of nightmarish things, but none of that is what they walk into: Teagan dancing and japing like a court jester, laughed at and encouraged by a half-feral child, and Isolde cowering behind them. The boy is thin and bruised, with a mad gleam in his eyes and jerky movements, as if his body is too small to contain him. Were he not under the strain of whatever afflicted him, he would look like every other boy in Redcliffe. “What the…” she murmurs. What’s happened to this boy?  Teagan starts rolling on the floor, doing somersaults, when Connor notices them and stops clapping. His face takes on a strange expression, flitting between anger and excitement, one Hera has seen before in creatures like herself. It is the expression of something dangerous and hungry, too knowledgeable of the darkness to be a child. “So these are our visitors,” he says scathingly, his voice contorted and rough. “The ones you told me about, Mother.” “Y-yes, Connor,” she whimpers. “And this is the one who defeated my soldiers?” he asks, pointing at Hera. “The ones I sent to reclaim my village.” “Yes.” “And now it’s staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can’t see it well enough.”  Will he know I’m not human? She wonders, taking a careful step toward him. Can the evil inside him see me for what I am?  “This...this is just a woman, Connor.” Isolde’s voice is tearful and halting, and Hera finds a small amount of pity in her for the woman. “Just as I am.” “You lie!” he shrieks, turning on her. “This woman is nothing like you! Half your age, and prettier.” He tilts his head, turning slowly back to Hera. His eyes focus on her as a smile too wide for amusement stretches across his face. “And something else, too. Something more. I’m surprised you don’t have her executed in a fit of jealousy.” Hera meets his gaze confidently, lifting her chin. It knows I’m different. Good.  “Conner, I beg you,” Isolde pleads. “Don’t hurt anyone.” The boy’s expression changes to one of confusion and pain, and he rubs his eyes. “M-Mother? What’s happening? Where am I?” he asks in a scared voice. He sways on his feet, reaching for his mother, his movements twitching with pain and exhaustion. “Oh thank the Maker. Conner! Conner can you hear me?” she gasps, kneeling in front of her son. The moment is lost, and Hera can see the demon taking him over again. The light in his is overtaken by a shadow passing over him, the desperate need for comfort twisting into a snarl of disgust. “Get away from me fool woman!” he shouts, flailing his arms at her. “You are beginning to bore me.” “Grey Warden…” Isolde whimpers, “please don’t hurt my son. He’s not responsible for what he’s done!” “So he is the evil you spoke of,” Hera says flatly. “No!” she cries. “Don’t say that!” “So the boy has become an abomination and sundered the Veil?” Morrigan drawls. “Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon! He started all this! He summoned the demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!” “And made a deal with a demon to do so?” Morrigan retorts. “Foolish child.” “It was a fair deal!” Connor shouts, his voice mutated by the demon within to sound like a chorus of voices. “Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!” “Nooooobody tells him what to do!” Teagan giggles in a mad fit, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking. “Nobody!” “Quiet uncle!” Connor snaps. “I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn’t I? Yes, I did. But let’s keep things civil,” he says, his voice turning sweet. “This woman will have the audience she seeks. Tell us, woman...what have you come here for?” “I came to help,” Hera says simply, watching it swing wildly from one emotion to the other. It doesn’t seem able to control its emotions, or it’s trying to experience everything at once. Either way, it could be a weakness I can exploit.  “Help? Help who? Help me? Help my father? Help yourself?” “I came to help Arl Eamon.” “But Father is so very ill,” he says, “we shouldn’t disturb him. Isn’t that right, Mother?” “I...I don’t think-” “Of course you don’t. Ever since you sent the knights away, you’ve done nothing but ruin my fun. Frankly, it’s getting dull. I crave excitement! And action! This woman spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, but now she’ll repay me!” He runs out of the hall, and before Hera can chase him, Teagan lets out a deafening warcry. All the Redcliffe guards in the hall attack, and Teagan heads straight for her, sword in hand. “Damn it all,” she mutters, readying her own weapons. “Don’t kill them!” she orders. “They’re trying to kill us!” Alistair shouts, bashing a guard with his shield. Ares growls and bites the hand of a swordsman coming near Hera, tearing the weapon out of his hand. Teagan is a capable swordsman, she learns as they duel, and it isn’t easy to wear him down and knock him unconscious. But they manage to get all the guards incapacitated, and Hera nudges the bann with her boot, catching her breath. “He may still be under the influence of the demon,” she says as he comes around. “Keep an eye on the rest.” Ares turns and stares at the other guards, growling, while Isolde helps Teagan to his feet. “Teagan! Oh Teagan,” she says tearfully. “Are you all right?” “I am...better now,” he says slowly, shaking his head. “My mind is my own again.” “Blessed Andraste, I would never have forgiven myself if you had died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am! Please!” she says, turning to Hera. “Connor is not responsible for this. There must be some way to save him.” “I’m not about to kill a child,” Hera assures her. “What of the mage in the dungeon? The blood mage? Maybe he can help.” “Does he still live?” Teagan asks. “Bring him here.” “My lord, he’s a blood mage,” Alistair reminds him. “The templars should be called for him.” “Not if he can be of use,” Hera argues. “He started all this, after all.” Teagan sighs, running his hand over his face. Hera puts a hand on his shoulder, smiling gently when he looks up at her. “This is a lot to carry, I know. But if Jowan can help Connor, you have to let him try.” Alistair shoots her a hard look, his lips turning into a thin line. “It doesn’t change what he is,” he mutters. Hera doesn’t want to argue with him, so she doesn’t answer. They wait in silence while Jowan is brought from the dungeon. Hera can’t stay still, her adrenaline forcing her to action, so she wanders down the hall and finds a study. This must be Eamon’s study, she realizes, her gaze moving over shelf after shelf of books. A learned man. Good. That's one thing in his favor.  She wanders another moment, glancing down at the desk. A chain hangs out of a slightly open drawer, and she opens it to return it to its place, but her hand stops when she sees what the chain is. She remembers seeing an amulet of Andraste among Leliana’s things, and this looks just like it, only cracked, as if it’s been broken and repaired.  This must be the amulet Alistair spoke of, she thinks, drawing it out for a closer look. The one that he threw against the wall. The arl repaired it…that doesn’t sound like the man I’ve heard about. She hears her name called, and slips the amulet into her pocket, hurrying to rejoin the others. Jowan stands before Isolde, cringing under Lady Isolde’s hysterical tirade. “You! You did this to Connor!” “I didn’t!” he cries. “I didn’t summon any demon, I told you! If you’ll let me help…” “Help?” she shrieks, and Hera winces at the pitch her voice takes on. “You betrayed me! I brought you here to help my son, and in return you poisoned my husband!” Finally, Teagan puts a hand on her shoulder to silence her. “Your secrecy made his actions possible, Isolde.” “But I…” “I know what you think of me, my lady,” Jowan says slowly. “I took advantage of your fear. I am sorry. I...I never knew it would come to this.” “Well, I shan’t turn away his help,” Teagan decides. “Not yet. And if Connor is truly an abomination-” “He’s not always the demon you saw,” Isolde says softly. “Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him.” “Isn’t that what started this?” Teagan demands. “You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret...to protect him.” “If they discovered Connor had magic, they’d take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then…” “I sought to keep the boy from the hands of the Chantry,” Jowan says softly, hanging his head. “The Circle is no place for children.” “What Jowan has done is admirable,” Morrigan adds. “The Circle is simply a prison.”  What luck, Hera thinks, taking a deep breath. I can’t wait to see Morrigan’s reaction when we go to them over the treaty. “What are our options?” Hera asks, hands on her hips. “I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child,” Alistair says in an apologetic voice, “but...he is an abomination. I’m not sure there is any choice.” “Connor is my nephew, but...he is also possessed by a demon,” Teagan admits. “Death would be...merciful.” “There is another option,” Jowan adds. “Though I loathe offering it. A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, without hurting Connor.” “What do you mean?” Teagan asks. “Is the demon not within Connor?” “Not physically. The demon approached Connor in the Fade while he dreamt, and controls him from there. We can use the connection between them to find the demon.” “You can enter the Fade?” Isolde stammers. “And kill the demon without hurting my boy?” “No, but I can enable another mage to do so,” Jowan explains. “Normally it requires lyrium and several mages, but I have….blood magic.” “I don’t understand,” Isolde says. “I know nothing of blood magic. How is it possible?” “Lyrium provides the power for the ritual,” he says. “But I can take that power from someone’s life energy. This ritual requires a lot, however. All of it, in fact.” “So...someone must die?” Teagan asks. “Someone must be sacrificed?” “Yes, and then we send another mage into the Fade. I can’t enter because I’m doing the ritual. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s...not much of an option…” “Is there no other method?” Hera asks. “The power has to come from somewhere, and that means either lyrium or blood.” “Then let it be my blood,” Isolde offers. “I will be the sacrifice.” “What? Isolde, are you mad? Eamon would never allow it!” Teagan cries. She turns a horrified expression on her brother in law. “Either someone kills my son to destroy that thing inside him, or I give my life so my son can live. To me, the choice is clear.” “Blood magic,” Alistair spits. “How can more evil be of any more help here? Two wrongs don’t make a right.” “It does seem like a sensible choice,” Morrigan argues, “with a willing participant.” “Connor is blameless in this,” Isolde adds. “He should not have to pay the price.” Teagan looks to Hera, his face lined with worry. “The decision is yours, my lady.” Hera shakes her head. “There has to be another way,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You could find lyrium and more mages at the Circle of Magi,” Alistair suggests. “If they would even do it.” “Is it far?” she asks him. “No- which is an excellent point,” he says. “One of the treaties is also for the Circle of Magi, after all.” “The tower is about a day's journey across the lake,” Teagan says hopefully. “You could try to get the mages’ help.” “But what will happen here?” Isolde asks. “Connor will not remain passive forever.” “I will take that chance,” Hera tells her. “Very well,” Teagan says. “I will keep Jowan here as a precaution. He says he wants to help, so he will keep an eye on Connor with us.” Teagan steps forward and takes her hand. “Go to the tower quickly then,” he says, meeting her gaze. “The longer you’re away, the greater the chances of disaster.” Hera nods and pulls her hand away, ignoring Alistair's snort behind her. “We will set out immediately.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Alistair, can I talk to you a moment?” Hera asks, fingering the amulet in her pocket. “Can I bring my food?” he asks, spooning stew into his mouth. “Yes,” Hera laughs, and they walk over to a bench outside the Spoiled Princess Inn. Nestled on the bank of Lake Calenhad, the inn has an impressive view of the lake. A light breeze sends ripples across the surface, reflecting the moonlight, but their sparkle marred by the shadow cast by the Circle of Magi tower. The Inn is the closest building to the tower, a single way-station between the mundane and the magic. The Tower was built on an island, accessible only by boat, and, to Hera, looks lonely and cold. It saddens her to think of a tower full of mages with nowhere to go. “What’s on your mind?” he asks, settling himself and going back to his food. “Are you ready to tell me you’ve been dreaming about me?” “You know that already,” she teases. “Mad lovemaking. My tent. You ran off to investigate a puddle if I remember correctly.” He chokes a little, turning red in the face. “Oh yeah. I remember that puddle was pretty deep. It had waves and tides and everything.” “I am far more interesting than a puddle,” she purrs, brushing her hair off her neck slowly. He coughs, struggling to swallow a mouthful of stew. “I’m sure you are,” he says, catching his breath. “Is this what you wanted to do?” he asks, raising his eyebrow and smirking. “Have you drawn me out to try and seduce me?” “That would be easier, I think,” she laughs, slipping a hand into her pocket and fingering the amulet. “But...no. Something you should know about me is that I’m a bit of a snoop. I guess it comes from living at court and rooting out gossip. It’s not my best quality.” “What have you heard?” he asks tensely. “Is Morrigan going to turn me into a toad?” “Uh, no?” she asks, caught off guard. “Has she threatened it lately?” “No, but you never know.” He relaxes and goes back to his food. “All right then. So what did you find while snooping?” “This,” she says, handing him the amulet. Alistair sets the bowl aside, staring down at the amulet in shock. “This...this is my mother’s amulet. It has to be,” he breathes, blinking quickly. “But why isn’t it broken? Where did you find it?” Hera twists her fingers together. “I found it in Redcliffe castle,” she says slowly. “In the arl’s study.” “Oh, the arl’s study?” He tries to sound casual, but his eyes have started to turn red, and he blinks away tears. “Then he must have...found the amulet after I threw it at the wall. And he repaired and kept it? I don’t understand, why would he do that?” he asks, his voice brittle and raw, looking up at her for an answer. Hera already thought him young, but she can see the hurt little boy looking out of his eyes. “Maybe you mean more to him that you think,” she offers gently. Alistair’s face is a mix of emotion, making him unreadable, his eyes locked on the amulet. “I...I guess you could be right. We never really talked that much, and then the way I left…” He shakes his head, and Hera wonders for a moment if she made the right choice giving it to him. 
He looks devastated. Should I have left it where it was?
 “Thank you,” he says softly and scrubs his hand over his face. “I mean it. I thought I’d lost this to my own stupidity. I’ll need to talk to him about this. If he recovers from his... when he recovers. I wish I’d had this a long time ago,” he sighs. He finally looks up at her, his expression still stunned and surprised. “Did you remember me mentioning it? Wow,” he chortles, trying to hide the way his voice cracks and the tips of his ears turn pink. “I’m more used to people not really listening when I go on about things.” “Of course I remembered,” she says with a smile. “You’re…” Wanted. Desired. Truly good. A better person than I could ever be, and deserve more than anything I could give you. “Special to me,” she settles, inwardly cringing at how pathetic it sounds. Oh Hera, get yourself together. What do you think this is, some big romantic gesture? Zeus would laugh at you.  “Is this the part where the music starts playing and we begin dancing?” he asks eagerly, jumping to his feet and twirling her around. “Because I’m game. Where are the minstrels?” he cheers. Hera laughs, letting him dance her around in the dark. “How can I thank you, Hera?” he asks seriously, coming to a stop.  Just look at me like this, she thinks, surprising herself. The words nearly roll off her tongue, but she swallows them back, chiding herself for such romantic nonsense. “Oh. Um, you don’t have to thank me,” she titters, stepping back and putting her hands behind her back. “I told you, I’m a snoop. I shouldn’t have been looking through the arl’s study anyway.” “I’m certainly glad you did.” Hera is appalled when she realizes she’s blushing, and grateful that the only light is from the moon over Lake Calenhad and a few torches several yards away. Gods, Celeste would be ashamed to see me blushing! I’m a seasoned courtesan and no new maid. Blushing is a device for flirtation, not...whatever this nonsense is. Get a hold of yourself! “Don’t think anything of it,” she says, struggling to keep her voice level. “Just don’t be surprised when you catch me snooping in your things.” He laughs, looking back down at the amulet. “I won’t care a whit. Thank you.” She watches him go inside, forgetting his bowl on the bench. Hera frowns, crossing her arms and turning to look at the water. This is stupid. You should just charm him into your bed tonight and get it out of your system. All it would take is a little effort- he rejected my earlier offer, but if I actually seduced him...  She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. It hasn’t been that long, Hera, and you’re not one to be a slave to your desire. There’s just something about him, some...connection I’ve never felt with any of my patrons. I wish there was someone else here...almost anyone else would do, though I doubt that templar on the dock would be much help. She looks around, hoping some handsome young man would come riding up at that moment and give her an outlet for the strange way she’s feeling, but all that’s around is an old man nattering about his boat and the templar further below. Someone who wouldn’t want more than I can give.  “Damn me,” she mutters and picks up his bowl to go inside.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera leads the way down to the dock, opting to leave Sten and Leliana at the inn with Ares. Leliana still hasn’t fully recovered from the battle for Redcliffe, and Sten expressed no interest in the Tower, requesting to stay where he was for some odd reason. Hera had let it slide for the moment, though she liked him, the qunari had a tendency to get on her nerves with his blatant disregard for the others. As they near the templar standing at the end of the dock, Alistair groans. “Oh right, we’re here to see the mages. They just love me.” “How fitting that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus,” Morrigan sneers. “Hera, you said you own a brothel, yes? What do you make of it?” Hera tilts her head, looking up at the tower in the early morning light. “It’s not rounded enough at the tip,” she decides. “And it’s too tall, you’d have to walk a mile of stairs before you even made it to bed. It would make a terrible brothel.” Morrigan laughs, drowning out whatever Alistair hides in a cough. Hera delights in her friend’s laughter, a sound that seems so unusual for one as severe as Morrigan, yet when it happens it’s as wild as the woman herself. Hera much prefers her surprising laugh to her arrogant chuckle. “You,” the templar calls as they come nearer. “You’re not looking to get across to the Tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass.” “I am a Grey Warden,” Hera informs him stiffly. “I come seeking the help of the mages.” The young man shifts position and looks arrogantly at her. He has the distinct look of a man whose important doesn’t match his ego- something Hera has seen many times. “Oh you’re a Grey Warden, are you?” he asks snidely. “Prove it.” “Well, I have these documents,” she offers, showing him the treaty for the mages. He reaches for it, and she moves them out of reach, handing them to Alistair. “They’re very old, you see,” she says in a sickly sweet tone. “I’d hate for them to be ruined.” “Well,” he sniffs indignantly. “I have some documents too. They say I’m the queen of Antiva. What do you think of that?” “Aren’t queens female?” she quips.“And usually not so ugly,” Alistair whispers. “Don’t question royalty!” the templar cries. “Anyway, it was nice chatting with you. Now on your way. Right now. Go.” Hera sighs. “Can’t we work something out?” she asks, turning her shoulder and smiling up at him. Maybe a templar will do, after all.  “Hmm, I don’t know,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I am feeling a little peckish, though.”  Seriously? She thinks, trying not to scoff. Doesn’t anyone have sex in this world except other whores? “There must be food at the tower,” she wheedles. “We can go there together!” Morrigan curses and reaches into her pocket. “Here, munch on these if you like,” she grumbles. "Where did you get those?" Alistair asks, trying not to laugh. "If you must know, my Sten gave them to me," she snapped, brows drawing together in annoyance as she hands the templar her cookies. “Oh! Cookies!” He shoves them into his mouth, making appreciative noises. “Oh, yummy. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. We can go across now if you really want.” “Let’s go,” Hera says, her brows furrowing in irritation. I do hate these people sometimes.  He rows them across the lake, dazzling in the morning mist, chattering the whole way across. Hera and the others disembark carefully and walk into the Tower. “This is strange,” Alistair says slowly. “There’s something going on.” They approach yet another templar, this one an older man, nearing his fifties she guesses, giving directions to a soldier. “Do not open the doors without my express consent, is that clear?” he orders, and the soldier agrees and runs off. Hera looks around, expecting this Circle to be like the Colleges of Magic she’s visited: wizards and sorcerers milling about, books or supplies in hand. The Colleges were always welcome places where anyone with the desire or skill could learn something of magic- she herself had studied under an old master of necromancy in Sigil. But the Circle is far less welcoming. There are no magic-users in sight, the air is filled with the cries of wounded men still in armor, and she can almost taste the fear in the air. “The doors are barred,” Alistair notes frowning, “are they keeping people out, or in?” “This is the Circle?” Hera whispers in shock, looking to him. “This is where mages live?” “Where they are kept, ” Morrigan corrects. “Like rats in a cage, Hera.” Dread settles in her stomach. Cailan and Duncan made the Circle seem...different. Useful. Necessary. But this feels like a prison. There are no windows!  The man in charge turns to them, his expression stern. “Now we wait, and pray.” “You must be Gregor,” Hera says, recalling the gossip she’d heard from the innkeeper last night. “My name is Hera- I’m a Grey Warden.” “I am, and we’re dealing with business that doesn’t concern you, Grey Warden,” he says flatly. “And yet here I am,” she says brightly. “Looking for help.” “I shall speak plainly,” he begins and starts pacing. “The Tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the halls; we’ve been too complacent.” “How did this happen?” Alistair asks, his frown deepening. “We...don’t know,” he confesses. “We saw only demons, hunting templars and mages alike. I realized we could not defeat them, and told my men to flee.” “What about the mages?” Hera’s hands curl into fists without thought, her eyes cold and voice sharp as a dagger. “Have you left them in there to die?” “The doors remain shut,” he says firmly. “They will protect us for now.” “You shut everyone inside?” she gasps. “Including innocent mages? Children?” “Not just mages,” he says defensively, “but my templars also. I had no choice. The abominations must be contained at all costs. We do not mean for the doors to stay closed forever,” he adds. “But everything in the tower must be eliminated. I’ve sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Rite of Annulment.” “The Rite of Annulment?” she asks, almost afraid to hear the answer. “The Rite gives templars the authority to neutralize the mage circle,” he explains. “Completely.” “The mages are probably already dead,” Alistair tells her, his tone weary and apologetic. “Any abominations in there must be dealt with. No matter what.” “That’s barbaric!” Hera protests. “You can’t possibly mean to kill them all! Alistair, we can’t-” “This situation is dire,” Gregor interrupts. He looks tired, but determined; a man who has clearly held his position for many years and does not relish the thought of what must be done, but will do it all the same. “There is no alternative. Everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be made safe again.” Hera shakes her head in disbelief. Over and over, this world shows me that I could never be truly accepted as I am. I cannot allow this to happen. “The mages are not defenseless, surely,” she argues. “Some may still live.” “If any are still alive, the Maker himself has shielded them. No one could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find...Nothing.” “I will look for survivors,” she volunteers. They are mages, sorcerers like me, she thinks, I cannot abandon them, even if I refuse to show myself to them.  “I assure you, an abomination is a force to be reckoned with,” the templar says condescendingly. “And you will face more than one.” “There has been little that could stand against me,” she says self-assuredly. Gregor considers her offer for a moment, his eyes moving to each of the five companions before settling on Ares. He and the warhound study one another for a moment before he nods. “If you succeed, I would owe you much,” he says with a deep breath. “Enough that I would pledge my templars to your cause. Without word from Denerim, I must determine our course. Surely destroying darkspawn is a worthy goal.” “We have an agreement then,” she says, offering her hand. “A word of caution,” he says as they shake. “Once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if First Enchanter Irving stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen, then the Circle is lost and must be destroyed. May Andraste lend you her courage, whatever you decide.” Hera nods and turns to Morrigan and Alistair. “We have to help,” she says simply. “We need the mages, and this is the only way.” Morrigan wisely stays silent, but her look of disapproval is deafening. Alistair nods. “So be it. Let’s go.” They approach the great doors, one templar taking a defensive stance, weapon drawn, while the other opens the doors. They pass through without ceremony, and Hera instantly notices how silent it is once the doors slam shut behind them. Bodies litter the hallway, blood making the stone floor slick as they walk. They search every room on the first floor, encountering nothing until they come sliding into a room full of children, two women attacking a giant abomination that looks a lot like lava to Hera. The creature grows, filling the cavernous room with air like a forge, and roars at the women. Hera is just about to join the fray when the older mage casts a powerful spell, freezing the beast in place until it shrivels down to nothing. Impressed, Hera takes her hand off her sword and looks around, only then noticing the blue barrier at the doorway and the children huddled in the shadows. Survivors, good.  “Who are you?” the woman asks, turning. “Why did the templars let you through?” “Wynne?” Alistair asks, stunned. “Wynne, you’re here? I didn’t know you even survived Ostagar!” The woman frowns, searching his face before recognizing him. “Alistair, yes, I remember you. You weren’t with the other Grey Wardens, then? Is this the recruit Duncan had brought?” she asks, looking to Hera. She has a kind, grandmotherly look to her, balanced by a tight knot of hair at the nape of her neck and a steely look in her eye. “My name is Hera; I’ve come to help,” she explains, “and hopefully get some help in return.” “Unfortunately the Circle is in grave danger,” Wynne says. “And is in no place to offer assistance of any kind.” Hera nods. This one is not to be trifled with. Good, she won’t mince words. “Hence the reason I’m here to help first . Don’t worry,” she adds, “that barbaric Rite of Annulment hasn’t arrived yet.” Wynne sighs, deflating a little at the mention of the Rite. “They sent for it then. I feared they might have- what else could they do?” Seemingly talking to herself, Wynne puts her hands on her hips and paces. “So Gregor thinks the Circle is beyond hope; he probably assumes we are all dead. They abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Rite, however, we will not be able to stand against them.” She turns to Hera, giving her a questioning look. “You’ve come against his wishes?” “He would send no more of his own men,” Hera answers. “We volunteered to find survivors.” “You volunteered to find survivors.” The acid in Morrigan’s voice would eat through steel, and Hera stares in wide-eyed surprise. “I have no desire to save this prison.” “Morrigan!” Alistair chides. “Just because you’re an apostate-” “Changes nothing-” Hera sighs and turns away from them as they begin to bicker. “Ignore them. Has the First Enchanter survived as well?” Wynne shrugs. “If anyone could survive this, it would be First Enchanter Irving,” she explains. “It was he who told me to look after the children. It’s...a long story. I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save the Circle,” she offers, her voice filled with hope. “ We came to help, Wynne,” she agrees, sending Morrigan a sharp look over her shoulder. “Once Gregor sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust that he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable.” “Then we should set off immediately,” Hera decides. “Petra, Kenan,” Wynne says to the two mages behind her. One is the young woman who had assisted Wynne with the demon, but Hera notices the boy Kenan for the first time. “Look after the others; I will be back soon.” “Wynne, are you sure you’re all right?” Petra asks. “You were so badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along.” “The others need your protection more,” Wynne advises. “I will be all right. Stay here with them. Keep them safe and calm.” “Have faith,” Hera tells her, “we will not fail. Let’s go, Wynne.” “A moment, please.” Hera watches Wynne walk slowly to a figure lying in the corner and kneel. Moving closer, she sees it’s a pretty elf girl, with blonde hair streaked with red and the pallor of death. “Who is that?” she asks Petra softly, nodding to Wynne bowing her head over the girl. “That was Neria,” Petra answers, her voice shaking. “She had just passed her Harrowing and become a full mage.” “What happened to her?” Tears fill Petra’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Wynne had been injured- she fell and we thought she was dead- and Neria jumped in front of the demon so I could get to Wynne… It would have gotten me, but she distracted it.” Hera nods and pats her arm. Knowing that more death is coming will be no comfort to her, she decides and says nothing as Wynne returns with a determined look on her face. “If you are ready, let us go end this,” the elder woman agrees and walks over to the barrier. “Wait,” Morrigan snaps. “You want to actually help this preachy schoolmistress? These people allow themselves to be penned in like cattle!” “No argument, Morrigan,” Hera tells her. “We need their help. You are free to stay here with the children if you like.” “I certainly will not ,” the witch argues. “You, woman, do not speak to me,” she adds, pointing at Wynne. “You, harpy, learn some manners,” Hera retorts, following Wynne. “Here we are,” the mage says softly, looking at the barrier. “I’m somewhat amazed with myself for having kept it in place this long.” “It must have been exhausting,” Hera answers carefully. She knows exactly how draining a barrier such as this can be. This barrier, in particular, is a testament to Wynne’s prowess. Magic ripples across it in shades of blue, wisps of it reaching for Wynne and sliding over her hands and arms. If Hera had cast such a spell, it would have one of two effects: perfectly clear, but able to throw one across the room when touched, or a solid wall of roiling shadows, lit with purple lightning. Is she a healer? Slowly, she reaches out to touch it, and the magic answers, swirling around her fingers in a cool caress. There’s no hint of necromancy in this spell. “This is quite powerful.” “It made me very weary at times, but I had to stay strong to keep us safe. Be prepared for anything- I do not know what manner of beasts lay beyond this barrier. Are you ready?” Hera nods. “Destroy the barrier.” “All right, be on your guard.” Wynne lifts her hand, and blue magic encompasses it before shooting into the barrier, dissolving it completely.With a breath of trepidation, Hera and the others step through the doorway.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Once the barrier is down, the silence ends. Screams and monstrous roars echo through the corridors, and Hera feels a shiver of recognition as they creep through the first floor. This reminds me of Castle Ravenloft, she thinks, edging her way around a corner to scout the next passageway. I hope this goes better than that did. What are the odds we’ll find ourselves face-to-face with a dracolich, anyway? She wonders, her nose suddenly filled with the dusty-hot scent of an ancient, reanimated dragon skeleton. They make it to the library before encountering the abominations mentioned by Greagoir and Wynne, who describes them as foul, twisted creatures that were once men. Hera is just about to look back at her and ask for more information when four appear. Wynne and Morrigan stay back, the first performing healing spells and the second assisting with assault as Hera and Alistair are surrounded. Hera lashes out blindly, dodging claws and gaping maws of sharp teeth. She and Alistair take down three on their own before Morrigan’s magic takes the fourth. Hera gazes around her, surrounded by the bodies of the monsters and the stench of death. Suddenly there is a deafening explosion, and Alistair throws her to the floor, tucking her beneath him as the world bursts into flame. Three more explosions happen, the floor shuddering beneath them, making bookshelves lurch forward, slinging their contents across the floor. Heat and flame wash over them, threatening to set them alight, but Morrigan’s quick thinking keeps them from being harmed as she shields them within a tight sphere of thick ice. When the fire dissipates, Alistair lifts his head, allowing her to look up at him. “Are you hurt?” he gasps, eyes wide with fright. Their armor keeps their bodies from fitting together, but the small distance between them doesn't stop desire pooling in her belly or the realization on his face that turns him bright red. Hera shakes her head, stunned beyond words as lust and magic race through her, pounding in her head like a pulse, and she has to fight to keep her magic from bursting out in a fit of wild magic. We should have died just now, and yet here I am, full of desire with magic surging all the way to my fingertips. Gods help me, he shouldn’t affect me this way, no one has ever affected me this way. Wild magic is dangerous, she thinks. In the depths of Castle Ravenloft, her own power had spiraled out of control, forcing itself out of her hands in splinters of magic that had nearly killed both her and the wizard beside her. She learned later that Ravenloft increased her magical abilities; similar to throwing liquor into a fire. It’s too easy to lose control. It had taken some time before she could remaster her gifts. They hear Wynne’s muffled voice, filled with concern, and he puts a hand over her ear before shouting his response. “We’re fine,” he calls through the ice. “This could be a moment,” he says apologetically. “I don’t think I mind,” she jokes, remembering Tybalt’s warning about not telling anyone she’s a sorceress. Seeing the Circle, she understands why he sought to protect her. “I mean, I’ll take this over being burned to a crisp.” He chuckles, raising himself on his arms and trying to break through the ice. The shield is so small he can only lift himself an inch or two above her. “It’s no good,” he sighs, holding himself over her. “Morrigan’s going to have to melt it.” “Don’t waste your strength,” Hera advises. “You aren’t that heavy, and there isn’t much room.” He hesitates before nodding and lowers himself carefully back on top of her. “Thank you,” she says in his ear. “For saving me.” “What kind of hero would I be if I let the damsel die so early in the story?” he chuckles. The ice above them starts to dissolve, and he climbs to his feet and helps her up. “All right?” he asks again. Hera pats herself over before nodding. “Yes. Thank you, Morrigan,” she adds, turning to her. Morrigan gives her a surprised look. “You’re...you’re welcome.” “Let’s move on,” Alistair says quickly, picking up his shield. Hera nods, retrieving her own weapons, and goes to search the body of a templar soldier in the corner. “What on earth are you doing, child?” Wynne exclaims. “Health poultice,” she explains, showing her. “We don’t know what we’re going to find, others could be hurt, we need to search all of them for anything useful.” “How...resourceful,” Wynne says, obviously disgusted. “But necessary,” Hera says, moving on to the next. “I understand the need, but it is still...unsavory.” They get back to work, soon coming upon another of the fire creatures- rage abominations, Wynne calls them- and more of the swiftly-rotting undead. This time Hera is ready for the explosion that follows the death of such a thing and dives well away before it has time to set her aflame. Their careful inspection of the floor leads them to more monsters, and very little in the way of survivors. Within an hour, they’re climbing the stairs to the second level. “The higher we go, the more survivors we may find hidden away,” Wynne hopes. “The tower is full of small spaces one may hide in, perhaps some of the others were able to take cover. The stockroom is on this floor; we may find something of use there.” Hera nods and takes direction from Wynne, heading for the stockroom. Their progress is halted by the sight of a mage standing in the entryway, looking incredibly calm for the situation. His robes are plain but wrinkled, and his head is has been fastidiously shaved, revealing a sunburst mark on his forehead. What is most unsettling about him, however, is that he wears no expression at all. Morrigan hisses the moment she sees him, grabbing Hera’s arm and pulling her to a stop. The witch snarls, fire in her eyes as she glares at the man. “Morrigan, what’s wrong?” she asks, putting her hands on her arms. “He’s Tranquil,” she whispers furiously. “What does that mean?” Hera asks, looking at him over her shoulder. “He is rather calm, I suppose.” “No, you fool! That mark on his brow is a brand of Tranquility,” Morrigan explains. “His connection to the Fade has been cut off. He can do no magic and feels nothing; all of his emotions have been burned away.” Hera glances at Alistair for an explanation, who sighs and rubs the back of his head. “Sometimes mages can’t control their power or are afraid of becoming an abomination, making them a danger to themselves and others. The Chantry found a way to cut them off from the Fade so that demons can’t get to them.” “So they can be slaves to the Chantry, you mean,” Morrigan snaps. “Owain chose to become Tranquil,” Wynne says in a firm voice. “He feared his Harrowing and asked for it.” “I...don’t understand,” Hera says, shaking her head. “What’s a Harrowing?” “A test mage apprentices perform to prove they can resist the temptation of a demon,” Alistair says gravely. “It is...not something you go through twice.” Hera’s eyes widen with understanding and horror. “I believe I see. Still, he is alive and may know more. We really should see if he’s hurt.”  This Chantry sounds more and more like a deadly cult by the second, she thinks as they get closer. I hope Tybalt’s afterlife is filled with fantasies of me so that my illusion can thank him for his consideration for all eternity.  “Please refrain from going into the stockroom,” the man- Owain, Wynne had called him- says in a level voice as they approach. “It is a mess, and I’ve not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen.” “Owain, you’re alive.” The relief in Wynne’s voice is palpable. “Yes, it is I. I was trying to tidy up, but there was little I could do.” “What are you doing here?” Hera demands. “The stockroom is my responsibility,” he explains. “I must keep it clean. I tried to leave when things got quiet, that was when I encountered the barrier. When I could think of no other way out, I returned to work.” “Owain, you should have said something,” Wynne scolds gently. “I would have opened the door for you.” “The stockroom is familiar; I prefer to be here.” “Have you come across any abominations?” Hera asks. “No,” he says, turning his odd, peaceful expression on her. “I suppose I should count myself lucky. I would prefer not to die, I would prefer it if the tower was to return to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.” “Who is Niall?” “Niall the mage,” Owain says helpfully. “He came here with several others and took the Litany of Adralla.” “But that protects from mind domination,” Wynne says. “Is blood magic at work here?” “I do not know.” “Niall was in the meeting,” Wynne explains to them. “He would know. Blood magic...I was afraid of this.” “And this makes things worse than abominations and demons?” Hera asks. “Blood magic could control us , too,” Wynne tells her. “Who knows what could happen then? We should find Niall. The Litany should give us a fighting chance against any blood mages we encounter.” “I wish you luck,” Owain says. “Perhaps this will be over soon and things will return to the way they were. Goodbye.” Without another word, he turns around and goes deeper into the stockroom, closing a door behind him. Hera raises her eyebrows at the strange man and looks to Wynne. “All right then,” she says with false cheer. “Shall we?” They continue on in a seemingly unending pattern of searching for survivors, fighting abominations, and looting those already dead. And always, moving higher through the tower. If this is how magic is here, it is a good thing Tybalt bade me keep mine a secret, Hera thinks. This tower is just as Morrigan said- a prison for those born differently. I can’t imagine anyone ever being happy here...Which makes me wonder how Wynne has endured so long. She was at Ostagar, I remember seeing her now. Perhaps she was able to travel and adventure as I have. But to stay...and never leave? How cruel.  Higher they climb, finding only a handful of survivors, and sending them running for the safety of the first floor. When they come across several maleficarum- blood mages, she guesses by the coppery scent and bloodstains on their robes- Alistair is adamant about not allowing them to live. Even Wynne doesn’t speak for them, but Hera can’t bring herself to make that decision final; she isn’t certain that she wouldn’t have rebelled as well. So she tells them to run, and if they can get past the templars, they deserve to live but knows their promises to live without blood magic are empty. She watches the pair run for the doors, knowing that the templars will catch them and that she’s only granting them a few more precious moments. But they deserve the chance, and it’s not my place to pass judgment on them. Heart heavy, she ignores the strange look Alistair gives her and orders them to move on. The rest of the tower is more of the same: monsters, possessed corpses, and rare mages hiding and fearing for their lives. The worst are the possessed templars; the desire demons seem to know exactly what a young man raised in the chantry dreams of. Some are of a simple married life, others of riches and fame, and some are just filled with desire for something they can’t even name. It bears a striking resemblance to her own profession and her ability to see what her patrons want most. These demons are, in fact, doing exactly what they’ve been asked to do; but at the cost of another’s life, it goes far deeper than a simple exchange of desire for payment. But they are well armed, and battling them isn’t a simple task. Part of Hera wonders what Alistair is feeling, putting men he might have known, now possessed, to death. But there’s no time to talk about it- the abominations get stronger the higher they go through the tower, and Hera feels as if they’re crawling as they reach the fourth floor. She opens the last door on that floor and walks in with weapons ready, expecting to be attacked instantly. What she doesn’t expect is to see a seven-foot-tall abomination standing over the body of a young man, seemingly unconcerned about her presence. Hera, who is no stranger to monstrous-looking companions, feels a deep revulsion as soon as it turns its eye on her. It looks as if it was once a man, but has been twisted and corrupted, leaving a large hump overtaking its head and shoulder and so much scarring it covers most of its face. All visible flesh is the color of a poorly healed scar- a deep purple, mottled with red and black. In all the planes she’s walked, she has never seen anything like it. Strange magic radiates off the abomination, making her head feel full of cotton and her arms heavy as lead. Unlike the other abominations they’ve encountered, this one doesn’t attack or even turn at first. Instead, he calmly stares at the body on the floor as if admiring a piece of art before turning and throwing its arms up in feigned surprise. “Oh look, visitors,” it says, the deep voice strangely clear considering she can’t see a mouth on the thing. “I’d entertain you, but too much effort involved.” “Niall!” Wynne gasps behind her. “What have you done to him?” “He’s just resting,” the abomination tells her. Hera frowns at the hypnotic voice, the subtle move of its head. “Poor lad, he was so very, very weary. You want to join us, don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and forget about all this? Leave it all behind,” it urges. Hera blinks, trying to dispel the creature’s influence. Her arms and legs feel as if there are weights drawing her down, and bone-deep fatigue threatens to overwhelm her. Behind her, she hears a clatter as Alistair falls to his knees behind her. “I can’t...keep my eyes open…” he murmurs. “Someone pinch...me.” “I cannot rest here,” Morrigan says wearily. “This floor...it is...filthy.” “Resist!” Wynne cries. “You must resist! Else we are all...lost...” Hera nods as the others succumb, shaking her head for clarity when the abomination speaks again. “Why do you fight?” he asks reasonably. “You deserve more. You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you…” He’s right...Ravenloft will be fine without you for- No! I have to fight it. Hera stays on her feet, her sluggish mind trying to protect herself from the abomination. But even as she murmurs a spell, her eyes roll into her head, and she slumps to the floor.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera wakes, confused. She lies on a patch of soft grass, and the sun beats down on her warmly. She knows by the quality of light that this is not Ravenloft- it is too warm, too yellow a sun for her beloved realm with its weak light even in the height of summer. She sits up, rubbing her head, and looks around. Where am I?  She’s in some kind of outdoor temple, with stone walls rising up on either side like an elaborate cathedral, next to a stone path leading up to a small flight of stairs and a platform of some kind. She stands, stretching, feeling as if she’s just woken from a long nap in the sun. Looking down the path that stretches ahead, she sees a figure waiting for her, and her heart leaps. “Zeus,” she breathes and breaks into a run to reach him. But when she reaches the stairs, she slides to a stop. It’s not Zeus come to save her, as she’d hoped, but Duncan. He waits, a look of excitement on his face, and he opens his arms and smiles down at her. Hera approaches slowly, elated that he’s alive after all, but confused as to how she got...wherever she is. “Ahh, there you are, your Majesty,” he says happily, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” “Wait…” she says as a blurry memory comes to the surface. An army destroyed by darkspawn. All lost. “You should be dead.” “Dead?” he chuckles. “Me? I have been close many times, but I never quite made it all the way. I just wanted to make sure you were happy here in Weisshaupt. These grand halls were built by the first Grey Wardens; isn’t it breathtaking?” Hera looks around, her confusion growing. Where am I? Weisshaupt is the Grey Warden home base Alistair told me about- but it’s thousands of miles away. How did I get here? And where are Alistair and the others? “I...I don’t know,” she says vaguely. “Something doesn’t seem...right.” “Everything is as it should be,” Duncan assures her. “We have eradicated the darkspawn and the world is at peace.” “We eradicated the darkspawn?” she asks, buying time as she struggles to piece her memories back together. A tower in the lake. Alistair. Morrigan. Wynne. “How?” “It was a triumph for all of us, bringing down the archdemon and settling the underground ablaze.” He waves a hand slowly through the sky as if painting the picture of their victory for her. 
Ostagar. That’s where Duncan died. The darkspawn overran us all.
 “That’s not possible,” she argues, shaking her head. “You’re keeping something from me. Why?” His face twists into sudden, irrational anger. “Foolish child! I have given you so much and you cast it back into my face! Can you not be content with the peace I offer?” “I’m not a child, and you haven’t given me anything! The darkspawn are not gone,” she insists as the last of her memories fall into place. “To ignore them is irresponsible!” Duncan seems to grow larger before her eyes, his fury a dark shadow on his face. “It seems only war and death will satisfy you! So be it! Have your war and your darkspawn- may they be your doom!” Hera stumbles back in shock when he draws his sword and turns on her. “Duncan! What’s-” She’s thrown to the ground by a pushing force behind her, and looks back to see a mage and an archer aiming for her as well. Well, it seems this is an illusion, she thinks and smiles grimly. Good, I could blow off a little steam.  She fought Duncan at Ostagar when he tested her to become a Grey Warden, and though this illusion uses the same techniques and style as the man, it is slower, less powerful, and generally less effective against her greater dhampir strength and speed. Hera swirls, striking him with her sword and dagger, one move flowing smoothly into the next as she whittles away at him. Duncan falls, his body fading away as she moves to the mage, screaming a spell into the whirlwind of snow and ice he flings at her. The shadows cast by the temple walls- even by the mage and archer themselves- come alive and wrap themselves around her attackers. She dispels the blizzard with a casual wave of her hand, approaching the mage with a sharp smile. “Pity you’re an illusion,” she says, drawing a fingernail down his cheek. “I could use a drink.” She moves her hand and clenches her fists, and the shadows overtake their prisoners, snuffing the light out of them. Like Duncan, their bodies fade into little more than a breeze, and she releases her hold on the shadows. Alone, she looks around and hears a strange, muted sound behind her. “Is this a door?” she asks, approaching a bizarre pedestal. It looks very much like some of the growth seen around the abominations in the tower, but it seems to almost hum with power. As soon as she gets close, magic vibrates through the air, so powerful it crawls along her skin like a thousand insects. “It has to be a door. But to where, I wonder?” she murmurs, reaching out to touch it. Instantly she is teleported to another place, this one made of hard packed dirt and stone formations, rolling with worn hills and valleys and making her think of the floor of an ocean. Something similar to tree roots breaks up the monotony, forming arches or offering small pockets of shelter. But like everything else here, the roots aren’t like true trees; it’s as if someone once saw a tree decades ago, but remembers very little of it, making up for it with branching, vein-covered roots as thick as her torso. A young man- the same young man the abomination had been standing over earlier- stands there, looking confused and very much alive. His stringy brown hair hangs in limp waves against sickly yellow cheeks, but his dark brown eyes are alert with suspicion and fear. “Who are you?” he asks. “Where did you come from? Are you a demon? Wait..." He squints as she comes closer, taking a step back. "Do I know you?” “No,” she answers, shaking her head. “Nor I, you. My name is Hera.” “Good job getting out of that trap,” he says. “Trap?” “The demon traps everything that comes here in a dream it thinks they can’t- or won’t- try to leave. I thought I’d escaped, too, but I’ve been wandering these empty gray spaces for a lifetime.” “A lifetime?” This is a dream, that’s why it placed me in Weisshaupt. It must have thought that’s where I wanted to be. “Is this the Fade?” she asks, her shock making her voice pitch higher than normal. "Am I asleep in the tower?" The corners of his mouth turn up for an instant, and he answers as if talking to a child. “Why, yes. This is where we go when we dream.” She looks around the barren landscape, the rolling hills of...nothing. In the distance, she can see the tall spires of what looks to be a city floating, but the mist in the air is too thick to see it clearly. “This is...unexpected,” she says wryly, her lips twisting into a smirk. “I don’t dream, you see.” “If the demon trapped you here, I don’t see how it matters if you do or not. But beware,” he says, the brief flash of amusement replaced by a flat, serious expression that reminds her uncomfortably of the Tranquil in the stockroom. “This place...it does strange things to the mind. I am Niall, and I was trying to save the Circle when I encountered the Sloth demon. I expect our experiences were similar.” “Niall...you have the Litany of Adralla, don’t you?” “It is on my body, yes. The Litany was our weapon against the blood mages’ domination,” he explains. “But it’s too late, everyone’s dead.” Hera shakes her head in confusion. “But why are there so many blood mages?” she asks. “I’ve been told it’s illegal and dangerous. Is it uncontrollable?” “I don’t know,” he admits, shrugging. “They must have been practicing in secret, then teaching others.” He shakes his head, his nose scrunching up in disgust. “I knew these people, trusted them. The Litany was our only hope of saving the Circle, but now… This place drains you of everything,” he tells her. “Hope. Feeling. Life.” “It’s not too late, I’m sure of it,” she tells him. “No, there is no way out of here. You think there might be, but you’d be wrong. You see that pedestal there? I’ve studied the runes on it, runes that signify different islands of the Sloth demon’s domain. The Sloth demon itself is on the center island, but I can’t get there. The five islands around the center somehow form a protective ward. I thought I was getting somewhere when I figured that out, but I went to each island in turn, only to have my hopes dashed. There’s always an obstacle: you’ll see the path, but be unable to get to it, and it taunts you and drives you mad.” Hera feels a spark of hope. “Could my companions be on one of those islands?” “I...I don’t know,” he admits. “There are many dreamers. You might find a way to reach them through the islands if you’re lucky.” “Tell me about this ward,” she says, hope and determination straightening her spine. “I don’t know much. I think the Sloth demon has placed lesser demons on each of the islands, I’ve seen them. They take different shapes, but they’re there. Defeating them may be the only way to reach the Sloth demon, but you have to get to them first. I...couldn’t, I was too afraid to try.” She nods, understanding. “You mentioned obstacles?” she prompts, wanting to learn as much as she can before setting out. “Yes, obstacles. Mad dream things. A river of flame before a portal, or a door that shows you freedom through a keyhole no key will fit. I once saw a passageway smaller than my hand with a mouse going to and fro through it. Silly thing fled before I could question it.” “A...mouse?” “Oh, there are many. Many dreamers. Some think they’re mice. Others wolves, or nightingales. Each dreamer may know things another may not. The mouse could have told me what was beyond the passage, or how to get there, even how I might make myself small like him, and crawl through myself. And if one could make oneself small to walk one path, perhaps there are similar ways to walk the others.” “Can you tell me anything about the Sloth demon?” “Not much. You couldn’t say we were friends, really. Demons have their own hierarchies. They play their own games and mortals serve as pawns...perhaps even bargaining chips. The demon keeping us here probably rules this entire section of the Fade. It will not let us go easily. If at all,” he says with grim finality. Hera sets her jaw, her eyes turning cold and flinty. A shadow passes over her face, and loose strands of hair wave gently as her magic makes her fingers tingle. “Then I will just have to defeat this demon,” she says firmly. Niall stares with wide eyes at her for a moment before the shadow passes. Suddenly she is a tired, determined young woman once more. “Nothing dampens your spirits, does it?” he asks, feeling a little cheerful himself. “I don’t know whether to admire or pity you.” “Admire me,” she suggests and gives him a small smile. “It’s what I like best. I’ll be back,” she says and grips his hand. “Don’t worry, Niall.” “Don’t mind me, then.” Hera looks around, wondering if the landscape here will change and shift under her feet- and if so, how she will navigate it- until she sees finding a path behind him leading to a portal shrouded in purple mist. There’s magic here similar to the mirror that first brought her to Ferelden, but it is a poor echo and not the clamoring call that drew her in so easily. I suppose this is the only way to go forward. Wouldn’t be the first strange portal I’ve gone into, she thinks, examining it carefully. Though in this world it might be my last. Still, I have to try.  She plunges in, and instantly she’s standing...somewhere else. No strange transition like most of the doors in Sigil, no wind or darkness; just a different place, like stepping from a room outside. Hera turns and sees one of the fiery rage abominations, it’s fury rolling over her in waves of heat, attacking something small on the ground before it. She can’t see what it is, but she can hear its cry for help, and attacks the demon from behind, freezing it in place before shattering it with her sword. As the shards of ice scatter, she looks down at her hand in wonder.  It seems the Fade has an effect on me, she thinks, opening and closing her hand. Her magic has always drawn on her own physical energy; when she’s exhausted, only the simplest of cantrips can be cast. But here, the cost of magic is less, drawing only the smallest of energy from her. “Thank you,” comes a small, squeaking voice. Confused, she looks around, expecting to see another dreamer standing nearby. A mouse raises up at her feet and speaks again. Niall said some of them think they’re mice. “Hello, sir,” she says with a smile. “Are you the mouse Niall mentioned?” “Thank you,” the mouse says again, nodding. “But...too late for me...kill Yaveena, the demoness that rules here. She protects her master Sloth. There’s a door, a door only demons can see, the key must be in another realm. Take my power,” it says urgently. “Your power? I don’t need, I-” “Save any others trapped in nightmares. Kill the demons that guard Sloth. Take my…” Hera and the mouse are enveloped in a green glow, and she hears a final squeak as it falls over, dead. Instantly the glow invades her, filling her senses and lungs until she feels a magical change happening to her. It feels as though a switch appears in her mind, and if she were to trigger it, she would become something else. Not one to leave a thing undone, she does so, and in a brilliant flash, she’s on the ground as a mouse.  By the Powers... she thinks. This is amazing! I’ve never been able to transfigure before- is this how Morrigan feels? No wonder she flies ahead so often. But it feels...temporary, in a way. I don’t know the words for it. She looks around, seeing a mound of dirt with a small passage dug into it. This must be the passageway Niall mentioned. Without hesitation, she goes through. Like the portal, this is simply a change in scenery, not a true passage. Yet another rage demon attacks her, and she mentally switches back to herself. Since no one is there, Hera unleashes the force of her magic, freezing it in place almost lazily before it explodes in shards of ice. “Oh, I like this,” she giggles, casting her favorite spell on herself. “Free pass on magic.” Instantly her hair is clean and arranged in neat braids around her head, and her clothing is mended and looks almost new. All the dirt disappears from her skin, and she feels fresh and renewed. Automatically, the small pleasure of it cheers her up, and she feels a boost to her confidence. “Yes, much better.” Another portal, another path filled with demons. Hera uses her magic and weapons generously, feeling free of the shackles of secrecy here. The end of the path leads her back to Niall, who looks excited as soon as he sees her. “Something happened, didn’t it?” he asks. “You look a little different, what happened?” Hera shrugs nonchalantly. “I became a mouse.” “Did you? Did it help?” he asks excitedly. “I know I saw the tiny holes- were you small enough to get through?” Hera purses her lips at him and smirks. “I thought you’d given up,” she teases. “Why so excited?” “I- uh- I don’t know,” he admits sheepishly. “You’re so much braver than I am. I was so sure it was impossible to get anywhere. Do you think you could learn other shapes? Maybe they could help you get to places you couldn’t otherwise.” “I don’t see why not,” she says, gesturing to the pedestal behind him. “This is the same kind of pedestal that brought me here. Do I use it the same way?” “Touch it,” he explains, “and you will see a map in your mind’s eye. Simply choose the path you wish to take.” She taps her lip, eyes on the pedestal. In Sigil, some of the doors to other worlds were marked as one-way or branching; you could take the door to Midgard and detour to the three realms below or above it for instance. It is not so different from Sigil, then. “Thank you, Niall. I will be back,” she promises. “Good luck, Hera.” She approaches the pedestal and touches it, seeing the map he’d described. Four stars light up a dark sky, the path to each of them brightly lit, while another four are dark. It takes a moment, but the strange language naming the islands translate into common, and she wonders if magic here has a different language altogether. Of the selections, only four seem available to her, indicating that she must somehow unlock the paths to the others. 
According to this, I left Weisshaupt Fortress- that’s the Grey Warden headquarters- and came to the Raw Fade. It makes sense that I will have to defeat the ward demons in these four to be able to access the inner sanctum of the Sloth demon, and if Niall is right, then the others will be on those smaller Nightmare islands. This could be difficult, and if this is my spirit outside my body, then I’m really lying in the tower. Best to make quick work of it all, then, and use magic.
 Hera travels from one island to the other, gathering knowledge on the Fade, darkspawn tactics, and how her magic works here. On each island, there is a theme- darkspawn, fire, templars tortured into madness, and blood mages. Everywhere there are demons and mages long past sanity. And on each island is another mage, lending their dying breath to give her the form he’d been using to save himself: spirit demon, stone golem, and a burning corpse to go with the mouse. She makes clever use of these, sometimes backtracking into other islands to reach the warding demon, and always thinking of Alistair, Wynne, and Morrigan lying on the blood-covered floor in the Tower. The thought of them dying there pushes her past her normal limitations, and she has to pace her use of magic, relying on her sword and dagger and resting when she can. As one who has always adventured with a partner, fighting alone is strange, and she feels as if part of her is missing. Zeus has always been her other half, inspiring and supporting her with his bow or rapier. He was also the better healer, and she has to rely heavily on the health poultices and tinctures she carries when her own spell isn't enough. Even Alistair fights well with her, flanking her left side so that they can both have full range of movement and he can defend her off-hand as well. Halfway through the map, she realizes that she misses him far more than she’s comfortable with.  What foolishness, she thinks. When we get back to Redcliffe I’m taking the first knight who’s awake to bed to get this nonsense out of my system.  It seems to take hours, or maybe even days, to make her way through the labyrinth of islands, but Hera finds herself without hunger or too much fatigue, though she does return to the Raw Fade, where Niall waits, to rest when she needs more than a moment. Niall explains more of the situation in the Tower during theses rests, about how the maleficarum have risen up against the templars in a rash bid for freedom. Hera doesn’t say anything, but she isn’t sure that she wouldn’t have been one of them, had she been forced to live in a tower and perform magic at the whim of the chantry. She and Zeus were never exactly religious- aside from having been raised with a healthy respect for the Dark Powers that governed both Ravenloft and Fandemier- so she can’t quite grasp the concept that the chantry feels as if magic is to serve them in the place of their absent Maker. When she finally defeats all four of the ward demons, she moves on to the first Nightmare island. There’s nothing Niall can tell her about them, only that each Nightmare will be personalized for the dreamer, and it will be difficult to get them out as the dreamer will believe this is the perfect place for them. Approaching the pedestal, she takes a deep breath and reaches out for the first island. It looks very much like the Raw Fade, which must make it easier to adapt to each dreamer. Hera trots down the path until she comes across Alistair, standing with a red-haired woman and a couple of children. He looks so happy, she thinks when she sees him light up once he catches sight of her. And I get to destroy that. Wonderful.  “Hey!” he calls with a goofy grin. “It’s great to see you again! I was just thinking about you, isn’t that a marvelous coincidence?” He continues before she gets a chance to speak, turning to the woman. “This is my sister, Goldanna,” he says cheerfully, “and these are her children. There are more around here somewhere. We’re one big happy family, at long last.”  Sister? He hasn’t mentioned a sister before… “Uh, Alistair...they’re demons, you know,” she says flatly, raising her eyebrows and glancing around at them. “Oh that’s what everyone says about their relatives,” he scoffs. “But I’ve never been happier!” “I’m overjoyed to have my little brother back,” Goldanna says. “I’ll never let him out of my sight again.” “Uh huh,” Hera says. “This is starting to get creepy.” “There’s nothing wrong with living with my sister,” Alistair defends. “I’ve never had a real family before.” “I didn’t say there was,” she argues, hands on her hips and huffing out a frustrated breath. “I have lived with my brother for a hundred years and even we aren’t this creepy!” “Well, Alistair, is your friend staying for supper?” Goldanna croons, watching Hera like a bird of prey. Alistair gasps at the joy of the idea. “Say you’ll stay!” he pleads. “Goldanna’s a great cook! Maybe she’ll make her mince pie! You can, can’t you?” “Of course dear brother, anything for you.”  I’m not a fan of this woman...Is she real? Does she exist outside the Fade, or is this some fantasy Alistair’s been dreaming of since he was a child? “She’s just a demon in disguise,” Hera insists. “Don’t believe any of this, Alistair.” Alistair looks appropriately scandalized that she would say such a thing in front of his sister, and Hera sighs with resignation. “How can you say that about Goldanna?” he scolds. “She’s the soul of goodness. You’re acting really strangely,” he accuses harshly. “Think about this and how you got here,” Hera persuades, coming closer and putting a hand on his chest. “Think carefully, Alistair.” “I don’t feel like thinking right now,” he whines, stepping away from her. “I was never very good at that anyway. I think your odd behavior is brought on by hunger! Now come and have some pie,” he pleads, his cheerfulness returning. “I promise you’ll feel better.” “I’d rather not,” she says rudely, pinching the bridge of her nose. I have come all this way, fighting for every step, only to get caught up in some lover’s spat and he isn’t even my lover!  “Sometimes I just don’t understand you. I’ll be here, then, if you ever want to visit.” Hera watches him turn away and start playing with the two boys behind them. Scowling, Hera turns to Goldanna. “Are you sure you won’t stay for supper?” the demon asks politely. “Why don’t we just fight and get this over with?” Hera asks just as politely. “Frankly, I’ve had a long day, and I’ve always hated demons that masquerade as children.” Goldanna’s expression hardens, and the voice that comes out of her mouth is not the sweet simpering sister from a moment before. “I’m not so easily disposed of, Grey Warden,” it rasps. Without warning- but also without surprise- Goldanna attacks and the two children with Alistair turn into walking corpses. Hera doesn’t know what Alistair will remember from this, so she hesitates to use her magic, instead drawing her blades and beating them back while he watches with confusion. “Wait- no- that’s my nephew, Hera! You shouldn’t play so hard!” he shouts as she beheads one of them. “No, not that way!” “Alistair, they’re demons!” she shouts back, glancing back at him. “They’re children !” He puts his hands on his hips and glares at her. “Be nicer to them!”  Seven hells. Hera ignores him and takes out the other, leaving Goldanna last. It seems the demon impersonating his sister has neither weapon nor powers, so Hera runs her through with both blades and makes a messy, quick kill of her while Alistair screams in dismay. It’s over almost as quickly as it began, and Hera leans on her sword, gasping for breath while Alistair shakes his head to clear it. Goldanna’s dead body morphs into that of a desire demon, and Alistair stumbles back from it in shock. “G-Goldanna?” he stammers, eyes wide with disbelief. “I...I can’t believe it. How did I not see this earlier?” “I don’t know,” Hera says, words dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe you should have listened to me? I did tell you,” she reminds him. “Yes, well, uh, try not to tell anyone how easily fooled I was?” he mumbles, looking down at his feet. She instantly regrets her sharp tone, seeing him respond the same way he does when Morrigan is too harsh. “Alistair, I’m-” “Are we going now?” he asks, looking at his hands. They’ve gone transparent, and the rest of him quickly follows while odd heatless flames encircle him. “Wait! Where are you going? What’s happening to me? Hey!” Just like that, Hera is left standing alone. “Well damn,” she mutters, putting her sword and dagger away as she walks back to the pedestal. “That went about well as it could have. On to the next one, I suppose.” The second place on the map is little different from where Alistair had been held, but this time she finds Wynne, grieving over dead children from the Circle surrounding her. Wynne! She seems too sensible to fall for an illusion. “Wynne?” “Maker forgive me,” Wynne moans, covering her face and kneeling. “I’ve failed them all. They died and I did not stop it.”  What in seven hells? She’s been like this the whole time? Niall said it would be a good dream! “They’re not dead yet,” she explains gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “The Circle can still be saved.” “What about all this?” Wynne demands brokenly, looking up at her. “How can you say that when you are faced with this? Death, can you not see it? It’s all around us!” “You’re in the Fade; this is a dream.” “Why was I spared, if not to help them?” Her tears are genuine when she picks up a small, cold hand and presses it to her cheek. “What use is my life? Now that I have failed in the task that was given me...Leave me to my grief,” she commands weakly, waving Hera away and folding the boy’s hands over his chest. “I shall bury their bones...scatter their ashes to the four winds, and mourn their passing until I too am dead.” Hera has to bite back a growl of frustration. “I’m finding it hard to have sympathy for demons,” she snaps. “Your blatant disregard for the souls of the dead strikes me as being utterly inappropriate,” Wynne snaps, raising her head and glaring at her. “To fall apart so easily just doesn’t seem like you,” Hera argues and crosses her arms over her chest. “You do not know me,” Wynne says scathingly. “You have no right to make such judgments!” Hera approaches her slowly and puts a hand on her arm. “I am the only thing that’s real,” she explains, looking deep into her eyes. “Ignore everything else.” “I do not know what this will accomplish. But I will do this if it will satisfy you,” she sighs, rising to her feet and dusting her robes off. “‘Tis...difficult to focus...it feels as if something is stopping me from concentrating. I’ve never had so much trouble. Perhaps some time away from this place will help me think clearly.” “That sounds like a good idea.” The child whose hand she’d held raises his head slowly, grasping at Wynne’s robes. “Don’t leave us, Wynne!” he begs. “We don’t want to be alone!” Wynne turns in terror, her face ashen at the sight of the dead boy rising. “Holy Maker!” she cries. “Stay away foul creature!” “I told you this wasn’t real,” Hera reminds her, drawing her sword. The boy ignores them and makes a pleading gesture. “Stay Wynne, sleep soundly in the comforting embrace of the earth. Do not fight it, you belong here with us.” “No,” Wynne gasps, stumbling back. “No, not yet. My task is not yet done, it is not time yet!” “Come,” the child urges. “Come away to your rest.” “No!” Wynne shouts. Instantly the children surrounding her leap to their feet, but at least this time Hera has help dispatching them. Unlike Alistair, who had been lost to the grip of the dream, Wynne has no mercy for the undead children surrounding her. They seem weaker here, in an illusion, than they have in the rest of the fade, something Hera is glad for. When the last one falls into dust, Wynne turns to her with a look of gratitude. “Is it over? Thank the Maker for you. Wait...what’s happening? Where are you going?” Hera watches Wynne get swallowed by the same mystical fire that took Alistair. Alone again, Hera takes a moment to look out over the vast emptiness of the Fade and the bizarre, dark city in the distance. It occurs to her that Weisshaupt wasn’t the best illusion for the Sloth demon to choose for her- he could have chosen the Raven Court or her two years with Anatoly and her mother, and she might have been tricked into believing it. “Perhaps that means it can’t read my mind,” she wonders aloud. “And if it can’t read my mind...then it doesn’t know what I’ll do next. That’s...interesting,” she says with a confident smile before turning back to the pedestal. “Morrigan, I hope you’re ready.” What Hera finds in the last dream is not what she’s expected. She half expected to find Morrigan sitting at some lover’s knee with a baby in her arms, or lovingly spending time with Flemeth. Instead, she finds Morrigan and Flemeth shouting at one another. “This is a little too familiar,” she chuckles, coming closer. I should have known better than to think Morrigan would want something sweet.  “Away! Away with you!” Morrigan demands sharply. “I shall have no more of your pestering!” “I am your mother ,” Flemeth reminds her archly. “Do you not love me?” “You are as much my mother as my little finger, here, is the Queen of Ferelden,” Morrigan snaps. “I know you, Fade spirit, you cannot fool me!”  She’s aware of what’s going on, Hera realizes. That will certainly make things easier.  “Are you more clever than your own dear mother? Surely such pride must be punished!” Hera gasps when Flemeth raises a hand and slaps her daughter across the face. “There! That is for not showing respect!” “That is far more like it,” Morrigan spits, “but it is too little, too late spirit.” She finally notices Hera standing there, staring at them in amusement. “'Tis you at last! Come and rid me of this vexatious spirit! I grow weary of being prodded!” Hera raises a brow. “Why is she prodding you?” “You ask me? It cannot even read my mind well enough to form a decent copy! Yet it hounds me still!” “She doesn’t even acknowledge her own mother! My heart,” Flemeth moans, “it breaks!” “Uh huh,” Hera says flatly. “Oh slay it, and quickly! Even the true Flemeth was never as annoying as this,” Morrigan mutters. “All right,” Hera chuckles, drawing her sword. “I’m coming.” Flemeth doesn’t even put up much of a fight, which is strange enough in itself. Hera quickly beheads the spirit to the background of Morrigan’s cheer. “Happy now?” she asks, turning to Morrigan. “Tis about time!” she cheers. “Oh, I can’t stop this part,” Hera adds as Morrigan’s image begins to fade before her. “That was most- wait what is this? No, not this again! I refuse!” she shouts as she disappears. Hera laughs as Morrigan fades away to some new and unknown fate. Morrigan’s refusal reminds Hera that she while may not know where they’ve gone, they can at least defend themselves now. Spirits high, she makes her way to the inner sanctum of the demon.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The transition to the demon’s inner sanctum is more difficult than the other places in the Fade. Instead of a simple blink from one pedestal to the next, Hera feels as if she’s pulled through water, holding her breath until her feet land on solid ground again. Whether natural or manipulated by the demon, this part of the Fade isn’t as barren as the islands where she’d found her friends. Towers of stone twist into the air, their bases wreathed in a blue-white mist emanating from clusters of crystal as blue as the lyrium she had seen Morrigan drink from time to time to renew her magical energy. The field is made up of gentle hills and valleys and dotted with some kind of tall stalk with a barbed, dark red head. Hera touches one carefully, but as soon as she brushes her fingertip against it, it crumbles to dust. In the distance, as always, the dark city floats beyond reach. At first, she thinks she’s alone, but after a moment she sees the Sloth demon- appearing in the tall, grotesque Spirit form- standing in the center of the island. They stare at one another for a long moment, neither moving; for a moment, the demon looks curious, as if it doesn’t recognize her. Cautious, Hera walks over, ready to attack if necessary. “What do we have here?” it asks in its soothing, deep voice, its head moving side to side. “A rebellious minion? An escaped slave?”  Can it see me? Or do I look different here than in life?  Hera sneers as it laughs, throwing its head back with the sound. “My my, but you do have some gall. Playtime is over,” it apologizes, “you all have to go back now.” A soft breeze blows behind her, and Hera hears a pair of boots hitting the ground. She turns, hesitant and expecting more creatures to slay, but it’s Alistair standing there, his body appearing to grow more solid by the second. “Oh! Here I am!” Alistair says, his eyes lighting up when he sees her. “And here you are! You just...disappeared. Well, no matter.” “Alistair! You’re safe!” she cries, throwing her arms around him. “Thank the gods!” “Maybe I should disappear more often.” “If only you would,” they hear. Morrigan appears beside them, irritated and scowling. “See, spirit! I am not one to be summoned and disposed of when you like!” “For once, I agree with her,” Wynne says as she appears, serenely dusting her robes off. The demon nods, it’s skeletal face seeming to smile at them.  “If you go back quietly, I’ll do better this time,” it offers, holding out a thin hand tipped with talons. “I’ll make you much happier.” Hera hears the rolling voice in her head, filling her mind until she thinks she’ll explode from it. What is it you want, exile? A home here, with a lover and your friends? I can give you what your soul craves...  “I want to be free,” Hera whispers, shaking her head to clear it of the hypnotic voice. Of what? She wonders suddenly. My life? My crown and brother? Or Ferelden and Alistair?  “I made you happy, and safe,” the demon insists, his voice dripping with false melancholy. “I gave you peace. I did my best for you, and you say you want to leave? Can’t you think of someone other than yourself? I’m hurt...so very, very hurt.” “Sorry, but I’d rather just be rid of your evil right now,” she quips. “You wish to battle me? So be it. You will learn to bow to your betters, mortal!” He reaches out, the talons on the tips of his fingers lengthening into deadly needles. Hera dodges, drawing her sword. “Joke’s on you,” she laughs. “I don’t have any betters.” “We will see about that,” it laughs, its body stretching and changing before her eyes. The demon transfigures into an Ogre, just like the one that nearly killed her in the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar. Before it can take a step toward them, it roars, its body paralyzed. “Go! I can’t hold it long!” Wynne shouts, her staff high. Alistair rushes past Hera, sword high and letting out a full-throated battle cry. Hera follows, reminding herself to rely on the spirit forms she’s been given and not her own magic as the four battle the demon. It is an exhausting battle; every time she thinks they’ve beaten it, it changes into another form- first the ogre, then one of the fiery rage demons, and an abomination before finally, its own form once more. It’s a difficult battle, and Wynne exhausts herself keeping them healed during it so that she has to tap into the lyrium crystals nearby to keep her magic level high enough to keep up. Morrigan does her best to support with spells as well but also has to look to lyrium to keep herself in the fight. As for Hera and Alistair...well, she’s sure they’ll feel the effects of the battle once Wynne’s spells wear off. “For the Grey Wardens!” Alistair shouts and makes a final swipe with his sword. The demon’s skeletal spirit head falls to the ground seconds before its body crumbles to lie beside it. Wynne and Morrigan both wilt where they stand, their faces pale and drawn. Hera and Alistair lean on their swords, breathing heavily and pressing a hand to whatever’s bleeding. “Are you all right?” she asks him, noticing he’s holding his ribs. “Fine,” he lies, sucking air through his teeth. “You?” “Dandy,” she lies, biting back a groan as she straightens her shoulders. He laughs, a choked sound that quickly turns into a gasp of pain. Hera straightens up and sheaths her weapons before offering him a hand. “Shall we?” she teases. “Oh I’ve never held a girl’s hand before,” he says in mock innocence, turning his shoulder and blinking at her in mockery of her coy moves. “Does this mean we’re married?” Hera finds herself smiling in spite of the pain and exhaustion. I do hope I look a little less silly when I use that trick, she thinks. “Tricked you into matrimony so easily,” she plays along. “What will the Wardens do with you?” she asks as they go to help Wynne and Morrigan to their feet. “Who is that?” Morrigan asks, pointing as Hera puts her arm over her shoulders. Hera follows her gaze and sees Niall standing there, looking surprised and excited. “That’s Niall,” she says, he was the one lying on the floor in the Tower.” “Niall! You’re here!” Wynne says happily, leaning heavily on Alistair. “Wynne, you’re all right! I’m glad for that.” Niall turns to Hera, shaking his head in disbelief. “You were right,” he concedes with a wide smile. “You defeated the demon...I never thought...I never expected you to free yourself- to free us both .” His smile fades, and he looks down at his empty hand. “When you return, take the Litany of Adralla from my- my body. It will protect you from the worst of the blood magic.” “Aren’t you coming to help?” Hera asks. “We could use your skills.” “I cannot go with you,” Niall explains. “I have been here far too long. For you it will have been an afternoon’s nap, your body won’t have wasted away in the real world while your spirit lays in the hands of a demon.” “You think you’re going to die?” she asks. “Niall, your body is injured, yes, but-” “Every minute I was here the Sloth demon was feeding off of me,” he tells her. “Using my life to fuel the nightmares of this realm. There is so little of me left. I was never meant to save the Circle,” he continues, the words heavy with regret, “or survive its troubles. I am dying, it is as simple as that.” “There must be something I can do,” she insists. “Thank you, but it is too late for me. I do not fear what may come- they say we return to the Maker in death. And that isn’t such a terrible thing… My only regret is that I could not save the Circle. But you- you can. Take the Litany off my body when you return,” he demands. “It is important.” Hera knows a lost soul when she sees one, and nods sadly. Not everyone can be saved, she reminds herself. It is a lesson she learned long before becoming queen, and one that has never eased the loss. “I will do this,” she says softly. “And honor your memory when this is all over.” “I am not a hero,” Niall says with a sad smile. He glances at Alistair, and Hera can see a sudden yearning in Niall, as if all his life he had dreamed of being a knight in shining armor, but a trick of birth had locked him in a tower. “Perhaps trying to be one was foolish.” Hera lets Morrigan stand on her own and reaches for his hand. “Ordinary people can do great things when they have to,” she argues gently. “Heroes come in all forms, Niall.” “Dark times, greater acts of heroism, eh?” he asks wryly, meeting her gaze. “You may be right. Before I was taken to the Circle, my mother said I was meant for greatness, that I would be more than my ancestors could have ever dreamed. I hope I haven’t disappointed her,” he says, distressed. “You didn’t, Niall.” Impulsively, she moves closer and puts a hand on his cheek before pressing her lips to his. “You are a hero.” He blushes, letting out a small squeak before clearing his throat. Behind him, Alistair chuckles. “It is time for us both to be on our way,” he says, forcing his voice to be even and carrying even as he fights a grin. “Remember the Litany of Adralla. The Circle is all that matters now. Thank you and goodbye...friend.” “Niall, is there anything you would like sent to your family?” Wynne asks. “A letter or anything?” He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Just...tell my mother I was a hero, just once.” Before they can answer, Hera feels a pull in her gut and looks down to see herself engulfed in the pale spirit flames for only a moment before the world goes black.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They wake on the floor of the same room, sticky with blood and bodies stiff with sleep. Hera wished she felt refreshed, as if she had truly napped and not fought an endless battle in the Fade. But even though her body is tired, she can feel magic coursing through her, crackling along her skin and giving her strength. She has to fight to keep it unseen by the others, wrestling with herself- something she’s never had to do before. A few feet away lies Niall’s body, gone cold with death. Hera runs her hands lightly over his body, finding the Litany scroll hidden in his sleeve. Quietly, she bows her head over him, praying to whoever may listen for his comfort in death, and that he return to his Maker. “Poor boy,” she whispers, kissing his forehead. “We need to move on,” Alistair says softly, brushing his hand over her shoulder. Hera looks up at him, moved by the sadness in his voice, and rises, offering the Litany to Wynne. “Do you know how to use this?” The old woman refuses to take it with a shake of her head. “It’d be best if you used it; you aren’t a mage, so he won’t be able to stop you. You’ll need to read it, and shout the words whenever the blood mages look to be casting a spell,” Wynne explains as they move to the stairs. “I will help watch for the moments. The Litany will block any mind-control they attempt to use on anyone who can hear it, so be sure to shout it as loudly as you can.” Hera nods, unrolling and reading it, asking Wynne for the pronunciation of some words. After a moment, she thrusts it into her belt. “I won’t forget,” she assures them. They battle their way through the tower; the higher they go, the more abominations they encounter. Hera looks with disgust at what the blood mages have wrought on their home, and wonders how much torture it took before they succumbed to the temptation of more power. She doesn’t disagree with their rebellion, but there were other ways, better ways, to get what you want. Putting innocent people in harm’s way would only make matters worse in the end. As she kills monster after monster, rage builds in the pit of her stomach for the maleficarum who destroyed so many lives. “This door will lead us to the top floor of the tower,” Wynne says. “The...the Harrowing Chamber is there.” “Harrowing Chamber?” Hera asks, pausing. “It’s where apprentices receive their final test,” Alistair explains, his voice strange and hollow. “They are sent into the Fade to face a demon that wants to possess them. It’s summoned by the Circle for this purpose. If they resist and defeat the demon, they are made Circle mages.” “If they don’t ?” she asks, feeling sick at the thought of such a test. “The templars kill them,” he says flatly. “I saw it once, it was horrible.” “That’s repulsive,” she whispers, thinking of all the wizards and sorcerers she’s met- some of whom were actually demons- and never did anything to deserve such treatment. “It is important to know the apprentice has the strength of will to defend themselves,” Wynne defends, lifting her chin. “If they do not wish to go through the Harrowing, they have the option to become Tranquil.” “And that strips them of everything they are,” Morrigan adds hatefully. “If one does not want to risk it, they brand them on the forehead and destroy their soul.” “It is not like that, Morrigan,” Wynne interjects. “If you would just-” “Absolutely not !” She snaps, raising a hand to cut her off. “You cannot justify it to me , chantry woman!” Hera shakes her head, not believing what she’s hearing and glad she promised Tybalt to keep her own power a secret. These Fereldens- no, this world , it’s so barbaric. They make magic users torture themselves, or have their spirit crushed. Their chantry is cruel. No wonder the blood mages have done this. “Stop,” she says flatly. “Let’s just get through this. Connor needs us, and there are mages who might still be saved.” “You will save them, anyway?” Morrigan asks. “Knowing what they do to people like me?”  People like us, Hera corrects her silently. “No one is beyond help, Morrigan.” Wynne lets out a heavy breath of relief. “Thank you, Hera. I was afraid that once you had seen what’s happened here you would change your mind.” They pass through the door and see a young knight kneeling inside a shining ward. Hera approaches cautiously, ready to strike out if necessary. The knight wavers on his feet, scowling at them. His armor is covered in dried blood, bits of it flaking off with his movement. How long has he been here? Hera wonders, reaching out a hand to touch the barrier around him. “Hera, no,” Alistair says quickly, grabbing her hand. Magic tingles in her fingertips, and she pulls away from him. “I won’t touch it, I only want to see…” she says, reaching out just enough to test her magic against it. The ward around the knight hums with power, strong enough that to break it would probably leave her as weak as a kitten. His bloodshot eyes roam over her, his scowl turning to a sneer. “This trick again? I know what you are! It won’t work. I will stay strong!” he shouts, turning as he does. The movement is too much of him, and he collapses to his knees. “The boy is exhausted,” Wynne says, “and this cage...I’ve never seen anything like it. Rest easy, help is here.” “How long have you been here?” Hera asks him softly as he begins to pray. “Have they kept you here all this time?” All around here lie the dead and broken bodies of what she can only assume were once templars, their bodies ripped open and left to foul the air as they begin to rot. “Enough visions! If anything in you is human...kill me now and stop this game. Filthy blood mages getting in my head! I will not break!” he cries haltingly. “I’d rather die!” “You’re not going to die,” Hera tells him. “No one else is going to die if I can help it.” “Silence! I’ll not listen to anything you say! Now be gone!” He closes his eyes tight and then opens them again. “Still here…” He blinks in disbelief, knotting his hands in his blonde hair in frustration. “But that’s always worked before! I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them!” She hears a choked sound and looks over her shoulder at Alistair, looking pale and gray. “Alistair, are you all right?” she asks. He shakes his head, leaning on a broken chair before jerking his hand away when he realizes it’s sticky with blood. “F-Fine,” he croaks.  Liar. He’s picturing himself here, forced into a life he hated only to meet such an end. Turning back to the knight, she puts her hands on her hips. “Just tell me where the surviving mages are,” she demands, finding it rather difficult to have pity for the boy after what she’s learned about the templars and the chantry. Even with his dead comrades surrounding them, she wonders if he ever took joy in mistreating the mages here. I won’t be his judge, but is this truly undeserved?  “ What others? What are you talking about?” he asks. “Irving and the mages who fought Uldred,” Wynne clarifies. “Where are they?” “They are in the Harrowing Chamber,” he says sorrowfully. “The sounds coming out from there...Oh Maker,” he moans, covering his face as his breathing begins to quicken. “We must hurry,” Wynne insists. “They are in grave danger, I am sure of it.” “You can’t save them!” the templar cries, looking up at them with horror in his eyes. “You don’t know what they’ve become!” “I have to try,” is all Hera says to him. “But you haven’t been up there!” His voice cracks, splinters of his terror stabbing into Hera’s heart in spite of herself. She struggles to see past the templar armor and the dogma he wears like a shield, to see a tortured young man mindless with fear and bitterness at having seen his order slaughtered. “They’ve been surrounded by- by blood mages,” he growls, his finger stabbing the air as he points toward the stairs, “whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts! The Maker should never have created magic, it only brings death and destruction!” Wynne shakes her head. “There is great-” “No!” he screams. “You are just like them ! Your kind should be exterminated like common rats,” he spits, his eyes hard and glassy. “You’re all nothing but a vermin on the world.” “His hatred of mages is so intense,” Alistair says, pity coloring his words. “The memory of his friends’ deaths is still fresh in his mind.” “You have to end it now before it’s too late!” he tells Hera, looking at her with desperation. “You’re not a mage, anyone can see that. Surely you understand why you have to kill them all!” She shakes her head, her lips a hard line. “I will not kill an innocent.” “Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk?” he sneers. “To ensure this horror is ended, to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill everyone up there!” “I would rather spare maleficarum than risk harming an innocent,” Hera decides, her voice taking on a cruel tone mimicked by the twist in her lips. “Your suffering cannot sentence them all.” “Thank you,” Wynne says, surprised. “I knew you would make a rational decision.” “ Rational?” the templar spits. “How is this rational? Do you understand the danger?” “I know full well the dangers of magic,” Wynne tells him. “But killing innocents because they might be maleficarum is not justice. I know you are angry-” “You know nothing !” he snaps. “I am thinking about the future of the Circle! Of Ferelden!” “I do not fear maleficarum,” Hera says cooly. “They should fear me.” “You may be confident in your ability to stand up to them, but what about the rest of us? Will you protect us from them?” “We don’t know that they are all blood mages,” she argues. “I am just willing to see the painful truth! Which you are content to ignore!” He makes a frustrated sound and grabs a wooden chair- the only thing the lies inside the confines of his cage- and swings it against the ward, putting the last of his strength into splintering it on magic he cannot defend against. “But what can I do?” he asks, his breathing ragged with exertion. “As you can see I am in no position to directly influence your actions, though I would love to deal with the mages myself.” “We will deal with you once Uldred lies dead,” she responds. “You’ll get your own justice.” “My cage is Uldred’s doing- or one of his mages. Once they’re dead, I will be free,” he says in a low voice. “From what, templar? This tower? Your service to your tyrannical church? Freedom has its own cost,” she warns him, her voice heavy with knowledge. She can almost feel the weight of her crown at the thought of what Ravenloft’s freedom had cost her. “And it’s often more than we’re willing to pay. Stay safe; it will be over soon.” As they walk away, she pauses and looks over her shoulder as he speaks again. “No one ever listens,” he says bitterly. “Not until it’s far too late. Maker turn His gaze on you, I hope your compassion hasn’t doomed us all.” Hera turns away without responding and walks up the short flight of stairs to the next door. You and me both, boy.  
I am so grateful Alistair became a Grey Warden.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera gasps as she opens the door. In the center of the giant chamber, three abominations shoot lightning from their hands at a single mage held floating high above the floor, torturing the poor soul as he screams and begs for mercy. To the side are three others, bound and forced to watch. The scent of blood and ozone makes her nose wrinkle, and she hears Alistair call on his maker in a hushed whisper. “That’s Uldred,” Wynne whispers behind her, “the bald one.” Her eyes light on a man in fine mage’s robes, approaching the mage in the center. He lifts a hand, and the abominations stop targeting their spell on the man, letting lightning crackle and spark into the air around them. The victim is magically lifted until his feet dangle above the floor, and Uldred lifts his chin for him. “Do you accept the gift that I offer?” he asks confidently. The mage’s head bobs up and down, his eyes rolling back into his head. With a satisfied smirk, Uldred drops him to the floor as two of the abominations join him. They cast a spell without speaking- something Hera hasn’t seen any mage here do- and the result is a deafening sound of wrong notes played on a hundred different instruments with light flashing and electricity racing down their arms to assault the man on the floor. His body twists and convulses, and his screams are barely heard over the terrifying sound filling the air. Hera watches in abject horror as the man’s body is corrupted and forced into a shapeless mass of muscle and split flesh. It seems to take forever, but the sound fades away, and a new abomination rises. Behind her is a chorus of gasps and curses from her friends, but Hera stays silent, watching. Her fury has been building throughout the tower- yes, the rebels might have had a good point, but this is too much. They have taken what might have been a memorable rebellion and twisted it into a villain’s daydream, torturing their friends and mentors, murdering one another in an effort to be in power. While she does not relish the thought of being caged, she cannot excuse their actions. “I can’t watch this anymore,” she says in a calm voice and steps further into the room. The abominations turn first, then Uldred slowly turns to them, as if he can hardly lower himself to acknowledge them. “Ahh,” he says lazily. “Look what we have here.” “Can we cut the small talk? It’s been a long day and I’d just like to kill you,” she snaps. “I’m quite impressed you’re still alive,” he says. “Unfortunately, that means you’ve killed my servants. Oh well; they are probably better off, dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence. ” Hera matches his mockingly mournful tone with her own. “I’m sorry, are you upset I killed your lackeys?” “We needn’t fixate on who killed whom,” he says generously. “That doesn’t help our relationship.” “We don’t have a relationship, but that’s beside the point. What are you trying to accomplish by torturing these people?” she asks, tilting her head. “Everlasting life? Unlimited power?” “A mage is but the larval form of something greater,” he explains calmly. But as he continues, madness lights his eyes, giving him a wild grin as he begins to shout. “Your chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations when we have truly reached our full potential. Look at them! The chantry has them convinced- they deny themselves the pleasure of becoming something glorious!” “You’re mad!” Wynne cries. “There’s nothing glorious about what you’ve become, Uldred!” Uldred laughs. “Uldred? He is gone! I am Uldred...and yet not Uldred. I am more than he was. I could give you this gift, Wynne. You and all the mages. It would be so much easier if you all just...accepted it. But some people can be so stubborn.” “I’m glad so many of them have stood up to you,” Hera tells him. At least they all aren’t the sheep Morrigan thinks they are.  Uldred chuckles, wiping a hand across his mouth. “And what good did that do? I still won. Wait- what do we have here?” he asks, looking over at one of the mages mumbling to himself. He’s older, his beard and regal robes splattered with blood. Like the others, he’s strung by his arms through magical force, his body shuddering under the strain. “Why, it’s the First Enchanter! Come, say hello, Irving. Don’t mind the blood,” he chuckles. “He’s had a hard day.” “What have you done to him?” Wynne gasps. “Irving, I’m here!” “S...Stop him,” the First Enchanter gasps. “He is…building…an army. He will…destroy the templars and…” “You’re a sly little fox, Irving,” Uldred teases, wagging his finger at Irving. “Telling on me like that. And here I thought he was starting to turn.” “Never!” Irving struggles out. “That’s enough out of you ,” Uldred snaps before turning his attention back to Hera. “He’ll serve me eventually. As will you.” “Whatever do you mean?” she asks, fluttering her lashes. “I don’t sweep and mop well, I should warn you.” “Oh I’m not stupid!” he shouts, waving his arms. “Do you think I’m going to let you wander around this tower knowing you’re a pawn of the templars? You are a thorn in my side, and I must remove you before you fester!” He starts to murmur to himself, and Hera can feel a buildup of pressure and power around him.“You can certainly try,” she offers sweetly. Could I cast dispel without anyone noticing?  “Killing you would be a waste,” he decides, taking a deep breath and struggling for calm. “Your raw potential with the strength of a demon behind it would be unstoppable! I can do that,” he says, sounding proud of himself for such an idea. “I can give you power, and a new life.” “I’m sorry,” Hera says, her apologetic tone dripping with sarcasm. “I just can’t let you do that.” “Fight if you must; it will just make my victory all the sweeter.” “Don’t forget the Litany,” Wynne whispers. “It will thwart Uldred’s attempts to control the mages and win this fight for us.” Hera nods and draws her sword and dagger, eyes widening when Uldred transforms into a ten-foot-tall monster covered in scales and spikes. Jaws full of razor-sharp teeth snap at her and the tail swings back and forth menacingly. With a roar, the creature stretches its arms out before swiping a clawed hand at her. 
Shit. That’s bigger than the ogres here. And pointier.
 The abominations swarm Morrigan and Wynne behind her, and Hera hears a cry as one of them is struck down, but can’t spare a glance back. One of the young mages breaks free of his restraints and joins Alistair to take on the abominations, so Hera focuses all her energy on Uldred. He’s very powerful, and before long her arms are heavy with fatigue. She glances over at Alistair when he shouts, and sees one of the abominations shoot flames at him. Uldred takes advantage of her distraction, the fanged mouth distorting a spell into an unrecognizable cacophony, and a dark power builds around him. “Use the Litany!” Wynne shouts, and Hera obeys, beginning to recite the chant continuously through the fight. These abominations are tougher than the ones they’ve encountered before, and Hera glances around, seeing the others struggling against them. Looks like it’s just me, then, she thinks, rolling away as Uldred makes a low swipe with his claws.  I can feel your power, she hears in her mind, his voice invading her thoughts through the Litany with a horrifying chuckle. You’re different. The Litany will not protect you, little witch. You whore. I know you. Come to me, share my gift- I will leave you beautiful if you wish. Go to hell, Uldred . His laughter is contorted into something like glass shattering, and it rolls over them like a fog, ignoring through their armor to slice the flesh beneath. Hera is thrown across the floor, and he whips his tail around to beat her with it. She climbs to her feet, still reciting the Litany, and rushes him again. This time she doesn’t bother trying to hinder him at the knee, she goes straight for the chest and head, leaping high and stabbing her dagger into the chest. Uldred roars and throws her aside, targeting Wynne, but Hera gets in his way again, taking the attacks meant for the older woman. She can hear Alistair fighting, hears his exhausted cry for healing. For the first time since finding herself in Ferelden, Hera isn’t sure she can defeat this foe. He’s too strong, too driven, they’re injured and exhausted and at the end of their strength. Is this the demon meant for me? Has time moved faster for me than I thought? She tries to silence the thoughts and keeps attacking, parrying his claws, absorbing his blows so they don’t fall to anyone else. Uldred’s strength is flagging too, she can see it in the long pauses between his spells and the way his physical attacks slow down, but he’ll still outlast her at this rate. 
I can’t do this much longer. I can’t hold back anymore.
 She stops reciting the Litany and gathers power in her center, letting the tension inside build until magic pulses through her blood and streaks down to burn her fingertips. It feels like stretching after a long ride as her power unfurls. The spell comes without words, as many simple spells do, but she bides her time, waiting for the right moment. The next time he throws her back, she uses the distance to run at him one last time, leaping as high as possible, sword aimed for his heart. Under her breath, she casts one of her favorite spells. Sheer magical power forms into six glowing darts; the power dancing down her blade like lightning as it plunges into him, exploding inside the beast’s chest in a brilliant white light. This will hurt, she thinks, squeezing her eyes closed as the light builds to blinding brilliance. White-hot pain engulfs her as the missiles catch her in their blast, and she screams in spite of her clenched jaw as the explosion burns up her arm, fusing the skin on her hand to the hilt of her sword. The explosion is blinding, and Uldred staggers, falling forward and taking her with him. Everything goes black as the mutated mage’s enormous body crushes her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair paces in front of the fire, waiting for Wynne to come out of Hera’s tent. Hera had been badly wounded in the Circle Tower; when she’d struck the killing blow on Uldred, there had been some kind of magical explosion just before the abomination had fallen on top of her, crushing her. Wynne had been able to perform a quick healing spell so they could get her downstairs, but even then she had been unconscious the whole way down the tower. Alistair had carried her himself, removing his armor and cradling her while the group descended the stairs. He’d laid her on a bloodstained pallet near some of the sleeping templars while he spoke to Irving, the First Mage, about the situation with the tower and Connor. Thankfully the Circle had agreed to help and set out immediately, promising to send Leliana and Sten back across, while Alistair and the others- Wynne included, having elected to stay with them- set their camp just outside the Tower. They had considered taking Hera across the lake to the Spoiled Princess, but Wynne had been anxious to properly tend her wounds. Now she, Leliana, and Morrigan were in Hera’s tent tending her, and had not come out since save for water and more bandages. That had been three hours ago, and every now and then he heard a small, painful sound. We should have gotten her into a proper room with a bed and fire in the hearth. The night air can’t be good for her.  Finally, Wynne comes out, drying her hands on a piece of cloth and ushering the girls ahead of her. “She will live,” she tells him as he opens his mouth. “And she will mend. But she needs rest. A day or two will do it, I think.”  We don’t have a day or two, he thinks but says nothing. Wynne makes him think of an old chantry sister back in Redcliffe, and he’d seen enough stern looks from that old women to know when to keep his mouth shut. I don’t know she’ll wait that long, anyway. “Can I see her?” Wynne nods. “Yes, if you take some of the broth from the stew and convince her to drink it. The elixir I gave her for pain could make her feel ill if she doesn’t eat.” She smiles gently at him and pats his cheek. “Have faith, lad,” she soothes. “She will be fine. But for the love of the Maker, don't rile her up. She needs rest and relaxation.” Alistair gets a bowl of broth and ducks inside her tent. His stomach knots when he sees her, lying on her bedroll looking so small and fragile. Her body above the sheet is a mass of bruises, he can only imagine it gets worse under the sheet, and she’s covered in small cuts, healing slowly from Wynne’s spells. Her right arm is bandaged from shoulder to fingertip, burned badly from whatever Uldred had done as he died. 
She takes on so much, all the time. She could have picked off the other abominations, let me or the mages handle Uldred, but she took him head-on. She’s…frustrating. And brave.
 “Hey Hero,” she whispers, her eyelids lifting slowly. He gives her a charming smile and sits beside her, careful not to spill the broth. “Hey pretty lady,” he answers. “Wynne says you’ll mend, but you need a few days’ rest first.” “Can’t rest,” she argues weakly, wincing as she turns her head to look at him. “We need to get back to Redcliffe.” “It’ll take the mages a day or two to get there, anyway,” he says, pulling her blanket higher. “And we can always take a shortcut by crossing the lake.” She shakes her head. “Can’t. Connor needs our help.” “And how are you supposed to help him if you can’t turn your head without being in pain?” he demands in a quiet voice. Anger and frustration seep into his tone, giving voice to feelings he hadn’t even been aware of himself. “Your recklessness nearly got you killed today! Look at your arm! Wynne doesn’t even know what happened to it, all we could see was a blinding light when you stuck your sword in him.” He scowls when she smiles under his scolding. “Why are you smiling?” “You sound like my brother,” she laughs, then stops and puts her free hand to her ribs. In truth, she knew exactly what the light had been when she had stabbed the abomination: her spell had gone off, making it look like something he’d done. Unfortunately, doing it that way had meant purposefully catching herself with the spell as well. “Someone has to tell you when you’re being stupid,” he informs her haughtily. Just as quickly as it appeared, his anger falls away, and he shakes his head before looking at her again. “Hera, are you all right? Truly?” She nods. “Yes- don’t you believe Wynne? I will be fine. But Alistair, we have to get to Redcliffe.” “We’ll cross the lake tomorrow afternoon and be at Redcliffe by evening,” he decides. “We shouldn’t be too far behind Irving and the mages, and it will be less taxing on you.” She nods, accepting the plan. “Fine,” she says. “Glad to see we’re in agreement,” he says with a grin. “Now, Wynne told me you need to drink this,” he says, lifting the bowl. “Oh no,” she says with a grimace. “I’m not drinking anything else from her. I’ve learned my lesson.” Alistair laughs. “Healing magic isn't all it’s cracked up to be, is it?” “Not in this world. In mine, it hurts for a moment- a terrible, searing pain that feels like a lifetime- but then it’s over and your wound is gone.” “That sounds much nicer than slow and steady healing.” “It’s very different, everything to do with magic is. Mages aren't controlled by a church and Templars. Some wizards and sorcerers belong to an order, some don't. It isn't something to fear and regulate.” “Magic is too powerful to go unchecked,” he argues. “So are a lot of things,” she counters with a hard look. “And what happens when one of them goes insane and starts killing innocent people? Or using the dead to build an army?” he asks, raising his brows at her. “Like the demon possessing Connor did.” “Then people like my friends and I take care of it,” she says with a small shrug, completely ignoring the voice in her head that reminds her that she has an army of undead at her beck and call. “Or the order the mage belongs to do. Or the village hires a witch-hunter. No one deserves to be enslaved simply because they lost the birth lottery.” She meets his gaze with a small smile. “Just like no one should be forced to be something they aren’t because they’re a royal bastard.” “Well.” He nods, his face turning red at the direct point she makes. “That may be so, but it doesn't change the fact that you have to drink this, ” he reminds her. “Let me help you sit up.” “Before you do, you should know I’m in an advanced state of undress,” she warns, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Not that I mind what you’d see.” Alistair hesitates. “Should I get Wynne or Leliana?” “I suppose that depends on if you want to have a look,” she teases. She laughs at the way he blushes, giving proof of his indecision. “Help me up, I will hold the blanket in place,” she compromises. “I promise not to corrupt you with my nakedness.” He helps her sit up, eyes closed for safe measure. “I know you laugh,” he says when he’s done, “but...I want to treat you the way you deserve. Like a gentleman should treat a lady.” He raises an eyebrow. “Would- would you like to be courted by a gentleman?” Guilt fills her, and she looks down at her hands. “Alistair...I’ve told Leliana that I can’t allow anything but a casual flirtation,” she admits. “I am greatly in favor of a dalliance- and you would have no regrets- but it wouldn’t be fair to start something that will inevitably end. I have to find a way home once the Blight is dealt with.”  I can’t risk these feelings, she reminds herself. Whatever is between us should stay unexplored. She risks a glance at him, finding his expression at once thoughtful and fearful as he stares at his own hands. Seven hells, he’s beautiful, she thinks, knowing herself well enough to know when to admit defeat. I’ve never wanted someone more. Just being near him makes me feel warm and soft inside.  
Definitely not something a courtesan should ever feel, and the Raven Queen has no place in her heart for romance.
 Silence stretches between them, rattling her already ragged nerves. “I’d like to court you anyway,” he says finally, looking up at her. “Can we take it a day at a time, and figure out the rest if we live through this? Maybe we can look for your passage home together...maybe… Maybe I can go with you.” Hera feels a deep pleasure at his words but keeps her expression still. What a lovely little lie. I hope he gives me no cause to regret it. “I’ve never been courted before,” she admits, feeling silly and girlish. 
This is a mistake, but I want to bask in his light for a little while. Is that so wrong?
 
It might be the last great mistake I ever get to make, after all.
 “Really?” he asks, blinking in surprise. “You’re so...well, you’re you. How can no one have courted you before?” Hera raises an eyebrow, amused. “I live in a world where love is bought and sold to the highest bidder. Why bother working for love when you can just buy an illusion of it?” “Oh. Right. Good point.” His nervousness makes his voice unsteady, and he blushes. “Would...would you like if I were the first? To court you, not to...not pay for it,” he ends, frowning at the idea. Hera smiles- it’s more of a grimace due to the swelling- and dips her head to hide it. “I think I’d like that very much.” He lets out a deep breath and smiles. “Good. I’ll start later when there isn't a Blight to compete with for your attention. Now drink your broth.” Warmth settles into her stomach even as her heart flutters at his smile. “Later, then. Will you tell me about the other Wardens?” “You first,” he says, watching her lift the bowl to her lips. “Did you want to be a Grey Warden?” “Yes, I did. Duncan and I argued about it, actually,” she laughs. “I remember. Why would he try to turn down a willing recruit as skilled as you?” Hera hesitates. He at least needs to know about my power. He could protect me should something go wrong- and something will inevitably go wrong. “Because of the chantry,” she tells him. Alistair frowns. “I’m not sure I understand.” The warmth and flutter from moments before dissolve into dread as she looks in the direction of the tower, almost willing herself to see through the canvas. I’m sorry Tybalt, but I have to break my promise to you, just this once. “Your chantry would see me as an apostate,” she whispers. “I’m a sorceress, Alistair. Tybalt warned me not to use magic here, and Duncan tried to convince me to join the Circle- and I see now how terrible that would have been. Cailan wanted me to go to the capital and wait with his queen.” “You’re a mage? Have you been using magic all this time?” he asks in a rough whisper. “I was born with it, same as the mages here,” she explains, keeping her voice down. What is the emotion under his tone? I can’t quite tell if he’s angry. “But it’s different. And I have only used magic twice since I got here.” “When?” he demands. His frown deepens, causing lines to appear between his brows. “Right after we met. My clothes were filthy and covered in mud and blood.” Angry, she decides. Definitely angry. At least a little.  “And the second?” She looks pointedly at her arm and says nothing. “Oh Maker,” he groans. “You really are an apostate. I knew there was something you were hiding.”  Oh, I’m hiding a lot, she thinks with another rush of guilt. “Not really. I’m not Ferelden, or even from this world. But,” she sighs, lifting one hand in helplessness. “You can give me to the templars if you like. They will not be able to hold me, should I release the full extent of my power. Nor will one of those hideous phylacteries work on me. It would simply get a lot of people hurt and slow down my escape. Then you will have dead or injured templars, a sorceress on the run, and you’re short a Grey Warden to fight the Blight.” Alistair is quiet a long time, staring hard at her. Hera keeps her face open and calm, sipping the broth, trying not to let him see how her hand shakes. I should have told him sooner.  “Do you know what I am, exactly?” he asks finally. “Templars hunt and disable mages. Kill them if necessary. I have abilities that can do great harm to mages,” he emphasizes. “What if I had hurt you somehow? You should have told me from the beginning.” “There’s a lot of things I would have liked to have said in the beginning,” she says guiltily. “You swear you haven't been using magic?” “Aside from those two instances, yes.” “Will you swear not to use it again?” “I-” Hera pauses before answering. The archdemon could require it. What if it came down to her life, or Alistair’s? I’ve broken my promise to Tybalt, I don’t think making another is wise. “I don't think I can,” she whispers. “Why should I make such a promise? Will you throw me to the templars if I don’t?” Alistair scowls. “What am I supposed to do here, Hera? Morrigan’s told you the dangers of being an apostate. You’re lucky you’re a Grey Warden- the templars can’t touch you. Otherwise, I don’t know if I could protect you both from them.” He keeps his voice low, but she can hear his frustration, and she wishes she hadn’t waited so long. “Maker’s ass,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead. “You’re not a templar, you’re a Grey Warden,” she reminds him, “you have no responsibility to the chantry. You could just accept that I will swear not to keep my magic hidden,” she offers. “I cannot release it, and it will not abandon me. It is a part of me, as surely as the color of my eyes. But I am in complete control of it. You have nothing to fear from me.” “Your arm is proof you aren’t.” “My arm is proof that I am, ” she argues. “I knew I was almost out of that fight, you had your hands full with the abominations, and Uldred had to be destroyed. I set off that spell knowing it would injure me, and knowing what it would look like to everyone else.” Alistair stares at her, dumbfounded. “You mean...you were willing to keep your secret, even though it could seriously hurt you? Even though it did ,” he corrects. “Why?” “Yes. Because I wanted to obey the laws of Ferelden and keep my promise to Tybalt. And also,” she adds, blushing a bit, “because I didn’t want you to think poorly of me.” “What about demons?” he asks. “Demons whisper and tempt mages into bringing them out of the Fade and into the real world. Have you been affected this way?” “Demons whispering in my head?” she asks, tilting her head to one side. “No. You know the only dreams I have are brought on by the taint; I have no connection to your Fade and its spirits and demons. My magic is fueled by my...spirit, I suppose. I’ve never really thought about it,” she says with a one-armed shrug. “It’s as much a part of me as the color of my hair, and aside from the darkspawn hive mind, I dream of nothing. I don’t think I have anything your demons want.”  Or a dhampir is too much like them to be of use, she muses. That’s possible, I suppose.  “You’ll tell me if you start having unusual dreams or hearing whispers, won’t you?” His voice is laced with worry and the lines on his face have gradually changed from anger to concern, so Hera begins to relax. “Yes. Alistair, please understand, my magic is different than the mages here. I can’t explain it, it just is. But if anything tries to make a bargain with me, it will be in over its head,” she says with a painful smirk. “Two apostates, a Chantry sister, a murderer, and a Circle mage. Maker help me.” Alistair shakes his head, chuckling. “I feel like I’m in the worst joke ever. Has anyone ever told you that you are the most stubborn woman they’ve ever seen?” “At least I’m pretty,” she offers sweetly. “Not right now you aren't,” he says apologetically, stroking her mottled cheek gently. “You’re puffy and swollen and your bruises have bruises.” “I’ll be fine.” She finishes the broth and sets the bowl aside. “Alistair?” she asks innocently. “What is it now?” he asks suspiciously. “Can I show you one tiny little thing?” “Depends. Is it magic?” “Yes, but it’s good magic. Please?” He studies her a moment, then sighs. “What is it?” “Give me your socks,” she says happily. “My...socks? They’re filthy. And damp.” “I know, that’s why I want them.” He gives her a disgusted look but takes off his boots and hands her his socks. “I don't know how well this will work with my off hand,” she muses, shaking them. “But this might be the most important spell I know.” After a few seconds, she frowns and shakes them some more. A moment later she seems satisfied, and hands back pristine, dry socks. “Now your feet,” she says orders. Alistair stares at the socks, then at her. “I- you- they’re-” “Feet please,” she giggles. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks suspiciously. Hera’s gaze travels over him hungrily, making Alistair blush again. Hasn’t anyone ever made him feel handsome and wanted before? “ So many things,” she purrs. “But not until you say so. Now, feet.” He scoots back and puts his feet in her lap. “Oh Maker they smell,” she coughs, waving her hand in front of her face. “It’s been a long day,” he says defensively. “Did you forget the blood and gore up to our ankles?” She nods. In truth, she should be resting, and she knows it. After not having used her power in so long, she had put more into her spell earlier than usual, and between pain and sheer exhaustion, she’s ready for the day to end. But Alistair’s presence does something to her magic, refreshing it somehow, and she wants to explore it as long as he’ll let her. Focusing on his feet, she waves a hand lazily over them and watched as he jerks and cries out. “Hey, that tickles!” “Alistair!” Wynne’s voice snaps from outside the tent. “I told you to let her rest!” “I’m sorry, Wynne!” he laughs. “She started it!” “Well if you two don’t stop, I’m going to make you come back out!” Hera and Alistair cover their mouths, giggling like naughty children. “Hush,” she whispers, waving her hand once more. “There. How’s that?” He wiggles his toes in wonder. “They’re...clean. And dry. And they don’t smell,” he observes, putting one foot to his nose. “They smell like…?” “Clean,” she giggles. “They smell clean.” “Well, we haven’t had soap in a while,” he says with a shrug. “My last bath was in Redcliffe.” “Alistair, I have soap,” she tells him. “And I’ll let you have it if you need it.” He scratches his chest thoughtfully. “I think I might need some.” “I could oblige you,” she offers, wiggling her fingers at him, “just this once. It’s cold out, and the lake will be freezing. A wave of my hand...even your clothes would be clean...” He struggles with the desire to be clean but his unwillingness to leave her tent. “No,” he says finally. “I’ll go bathe,” he adds with regret. “And come back?” she asks softly. Alistair lifts his eyebrows. “You- you want me to come back?” She looks away, trying not to show how much she wants him to come back. “If you don’t want to-” “No! No, I want to,” he laughs, tilting her chin up carefully. “You just seem so tired, and you’re covered in bruises and cuts. But if you’re sure you want some more company…” She nods, her violet eyes startling among all the black and blue. “So I’ll be back,” he says cheerfully. Wynne is waiting outside, arms crossed and looking stern. “Alistair, I told you not to get her excited,” she scolds. “I’m sorry, Wynne. Really,” he says charmingly. “Did she finish the broth?” “Yes.” “Good. Now I’m going to bed. Do not let that hound into her tent, he’ll only try to lay on her and her ribs are already broken. And you let her rest.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Leliana, will you help her into a shirt for the night?” she asks, turning to Leliana by the fire. “I don't want her chest or arm catching cold.” Leliana looks up from the small book she’s scribbling in and nods. “Of course, Wynne. I’ll go now.” “Um, Wynne?” Alistair catches her before she goes. “Do you have any soap? Something that’s not…lady like?” Wynne snorts. “You mean something not flowery.” “Well, yes,” he laughs. “Come along, son, I have something for you. A nice mint and elf-root blend they send us from Antiva.” Alistair takes his time bathing in the lake, even though the water is as cold as Hera had warned. Clean and smelling pleasantly of herbs, he returns to camp and spreads his washed clothes to dry over a bush. Sten is on watch and largely ignores him as Alistair bypasses his own tent. Ares barks happily, jumping on him as he heads for Hera’s tent. “Not tonight boy,” Alistair apologizes. “Wynne said you have to stay out.” The mabari whines and lays down with a sigh, and Alistair calls out softly to Hera. She doesn't answer, so he ducks inside to check on her. “Hera…?” He smiles down at her sleeping form. Aside from helping her into a shirt, he could tell that Leliana had run a comb through her hair and helped her to lie down.  Her bruises look better already, he thinks, sitting beside her. Hera’s hair spills across the pillow, like black oil over the sun-bleached linen. “Like a raven,” he muses quietly, running some of it through his fingers. “Hmm?” She mumbles, her eyebrows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to wake you,” he says softly. “Go back to sleep.” She shakes her head, three little lines forming between her eyebrows. “I’m awake,” she yawns, opening her eyes. He chuckles. “No, you aren't.” “Mmhmm,” she mumbles, closing her eyes again and rubbing her cheek against the pillow.  She looks so...I don’t even know, he realizes, his heart thudding in his chest. Fragile? Why do I feel like such an idiot around her? “I should go.” She reaches out with her good hand, catching his shirt weakly. “Stay.” “Hera…” Maker, I want to stay. I want to hold her and wake up with her in my arms. What am I thinking? She’s so...worldly, and I’m...not. She’d laugh at me if I said that. “Please,” she sighs. The breathy word crumbles his resolve to go, and Alistair gives in. “Just for a little while,” he relents, stretching out beside her pallet. Hera smiles and laces her fingers through his, cradling their hands to her cheek. “Just until you’re asleep again.” He watches her sleep, filled with wonder at how young she looks. She can't be more than eighteen or nineteen, he thinks, blinking against the pull of exhaustion. And to take all this on… I can't imagine doing something this insane and sure to fail with anyone else. She makes me believe it’s possible; like I could do anything so long as she’s beside me.   Oh, Maker...what am I feeling? he wonders as sleep finally washes over him. *** When Wynne looks in on her later, she frowns at the sight of the two Wardens, lying beside one another holding hands. Shaking her head, she touches Hera’s forehead to check for fever, then spreads a blanket over Alistair. I don't know what they’re playing at, she thinks. But they do seem taken with one another. Maker help them.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera leans on Leliana on the walk from the lake to Redcliffe Castle, apologizing for slowing everyone down. She has to stop for rest frequently, and the third time, Alistair just picks her up. “It’s not that I’m in a hurry,” he explains under his breath. “Well, I am , but you shouldn’t be walking anyway.” Clenching her teeth against the pain, she nods, privately grateful for the gallant gesture. “Let’s go then.” In spite of how wretched she feels, she can’t help but indulge in the sweetness of being carried by the man who’s asked to court her.  What foolishness, she chides herself with a small smile. Just because he smells like sweat and leather and herbs is no reason to lose yourself over the desire of a man. You’re a master of desire, Hera, get it together.  The sunlight plays on his hair, sparking it into fiery spun gold and making him look like one of the celestial winged beings she’s met in Sigil. He catches her staring, violet eyes wide, and grins smugly.  Gods above, she thinks breathlessly. He couldn’t pull a rabbit from his hat, yet I am utterly enchanted.  They pass through the village with as little fanfare and delays as possible, and get to the castle by mid-afternoon, as promised. At the gates, Hera demands to be on her feet and walk in herself. After a hard look, he relents, keeping close in case she stumbles. When they walk into the main hall, the Circle is there, along with Teagan, Isolde, and Jowan. Isolde is pale and knots a handkerchief in her hands while her brother in law is busy giving instructions to Ser Perth. The disgraced Jowan is speaking in hushed tones with Irving and the mages, their expressions grave. “Are we too late?” Alistair asks, fear for the boy giving his voice a brittle edge. “Where’s Connor?” Teagan steps forward and takes her hand. “Thank the Maker you’re here,” he says quickly. “Ser Perth says Connor has been cornered in the eastern tower. Unless you object, the Circle is ready to begin.” Hera turns to Senior Enchanter Irving. “Good. What do we need to know?” “Only what mage will be going into the Fade,” he says. “I will do it,” Wynne volunteers. Hera looks over at her. “Are you sure? Morrigan can go.” “I am sure,” she insists. “Trust me, Hera.”  How many times have I said the same? Asked some poor stranger to simply trust me? Wynne’s words carry the weight of knowledge and power, so Hera nods. So be it, I will put myself in the other place this time. “Wynne it is.” Irving nods, and gestures for Hera to step back. Alistair guides her to a chair, giving her a stern look that clearly tells her she’d best give in without a fight. According to Irving, it is to be a long process, full of complex magic that requires a great deal of lyrium. Watching them prepare, she longs to reveal her sorceress nature, to go into the Fade and destroy the demon herself, but she knows that would be a horrible idea- if it was even possible to make the journey. She has no way to know how the Sloth demon had managed to send her there the first time, or if it would work a second. But even if she did know, her injuries are more serious that she would like, and the Templars and the chantry would have something to say about it, she’s sure. Of all their problems in Thedas, that is a situation she has no desire to handle. Mages move around the room, snuffing candles until the only light left is the flickering fire at the far end of the hall. Hera watches in fascination, leaning forward in the chair when two of the mages begin drawing a circle on the floor and ringing it with runes while the others prepare lyrium potions. One of them pours a small vial of lyrium onto the drawn circle and the runs light up in a flash of blue. With a whisper from Irving, a pretty elf mage steps back, petulant at not participating in the remainder of the ritual. “What is that?” she whispers. “A binding circle,” Alistair murmurs, leaning down to talk directly into her ear. “I saw it during my training. If something goes wrong, and Wynne becomes possessed-” “It will keep her and the demon trapped,” Hera finishes, not taking her eyes off Wynne as she steps into the circle and lies down. “A clever precaution. Why isn’t she standing with the others?” “She must be watching to be sure nothing goes wrong.” Irving brought out a large bottle, glowing brightly in the shadows. When Alistair sucks in a breath, Hera glances up at him, raising her eyebrows in question. “Raw lyrium,” he whispers. “It’s dangerous to mages; the shock of absorbing so much mana so quickly can kill them.” She turns her eyes back to Irving carefully removing the cork from the bottle, being sure not to spill any on himself. They must be able to absorb it through the skin, as well as internally, she guesses. A ripple of anxiety moves through the mages as Irving pours it into a small brass bowl. As soon as it touches the metal it begins to bubble and steam, sending out a burst of magical energy so powerful the hairs on the back of Hera’s neck stand up. Irving closes his eyes, concentrating only on the ritual, his hands moving around the vapor coming off the bowl, shaping and teasing it without ever coming in contact with the soft glow. The vapor branches out like a vine, sending wispy tendrils to each of the mages around the circle, pooling over Wynne lying flat with her eyes closed. One by one, each of the mages holds out a hand to welcome the lyrium mist, shivering slightly as it slowly swirls around them. Faintly, Hera can hear beautiful, chiming music, without rhythm or meter. She looks around for the source, but it’s so faint and muffled it sounds as if it’s coming from far away. No one else seems either disturbed by it, if they even hear it. “Can you hear it?” Alistair whispers, leaning over her shoulder. “Mages say that lyrium sings to them.”  That’s what it is, she thinks, her gaze moving back to the glowing bowl. It’s the lyrium. How strange, I’ve never heard anything like it. “Faintly,” she whispers back. Curiosity almost drives her to move forward, to become part of the ritual herself and see how the lyrium responds. She keeps her seat, unsure of what may happen to Wynne, Connor, or the mages if she were to interfere. 
Perhaps Wynne or Morrigan can tell me more. I may want to experiment with it sometime.
 The vapors surround each mage, sending more tendrils out to mirror the circle on the floor. As more mages are connected by its circuit, the air takes on a charged feel. Hera feels that if she touched a piece of steel the shock would set off bright sparks. Finally, all the mages are connected, and the circle’s soft glow intensifies into a nearly blinding blue light. Beside her, Isolde and Teagan cover their eyes, making small sounds of surprise. Hera, however, is so deeply invested in watching that she can hardly blink. And then Wynne leaves her body and enters the Fade. It’s as gentle as a sigh, her body going rigid for a heartbeat before softening into what appears to be a deep sleep. The mages don’t move from their lyrium-wreathed circle, but the young woman left out approaches Teagan and speaks softly. He nods and approaches Hera, kneeling beside her chair to speak softly. “My lady, I’ve had some rooms prepared,” he says. “Surana says this could be a long ordeal, and the mages will stay like this until it’s over. Why don't you all get some rest? I’ll have baths and clean clothing sent up.” She shakes her head slowly. “Sten, you and the others go rest,” she says over her shoulder. “Takes Ares, if you don’t mind. I’ll stay with Wynne.” “Are you sure, Hera?” Leliana asks, looking worried. “You’re the one who needs rest.” “Oh, I’ll just sit here a while and come up as soon as Wynne is back,” she promises, waving them on. “Go. You deserve a rest.” Sten doesn't argue, only nods and follows the servant, calling to Ares. Leliana looks like she wants to protest, but Morrigan stops her with a look and beckons to her. Alistair stands behind Hera, unwilling to argue, and Ares lays at her feet. “Are you certain, my lady?” Teagan asks, taking her hand. “Your injuries-” “Are fine,” she assures him. “I will wait for Wynne. See to Isolde,” she adds, nodding toward the nervous arlessa fidgeting by the fire. He leaves her to go to Isolde, and Hera sighs and leans back against the chair, rubbing her temple with her unbandaged hand. In truth, she could sleep for a week, and then a day or two more, but she refuses to go to her bed with Connor still in the demon’s grip. Enough time has been wasted due to her injuries already. She’s so focused on watching Wynne she jumps when she feels Alistair's hands on the base of her neck, kneading the tense muscles there. “Sorry,” he whispers, moving his hands away quickly. “I didn’t mean-” “Please, don’t stop,” she answers, pulling her hair over her shoulder. “It feels nice.” He chuckles and returns his hands lightly to her shoulders, his thumbs making small circles. Hera’s sigh is almost inaudible, but she feels herself relaxing slowly under his attentions.  Is this courtship? She wonders. Or is this comfort from one friend to another? He said he wanted to wait until after the Blight was dealt with- did he change his mind? Oh, gods, it feels so nice I don't even want to question it.  Hours later, Wynne’s eyes open, and one of the mages help her sit up. “How did it go?” Irving asks, handing her a cup of wine. “Is the child free?” “Yes, the demon's hold on him is broken.” Wynne shakes her head to clear it, the lines in her face deep and craggy in the shadows. “It was not a difficult encounter,” she says, her words heavy with exhaustion, “but it was quite draining. How long was I in the Fade?” “Several hours. Let’s get you up to a room,” Teagan says, offering his arm. “You are more than deserving of a rest. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.” “I could not allow a child to suffer,” she says weakly. “Do not let me keep you, Bann Teagan,” she adds. “You have much to discuss with our young Wardens.” He nods and gestures for a knight to escort her to her room. Once the mages have all gone out, he turns to Hera and Alistair. “Forgive me, my lady,” he apologizes. “The mages said you had been badly wounded at the tower. I admit my mind was elsewhere when you arrived. How are you?” “I will mend,” she says, waving vaguely to her arm. “This is a burn, nothing more.” Alistair coughs, sounding very much as if he were choking on the word “liar,” and she frowns up at him. “Where is Connor?” “Ser Perth will find him,” he assures her. “He can’t have left the tower without being seen.” She nods. “Can Alistair and I see the Arl?” “Yes, of course,” Teagan answers, watching how quickly Alistair offers to help her to her feet. “I shall take you directly.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The three of them make their way through the castle and find Isolde outside the door of the arl's chambers, wringing her hands. “My lady, is something wrong?” Teagan asks. Isolde looks guilty and shakes her head. “I just do not know how I will tell him when he wakes,” she says, tears filling her eyes. "How do I tell him his son is a mage?" Her voice cracks and she buries her face in her hands, weeping. Hera lets go of Alistair’s arm to reach for her hand, but he keeps a hand on her elbow to steady her. “Honestly,” Hera advises. “Tell him of your fears, of your love for your family. He will understand if he is as good as I’m told.” Is that true? she asks herself. Is my own brother so good that he will understand my fears and love for both him and my subjects? Will he understand that I had no other choice? Isolde nods, squeezing her hand. “I will. Thank you, my friend. I owe so much to you for saving my Connor.” Hera demurs softly, and without further delay, they enter the sickroom. A physician stays with Arl Eamon constantly, and he rises and bows to the arlessa and bann. “These are the people who have saved Connor,” Teagan explains, introducing them. “Alistair spent his boyhood here, if you remember, Erik.” “Oh yes, I remember the boy well,” the physician chuckles. “It is good to see you, young Alistair.” “I wish under better circumstances,” Alistair mumbles, suddenly abandoning Hera to move closer to the bed. She wavers without him, and Teagan rushes to her side, putting an arm around her and solicitously taking her hand in his. “We shouldn’t let you fall,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles gently. Hera thanks him softly, flicking her eyes toward him a moment before moving her gaze back to Alistair. Grief makes him look both years younger and centuries older at once. Summoning the last of her strength, she nods to Teagan and steps up to Alistair, putting a gentle hand on his arm, offering him what comfort she can as they look down at the Arl of Redcliffe. She doesn’t look at Alistair, giving him a private moment to compose himself. The arl lies as still as death amid the pillows, but his chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths. His skin has the waxy look of illness, and Hera can smell the sweet decay of death in the room. Almost without realizing it, Alistair’s arm comes around her waist, and they lean into one another. She studies the arl curiously, looking for...something.This is the man who raised Alistair, who hurt him so badly, abandoned him to a fate he was ill-suited for. The man who still inspires such confidence. Who repaired a broken amulet and kept it safe all these years. Who had made a poor boy feel worthless for having the bad luck of being born Maric’s son. My knowledge of him doesn't balance Alistair's feelings, she thinks, looking up at Alistair, but I'd give anything to ease his pain. “I’m sorry,” Alistair whispers to the arl. “Get better, and we’ll talk.” “Eamon has much to mourn and rebuild,” Teagan says behind them. “Should he recover. But at least he can be thankful that both his son and wife are safe.” “I owe you my deepest thanks,” Isolde adds as they turn to face them. “I nearly…” She covers her face with her hands and takes deep breaths to keep from weeping again. “I can scarcely believe Connor is the boy he once was.” "Where is Connor now?" "Sleeping in his room," Teagan tells her. “He will want to see you later, I imagine. But our task is not done yet. Whatever the demon did to my brother seems to have spared his life, but he remains sleeping. We cannot wake him.” “Surely there is some kind of healing magic,” Hera begins, “we could-” “The Urn!” Isolde cries suddenly. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!” Hera raises her brows at Isolde’s cry. Ser Perth had mentioned this Urn and its mystical healing power. If that is what it takes, so be it. The Blight must end, and I must return home. “I will seek out this Urn,” she says with more bravery than she feels.  Beside her, she hears Alistair’s sharp intake of breath at her words. "If you're certain it will heal him." “We will?” he asks hopefully. Isolde’s eyes fill with happy tears, and she takes Hera’s hand. “I am grateful for your eagerness to help restore my husband,” she tells her. “Find Brother Genitivi, the scholar, in Denerim, he has been researching the Urn’s location for several years now. The knights that returned say they have been unable to find Genitivi, but perhaps the Maker will lead you to him. I will pray for Him to do so.” “I am needed in the hall,” Teagan says regretfully as Isolde kneels by the bedside to pray. “There is much to do, and you need a great deal of rest. Follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms.” Hera nods, leaning heavily on Alistair as Teagan leads them down the corridor. “Would you and your companions feel up to a small celebration later tonight?” Teagan asks. “A private dinner, with myself and Isolde. And Connor if he is well enough.” “That sounds lovely. They deserve a good meal,” she says. “And you deserve a long rest,” Alistair cuts in. “We could all do with a real bath and change of clothes.” “Alistair is right,” she tells Teagan. “Perhaps we could impose on you for a few necessities…?” “It is taken care of already,” he reminds her gallantly and attempts to take her arm from Alistair. “I will see to everyone’s care and comfort while you recuperate.” Hera thanks him generously, giving him a rare, genuine smile. The grateful smile turns amused when Alistair stays beside them, even after Teagan indicates which room in the corridor is his. Unperturbed, Teagan bows and kisses her hand before leaving. “Does he know you’re a bastard?” Alistair asks, following her into her room. Hera shrugs, reaching for the knot of her sling. “Probably not. I didn’t see any need in telling him. Does it matter?” “I just think his manners wouldn't be so sweet if he knew you and I were the same,” he says lightly. “Do you need help with that?” “If you would,” she says, turning. Once he has the sling untied, she lowers her arm slowly with a grimace. “Seven hells, that hurts,” she hisses. “I wish I could do something for you,” he says honesty ringing in his voice. “To help.” “You could help me undress,” she offers with a seductive smile over her shoulder.  “ Or I could find you a maid!” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, blushing. "I could find you a ladies' maid," he repeats, deepening his voice considerably. She laughs and turns to face him, then leans her forehead against his chest. “Thank you,” she says softly. “For w-what?” he asks, awed. “Just...being you. I feel so lucky to have you here.” “I feel the same way,” he confesses. “I’m just so glad you’re...you.” “Instead of some other nobody unlucky enough to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens?” she teases, looking up at him with a grin. “It’s a small club,” he chuckles. “Get some rest. You need it.” She takes a deep breath and turns away to dig in her pack. “I will. But I found something in the Tower that I think Morrigan will be interested in.” He raises an eyebrow at the black, leather-bound book she holds up. “In the Tower? When did you find that?” “Irving’s office,” she explains. “You and Wynne were looking over his desk.” He nods. “Right, we were looking for something about Uldred’s plan, I remember. I’ll let you get to that,” he adds, jerking his chin toward Morrigan’s room. “I’m quite certain she doesn’t want me anywhere around.” Hera laughs and follows him back out, careful of her arm. “Enjoy your nap. I’ll see you at dinner?” He flashes her a brilliant smile. “I wouldn’t-” Ares barrels into him, barking in excitement, and they both tumble to the floor. The mabari gains his feet quickly, moving to leap at Hera, but she lifts a hand. “ No, ” she commands and points to the floor. In response, Ares sits and tilts his head at her, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. “I’m going to feel that later,” Alistair groans, rubbing his back as he climbs to his feet. “Where has he been?” “Sten took him when they left,” she says, scratching Ares behind the ear. “You shouldn’t knock people over, Ares. It’s rude. Come on, boy, let's go see Morrigan. I bet she has more yummy herbs in her backpack.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What’s wrong with him?” Leliana asks, leaning over to whisper to Morrigan and looking at Alistair. They’d all come down to the main hall for a lavish dinner after the castle’s servants had brought them new clothes and baths. “I think young Alistair is jealous,” Morrigan whispers back. “If looks could kill, Teagan would have been dead the day we arrived in Redcliffe.” Alistair sits off by himself, arms crossed and brooding. Why is she so interested in Teagan? he wonders, watching Hera flirt and giggle with the Bann across the room. Even battered and bandaged with her right arm in a sling she manages to look desirable. Surprisingly, her bruises have faded significantly since just this morning. Wynne’s spell must have been powerful, or Hera had gotten an exceptional nap since he saw her earlier that afternoon. 
I never did like Teagan all that much. Why isn't he married, anyway? A lord needs a wife to have an heir. He spends too much time at Redcliffe. He needs to see to his estate when this is all over.
  “ I suppose he is the reason she was so eager to return,” Leliana gossiped, watching them with interest. “Wynne said she would at least need a day or two to recover, and she wouldn't even wait a day to set out.” “I’ve never known a man to inspire such foolishness,” the witch sneers. “And yet last night she was lying in her tent close to death, and now she flirts with him.” “Do you think it’s love?” Leliana’s tone is sappy and soft and it makes Alistair grind his teeth. Instead, he drains his wine cup again and gestures for more from a nearby elf. “Why must it be love?” Morrigan’s demand is followed by a scowl worthy of her mother. “Why can it not simply be that she likes his form and desires him in her bed? I imagine she is used to a certain level of attention and sex, and she clearly hasn’t gotten it here.” 
Would you two shut up? You aren't helping.
 “I think it’s romantic,” Leliana sighs, resting her chin on her fist. “She appeared just in time to save the village and rushed to his nephew’s aid. She nearly died saving the Tower, and she did it for him .” “She did it because of the treaty,” Morrigan reminds her. “She would have gone to the Tower of Magi even if the boy had died.” “But the boy didn’t die,” Leliana points out. “She made sure to save him. And in a few days, we set out to search for Andraste’s ashes, to cure the bann’s brother.” “And you think she does that out of affection for Teagan? Does the Blight not play into your wild romantic fantasies?”   Alistair leaps to his feet before Leliana can answer. “I’m going to bed,” he grumbles. “Goodnight.” The girls flinch at his tone and watch him stalk over to Hera, interrupting her conversation and pulling her away from the bann. “Hera, can I talk with you before you retire?” he asks in a low voice. “Privately,” he adds flatly with a pointed glance at Teagan. “Certainly,” she says politely, ignoring his rudeness. “Now?” He shakes his head. “No, just...later.” She nods, promising to knock on his door before she goes to her own bed. Alistair goes up to his room, not because he’s tired, but because he can’t think with everyone around. He feels stirred up, angry at Teagan and Hera, and he doesn’t know why. The uncertainty is what puzzles and upsets him most. Pacing, his thoughts settle into a pattern. 
Does she flirt like that with everyone? Is that just something a woman like her does? Does she want to spend the night with him? Does flirting mean anything to her? What about when she flirts with me- is she laughing at me for my inexperience? I said I wanted to court her like a lady, and she said she’d like that, but here she is giving smiles and laughter to someone else. Maker, I’m a fool. I shouldn’t have said I wanted to court her at all. Was she serious when she said she wanted me to, or was she just being nice? I don’t understand, why is-
 His thoughts are scattered by a light knock on the door. “Alistair?” “Hera,” he breathes and clears his throat. “Come in.” She enters, looking incredibly different than she had a half hour before. Then, she had looked vibrant and energetic, beauty shining even beneath the discoloration of her skin. Now, she looks tired and pale beneath her bruising, and her shoulders sag. Had she looked so weak in the main hall? “You wanted to see me?” she asks, adjusting the scarf Wynne used to devise a sling for her injured arm. Even her voice is rough with exhaustion. Concern floods through him, and his anger and frustration fade away. “I wanted to thank you,” he says, gesturing for her to sit. “You went out of your way to save Connor when it would have been easier not to.” “A child needs his mother,” she explains as she sinks into a nearby chair. “And I doubt the arl would thank me for allowing a blood mage to kill his wife.” “I just wanted you to know I...are you all right?” Hera gives him a tired smile, and his chest tightens. “I’m just very tired,” she admits. “I was glad when you gave me an excuse to come upstairs.” “Really? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” She shrugs her uninjured shoulder. “Making people believe that is part of what I do. Flirting, feigning interest, all of it.” “Do...do you do that with everyone?” “No. Only when I’m being paid, or I think I can get something from it. Or, like now, I need to make a connection with someone in power.” She sits back, letting her legs sprawl in a rather unladylike fashion. “Why do you ask?”  Of course, she’d use her...skills as a way to get ahead. That’s what courtesans do, isn’t it? “Did you-” he stops himself before he looks like a fool. Maker, I can’t ask her that. She’ll laugh at me.  “Did I...?” she prompts. “Did you mean it when you said you’d like to be courted by a gentleman?” he blurts. She nods in understanding and doesn’t laugh at him at all. “I meant it when I said I’d like to be courted by you. Why?” “I was wondering.” Some of the tension leaks out of him. Thank the Maker. Maybe she doesn't like Teagan as much as I thought. “You’re tired, I shouldn't keep you.” “Is something bothering you?” she asks, pinning him in place with her beautiful eyes. “You seem...moody.” “I’m concerned for you, of course,” he says quickly. If he needed any sign that she was exhausted, that was it. Normally, Hera could read him like a book; her gaze doesn’t affect him any less, but at least for now he can keep his thoughts to himself. “Last night you were in a lot of pain. You don't seem much better tonight.” “I’ll be fine. What’s on your mind?” “Why do you always say that?” “You’re ignoring my question.” Her lips move into a ghost of a smile, and Alistair finds himself returning it easily. “You’re ignoring mine. I’ll answer if you do.” She hesitates, and he wonders what else she is keeping from him. “Because I am fine. I always am.” “You don’t have to be,” he says softly. Hera stands and moves to the door, pausing to put a hand on his forearm. “Yes, I do,” she says just as softly. “Sometimes we don’t get that choice, Hero.” He looks down at her hand, then into her eyes. “Not all the time.” Hera’s lip trembles and she blinks rapidly. Maker’s breath, I didn’t upset her did I? “I just mean- you-” he sighs and puts a hand over hers. “I’m sorry I’m such an idiot. I’m just trying to say that you don’t always have to be fine with me. We’re Grey Wardens, we have each other’s backs.” For a second he thinks she’s going to throw herself on the bed and cry, but to his relief, she only nods. “Thank you, Alistair." She gives him a sad smile, and he feels a strange drop in his stomach at the depth there. "That means quite a lot to me. Goodnight.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera jerks awake, gasping in pain and fear. She puts a hand to her aching ribs and tries to take slow breaths. What was that? she wonders, sitting up slowly. The darkness is a comfort, but the smoldering fire has made the room too warm, so she gets to her feet, adjusting her sling, drawing a blanket over the linen nightgown Isolde provided and slipping into the corridor.  It must be late, she realizes, seeing how low the candles have burned. She wanders silently, nodding to yawning guards as she passes. In only a few days they've gotten used to her midnight walks, usually accompanied by random questions about the geography of Ferelden. But tonight she had no attention to spare them.  That wasn’t a dream from the darkspawn, she admits to herself, taking a door leading to the ramparts. Nor was it a vision. That was something else- a real dream, perhaps?  The cool air helps, as does the feeling of solid stone beneath her bare feet. Breathing deeply, she looks out over the lake, sparkling with reflected starlight, and shivers at the memory of her dream. 
She was in the dungeons of Ravenloft Palace, in chains and kneeling on the cold wet stone and looking up at Strahd. Magic glows in the iron, cutting off her power and leaving her helpless. “You sought to kill me?” He’d laughed at her, shivering and bleeding at his feet. “Stupid slut.”
 Hera closes her eyes, willing the image to go away, but it only plays out against her closed lids. Her uninjured hand moves from holding the blanket over her shoulders to grip the stone before her for balance, the intensity of the dream coming back to make her dizzy with fright. The cool breeze slides the blanket off her shoulders, but her shivers have nothing to do with the air. 
“Tatyana reborn,” he chuckled, squatting before her. “Oh, you were good. So close. Do you know what ruined it for you?”
 
Sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak, Hera shakes her head.
 
“Your kiss was too true,” he said, stroking his beard. “You wanted it too much.” He stood abruptly, snapping his fingers at someone in the dark beyond him. “I have a gift for you, pet.”
 
A guard drags a body from the darkness and drops it before her. The face would be unrecognizable to anyone else, but Hera would know the shape and cut of his features even if she were blind. Hair the color of moonlight has been cut into short, ragged tufts and is stiff with blood. Hera screams, clutching the dead body to her chest and throwing her head back.
 
Magic pulses through her, threatening to rip her apart without an outlet, and Strahd-
 “Are you all right?” Hera flinches, her knees nearly buckling beneath her. Face pale and eyes wide with horror, she turns to see Isolde standing there, as sleepless as she. Isolde rushes over, catching her arm and brushing Hera’s hair off her face. “Hera, what is it?” she asks. “Guard, bring a stool for the Warden,” she orders over her shoulder. “Is it your injuries?” “Y-You startled me,” Hera stammers, brushing tears from her cheeks quickly. “I-I’m fine.” “You aren’t,” Isolde disagrees gently as a guard sets a wooden stool nearby. “Why don’t you sit and tell me what troubles you?” Hera shakes her head, raising a trembling hand to cover her eyes as she sits. “It’s nothing, my lady,” she insists. Isolde’s tenderness surprises her- she had set herself to actively dislike her, but here the woman was, treating her as gently as a child. “I am fine.” Isolde kneels beside her, rubbing her arm. “I know fear now,” she says softly. “A mother’s greatest fear is losing her son, and you’ve gone through unimaginable horrors to save mine. I will never be able to thank you enough, Warden.” “He was a child,” she says, keeping her voice even and eyes on the stone before her. “He didn’t deserve to suffer.” “And neither do you, my friend.” Hera looks at her, reminding herself not to let her mouth hang open. “Do you know who didn’t deserve to suffer?” she spits, her eyes glinting like steel. “Alistair. He was a child , and you treated him like-” “Like he was in line for my husband’s title?” Isolde counters. “As if I was jealous of a bastard-born son? Yes. I didn’t believe Eamon when he said that he was not Alistair’s father. I was young- younger than you are now- and anxious to ensure my son’s inheritance.” “And now you’ll lose him to the Circle and the estate to Teagan.” Isolde shrugs. “Perhaps. That is for Eamon to decide. All I can say is that I was young, and I resented a boy because I thought he represented Eamon’s relationship with someone else. Who wouldn’t hate a constant reminder that you are not your husband’s only lover?” “Is Eamon yours?” Hera asks, her voice harsher than necessary. “Or did you abuse and hurt Alistair out of spiteful jealousy?” “Yes, he is,” Isolde defends, straightening her spine. “And yes, I did do it out of spite and jealousy. But all I can do is ask the Maker’s forgiveness…” She stands, brushing her hands over her skirt. “And Alistair’s.” Hera’s fear from her dream had slowly dissipated in the wash of anger she’d directed at Isolde, but now even that ebbed away. Has this changed her so much that she would comfort me like a mother and ask Alistair’s forgiveness? “You’d do that?” she asks, looking up at the arlessa. “Ask him to forgive you?” Isolde nods. “I have realized that I could have held him as an aunt, but I was foolish and petty. His willingness to help Connor…” Tears fill her eyes, and she laughs at herself as she rubs them away. “Much changes when you become a mother, Hera.”  I wouldn’t know, Hera thinks, watching Isolde quietly. Dhampir women are barren from birth.  “I should go before I embarrass myself,” Isolde says quickly, her cheeks red. “If you should like to talk about what bothers you...know I am here.” Hera nods, confused as to Isolde’s character. She was so cruel to Alistair as a child and certainly didn’t welcome him home with open arms. But just now...I suppose coming so close to losing Connor has given her new perspective. For Alistair’s sake, I hope she’s telling the truth.  She sighs and twists her hair over one shoulder. If nothing else, Isolde’s change of heart had given her some distance from her dream, allowing her to think about it logically. It had to be a dream, she decides, slowly returning to her room. Alistair said the Fade is where they go when they dream, could I have somehow awakened the ability when the Sloth demon sent me there? Perhaps Wynne will know.  *** “Wynne, can I ask you something?” Wynne nods, not raising her eyes from a long pair of needles wrapped with yarn in her hands. “You may, but only if you sit and rest as I instructed,” she says, waving a hand to the chair across from her. “How are you feeling, Hera?” she asks, finally looking up. “You don’t look as if you slept last night.” “Better,” she says, shifting the sling on her shoulder and remembering the harrowing dream she’d had. “It doesn’t hurt much. How are you feeling? Have you regained your strength after the Fade?” The older woman gives her a critical look, reminding Hera of the look her own mother gave her whenever she and Zeus were naughty. “Mostly, yes,” she answers, resting her craft in her hand. “Leliana told me that you have no connection to the Fade, is that true?” Hera nods. “I...It’s a long story.” “We aren’t going anywhere for a few more days.” With a deep breath, she explains finding the mirror and Tybalt, then falling into Ferelden. “We don’t have anything like the Fade,” she adds. Wynne leans forward, curiosity lighting her blue eyes. “You don’t? What was it like for you when the Sloth demon sent you there? You seemed...unusual when I saw you,” she says. “You almost seemed to be standing in shadow.” “I can’t describe it,” Hera admits in a quiet voice. “And I’ve tried to find the words.” Wynne studies her carefully, the curiosity in her face softening into concern. “Did something happen to you there, my dear?” Tears prick her eyes as Hera’s dream returns to her. Hating herself for such a display, she blinks them away and nods. “I think so. Before I joined the Grey Wardens, I’d never had a dream in my entire life,” she explains. “And now?” “Last night I had a nightmare,” she murmurs, looking down at her lap. “It was horrible.” She can feel Wynne’s eyes on her, so she shoots a glance up at the woman. To her relief, Wynne doesn’t press her for details, but merely reaches out to take Hera’s hand in her own. “Are you all right?” “It was frightening,” she admits with a shuddering breath. “Do you think it’s possible the Fade...changed me, somehow?” “It’s quite possible,” Wynne agrees, sitting back and taking up her needles and yarn. “The Fade is where we go when we dream, but if what you say is true, you had never been there before. Perhaps when the Sloth demon forced you into the Fade with his dream, it activated the sleeping part of you, and now you have a connection.”  And what does this mean for my magic? Hera wonders, pursing her lips. “Lovely,” she mumbles. “I have to say, dreaming is rather overrated.” “For some, I daresay it is,” Wynne chuckles. “But hopefully you’ll have some good dreams as well.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera rubs her temples and yawns before adjusting her arm. She’d taken off the sling, but it still ached, even after rubbing elfroot salve into it. The kitchen staff of Redcliffe Castle had long gone to their beds, leaving her to the warmth of the kitchen with a lamp to work by. The old butcher block table and dim room are comforting, reminding her of long-ago taverns and adventures. Before her lay the map of Ferelden from her backpack, presumably part of her recruitment gear, and she’s been staring at it for more than an hour. Orzammar is closest...technically, she thinks, following the line of the road in the sputtering candlelight. But dwarves are...well I’d just rather save them for last. And the Urn must be found first, that is our priority. But if we’re...somewhere on the lake...Denerim is still so far, and we leave tomorrow. I don’t even know what road to take! How old is this thing- it must be older than I am! There is so much to do before next spring- a year isn’t long enough to accomplish all this. Will they be left without a leader? Will Alistair be ready to lead them by then?  
Am I going to have to die without seeing my brother again?
 The thought enrages her so much she pounds her fist on the table, eliciting a sharp snap as a thin line splinters down the length of the table. No! I didn’t survive that damn castle just to-  A footstep behind startles her, and she ducks her head, turning to look briefly over her shoulder and reach for her dagger at the same time. Alistair didn't think she’d heard him enter the kitchen or gather food, but he hasn’t realized that she was so on edge. He steps back at her bared teeth and the fire in her eyes, raising the tray in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I just thought you might want a snack.” She closes her eyes and he watches her carefully as she rearranges her expression to one of tired serenity and puts her dagger away. I hadn't realized... She doesn’t share any of the burden with us. “Are...are you all right?” he asks gently. “Yes,” she says tiredly, bowing her head and covering her face with her hands for a moment. “I’m sorry.” “Do you always think you’re going to be assassinated?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light and setting the bottle of wine down so he can unload the cups and plate of cheese he’s brought. “Only most of the time,” she says a little too honestly, lifting her head and pushing her hair back. “Assassinations in the Raven Court aren’t unusual.” “Uh, I was joking,” he says uneasily, raising his eyebrows.  Damn, I have to get myself together . Hera raises her eyebrows and turns her shoulder, giving him a dazzling smile. “So was I,” she lies. “Couldn't you tell?” Alistair shakes his head, amused. “Sometimes I don't get your jokes.” “You wouldn't be the first.” “You look like you need some help,” he says, nodding to the map. “Anything I can do?” “You can start by showing me where the hell we are,” she mutters, passing a hand over the map. “This is the lake, right? Why isn't Redcliffe on here?” He takes a look, screwing his face up as he studies it. “Because this map is...broken ,”  he laughs. “It must be one of those silly things fashioned before the war with Orlais. The kind of stuff librarians hang on the wall. Where did you get it?” “It was in my backpack,” she explains, sitting back and peeling the cloth away from the cheese. “With all my other gear when the Quartermaster outfitted me.” He laughs again and gets up. “Wait here,” he instructs and goes off to his room. When he comes back with his own map, he finds her asleep on the table, head pillowed by her left arm. Alistair takes a selfish moment to look at her. She looks so serene, even with the greenish bruises still covering half her face. The bandages came off her arm and shoulder this morning, but he noticed earlier that she was still favoring it, the skin of her hand and wrist pink and tender. He was glad they had decided to stay at Redcliffe for a couple days and allow her to heal and rest before going off on this mad chase for the Urn. Hera wakes, a small cry escaping her. She bolts upright, sniffing and startling Alistair this time. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, hanging back in case she draws a knife on him again. “I am,” she insists. “I was just resting my eyes until you came back.” The lie sounds so bad even Hera grimaces as she speaks. “Oh, well that’s different,” he chuckles and spreads out the map. “Now, here is Redcliffe.” He moved his hand, and went on, “Lothering’s here,” and again, “and there’s Denerim.” Hera leans over, studying his map. “I think a drunk raccoon drew mine,” she mumbles. “Why do people even draw ornamental maps?” Alistair laughs and keeps talking, pointing out the differences between the maps. He keeps his voice low, knowing that it can echo down the hall eerily this late. She’s close enough that he can smell the rose oil in her hair and on her skin, remnants from a rare moment of luxury earlier in the day. It isn't long before the gentle pressure of her leaning against his arm turns into the weight of her sleeping again, and he stops talking to look down at her. He shifts, turning slightly to face her so she can lay against his chest and keeping his touch light, afraid to hold her too tightly. He knows that one day she’ll leave, or one of them will die, or any other number of things that could drive them apart. And if he’s honest with himself, he’s been lonely so long that he doesn't know how to let his guard down. Duncan had been the last person he’d opened up to, and now even Duncan is gone. He doesn't know what it is, but he finds himself always wanting to be around her, to talk to her; it must be a useful skill in her business. She sees through his jokes to the heart of matters, she knows what he’s thinking. She makes me feel important, he thinks, brushing the hair off her face. Like I’m more than just...useful.  They sit in the quiet kitchen of Redcliffe Castle, the candle burning low and Alistair thankful that he woke up starving.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“He’s dying,” Alistair whispers brokenly, looking down at the arl’s bed. “He’s dying, and I can’t help him.” “Yes you can,” Hera assures him. “We’ll find the Urn.” He looks over at her hopefully. “You don’t think it’s a fool’s errand? You don’t strike me as a woman who chases after myths.” “You’d be surprised.” She smiles and squeezes his arm. “We’ll find it, don’t worry.” She lets him have another moment, hearing a breathless prayer whispered to his Maker, before stepping back. “Come on,” she says gently, offering her hand. “The others are waiting, and it’s a long walk to Denerim.” “About that,” he says as they leave the Arl’s room. Hera’s brows draw together when he shakes his hand from hers, rubbing it against his chest and clearing his throat. “Denerim. You know, maybe this isn’t the best time to be thinking about this, but I’ve something to ask you. We’re heading to Denerim soon, and while we’re there, I was wondering if we might be able to...look someone up.” Hera raises an eyebrow. “This wouldn’t be some former lover of yours, would it? Some sweetheart from your past?”  Will it bother me if it is? The thought surprises her; she’s never been a jealous woman- in her experience, jealousy could kill a career as easily as help it. “A former what ?” he sputters, horrified at the thought. “No! Do you honestly think I would suggest we go see... together? No!” he says quickly, blushing. Hera laughs, putting her hand to the wall and holding her sore ribs. “I’m sorry,” she laughs. “But it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I’ve made quite a lot of money going to look someone up. ” Alistair glares at her a moment until he starts laughing with her. “You’re awful,” he accuses, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. He takes a deep breath, and his earlier seriousness returns. “The thing is, I have a sister. A half-sister. I told you about my mother, right? That she was a servant in Redcliffe Castle, and she had a daughter...only I never knew about her. I don’t think she knew about me either. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But after I became a Grey Warden, I did some checking and...well, I found out she’s still alive. In Denerim.” “Have you contacted her?” she asks, sobering quickly as her heart aches for her own brother. “No, I thought about writing her, but never did. And then we were called down to Ostagar and never had the chance. She’s the only real family I have left, the only family also not mixed up in the whole royal thing,” he explains. “I’ve just been thinking that...maybe it’s time I went to see her. With the Blight coming and everything, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to see her. Maybe I can help her, warn her about the danger. I don’t know.” “If you want, we could try,” Hera agrees. “Could we? I’d appreciate that,” he says with relief. “If something happened to her and I never at least went to see her, I don’t know if I could forgive myself. Her name is Goldanna and I think she remarried but still lives just outside the Alienage. If we’re in the area...well, it’s worth a look.” “Of course,” she says. “We’ll go as soon as we talk with this scholar Genitivi.” His smile brightens the whole day, and Hera is glad she can grant him such a simple wish. They meet up with the others in the courtyard, all ready to set out. Many of Hera’s effects have been put on Ares’ back in a special pack made for him, as Wynne is adamant that she not carry anything as heavy as her tent or cooking pot until the raw pink skin has fully healed. She surveys her new friends: Leliana, excited to seek out a religious relic; Sten, determined and steady; Morrigan disdainful and bored already; and Wynne, who simply seems happy to be along for the adventure, and to get some sort of revenge after Ostagar. Ares barks happily and leaps in circles at the joy of seeing his mistress. And Alistair, looking at her in a way that makes her heart skip. “Well, I suppose we’re ready,” she says cheerfully, picking up her pack and slinging it onto one shoulder. There’s something about beginning a journey that always makes me feel lighter. “We’ll stay off the main roads…”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Wynne, how can you do that and walk at the same time?” Hera asks, nodding to Wynne’s knitting. For nearly a week, Hera had been watching her knit as they walk. The elder woman has a string of yarn coming out of her backpack, running under her arm, and a long strip of knitted...something...curling into a bag on her hip. She must have gotten the wool in Redcliffe before they left, and has been happily knitting as they travel. Hera’s seen people do it before, of course, but never so mindlessly. “It’s fascinating.” “Don’t you know how to knit?” Wynne asks, surprised. “I thought all young ladies learned. They taught us in the Circle so that we would have something to while away what little free time we had.” Hera shakes her head. “I am not exactly a...lady,” she explains. Or young. “Not like you mean, anyway.” Wynne gives her a confused smile and tilts her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, dear. You seem perfectly well-educated and polite, like a noble’s daughter.” “Thank you,” she says with a smile. “My mother and instructor both would be happy to hear that. But I’m a courtesan, Wynne. Not a proper lady.” “A prostitute,” Sten clarifies, disapproval coloring his tone. “She sells her body for fornication.” “I see,” Wynne muses, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thank you for the explanation, Sten.” Leliana and Morrigan burst into laughter, and Alistair blushes. “Well, yes,” Hera laughs. “But there’s more to it, Sten.” “The ‘more’ you speak of seems pale in comparison to the deed itself. Why do you use such strange words to describe yourself? Your profession is necessary, and of no matter to me.” “Well, that’s quite nice of you,” Hera giggles before turning back to Wynne. “I was court-raised. My mother taught me many things to do in idle hours- music and arts- but knitting was something...other people did,” she says vaguely. “People not selling their bodies for fornication,” Sten offers. “Sten, would you kindly stop?” Hera asks testily over Leliana and Morrigan’s cackles. “I think she gets it.” “I apologize,” he says flatly. “It is not the act, but the purchase of, that I disapprove of.” “Why is that, Sten?” Leliana asks. “Sexual release is not something to be bartered. It is something to be given, like healing.” “And yet a girl has to eat,” Hera reminds him. “It is my living, Sten.” “You were incorrectly assigned a task that is unsuited to you,” he explains. “You are no priest or Tamassran.”“And yet this is what I am,” she says. “I am a courtesan just as you are the Sten.” Sten is quiet a long moment, looking far ahead as they walk. “You could be more, under the Qun,” is all he says. Hera tilts her head, arching a brow. No one’s ever said that to me before. Even my throne is something I took for myself. “Thank you, Sten. I think.” Wynne laughs and pats Hera’s shoulder. “I shall teach you to knit if you...what is that?” she asks as they round a bend in the road, quickly stuffing her knitting into the bag on her hip. Hera follows her gaze and sees a woman running toward them, looking utterly terrified. “Oh thank the Maker!” the woman gasps as they meet. “We need help! They attacked the wagons, please help us! Follow me, I’ll take you to them!” Hera glances at the others before they all break into a run, following. “Darkspawn?” Morrigan asks. Both Grey Wardens shake their heads, saying “no” in unison. As they get a little closer, the path leads into a valley between two low but steep hills. Inside, they can see the wagons- two of them have broken wheels, and one lies on its side. Shattered crates litter the road, and several dead bodies lie amongst the wreckage. Hera sniffs the air suspiciously, lifting a hand to slow them down, and scowls. That blood is at least a few hours old… “Something’s wrong,” she says in a low voice. “This is a slaughter. Who did this?” Leliana asks softly as the woman ahead slows her pace. “I don’t like the look of this,” Alistair mutters, his eyes roving the brush on the hilltops alongside them. They hang back, following cautiously, and Hera doesn’t realize their mistake until the woman approaches a short male in leather armor and whispers to him. Cursing, they draw their weapons too late; the ambush is a success. More than a dozen men and women rise from the ruined wagons and the surrounding shrubs with bows and swords drawn. “Look out!” Morrigan screams, and Hera barely avoids a falling tree. Rolling to her feet, she meets the eye of the leader across the distance. The elf draws his sword and dagger, a fierce look in his eye. “The Grey Warden dies here!” he proclaims, pointing his sword at her. “Take out the archers!” Hera orders, throwing the words behind her. “Ares, protect Wynne!” As one, they move into action, Leliana and Morrigan training their arrows and spells on the archers on either side of the road, and Wynne working healing and supportive spells almost continuously, with Ares snapping at anyone who gets too close. Sten turns his attention to the assassins that have come behind them, while Hera and Alistair focus on the ones to their front. The assassins do their job very well, sinking arrows and blades into them before they receive their own wounds. At least once she hears an explosion and a shouted curse from Alistair as he takes a path up the side of the gorge. It’s followed moments later by the sound of swords clashing, so she doesn’t worry. Hera takes small enjoyment in deeply cutting the treacherous woman across the chest before coming face to face with their leader. It almost seems too soon: neither of them are ready for the encounter, and they stare at each other for a second. “You’re prettier than they said,” he says with a charming smile. His bronze skin is offset perfectly by sun-bleached blonde hair, his sharp elf features complemented by stark black tattooing sweeping from his temple down to his jaw. “You’re out of friends,” she says as the sound of battle fades away. A seductive smile spreads across Hera’s face, and he looks as if he might speak again, but she surprises him with a direct punch to the face- hilt in hand- making his head snap back and his knees buckle. She grins as he collapses like a pile of bricks, kicking him in the ribs for good measure before turning to survey the rest. Alistair and Sten are walking back to the road, and Wynne is kneeling beside Morrigan, who has a cut across her back. Leliana seems no worse for wear, aside from a dark red patch on her cheek. Sten jerks an arrow out of his thigh without so much as a grimace, throwing it away distastefully. Alistair looks annoyed by a superficial cut on his arm. “Everyone all right?” she asks, putting a hand on her sore ribs. I’m doing my own healing spell on these tonight, she decides, healing with their spells is taking too long. I wonder if my magic is just stronger, or does the magic here not work as well on me?  They all respond in muttered curses. Wynne pauses in her treatment of Morrigan, looking around at the bodies of assassins and previous victims, frowning. “How did they know it was us?” Wynne asks. “He mentioned the Grey Wardens specifically.” Leliana nods. “These are assassins- look at their placement. They came ready for an ambush. These wagons and bodies...it’s all just stage dressing. They attacked a wagon train ahead of us to give the appearance of needing help.” “It is a good thing Bodhan stayed in Redcliffe a few days,” Alistair says. The merchants had a habit of traveling ahead of them, restocking as they went and then meeting Hera somewhere along the road. “He and Sandal wouldn’t have been able to defend against this kind of attack.” Hera tilts her head at her friend and raises a brow, looking at Leliana methodically studying the area. And how would a sweet chantry sister know all that, Leliana? Alistair reaches out and touches her cheek, making her flinching in surprise, and his fingers come away bloody. He frowns, staring down at his fingers. “You’re bleeding,” he informs her, showing the blood on his hand. “I don’t feel anything,” Hera says and takes the bandage Leliana hands her to wipe her face. “Sten, do you need stitches?” she asks, digging into her pack for a poultice and bandage. “I’ve a neat hand so you needn’t worry about it hurting too much.” “No,” he assures, sitting down and stretching his leg out, “a bandage will do.” She washes and treats his would quickly, blood dripping off her jaw as she works. The cut on her cheek doesn’t hurt, and she worries even more when she realizes she can’t actually feel her cheek. “Does anyone feel anything strange?” she asks. “Numbness or burning?” “No,” Morrigan says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees while Wynne bandages her back. She hisses in pain, glaring over her shoulder at Wynne before turning back to Hera. “Why, do you?” Hera nods, poking various spots on her face. “My face feels...I can’t feel anything.” “It must be poison,” the witch says, gesturing weakly for her backpack. “Look in the front pocket, there’s a vial of cure-all, it has a green label. Dab some on it.” “How do you know it will stop this particular poison?” Alistair asks, going through the pocket she mentioned. “It’s a cure- all you nitwit, not a cure- some .” They start to bicker, but Wynne cuts them off and orders Morrigan to silence and Alistair to apply the medication to Hera’s cheek. With a clean bandage, he dabs it carefully, and she hisses as the cure-all takes effect. The cut stings and pulls whenever she moves her face, but at least she can feel it. “You might need a stitch or two,” he says apologetically. “Or if Wynne isn’t too tired after she’s done with Morrigan, she can fix it.” “I’d rather she see to Sten first and make certain he doesn’t need anything else,” she argues. “That arrow went rather deep.” She looks up, meeting his eyes. And I can heal myself, she adds silently. Leliana comes over and squats in front of her, taking Hera’s chin and turning her face. “I don’t think it will scar,” she decides. “It’s clean, and the blade was sharp. You certainly don’t seem to have any scars anywhere else. Wynne, do you have any of that bandage adhesive the Circle makes?” Wynne nods to the pot sitting beside Morrigan, and Leliana smears some of the mint-scented jelly around the cut before pressing the bandage on firmly. Hera grits her teeth against the pain but says nothing, listening instead to Morrigan cursing at Wynne for clumsiness. “Listen here, child,” Wynne snaps. “Shut up.” Hera gets to her feet, leaving them to their devices, and walks over to the leader. She nudges him with her boot, crossing her arms over her chest. “Wake up you wretch,” she mutters, half tempted to pull his blonde hair until he wakes. He moans, his body tensing for a moment as if he’d spring up and attack. Hera puts a boot on his hand, leaning just enough on it to let him know that would be a bad idea. Almost instantly he relaxes, groaning again and raising his head. “Mmm...what? I...oh,” he says, opening his eyes and seeing her. “I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be,” he adds as Alistair comes to stand behind her. “But I see you haven’t killed me yet.” “That could easily be rectified,” she informs him. His eyes roam over her appreciatively, a slow, smug grin spreading over his face. “Ooh, you’re a rather aggressive little minx, aren’t you? Lovely too,” he adds. “But if it’s questions you’re planning on asking me, let me save you a little time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran- Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.” “I’m rather happy you failed,” she quips. “I’m rather fond of this body.” He gives her another one of his long, sultry looks, his golden eyes darkening. “So would I be, in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn’t it?” he chuckles, sliding his hand out from under her foot and sitting up slowly. “Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.” “Too bad for you then.” Hera keeps all pity out of her voice, remembering how, only a year before, she executed her own cousin. If he thinks to find too much mercy, he may be disappointed.   Which is a shame, because he looks absolutely delicious, she thinks, knowing exactly how those full, pouting lips would feel along her neck. In a purely professional sense, of course.  “Yes, it’s true,” he says dramatically, putting a hand to his chest and hanging his head in shame. “Too bad for me.” “What are the Antivan Crows?” she asks Alistair, glancing back as the others join them. “They are an order of assassins out of Antiva,” Leliana offers. “Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done…” She smirks down at the assassin. “ Usually . Someone went to great expense to hire this man.” “Quite right,” Zevran agrees, strangely chipper for someone who might come out of the conversation dead. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I’m from, we’re rather infamous.” “Not for being good assassins, I hope,” Hera says lightly. “Oh fine, is that what you Fereldens do?” he teases. “Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty.” “I am not Ferelden,” she informs him haughtily. “Who hired you to kill us?” “A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that was it,” he assures them. “I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine? You threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, I am not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.” “And now that you’ve failed that service?” He chuckles nervously, his eyes flitting over the various weapons they wear. “Oh, well, that is between Loghain and the Crows, and the Crows and myself.” “And between you and me?” Hera asks, squatting to look him in the eye. He might be an assassin, but they couldn’t have sent a better-looking one, she admits. His blonde hair, dark skin, and gold-tinged brown eyes give him an exotic quality compared to the paler Fereldens. Even the black tattoos scrolling from his forehead and down the side of his face make him look dangerous and exciting. If he had tried seduction instead of ambush, he might have had a chance, she realizes, thinking back to the night at the Spoiled Princess, when all she’d wanted was pleasure and no obligations. “Isn’t that what we’re establishing now?” he counters in a sultry voice, leaning forward slightly. His gaze moves from her eyes to her mouth, his lips parted slightly. “When were you to see him again?” she asks softly, stroking a finger along his jaw. “I wasn’t.” His eyes lift back to hers, the color darkening slightly. “If I had succeeded, I would return home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results if he did not already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or at least I should be, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see him then.” “If you had failed?” she asks, unable to keep amusement from her voice. Something about this elf makes her think of Zeus, whether it is his sharp features and quick tongue or his careless attitude she isn’t sure. “What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. Although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don’t they?” he laughs. “No...I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you?” “Why are you telling me all this?” she asks suspiciously. “Why not?” he laughs. “I wasn’t paid for silence. “Not that I offered it for sale, precisely.” “And how loyal are you to your employers?” Morrigan asks, scowling at Wynne behind her trying to pin her clothing back together. “Loyalty is an interesting thing,” he muses, leaning to one side to get a good look at Morrigan. “If you’re finished interrogating me, we can discuss it further.” Hera reaches out and turns his chin back to look at her. “I’m listening.” “Well here’s the thing,” he begins. “I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works, if you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.” “Can I expect the same loyalty from you?” “I happen to be a very loyal person,” he says indignantly. “Up until the point someone expects me to die for failing. That’s not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you’re the sort who would do the same thing. In which case...I don’t come very well recommended, I suppose.” “You must think I’m royally stupid,” she scoffs and stands, turning away. “I think you’re royally tough to kill,” he tells her. “And utterly gorgeous. Not that I think you’ll respond to simple flattery,” he adds when she turns back to him. “But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess.” Alistair nearly chokes, and Hera throws her head back and laughs. “You have no idea, Zevran. But what will you do for me?” she asks. “Do you have other skills beyond failing at assassination?” “I am skilled at many things,” he informs her, insulted. “I can fight with stealth and pick locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more...sophisticated...now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer,” he offers charmingly. “Warm your bed. Fend off unwanted suitors. No?” “Bed-warming might be nice,” she muses. “See? I knew we would find a common interest,” he says cheerfully. “Or two. Or three. Really, I can go all night. So what will it be? I can even shine armor,” he adds. “You won’t find a better deal, I promise.” “Very well,” she laughs, liking him more by the minute. “I accept your offer. You can stay with me until I find a way home.” Zevran gives her a confused look. “And after?” She shrugs. “You’re free to do as you like.” “What?! ” Alistair screeches. “You’re taking the assassin with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?” Hera winks at the elf before looking over at him. “Don’t worry about it,” she persuades. “We could use him.” “You can use me all you like,” Zevran murmurs.  Don’t tempt me, she thinks, deeply amused at Alistair’s reaction. Alistair glares at the elf a moment before relenting. “Hmm, all right. All right. I see your point. Still, if there was a sign that we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.” “I knew you would,” she says happily. “A fine plan,” Morrigan says lazily. “But I would examine my food and drink far more closely, were I you.” “That’s excellent advice for anyone,” Zevran agrees. “Welcome to the party,” Hera says, offering a hand to help him up. “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you,” he says formally, “until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation...this I swear.” He bows his head, and Hera laughs. “Where I’m from we seal a deal like this with a kiss,” she says suggestively. “I am most happy to oblige,” Zevran says excitedly, coming in for a kiss. Alistair blocks his advance with an arm. “You know there are other ways of dealing with people, right?” he asks Hera in an irritated tone. “You don't have to flirt with them?” “Of course there are.” Hera gives Zevran a cheerful wink. “But they’re not as fun. Why, jealous?” “What? No! I just- you don’t have to use your...womanly wiles against everyone!”  “What a shame,” Zevran moans, disappointed. “You seem rather adept at it. Perhaps later, yes?” Hera grins. “Perhaps. Start going through these bodies. Take anything useful.” “Yes, ma’am!” He gives her a lazy salute and starts stripping his former comrades.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“All right, Hera,” Alistair says, approaching her on her way back to the campfire. She’d been bathing in the lake and spent a glorious, silent hour floating in the cold water alone, with only Ares to ward off intruders. “You can’t have meant that earlier, about the assassin.” Hera looks up at him and frowns, wringing out her damp hair. “Zevran? I absolutely do.” “Hera, he tried to kill you! You, specifically!" he reminds her, pointing. "You can’t trust him!” Tilting her head, she raises an eyebrow. “He’s sworn himself to my service, and I have no reason to disbelieve him.” It certainly wouldn't be the first time I acquired a companion in an unusual way, she thinks, remembering when Jamison had knocked on the door to her room at an inn in Ravenloft. She'd been entertaining herself with a local, and he'd given her a rascal's grin and offered to take over for the poor man. He must be burned out, he'd said, letting his eyes trail up and down her naked body hungrily, don't worry, firecracker, I can take the heat. "Why shouldn't I believe him?" Alistair growls in frustration and runs his hands through his hair. “Because he’s a murderer, Hera! Loghain paid him to kill you, why would you think he’d keep his word?” “Because I’ve offered him something more valuable than what Loghain or the Crows have,” she answers. “Freedom.” “And if it’s a ploy to get close to you, only to finish the job?” “Then I expect you to avenge me and continue on the quest.” Alistair shakes his head, unable to come up with a satisfying response. “I just...I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says finally. She smiles up at him and resists the urge to touch his cheek, knotting her fingers together instead. “I know, and I appreciate that. Trust me, Alistair,” she says softly, "even if you can't trust him." He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair again. "Fine. All right. But I'm watching him," he tells her firmly. "Closely." Hera bites her lip, indulging in a long, slow look at him, her manner turning to seduction in a heartbeat. "I'd rather you watch me," she purrs. He laughs and wags his finger at her before walking to the fire, threatening Zevran with torture and a slow death should he so much as lay a finger on Hera. Hera laughs as Zevran makes a remark about Hera requesting all ten of his fingers on her, and Leliana has to jump between them to stop Alistair from hitting him. “Boys,” Hera scolds as she approaches. “Calm down. Zevran’s only teasing, Alistair.” “Of course, of course,” Zevran charms, his accent growing thicker with persuasion. “I am only teasing; I would never harm the beautiful woman who saved me from certain death by the Crows.” “And Alistair would never harm an ally ,” Leliana declares, shooting the templar a motherly look. “Would you?” “No,” Alistair grumbles. “I just want to make it clear that if you turn on us, the darkspawn won’t get a chance at you,” he clarifies, pointing at Zevran. “I will destroy you.” Hera laughs and pats his arm. “I appreciate it, Alistair,” she tells him. “I really do. But it is unnecessary.” Alistair’s jaw clenches, and he nods. “Of course. Zevran and I will have first watch.” “Good plan!” Zevran says, clapping his hands. “Spend some quality time together. Get to know one another. That is how it shall go, yes?” “If you insist,” Hera yawns. “I’ll take second with Ares. Sten and Leliana deserve a night off. Wynne can have the third.” “Alone?” Zevran asks, glancing at Wynne. “I am more than capable of listening to you all snore,” Wynne snips. “And Morrigan shall keep me company.” “Oh, joy,” Morrigan groans. “I’ve been sliced open, assaulted by assassins, and I get third watch. Glorious.” “It will give me a chance to check your wounds,” Wynne says happily. “You know healing magic can take time.” “It’s settled, then. Ares,” she calls and holds her tent flap open for the mabari to go inside. In Redcliffe, she’d bought him his own bedroll, and fashioned a harness for him to carry it himself. Now, in her new tent- larger than the one she originally gave to Leliana- she watches him bump it with his nose until it’s unrolled and he can lay comfortably. With a sigh of delicious relief, she sits and pulls off her boots, rubbing her sore feet. Before she can get too comfortable, however, she hears Alistair call her name. “Yes?” she asks, biting back a yawn. He steps inside, looking shy and guilty. “I apologize,” he says quickly, looking down at his feet. “For threatening him, that is. It was stupid, and I shouldn’t have acted that way. I...I do trust you, Hera, and if you say he’ll be true to your oath, I believe you. He just...” His jaw clenches and she can see his hands twitch before curling into fists. "I don't like how he flirts with everyone." Hera sets to braiding her damp hair. “I appreciate your intention, but that sort of egotistical display really has no place here. Especially not over me,” she adds. “We have bigger problems, Alistair. Just...just don’t kill each other, please? At least not until I’ve had a hot bath and slept in a real bed.” “Who knows when that will be?” he jokes. “Exactly. Perhaps you’ll be friends by then.” He laughs and pats Ares on the head. “Don’t hold your breath,” he advises. “Goodnight.” With a deep breath of relief, Hera falls back onto her bedroll and is asleep almost instantly.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They walk north for ten days, avoiding the main roads and making slow progress through the countryside. All too often the road ends in some unmapped village, and they’re forced to follow a river or the North Road until they can veer off it again. Hera prefers to travel out of easy sight, and now that they have a renegade assassin and a bounty on their heads, her habit puts everyone else at ease as well. She frets, taking watches alone so she can pace and consult the map over and over, counting the days and the miles. Time seems to be moving faster and faster with every dawn, the day of her next name day haunting her as the season changes from summer to fall. They’re still a week from Denerim when they meet Levi Dryden. *** When Hera wakes, there’s a wagon rolling into camp. Wynne had the last watch, claiming that she doesn’t need as much sleep as the rest of them anyway, and has Hera’s cup of coffee ready. “You’re a goddess,” she murmurs, inhaling deeply. “Have I told you that you’re my favorite?” Wynne chuckles and pokes the fire. “I doubt that, my dear. Do you know him?” she asks, nodding toward the wagon. Its driver is currently parking next to Bodhan’s wagon. Hera shakes her head and takes a sip. “No. But he seems to know me,” she says, confused when he stands on his bench and waves. “I suppose I’ll go find out.” “You do that, I’ll start breakfast.” “Ooh, what are we having?” she asks. “I was going to scramble some eggs with last night’s venison.” “Sounds delicious,” Hera chirps and rolls a few potatoes out of the ashes. They’d put them near the fire the night before to slowly bake overnight. It wasn’t much, but it was warm and filling in the chill mornings. “I’ll be back soon. Ares, to me.” The mabari follows as they cross the clearing, but lowers his head and growls, staying close to her side as they approach the middle-aged man jumping down from the bench. “You’re a hard woman to find,” he says cheerfully, pushing dark red hair off his forehead. He gives Ares a nervous look and takes half a step back. "Fine animal, the mabari," he stammers. Hera raises her eyebrows. “Am I? Ares, do be quiet,” she scolds the dog. "It's rude." “Where are my manners?” he blunders, looking at the dog nervously. “The name’s Levi. Levi Dryden. Did Duncan ever mention me? Levi of the Coins? Levi the Trader?” She shakes her head and sips her coffee. “Duncan never mentioned you. My name’s Hera.” “Really?” he says, shoulders slumping in disappointment. “He never told you of ol’ Levi? We’ve known each other for years...But here I am carrying on while you have a Blight to stop- I don’t want to waste your time. But you see...Duncan promised that together we’d look into something important for the Wardens. And for me. But poor Duncan’s...well, no more,” he says sadly. “A tragedy it is, ‘bout that. But I know he would want his work carried on, his pledge fulfilled.”  Here we go... she thinks. “How did you know Duncan?” she asks. “It’s a bit of a tale,” he says, his cheerfulness returning. “But I’m the one who brought the Grey Wardens back to Ferelden. Well, I was one of the ones,” he amends. “There were a lot of us. Maker’s breath I’m a bit nervous. Honored to be here, really.”  Back to Ferelden? I’ll have to ask Alistair later. “What promise did Duncan make you?” “My family...well, the past is a bit checkered, you see. Nobles look at us with disdain. My great-great-grandmother Sophia Dryden was the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden, back when the Wardens were known as freeloaders. So King Arlen banished the Wardens, and he took House Dryden’s lands and titles.” “That’s a bit...drastic.” And yet, drastic measures are sometimes the right ones, she reminds herself silently. “And then some,” he agrees. “Not much is known about that time. After King Arlen died there was a civil war, loads worse than this one, and our family was on the run, hunted by enemies with nary a friend in the world. But Drydens are tough,” he says proudly. “We rebuilt. We became merchants. And we never lost our pride.”  So I see. You tell quite a story, Levi. “So what favor did you ask of Duncan?” “I asked for the truth,” he explains. “My family reveres Sophia Dryden. We know she died at the old Grey Warden’s base, Soldier’s Peak; we want evidence to clear her name. It won’t restore our land or our title, but it will restore our honor.” “I’ve never even heard of Soldier’s Peak,” Hera tells him, wondering if he’s telling her a tall tale or if she should wake Alistair. “Well, no one’s been to Soldier’s Peak since Arlen’s day. At least none that’s come back. I’ve spent years mapping the maze of tunnels to the Peak and I found the way a few years back. So I went to Duncan, I did, and I said that he could reclaim the old base and my family could have its honor.” “A few years? Why didn’t Duncan help you?” she asks suspiciously. “If you and he were such good friends, what happened?” “Darkspawn surfaced in southern Ferelden,” he explains. “And Duncan got plenty busy recruiting new Wardens and meeting with good King Cailan. Duncan said he would help after the battle at Ostagar- said there might be useful things at the Peak. But he never had the chance.” “So what do you need from me?” She takes another sip of coffee, watching him closely. “I can pick my way through the tunnels at the base of Soldier’s Peak, but the place- well, they say it’s haunted. And it’ll be dangerous for certain. I know it’ll be out of the way, your dwarf friend said you were headed to Denerim, but this is important to both my family and the Wardens. Will you think on it, at least?” She nods. “I’ll need to talk it over with the others, but yes, I’ll think on it.” “I appreciate that, Hera,” he says with a nod. “Mind if I stick around until you decide?” “Be my guest, but stay with Bodhan,” she warns. “Safer that way.” “Oh, of course, of course. Thank you,” he says, trying to contain his excitement. She nods and salutes him with her tin cup before she and Ares walk back to the fire. “Is Alistair up yet?” she asks Wynne as she tops off her cup. Wynne jerks her chin toward the creek. “He went to the creek a few minutes ago with Zevran. Leliana, do get up,” she chides the tent she shares with the bard. They’d decided it was simply easier for them to have a larger tent and only pitch one than to each be saddled with a bundle of heavy canvas each day. “Even Zevran is awake now.” Hera laughs at the grumbling that comes from inside and heads into the woods. The stream is a few minutes’ walk from their campsite, but her hearing is good enough that she can hear them long before she sees them. “Zevran, do you mind if I ask you a...personal question?” she hears and stops in her tracks. “You may ask, but I may choose not to answer,” Zevran says amid splashing water. Hera creeps close enough to just see them through the underbrush. Both are waist-deep in the clear creek, shivering in the crisp autumn morning as they scrub themselves with soap. Knowing something amusing will come of this, she crouches down and takes a drink of coffee. “Fair enough,” Alistair concedes. “Have you...had very many...women...in your time? I mean, you seem like the sort of man who…” “I have indulged from time to time,” Zevran admits. “When my interest is not...elsewhere.” “Right. Well, how do you...woo…them? Is there a...technique, or…?”  Oh gods, Hera thinks, covering her mouth and trying not to laugh. Oh, bless his sweet golden heart. Zevran is not who he should be asking!  “Woo them?” Zevran asks, shock making his voice pitch higher than normal. “Are you quite serious?” “Uh...yes,” Alistair laughs nervously. “I-I don’t know what else to call it.” “So let me get this straight,” Zevran says slowly, waving his bar of soap around. “You have never... wooed ? Not once? You are...woo-less...as it were?” “All right, bad idea,” Alistair says grumpily. “Never mind.” Hera falls over, laughing soundlessly and dropping her cup, spilling coffee in the grass. After she regains composure and brushes the grass and leaves from herself, she picks up her cup and approaches noisily. “Boys?” she calls as if she didn’t already know where they are. “Over here, my Warden,” Zevran answers loudly. “But be forewarned: I am in my glorious flesh and you may be tempted to swoon. Do not fall into the creek; you may drown.” She breaks through the brush and puts her hands on her hips, looking down at them. Alistair takes a few hurried steps back, into deeper water so it covers him to the waist. Giving him a strange look and shrugging, Zevran faces her, hands on his hips as well. “Can I help you, my Warden?” he asks suggestively, rocking his hips back and forth.  Hera gives him a mischievous grin and raises her eyebrows. “I...think not,” she says sadly, dropping her eyes from his face to his hips. “The water is a little cold, don’t you think? You'll have to be at your best to help me.” "Maker's breath," Alistair groans and turns away from them. Zevran looks down and laughs, throwing his head back. “Ah, Hera, you are too clever by half. Come closer and tell me what it is you have come for.” Hera sits on the bank and pulls her knees to her chest. “Alistair, have you ever heard of Levi Dryden?” “What? Me?” he squeaks, looking over his shoulder. “You are Alistair,” Hera teases, eyeing the muscles of his back and shoulders appreciatively. If I could dream of those hips, that would make the Fade and its curses bearable. “Levi Dryden," she repeats, breaking away from visions of sweat-slick skin under her hands. "Do you know of him?” “Duncan mentioned him a few times,” he says, turning back to his bathing. “Why?” “He’s here.” “Here?” “Yes.” Zevran dives into the water, rinsing the soap from his hair and body. Hera loses sight of him, but Alistair’s shriek and the riot of bubbles coming from beside him reveal his location soon enough. “Zevran, don’t tease him," Hera chides, hiding her smile. “I’m trying to talk with him.” “How can you talk when there are two handsome, virile, naked men in your presence?” he asks, coming out of the water and grabbing his towel. “ Amor, you don’t even look at me,” he pouts. Hera grins and shields her eyes. “I fear that I would die of lust should I look too closely,” she flirts. “All that golden, glorious flesh, just made for pleasure." Zevran lowers his eyelids and holds open his towel. "I am yours," he says huskily. Hera's laugh nearly drowns out Alistair's disgusted snort. "You are too much for me," she sighs, covering her heart with her other hand. "I must stay keep my distance. Safer for us all this way.” “You tease me mercilessly,” he accuses, knotting his towel around his hips with an offended sniff. “Alistair,” she says, keeping her eyes covered. “Dryden?” “Do we have to have this conversation while I’m naked?” he asks, his voice breaking. Hera sighs, pretending to be annoyed. “I suppose it will wait.” She gets to her feet and winks at Zevran. “Nice,” she says with a grin. He grins in response. “I can do better than nice.” “I’m sure you’d like to try.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Soldier’s Peak, eh?” Alistair says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not too far- just a day or two north of here, I think.” “So it wouldn’t be out of the way?” Hera asks, looking at the map. “If we’re...here?” She looks up to see him nod. “And Levi says it’s here,” she points to a mark on the map. “Then it wouldn’t be much of a problem, would it?” “A day or two north is also a day or two into the mountains,” he says. “It’s not a straight road, we'll have to go around, and it's probably already snowing up there. Soldier’s Peak is in the mountains, that’s why the Grey Wardens used it, it was easily defended.” Hera taps her bottom lip, frowning in thought. Arl Eamon needs to be our priority. “What would the trip from there to Denerim be like?” He shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve never been there, I only heard a little about it from the other Wardens. I can’t imagine it would be too hard, though, moving south again...Wynne, what do you think?” Wynne shrugs and gives voice to Hera's main concern. “There may be benefits to reclaiming the base. But we have to weigh the immediate cost of time against Arl Eamon's health.” Hera nods, chewing her bottom lip. “We don’t even know when we’ll be this close again- if we get this close again.” “Why should we reclaim this base?” Sten asks. “It would be nice to have a home base for the Wardens when this is over,” Alistair tells him. “And there could be Grey Warden records there- like how to do the Joining.” “Oh, the history of a place like that!” Leliana sighs. "A rebellion and siege! How exciting!" “Is there any reason we should go?” Morrigan asks, waving her hand over the map with irritation. “'Tis miles out of the way, and likely filled with demons to dispose of. The simple possibility of old records for a dying order is not a great enough prize, I say.” “Is there any reason not to go?” Zevran asks, toying with his whetstone. “Yes,” Morrigan says with frustration. “The Arl may die while we’re on a fool’s errand.” “He’s lasted this long,” Zevran points out. "And we may fail this Arl Eamon, anyway. A few more days will not make much of a difference." “I believe it is the Grey Wardens’ choice,” Wynne reasons. “The last Warden-Commander made the promise, it falls to them to decide.” “Duncan did promise.” Hera looks to Alistair, who’s lost in thought. “Alistair?” “Let’s take a walk,” he suggests, jumping to his feet and striding off without her. Hera shoots the party a confused look and hurries after him. “Alistair, is something wrong?” she asks once she catches up. “Is it something about Levi?” He just sits on the forest floor, covering his face with his hands, taking deep breaths. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I just...Duncan and I...we were going to do it. Go to Soldier’s Peak and see what was there.” “After Ostagar,” she finishes, kneeling beside him. “Alistair, can I tell you something?” He looks up at her, waiting for her to continue. “You’re not Duncan,” she says gently. “You don’t have to take up his mantle and be Warden-Commander.” “But someone has to-” “I can do it,” she offers with a small smile. “At least until you’re ready. He was like a father to you, I understand that. You’re allowed to grieve, when and how you need to. I’m not going to make you do something that will make it worse. If you don’t want to go to Soldier’s Peak, we won’t go.” “I want to go.” His voice is low, but the tone is even and determined. “Are you sure?” He nods. “The Warden-Commander made a promise to someone the Grey Wardens owe much to. If the others don’t want to go, they can go on to Denerim and we’ll meet them there.” Hera manages to keep the smile from her face. He’ll make a good leader one day. “Very well. Let’s go tell them.” They stand, and she turns to go, but he grabs her hand. “Hera? Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. She squeezes his hand quickly, then slips free. “We’re Grey Wardens; we're here for each other. Let’s go back to the others.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Tell me about growing up in Redcliffe.”
 
Alistair smiles. A lot of their conversations start this way, one demanding a story from the other in the small hours of the night. Neither of them seem to mind, as they’re on watch and staying awake anyway. They walk along the edge of their campsite to keep warm, comfortable with one another in the darkness. It hides how often she makes him blush, at least, and sometimes, the dark makes him bold enough to hold her hand. Unlike now, as he rubs his damp palms on his pants leg.
 I’m such a fool, he thinks, palms sweating. How can she even be interested in me? She’s so...experienced. I’m everything she’s not. And yet...when she looks at me, I feel like I could do anything. “Redcliffe? Really? We’ll be at Soldier’s Peak tomorrow. I should tell you Grey Warden stories.” 
“Those will be nice,” she agrees, clutching her cloak closer. He’s jealous of the fur lining her cloak for getting to be so close to her. “Later.”
 
“Well, it gets hot in the summer,” he says. “That was when I didn’t mind sleeping in the stable, it was cool at night.”
 
“You slept in the

stable

?” she gasps.
 
He nods, his expression guarded. “It was made very clear that I was not in line for the throne, that I wasn't a prince. I was a bastard.”
 
“That’s horrible.”
 
He shrugs, ignoring the pain in her voice for him. “It was how it was,” he says with a lightness he doesn’t feel. “I liked the horses. They didn’t care who I was, or the bad luck of my birth. They just wanted to be treated well.”
 
Her hand slips into his, and his stomach flips over. “Isn’t that what everyone wants?” she asks sadly, and his mouth goes dry.
 
Clearing his throat, he closes his hand around hers. “I suppose so. Most of them didn’t treat me

badly

, so to speak, but Isolde resented me and the rumors that I might be Arl Eamon’s son. She found ways to make my life hell, so it was almost a relief when they sent me to the chantry.”

Almost.

“But you hated it there,” she says, her melodic voice filling in the parts she already knows. “They made you wash dishes.”
 
“I was horrible,” he jokes. “I hated everything about that life. Sometimes the silence would get so bad I would stand in one place screaming until one of the brothers came running. I would tell him I was just checking to make sure I could be heard.”
 
She laughs, the sound bright and surprised at his antics, and his heart skips. “What would they do?”
 
“Give me kitchen duty- alone. I didn't mind so much, you get to know the scullery cats really well.”

Maker, help me come up with another joke,

he prays.

I just want to make her laugh.

“What was Fandemier like as a child? Were you a terror at court?”
 
“Oh no,” she says, and purses the lips he dreams about. “Zeus was the outgoing one who made mischief. They adored him for it and forgave him every little thing. Mother made sure I knew how to be a perfect lady. By the time I was seven, every move I made was calculated to skew things my way.”
 
“Did you know then? That you would become a courtesan? That seems...young," he says disapprovingly.
 
She shakes her head, and the scent of roses comes off her hair. “No, I didn't begin learning my art until I was much older, but I think Mother knew in her way. Zeus, she allowed to be a playboy- an advantageous marriage was her hope for him. He serenaded boys and girls by the score and flirted with everyone. I, on the other hand, watched the court and saw how power and influence ebbed and flowed. I had to learn how to control my magic, as well, and that was taken very seriously.”
 
“I have trouble picturing you as a serious little girl,” he chortles. The snow starts to fall in thicker flakes, sparkling in her hair for seconds before melting.

She’s so beautiful in the snow.

“I wasn’t

all

serious, not really. I was trained to be charming and endearing on the outside, and keep my thoughts to myself. But compared to my brother…” She shrugged. “He was popular, and I kept my distance unless he drew me in. It served me well when I returned to court.”
 
“After your training.”
 
She nods. “I was fifteen when I was sent away to learn my art. Two years of frustrating, wanton lectures and demonstrations,” she laughs.
 
“You missed your brother?” Of course, she did. I'm an idiot.
 
“Terribly. He’s my other half,” she says, looking down at the palm of her free hand. “Even now I feel as if you can’t know me without knowing him.”
 
“One day we’ll meet.” He squeezes her hand quickly, trying to think of something to make her smile.
 
“I do hope so.”
 
“Tell me more,” he says as they circle the camp again. “About you and your brother.”
 
“I asked you about Redcliffe first,” she reminds him. “You’ve hardly told me anything.”
 
“There’s not much more to tell. I’m a bastard. I slept in the stable. I went to the chantry.”
 
“And you met Duncan,” she reminds him. “He conscripted you. You became a Grey Warden.”
 
“Then I met you, and the whole world fell apart,” he jokes, ducking his head to hide the goofy smile on his face.

It had to, to make room for you.

Her laughter trails into the darkness behind them, her cold hand wrapping around his. “You’ll learn that I am a shaker of worlds, Hero.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Tell me about Ravenloft,” Alistair suggests, sitting with his back to the fire. They’d circled the camp for an hour, and came back to shovel snow away from the center of camp and build up the fire. It’s difficult for Hera not to simply use magic to move the snow- and to give herself a much more comfortable bed in her tent- but she keeps her promise to hide her skills in the forefront of her mind. It’s so incredibly...human, she thinks, trying not to pout as they sit before the fire. Hera turns to watch him stretch his legs out and lean back on his elbows. “Ravenloft? Why?” “You’re always learning about Ferelden, I thought it might be nice to talk about your home. Unless you don't want to,” he adds, concern flooding his face. "Is it painful to talk about home, being trapped here?" Hera looks down at the mending in her hands. “ Home is...well, it’s a word for it, I suppose. I only lived there a little over a year before coming through the mirror. It’s...rather different than Ferelden- or anywhere, really.” “ You’re rather different,” he chuckles, “so I’m not surprised. I’d like to hear about it, I don’t want to be totally ignorant when we go there.” Her stomach flips at his words; in her experience, promises made during seduction and lovemaking are rarely remembered and never kept. He really wants to go back with me. “Ravenloft is ruled by a Dark Lord, in this case, a woman known as the Queen of Darkness- the common people call her the Raven Queen- who is in turn policed by a…” She pauses, trying to find a simple explanation for an inexplicable power. “A force, I suppose, known as the Dark Powers. They are not pleasant to deal with, and mostly devise ways to torture and annoy the ruler. Like your Maker, perhaps, but less distant and more meddlesome.” “How did you come to be there?” Hera smiles. “Honestly, I was in a bath when it happened. I had taken a personal night off and was indulging in a delicious bubble bath and a frivolous romance novel. The next thing I knew, I was standing in a dark, foggy forest, dressed in an elaborate antique gown. Zeus was there, as well, dressed just as strangely. We met three others in the forest, all unsure of how we had gotten there, and decided to join together to find a way out of our situation. It really is a rather long story,” she says. “And boring.” “You can skip to the good parts,” he suggests. She takes a deep breath. “To make a long story short- well, less long,” she begins, “there was a curse on Ravenloft, and its Dark Lord. Strahd von Zarovich was the current ruler but had usurped the throne. He had allies in the court who had passed information along to him, and he used it to assassinate the true king and found a way to lock all the portals leading in and out of the realm. As Lord of Ravenloft, he was firm, and after a while, generally well-liked until he fell in love with his brother’s betrothed, Tatyana. The peasants don’t care much who rules them,” she explains, “so long as their day-to-day life doesn’t change.” “Really? I would have thought regicide would be a sticking point.” “Mostly for the nobility, who knew the king personally. On the day Tatyana was to marry his brother Sergei, Strahd killed him, and pursued Tatyana so doggedly that she finally threw herself from the walls of the castle. Watching her love die and his murderous brother’s obsession with her was too much; it drove her mad.” “How horrible,” Alistair murmurs. Hera studies the needle in her hand, struck with how similar it is to the weapon she used to kill the creature who’d stolen her father’s throne and locked her and her brother away from their birthright. “It was. The Dark Powers are also...guardians, I suppose, of justice and law, and saw what Strahd did. He was cursed to become a creature of the night, a vampire, for killing his brother and causing the insanity and death of an innocent woman. Part of that curse locked Ravenloft in a veil of mist, shrouding the entire country so that no one knew where they were or how big Ravenloft was and filling the forests with monsters not too different from your darkspawn. That's all slowly changing as the mists roll back, however," she adds. "Strahd eventually died, but the Dark Powers resurrected him, dooming him to relive finding Tatyana, falling in love with her, and losing her over and over for centuries. In turn, he tortured the people under his rule, until Ravenloft became a dark and dangerous place, somewhere no one in their right mind would travel to.” “And this is where you come in?” “Yes,” she says with a smile. “My brother and I led our new friends through the castle, filled with haunting nightmares and traps of all kinds. I had been told the story of Strahd by several villagers, each telling more romantic than the last. I was...quite entranced by the time we reached the castle,” she admits, feeling foolish about her past infatuation. “I had girlish fantasies of being the true Tatyana reborn, of healing his heart, breaking the curse, and finding love for myself. But when we got there...it was not to be,” she says flatly, looking down and knotting her fingers together. “His spirit had been twisted and corrupted, and even if he had been alive, he was incapable of love. All that was left of Strahd was pain and rage. The only choice was to destroy the curse and free him. I made a pact with the Dark Powers to end his curse and put another on the throne, restoring Ravenloft to its former glory. Then...I seduced and killed him.”  No need for him to hear all the gory details, she thinks. If I tell him about the things that were in the castle, he’ll never set foot in my kingdom.  “What...kind of pact?” he asks, a tremor of anxiety in his voice. Hera looks down at her hands. “I had to give up the future that had been set for me, and accept whatever came.” She laughs a little bitterly. “What was worse is that they told me what I was trading away.” “What did they tell you?” Hera is quiet a long time, remembering. She had stood between planes, in a dream state or something similar, and spoken with an echoing chorus of voices, agreeing to their demands and countering with her own. If Zeus had been there, if she had told him, he would be furious that she traded her life away. In payment for Ravenloft and destroying Strahd, she would be queen, and choose her heir- but at a great cost. Precisely two years after she was crowned, she would die at the hands of a demon. “I don't really remember,” she lies smoothly. “I remember Strahd, and not a lot else.” “It must have been hard,” Alistair says. “Were you really in love with him?” “No,” she answers, her voice hard. “I thought I could have been. I was caught up in the story and willing. But no. He was...” She looks into the darkness, her eyes seeing the way she’d pressed her body close to Strahd’s, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss just as she slid her dagger between his ribs. “He was a monster. Incapable and undeserving of anything I might have felt.” “Who rules in Ravenloft now?”  Me, she thinks, dashing the thought away before it can slip out. It’s too late to tell him now, and best he never knows the truth. If we do make it to Ravenloft together...well, he’ll learn the truth then. “The Dark Powers chose her; she is the Queen of Darkness. The Duke of Shadows claims she is the lost daughter of Ravenloft’s original ruler from centuries past- a man named Drakul, who was visiting an ally when Strahd usurped his place. A fair ruler, I think, and she has opened the doors to Ravenloft again.” “Is she well-loved?” he asks, smiling at the happy ending of her tale. Hera smiles, thinking of the warm welcome she receives anytime she rides through the nearby town. “I think so. The court adores her, and she works very hard for the people.” “Is there a lot of work to do?” He laughs, ducking his head shyly. “I'm sorry, I’m asking so many questions, you may not even have all the answers.” Her smile grows, happy to talk about her home with him. “I don’t mind. I help where I can; my knowledge of statecraft makes me useful, and I still own a brothel in Sigil. Ravenloft is a small province, with one large town at the castle and a few villages, forests, and the mines, but it is enough to keep anyone busy. And there’s the court she keeps," she sighs, picturing the nobles that make up a great deal of her friends and family, "two dozen of the most beautiful and dangerous creatures- Zeus and I, included. It’s still dark and mist-wreathed most of the time- a natural mist," she explains quickly, "the gothic beauty of it will never change- but the sun shines a little brighter, and the harvests are a little better. They mine for precious metals there, as well. It is the largest source of trade.” “It sounds like you miss it.” “Does it?” she asks, tilting her head. "I'm rather proud of the way things are, and my hand in it." He nods. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an intense woman?” he chuckles. “But talking about your home, you seem...lighter, somehow. Happier.” She looks away, ignoring how her chest aches with longing to return home. “I do miss it. It’s home now, or whatever comes close to home. My brother and I live at court and serve the crown, traveling to Sigil to tend our business there from time to time, but we always return to Ravenloft.” “Where is Sigil? Outside of Ravenloft?” She nods. “Sigil is...difficult to explain. It is a city outside of any world but holds doors to nearly every world in existence. Somewhere there is one to Ferelden,” she tells him. "I'll have to visit the Cartographers to find the right path when I return." His eyes grow wide at the idea. “That’s fascinating. When this is all over, we’ll go back to Ostagar and start searching,” he says excitedly. “I can’t wait to see you in your own element.” Hera smiles at his enthusiasm. “I don’t know if you would like it,” she warns, “but I’d like if you came to visit.” “How could I not like Ravenloft?” he asks, sitting up. “It has the most beautiful ambassador.” Hera blushes and looks away. Why am I blushing? This is hardly the first time I’ve been called beautiful. “You think I’m beautiful?” she asks nonchalantly. Alistair laughs. “You know you are.” “It’s just nice to hear someone agree with me,” she jokes, making him laugh louder. She turns when she hears Zevran crawling out of his tent, muttering and heading into the darkness to relieve himself. “It seems our watch is over,” she says, looking up at Alistair. “It seems so, raven,” he murmurs, boldly twirling some of her hair around his finger. “Raven, is it?” she asks breathlessly, watching his eyes darken as he leans into her space, filling it with his warmth. Please kiss me. Please let me know what you want, she pleads silently. Please do something before I die of desire.  He makes a humming sound of agreement. “For your hair. Unless you don’t like it? I won't call you that again if-” “No,” she says quickly. “No, I like it.” Alistair looks suddenly shy and pulls his hand away. “I’m sorry, I just...don’t know how to do any of this,” he laughs. “I’ve never courted anyone before.” Hera smiles and takes his hand, lifting it to press her lips to his palm. “You’re doing just fine, Alistair,” she says softly. “Take your time; I’ve never been courted before.” He lets out a breath of relief. “So...it’s all right if it goes slowly?” “Perfectly all right,” she murmurs as he leans closer. Her eyes drift down to his lips, and she suppresses the urge to close the distance herself. The scent of leather and soap and Alistair fills her senses, making her feel like she has a head full of wool. “I have all the time in the world.” His breath quickens, and warmth spreads through her as she tilts her head for his kiss. Before their lips can meet, there’s a delicate cough behind them, and they jerk away guiltily. “What a good thing there was nothing to watch for,” Zevran laughs, standing beside Leliana. “Is that not right, bella? ”  Leliana grins down at them. “A very good thing,” she agrees. “I suggest you take this to your own tent.” Hera watches Alistair bolt for his tent, his face red and mottled, and stands slowly. “Your timing is awful,” she scolds her friends gently. Zevran chuckles and pinches her cheek. “I somehow don’t mind interrupting.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Soldier’s Peak has strategic and symbolic importance,” Alistair reminds Morrigan for the hundredth time. “Duncan said that alone made the endeavor worth it. Then there’s the Warden history and perhaps some relics there.” Each word was accompanied by a puff of warm fog, reminding Hera of the dragon-borns she’s met and how they always run a little hotter than everyone else. The dark, iced-over tunnels Levi’s been leading them through have completely blocked out the otherwise clear, cold day, and a strange wind howls its way through the maze like a haunting spirit.  Not a bad place for a dhampir, really, she thinks, tugging her hood further down. “All I know is that it’s snowing earlier than it would be if we’d gone on to Denerim,” she grumbles. “And I’d rather be in an inn by the fire, eating a meal I didn’t have to kill and cook.” Hera pulls her own cloak closer against the icy air. “You have a point,” she mumbles, blowing into her cupped hands. “How is it so cold here, and only a day ago there wasn’t a hint of snow?” “There’s always snow in the mountains,” Levi explains. “Lovely,” she mutters, wishing she’d taken Wynne up on her offer to teach her to knit a pair of mittens. She could kick herself for not realizing she could wear them inside the fur-lined ones she’d gotten from Bodhan. “I do not find it so cold,” Zevran says, proudly wrapped in an orange wool scarf Wynne had made for him.  He had the foresight to ask for mittens, Hera thinks sullenly. “Right now I’d split your guts and crawl inside if it would keep me warm,” Morrigan tells him. “Shall we see what Crows are made of?” Hera laughs, the sound echoing oddly off the tunnel walls. “Let’s not,” she decides, momentarily forgetting her discomfort. “Morrigan, you could have stayed at camp,” she reminds her. “Leliana and Wynne could be teaching you to knit yourself a nice warm shawl right now.” “And leave you at the mercy of these two buffoons?” she asks, gesturing to Zevran and Alistair. “Hera, you need me more than I need a fire.” “Hey!” Alistair says. “I haven’t done anything!” “Today ,” Zevran reminds him. “I do not think your comment about warts has been forgotten, my friend.” Alistair chuckles gleefully at the memory. “That was a good one.” “I hate you,” Morrigan tells him venomously. “ So much.” “All right,” Hera says, calling the attention of the group. “Levi, there’s light ahead, is that the exit?” “You can see that far? Those Wardens knew what they were doing when they recruited you,” he murmurs in awe. Hera shrugs. “I eat a lot of carrots,” she says lightly. He gives her a bizarre look and nods. “Is that so?” A little while later they emerge blinking from the tunnels. “Here we are,” Levi says grandly. “Soldier’s Peak.” Hera’s breath catches at the majesty of the fortress. It’s as large as Ravenloft Castle, its towers reaching into the clouds and the walls joined solidly with the mountain. In the blinding light, it looks like something out of a story- a sleeping castle covered in snow. “And what exactly are the five of us to do, should we encounter an army of darkspawn or demons?” Morrigan asks. “Defeat them,” Hera says simply, excitement building. Castle raids and crawling through dungeons have always been her favorite adventures, offering thrills one just can’t find with armies and politics. Good honest fun killing things that go bump in the night, she thinks, her hands twitching in anticipation. “An army, Hera?” she asks incredulously. “Do you know what an army is? Against five?” Hera glances at Alistair and knows he feels it too. She can see it in the grin spreading across his face, in the sudden swiftness of movement as he checks to make sure his sword is ready to draw. Looking over her shoulder, she gives Morrigan a smile that speaks of danger and darkness. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone against such odds,” she says smugly. “Let’s go.” She and Alistair practically leap into action like horses pulling at their tracers, leaving Zevran and Morrigan trailing. “They’re insane,” Morrigan grumbles. Zevran laughs. “My dear Morrigan, I believe they are just excited. Don’t you ever get excited about anything?” “No. These are the worst Grey Wardens I have ever heard of.” “These Grey Wardens are barely out of childhood,” Zevran reminds her. “More’s the pity,” she hisses. She tilts her head when she hears Alistair’s war cry. “Oh goody, they’ve found something to play with already.” “Shall we, my dear?” Zevran offers, drawing his swords. By the time they reach the courtyard of the fortress, Alistair and Hera are trading blows with five undead creatures in ancient armor. Morrigan waves a hand lazily and sets them ablaze, and Hera turns with a cheerful smile when the creatures fall dead. “You decided to join the fun after all,” she chirps. “But you might want to look behind you.” Zevran bares his teeth and turns, seeing four more straggling toward them. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun!” Once the courtyard is clear, Hera kneels and examines the armor on them. “These are two different forces,” she muses. “Look, this has the Warden’s symbol on it, and these are…I haven’t seen this crest anywhere, do you know it?” She looks up at Levi for the answer. “My guess would be they’re King Arlen’s men,” Levi tells her, pointing to the armor. “The last anyone knew of Soldier’s Peak was the rebellion Sophia Dryden led against Arlen.” “Rebellion? Why would they rebel?” Hera frowns, moving her gaze to the ancient Grey Warden corpses. Nice armor, though, she thinks, brushing a bit of leathery skin off a breastplate. I wouldn’t mind something like this myself.  Alistair answers for her. “The Grey Wardens are not beholden to any one king,” he explains. “They do what they must to defeat the darkspawn. If King Arlen was giving them grief…” He shrugs. “Whatever the reason, it was the catalyst that got us banned from Ferelden.” “Hmm. Well, I wish it was in better shape,” she says, rising. “It’s quite striking.” “Maybe we’ll find some inside,” Alistair suggests. “It is one of our keeps.” They enter the fortress carefully, unsure of its condition. Inside, they find a mess of papers- it looks as if a storm has blown through, leaving chairs overturned and a large candelabra leaning heavily to one side. Their entrance lets in a breeze, making more pages flutter and an ancient wheel of a chandelier creak as it swings above them. Hera picks up a page and reads over the spidery handwriting. “It’s a journal,” she muses, looking up. “‘There is more to leading men than sorcery, she told Avernus,’” she reads. “Then it talks about a rousing speech ‘she’ gave- Sophia, perhaps?” “Very likely,” Alistair agrees, taking the page from her. “I assume the ‘human despot’ is King Arlen. Do you think he would have had them executed?” “I would, were I him,” Zevran says. “You’d hang your own mother,” Morrigan points out. “Not my mother, but someone’s, yes. ”  “Levi, if these are the things she said, it seems greatness is in your blood,” Hera comments. “That’s kind of you to say,” he gushes. “Generations of Drydens said our stock were lions; fierce, proud, and noble.” “Hey look at this,” Alistair says, calling them over to a wall. On it is a faded poster that reads: 
On these grounds, Virtuous Men stood against a Tyrant. They stood defiant and stood for Freedom.
 
And they died.

Signed,

Captain Melo, The Black Ferret, Chair-Thrower Lopez, Ser Derek of Orlais, and Jason the Longbow
 The list goes on, naming all the Grey Wardens who’d stood against King Arlen. “Jason sans les Argonauts,” Hera murmurs. “I know that name…” “Huh? You do?” Alistair asks. “What does sans les mean?” “It’s Latin, I think,” she explains. “I speak very little. Jason, without the Argonauts. I’ve heard of him. How did he get here? ” “Latin…?” Zevran asks. “It sounds a little like the Tevinter tongue.” “It’s just another language,” she says. “But I know of Jason. One of his Argonauts was a patron once. He’d found a door to Sigil and told me about him.” “Perhaps this Jason found your door as well,” Morrigan suggests. “If one adventurer found it, so too another.” Hera nods. “Well, that certainly is interesting. If he came without the men, then he came without the Argo- his ship,” she adds. “So he didn’t take a water passage.”  I’m not the first, she thinks, goosebumps raising the hair on the back of her neck. There could be a hundred other doors leading to Thedas! If a hero from Midgard made it...By the Powers, the possibilities are endless.  
Thedas could be opened up to new technology, new ways of using magic- their whole chantry view on it could crumble! Mages could be as free here as they are anywhere else in the planes!
 The next room holds an arcane horror, and Hera wonders if there’s anything abandoned in this world that isn’t overrun by demons. But they do find a hidden love letter, which makes her laugh, and she tucks it away to read to Alistair later. They move through the fortress, encountering more undead with decrepit armor and weapons falling to pieces. “Why is there such unrest here?” Morrigan asks. “Are these poor souls trapped, or are they so bitter about their end that they’ve simply stayed?” “Something’s off,” Hera agrees. “It feels...well, it feels a bit like the Fade here.” She nods. “I agree. Something is wrong, these Grey Wardens have done something to cause it.” “Look here,” Levi calls, “another book.” This one is badly burned, and they can hardly make sense of it. “The...truth?...must be told,” he reads. “About what? Their rebellion?” “Perhaps there’s more elsewhere,” Hera offers from the nearest door. “Let’s go.” She turns and comes face to face with a dozen grinning skulls with razor-sharp blades pointed directly at her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I am no healer,” Morrigan reminds them, looking down at Hera and shakes her head. “Not for something like this. I am sorry, my friend. Alistair, you do it.” “Me? What? Oh no,” he stammers, waving his hands. “I can't even mend my own shirt!” Hera looks at Zevran, standing a little behind her friends. He’s only been with them a short time, and in spite of his wild flirtation and charm, it’s clear he doesn't feel entirely welcome. She’s noticed that he prefers to keep watch alone, and sets his camp away from their circle. He knows they don’t trust him, thinks that Hera kept him alive to force him to help her. That was why I brought him to Soldier’s Peak, to prove otherwise. Wynne had mentioned feeling particularly tired after the long cold walk, so Sten and Leliana had stayed with her, leaving Hera with the perfect opportunity. But now here she is, a deep gash in her leg bleeding all over the place, and no healer in sight. I should have brought Wynne, she thinks, hissing through clenched teeth. Morrigan’s only learned a little of her healing magic. The undead Grey Wardens had ambushed them, and since she’d been closest to their entrance, she’d taken the brunt of the damage, the worst of it a rusty sword cutting deeply into her thigh. “Zevran,” she gets out between clenched teeth. “Zev, you have to do it. You’ve got steady hands, right?” “Me?” he squeaks and holds his hands up to refuse her. “No, amora , you do not want me to do it. I am an assassin, not a surgeon.” “Yes I do,” she insists, looking up at him. “Help me, please.” He stares at her a long moment, and she can feel his question in the look. “Zevran, I trust you,” she tells him. “You won’t hurt me.” He hesitates only a second before her words send him into action. “Morrigan, my dear, get the needle and gut from Hera’s pack,” he says quickly. “Alistair, there is brandy in the side pocket of my backpack. Give her a big drink.” He kneels beside her, ripping open her pant leg. “Normally I would have given you a nice dinner and poured a bottle of wine into you, then you would not mind my ripping your clothes off. Alas, you must forgive me,” he adds with a roguish grin. “This will be painful,” he says to her in a low voice, and he looks genuinely upset that he can’t make it less so. “I am sorry.” Hera grasps his hand in her blood-smeared one. “I don’t mind a little pain,” she says, smirking up at him. “Just promise to bring a little pleasure into it, as well.” “For you, amora, I will bring all the pleasure I am able.” Morrigan and Levi stand with their backs to them, watching for more trouble. Alistair moves her to his lap, getting her off the icy floor, and Zevran sits between her legs to access the gash in her thigh better. If she wasn't in so much pain, Hera would laugh at having both men holding her so intimately. She doesn't cry out while he works, but she does turn her face to Alistair’s arm from time to time whenever Zevran splashes more brandy on her leg. Unsurprisingly, Zevran’s hands are quick and nimble, his stitches small. Hera wonders where he’s learned to do this; if it’s a skill the Crows teach their recruits so they have no need for surgeons or physicians, and decides to ask him later. “Zev,” she says with a grimace. “Distract me. Tell me about Antiva.” “Oh, you wish to know of Antiva, do you?” he says with a cocky grin. “The only way to truly appreciate it is to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often...but the flowers are always in bloom, or so the saying goes. I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Do you come from someplace comparable?” “Ravenloft,” she gasps, her whole body arching in pain as he reaches the widest part of the wound. “Quite dark and misty.” “You know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lilting flutes of the minstrels...I miss the leather the most.” “Is that some kind of euphemism?” Alistair asks dryly. Zevran has to stop what he’s doing and laugh. “It may as well be. But not this once, no. I miss the smell,” he tells her, glancing up at her as he goes back to his work. “For years I lived in a tiny apartment in Antiva City’s leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits- packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather reminds me most of home more than anything else.” “You sound like-” she hisses, the burn of the alcohol mingling with the stabbing pain shooting from her hip all the way down to her toes. She shifts involuntarily, trying to find a way to relieve it to no avail. “Like you’ve been away from home forever,” she finishes, taking a deep breath. “Oh, not so long,” he says, patting the inside of her thigh with a smile. Beads of nervous sweat form on his forehead, and now and then he looks up at her, amber eyes meeting hers. You can trust me, his look seems to say. When this happens, they nod to one another, acknowledging the unspoken promise between them. “Almost done now, my Warden,” he says softly, and gently runs his hand down her leg. “Morrigan, that room at the end of the hall, can you move our things there? She will need to rest a while, and that is the best place should we need to defend it.” “As you wish,” Morrigan says simply, and Levi starts gathering their packs. “Shall I start a fire as well?” “Please,” Alistair says, not looking away from Zevran’s hands. “We’ll be there soon.” As they go, Zevran starts talking again. “This is my first time away from Antiva,” he explains, glancing from Hera to Alistair and back again. “The thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly.” “I understand that,” Hera says softly, looking distant and sad. “Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship...Ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought ‘ahh Zevran, you can buy them when you return for a job well done!’ More the fool I, no?” He pulls the last stitch tight, making her yelp, and ties it off. “There you are, bella. You have good skin, it will not scar.” “Your home is still there, Zevran. You aren’t trapped here,” Hera says in a low voice. Not like me.  “True, and it is a comforting thought,” he agrees, sitting back on his heels. “One simply never knows what is to come next. How could I have expected I would be defeated by a beautiful Grey Warden, a woman who then spares my life? I could not.” “Flatterer,” Alistair grumbles. Zevran gives her a small smile as if they share a secret. “Now, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal.” Hera awkwardly leans forward, wrapping her arms around his arm. “Thank you,” she whispers and kisses his cheek. His body goes stiff with the gesture, and she pulls away quickly, letting him have his space. Zevran’s smile deepens a little more, revealing a charming dimple as a faint blush tinges his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Come on, pretty lady,” Alistair says, shifting her so he can stand. “Let’s get you somewhere less bloody.” Hera nods, letting him carry her down the hall. “That was brilliant,” he says under his breath. “Did you know he could do stitches?” Hera shakes her head. “I had a guess he’d be nimble, but no, I wasn’t sure.” Over his shoulder, she watches Zevran worriedly. He’s still sitting there, covered in her blood and staring at his hands. A killer turned healer, she thinks. I wonder if he ever considered himself anything more than an assassin.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They give Hera an hour to rest, and Morrigan performs a small healing spell her mother taught her- good for little more than a scraped knee- but combined with Hera’s own supernatural healing, it is enough. She lays back against Alistair while Zevran quickly mends her pant leg, teasing him. “I’m ashamed,” she teases. “I must be losing my touch if men are trying to get my clothes on me.” Zevran takes the bait. “ Amora. I would rather cut them off you slowly, with a sharp knife and steady hand, and tease you for an hour while I do so. It is only that this is no place for such fun that I stop myself.” Hera laughs. “Would you? That’s something no one’s done in a very long time.” “Um, do we have to talk about how he wants to undress you?” Alistair grumbles. “Not to mention how other people have done it.” “I could give you some pointers,” Zevran offers, “tell you the finer points of the art of undressing.” “Oh shut up,” Morrigan sighs. “Hera, you tease them too much. One of them will think you mean it one day.” Hera raises an eyebrow at her and gives her a wanton look. “If only you’d think so, pretty witch,” she flirts. “You disgust me,” Morrigan snaps, but looks a little pleased anyway. “Are you ready to go?” “I think so,” she says, “Zev, help me up.” Zevran grabs her hand hauls her to her feet. “Are you certain?” Alistair asks when he hears her grunt. “Yes,” she says, shaking her leg a little. “It’s well enough. Morrigan, you should get Wynne to teach you more healing magic,” she suggests, “you have a knack for it.” “What a joy, learning at the knee of a preachy chantry mouse,” Morrigan says sarcastically. “Let’s move on,” Levi suggests. “I don’t like sitting around here, it makes me nervous.” Hera lets them precede her, and casts a small spell of her own under her breath to relieve the pain in her leg. Alistair hears her mumble and looks over his shoulder at her, but she just smiles and picks up her pack. Back down the hall and up a small flight of stairs is a large room with a thick layer of dust on every surface. A dry-rotted table leans precariously, missing a leg, and above it is a painting so thick with grime it’s hardly recognizable. “The Great Hall, unless I miss my guess,” Levi says, gesturing to the time-darkened portrait of an old man on the wall above a fireplace full of spiderwebs. “That must be the first Commander of Soldier’s Peak.” “You know a lot about the place, don’t you?” Alistair asks. “Oh, of course,” he says enthusiastically. “We Drydens have always been proud of Sophia Dryden. Soldier’s Peak holds history for more than just Grey Wardens.” The air smells strange, something underlying the stale and dusty; Hera’s nostrils flare with annoyance when she can’t quite identify it. Something’s...strange here. I just can’t put my finger on it.  “What is that?” Zevran asks, heading up another short flight to the next level. They see a table to one side of the long room, but at the other is a mirror and four gear-like contraptions on the ground. “A mirror!” Hera cries, grabbing Alistair’s arm. In the dark room, it emits a purple glow, lightning crackling along its edges and a strange miasma issuing from it. It looks nothing like the one Hera and Tybalt passed through, the frame made of heavy marble instead of carved dark wood. There’s no whisper of adventure, no magic tingling along her skin; all she can feel is the electric snap of lightning in the air.  Not all doors look the same, she reasons. Or feel the same, for that matter. This one could go to Midgard. Or Sigil, or any number of places. It could still help me go to Ravenloft. Is this how Jason arrived?  “Does it look like the one you came through?” Alistair asks, panic twisting his features. “No, but it’s close enough!” she says cheerfully, running toward it. Morrigan grabs her, pulling her to a stop as large demon steps through. Undead rise up from the gears on the floor but don’t move forward. Morrigan freezes the demon in place, and the two men rush the undead. Hera is distracted as she fights, unable to focus with hope so nearby. It makes a difficult skirmish more so, and it seems to take forever before the demon disappears, roaring and fading away like a shadow. In the sudden silence, Hera walks toward the mirror, awe-struck. She can hear Levi and the others begin talking behind her, but she ignores them, all her focus tuned to the mirror before her. The magic in her blood races through her, and she can hardly hear anything beyond her heart beating.  Home, she thinks, reaching out to touch the rippling glass. Is it true? Could it be the way? I can go home, and never have to come back to this wretched, cursed world where everything about me is anathema. If I can get home...I could send help. I could help end the Blight in days…  
I could see my brother again.
 “Hera!” She’s jerked out of her thoughts by Alistair grabbing her arm and looks up at him in confusion. “W-What?” “You don’t know if that’s a door!” he says harshly, tugging her back to where Levi and the others are still talking. “Why would you just go touching something a demon just came through?” “Alistair! What if it’s my mirror?” she argues, jerking her arm out of his reach and stomping back up the stairs. “I’ve been here for months- this could be it!” “We don’t know anything about it!” he shouts, picking her up and putting her over his shoulder. She raises her voice to match his, her fists pounding on his back. “I don’t know anything about the one I fell through, either! Put me down, you brute!” “‘Twould seem our leader has finally seen the light,” Morrigan quips, watching him unceremoniously dump Hera on the floor. “And how do you know it will work?” Alistair demands, rubbing the small of his back with a grimace. “Leave it alone.” Hera jumps to her feet and stands toe-to-toe with him, seething with rage and barely quelling the urge to slap him. “What are you so angry about? Alistair, that’s a door and I know it! Why won’t you let me go? ” she asks, her voice shaking with unshed tears. “Hera, would you be reasona- ow ! That was uncalled for!” he cries when she kicks his knee. Hera bolts around him, using her damphir speed for once, but Alistair somehow manages to grab her ankle in a vice-like grip, jerking her feet out from under her. She hits the floor with a thud hard enough to raise dust and rolls over, glaring at him. “ That’s a door to another place,” Morrigan corrects her softly, kneeling beside her. “You couldn’t have come through that mirror, Hera. I’m sorry, but if you go through it now...I do not know where you would go. Where it is would likely be overrun with demons. I don’t even know how to open it,” she adds, helping her sit up. “I’m sorry, Hera,” Alistair adds, moving behind her again. Hera looks back at it, shaking her head. “No...that’s it ,” she says passionately, looking back to her friend. “Morrigan, don’t lie! I know that’s my way home. Help me, and I will give you anything you desire. You could come with me!” she suggests. “A world where you’d be truly free to practice magic as you wished!” “That sounds tempting, my friend, but I am sorry.” Morrigan shakes her head sadly, meeting Alistair’s eyes over Hera’s shoulder. “Unless you live in some other part of this world, it cannot help you. That’s called an eluvian, an ancient device elves once used to travel, but this one seems to lead directly to the Fade. I doubt very much that you came through one to get here.” Hera stares at Morrigan a long moment, her eyes begging her to be lying. “No,” she whispers, and climbs to her feet, ready to run back to the mirror. “No, I came through a mirror, I can go back through one, too. I’ll show you,” she says, trying to move past Alistair again. “Hera, no,” he says in a gentle voice, grabbing her arms. They struggle, and she manages to slip out of his grasp, this time making within arm’s reach before he jerks her away, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Alistair, please,” she whispers, yearning to touch it so much that she leans so far forward he’s all that’s keeping her on her feet. Tears start filling her eyes and she doesn’t bother to hide them. “I have to go home . Zeus needs me. Why don’t you just let me go?” “I’m sorry,” he says again, wrapping his arms around her. “Don’t go, not yet.” “I have to try, ” she chokes. “Let me try. If Jason came through this mirror, I can come back. Please. ” Hera twists out of his arms and reaches for the swirling glass, hesitating long enough to pull her glove off her shaking hand. Wait- can I really leave? Abandon the quest? she asks herself. Could I forgive myself if I left everything, left Alistair, now? She glances back at him, standing there looking helpless and heartbroken, and then back at the mirror. 
For Ravenloft? For Zeus?
 She takes a long, slow breath, her heart pounding in her ears, and reaches out once again. This time her hand doesn’t tremble. Her fingertips graze the surface, but instead of dipping into it, like she should have been able to do, they simply rest on glass so cold and full of lightning it stings her flesh. Disappointment crashes into her like a wave, all the stress and fear of the past months threatening to drown her. Her tears turn into a storm and a low, bitter sound escapes her as her fingers curl against the glass. Zevran quietly ushers Levi and Morrigan down the stairs and leaves the Grey Wardens alone. Hera weeps with fury, slapping at Alistair’s hands when he tries to comfort her. “I hate this world,” she says in a quivering voice. “I hate Thedas and everything in it! Why am I here?” She turns away from the mirror and shouts at the ceiling, a magical wind whipping through the room and sending dust, bones, and bits of debris flying through the air. “Damn the Dark Powers! Damn you all!” she screams. “All I wanted was peace and you just give me more death and destruction! I hate you!” Alistair’s heart breaks as he watches her: trapped in a world at war, finding and losing hope within heartbeats. So he waits patiently while their strong, unflappable leader breaks apart in a filthy hall of a decrepit fortress, ignoring the hurtful things she says and ready try to cleanse her of magic should it get out of hand. He hates having to constantly move her away or put himself between her and the mirror, but he’s afraid if she destroys it more demons will come out. It’s a bitter thing, he thinks, watching her shriek and curse gods he’s never even heard of. I wish I could help her, do more for her.  Finally, the fire in her burns out, and she sinks to the floor and covers her face. Alistair approaches her carefully, kneeling and embracing her. Hera turns into his arms, burying her face in his chest and sobbing. He waits until she’s quiet, patting her back and letting her get it out. “You have the patience of a saint,” she croaks after a while, wiping her face. “Like Andraste herself,” he jokes, but his expression doesn’t quite live up to the cheer in his voice. With a heavy sigh, he brushes the hair off her face, catching a tear as it streaks down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Hera.” Her face flushes, embarrassed, and lets her hair fall back into her face, hiding herself from him. “I’m sorry I’ve made such a scene,” she says bitterly. “I shouldn’t have said- I didn’t mean-” “I understand,” he says softly, tilting her chin up to look at him. “I’m almost certain you don’t hate Zevran, anyway.” “Or you,” she sniffs. Alistair pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to her. Hera untangles herself from him and stands, crossing her arms and staring at the mirror from a distance. She takes a deep, shaking breath, staying silent long enough for him to wonder what she’s thinking. “The first time, I could feel magic all over my skin, almost taste it in the air,” she says finally, frowning. “It’s not like that here. My magic is silent; there’s nothing. It must have been my own desire, ” she decides, taking another calming breath and straightening her shoulders. “Do you ever see something and just know that it’s destiny bringing you together?” “Sort of,” he says, coming up beside her. “I guess I felt that way when I met Duncan.” She nods, her expression unreadable. “ I knew my destiny was tied with my mirror the moment I saw it. This one is as silent as a grave.” “We’ll find a door,” he promises her. “Just...not one with demons coming out of it, all right? That disqualifies this one.” He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she shakes her head and drops it into her hands. “I wanted it to be the right one,” she confesses. “So badly every nerve told me it was. But I’ll know when I find it. It will call to me. Damn me to seven hells,” she says with a bitter laugh, “I feel like an idiot.” “Do you need a moment alone?” he asks, “I can get the others, give you a moment.” Hera nods, grateful for the time to compose herself. Alone, she has to stop herself from shattering the glass. Rebraiding her mussed hair, Hera silently berates herself for being so foolish. Even so, disappointment hangs on her like a damp shroud, and she turns away from it as Morrigan comes up the stairs alone. “Morrigan, I’m sorry I called you a liar,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean it.” “Desire does strange things,” Morrigan says with an easy shrug. “I understand. Shall I explain the mirror once more?” “That’s not necessary,” Hera says with a shake of her head. “I understand. Thank you.” Pity crosses Morrigan’s face as the men follow behind. “I am sorry, truly.” “Let’s just move on, shall we?” she asks flatly. Hera takes out her frustration on the undead that attack them through the fortress. As she slices through dry-rotted bone and sinew, she asks herself if she would truly have left. I hesitated once the moment was there...would I truly have gone, if I knew for certain where it would lead? Would I leave him so soon? And what about the Blight? There’s no way to know when I would be able to return with an army. I’d rather bring him with me, let us embark on a new adventure together...but he would never leave Ferelden in danger. And…I don’t think I could leave him to all this alone, either. Is that love? Ravenloft needs me, and I hesitated to return, even if only for a moment. Am I a fool in love, unwilling to return to my throne over a man?   What absolute nonsense. Love is nothing but a hindrance. This is desire, she reminds herself firmly, plain and simple. A slow-burning one, to be sure, but even this fire will flare and die, like all the others.  Not knowing the answers to her questions makes her angry. Thinking that she might actually be in love makes her angrier, and she becomes brutal in battle, scattering bones and crushing skulls beneath her boot. Her mood is appropriately foul when they find their way to the Warden-Commander’s office and see a broad-shouldered, short-haired woman with her back to them, the scent of death and decay wafting off her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Step no further, Warden,” the woman commands, her voice deep and echoing. She turns, and Hera’s repulsed by her rotting, sagging skin and milk-white eyes. “This one would speak with you.” “Who- or what- are you?” Hera demands, putting her hands on her hips. “This one is the Dryden,” it explains, and Hera can hear a second voice, deeper and malevolent, under hers. “Commander. Sophia. All these things,” it laughs. The sound is all wrong, as if they’re hearing the sound of laughter backward. “G-Grandmother?” Levi asks, choking on the word. Sophia Dryden ignores him, keeping its eyes on Hera. “You have slain many of the demon ilk to get here. This one would propose a deal.” “Levi, I’m afraid your great-great-great grandmother seems to be possessed,” Hera says flatly. “That, or she’s really let herself go,” he jokes lamely, trying to hide his discomfort behind false mirth. “My great-great-great grandmother is dead. I don’t know what that is,” he declares, lifting his crossbow and gesturing to her with it. “Fair enough. Is there anything of the real Sophia left inside you?” she asks the demon. “Or are you just another spirit playing puppetmaster?” “This one has tasted her memories, seen her thoughts and hidden places,” it answers. “But she is food for this one, no more, no less.”  Food, and not a way out of the Fade like Connor was. Hera nods as if she’s hearing something new and innovative, curious as to what the rotting creature can tell her, and what cost it will demand. “And, why, exactly, should I trust a demon?” she asks, feigning interest. “Surely you have something to offer me. Riches, beauty, eternity,” she suggests, ticking them off on her fingers. “And something you’ll want in return.” “You are worse than a cat with a mouse,” Morrigan says behind her. “Let us kill it and be done with it.” “What is one woman-child compared to your might?” it asks, and Hera gets the feeling that this demon knows she isn’t the human she pretends to be. “Strike me down if my terms offend. A fool this one would be to betray the Warden, even if she is the wrong one . ”  What can she possibly see or know about me? Hera raises an eyebrow. “Tell me about this ‘deal.’” “The Soldier’s Peak traps me.” The possessed body shudders with suppressed rage at its own words. “This one sees so many tantalizing places in the Dryden’s memories. This one would see the world for herself. For me to be free, into the old mage tower you must go and destroy. In return, this one seals the Veil. No more demons, no more enemies. Your Peak would be safe. Just let this one go into the world.” “What exactly will you do if I free you?” “This one will roam,” it says, the hunger for freedom so intense it drips from the very words. “This one will see. This one will feed. ”  Ah, Hera thinks, gnawing her bottom lip in thought. Feeding. I know that desire well.  “Feed?” Alistair squeaks. “On... people? ” “But without me, the Veil will weaken,” the demon says confidently. “More demons. More misery. You choose- just one of my kind, or many.” “Why the tower?” Morrigan asks. “What’s in it that traps you?” The demon shakes its head and lifts Sophia Dryden’s hands in helpless confusion. “Something inside keeps my kind locked away. Destroy everything in the tower.” “Tell me what’s happened here,” Hera presses. “How did the Veil tear?” “The mages tore it themselves,” the demon says. “On purpose. The Dryden ordered them to do it during their rebellion. The Wardens created their own problem. Will you release me?” “Interesting. I’m trapped here, myself,” she says in an easy, conversational tone. “I wouldn’t mind finding a way out, either.” “What?” Alistair snaps. “You’re joking!” “So you will release this one?” the demon asks, the hollow voice echoing with something not quite hope. Hera nearly agrees, but her own trapped state and blunder with the mirror moments before have put her in a mercurial mood. It gets the better of her, and she draws her sword. “No.” “Fool!” the demon shouts, and attacks. “Die!” Three more undead corpses are summoned, appearing to come from the very shadows of the room, and the demon attacks Hera. She fights recklessly, throwing impossible blows against the demon and feeling them skitter off her armor. It comes down to the two of them, both fueled by disappointed expectations and rage at their own circumstances. Zevran lets out a shout of encouragement and Hera steps forward, putting herself directly into the commander’s reach. Before the fatal blow can fall, however, she sweeps her own sword across the neck of the creature, severing its head. “Back to hell,” she spits, kicking the head away from her. “That was reckless,” Zevran chides her. “Glorious, but foolish as well. You should never put yourself so close to your enemy’s blade on purpose.” “I don’t care,” she mutters, crouching down. “Help me take this armor off her. I want it.” “You can’t be serious,” Morrigan sneers. “It’s covered in rot.” “I can wash it. Look at it, it’s beautiful,” she argues. “And it looks like it’ll fit Alistair with some new straps.” “Lovely,” Alistair drawls, wiping his sword blade on an old curtain. “A pretty new set of armor, fresh off the ancient rotted corpse.” Zevran chortles and helps her remove it. “Shall we leave it here for the way back?” “I think so,” Hera agrees. “She said the Veil is weakened here; that must be the mirror’s doing. Morrigan, can you fix it?” “Not me,” she says. “I am not powerful enough, nor do I know that kind of magic. But perhaps there is something in the tower she loathed so well that will help.” Hera leads the way outside and across a stone bridge, the wind so strong it threatens to blow them onto the jagged rocks below. She pauses for a moment, the gusts whipping stray locks out of her braid and against her face, making her cheek sting. Of all the sights I’ve seen, this must be one of the most breathtaking, she thinks, enchanted by the view of the Peak. It’s cold and dangerous, but at the same time, it sparkles with untouched beauty and raw wonder. 
If I do have to stay in this world...I think I’d like to stay here. The Peak and I might be a good fit.
 “With all the fires and lamps lit, there has to be someone alive here,” Alistair points out. “But how?” Levi asks. “There’s been no one here for years. They would have no food or supplies.” “Perhaps they do not need food,” Morrigan interjects, sliding her gaze to Hera. “Well, I’ve never met any such person,” Hera laughs. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.” At the tower, they enter a room that looks very much like a library, complete with a full set of undead. After dispatching them, they poke around, and Hera finds a journal written by a mage Avernus. “The same Avernus from the journal’s page we found earlier?” Levi asks. “It seems so,” Hera murmurs, reading. Her eyes grow wide as she rereads a page, not quite believing what she’s seeing. Blood magic and cruelty, she realizes as the journal details things to make a dhampir shudder. “By the Powers!” “What is it?” Alistair asks, coming closer. “This...man...he was experimenting on his fellow Wardens!” she says, pointing out the entries that detail it. “Blood magic, and quite a lot of it.” “It is my understanding that the Grey Wardens do not turn away power or assistance, no matter the ethical questions,” Morrigan points out. “Perhaps this Arvernus was only following orders.” “No, Morrigan, read this…” Hera hands the book to her. “He enjoyed it. He got a thrill out of it.” “Hera.” She turns toward Alistair. He stands at the desk, holding a bottle made of dark glass. “It’s labeled Number Eighty-Two .” She takes it from him, and suddenly her mouth waters, dhampir instincts demanding the blood inside. Why now? she thinks miserably. My thirst has been under control for months. And yet...damn me to seven hells, I want it. “It’s blood,” she says, holding it slightly away from her, disgusted with herself for wanting it so badly. “Oh damn me, it’s his blood experiment. It could change everything we know about the taint.” Alistair frowns, touching her cheek gently. “Are you all right? You look sick.” Shaking her head and covering her mouth, she hurries outside with the bottle. Don’t drink it, she pleads with herself and sucking freezing air into her lungs. The thirst is strong, not having been slaked since before she came to Ferelden, and the magic in this blood is tempting. I will not drink it. This is repulsive even to one who dines on blood.  
Oh gods, I want it.
 “Hera?”  I need it.  “Alistair,” she gasps in relief, trembling. “This is blood magic. If one of us drinks it…” She shakes her head again. “Alistair throw it away.” She can see his concern, and she takes great gulps of breath, hoping he’ll think her reaction is disgust with the mage and not a terrible thirst that could put her very life in danger. They would only see a monster, bloodthirsty and horrible, no better than darkspawn.  “Sure,” he says carefully, taking it from her. He has to force her hand open, and she looks away as he throws it as hard and far as he can away from the bridge. Even so, she can hear the glass shatter, and blesses whatever god made the wind blow the scent of it away from them- she’d have gone mad for it if she’d had to smell it, too. “Are you...are you all right?” “I will be,” she promises, calmer now. She takes slower breaths, regaining control of herself. “I’m fine. I just...that mage. He deserved to be punished for what he did to those poor people.” 
What was that? Blood has never tempted me so powerfully before. Is it the magic in it? Is it the blood of this world? Or is my thirst simply becoming too much to ignore?
 “You need to see this,” he adds, gesturing to the door.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

She follows them into the mage’s laboratory and stops abruptly when she sees an ancient mage standing with his back to them. His robes look so delicate with age they might fall apart, and his head is completely without hair- and by the look of his smooth scalp without so much as a whisker, she assumes what hair he'd once had fallen out some time ago. Scattered through the room are long tables stained dark with blood, some with straps to hold down its occupant, other with long gouges around weathered hand-holds. Hera shudders to see carefully labeled vials and bottles with stacks of papers beside them, and knots her fingers together even as her mouth waters. It's obvious what's inside them, and she nearly swoons with want and thirst.  Powers preserve me, she prays desperately. This is not the moment to explain what a dhampir is. Please, please don’t let any of those bottles break or be opened.  “I hear you,” croaks the mage. “Don’t disrupt my concentration.” Hera looks at Alistair, who shrugs, and they advance as one. The mage finally turns, looking down at them from the height of his workspace. “Even now the demons seek to replenish their numbers,” he tells them, coming closer. “Are you to thank for this welcome- but temporary- imbalance?” “The old Warden mage?” Hera gasps. “You’re still alive?” “Only just,” he laughs. “I have only a short time left. Why are you here? What is your intent?” She narrows her eyes at him. “I’ve seen your experiments. Your hands are so bloody I can smell the rot from here.” “They were necessary,” he says, reciting words he’s clearly told himself a thousand times before. “Any tool, any iota of information that could defeat the foul demons was justified.” He looks at her with a wolfish expression. “As a Warden, you should know that.” “Necessary?” Alistair sneers. “Having to relieve yourself after an eight-hour ride is necessary. But there’s no excuse for summoning demons.” “Aw,” the mage sweetly coos. “Charming.” “Soldier’s Peak must be rid of its plague of demons,” Hera tells him. “Agreed. This must be the first priority. The only priority. I assume you’ve come to recover the base for the other Wardens?” “Yes,” Alistair answers. “You knew someone would come eventually.” “Hmm, an admirable goal,” he says haughtily. “But in order to achieve this, the demons must be cut off forever.” Hera has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. In all her adventures, she’d never talked so much before a fight as she did in Ferelden. Zeus was the talker she tended to run in hell-for-leather and kill things once he was finished. She finds it annoying and makes a mental note to thank her brother for his service in this manner. “You had to know that summoning so many demons was foolhardy,” she points out. “Even if your Grand Rebellion was worth it.” “Perhaps,” he concedes, pride in his voice and color growing in his withered cheeks. “But it was survival. For months, I prepared the summoning circles, researched the darkest depths of the Fade. That moment was a triumph of demonic lore. Dozens of demons called by my hand. But...with so many variables I suppose calculation errors were inevitable. I was so close!” “You’re to blame for all this, ” she spits. “Some things you just don’t do.” “And who draws this line?” he asks carefully. “Of what is safe, proper, or moral? The chantry? Corrupt, mundane, pathetic little men? You?” His voice holds the echo of a chuckle, as if the idea almost amuses him. “Embrace the core tenet of the Wardens: by any means necessary to win.” “What was the purpose of your experiments?” she asks. “Did you mean to build better Wardens, some kind of superior soldier?” “The darkspawn taint,” he says darkly. He clasps his hands behind his back and begins to pace like a professor in a lecture hall. “The Wardens use it only to sense the darkspawn, but my research has discovered so much more, hinted at even greater heights. With it, the Wardens could grow even more powerful.” “Could it cure the darkspawn taint?” Alistair asks hesitantly. "The wasting sickness that comes from the Blight?" Vaguely she wonders if the prospect would indeed validate the man’s crimes. “Would you allow me to continue research if I said yes?” Avernus asks, amused. “I would say possibly, if so.” “Is that what you think?” Hera questions. “Could it?” “I…” he hesitates. “I do not know. There is power there, and with it, the Wardens could aspire to be the most powerful soldiers in the world. But to cure it? I cannot say.” “Then the time for questions is over,” Hera says sharply. The mage bows his head for a moment. “So be it. My only request is if justice or vengeance drive you, stay your hand until the demons are dealt with.” Hera nods. “Until the demons are dead, we are allies.” “Then we must go to the Great Hall- there I will repair the damage I caused so long ago. There will be peril,” he warns, “the demons will fight us every step of the way. Come.” They follow Avernus back across the bridge and to the Great Hall. “So these are summoning circles,” Morrigan says, her interest apparent. “Tell me, was it difficult?” “It took much research and time,” he says vaguely, watching Hera for her reaction. “Greater skill than you have now.” “You do not know what skill I have, old man,” Morrigan snaps. He ignores her and turns to the Grey Wardens. “We must act quickly, the demons are clawing on the gates. The Veil must be closed.” Weapons come out, and Hera glances around at her friends. “I’m ready when you are,” she says, her mouth set in a grim line. “I will unravel the summoning circles I drew so long ago,” he tells them. “Waves of spirits and demons may come through- dispatch them. I will begin.” “Morrigan, stay back,” Hera orders, walking to the center of the space. Behind them she can hear Avernus begin chanting, his voice quivering at first, unused to such volume and use, before growing stronger. “Alistair, my left, Zev, the right. Levi, you still have that crossbow?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Good, stay with Morrigan.” Avernus turns to the mirror. “First, I must summon the magical energies. I feel them,” he says in a hollow voice giving to his age. “They’re coming!” Instantly three rage demons appear, and Morrigan freezes two in place, giving them all a chance to react. Hera shakes off the ice and helps Zevran with his as Alistair takes out the two disabled ones, bolts whizzing past their ears and landing in the demons with a loud thunk . They have just enough time to inhale before shades appear, and even less when ash wraiths and more rage demons come through the circles. It’s chaos, and more than once she has to dodge blades from her own people, but Hera feels alive with magic in this place. Every inch of her feels as if she’s receiving a series of small shocks and her power pulses, pressing against her skin in rolling waves, desperate to be free. She has little doubt that if she were to unleash it she could dissolve all the demons here with little more than a thought, but it would probably also tear the Veil past repair. Once again, she finds herself envying Morrigan, who has full use of her magic but seems to take no joy in it. Amidst the madness, Avernus runs from one gear-like summoning circle to the next, unraveling the magic trapped there. Finally, a desire demon steps through, her movements slow and sinuous. Morrigan freezes her in place, but Hera still hears the soft voice in her head.  I can give you everything... Let me free...I will be yours…  Shaking her head against the demon’s call, Hera plunges her sword into it, falling back on her ass as Zevran shouts and spins his sword, taking its head off. “Well that was unexpected,” Hera laughs as the demon's body falls, spraying her with blood. “Apologies, my Warden,” he says charmingly, offering her a hand up. “May I say red is your color?” “Disgusting,” Morrigan sneers. “It’s over,” the ancient one says, approaching slowly and ending their chatter. “The Veil is strong now. Stronger, at least. So what of me? Will you leave me to experiment in peace?” “No more dark research,” Hera decides. “Find humane ways to help the Wardens.” “You would hinder me so!” he cries, insulted. “I am so close to a breakthrough!” “It’s that, or I kill you now,” she offers, lifting her dagger meaningfully. He sighs in resignation, shoulders drooping. “Very well. I will share anything I learn with the Wardens, and with you.” Without another word, he turns and makes his slow way back to the tower. Hera sits back on the floor, putting a hand to her leg and coming away with blood she was certain hadn’t come from the demon. Her stitches had burst, and now that the fight was over, the pain was shooting along the length. “Damn,” she mutters. “Is anyone hurt?” “Aside from a few scrapes and bruises,” Zevran says, “no, amora. Do you need help?” “No, I’ll be fine.” “Stop me if you heard this one,” Alistair says, grabbing his pack from the corner. “But you’re not fine.” “Of course not,” Morrigan says, handing her a skin of water. “She’s covered in demon blood.” “Her stitches busted,” Alistair sneers, digging in his bag. “Or can’t you tell?” Hera thanks her and pours it on the clean bandage Alistair hands her, wiping off her face and hands. “I think this will hold until we get back to camp,” she says, gesturing to her leg. “That is if no one minds going a little slower?” “Wait here, Hera,” Zevran offers. “Alistair and I will retrieve the Dryden’s armor for you.” She nods, and Morrigan sits near her, ripping open her pants leg again. “You need a bandage at least, you fool,” her friend mutters, and Hera makes appropriately pained noises as a new bandage is wrapped and tied. “I cannot stitch flesh, but I know how to knot a bandage.” Hera notices Levi anxiously pacing in a corner. “Levi? Something wrong?” “What- no,” he says, coming closer. “Blood makes me a bit nervous is all. But you’ve done it, Warden, Soldier’s Peak is safe again. That old geezer Avernus deserves the gallows if you ask me, but people will do queer things to survive. There was no proof to redeem my family,” he adds sadly. “The Drydens remain shamed.” Hera takes his hand and squeezes it, looking up at him. “The past doesn’t offer redemption very often, Levi,” she says in an experienced tone. “Try the future instead. Your grandmother may not have been, but you’re a good man. Perhaps you’re the balance to the scale.” “Well...I...uh...thanks Warden,” he says, blushing. “For so long I was focused on the past, on answers. I think I would have been better off had I stayed at home.” He gives himself a little shake, drawing back his shoulders. “Enough of that, though. I find myself at a loss- you’ve got a whole fortress now, and I suppose I should start plying my trade again.” “You know...the Peak will liven up before long,” Hera says absently. “We’ll need a steward, someone to clean the place up, bring in tradesmen. I don’t suppose you know an ancient, noble, trustworthy family who might be willing to live and work here?” Levi brightens. “I suppose I might at that. Nice place to store trade goods- you, of course, will get a sizable discount.” “And access to some of the best products and smithing in the country?” she wheedles as Alistair and Zevran return. “I suppose we can help each other,” he says brightly. “I’d be happy to stay on and bring my family here as well. Come back in a few weeks, I’ll have this place in top shape.” “Looks like we’re done here,” Alistair says. “A demonic invasion thwarted, a Warden’s base safely rescued- we do good work.” “Yes, yes,” Morrigan sighs as she stands. “We’re just a jolly bunch of do-gooders.” Hera takes Zevran’s hand to follow suit, smiling at her friend. “Morrigan, if you didn’t like it, you’d have left long ago.” “I hate you. So much,” she tells Alistair. “Me? I didn’t do anything!” he argues as Hera laughs. “Just reminding you.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about blood magic,” Morrigan says, approaching Hera by the fire later that night. “Your reaction to Avernus and his experiments- especially the vial of blood- was...unusual.” “You don't have watch tonight,” Hera says darkly, studying her new chain mail shirt and mentally mapping how to alter it to fit her. “And you’ve stood one watch already,” she points out. “Wynne and I have erected barriers, the darkspawn will not find us tonight. Tell me, what disturbed you so much today? You have always struck me as a woman whose ends justifies her means.” “I apologize if my scene upset you.” Hera doesn't look up, but her eyebrows draw together and she scowls at the mail in front of her. "It won't happen again." Morrigan busies herself by lifting the kettle and pouring a cup of coffee. “I understand about the mirror- you thought you had found your way home. Anyone would have responded as you did. But I have a different question: would you have truly left and not come back?” Hera sips her coffee, giving herself a moment to think about her answer. “I don't know,” she says slowly. “But that wasn't the way, so it doesn't matter.” “I think it does.” There’s an unusual warmth in her voice, so unlike the witch that Hera looks up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Why would you say that?” “The mere sight of it was enough to upset you,” Morrigan says simply. “And you long to return to your world, as well you should. But would you?” she repeats. "If the glass had opened up and allowed you to return to the proper time and place, would you have walked away and left us to the Blight?" “I...I don't know,” she admits. After a moment, she bows her head and releases a heavy sigh. “Yes. I would have had to.” Morrigan smiles and nods as if she expected no less. “And Alistair? Would you have left him so easily?” “Do you think it would have been easy to leave any of you in the middle of this nightmare?” she asks, her voice soft with guilt. “I would not have enjoyed it.” “It is I who asked you about him .” Hera sighs. “No, it would not have been easy. But I would have done it, even though I would miss him terribly.” She’s quiet a moment, moving her gaze from Morrigan’s face to the stars. “I’d have come back if I could. With help.” Morrigan makes an amused sound and stands. “You would have brought us an army to wage war for love,” she teases. “What a romantic you are. It’s surprising.” Hera watches her walk off to her distant camp. So? I’ve made my living selling the illusion of romance. It was bound to rub off eventually.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair stumbles out of his tent and plops down beside Hera while she curses and struggles to remove rings from her chainmail. “Trying to make it smaller?” he yawns. Hera nods and pops a link out, reaching out to catch it in mid-air before it can bounce away. “Damn chainmail. It’s always too big. I should be a master armorer by now. Why are you awake?” “Dreams,” he mutters, and she nods. “Let me hold it for you,” he offers, stretching the shirt out for her. “Better?” “Yes, thank you,” she mumbles, focused on picking out the right links so she can remove the excess and recreate the new ‘seam’ all at once. “I should just start wearing chainmail over my gowns. Or as a gown. I could start a new fashion.” Alistair frowns, confused. “Does this happen often, getting pulled out of your world and into war?” Realizing what she may have let slip, she glances up at him. “You’d be surprised- there!” She stands and pulls the metal shirt over her head, wiggling to help it slither down her body. “That’s better,” she says happily, running her hands over it. “You men are tall enough but too broad.” “Well there aren’t many women in the Grey Wardens,” he reminds her. “Right- too smart for you,” she laughs, pulling it off and putting it with her gear. “Not that we couldn’t use the view,” he quips, watching her bend over her pack. “So...all this time we've spent together,” he begins, looking up at her face when she turns. “You know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us... will you miss it once it's over? When you find a way home?” Hera gathers her pliers up and starts fashioning the extra mail into a coif. “It makes me tear up just thinking about it,” she teases, putting the length of chain on top of his head and making note of how big to make it. “Oh me too,” he chuckles, pulling her hands away from his head. She laughs, twisting her hands out his grip and adjusting the mail on his head. “Stay still, will you?” With another chuckle, he dutifully sits still, watching her with a silly grin. “Hera, I wanted to tell you...I’m glad I met you. You’re one hell of a fighter, and I’m glad you’re here. With me. I...I like you, a lot.” Hera’s heart flutters a little when he looks at her, and she’s glad her hands have something to do, otherwise they’d shake or do something equally foolish. “I like you a lot too,” she tells him with a smile. “Hera...are you blushing?” he teases, his eyes wide. “Who, me?” she laughs, taking the chain mail from his head and resisting the urge to touch her cheeks like a silly girl. “Nonsense. I’m a worldly courtesan, nothing makes me blush anymore,” she declares, tossing her hair over her shoulder. He squints slightly, still smiling. “What a shame. It’s very pretty.” He gets up and goes to his tent, humming to himself. Hera is left sitting alone by the fire, wondering at the change Alistair brings about in her. If it were only desire causing her discomfort, she would simply follow him and take what she wanted. But this was different. He makes me feel...better than beautiful. Like a part of me has been waiting for him all these years. No one had ever inspired such emotion from me- not even Anatoly.  
And yet...
  Mother once said that my father made her feel that way. Is that love, then? She scowls, laying her hands in her lap and staring into the fire. What foolishness...I can't be in love with him. I sell love as a service. It’s an illusion for those that it, for as long as they will pay. I’m not so stupid as to actually fall for my own tricks.  
...Can I? Absolutely not. This is lust only. I’ll prove it.
 Setting aside her work, she follows him, pausing at the entrance. “Alistair?” “Yes? What do you need?” he asks, coming out. Hera smiles seductively. “Want to join me in my tent once my watch is over?” she asks softly. Alistair blinks, staring at her dumbly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Alistair?” He shakes his head as if to clear it and coughs. “I know most guys would probably leap at the chance to be with you, but I don’t know if I’m ready for that. For me, it's a...big step.” He groans. “I guess that makes me sound like an idiot. I mean...turn down an incredible woman like you? I'd have to be.” He’s saying no...again...has anyone ever said no more than once? I think I’d agree with him on the idiot stance. Could he be a paladin and simply...not know it? “I understand,” she says slowly. “I think.” “I guess I was just raised not to take this sort of thing lightly,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”  He wants it to mean something, not an illusion that will fade with the light of day. Warmth curls around the pit of her stomach, and she smiles. How strange...I suddenly don't mind that he’s saying no. “Don’t be,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “I understand.” “Oh Maker,” he groans. “Hera, I do like you- you know that. And I’ve thought about it...I just...I wanted to court you a little- like we talked!” he adds quickly, hanging his head. “Are...are you upset?” he asks, raising his eyes to meet her gaze. “No,” she laughs. “Although I’m not used to rejection. I appreciate your honesty, Hero.” “Please don't tell me that’s what everyone calls me behind my back?” he asks with self- deprecating laugh. “I don’t mind when you do it, but if Morrigan starts I might have to kill myself.” “Only me,” she giggles. “I do want you to know that I enjoy your company, and if you change your mind...let me know.” “I kind of want to change it now,” he laughs, then his face turns a bit serious. “Thank you, Hera. For understanding. Goodnight.” He starts to turn away but looks back at the last second. “Get some rest, you look tired.” “Oh. I will.” Hera watches him go back inside, troubled by the warmth creeping through her. She goes outside the circle of firelight, looking out into the darkness and hugging herself tightly. 
Oh, Hera...what game are you playing? This is dangerous; it’s madness.
 
I’m a courtesan of the highest regard, not some giggling girl in her first bloom. I don’t even believe in love anymore. Not for myself.
 
And he is a Grey Warden. Loyal to his duty and order. And royalty- that’s a whole other matter entirely.
Anything between us will come to an end, and sooner rather than later. But I will let him court me as he wishes. I will teach him whatever it is he wants to know, and enjoy myself in the process. She glances back at the tent, wanting nothing more than to slip inside and bask in his irrepressible warmth again. But I shouldn’t allow myself to feel anything more than a passing fondness. I can’t allow it.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It takes two days to get back to the North Road and back on the way to Denerim. Hera watches Alistair get nervous and unsure of himself as they travel. The second time he directs them down a path that ends in an old goat trail, she takes the map and decides against any of this so-called shortcuts. To distract him from the anticipation of meeting his sister, Hera teaches him the best way to cover distance on foot by having them run a short distance, then walk twice that. Sten and Leliana take to it easily, and Zevran would have simply run most of the day if she had let him. Morrigan, showing great disdain for the practice, would simply turn herself into a bird and fly ahead, using the time to look for places to camp for the night. It’s Alistair and Wynne who concern Hera. Wynne is near sixty and tires faster than the others; poor Alistair is good for short distances but has little endurance. Sten makes Alistair his special project, often running behind him barking orders and yelling insults to keep him going. Once, walking far behind the two, Wynne laughs softly, watching them. “He is a good lad.” “Alistair?” Leliana asks. “Sten,” the mage laughs. “Hera, you are a good leader, and we could ask for none better, but Sten is building him up in a way you cannot. You are a rogue at heart, with your cunning and finesse. Sten will have him ready to unleash power and control when the time comes. It is good for him.” Hera nods, smiling when they see the two stop running. Zevran starts to sing and jog circles around Alistair as he bends over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. Ares, thinking it’s a game, happily barks and tries to play. “I agree. Zevran can go all day if he wishes, but he is small and light. Sten will help him build endurance.” “Or kill him,” Leliana snickers. “He looks like he’s going to throw up.” Wynne tilts her head, watching him carefully. “He just might," she chuckles. "But he’ll sleep well, that’s for certain.” Hera looks up, watching the cloudy sky for a sign of Morrigan’s hawk form. “It’s going to rain soon. I hope she finds a good spot.” As if summoned, a hawk swoops down to land in the middle of the road, and suddenly Morrigan stands before them. “I have, deep into the forest. It is near a hot spring. Denerim is closer than we thought; you can be there midday tomorrow.” “Good,” Hera says cheerfully. “Are you still determined to stay at camp?” she asks. “Is there anything you would like from the market?” “Only the peace I will have once you take Alistair with you.” They get close enough to hear Alistair’s ragged breathing and Sten’s disappointment. “You Grey Wardens grew soft with your griffins,” he says flatly. “Grey-” he gasps, “Wardens-” another gasp “lost- ‘em.” “I know,” Sten interrupts. “It was hundreds of years ago and you still have not recovered. Look at the elf, he mocks you. He will steal your women and trick you out of your gold.” “He is probably right, my friend,” Zevran says cheerfully, still jogging in circles around him and going back to singing a bawdy little tune fit for the dirtiest of brothels. “I put my hand upon her toe, yo ho, yo ho…” Alistair falls to the ground, laying on his back. “I don’t care.” “Is that so?” Hera teases, approaching. “In that case, I suggest we all play cards later. I have a few tricks you haven't seen yet.” "Might I suggest a game where one wagers their clothing?" Zevran suggests, circling them again. “I mean-” he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I give up.” Hera offers her hand to help him up. “Come on, Morrigan’s found us a campsite. You can give up in an hour.” She hauls him to his feet and follows Morrigan into the forest.  They set up camp quickly, thunder rolling above their heads. To avoid standing watch in a storm, Wynne and Morrigan erect barriers around the camp- they won't be able to get out, but nothing- including darkspawn- can get in, either. “Warden, let’s spar while we wait for the rain,” Zevran suggests, watching Sten and Wynne go to their tents in anticipation of the downpour. “I do not fear getting wet.” “The wetter the better.” Hera jumps up. “You’re on.” “Shall we do it like men, in only our shirts?” he challenges cheerfully. Hera looks down at her own shirt, almost ragged and the worst of the ones she owns. “I only have a few, so you have to promise you won’t cut it up.” “Oh Warden, I am afraid I cannot promise that,” he says with a slow grin. “Shall we strip to our chests, then?” Pushing her hair over her shoulder, she nods. “Fine with me.” Dropping her things, she pulls her shirt over her head, leaving the binding her only covering. Zevran puts a hand to his chest and falls over. “Maker take me,” he says loudly. “I have seen all the beauty of the world.” With a smug grin, she puts a foot on his chest triumphantly. “I win.” “Maker’s breath,” Alistair whispers in annoyance, watching them laugh and move into a better spot to spar. He’s never seen a woman so quickly unclothed. Except for when Hera was in the infirmary in Ostagar and at camp after the tower, but she’d been covered at least. Now, in snug trousers and only her binder, he can hardly breathe for wanting her. Shifting uncomfortably, Alistair watches them grab their weapons and scratches Ares behind the ear, trying not to drool. “She’s incredible, isn't she?” Leliana asks, sitting beside the dog. “Both of them, really. They’ve been running all day and still have energy to spare. And gorgeous, too.” Alistair grimaces, his legs twitching at the thought of running again. “I hate them.” She snickers. “It isn't so bad; you just have to keep running and it will get easier. As for the rest… Well, not everyone can be Antivan, I suppose.” Alistair snorts, watching Hera toy with Zevran. Her movements are quick and light, striking him with the flat of her blade and a giggle, hair flowing behind her as she moves around him. She looks like she’s dancing. Her skin gleams under the dim light like a pearl, contrasting sharply with Zevran’s own golden tone. “It almost isn't fair,” he murmurs. “She’s so beautiful,” Leliana agrees. “And there’s such joy there.” Alistair raises his eyebrows at her. “Joy?” She nods, gesturing to the pair. “Look, she’s smiling and giggling, she practically glows. It must be distracting to him. With the way she uses her beauty against him, I am quite glad she’s an ally,” she giggles. "I wonder if Loghain will be able to deny her anything." He studies Hera and realizes Leliana is right. Zevran banters with her, making suggestive comments and keeping a light conversation as they fight, same as always. Hera laughs and flirts with him, sometimes taking a risk to make it look flashy. But mostly she just looks happy . “I don't suppose court life gives her a chance to adventure much,” he suggests. “Court life? I thought she was a courtesan?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. “She is,” he explains. “But when she and her twin went to Ravenloft, they decided to stay.” “I see.” Leliana draws the words out as if there is more to the story. “What does she do there?” He shrugs. “Serve the queen, I guess.” They’re startled by a clap of thunder so loud it rumbles the earth, and half a second later the clouds burst. Leliana squeals and runs for the tent she shares with Wynne, leaving him alone. Holding his shield over his head, Alistair stays where he is, watching Hera throw her head back and let the rain wash over her. Even Zevran bolts for his tent, disappearing into its depths. “You’ll catch your death,” he calls to her. She looks over at him with the purest smile. “It’ll have to catch me ,” she laughs, holding her arms out and spinning around. He climbs to his feet and heads for his own tent but watches her from the entrance. Thinking she’s alone, her expression changes and she looks a little lost and sad. Alistair almost goes to her, wanting to know what could come to mind to erase the happiness of the afternoon when Ares barks, snapping her out of it. Her expression shifts, her face as changeable as the sea, and she laughs at the mabari and follows him into her tent, scratching his head. Well at least the dog has enough sense to get out of the rain, he thinks.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When they wake, the sky is clear and the air cool, making it truly feel like autumn. Hera stands in front of the fire sipping coffee and letting the others sleep. “Denerim today,” she sighs to herself, watching the steam rise from her tin cup. “And then what? Time is slipping away so fast.” “Or not fast enough.” She looks over her shoulder at Alistair as he walks up. “I thought I’d let everyone sleep in today,” she says, offering him her cup. “Why are you up?” He drains it and hands it back with a nervous smile. “I couldn’t sleep.” “Really? I would have thought you’d sleep like the dead after how Sten ran you yesterday.” “Me too, but I guess the cold just made me stiff and sore.” “I can help,” she offers. “Sit by the fire and take off your shirt.” “And put my modesty in danger?” he gasps gleefully. “Or you can stay in pain,” she decides, kneeling down to pour more coffee. “No, please! Help me,” he says pitifully, pulling his shirt over his head and sitting on a nearby stump. Hera cracks her knuckles and stands behind him. “We traveled with this giant man once; he called himself a Viking,” she tells him, putting her hands on his shoulders and rubbing lightly to relax him. “I never did find out what exactly a Viking was, but he was very proud of being one. Swung around an ax as big as Ares. But he used to get great pains in his back after cold nights, this would always help. Don’t scream.” “What-” In a swift movement, she grabs his elbows, pulling them back and putting a knee in the middle of his back, forcing him to arch drastically. He lets out a high-pitched scream as his back pops from the base of his neck all the way down, and Zevran rolls out of the tent, naked, armed, and ready. “What is...Hera...what are you doing?” he asks, lowering his daggers. “I was stretching his back,” she explains, putting her foot down and releasing his arms. “You weren’t supposed to scream,” she chides Alistair. Gasping for breath, Alistair leans forward and gags. “You weren’t supposed to hurt me! Why is he naked ?” “Hush, you’re going to wake everyone. If you’re good, Zev and I will tell them it was a rabbit dying in the woods,” she offers, rubbing his back in soothing circles. She gives Zevran an appraising look and nods approvingly. “Nice,” she adds, raising her eyebrows at his arousal. "Every morning?" Looking down at his fully erect manhood, he shrugs. "Usually. Isn't that the way?" 
“The lake did you no favors, my friend.”
 
Zevran sticks his lower lip out into a full pout. “It was cold. Do not hold it against me,

amora.

”
 
Alistair looks over his shoulder, his look of pain quickly morphing into one of horror. “What are you- Maker’s breath! Put that away, man!”
 “My daggers?” Zevran asks, swinging his hips back and forth with a grin. “I’m afraid I do not have any sheaths on me, my friend,” he says with an amused look to Hera. “Only blades.” “And what fine blades they are,” Hera laughs. “Zevran!” “I will hold this moment close to my heart forever,” Zevran promises, putting a hand over his heart. “Would you put on pants?” Alistair asks in growing agitation. “Why are you always naked?” “Is something wrong with me?” he asks, running his hands over his own chest. “I am as the Maker made me, are you offended by nudity, my friend?” “Maker, yes!” “Prude.” Zevran laughs and goes back into his tent. “Very well, I shall not grace your vision with my physical beauty.” Hera laughs and pats Alistair’s shoulders. “Well I guess he’s the only one who heard you,” she teases. “But you feel better, don’t you?” Alistair swings his arms and rolls his shoulders, looking pleasantly surprised. “Actually...I do. Thank you. I guess I’m a little anxious…” “Because you’re going to meet your sister today?” she asks, offering him his own cup of coffee. “I thought you were looking forward to it.” He nods and reaches for the cup. “I am,” he says. “But...what if I’m not...I don’t know, a good brother? What if I’m a burden to her?” She crouches in front of him, looking up at him. “I happen to have a brother, and he is equal parts blessing and burden, depending on his mood that day,” she explains with a smile. “You’ll be a wonderful brother, just like you’re a wonderful friend.” Some of the tension fades from around his eyes, and he gives her a relieved smile. “I hope she’s there.” “If she is, we’ll find her,” she promises, standing and adding more wood to the fire so she can make breakfast. “Do you want to go alone? We need some supplies, but you can go to her house alone if you want.” “Oh. Uh...n-no,” he stammers. “I don’t think I want to be alone. With her. Not because-!” He spills his coffee on his thigh, cursing at himself and jumping to his feet to pace. “But...but maybe you and I can go to Denerim? Alone?” “If no one else wants to go, sure.” He lets out a deep breath. “All right. I know Sten doesn’t want to go, he said so yesterday. So it’s really just Leliana, Wynne or him, ” he says, jerking his chin to the Antivan’s tent. “We could always send them for supplies,” she suggests. “And go to your sister’s on our own.” “I like that idea.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera follows Alistair and Leliana into Denerim, Zevran beside her. “Denerim,” Alistair says with amusement. “They say you can get anything here. I once got pickpocketed.” “Yes, it is very nice,” Zevran comments absently, his eyes darting around and taking in everything at once. “I have been here before.” “Me too,” Leliana adds. “It’s almost as nice as the cities in Orlais.” “It is...very little like Antiva City,” Zevran admits. “Hera, is it anything like your home?” “Ravenloft has no cities,” she says, looking around as they walk into the market. It is like many cities she’s seen before: a market square, homes stacked one atop the other until they lean over the street, rivers and piles of midden discreetly- and sometimes no so discreetly- tucked into alleys and corners. And yet the scent of street food and the bustle of the market reminds her of Sigil, making her homesick for the City of Doors. “Not like this, anyway. Villages and a town a little like Redcliffe near the castle. But I lived in Sigil for quite a long time, and there is nothing like it anywhere.” “Oh?” Leliana asks. “What do you mean?” “Sigil is hard to explain,” she starts, thinking of the only city in the planes where one can look up and see not the sky, but another city street full of patrons going about their day. “It is...an infinite city, like a ring. My neighborhood, the Lady’s Ward, could hold Denerim.” She laughs and looks around at the busy market. “My courtyard could probably hold this market.” “My you are wealthy!” Zevran says approvingly. “The business of pleasure must be good.” She winks and gives him a wicked smile. “There’s never an off-season.” “Well, it’s only part of the market,” Alistair says a little defensively, ignoring the talk of her profession. “The Royal Palace is here, and a lot of the nobility have estates here, too.” “Like the Arl of Redcliffe’s, right over there,” Leliana points out, nodding toward a heavy gate. “You’ve been to the estate before?” Alistair asks. “I haven’t been there since I was a child.” “Uh...No, I haven’t been there,” she says uneasily. “But it was pointed out to me once.” “Is everything all right, Leliana?” Zevran asks, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Does the city make you nervous?” Hera watches her fake a laugh, raising an eyebrow as she titters some empty answer. Interesting. She’s clearly been here before. Mischief, perhaps, or has something from her past followed her here?  They pass the chantry, and Hera laughs to hear an old priestess reciting something about ham instead of the Chant she was getting used to hearing anytime they came within earshot of the lovely little chapels filled with stained glass. It lends an amusing, and somewhat comforting, levity to the day as if Denerim is the only place in the world where darkspawn have never been seen or feared. Just before they plunge into the market, Alistair stops in his tracks, staring at a door with a laundress’ sign. “That’s my sister’s house!” he says excitedly. “I’m almost sure of it- yes, this is the right address!” “Leliana, you have the shopping list, right?” Hera says quickly, handing her a purse. “Why don’t you and Zev take care of it and we’ll meet you at the tavern for lunch. You know where it is, right, Alistair?” “What? Oh, yes. The Gnawed Noble,” he says absently, staring at the sign. Leliana nods, taking the purse from Hera. “Good luck, Alistair,” she says softly, and grabs Zevran by the arm and drags him off. Turning back to Alistair, Hera takes a deep breath. He suddenly looks like a little boy, nervous and excited. “She could be inside,” he says to himself. “Could...could we go and see?” With a smile, she takes his hand. “Yes, let’s do that.” “Will she even know who I am? Does she even know I exist? My sister-” He stops, as if the word suddenly feels like another language in his mouth. “That sounds very strange. Sister! Siiiiiister, ” he repeats, playing with it like a toy. After a moment he catches himself, flushing a bit and clearing his throat. “Hm, oh now I’m babbling; maybe we should go. Let’s- let’s go. Let’s just go.” Hera laughs and squeezes his hand. How wonderful it would be to see my own sibling again, she thinks, his excitement infecting her. I miss Zeus terribly. Oh, I hope your Maker is smiling at you today, Hero. You deserve someone as wonderful as my own twin.  He pauses at the door again, his face a mixture of hope and fear of rejection. “She’s a laundress,” he says softly, touching the carved wooden sign. “My sister is a laundress. How...how incredibly normal. To think she’s just been here, living this normal life, the whole time.” “And you’ve been having adventures and are on a quest to save the world. Not everyone gets to be a hero. Some people just have to do the laundry,” she says, opening the door for him. “Come on, Hero,” she adds when he hesitates. The room inside is dim and overly warm, piles of bundled laundry on one side and neatly folded stacks on the other. The entryway is small, and Hera can smell the sharp scent of lye soap in the damp air. “Uh...hello?” he calls, nervously glancing at Hera. “Aye?” a voice calls, and a plain, red-headed woman in a green dress appears from the next room. Once, she might have been pretty, but her hands are red and cracked from the work, and she has the perpetually tired look of one who never has enough of anything. “You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on a bundle, you won’t find better.” The woman evaluates them quickly, and Hera feels as if she’s making some kind of decision about them. “And don’t trust what that Natalia woman tells ya,” she adds, jerking her chin toward the door. “She’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”  Oh, lovely, Hera thinks, trying not to roll her eyes. She hates foreigners. She doesn’t look much like him, though, she realizes, glancing from his sharp, angled features to her softer, rounded ones. “I’m not here to have any wash done,” Alistair stammers, trying to smile. “My name’s Alistair. I’m...well, this may sound sort of strange but are you Goldanna? If so, I suppose I’m your brother!” Goldanna’s face twists into suspicion. “My what?” she sneers. “I am Goldanna, yes. How do you know my name?”  It’s on the door... Hera thinks, giving in to the eyeroll and adding a sigh for good measure. “You’re name’s outside,” she reminds her. “On the sign.” She stares at Hera through narrow, slitted eyes. “What kind of tomfoolery are you folk up to?” she demands. Alistair looks panicked and looks to Hera for help. “Are you sure your information was correct, Alistair?” she asks softly. “Yes,” he says confidently. “I think so. I’m sure of it, in fact. Look, our mother, she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Did you know about that? She-” “You!” she screeches, Goldanna's eyes flying open wide. “They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with my mother, but I knew they were lying!” She jabs the air with her finger angrily. “They told you I was dead?” he asks, stunned. “Who? Who told you that?” “Them’s at the castle! I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!” she shouts, slapping a bundle of laundry that Hera’s almost certain wears Alistair’s face in her mind. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, looking down at his feet. “I...didn’t know that. The babe didn’t die. I’m him; I’m...your brother.” “For all the good it does me,” she scoffs. “You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time. That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back they ran me off!” “I don’t think this was a good idea,” Hera murmurs softly, touching his shoulder. No one can truly believe that a child is responsible for his mother’s death. “Goldanna, he only came to-” Goldanna turns her gaze to Hera. “And who in the Maker’s name are you? ” she demands with a sneer. “Some tart, following after his riches, I expect?”  She’s half right. Hera laughs. “Actually, I’m-” “Hey!” Alistair cuts her off. “Don’t speak to her that way! She’s my friend and a Grey Warden! Just like me!” Goldanna’s sneer turns into mocking adoration. “Oooh, I see. A prince and a Grey Warden too. Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me? I don’t know you, boy,” she says acidly. “Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? Nothing,” she spits. “They tricked me good, and I should have told everyone!” She points to the room behind her. “I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you.” Alistair hangs his head. “I...I’m sorry,” he says, his voice heavy with defeat. “I don’t know what to say.” Hera shoots Goldanna a dagger-filled look and has to ball her fists to keep herself from flinging a spell at her and setting the woman’s hair on fire. How dare you, you wretched little beast? How dare you look at this sweet boy and fling such words at him. Oh, I’d love to show you how the Raven Queen would punish you for this. “It looks like all she wants is your money,” she says with quiet rage. “Yes, it really seems that way, doesn’t it?” he answers, his voice tinged with sorrow. “I wasn’t expecting my sister to be so...I’m starting to wonder why I came.” “I don’t know why you came either,” Goldanna snaps. “Or what you expected to find. But it isn’t here; now get out of my house, both of you!” “Let’s leave,” Hera suggests, her violet eyes burning with anger. “Now.” “I agree,” he says, looking up at her with eyes as hollow as his voice. “Let’s…” He looks up at his scowling sister once more, hope written all over his face. The woman only sneers and crosses her arms. “Let’s get out of here.” The misery in his voice deepens, his shoulders sagging. He turns to the door, eager to get away, while Hera stays where she is and stares at Goldanna longer than necessary, making her fidget under a steady gaze. I would destroy you, she thinks, reaching for the purse on her belt. “You’re quite lucky,” she says, her words so sweet they drip with sincerity. “Oh am I? With a useless wretch of a brother and a houseful of mouths to see to? I’m the bloody Queen of Ferelden.” “You are,” Hera insists, opening the purse. With slow deliberation, she counts out five gold sovereigns and places them beside the folded laundry. “Were we alone, this would have gone quite differently.” She jerks her chin toward the money in a haughty, cold gesture of superiority. “One for each of your mouths. See that you spend it wisely, for there’ll be no more,” she says, her words like stone, before following him out the door. Outside, he takes a deep breath, and Hera prepares for his reaction. “Well, that was...not what I expected,” he says with false cheer. “To put it lightly. This is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life?” The facade falls away, leaving only a young man hurt by the one person who should have accepted him. “That shrew is my sister? I can’t believe it. I…” he sighs and lifts his hands in a helpless gesture. “I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do? I...I feel like a complete idiot.” Seething, she looks as if a glance could burn down Goldanna’s house. That woman...she’s no better than Anatoly was, she thinks. Why do we offer so much to those who give so little? “Everyone is out for themselves,” she informs him, her mind’s eye filled with visions of Zeus fleeing with her in the dark. “You should learn that.” “Yes,” he agrees, clenching his jaw and turning his back on the little house. “I suppose you’re right. I should.” She looks back at him in surprise. “Alistair, that’s-” “Let’s just go. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She nods, watching him pick up the heavy pack of things they need to sell. I’m sorry, Hero. I wanted so much more for you, she thinks, following him into the smith’s shop. When they meet up with Leliana and Zevran an hour later, she gives them a quick shake of her head to stop any questions before they start, and orders them all a whiskey before their food arrives.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After lunch, they finish selling off their excess equipment and purchase the last few items on the list they’d needed. Alistair remains gloomy and taciturn, and Hera leaves him to himself, knowing that his sister hurt him deeply with her show of greed and carelessness. They decide to rent a room at the Gnawed Noble for a few hours to store their things in safety before they go to see Brother Genetiivi, and he catches her alone there, setting a small barrel of ale gently on the table. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening. “I was about to ask if you were feeling sick,” she tells him, going for the joke in hopes of lightening his mood. “Oh, ho, ho, ho,” he says flatly. “Funny, I’m sure. Just listen for a moment.” Hera catches the slight lift at the corners of his mouth and leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “I’m all ears, Hero.” “Back when we left Goldanna’s, you told me I needed to look out for myself more than I do,” he begins, his expression serious. “I’m beginning to think you were right. I need to stop letting everyone else make my decisions for me. I need to take a stand and think for myself for a change, or I’m never going to be happy.” Hera watches him carefully. That isn’t what I meant, but he’s right, she thinks. He’ll throw his life away in the service of others, thinking that’s what he’s supposed to do, and never know any joy for himself. “Don’t let me influence you, Alistair,” she says softly. “But I think it’s about time.” He nods at her approval. “Then from this point on, I’ll be looking out for myself more. I should have done this a long time ago. I just wanted to say thank you,” he adds. “Meeting you...is the one bright spot out of everything that’s happened.” Hera’s heart twists in her chest in agreement. “I feel the same way,” she tells him. “You’re a good friend Hera,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thank you. Now, why don’t we go on, before we forget what we’re here to do?” “Yes,” she agrees. “Brother Genitivi. I bet the bartender can tell us where to find him.” They head over to the bar to find Leliana and Zevran already speaking with him, shaking hands and nodding as if they’ve concluded some sort of deal. “When I have them, I will send them along,” Zevran tells him, and turns away. “Well, ready to be off? It seems this Genitivi fellow is just across the way.” “Really?” Hera asks, giving the bartender a curious look as they leave. “What was that about?” “Oh, just a little side-job,” Leliana explains. “Someone’s looking for toxin samples; we agreed to deliver them if we come across some.” “Does it pay well?” Leliana nods. “Two gold for a dozen. We come across enough spiders for that, easily.” She points to a door as they walk. “This one, right Zev?” “You are correct, my dear.” “Just be careful with those toxins,” Hera warns. “My fingers were numb all day last time.” “That was not my fault,” Zevran argues, knocking on the door.  They’re greeted by a young, dark-haired man, dressed in plain, but well-made, clothes. “Yes? What are you doing here?” he asks, looking around outside before inviting them in. “I’m looking for Brother Genitivi,” Hera explains. “That makes two of us,” the young man says, twisting his hands until she can hear the knuckles pop. “My name is Weylon. I’m Brother Genitivi’s assistant. I haven’t seen him in weeks; he’s sent no word, and it’s so unlike him. I’m afraid something has happened,” he confesses. “Genitivi’s research into the Urn of Sacred Ashes may have lead him into danger.” “And you think he’s in trouble because of the Urn?” she leads, raising her eyebrows. “Perhaps the Urn has been lost for a reason.” His voice takes on a hard edge, and he starts to pace, throwing his arms out as he continues to speak. “I pray for Brother Genitivi’s safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day. I tried to send help, but some knights came from Redcliffe not long ago. I sent them off to Genitivi and they, too, have disappeared!”  Something’s...not right here, she thinks, watching his hands wave about nervously as he talks. “I will succeed where they have failed,” she says lightly, watching for his reaction, “and bring him back safely. I must find the Urn.” “No,” he says quickly, coming closer and folding his hands in a helpless plea. “Don’t ask me where they went. You’ll only go after them, and what if ill luck should befall you, too? This search is a curse on all of us. Some things are not meant to be found, I know that now. I cannot allow anyone else to be hurt because of this folly.” “I need to obtain the Ashes, or Arl Eamon will die,” she persuades. “Weylon you must tell me.” He sighs deeply, then gives up too easily for her taste. “So be it. All he said before he left was that he would be staying at an inn near Lake Calenhad, investigating something in that area. The Bratty Princess, or something.” “The Spoiled Princess? I know it,” Hera hides her suspicion beneath a dazzling smile. Something's not right. “Good, I’ll head for the inn immediately.” “Good luck,” he says dismally. “May you find the answers you seek.” “Thank you,” she replies and follows the others outside. “Stop me if I’m wrong,” Alistair says as they return to the Gnawed Noble for their things, “but weren’t we just there?” “That was more than two weeks ago,” Leliana reminds him. “It’s very possible Weylon is poor at keeping his calendar.” “We were also rather distracted,” Hera adds. “We’ll find him.” I'm just not so sure that we'll find him at the lake, she thinks, glancing over her shoulder at the door. Something wasn't right with him. “With any luck, Morrigan will decide to join the Circle while we’re there,” he mutters. “It’s unlikely,” Zevran tells him. “But, considering how much she dislikes you my friend, not impossible.” “Well, that gives me hope.” Hera grins and turns an eye to the sky as they leave the city. Dark clouds are rolling in quickly, and now and again the wind picks up, blowing dust and leaves through the air. “Let’s hope the weather holds until we get to camp.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Leliana, I’ve heard a great many things about Orlesian spies,” Zevran says as they make their way back to camp.  Orlesian spies? Could that be why she seemed a bit nervous when we entered Denerim? Hera watches her carefully, but Leliana doesn’t give anything away as she shrugs carelessly. If I were going to hire a spy, she is exactly what I’d want.  “There are many rumors about spies- Orlesian or otherwise. What are you referring to, exactly?” she asks, turning her face away to rifle through a bag resting on her hip. “Did we get enough salt?” Zevran lets loose a lustful chuckle. “The female ones who use their powers of seduction to get what they want.” Leliana and Hera both laugh. “I see what you’re getting at,” Leliana says, waving a hand as if to scatter his illusions to the wind. “You may as well ask Hera about that.” “I could tell you tales that would make your toes curl,” Hera purrs. “For such a tale I would let you curl anything you wanted, amora, ” he promises. “But I was asking pretty Leliana.” “Honestly?” Leliana says, pausing. “Yes. Why shouldn’t I use my looks and wiles to get what I want? Violence is not the only solution.” “Or the best,” Hera adds with a little shrug.  “Zevran, people respond eagerly to those they believe understand them,” Leliana explains. “They seek approval, friendship, sometimes love. These things can all be exploited.” Hera glances over at Alistair, catching him watching her in turn. “Not you,” she whispers, lacing her fingers through his. “Not this.” He gives her hand a little squeeze, and she hears a soft chuckle. “Good to know,” he whispers back. “I am sure they didn’t mind being exploited by either of you,” Zevran says in a husky voice. Leliana runs a hand through her fiery hair. “They’ve never complained,” she says airily. “Well, they did ,” she admits with a giggle. “But usually after they’d found out what I’d done. Never during.” “So you’re admitting to being a spy?” Alistair asks, curiosity coloring his voice like a boy.   He’s sharper than he gives himself credit for. Even for a chantry-educated brother. Hera hears Leliana’s short intake of breath before she starts to speak again. He’s called you out, Leliana, what will you do now?  “Not all minstrels are spies, most are just singers and storytellers,” she amends quickly, two red spots appearing on her cheeks. “But some are also bards. Some say there is a bard order, but I don’t think that’s true. I’ve been paid for rumors and such- any performer worth their salt has been- but I am a musician ,” she insists, her voice shaking slightly. “A singer. At least I was before I entered the chantry.”  Wait. Hera watches as Leliana seems to shrink before their eyes, her confidence draining away and her eyes on her feet. There seems to be more to her story- something painful, I’d wager.  “And a better companion than we deserve,” Hera says, cutting Zevran off as he opens his mouth to say more. “Leliana, why don’t we let the boys handle all this? You and I can take our bows and shoot for tonight’s pot.” Leliana agrees, handing her share of the new supplies to Zevran.  “Hera, what are you doing?” Alistair whispers, taking her pack. “Hunting,” she says lightly. “We’ll be at camp before the storm hits. Take my sword,” she adds, unbelting it and strapping it to his back. “With my bow and dagger, I won’t need the added weight.” Alistair grunts, staggering exaggeratedly under the heavy pack and weapon. “Be careful,” he warns. She tosses him a brilliant smile and follows Leliana off the road into the surrounding woods. “Always, Hero,” she says, her words trailing behind her like perfume. Following Leliana silently, Hera keeps an arrow notched and listens for the fluttering heartbeat of small prey. “You don’t have to worry about Zevran,” she says after a while. “Or Alistair. They wouldn’t say or do anything to cause you harm.” “I have revealed too much, it seems,” Leliana answers softly, hanging back so that Hera can come up beside her. “But it doesn’t matter what I used to be. Did you already know?” she asks. Hera shakes her head, meeting Leliana’s gaze. Such fear in those pretty blue eyes, she thinks sadly. And she’s trying so hard to hide it. “No. You’ve kept yourself well hidden in the chantry, but your enthusiasm for adventure is what kept poking holes in your story.” Leliana stares at her for a moment before she starts walking again. “You never said anything. Not even to Alistair?” “Why should I? I myself didn’t know until just now,” she explains. “Leliana, your life is your own, as are your secrets. If you wanted to keep them to yourself, that was your business.” She pauses when a nearby clump of bushes tremble with the rush of wings, followed by a soft, bird-like drumming. “There,” she whispers, raising her bow. Leliana picks up a stick and throws it into the greenery, startling a pair of grouse into short flight. Hera allows herself a moment to show off, her dhampir speed enabling her to shoot twice as fast and take down both birds. “That was so fast!” Leliana exclaims. “You were like a blur! Is that what being a Grey Warden is like?” “Sometimes,” Hera says vaguely, putting her bow over her shoulder and walking over to the dead birds. “These are pretty big. The grouse I’m used to is usually smaller,” she adds, pulling her arrows free. “And what pretty feathers!” the younger woman says softly. “I can use them as fletching.” “And we will have a tasty dinner tonight as well,” Hera says proudly, wrapping a bit of twine around their legs and putting them over our shoulder.  “So long as Alistair doesn’t cook,” Leliana quips. They stay in the shelter of the trees as thunder rumbles in the distance, keeping just in sight of the road. The wind cool, rushing ahead of the storm to make the leaves whisper in the dying light. As the hours pass, Hera tries to stay in the moment, to enjoy this world and its beauty and not be reminded of times spent in forests with her brother and far-away companions. “Hera.” “Hmm?” she asks, looking over her at her friend. “We aren’t far from camp; is something wrong?” “I like to say the Maker brought me here,” she starts slowly, twisting her fingers together. “I...found myself in Ferelden and sheltered from bad weather in the chantry. When the storm passed...I did not want to leave.” With a small nod, Hera puts a hand on her shoulder. “I know what it is to run from your past,” she says softly.  Leliana bows her head, blinking rapidly. “What happened to me...maybe it will affect us, maybe not, but you should know.” She takes a deep breath and lifts her head, clenching her jaw. “I came to Ferelden and the chantry because I was being hunted in Orlais.” “Hunted ?” Hera gasps, eyes wide. “Whatever for? By who? Leliana, are you still in danger?” she asks, wrapping a protective arm around her friend. “I was framed,” she says quickly, her voice thick with emotion. “Betrayed by someone I thought I knew and could trust. Marjolaine- she was my mentor...and my friend. She taught me the bardic arts- how to enchant with words and song, how to carry myself as a high-born lady, to blend in as a servant… Those skills I used to serve her, my bard-master, because I loved her and I enjoyed what I did.” “Oh Leliana,” Hera sighs, brushing her hair back. “I know what it is to misplace your heart. How did she betray you?” “You can say it was my fault,” she says bitterly. “There was a man I was sent to kill; I was to bring Marjolaine everything he carried. I don’t know who this man was. She gave me a name and a description, and I hunted him down. I found documents on his body- sealed documents.” “Important ones, I presume?” “Yes. My curiosity got the better of me. Something told me I needed to know what was in those letters.” Leliana looks away as the first tear rolls down her cheek. “Marjolaine had been selling information about Orlais to other countries,” she says as her voice starts to tremble. “It was treason. I had always assumed Marjolaine had operated only in Orlais. This was an...unhappy surprise. I was afraid her life would be in danger if she were caught. Orlais has been at war with so many countries, it takes a harsh view of such things. As I learned.” Quietly, Hera takes Leliana’s bow and quiver, setting them and her own down and leading her to sit on a fallen log. “Sweet girl,” she says as Leliana begins to cry. “I’m sorry, Leliana.” Something in Leliana breaks, and Hera holds her while she sobs. Poor girl, she thinks, rubbing a hand over her shuddering shoulders. She’s young now, how long ago was this?   When Leliana’s tears start to subside, she raises her head and wipes her face. “I believed her when she said she was innocent, that she was trying to destroy the documents that framed her. I kept believing, up till the moment I saw the documents for myself, altered by her hand to make me look like the traitor.” “What a bitch!” Hera snarls, her eyes narrow slits of cold fury. “What a foul, worthless maggot!” Leliana gives her a grim smile. “Yes, I agree. The guards captured me and...” She shivers, her eyes locked on some far-away point, clearly seeing the past and not the forest around them. “They did terrible things to me, to make me confess and reveal my conspirators. It was a traitor’s punishment I endured.”  Was it so long ago that I myself sat on a throne and ordered the death and torture of traitors? Hera shys away from the idea that they, too, might have been innocent. No, I had proof of their treachery, confessions from their own mouths, long before the first cry of pain.  “Leliana...have you never sought revenge?” Leliana shakes her head, her single braid swinging. “No. Survival was my only concern at the time. I used the skills she taught me to break free, and I have not sought her out. I was tempted, but what good would that have done? She would have had me captured once again. I fled, to the chantry and the Maker.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as if it could cleanse her of the pain of her past. “Ferelden has protected my person, and the Maker has saved my soul. Oh, Hera, I am sorry for having lied to you,” she says, throwing her arms around Hera’s neck. “Surely you can see my reason?” “Yes, of course,” Hera says, glad that Leliana can’t see the guilt on her face.  She feels Leliana’s relieved sigh and squeezes her tightly. “No more lies and secrets between us,” Leliana says, pulling away. She looks as if the truth has been weighing on her, and now that it’s been spoken aloud, she might truly heal from it and move on. “In this, at least.” Hera nods, watching her get to her feet and pick up her things once again. What would happen if I told her my own secret? She wonders, standing. Would they treat me differently, knowing I’m the queen I claim to serve? They don’t treat Alistair any differently, but he’s not a king. I could never tell them I’m dhampir, they wouldn’t understand something born from both the living and the dead.  
I suppose it doesn’t matter. I will die, probably before this is all over, and my secrets will stay mine.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera jolts awake the second the first drop touches her head. “Blast,” she hisses, sitting up and scanning the roof of the tent. Another drop, as frigid as the last, hits her near an eye, making her flinch. “Ares, did you do that?” she asks, giving the mabari a sharp look. In response, the dog’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he buries himself deeper into his nest. The drip becomes a stream as the tear becomes wider under the pounding rain. It looks like a dog bite, and another drip begins from a similar hole in the canvas. Hera glares at the oiled fabric, annoyed with herself for allowing Ares to carry the tent on his back. “You beast,” she mutters, “you put a hole in our tent with your games. Are you happy with yourself?” Ares grumbles and rolls his eyes, tongue flopping out of his mouth in a sleepy grin. A clap of thunder makes her nearly leap out of her skin and she has to stop herself from crying out. Well, that’s silly, she scolds herself. It’s only thunder. No different than at home. Calm down. As if finally realizing he’s done something wrong, Ares lifts his head and whines, shuffling closer to her.  “It’s just a little tear,” she assures him, scratching behind his ear. “We’ll be fine. I just wish I hadn’t promised to limit my magic,” she sighs, moving her flat pillow. “It’s pretty foolish, isn’t it? Forcing myself to live like this when a simple spell would just…” She waves a hand lazily, and the holes repair themselves. “See? Isn’t that better?” she asks Ares, and he makes a soft yip in reply but stays snuggled close to her. The storm rages on, and she lies back down, flipping her pillow over to the drier side. The early autumn night had been cold before the storm rolled through, driving everyone to their tents, and the rain has only made it colder. The thunder is so loud Hera can feel the earth tremble, followed by another bright green bolt, lighting up the tent. Glaring at the canvas above her, she rolls over, wrapping her blanket tightly around her. After a while, the passion of the storm becomes familiar and almost soothing, reminding her of Ravenloft’s spring storms, and she settles into a peace-filled doze before the world is torn asunder. Lightning cracks, striking a nearby tree. Hera sits up with a shriek just as a branch crashes through her tent, ripping the canvas. Wrapped in her blanket and smothered by wet canvas, her cry is lost in another crash of thunder, and Ares makes a run for it, leaping through the gaping hole and abandoning her. She struggles free to run after him, instantly drenched, and tries to get him to come back, but the mabari huddles under Bodahn's wagon and won’t come out. "Coward," she accuses, tugging on his harness. "Come along, we'll find somewhere to sleep." When he digs in and refuses, she decides to leave him be, not wanting a muddy, stinking dog sleeping beside her anyway. Rain falls in heavy sheets, as cold as ice, and by the time Hera returns to her tent, everything is soaked and her tent is beyond repair. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself and looks around for a safe harbor.   I can't go to Leliana’s tent, she thinks. She’s sharing with Wynne. Sten is out of the question- he barely fits in it alone, and won’t get another. And Zev...well, he and I know exactly what will happen if I ask to sleep there. Not that I’d mind, but I’m almost certain someone else would...  Shivering so hard her teeth chatter, she heads for Alistair’s tent. “A-Alistair?” she whispers. “Alistair…” She hears a snort, a confused mumbled question, and a small scuffle before he pulls back a tent flap, a candle stub in one hand offering a weak, flickering light on his bare chest. “Hera? What’s wrong?” “C-Can I sleep here?” She tries to smile, succeeding in a grimace as she shivers. “My tent has new ventilation,” she explains. “A branch tore through it.” “Maker’s breath,” he says, untying the flaps and letting her in. “You’re soaked through!” “I am.” She ducks inside, dripping and rubbing her hands together. “C-Can I b-b-borrow a shirt?” “What?” he asks, staring at her. She’s wearing nothing but a long shirt of her own, and it’s currently plastered to her skin. Under other circumstances, she'd use the wet linen clinging to her every curve to her advantage, but at the moment all she wants is to be dry and warm. “A shirt?” “Oh of course,” he says, handing her a towel before digging into his pack. “I think this one’s clean. And, um, some...er...trousers,” he stammers, face and neck turning red. “At this p-point, I don’t c-care if it's c-clean,” she laughs, taking the towel from him. “I’ll- um- not look,” he offers, turning around. “You could,” she says softly, peeling her shirt off. “You’d only be seeing what others before you have paid well for. It wouldn’t be...It wouldn’t be important. I’m nice to look at,” she adds, her light, casual tone belying anything she might think or feel, “I wouldn’t mind.” There’s a stretch of silence while she towels off. It’s true, she thinks, squeezing water from her hair. Warmth pools in her stomach before traveling through her limbs, and she can feel magic rising in her blood like a tide, rushing through her with a roar as loud as her desire. A glance is nothing compared to what I want from him.  “I know,” he says quietly, back still turned. The candlelight glows against his bare shoulders, making his skin look bronze. “But it’s important that you know…” “Yes?” she whispers beneath the thunder. Hera clutches his clothes to her chest, otherwise totally naked. No one has ever denied himself the pleasure of seeing her in the flesh- especially not for free - and to know that this man would do so makes her stomach clench. “I respect you,” he says, shrugging and keeping his back turned. “No matter your profession. I’m not going to pay for you like you’re an object, or treat you the way those others have, because I’m not like the others.” “I know you aren’t.” She slips into his shirt and trousers, still shaking. I'm not certain I know exactly what to think of that, she thinks with an arched brow. I don't know if anyone's ever paid me such a thing as respect. Not that I've ever begrudged them, it is simply the way of things. Although...he is so earnest about it. “I- I hope you aren’t upset?” She bites her lip against a smile. “When you say it like that, how could anyone be upset? You can turn around now.” Alistair glances over his shoulder through squinting eyes first, making sure it’s safe. Catching sight of her buttoning the top of his shirt, he lets out a held breath and turns. She looks...utterly adorable, he thinks, grinning at how his clothes hang off her. He doesn’t understand it, but he likes seeing her in his things. “I doubt the storm will pass by morning,” he says, lying down. “Let’s get some sleep.” Hera leaves her wet shirt in the corner and lingers on the other side of the tent. “I’ll just sleep over here,” she offers. He raises up on an elbow and stares at her with a frown. “You don’t have a blanket. And my cloak is wet, too.” “I’ll be fine.” She sits as close to the tent wall as she can, pulling her knees to her chest. Alistair doesn’t know which he craves more: the space she offers, or the intimacy they both desire. Both? Can I want both? “Or a pillow,” he says and clears his throat. Maker’s breath. It's both.  “I don’t need one.”  What a stubborn woman. Alistair laughs and makes room for her on his bedroll. “Get over here. I’m sure my virtue can stand it for a night.” 
Can I? Andraste preserve me.
 She slips beneath his blanket, laying her head beside his, but Alistair is as nervous as a cat. He shifts and twitches, trying not to disturb her as he struggles to find sleep with Hera so close. He settles on his back- just as he’d started- and gets still, listening to her even breathing. Once he’s still, she moves, curling up against him for warmth. It feels so natural, his arm moves without thought, tucking her closer and moving her head to his shoulder. He falls asleep wondering if he’s been blessed or cursed to have her here. In the morning, he wakes alone to the sound of rain beating against his tent. Was it a dream? He feels a strange pang of disappointment at the thought, just before the tent flap opens and she comes rushing in, bringing rain and cold air with her like some playful spirit.  “Three days before I can get another tent,” she tells him, hanging his cloak on a pole by the entrance. “Bodhan said he’ll have to get to the next village and back, but Wynne said I can squeeze in with them until then.” She’s dressed in a pair of her own pants and his shirt, her boots and backpack in hand. “Thankfully not everything is ruined,” she goes on, lifting the boots. “Mostly just wet- I have a habit of leaving as much as possible in my pack. Easier to get up and go that way. As soon as the rain lets up I can start drying everything out.” “Oh. Good,” he says dumbly.  “Are you all right?” she asks, sitting across from him and drying her feet. “I didn't kick all night, did I?” “No,” he says, rubbing his face vigorously. “I just woke up.” “Well it seems like we’re stuck here at least for the day,” she says apologetically. “The clearing is a lake of its own. I’ll just get over to Leliana’s, maybe Wynne can dry my clothes once I get there. I should never have promised to keep my magic secret. It’s far too useful, especially in times like this.” “You don't have to,” he says quickly. “Stay with them, I mean. You can stay here. I have cards.” "And my things?" she asks, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. He considers the dripping pack and its contents. It's safer for her to keep it secret. I doubt even Morrigan would understand the nature of her power. I don't even understand it, and she's tried to explain it. "Oh look," he says, kneeling to dig into his pack. "My head is down and I can't see anything behind me." He sneaks a look as she performs a hasty spell. Hera's whole being brightens at the simple joy of her magic, and Alistair feels like he’s been punched in the gut at how lovely she looks. He swallows hard, pulling out the cards and a wineskin, and they spend the day playing cards until he catches her cheating. She laughs and offers to teach him.  For Alistair, it’s an easy day spent with a girl he likes. He doesn't feel any pressure from her to move their relationship forward, and it helps him be less awkward. They’ve talked a little about courtship, and he’s almost certain he wants to wait until the Blight is over and they’ve made it out alive before doing anything. For now, he’s content to make her laugh. For Hera, it’s a rare chance to spend time with someone who wants only her time. She’s very aware that he needs her to lead them through the Blight, and that means that the support and outfitting of everyone falls to her, but this is different. He wants to spend time with her, playing cards and making jokes, not trying to charm her out of her clothes or haggle with her for the cost of an evening. It’s an unusual thing, realizing who she is without her twin, and the more time she spends with Alistair, the more she comes to know herself. “Hey, you’re cheating again-” Alistair stops as Zevran bursts into the tent, shaking cold rain off himself and splattering them with it. “ Amora, ” he says dramatically, falling to his knees beside Hera. “I have only now heard of the misfortune of your tent. Please, allow me to offer my own bed, I swear you will find only comfort, warmth, and myself in it.” Hera laughs as he lays his head in her lap. “I will be perfectly fine,” she assures him. “Alistair was a perfect gentleman.” “If you would allow, I promise to be an im perfect gentleman,” Zevran offers, looking up at her. “I know a wonderful style of Antivan massage I would be happy to teach you.” Hera plays her next card, combing through his hair with her fingers. “That’s very generous of you,” she says, winking at Alistair. “But Alistair promised to show me the Ferelden massage later tonight.” “I did?” Alistair chokes, dropping his cards. “Don't you remember?” she leads. “Alistair, you promised. ” “Well, if it was a promise, I suppose I can wait until tomorrow night,” Zevran mumbles. He plays the rejected suitor but gives Alistair a curious look. “Ferelden massage, you say? Could I perhaps learn this technique as well?” “Sorry, Zev,” Alistair says, raising an eyebrow at her. “It may take a few days to get right. I need to practice on someone before I can teach you.” “You’re lying!” Zevran exclaims, sitting up suddenly and scattering cards everywhere. Hera laughs and cups his face in her hands. “Oh my darling,” she says dramatically. “If only I was available…” she says, looking deep into Zevran’s amber eyes. “But I daresay I would fall madly in love with you, and when I found my way home, would be inconsolable without you.” Zevran’s slow, seductive smile stretches across his face. “So all the more reason to enjoy the moment, bella. ”  Alistair clears his throat awkwardly. Hera looks past Zevran at him and raises an eyebrow. If you want to lay claim, you should do it yourself, she thinks, tempted to kiss Zevran just for spite. Instead, she takes a page from her brother’s book and releases a sigh from deep within. “It is best not to tempt fate,” she tells him gravely. “When the women of my family finally fall in love, it always leads to their death.” “Amora, am I expected to believe that?” Zevran laughs. “It’s very true,” she says, her demeanor changing from playful to grim. “My mother, Mina, died of a broken heart. If her love could have stayed with her, perhaps he could have saved her, or granted her peace in her final days.” “Amora, ” Zevran whispers, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I am sorry,” Alistair says softly. She sucks in a breath and blinks, surprised she would be so open with these strange men. “It is in the past,” she says with a lightness she doesn’t feel. “Let’s play cards. Zevran, will you deal?” *** Hours later, Hera braves the storm to check on Sten, Leliana, and Wynne. Ares found his way into Sten’s tent, and the qunari offers to keep him, as they ‘understand one another as warriors.’ Hera shrugs, glad that the mabari found a dry place to stay, and gives him what rations she brought for the dog. Hera looks in on Morrigan, soaked to the bone by the time she reaches the distant campsite. “What on earth are you doing?” Morrigan demands, standing in the shelter of her lean-to. “I know very well we aren’t traveling in this weather, you foolish woman.” “I just wanted to check on you,” Hera explains, shaking the rain from Alistair’s cloak as she steps under the roof. “Everything’s fine?” “Of course it is,” Morrigan says, making a clucking noise with her tongue. “Are you trying to catch a cold?” “No, I was just looking in on everyone,” Hera defends. “I see. And you think we’re all so helpless that we cannot manage a day without our leader holding our hands?” “Damn you, Morrigan! I just wanted to make sure you were fine!” Hera snaps. “Why can’t you just let people be nice to you?” The witch’s haughty expression disappears, leaving her shame-faced. “I...I am sorry, Hera,” she says slowly. “I did not mean-” “Yes you did,” Hera interrupts. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have said it. I’m not Flemeth, and I’m not acting like her. I wanted to check on you because you’re a friend, and it’s been a violent storm that’s already destroyed one tent. I’ll go now,” she finished, slinging water as she whips Alistair’s cloak over her shoulders. “Who lost their tent?” Hera pauses in the rain and turns to her. “I did.” She doesn’t wait for a response, turning on her heel and splashing across the open field between camps. Since she’s already soaked, Hera meanders through the surrounding forest, trying to calm the sudden temper before going back to Alistair. Alone, she closes her eyes, listening to the rain in the leaves and feeling the water seep into her shoes. You’re only afraid of the future, she tells herself. There’s no need to punish Morrigan or anyone else for the mess you’re in. After a time, she lets out a deep breath as the last of her anger slips away. They’d been keeping off the main roads, certain that Zevran wasn’t the only one looking for them. It left them stumbling through forests, following old roads that run alongside rivers and use distant mountains as their compass needle. It was a lovely country, full of idyllic villages and towns that, under less dire conditions, would have been charming and welcoming. It left an impression on Hera, making her feel as if life would be simple and carefree here. She knows it isn’t true, no life and no world could ever be so ideal, but all the same, she can’t help but wonder what it would be like to stay and see Ferelden at peace. Ferelden was colder than the location suggested- the sun shone, the trees had been green and the flowers had bloomed all summer, but she couldn’t say it ever got hotter than was comfortable. Still, it was lovely, like paintings she’d seen of peaceful countryside. It made the cities with their deplorable alienages easily forgotten, and she wonders if this was part of the problem. Even on a dark and wet night, she can see the difference the new autumn makes. Hera counts backward, tracking the days against the Ravenloft calendar. It had been mid-autumn in Ravenloft when she left, and she had arrived into late spring. If she is right, and time didn't move faster or slower in Ferelden, then it should be about mid-spring there now. She still had half a year. 
Half a year. I can do a lot in half a year.
 The storm seems to take a deep breath, releasing it in a rush of thunder and lightning, the leaves whirling around Hera with renewed vigor. She laughs, throwing her head back and using magic to tease the wind into more of a frenzy as she spins with her arms stretched out. She rarely gets such opportunities to release the tension inside, and she can feel it fill the air until it crackles along her skin.  “What are you doing out here?”  She barely hears the shout over the storm and turns her head to see Alistair standing there, his shirt plastered to his chest, lit only by the flashing of light from above. Succumbing to the passion of the storm, she walks over to him, ready to make love to him here, in the middle of the tempest, until she sees his eyes.  They’re full of concern and so much warmth it gives her pause, reining in the passion and power that courses through her. The feelings he inspires are so strong they set her off balance, and she wavers until he reaches for her arm to steady her.  Powers help me, she thinks, staring up at him as the intensity of the moment passes. “I saw you come out here,” he shouts over the noise. “I was worried Morrigan had done something to upset you.” “No,” she shouts back, pushing her heavy hair back. “I just thought it would be calmer here under the trees.” He laughs, sweeping his hair flat against his head. “You were right, it’s much calmer here. Let’s get back,” he suggests, huddling under the cloak with her.  They race through the rain, slipping and clutching one another to keep from falling, their laughter ringing through the deluge. Once in his tent, they face one another, standing close and dripping, and desire flares between them again. The tension between them is palpable, and Hera realizes just how much she’s wanted him. Holding her breath, she raises up on the balls of her feet and leans in, kissing his cheek softly. At the same moment, they’re instantly dry, and he jumps in surprise. “Better than catching a cold,” she says softly, turning away and crouching near her backpack. Alistair’s heart races, and he’s glad she speaks first. He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, trying to calm the panic inside him whenever she’s near. His whole life has been focused on the chantry, being told horrible things would happen should he give in to his base instincts and desires. Oh, Maker...I want … What? Hera? Freedom from the last chains the chantry has on him? “I have some dice in here, I think,” she says, digging through her things. “I’ll teach you how to cheat with them.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Late that night, Alistair wakes to sounds of distress. Confused, he opens his eyes to see Hera a few feet away, weeping into her pillow. He sits up and lights a candle, prepared to offer what comfort he can, and realizes that she’s still asleep.
 
“Please no,” she whimpers, tears leaking from eyes squeezed shut. 
 
“Hera?” he calls softly.
 
She doesn’t answer, continuing to weep. He can barely hear her over the rain- a normal rain now, the storm having moved on- and he’s afraid to wake her. Still, he reaches out to touch her shoulder, but she doesn’t respond.

Oh, Hera...what is it? Is it the darkspawn?

He wonders, pitying her. The sound of her sorrow is almost too much to bear, and he nudges her again. He had the feeling it wasn't the tainted dreams they shared; his own dreams had been of Duncan in the days before Ostagar.
 
“Hera, wake up.”
 
She responds this time, her eyes opening slowly as she takes a shuddering breath. In the flickering light, he sees her take in her surroundings slowly, grief carving deep lines into her lovely face, and then close her eyes again, turning into her pillow, shoulders shuddering with the force of her dream.
 
“I hate dreams,” she whimpers. “I wish I’d never seen the Fade.”
 
Alistair aches for her and blows out the candle, then gathers her in his arms. Her tears don’t stop when he pulls her into his lap and lays her head against his bare chest. The dam truly bursts then, and she sobs openly, clinging to him and burying her face in his neck. Alistair just closes his eyes and rocks back and forth, not caring how long it takes.

This storm too will pass,

he thinks, running his hand over her hair.
 
Eventually, violent sobbing gives way to simple tears, and her gasps calm into even breaths. “Are you all right?” he asks finally, deciding not to look at her.
 
“Yes.” The word is small and soft, as if she’s ashamed of having been vulnerable for any length of time.
 
“Do you want to talk about it?”
 
She’s quiet for so long he thinks she might have fallen asleep. “My mother’s name was Mina,” she says softly, resting her cheek over his heart. “She was so beautiful it hurts to remember, pure white hair and eyes so blue they were nearly black. Like my brother. She had the voice of an angel and was terribly clever. Zeus is just like her, he can play any instrument he lays his eyes on.”
 
“Are you like your father? You said you knew a little about him.”
 
“I...I don’t know,” she says honestly. “I look a little like him, I suppose. I’ve seen paintings, but that’s it, and only recently. I...I

hope

I’m like him, my Uncle says he was well-loved.”
 
“You’re at the very least well-liked,” he chuckles.
 
She shrugs, keeping her head down. “She died when we were eighteen. A wasting sickness. A cancer. Heartache. Something. We watched her fade slowly…” Her voice trembles and he feels her take a deep breath. “Sometimes I dream about the night she died. You’d be surprised how many nightmares wait to ambush you when you can suddenly have them. I’m sorry I woke you.”
 
“Don’t be. You never said a word after Ostagar.”
 
“That was different. The pain was fresh for you.”
 
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that seemed pretty fresh. Even if it was a memory.” He raises his brows and tilts his head, wondering. “How old are you, anyway?”
 
“About a hundred,” she says tiredly.
 
“Sometimes I feel that way, too,” he chuckles. 
 
“Would you mind if we stayed like this?” she asks timidly. “Just for a little while?”
 
Seeing this shy, vulnerable woman in place of his confident, flirtatious friend makes it easy to give her what she wishes. “Not at all, raven,” he says gently, pulling his blanket around them.
 
“Alistair?”
 
“Hmm?”
 
“Tell me about the Grey Wardens. I don't know anything about them.”
 
“I can change that,” he says and starts talking, his voice low and soothing. 
 
The sound rumbles in his chest, rolling over her and filling the tent, and before long, Hera’s asleep again. Not wanting to disturb her, Alistair hunches over, laying his head on her shoulder, and follows.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Zeus paces the study- his sister’s study, a room so full of her that it both eases and salts the wound of her absence. Historical texts sit side-by-side popular novels, erotic poetry nestled between centuries-old scrolls in the myriad of languages she had so loved learning. Magical curios she had created were placed randomly around the warm, luxurious room; it had never mattered to her that some of them were spectacular failures, while others were achingly beautiful. She always takes such joy in her magic… He thinks sadly, picking up a glass sphere filled with a cool, flicking purple fire within. If the glass were to break, it would explode in a roaring fire, as hot as the heart of the Abyss itself, but contained by both magic and glass made by a master alchemist, it was little more than a pretty light source. His additions to the room were few: a large table spilling over with maps of various worlds and planes, chairs for the planeswalkers he’d enlisted, and stacks of drawings of his sister as he had seen her last.  “The Duchess of Fandemire knew nothing?” he asks desperately when the door opens. A small half-elf enters and shakes her head sadly, long black hair rippling. Her skin is dark like a desert-dweller, dusted with gold by whatever goddess she worshipped that had changed her fate from a human existence to the longevity of the elves, a direct contrast to the two men beside her. One is a tiefling necromancer, his skin as white as snow, one eye black and the other a mottled gray, usually covered by scraggly hair parting over large black horns. The other, an elf named Gath, has more of a conventional look to him, not as pale as his master, but with the same dark hair. “No,” Aara says softly, setting her bag by the door and coming closer. The necromancer Goddard throws himself into a chair, his man Gath heading to the cupboard for wine. “Hera is known there, but the Duchess said that if she had passed through her realm, Hera did not approach her for aid.” Zeus nods and puts both hands on the long table, leaning over the map of doors. “All the touts in Sigil are keeping an eye out for her,” Goddard adds, his tone helpful. “And there’s a rumor of a sorceress in the Plane of Shadows. There isn’t much known about her, beyond that she is beautiful and terrifying.” The Regent of Ravenloft raises his head, sapphire eyes haunted with hope. Could it be? Can I dare hope? He tries to speak, but the words catch in his tight throat.  Aara comes over and embraces him. “We’re looking, Zeus,” she assures him, turning as the door opens again. Zeus sneers at Jami and his enormous brother stagger in. “Nothing in the Beastlands,” the skinny fire wizard says, coughing smoke and smacking at a small flame catching on his elbow.  Zeus sighs and makes a mark on his map. “And Krynne and Two have sent word that there’s nothing of her in Arborea. They’re meeting Tallyn and Gill in Elysium next.” He rubs his chest, trying to calm the torment of worry and sense of loss ever since she disappeared. It’s like losing his right hand or having his heart ripped from his chest. “She can’t have just...left,” he whispers, hanging his head and letting straight white hair fall around his face. The room is quiet until Jami coughs, another puff of smoke coming out of him. “Maybe...Maybe she did,” he says, flinching at his own words. “She was pretty miserable.” Zeus looks up at him, more fire in his eyes than Jami could ever conjure. “She was not miserable,” he snaps.  Jami draws his thin body to its full height and gives him a fierce look in return. “What do you know?” the wizard demands with a snarl. “Being queen changed her!” Low chuckling fills the otherwise silent room, Zeus’ shoulders shaking with it. “Me?” he laughs, pushing off the table and walking around to stand before Jami. “I know everything about my sister. What would you know about it?” he asks, poking him in the chest. “She sent you away days after she was crowned.” The touch was too much, and flames spring up along the wizard’s hands. “I know I snuck in and saw her a couple times!” he shouts. “If you’d pay more attention to her instead of your whoring and drinking maybe you’d’ve seen it too!” Zeus pauses and looks over at the group assembled carefully. Could he be telling the truth? Did she keep so much from me? But why? We’ve shared everything. “Aara, is this true?” he asks quietly, looking to her friend. “You, Krynne, and my sister have shared so much. Has she kept such misery from me?” Aara nods sadly. “Her letters became fewer, more subdued,” she explains. “I offered to come to visit- Krynne and I both would come, but she refused.” “Being a queen made Bits respectable ,” Jami spat. “And she hated it. You should have left her to her whoring.” The words hit him like a hammer to the chest, and Zeus stumbles back. She hated it. “Oh gods,” he whispers, his face turning ashen. He grips the back of a nearby chair as the weight of Jami’s words settle on him. She tried to show me, he thinks, gasping for breath. She wanted us to rule together, and I wouldn’t have it. “Damn me,” he moans. He’s so wrapped in grief that he doesn’t hear the soft steps of his friends leaving the room and closing the door. Tears burn and he sinks into the chair, resting his head in his hands. She told me as much, the night we crowned her. And I didn’t listen.  
Oh gods, was she so unhappy that she simply left?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What do you mean?” Hera asks. She and Leliana are scouting ahead, using old trail signs to lead the others down the right path. Bending a twig, she sticks it in the ground and looks up at her friend.
 
“Are you really going to tell me that you spent that much time alone in his tent and

nothing

happened?”
 
“Does everyone think I’m a slut pretending her fame and expense?” she asks, rising. “I take my art very seriously; I know very well when a man is ready to be seduced, and when you only have to crook your finger. Alistair and I are

friends,

and I’m perfectly capable of controlling my wanton ways around a man.”
 
“No, I don't think you’re pretending,” Leliana stammers. “I just can't believe he didn't try anything.”
 
“The chantry may have brought you peace and beautiful women, but it gave him a fear of intimacy and a lot of loneliness,” Hera chides her gently. “If he doesn't want a physical relationship, I wouldn't press for one.”
 
“But

you’d

like one,” Leliana giggles. “I’ve seen the way you stare whenever he takes his shirt off.”
 
“By the Powers,” Hera laughs. “I’ve been living in Ravenloft too long. Why does it matter? I want him, he knows, and he rejected my advances. So what?”
 
“Is it really so casual there?”
 
“It really is,” Hera responds. “There are dramatics, of course, but mostly it’s simply pleasure between people. Unless the whole thing is handled badly, no one makes a fuss.”
 
“That’s how it is in Orlais,” Leliana says. “And Antiva, if Zevran is to be believed.”
 
Hera sets another marker at a fork in the road. “The chantry has people under a spell of piety,” she says bitterly. “Chastity will save their souls. Bunch of prudes.”
 
“That’s not true,” Leliana argues.
 
“Isn't it? Mages cannot breed, nor can they hold a title or even go outside unobserved. They yoke those with power so they can control it. They’ve taught the templars that only a life of chastity will save them, and take them to their Maker’s side."
 
"Templars don't have to take a vow of chastity-"
 
Hera's sharp look cuts her off. "And even without one, look at what chantry vows did to that poor man in the mage tower. Did chastity or faith save him or his friends?" she asks. "No. Instead, his brothers-in-arms were willing to abandon them all. Faith should comfort and care for people, not govern those they fear.”
 
“I...I suppose you’re right,” Leliana says, looking at the ground. “I just can’t imagine someone not having the same experience in the chantry that I have.”
 
"Alistair is looking for something beyond a night's delight," Hera explains gently, squeezing Leliana's arm. "And he knows this will all end one day. I can wait if that's what he wants." Hera lifts her chin, a wicked grin stealing across her lips. “But I

will

say that if he weren’t such a prude...something would have happened.”
 
Leliana’s eyes brighten with glee. “Why? What makes you think so?”
 
Hera’s grin gets a fraction wider. “I know how and when to seduce a man,” she repeats, “and when to let a man stew in his own thoughts.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The weather continues to be bad, pouring rain for days, leaving the companions to work through roads and paths reduced to mud that sucked at their feet with every step or find ways through and around streams and rivers that flood their banks. In the evenings, when possible, everyone pulls off their socks and strings them between two sticks over a second, smoored fire so they can dry, and leaving their boots as close to the campfire as they dare. More than once Alistair comes to her tent, a handful of damp socks in hand and a sheepish look on his face. Without question, Hera cleans and dries them, being careful that no one sees her do so.
 
If she’s honest with herself, she likes this shared secret. It lends a mischievous air to their growing flirtation, giving them brief moments of privacy that leave the others with questioning looks and no answers.
 
Even though it gives her the small pleasures of seeing Leliana, Zevran, and Alistair with their clothing plastered to their skins, the weather turns a twelve-day trip into a miserable three-week-long struggle. Hera does her best to keep them moving, at times promising that once they get to Lake Calenhad they can stay at the inn long enough for all their gear to dry out and be cleaned and at others cursing and forcing them to move. She doesn’t like the sullen looks and curses thrown back at her, but she knows if she lets them take too long the arl will die.
 
The rain stops the day they reach the lake, and they stumble and slide down the steep hill to the Spoiled Princess Inn. They pause on the porch to pull off their boots and bundle them into wet cloaks and go inside. 
 
“Hello again,” Hera says to the innkeeper. “Ares, stay outside,” she orders the mabari, who’s simply happy to be out of the rain.
 
“Good to see you again, my lady,” the innkeeper says, his eyes darting around. “Welcome back to the Spoiled Princess. Rooms for all?”
 
“If you have enough,” she says gratefully. “We can double or triple bunk if we need to.”
 
“I’m sure I can accommodate you,” he says, still looking around nervously. “Is there anything else you need?”
 
“A bath,” Leliana and Wynne say in unison.
 
“A drink,” Zevran groans, easing himself into a chair.
 
“A hot meal,” Morrigan adds in tiredly.
 
“Laundry?” Alistair asks, lifting his eyebrows hopefully.
 
Hera looks over at Sten. “Sten? Anything you’d like?”
 
He thinks a moment, his stern countenance deepening. “I would like some cookies,” he decides.
 
The innkeeper laughs in spite of his apparent nervousness. “I can do all that and more,” he tells them. 
 
“Before you go,” Hera says, catching him before he can go to the back. “Is there a Brother Genitivi here?”
 
“Brother Gen- no,” he stammers. “N-no, of course not. I’ve never heard of him.”
 
“Are you sure?” she asks.
 
He nods. “I- I know everyone staying at my inn, and I’ve never heard of this person.”
 
“Leliana,” Hera says over her shoulder. “I know you’re tired, but could you give us a song? I don’t like haggling in a quiet room, it’s unseemly.”
 
“Yes, of course, Hera.”
 
Hera waits until Leliana plays her lute while she and Alistair sing a drinking song loudly, with Zevran and Wynne coming in on the chorus. “Sounds like you’re not telling me everything,” she says softly, leaning on the counter casually.
 
“Nonsense!” he gasps. “Why would I lie to you? Listen, the person you’re looking for,

isn’t here

,” he says slowly, his eyes darting to the door again. “You should be on your way as soon as possible.”
 
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asks, lowering her eyes and smiling. “You can trust me,” she adds, looking back up so she appears to be flirting with him.
 
“No I am not in any kind of trouble,” he snaps. “If you want ale, wine, or a warm bed for the night, I can help you. If not, I have nothing else to offer.”
 
“Very well,” she says sharply, straightening. “We’ll just be on our way.”
 
“Wait,” he murmurs under the music. “They have my family,” he explains. “It’s a trap; they’ve been here for a while now, looking for those knights who came looking for Genitivi. If you go outside they’ll attack you. They’ve been watching the whole time.”
 
Hera nods and gives him a sultry smile. “Thank you. Please, have our baths ready soon, and perhaps a meal. We’ll be back soon. Come along, everyone,” she calls cheerfully.
 
“What? We’re leaving?” Alistair asks, jumping to his feet. “Our boots are even dry yet!”
 
“We’re just going to go across the lake,” she lies. “I want to see Irving before we turn in for the night.”
 
“The tower?” Morrigan demands. “I will not go back.”
 
“Come along, Morrigan,” Hera orders. “You will not be disappointed. Now, be ready.”
 
Sure enough, the moment they near the door, she can hear Ares growling. Hera loosens her blades in their sheaths as she goes outside and directly into the ambush. Half a dozen men attack from all sides, and the others rush to join her in the muddy fray. As soon as the fight starts, the templar at the dock joins in, taking out one on his own as they dispatch the rest. It’s a slippery fight, and the blood mixes with the mud to make it worse. With Ares they’re almost evenly matched; it makes for a quick battle, but the curious thing was the men’s war cry.
 
“For blessed Andraste?” Hera asks, pulling her dagger out of the throat of the last one. “What did he mean?”
 
“Do you think he killed Brother Genitivi out of some desire to protect the Urn?” Alistair suggests as they go back inside, barefoot and much dirtier than when they did so the first time.
 
“I suppose it is possible,” Leliana says. “The chantry believes that the Urn holds great power. It would be in their interest to keep it secret if the location is known. But those were not chantry brothers,” she says uncertainly.
 
Hera shakes her head and tiredly returns to the innkeeper. “So that’s handled,” she sighs, leaning against the bar. “I don’t think they’ll be troubling you.”
 
“Oh thank you!” he cries. “Stay as long as you like, free of charge,” he adds.
 
She thanks him, and turns to the others. “Let’s all clean up and discuss our next move over dinner,” she suggests.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Alistair, do get your hair out of your face,” Wynne chides. “It’s going to get in your food.”
 
He pushes his damp hair out of the way, only for it to fall forward again. Alistair snorts in frustration and picks his knife off the table. “I’m just going to cut it off,” he growls. “I know I said I had a minor obsession, but I lied. It’s a regular sort of obsession, and it has to be cut

now.

”
 
Hera, Leliana, and Morrigan all snicker. “Don't you dare,” Leliana orders. “It looks nice this way.”
 
“I agree,” Morrigan teases. “You should leave it.”
 
He scowls at the witch, his voice suspicious. “Morrigan, you don’t even like me. Why do you even have an opinion?”
 
“Because it makes you uncomfortable, and

that

I do enjoy.”
 
“I hate you.”
 
Laughing, Hera puts down her cup and comes closer, approaching him slowly as if he were a wild animal. Now that she’s had a hot bath and meal, her temper- and that of everyone else- has eased, and the promise of a few days’ rest improves it even more. Except Alistair, whose hair has gotten long enough to fall into his eyes and irritate him.
 
“Now now, Alistair,” she chuckles. “Put the knife away.”
 
“Will you cut it?”
 
Hera shakes her head. “Absolutely not, Leliana is right, it’s very nice. But I

will

get it out of your eyes.”
 
Alistair looks at the three of them harshly, lowering the knife. “Fine. Just...I liked it the way it was. Short. Easy to handle.”
 
“But this is more...gallant,” Leliana insists.
 
“Rakish,” Hera corrects, leaning forward to brush it out of his eyes. “Like a young, blonde Duncan.”
 
He cheers up a little at that. “Like Duncan? Do you mean that?”
 
“I promise. Keep it, and let me handle it for you.”
 
“Oh yes,” Morrigan snides. “Keep it. The fleas need somewhere to live since Hera put that oil on Ares.”
 
Leliana throws her head back laughing, and Alistair looks like he’d enjoy murdering the witch. Biting her lip, Hera quickly gets behind him and starts combing his hair, picking out the tangles with nimble fingers. “Hush,” she commands gently. “We’re in a proper inn, not out in the woods. Do you want to look like you were raised in a barn?”
 
“It was a stable, actually.”
 
No one had really noticed how long it had gotten; he had a habit of sweeping it back into his helmet. At least, until today, when Zevran told him that no matter how long his hair got, it would never be so fine as his. Alistair had decided right then to wash and cut his earlobe-length hair as soon as possible.
 
“You aren't going to give me braids like Sten’s are you?” he asks nervously as the girls lower their voices. 
 
“Oh no, sweet thing,” she assures him. “Do you remember the Viking I told you about? His people were fierce warriors and they wear braids in their hair, but they’re different than Sten’s.”
 
“It’s not long enough to braid, really,” Leliana interrupts.
 
“The way they do it, it is,” Hera explains, and starts at his temple, deftly braiding the short hair along the side of his head, following the curve of his skull and gathering bits from the top. Past his ear, she leaves it loose. “See? This will keep it off your face, and when it’s long enough we’ll slick it back into a tail like Duncan’s.”
 
Alistair carefully pats the braid while she works on the other side. “That...that feels nice,” he says, surprised. “I think I like that. Thank you.”
 
Hera tortures herself with an absent stroke along his ear, covered by the act of braiding. “It’s nothing,” she says, watching him draw a sharp breath at her touch. “My pleasure.”
 
“My you

do

look fierce,” Morrigan quips. “The darkspawn will flee at the sight of you. Hera, why not see if the innkeeper has any ribbons for it?”
 
“Go die,” Alistair snarls. 
 
Grinning mischievously, Morrigan shrugs and rises, bidding everyone goodnight. Sten had already gone up to his room, and Zevran was playing cards with a few locals in the corner. With a deep sigh, Wynne gets to her feet as well.
 
“These old bones need their rest too,” she says, patting Leliana on the shoulder as she passes. “It looks quite nice, Alistair,” she adds, “goodnight.”
 
“Goodnight, Wynne,” Hera says as she goes.
 
“It doesn’t look stupid, does it Leliana?” Alistair asks shyly. “I mean, not like Zevran’s?”
 
“Nothing like,” she assures him, giggling. 
 
Hera grins as she works, keeping the braid close to his scalp, then drawing more hair in as she brings both braids to meet in the back, forming one. “There, how do you like that?” she asks, brushing her fingertips across the nape of his neck, delighting in his small shiver. “Better?”
 
“Much,” he agrees, shaking his head to test. “Thank you.”
 
“Good, now to bed with you,” she orders, patting his shoulders. “You too, Lil,” she adds sternly. “Don’t think I haven’t heard your cough lately.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera doesn’t bother to knock this time and boldly walks into Genitivi’s house to confront Weylon. It’s been a long ten-day trek back to Denerim, and it’s been fueled by sheer rage the whole way. Weylon looks up from tending the fire, surprise fleeting across his face.
 
“You’re- you’re back,” he says, rising.
 
“Surprised?” she demands, getting too close to him for comfort. It gives her the chance to smell something rotten on him, but her anger is too strong to question the unusual smell on him. “Expected me to be dead?”
 
“I’m glad you are alive, of course,” he says quickly. 
 
“That inn was an ambush,” she says, her words clipped and sharp enough to cut. She burns with anger and has to keep a tight grip on the magic heating her blood.
 
Behind her, Alistair watches, just as angry. The whole way back he’s watched her barely rein in her feelings about the ambush, and now she looks as if she’d skin him alive and eat him for breakfast. He can’t decide if she’s glorious or terrifying.
 
“If you live, then my fellows have failed,” Weylon says simply. A change comes over him, and his gaze becomes cold and steely. “I can see their deaths in your eyes; I knew them well. My brothers died in the service of Andraste. May she draw their souls to her and cast yours into oblivion! For Andraste!”
 
He runs for a door at the back of the room, throwing a spell behind him, but Hera is faster. Dodging the spell, she tackles him, sticking her knee into his groin. He yelps in pain and wrestles with her, throwing a few good punches as soon as he manages to get on top. But then it’s over, as Zevran bolts forward and smoothly decapitates him. Blood spills, hot and fragrant, all over her face and chest, and his body falls forward on top of her. 
 
Hera’s thirst slams into her like a kick to the gut, and she has to bite her split lip to stop herself from just opening her mouth and letting it flow in. She turns her face away as Alistair and Zevran move him off her, and Leliana offers her a hand up. 
 
“Why am I always getting covered in blood?” she asks, looking down at her clothing. “Your Maker knows I don’t have that many clothes, doesn’t He?”
 
“Forgive me,

amora,

” Zevran says. “I only wanted him to keep him from hurting you more.”
 
She touches her nose gingerly to see if it’s broken, and sighs. “Lil, I didn’t bring any clothes with me- they’re all at camp- did you? Perhaps Genitivi has a bath upstairs.”
 
“No, I’m sorry,” Leliana says, shrugging. “I can go buy you something, though.”
 
Hera nods. “Please. Something warm,” she adds as the redhead goes out. “Alistair, you and Zev should grab some water and rags, we don’t need to leave it like this. I’ll see what I can do about cleaning up.”
 
Upstairs, she finds a bath in the main bedroom and blesses whatever brilliant engineers that brought water pumps and heating to Thedas. It had been the first true addition she had made to Castle Ravenloft when she took over. She pauses before beginning the process of cleaning her clothing, wondering if she shouldn’t take advantage of the rapidly cooling blood. Slowly, she raises her sleeve to her nose and takes a sniff; it smells metallic and old already. “Disgusting,” she scoffs, surprised at herself. “I don’t even like it cold.”
 
She pulls off her clothes before they can stick to her, and throws them in the water. Naked, with blood flaking off her, she scrubs her blue studded gambeson, the only thing she’s really concerned with, as it’s warm and comfortable. Most of the blood comes out, and she hangs it in the bedroom near the fire to dry.
 
An hour later, she emerges in new clothes, stuffing her damp ones in a sack and tossing them onto the table in the main room. “Looks good,” she says, nodding to the floor where she and Weylon had fought.
 
Zevran hisses and touches her cheek gently. “You don’t look good,” he tells her. “Did he break your nose?”
 
“No, but it hurts like seven hells,” she mutters.
 
“Seven hells?” Leliana asks. “What does that mean?”
 
“Oh, it’s something a friend of mine says,” she laughs. “Her faith has...there’s a lot of punishment,” she says. “It’s confusing, I’m still not sure I understand, and I’ve known her a long time.”
 
“Your friends sound interesting,” Leliana says.
 
“They are,” she agrees. “I just wish I could see them often. Let’s see what we find out, and I’ll tell you about them later.”
 
“Oh, we’ve already found everything there is,” Alistair tells her, opening the door at the end of the room. “Come take a look. Cover your nose,” he warns.
 
She follows him into a back room- a shabby little study, it seems, where Weylon’s body lies covered with a sheet. But beside it is another, older body, beginning to smell. “Oh heavens,” she gags, realizing she's found the source of the smell on Weylon. “Who is that?”
 
“The real Weylon,” he tells her. “Zev, did you get the lime?”
 
He nods, handing him a sack. “The Wonders of Thedas had plenty.”
 
Hera watches them sprinkle the limestone powder over the bodies to take care of the smell, looking through the books on the desk. “His journal?” she asks, lifting it. Leliana nods and explains that Genitivi had actually been planning to go to a village called Haven, not Lake Calenhad at all.
 
“Something must have happened to him there,” Hera muses. “And whoever is in Haven sent the imposter to put anyone looking for him on the wrong path. Which explains the trap at Lake Calenhad.”
 
“So, to Haven then?” Leliana asks. “The journal says it’s not far from Redcliffe, actually. Up in the mountains.”
 
Hera nods. “Haven it is. Let’s get back to camp so we can map out our path. I want to go by Soldier’s Peak and check on Levi, too. Until his family arrives, he’ll be totally alone.”
 
“Still staying off the main roads?” Alistair asks as they follow Leliana and Zevran across the market to the city gates. “Are you really that worried?”
 
Hera nods. “Zevran explained just how expensive it was to hire the Crows for us,” she tells him. “If Loghain was willing to empty the coffers while waging civil war, I don’t trust him not to try again somehow. And it seems there’s someone else who doesn’t want the arl to be cured,” she adds, lifting the journal. “I’d like to stay off the main ways as much as possible. I know it’s harder travel, but for the best.”
 
“Hera, shouldn’t we alert the guard?” Leliana asks, gesturing widely to the blood and bodies. “We don’t want to be branded murderers.”
 
Hera pauses, realizing that in most of her adventures, they’d simply hidden or left bodies were they lay. Very rarely was there even a guard to alert. “Of course,” she says, not able to hide her discomfort at the idea of admitting to such a thing. “Of course we should. I’m just...eager to get a move on. Let’s go do that before we leave.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair frowns as Hera haggles with Mikhail Dryden, one of the many family members that arrived at Soldier’s Peak long before they did. The moment she heard he found the schematics to make Grey Warden armor, she had tracked him down on the keep’s property and locked him into negotiation. Now he watches as Mikhail fits Zevran, Wynne, and Leliana for new gear. It’s lightweight, tough, and very good, but he wonders at the cost of outfitting everyone all over again. Their company purse is dwindling quickly, and she seems uncharacteristically open-handed with this particular purchase.
 
Not that he should complain, he realizes with a stab of guilt. He’s wearing the Warden- Commander’s armor they’d found in the keep when they took it back over a month ago. It was heavy plate, and fit him well. Hera had spent hours cleaning, polishing, and replacing buckles and straps for him. Sten had a set of plate as well, purchased for a handful of silver off a stranded merchant after they helped mend his broken wagon wheel. In fact, Morrigan is the only one of their little party that isn’t being fit for a whole kit. She had refused adamantly about wearing anything beyond her own clothing and agreed to only a few pieces of hardened leather for her shoulders, boots, and gloves. 
 
But his concern isn’t for the hard-hearted witch. Hera herself still wears the first set she’d been issued at Ostagar. They hadn’t expected someone her size- taller than most Ferelden women, but slender as an elf- so she’d had to wear a collection of old, cast-off scout armor. It has served her well till now, silent and light, but it had been rough and a little battered to start. Now it was in worse shape than ever- the gambeson had torn and been repaired numerous times, the metal plates over her chest and hips were dented and broken in some places, and he couldn’t count how many times she’d had to repair her scale tunic. Her boots, especially, needed to be heavily repaired.

I wonder how much it would cost to outfit her?

He digs in his backpack and pulls out his purse. Hera is unstinting with her generosity- she shares the money they make freely, keeping half for the company’s needs and splitting the rest between them- but he doesn’t think she keeps any money for herself. Pouring the purse into his hands, he does a quick count- five gold sovereigns, eighteen silver, and twelve copper.

Probably not enough,

he thinks and sits down to dig through his pack. He comes up with a few bits he could sell- a random gem, some lyrium, and a couple odd daggers- and heads over to Levi.
 
“Hey Levi, what would you give me for this?” he asks, holding out his offering.
 
“Well...that gem is quite nice, and lyrium is always good to have on hand...four sovereigns, all told?”

Better than I’ll get anywhere else. But not enough.

“Great,” Alistair says, making the exchange.

Maybe I can talk Mikhail into a discount.

He waits until she’s done with Mikhail before approaching. It takes a while, but Mikhail is grateful to have to the Keep’s large forge to work in and plenty of room for his family to live, and agrees to a bargain. Alistair agrees to pay him half in coin and have Hera turn in what she has in the morning. 
 
They decide to stay in the keep for the night instead of making camp in the snow. Soldier’s Peak was a few days out of the way, but Hera was more than willing to spare the time to look in on the Drydens before leaving the area since they didn’t know when they’d be back. Levi’s family has been busy; there are clean rooms and beds available for everyone, and a hot meal in the main hall for dinner. They go their separate ways for a while- mostly to rest and bathe- and meet up again at dinner.
 
“I must admit, Hera,” Wynne says as they come into the hall. “You surprised me, giving me such a luxurious soap today. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
 
“Yes, thank you,” Leliana adds. “It’s nice to smell like a woman now and again.”
 
Hera answers, but Alistair is so entranced he doesn’t hear her response. Dressed simply in snug trousers, a grey shirt, and her studded blue gambeson and belt, Hera looks like she always does in camp. Tonight she has her hair in a loose braid down her back, still damp from washing, but he wishes she had it loose. He holds his breath at the sudden image of what she must look like naked in a bathtub and feels his face flush.
 
“Alistair?” Zevran asks. “Are you all right, my friend?”
 
“Huh? Oh, yes,” he stammers. “I’m fine. I just...need to ask Wynne something.”
 
“Well, I am here,” she says as he approaches. “What can I do for you?”
 
“Um. It’s a personal question,” he says quickly. “Can you come with me?”
 
“You’re acting strange,” Hera notes as she sits beside Zevran and gives him a bewildered look.
 
“No, I’m not,” Alistair says, drawing Wynne away. “I have...something...for Hera,” he whispers. “But I need you to put it with her things.”
 
Wynne frowns. “If you have a gift for her, you should give it yourself.”
 
“I...I can’t. It’s...It would be weird.”
 
Wynne sighs and shakes her head. “Alistair, if you have feelings for her- and it’s clear you do- you should give her a chance to acknowledge them. Giving gifts is common practice among sweethearts. I had thought the two of you were past this awkwardness by now.”
 
“How am I supposed to say ‘you bought everyone else new armor and ignored yourself so here you go now don’t die’?” he questions.
 
Wynne’s eyes shine, and she smiles softly at him. “You bought her armor? That’s very sweet of you.”
 
“Well hers is falling apart,” he mumbles, looking at his boots. “And we ran out of money before she could get equipped.”
 
Wynne nods. “I noticed that as well. It’s a thoughtful gift, and one she’ll appreciate.”
 
“She never takes money for herself,” he goes on. “Even though we all get a few bits for ourselves.”
 
“Very true. Well, I would like to applaud your efforts. How much was the armor?”
 
“Seven sovereigns and he wants her old pieces- except the gambeson,” he adds. “Mikhail said that was too damaged to be used.”
 
Wynne nods. “She does wear it often,” she chuckles. “She must find it very warm. Very well,” she says, reaching into her pocket. “I have two gold pieces here-”
 
“No, Wynne,” he says, pushing her hand away. “I’m not asking for money. I wanted to do this for her. I just…”
 
“You have no idea how to give it to her,” she finishes for him.
 
“Not a one,” he laughs.
 
“After dinner, take her for one of your walks, and give it to her,” Wynne suggests. “There doesn’t have to be artistry to it, Alistair. You’ve done a sweet thing,” she adds with a smile. “Now, you wouldn’t keep an old woman from a hot meal she doesn’t have to cook, would you?” she asks playfully.
 
***
 
Hera and Alistair walk side by side in silence for a while, content to simply walk together. Alistair tries not to show his nervousness, but he knows she can see it. She sees everything. In each of them, she sees whatever they need and provides, whether it’s friendship, silence, or something they’ve been without. 
 
“It’s cold,” she says a while, wrapping her arms around herself. 
 
“Maker’s breath,” he curses and shrugs out of his new quilted surcoat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” he apologizes, settling it on her shoulders and putting an arm around her. “Soldier’s Peak stays snowy almost all year. It’s the mountains,” he adds lamely.
 
He looks down, watching Hera draw it close, tugging her braid to drape over one shoulder. “It’s all right,” she says, and he feels lightheaded at her smile. “What’s on your mind?”
 
He grins at the familiar phrase. At least half their conversations start that way. He’d left the armor on a bench along the fortress wall, covered in a heavy wool cloak, ready for her. “I wanted to show you something,” he says nervously, gesturing to the horizon and leading her toward the wall. “It’s rare we don’t have to make camp or have watch, I wanted to show you the view.”
 
She gives him a confused look, but follows. “Soldier’s Keep has a lovely vista,” she agrees, looking out over the mountains sparkling in the moonlight.
 
“You’re lovelier,” he says, ignoring the view and looking down at her. He reaches out and caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. Hera closes her eyes, turning into his touch, and he feels a warmth spread through him. 
 
“Thank you,” she whispers, opening her eyes and looking up at him.

Maker, she’s beautiful.

Alistair can’t breathe with those eyes on him. So unusual, a deep purple like the center of a violet, with a pale blue ring around the pupil. Her gaze goes right through him, and he feels an urge to kiss her, but stops himself. So far, she’s let him set the boundaries of their relationship, never asking for more than he can give in the moment. He’s just...so afraid of losing her when this is all over and she goes back home. He finally takes a deep breath, the cold air like knives in his lungs.
 
“There’s...um, something for you,” he says, stepping away quickly. “Over on the bench.”
 
Hera gives him a strange look before looking where he points. “What is this?” she asks, walking over to it and picking up the cloak.
 
“It’s new armor,” he explains. “Better armor. For you.” 
 
He watches her pick up the new gambeson, a little longer and thicker than the one she’s wearing, sparkling with steel studs instead of iron. She doesn’t speak, just runs her fingers over it and looks up at him curiously.
 
“You outfitted everyone else,” he explains. “And I wanted to...protect you.”
 
She tilts her head, not understanding him. “But how…?” she asks. “There’s no way you could afford it. We’re broke.” Her voice is small, and he knows her well enough now to know she’s trying to control whatever she’s feeling.

I wish she would lose some of that control.

“I made a deal with Mikhail,” he explains. “He wants to keep your old iron pieces. Said he wants to use them for molds.”
 
She nods, looking down at the carefully arranged armor. The steel shines in the torchlight, bright and new. When she doesn’t smile, Alistair’s afraid he’s done something wrong and takes a step toward her with one arm out. “If you don’t want-”
 
He’s cut off when she wraps her arms around him, her forehead against his shoulder. He smiles, nervousness ebbing away, and embraces her. She doesn’t throw herself at him like this often. In fact, she’s careful to give him his distance. Hugs are reserved for times of distress or relief that they’re both alive, so this moment is special to him. “Thank you.” Her words are muffled between them, her breath warming his chest.
 
“You’re welcome, raven,” he says, resting his cheek against her hair.

Maker help me,

he thinks,

one day I’m going to have to say that I’m in love with her,

he thinks, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of roses.

She’s going to think I’m a fool. We haven’t even kissed yet.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“So when are you going to tell him?”
 
“Tell who what, Zev?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at him. She and Zevran were scouting ahead through a wooded area known for bandits, but were coming up with nothing thus far. They were being extra careful making their way through Ferelden, doing their best to avoid traps and soldiers as they move south. They’d made good time once they’d left the Peak and it’s snow, moving through the planes of the Bannorn, but Hera fretted all the same. Autumn would arrive soon; the nights and mornings already growing cooler and the days shorter.
 
“Tell Alistair that you’re in love with him,” he clarifies with a grin. “I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”
 
“Oh?” she asks. “How is that?”
 
“Like this.” He touches her arm to stop her from moving away, then relaxes his face into an expression of softness and desire. 
 
“I do not,” she laughs nervously.

Do I?

“Yes, you do,” he argues. “And he looks at you like you’re the last bottle of Antivan brandy in existence.”
 
“That’s just desire,” she insists, shrugging it off. “Yes, I want him. I’m a courtesan, I’m used to having who I want. But this isn't the time for me to sow oats in a strange world.” She gives him a flirty wink. “Hopefully there’ll be time for that after we deal with the Blight.”
 
He laughs at her, clutching his stomach. “I know desire, Hera,” he tells her, leaning on a tree to catch his breath. “I grew up amongst whores also. But what

you

are feeling isn't ‘just desire.’”
 
“You’re mad,” she scoffs, feigning more indignation than she really feels. If anyone in Ferelden reminded her of Zeus, it was Zevran. He was slightly shorter than her, but he had the same sort of sharp features and high cheekbones as her twin. They both loved to drink, gamble, and fight and shared a strange sense of honor amongst scoundrels. And, like Zeus, he had the annoying ability to see right through her.
 
“

Bella

,” he says patiently. “You’re keeping things from all of us. Even Alistair. I respect that everyone is entitled to their secrets. But if you’re in love with the boy, you should say something to him.”
 
“Zevran, I’m not in love with him.”
 
“He makes you blush.”
 
“He does not.”
 
“You act differently around him.”
 
“We’re Wardens. Professionalism is important.”
 
“Kissing can be professional.”
 
“True,” she agrees. “But I’m not practicing my profession at the moment.”
 
“Do you mean to tell me if he kissed you right now you wouldn't go weak in the knees?”
 
Hera shoots him a bored look, then rolls her eyes. “Zev,

no

one makes me go weak in the knees.”
 
“We’ll see about that- may I?” At her nod, Zevran comes closer and kisses her, sliding his arms around her and molding her body to his. Hera had been curious to see if his body was as muscular as it looks, and his embrace satisfies that and more. It is a good kiss, by one who has done his share and more, and she enjoys it the way she might enjoy a fine wine. When he pulls away, he grins up at her smugly.
 
“Well?” he asks, pleased with himself.
 
Hera considers it for a moment, replaying the moment. “It was a good kiss,” she tells him. “Not too wet or dry. Not overpowering but clearly in control. From a technical standpoint, perfect. Would you like to try again?”
 
Zevran repeats his kiss, putting more effort into it. When he pulls away, he grins arrogantly at her. “Careful you do not sink to the ground in a puddle of desire this time.”
 
Hera lifts her leg and stamps the ground. “Solid as stone, I’m afraid, Zev.” Watching him go from smug to stunned is a beautiful thing. 
 
“W-What?” he stammers.
 
“I imagine that’s what kissing my brother would feel like,” she muses. 
 
“I don't believe you,” he huffs. “That kiss has romanced men and women all over Antiva.”
 
“Very lucky for you I’ve never been there.”
 
“You think you can do better?”
 
Hera nods. “Yes, actually,” she says matter of factly. 
 
Zevran opens his arms in invitation, and suddenly Hera’s entire demeanor changes. She’s dressed in leather and iron, but it could have been the thinnest silk for all anyone knew. She slinks toward him, running a fingernail up his arm, making the fine hairs stand on end. The other hand she puts on his chest, adjusting her position so that he feels tall and strong, as if he were her protector. Her gaze travels from his eyes down to his mouth, lingering before moving to the pulse in his throat. The hand on his arm makes its way to the back of his head, and she draws him to her, kissing him deeply and thoroughly, pressing her body closer in maddening degrees. It feels good, using all her art and skill on one who will appreciate it, and she nips his bottom lip lightly before they part.
 
This time when they part, he reaches for a tree to steady himself, breathing heavily and shaking his head to clear it. Hera stands back, arms folded, and watches him collect himself.
 
“Well?” she asks.
 
“That is- I’ve never-” He stutters. “I believe I need a moment.”
 
Hera nods and turns to go back to the others. “And that’s just a kiss. Stay here, we’ll come to you.”
 
“Hera?”
 
“Yes?” She looks over her shoulder at him, her smug smile still in place.
 
“Do you always keep your eyes open when you kiss?” he asks.
 
Her smile fades away and she nods. “Yes. Ever since-” she pauses, biting her lip. “Yes.”
 
She leaves him to catch his breath, going back down the path. Before she finds the others, she encounters Alistair, looking agitated and pacing. “Alistair? Is something wrong?”
 
“Let me ask you something,” he says. “A personal question.”
 
“Go on,” she prompts.
 
“You and Zevran,” he says, frowning. “You’ve gotten close.”
 
“I suppose we have,” she agrees, grinning at the memory of his face as she’d pulled away from him. “Why?”
 
“I...um...I saw…” he waves vaguely down to the path and shuffles his feet. Eyes down and hands shoved into his pockets, he kicks at a stone in agitation. “Look, if you’ve picked Zevran, that’s- that’s fine, but-”
 
“Saw that little display of ego, did you?” she asks, chuckling.

He looks up at her, frowning. “That...what?”
 
She smiles warmly and comes closer. “Zevran was teasing me, so I taught him a lesson.”
 
“What was he teasing you about?” he asks.
 
Emboldened by her success with Zevran, she moves a fraction closer, putting a hand on his forearm. “You know what I am.” He nods, making a small sound in his throat, and she continues. “He said something stupid about my being weak in the knees, and I told him that no one makes me that way. So he gave it his best shot,” she says with a shrug, her fingers rubbing small circles on the inside of his arm.
 
“And did you...liked it?” he asks, looking a little disgusted.
 
“It was perfectly nice,” she admits with a little nod. “But it didn’t move me.”
 
“No?” His tone is hopeful, and Hera feels her powers surge in answer.

What is it about this man that makes me want to use magic? His damn smile can pull the tides of power. I bet he could learn magic so easily, were he not Ferelden. His abilities and strength would be incredible.

“No,” she says softly, biting her lip and looking deeply into his eyes. “To be honest, Alistair, my feelings about Zev remind me an awful lot of my brother.”
 
His grin is so bright she nearly squints. “Really? That idiot reminds you of your brother? Well. What a- uh, marvelous relationship to have!”
 
The change in him is so quick and complete that Hera laughs, tossing her head back. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she agrees. “But he isn’t-”
 
“What’s taking so long?” Morrigan demands, appearing on the path. “I swear, Hera, you spend more time gossiping with those two than you do anything else.”
 
Hera knows a broken moment when she sees one, so she settles for lifting her eyebrows at him and turning to her friend. “Someone has to, since you won’t.”
 
“I am not some simpering fool to fall for your charms, girl.”
 
The rest of the party comes up right behind Morrigan, and Alistair steps back quickly, blushing. Unembarrassed at being caught mid-seduction, Hera gestures for them to precede her, tilting her head at the strange look Wynne gives her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair acts strangely and avoids her for the rest of the day. When they make camp later, he doesn’t volunteer to get water like he usually does, instead digging both the fire pit and the latrine alone. And it doesn’t change after dinner; he volunteers to take first watch with Leliana, and everyone else quickly fills up the other two, giving Hera a rare night off. Until now, she’s been careful to take watch almost every night, rotating through the group for partners. But now, with the night at her disposal and Alistair avoiding her, she feels a little lost. 
 
“Hera, walk with me a bit,” Wynne calls. “I find Morrigan’s stew a little spicy, and the exercise will help.”
 
“It’s all that bland food in your tower,” Morrigan sneers. “They don't want you experiencing anything delightful.”
 
“That’s not true, is it?” Hera asks as they walk away. “Is it really as bad as she says? As the blood mages said?”
 
“It is...different. You have very little contact with the world, and most mages come as small children. It can be lonely, or it can become another family.”
 
Hera nods, wondering how she’d fare in the Circle’s tower. They walk in silence a while, getting well away from the campfire before Wynne speaks again.
 
“You aren’t from Thedas, are you?”
 
“No, I told you, Wynne, I came to this world quite by accident.”
 
Wynne nods like an instructor hearing just what she expects. “That does explain a lot. You seem...older. Like an old woman who’s suddenly found herself in a new body.”
 
“This world makes me feel that way sometimes,” Hera laughs.

She isn’t all wrong, either.

“Fereldens and their ways are so strange to me.”
 
“There are, I think, a few things that never change, no matter where you are,” Wynne leads. “Things such as men?”
 
Hera laughs again, purposefully ignoring her meaning. “No, men are always the same, no matter where I find them.”
 
“Hera, let me be plain,” Wynne begins. “You’re a nice girl.”

Oh, I see where this is going,

Hera thinks with a sigh. “Thank you,” she says, knowing exactly what’s coming next.
 
“Alistair is a good lad, but it’s clear he’s-”
 
“You can stop,” she cuts in flatly. “I know the speech, I’ve heard it from every parent with good intentions- no matter how much they paid to send me their sweet son or daughter. He’s a good soft-hearted lad and I’m a wicked whore with no heart at all. I must be

careful

with him.” Bitterness creeps into her voice, but she doesn’t care.
 
Wynne’s mouth falls open, gaping before she can find anything to say. “I would never-”
 
Hera makes a cutting gesture with her hands. “But it’s what you mean. No matter how you word it, this is the ‘don't hurt my darling boy’ speech,” Hera tells her plainly. “You’re afraid that I’m going to string him along and leave him brokenhearted when all is said and done.”
 
Closing her mouth with a sharp

click

, Wynne pulls her shoulders back. “We don't know what will happen in the Blight. One or both of you might die before this flirtation comes to anything.”

That truth hasn’t been lost on me,

she thinks, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Wynne, will it make a difference to you if I say that this time it might be real?” she asks. “That all my life, every relationship I’ve had- man or woman- has been an illusion, and

this

time, it isn’t?”
 
“It does gladden me to know you will not charge him for his affection,” Wynne says haughtily. “I would be disappointed to find that you give him a bill once he’s king.”
 
“Not that it’s

any

of your business,” Hera snaps. “There is no contract between us. No promise of money or favors. He knows what I am, that I’ve used the illusion of love to get my way. But he trusts me not to do that to him.”
 
“I just don’t want to see him get hurt.”
 
“And what about me?” Hera laughs, the mirthless sound as heavy between them as stone. “For the first time in my life it’s only me; no frills and trappings, not even a regular bath! I’ve always had an arsenal at my disposal, and now it’s...just me,” she repeats.

And what if that isn’t enough?

Wynne pats her arm, offering her a sad smile. “Oh, Hera, I don’t mean to upset you so much; I don't want you to be hurt, either. But you…” She shrugs. “You’re a woman of wealth and know how these things go. You would endure, and get through the loss of him. He would never move past you.”
 
Hera blinks in shock. “Was...was that a compliment?”
 
Wynne chuckles. “For both of you, yes. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” she adds, sobering quickly. “I suppose I’m just a meddlesome old woman, doing what meddlesome old women do.”
 
Hera watches her walk back toward the camp before speaking. “Wynne,” she says and waits for her to turn around. “I think I’m in love with him.”
 
Deep sadness comes over the elder woman’s expression. “I am sorry, Hera.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair continues to be quiet and avoid her the next couple of days, staying alongside Wynne and Leliana, talking softly with them. Hera, having dared to voice that she might actually be in love with him, pretends not to be upset by his distance and stays with Zevran and Morrigan, scouting ahead as often as possible. The third day, she and Zevran get into a scrape with a small band of outlaws soon after they pause for lunch. There are only four, and far enough ahead of the party that they can handle it themselves.
 
“Well,

bella

,” Zevran chuckles, wiping off his blade on a dead man’s shirt. “That was fun. Now if I had a beautiful woman to wrap her legs around me, the day would be perfect.”
 
“I know the feeling,” she says in wistful agreement. “A good fight always makes me want a hard, sweaty man.”
 
Zevran comes closer, fingering an errant tendril curling against her throat. “You and I,” he says in a sultry voice, “we are alike. Artists with blade and body. We make a good team, as Alistair says. I wonder what it would be like if we were to-”

Naturally, this offer has come too late. “

Zev...I really shouldn't,” she tells him, stepping back. “Alistair…”
 
Zevran waves his hand, dismissing his opposition. “He has made no claim, has he? Why can you not enjoy yourself until he does?”
 
“There’s an understanding between us.”
 
“Is there?” he asks, leaning against a large stone. “He has been avoiding you for days. What kind of understanding is this?”
 
Hera picks up her dropped dagger and sheaths it. “The kind that’s really none of your business.”
 
Zevran laughs, the sound echoing off the walls of the small gully they stand in. “

Amora

, understanding or no, you and he are not sleeping together, and barely speaking. And you don't like it- and that bothers you as well.”
 
“No I don't,” she agrees. “But that doesn't change anything. I’m not some unscrupulous wanton incapable of keeping her skirts down.”
 
Zevran laughs as if she’s told him the funniest joke. “All right, Hera,” he says, still amused. “I apologize for being so ungentlemanly. It will never happen again. Will you forgive me?”
 
Hera tries to glare at him, but a reluctant grin comes through. “You remind me too much of my brother not to,” she says finally. 
 
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
 
She smiles and shrugs. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
 
“Why don't I go back to the others and send Alistair to you?” he offers. “It seems you and he need to talk.”
 
Hera crosses her arms and leans against the stone beside him. “I suppose so,” she mutters.
 
Zevran throws his head back and laughs harder than before. “

Amora

, you are so funny. Do not pout so. It makes me want to take you in my arms and give you something to smile about,” he says, tweaking her cheek. “Wait here, I will send him ahead.”
 
Hera putters about, turning over a body or two with the toe of her boot. She’s singing softly to herself, swaying to the tune, when she hears a delighted chortle behind her.
 
“You’re so bizarre,” Alistair says. 
 
“Oh yes,” she agrees sarcastically, not looking at him. She feels a rather childlike urge to punish him for avoiding her lately. “What a pretty picture, standing amid a bunch of dead bandits.”
 
“With the sun shining on your hair, picking out the blue in it.” He walks over and gives her a shy smile. “A pretty girl, a pretty smile, a pretty day. The bodies don't make it less so.”
 
Hera raises a brow, finally looking up at him. “Who can argue with that logic?”
 
“Zevran said you wanted to talk to me.”
 
“Oh. Yes,” she says absently. “I-”
 
“Can I ask you something first?” he interrupts. “Would you- could I- damn,” he mutters. “I don't know how to do this.”
 
“Do what?” she asks as a feeling of impending disappointment comes over her.
 
He groans and looks like he’d rather the ground swallow him whole than say whatever he has to say.

Oh no…

She thinks.

He’s going to break it off between us before anything has even begun.

“Alistair, whatever it is, you can say it. I won't be upset.”
 
“I was wondering if you wouldn't mind if I…” He trails off, looking at everything except her.
 
“If you…” she prompts.
 
“If maybe I

didn't

wait until after the Blight is over to court you? Officially, I mean?”
 
Hera smiles, the knot in her stomach slowly loosening. “I’m almost certain I wouldn't mind,” she says with relief. “When were you thinking of making this official?”
 
“I don't really know,” he confesses. “But...soon.”
 
“While we’re on the subject, I have my own question.”
 
“What’s on your mind?”
 
She hears voices, Leliana laughing at something Sten has said, and shrugs. “It can wait,” she says as the group comes into view. 
 
Alistair holds a hand up to them, stopping their approach before they come into hearing range. “Something's wrong?” he asks.
 
“No, Alistair, it’s not important,” she assures him, pulling his arm down and waving them forward. “We’ll talk later, at camp.”
 
“You’re sure?”
 
“Absolutely. Let’s get these bodies stripped.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera, is something wrong?”
 
Hera starts at the sound of Leliana’s voice. “Oh, no,” she says. “Why?”
 
The pretty Orlesian looks concerned. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we stopped for lunch, and you’re lagging behind,” she points out, nodding to their companions ahead of her. “You just seem out of sorts.”
 
Hera scowls. “I suppose I am. A bit.”
 
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
 
She sighs. Hera would

love

to talk about her growing feelings for Alistair and how they disturb her, but she’d rather confide in her brother Zeus, who understands her like no one else, instead of someone she’s only met a short time ago. “Not...right now,” she says. “Perhaps later?”
 
Leliana smiles brightly. “Yes, we can talk at camp tonight.”
 
Hera nods, and they pick up their speed to join the others.
 
Later that evening, Hera is still preoccupied with her thoughts. The idea of anything more than a casual flirtation is preposterous; she’ll either be dead or going home within the year. She doesn't eat dinner and takes first watch, moving out of the lit area to scan the perimeter.

I have responsibilities elsewhere.

I’m cursed.

I cannot afford chains of affection or love.

No one would understand.

Alistair won't understand.
 
“Hera?”
 
She looks over at Zevran. “Yes?”

"Bella

, is something wrong?” he asks, surprising her with how genuine he sounds.

Two of them have said something,

she thinks,

that means they’ve all noticed. And Zevran is still pretty new, so it’s obvious.

“I don't really want to talk about it, Zev.”
 
“And you are able to say so,” he says quickly. “But something is weighing on you, and if you are so distracted you can’t lead...well, we are all in danger.”
 
Hera looks over her shoulder. Leliana is playing the lute, and Wynne, Sten, and Alistair are gathered around to watch.

He is so beautiful,

she thinks, watching how easy he is with them, reclining against his pack with Ares’ head in his lap.
 
“If you want him, why not have him?” Zevran asks, following her gaze. “He is a handsome man and is clearly interested.”
 
“He’s just a boy,” she whispers, turning back to the dark horizon. “

And

he’s turned me down. Twice,” she sighs.
 
Zevran laughs. “Is that what this is about? Come to me tonight,

amora

, I will sate your needs.” When Hera is silent, he touches her arm. “Hera, it isn't just sex, is it?” he asks softly.
 
“I don't think so,” she says flatly. 
 
“And yet you do not seem a woman in love.”
 
“I’m not in love,” she protests. “I don't fall in love. Ever. But..." She scowls at Zevran. "He wants to court me, Zev! Me! A- a whore! This is- I’m just- it’s foolishness.”
 
Zevran chuckles. “Oh, I believe you,” he laughs. “You refuse to fall into love; you aren’t going down without a fight. You are lovesick for him, yes?”
 
Hera pushes him, knocking him off balance. “Go away before I fight

you

,” she laughs. 
 
“It’s going to rain again,” he says, looking up at the cloudy sky. “Lovely Ferelden autumn. Full of rotting vegetation and cold rain. Take care you do not get caught in it.”
 
She looks up at the cloudy night sky.

So this is love. I honestly never thought it would happen again- and it only took several decades. It feels...different...this time.

Glancing back at the fire, she feels a smile spread across her face as she watches Alistair.

Foolish, but there it is.

Now how do I tell him that?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Were you really in that cage for twenty days?” Alistair asks Sten as they walk. The weather has held better as they pass through the foothills of the Frostback Mountain range, though it grows chillier each day. Hera hopes the next town or village they come to has a heavier cloak she can buy as she shivers in her gambeson. 
 
“It might have been closer to thirty,” Sten answers, “I stopped counting after a while.”
 
Morrigan sighs, shaking her head and turning into a hawk. “Don’t go too far,” Hera tells her as she takes to the air. “We’ll be stopping for the night soon.” In reply, she gets a shrill bird call as the shapeshifter disappears.
 
“What did you do?” Alistair continues. “I mean, twenty days is a long time to sit in one place and do nothing.”
 
“On good days, I posed riddles to the passers-by, offering them treasures in exchange for correct answers.”
 
Behind them, Hera bites her lip against laughing out loud. She’s sent Zevran and Leliana ahead to scout for the day so she could stay with the rest, and so far it’s been a pleasant, if chilly, day. For once, her anxiety about the passing time is silent, and she’s able to simply enjoy a colorful autumn day on the road.
 
“Really?” Alistair asks, awed.
 
Sten waits a moment before answering. “No,” he says, looking at Alistair as if he’s a simpleton.
 
“Aww, too bad,” Alistair says, his disappointment genuine. “That’s got serious potential.”
 
Wynne can’t help herself and bursts out laughing, leading Ares to give a happy bark along with her. Hera chuckles at the exhausted look Sten gives her. To save him from Alistair, she moves between them and looks up at him. “What were you doing in Lothering, anyway?”
 
“Sitting.”
 
“Sounds like a lot of fun. Did you whittle or sing to yourself?”
 
“Pashaara,” he grumbles, making Hera wonder if it’s a curse of some kind. “I will not engage in idle chatter. Leave me alone.”
 
“You’re like two children sometimes,” Wynne chides as Alistair and Hera laugh together.
 
“I’m sorry, Sten,” Hera says sincerely, fighting back a grin. “I really am. It’s just so hard to get you to answer questions about yourself.”
 
“I answer what you ask,” he says a little sulkily. “I do not understand why you question so much. I am a simple creature. I like swords, I follow orders. There is nothing else to know about me.”
 
“Somehow I doubt that,” Hera replies. “I think your depths have been left unplumbed for far too long.”
 
Sten huffs and lifts his chin arrogantly. “You’re not as callow as I thought.”
 
She stops and faces him, stunned. “Callow? You thought I was callow?”
 
“You sound surprised. You must have heard this before.”
 
Thoroughly offended, Hera opens her mouth to respond, but stops herself.

Yes, I’m nearly a hundred years old, but they think I’m a pretty adornment who happens to be handy with a sword. They must think I’m so young; they have no idea what I really am.

“I...I’ve never been so insulted,” she says instead, raising her pitch to sound haughty.
 
“You’ll get over it,” Sten assures her. “Eventually.”
 
“Why did I let you out of that cage again?” she mutters.
 
“I have wondered that myself,” he admits.  “It is one of the many things I find puzzling about your behavior.”
 
“Do I even want to know what those other things are?” she asks, full of regret for teasing him.
 
“No.”
 
Alistair has to stop walking and lean on a fence post to laugh, clutching his sides. “Oh Hera, he’s got you pinned,” he howls. 
 
“I imagine no one wants to know what Sten thinks of them,” Wynne says pointedly. “Especially a young man who teases too much.”
 
“No, you do not,” Sten agrees flatly.
 
Hera laughs at the way Alistair’s expression falls. “If I’m pinned, you’re right there with me, Hero.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Bastard.

It was always something that had haunted him. The word had been thrown at him since he was small, and he’d hated how it had shaped his life. Forced into a stable as a child; then hidden from prying eyes in the chantry. Always an insult. Always a way to make him feel less than everyone else.
 
Until she said the same words:

I’m a bastard.

She’d said them easily, with no more weight and meaning than if she’d said

I have black hair and violet eyes.

Later, he’d realized that she and her twin brother had relished their fatherless lives; they hadn’t felt anything for their missing parent, only expressed enthusiasm for the romantic story about him and their mother. 
 
He smiles, imagining her lifting her chin regally and meeting the stares of anyone who had dared to condemn her for being what she is. It’s easy to see her as a jewel of court, she dances and sings, she’s charming and brilliant. She wears the label of “bastard” like a flower in her hair- something there, about her, but not all of her, not the important parts. He just wishes

his

birthright could be just as unimportant- illegitimate or not, being the son of a king had always been a problem for him.
 
Her dismissive attitude and gentle teasing had made it easy to tell her in Redcliffe. He had been afraid that she’d start treating him like some god-awful prince- which he absolutely is

not

- but instead, she just...treats like him an equal. More than before, in fact. Sharing that with her had brought them closer together, more like friends and confidants than just the last Grey Wardens.
 
He likes it, he realizes, watching her bargain good-naturedly with the dwarf Bodahn over their supplies. Bodhan had told them earlier that he wasn’t going any further into the mountains with them, so she made a point to overstock on what she could and have any armor repaired that needed it.
 
“Alistair, if you’re going to play with the spoon, at least stir the pot,” Leliana giggles, breaking into his thoughts.
 
“Oh, right,” he mumbles and starts stirring the stew for dinner, suddenly realizing how warm it is right by the fire.
 
“What’s gotten into you?” she asks, nudging him with her foot. “You’ve been dreamy ever since we stopped for the day.”
 
“Oh, just thinking.”
 
“Oh no,” Morrigan crows. “You’ve been

thinking

. Are you ill, Alistair?”
 
“No,” he grumbles, hanging the spoon on the spit and stomping off. He’s headed for the nearby stream when he realizes Hera’s struggling with several sacks of equipment and runs over.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera concludes her business with the dwarf merchant and returns to camp to start making potions with Wynne and Morrigan, dragging all the sacks behind her. Sten sees her wrestle with them and lifts one easily in one hand.
 
“You are small but strong,” he says in his usual unimpressed tone. “Why can you not lift this sack?”
 
“There’s over two hundred elf roots in there,” she gasps. “And I’ve got repaired armor, arrows, food, and-”
 
“Fine,” he grunts and takes another sack from her. “You should carry them and make yourself stronger.”
 
“Gee thanks,” she mutters, dragging the last three bags toward camp while he walks off. Alistair realizes what’s going on, and runs over to her, taking two sacks.
 
“Sorry!” he says, throwing them over his shoulder. “I didn't realize you were coming back with so much!”
 
Hera smiles up at him. “I didn't either, but Bodahn had our armor ready, and Sandal was done with the enchantments. I don’t want to get to Haven and not have anything handy.”
 
“Really? That’s fast.”
 
They make it back to camp and distribute arms and armor. “Hera, can I talk to you a moment?”
 
“Sure,” she says happily. “What's on your mind?”
 
“I wanted to show you something,” he says. “Over there, maybe?”
 
Hera follows, turning her head and laughing when Zevran makes a move to follow and Wynne’s sharp tone stops him in his tracks. “What’s on your mind?” she repeats once they’re away from the light of the fire.

Now why do you want me alone?

She wonders, keeping a smile hidden.

Have you decided to make your first move, sweet Hero?

He pulls something from his belt pouch, unwrapping the scrap of oilcloth it’s wrapped in. “Do you know what this is?”
 
Hera smiles down at the deep red velvet petals. “Unless Ferelden is so very different from Ravenloft, that’s a rose,” she says, looking up at him with a grin. “I thought flower picking was best left to little girls and old ladies,” she teases, reminding him of when they first went into the Wilds.
 
He laughs and shuffles his feet. “Usually they’re better at it, I doubt they’d be attacked by the whole bush when they reached for it. I, uh...I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, ‘how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’ I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I’ve had it ever since.”
 
She looks up at him, violet eyes dazzling even in the darkness. “That’s a nice sentiment.”
 
“I thought that I might… give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you,” he murmurs, handing it to her.
 
Hera looks down, shielding her eyes from him. Her heart races and her chest hurts and she’s almost certain she’ll faint if he says another word. Clearing her throat, she glances up and tries to smirk. “Feeling a little thorny, are you?” she manages.
 
He chuckles, shaking his head at her joke. “Wow. ‘She’ll never see through that,’ I told myself. Boy was I wrong.”
 
Hera laughs softly, lowering her head to sniff the rose. “Thank you, Alistair,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes. “That’s a lovely thought.”
 
“I’m glad you like it,” he murmurs, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “I was just thinking… here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven’t exactly been having a good time of it yourself. You’ve had none of the good experience of being a Grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It’s all been death and fighting and tragedy, and it isn’t even your home.”
 
“I’m so sorry for your losses,” she says softly. “All I have to worry about is finding a way home.”

Which I will,

she assures herself,

eventually.

“I thought maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this… darkness. I’m glad I’ve had a chance to meet you, Hera.”
 
Hera feels lightheaded and dizzy, and wonders if Zevran drugged her for a laugh. “I...I feel the same way about you, Alistair,” she says softly. Honestly.
 
His smile is blinding, and her heart swells painfully at the sight of it. “I’m glad you like it. Now… if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, I’d appreciate it,” he chuckles nervously.
 
“Sounds good,” she says brightly. “Off with the armor then!”
 
He blushes at being called out. “Bluff called! Damn! She saw right through me!”
 
“Why must it be a bluff?” she asks, stepping closer and putting a hand on his chest.
 
“Well, it doesn’t

have

to be a bluff,” he says, covering her hand with his. “Maybe when we’re here in camp some other night. Alone. You know, in a tent?”
 
Hera looks over her shoulder when her name is called, then back at Alistair. “Promises, promises.” She raises slightly onto the balls of her feet and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Alistair. I love it.”
 
She turns to go back to camp, but he catches her hand, stopping her. “I just...I want you to know that I care a great deal about you,” he blurts out.
 
Hera turns back to him, her smile soft and her insides quivering. “I feel the same way, Alistair.”
 She can see the confidence fill his face as his eyes search hers before finally meeting her gaze. “You do?” 
She puts a shaking hand flat against his chest and nods, her throat too dry to speak. Her stomach churns and she feels dizzy.

Is this awful feeling the way love is supposed to be?

She asks herself, feeling more like a moth drawn to its fiery death than a woman in love.

This is terrible, I feel like I’m drunk or took a head wound. Love is a simple, shallow thing and I should be able to understand it. To recognize it. I’ve sold the illusion of it often enough to know what love is.

So why don’t I understand what I feel now? By the Powers, all I want is for him to touch me.

“Good,” he mumbles, drawing her against him and wrapping his arms around her. The scent of soap, sharp and clean, wafts off his skin as he leans closer filling her senses as if it were a heady perfume.
 
Hera’s breath catches in her throat just as he presses his lips to hers.
 
His kiss is different than she’s used to- shy, hesitant, but enthusiastic. His tongue teases, a cautious flicking, before slipping past her parted lips. A soft moan escapes him as their kiss deepens, one arm wrapping around her waist as she molds her body to his. 
 
Her knees buckle and she clutches his shirt, letting him support her as she gets swept away. She doesn’t want to press him for more, but the way her body fits against his makes her ache with desire.
 
Too soon, he breaks away, pressing his forehead to hers. Breathing heavily, Hera tries to make her feet support her and fails. Opening her eyes slowly, she bites her bottom lip.

That was… I never close my eyes,

she realizes.
 
“That wasn’t too soon, was it?” he asks shyly.
 
Her heart pounds in her chest, so loud she’s surprised he can’t feel it pulsing through her. “No,” she tells him, lifting his chin so she can look into his eyes.

Gods help me,

she thinks. Hera had told Wynne that she thought she was in love with Alistair; now she was afraid it was true. “It wasn’t. I liked it.”
 
His grin is insecure, but hopeful. “More than Zevran’s?”
 
She raises an eyebrow at him. “Let’s just say if you let go of me right now, I’m not sure I could stand on my own.”
 
“Can I tell him that?” he laughs, releasing her slowly.
 
She wavers, putting a hand on his arm and laughing. “Kiss me like that again and you’ll have a lot more to tell him.” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves and reminding herself that she’s too experienced in the ways of passion to assume what this kiss means.

If I want to know, I have to ask.

“So it’s official, then?” she asks. “We’re...courting?”

Andraste’s flaming sword,

she thinks,

that sounds so...I don’t know. It’s not enough of a word. Normal, perhaps.

Alistair smiles down at her. “Yes, it’s official,” he tells her, grinning. “Although I must say I have no experience, so I’m not sure how well it will go.”
 
She lifts a hand to his cheek, smiling. “Honestly, I don’t have any either.”
 
He frowns, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Aren’t you a worldly courtesan who’s had scores of lovers?”
 
“Contracts,” she reminds him. “Business. Illusion. There’s none of that between us, is there?”
 
He tilts her chin up so he can kiss her again; his tenderness sends warmth flooding through her. “No,” he murmurs against her lips. “There’s nothing like that between us.”
 
“All right then,” she says softly. “I should...well, there’s plenty to do.” She walks back to camp in a daze, a dreamy smile on her face. She stumbles over a stone and has to grab Zevran’s shoulder to keep from falling face-first into the fire. “Sorry, Zev,” she laughs, patting his shoulder.
 
“Hera, you seem to be a little distracted,” Wynne notes absently, eyes on her mending. Hera gets the feeling that Wynne pretends not to see a lot more than she comments on. “Are you feeling well?”
 
Hera glances down at Zevran, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking down at the rose in her hands. “Just a little weak in the knees, Wynne. It’ll pass. I’ll be back to start on the potions in a moment.”
 
She goes to her tent to tuck the flower away, leaving Zevran cursing under his breath in her wake.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Tell me about the griffins,” Hera asks.
 
Alistair looks up from the map, trying to find his bearings. “The griffins?”
 
“You said the Grey Wardens used to ride them into battle,” she reminds him, looking over his arm at the map. “That way?” she guesses, pointing to the left side of the fork in the road. “The others are only half a mile behind us, we need to figure it out.”
 
“Hmm, I don't know,” he says thoughtfully. “According to Genitivi’s map, we could be there tomorrow evening, so long as we pick the right path. The other will send us rambling through the mountains for weeks. It seems he wasn’t sure which fork to take, either.”
 
She sighs and sits in the middle of the road. “I don't want to approach at dark,” she says, sitting cross-legged and staring at the fork. “We’ve come across two packs of zealots shouting for Andraste, and those at the inn. I have the feeling I’d rather approach them in daylight.”
 
“Yes, you’re probably right about that,” he says, crouching in front of her. “Hera, may I kiss you?”
 
She gives him an amused, if slightly confused, look. “Yes, but you don't have to ask,” she tells him. 
 
He looks bashful and toys with the map. “Zevran said I should,” he explains. “He said I should ask anyone I want to kiss, but especially you.”
 
“Because he was raised among whores,” she finishes. “He means well. But if you want to kiss me, you don't have to ask.”
 
“I just...don't want you to feel like...I’m using you,” he says slowly, not looking at her.
 
Hera’s heart turns over. “Oh Hero,” she says lovingly. “You could never make me feel that way. Even if you

did

, I’m not sure I would mind,” she teases. 
 
“So...I can just...walk up and kiss you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Anytime I want?”
 
“If you like.”
 
“Oh- well-”
 
“Alistair,” she says, losing patience. “Quit talking and do it!”
 
His expression turns teasing, and he squints at her. “Fooled you, didn’t I?” he murmurs, sliding a hand to the back of her neck and drawing her close.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The others join them quickly, and they decide to make camp there at the fork while Morrigan flies ahead, following the path they think is their best guess. Hera waits anxiously, keeping her eyes on the darkening sky for a hawk to appear.
 
“You worry too much,” she hears and turns to see Morrigan standing behind her. “I am no child, to be scolded for being out past dark.”
 
“I was worried,” Hera explains. “Did you find the path?”
 
“I did. It is the path to the right, not the left, as you thought.”
 
“The right? Really? It goes the wrong direction.”
 
“Do not take the word of the one who flew along the paths and actually

saw

the village,” Morrigan says sarcastically. “Do not believe the one who saw the way the other path twists and turns and leads deeper into the mountains. Oh no, that would be horrible.”
 
Hera rolls her eyes. “Morrigan, do grow up,” she sighs. “You act like I’ve insulted you so deeply when really you’re just being an ass.”
 
Morrigan laughs, surprising her. “Oh Hera, I do enjoy our banter.”
 
“I do my best, my friend,” she replies with a smile.
 
“Friend?” Morrigan asks, looking bewildered. “Are we friends?”
 
“Is there any reason we shouldn’t be?” Hera asks, surprise coloring her voice. “I like you, Morrigan, even if you are sharp as brambles.”
 
“I’ve never had a friend before,” the witch tells her, eyes wide and brows raised high. She looks so amazed by the idea that Hera easily believes it. “A curious thing.”
 
“I’ll be very happy to tell you if you’re doing badly,” Hera says with a smile. “For now, why don’t you get some dinner? Zevran and Leliana caught some rabbits while you were gone.”
 
“Yes, thank you,” she says and makes her way to the fire. 
 
As she passes Alistair she hisses, her fingernails transforming into wicked talons. She claws the air at him, sending him sprawling onto his back and making the others laugh. Hera laughs softly, covering her mouth, and watches him get up and make his way over to her.
 
“Something on your mind, Hero?” she asks.
 
“Yes,” he says, and pulls her close for a deep kiss. 
 
This kiss is different from the too few they’ve shared so far; where before he had been shy and curious, this one is hungry and aggressive. Heat courses through her as he leans her back, dominating the kiss and Hera finds every inch of herself molded to him. There are catcalls and whistles from the fire, and the sound of Morrigan gagging, and when he releases her, Hera is breathless, her body strumming like a struck cord. He's been talking to Zevran. I'd bet my life on it.
 
“Good talk,” he says with a grin.
 
She makes a wordless, agreeable sound as he walks back to the fire. Swallowing, she joins them slowly, catching a hard look from Leliana as she sits between Zevran and Alistair.

Oh dear,

she thinks, watching Leliana’s eyes throws daggers at her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You told me

casual

,” Leliana snaps. “You said you couldn't afford anything else here.”
 
Hera pulls her arm out of Leliana’s pinching grasp and goes back to making coffee. She’d known the moment she saw Leliana be the first out her tent this morning that this was coming. “Yes, I did; I didn’t lie. And

you

said you’d rather not start something that would certainly end.”
 
“Alistair is

not

casual,” she goes on, ignoring Hera as she paces herself into a full rant. “He is sweet, and kind, and doesn't deserve what you’re going to put him through.”
 
“Leliana, are you upset about my potentially hurting him, or at my choosing him?” she asks, drawing Leliana away from the fire as Alistair and Sten come out of their tents and stretch. If they’re to have this conversation, she would rather no one else hear it. “This isn’t exactly a new development.”
 
Leliana’s outrage increases. “Are you saying I’m jealous? I’m not jealous!”
 
“You didn't answer my question,” Hera cooly reminds her. This isn't the first time she’s had a situation like this on her hands, and jealous patrons are a dime a dozen. She just calmly collects the socks draped over a bush to dry, folding them carefully into pairs. “Is it your ego or your feelings that are hurt? Because if it’s only your ego, I don’t really have time for it, but if you’re genuinely upset, we can talk about it now.”
 
Leliana looks like she’s just been slapped. “I- I just- what is

wrong

with you?” she demands. “Did you lie to me, or can I just not afford you and he can?”
 
Hera ignores the abuse- she’s used to it, and very often by would-be patrons who cannot afford or interest her. That it comes from a friend makes no difference. “No, what I told you is the truth.”
 
“Then you’re lying to him.”
 
“I am not. He knows better than anyone that I will be leaving.”
 
“He- he

does?

” she asks, stunned.
 
Hera nods. “Why wouldn’t he? I have not kept that a secret. Leliana, I

like

him,” she adds. “And he likes me. There’s always been something between me and anyone else- it’s always been business in the end. This time there isn’t, because neither of us have those things- well, not here. He isn’t asking me to craft an illusion of what forever could be like, he just wants to be with me now. What harm is there in it?”
 
“I suppose I’m…” She pouts and kicks a stone. “I suppose I’m jealous.”
 
“I’m sorry Leliana,” Hera says gently, touching her cheek. “And I know how unfair this must feel to you. But he knows and wants to take the risk of the pain anyway. Besides,

you

rejected me when I told you I couldn’t offer more than a casual affair. I was quite put out,” she teases. “It doesn't happen often where I’m from. You Thedosians are bad for my ego.”
 
Leliana laughs. “I suppose I will have to be content with that knowledge.”
 
Hera kisses her quickly on the mouth. “So you shall. Friends?”
 
Leliana blushes and puts a hand to her lips. “Not if you keep doing that,” she warns.
 
Hera runs her hand over Leliana’s hair and smiles seductively. “You’re pretty when you blush,” she says playfully and walks back to the fire.
 
“I saw that,” Alistair chuckles as she settles herself beside him.
 
“Just a little kiss between friends,” she assures him, smirking. “Don’t worry.”
 
Alistair chuckles again, taking her hand and pressing it to his chest. “Oh, I don't.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera, you’ve got too much yarn wrapped around your needle,” Wynne tells her. “Just one loop at a time, dear.”
 
Hera makes a frustrated sound and stumbles over a rut in the road at the same time. “Powers damn it all!” she mutters, picking up her dropped yarn and needles. “This is impossible, how do you do it

walking?

”

“Well, I’ve been knitting a long time,” Wynne chuckles. “You don’t have to try and learn it now, I could teach you better at camp.”
 
Hera bites her lip and gets everything sorted again. “No, I like having something to do while we walk. It feels productive.”
 
“It can be.”
 
Hera sticks her tongue at Leliana, giggling in front of them. Sten and Alistair are ahead scouting, and Morrigan took wing early that morning to make sure they keep to the right roads. Zevran follows, keeping an eye out for anyone looking to attack from behind. Their plan is to approach Haven the next day, early in the morning, but they’re also being very careful about making camp tonight.
 
“Do you think we’ll be attacked, Hera?” Leliana asks, dropping back to walk alongside her. “You’ve been rather cautious since we crossed into the mountains.”
 
“The amount of resistance we’ve come against since Denerim concerns me,” she says. “It’s as if someone doesn’t want us finding Genitivi.”
 
“We will find him, won’t we?”
 
Hera nods. “I can feel it in my bones, Lil,” she assures her. “He’s in Haven.”
 
“I just hope we do not regret discovering his fate,” Wynne adds. 
 
“I’m starting to regret trying to knit,” Hera mutters.
 
Wynne chuckles and takes the needles and yarn bag from her. “We’ll try again later.”
 
“Do you have any regrets, Wynne?” Hera asks.
 
“I try not to dwell too much on the mistakes of my past,” she explains, “of which there are many. I would go quite mad if I did that. But I do have one regret- the greatest mistake of my life, made even more grave because it had dire consequences for someone else.”
 
“What happened?” she asks. “If you don’t mind telling us, of course.”
 
“I do not. Years ago, I was assigned as mentor to a lad, Aneirin. He was my first apprentice. Aneirin was an elf, raised in one of the elven alienages, and he was very mistrustful of humans. Especially humans in authority.”
 
Hera frowns. She’d heard a little of the alienages but had yet to see one for herself. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he trust you?”
 
“All he knew of humans was what he had seen in the alienage. He was very wary of us.”
 
“Humans treat the elves very poorly,” Leliana explains. “They were slaves for a long time, and the humans still abuse them greatly.”
 
“I see.”
 
“What Aneirin needed was time,” Wynne continues. “Time to get used to his new home, time to come out of his shell so we could build a rapport. I gave him no such time,” she says bitterly. “I was young and arrogant. ‘He is a mage,’ I thought, ‘he needs to grow up and act like one.’ I expected too much from him, and too quickly. I gave no consideration to his origin or his feelings. And he retreated further from me. All I could think of was how stubborn he was, how he was throwing away his talent and his potential, just to be difficult.”
 
Hera stares at her. “That just...seems so...unlike you.”
 
“Oh, age and wisdom have mellowed me. I was quite different back then. More...unforgiving. You cannot plant crops in cold, wintry ground; you cannot teach a student who is closed off and unresponsive. Patience is what I needed, and I learned that too late to help him. Aneirin ran away from the Circle one night. I had berated him over some trivial, ridiculous matter that I no longer remember. I drove him away because of something utterly unimportant. He was a child, fourteen at the time of his leaving. They had his phylactery and they hunted him down…”
 
“Why didn’t they just bring him back to the tower?” Hera asks. “That’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”
 
“They called him ‘maleficar,’” she explains sadly. “A mage who practices forbidden magic, deserving of death. He was a child, misunderstood and lost. I begged the templars to tell if he had suffered, if they gave him a quick death. I got no answers from them. I was his mentor and they wouldn’t even tell me what became of him. I should have known better. I had the best mentors; they were kind, compassionate...why didn’t I learn from them? I failed Aneirin. All I had to do was listen to him. He would try to tell me, and I would tell him to concentrate on his spells. He talked about the alienage sometimes...and the Dalish. He always talked about looking for the Dalish elves.”
 
“Maybe he did find them,” Leliana suggests softly.
 
Wynne shakes her head. “The templars are well-trained and thorough. That he still lives...it would be a vain hope. The apprentices that came after benefited greatly from the lessons I learned from Aneirin. In a sense, he was my teacher, and I the student.”
 
Hera looks down the road, thinking of her own actions in the past.

Perhaps Ravenloft and Zeus will grow,

she thinks hopefully.

Then maybe…

“Then maybe his sacrifice was worthwhile,” she whispers, mostly to herself.
 
“And there it is,” Wynne finishes with a deep sigh. “My story, my one great regret.”
 
“Thank you, Wynne,” Hera says sincerely. “Perhaps one day we’ll meet someone who knew him.” Wynne only nods, and Hera looks up at a hawk call. “That’s Morrigan.” She whistles sharply, and the animal swoops down toward them, turning into a woman at the last moment.
 
“Sten and Alistair are on their way back,” she tells them. “Shall I run back for Zevran?”
 
“No,” Hera says quickly. “I’ll go. Keep walking until you meet them,” she tells Leliana, “Zev and I will meet you on the road.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera does her best not to be amused by his attempts at courtship. In truth, she’s experienced a lot of elaborate courtship rituals from patrons, but after a few days, she finds that she’s touched by his simple sincerity. If he has watch after her, she wakes to find a flower in the ties of her tent flaps or a cup of coffee waiting for her when she rises.
 
They aren’t able to go about courtship the way most would- there is no family or home for either to call upon, no events to attend. It is simply day after day of walking to their next destination, hoping they arrive in time. Sometimes they hold hands and talk through the day, sometimes one of them scouts ahead and they don’t see one another until they break for a meal or make camp. Often she is distracted by the simple act of keeping everyone alive, and Alistair often does little things like pitching her tent or making sure she eats well to make her days easier.
 
Lying awake at night, Hera marvels at the experience. She and Zeus had always taken care of one another, but it’s an entirely new thing to be taken care of by a paramour. Her favorite part is the physical nature of their changing relationship- that part she knows and can lead him by the hand through the pleasures of her art. But it’s the everyday things, her hand in his, how closely he sits beside her. She feels comfortable with him, secure in his affection.
 
The night before they reach Haven, she’s leaning against his shoulder, listening to Leliana sing after dinner, and shivers in spite of her cloak and the fire. Alistair doesn’t say anything; he simply shifts his arm, pulling his cloak around them both and tucking her closer against him. Almost in his lap, she closes her eyes and revels in his warmth, feeling sleepy and safe. She’d taken two watches the night before, and they as they get closer to Haven they walk as long as possible and set up camp by the light of fire and torches.
 
Half asleep, she distantly hears Alistair and Wynne telling everyone goodnight as they all wander to their tents, and silently tells herself she needs to go to her own bed, but can’t seem to make herself move or open her eyes. 
 
“So, what would you do if someone told you that they loved you?” he asks, his voice rumbling pleasantly in her ear. It’s the last thing she hears before she slips fully into sleep.
 
Wynne chuckles. “Check their eyesight first, perhaps. Is there someone I should know about?”
 
“No, I mean- pretend you’re a woman,” he says.
 
“I

am

a woman, Alistair,” the mage chortles. “That shouldn’t be too hard, but I’ll give it a try.”
 
He groans, slightly disturbed. “That’s- no, that’s not what I meant,” he stammers. “Just- pretend you’re

another

woman,” he says, pointedly looking down at the one in his arms, “...someone told you that they loved you, how would you react?”
 
“Well, that depends,” she muses, giving him a teasing grin. “Does this someone just blurt it out? Do I love them back? I need context.”
 
“I...I don’t know if you love him back,” he says quickly, keeping his voice hushed. “Maybe you do. You’ve spent a lot of time with this person.”
 
“Perhaps you need to...wait for the right moment,” Wynne suggests. “You could get her alone in camp. Give her a gift, perhaps.”
 
“Oh! I w-wasn’t talking about me!” he laughs nervously. “Just um...forget I said anything,” he mumbles, embarrassed.
 
Wynne chuckles. “As you wish.” He sighs, deeply regretting the conversation, and Wynne laughs again. “You should wake her and send her to bed,” she suggests, nodding to Hera asleep against his chest. “She doesn’t get enough sleep.”
 
“I will,” Alistair says softly, brushing hair off her face. “I just...like having her here.”
 
“Alistair, she won’t sleep well on cold ground. She must be exhausted.”
 
“All right,” he sighs, shifting to a squat and gathering her in his arms. “You won’t say anything, will you, Wynne?”
 
“Of course not,” she assures him.
 
Alistair carries Hera to her tent, Ares leading the way, and lays her down gently on her pallet. Brushing her hair back, he watches her sigh and settle into sleep. If he were bolder, more confident, he would lie beside her for a moment. But he isn’t, so he presses a kiss to her forehead and goes back to stand watch with Wynne.
 
“I think you make her very happy,” she says softly when he returns.
 
“Oh no,” he says, holding his hands up defensively. “I’m ready this time.”
 
“I just want to say that this is something good,” she insists. “For both of you. Being a Grey Warden isn’t easy, I’m glad you found each other.”
 
“Oh yes,” he drawls, his words dripping with suspicion. “I bet you are indeed.”
 
“Cherish this,” she tells him. “These small moments of intimacy and affection. They may not last. I said some things to Hera, and I was wrong. I see now how you are with each other.”
 
“And?”
 
“That’s all I had to say,” she says, sounding a little sad.
 
“Really?” he squeaks, surprised. “No pinching my cheeks? No making me blush?”
 
“Of course not. I like you, Alistair. You deserve to be happy.”
 
“Not even pinching my cheeks a little?” he asks disappointedly.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You are too thin,” Sten observes as Hera tightens her belt. “You should eat more.”
 
Hera gives him a disbelieving look and settles her weapons on her back. “What are you talking about? I eat all the time!”
 
“Look at your spindly arms,” Sten points. “I do not know how you carry the things you do. You should fall over from the burden.”
 
“Uh...practice?” she offers. “Sten, I already eat double rations, I can’t eat any more.”
 
“Yes you could,” Alistair mumbles around his breakfast. “You just won’t.”
 
“Alistair!”
 
“You cannot lead if you faint from hunger,” Sten says firmly. “Come. I will cook you a meal worthy of the Beresaad.” 
 
With a defeated sigh, she sits and watches Sten fry sausage and potatoes, then scramble wild eggs he’d found somewhere. Of all her companions, he is the greatest mystery- he likes art and music, he can cook rather well, and yet he is so stern. After a hard look from him, she picks up a piece of bread and refills her coffee cup, making a point to take a big bite.
 
“Sten, you don’t strike me as the cooking type,” Alistair says, watching the qunari make gravy in the same pan as everything else.
 
“Why not? I eat. Someone has to be able to cook.”
 
“No, I mean it’s very good,” Alistair says quickly. “You’re a very good cook. Do you enjoy it?”
 
“It does not matter if I enjoy it, only so long as it is done well.”
 
Hera watches Alistair and Sten talk in circles about it, graciously accepting the large bowl of eggs, sausage, and potatoes smothered in gravy. “All right,” she says as everyone begins their own breakfasts- considerably less substantial than her own, she notices. “We need to decide how we want to approach today.”
 
“On foot, cautiously,” Sten says obviously.
 
Hera closes her eyes, praying for patience while Leliana and Zevran burst out laughing. “Yes on both counts,” she says with a nod. “We do have a small issue- we’re running low on rations right now, and if we keep that up, we’ll be out of food before we make it to Redcliffe to resupply. Morrigan, I want you in the sky, keeping an eye out for trouble, and you can join us once we reach the village. Wynne, you mentioned last night that you wanted to spend a day making poultices- do you want to do that today?”
 
“I think that is a good idea,” she says, nodding. “This is one old woman not looking forward to climbing a mountain.”
 
“As for everyone else…” Hera shrugs. “We need someone to hunt and forage.”
 
“I will follow you until Haven,” Morrigan offers, “then double back and do some hunting.”
 
“I will stay,” Leliana says softly, looking disappointed. Hera knows she was anticipating the Urn of Sacred Ashes with all the might of her faithful heart.
 
“Don’t look like that, Lil,” Alistair tells her. “We’re just going to find Genitivi. We’ll be back before anyone finds the Urn. We probably aren’t even close enough.”
 
“No, it’s fine,” she insists. “I’m good at hunting. I am quiet and good with a bow.”
 
“Thank you, Leliana,” Hera says between bites. “Anyone else?”
 
“I will stay with the ladies,” Zevran offers. “Someone will need to watch their lovely backsides in case of ambush.”
 
Morrigan gags while Leliana sneers at him. “Maybe you should go,” Leliana says. “Sten can stay.”
 
“I will stay and guard you, if you like,” Sten says with a nod. “When you are done hunting we will go over your defensive tactics.”
 
“So that’s it,” Hera decides. “Alistair and Zevran will come with me, and you three and Ares will hunt and gather any edibles you find while Wynne works on the poultices.”
 
“Then let us be off,” Zevran decides. “I am anxious to see the man who has caused us so much trouble.”
 
They finish breakfast and gather their things to go. Morrigan flies ahead, calling down from time to time to let them know they’re going the right way. All in all, it is a pleasant enough walk to the village, even if Hera is overfull from everything Sten made for her. It’s when they reach Haven that things change.
 
The path leads to a set of stairs cut into the side of the mountain and shored up with logs. The road is surrounded by ancient pines on either side, and Hera shivers in their shadow, glad of her heavy cloak.
 
“Is it just me,” Alistair whispers, “or did it just get even colder?”
 
Hera opens her mouth to answer but sees a heavily armed guard step into the middle of the path ahead. “What are you doing in Haven?” he demands, holding up a hand to stop them. “There’s nothing for you here.”
 
“I have business here,” Hera tells him, lifting her chin haughtily in hopes of intimidating him with feigned importance.
 
“No, you do not,” he says, shaking his head. “I would have been informed if someone had been expecting a visitor.”
 
“Perhaps you can help me, then,” she responds. “Is there a Brother Genitivi here?”
 
“Who?” he sneers. “Perhaps Revered Father Imric will know of who you speak. Unfortunately, he’s ministering to the villagers at the moment and cannot be disturbed.” He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest menacingly. “I suggest you seek your brother elsewhere.”
 
“This place is secreted away; have you heard of the Urn of Sacred Ashes, by chance?”
 
“The Urn is nothing but a legend.”
 
“Very well,” she says primly. “Excuse us.”
 
“You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish, and then I suggest you and your companions leave.”
 
“Ahh,” Zevran sighs. “Quiet, insular communities! There is always something nasty going on behind closed doors. I hope it involves chains…” he says wistfully. “I hope they ask me to join in.”
 
“You and me both,” she mutters as they head into the village. 
 
“He was helpful,” Morrigan quips as she lands and transforms into herself beside them.
 
“Wasn’t he?” Hera sighs. “Let’s put in an appearance in the shop, then we can pretend to leave and do some sneaking.”
 
“Uh, I’m no good at sneaking,” Alistair reminds her, rattling his armor.
 
“That’s all right, you can stay with me,” Hera offers. “I’ll make sure you aren’t seen.”
 
“Hera, you’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Zevran asks, raising an eyebrow.
 
“Sneaking into a village and spying on its inhabitants?” Morrigan asks. “Who hasn’t, Zevran?”
 
Alistair stops and stares at them all with a mixture of horror and confusion. “Uh...

me,

” he says flatly.
 
Hera looks over her shoulder at him with a sweet smile. “Stick with me, Hero,” she tells him, “and I’ll have you doing all sorts of immoral deeds.”
 
He tilts his head and looks at her curiously. “I believe you would, actually.”
 
“Isn’t it strange how there seems to be no one around?” Morrigan asks as they walk. “If we hadn’t seen the guard, I would think the town deserted.”
 
“You’re onto something,” Hera muses, heading for the nearest building.
 
All of the buildings look the same, and the ever-so-helpful guard had offered no directions, so they just enter the first one they come to, thinking it to be the village shop. Instead, they find a fire crackling cheerfully in a one-room cottage, the bed in the corner made and dinner bubbling in a pot. 
 
Hera’s throat goes dry at the instant scent of blood- old, metallic, and quite a lot of it.

That’s not the stew.

She swallows, her tongue thick in her mouth as she turns to see a large butcher block standing in the corner as some sort of altar. “Seven hells,” she whispers.

Damn me. If they’re doing blood rituals, I’m going to have to feed eventually- even if it’s just to keep my thirst under control.

Partially congealed blood oozes down the side of the wood, and beneath the darkening liquid she can see how it’s been stained through the years- a legacy of horror and cruelty. Beneath the heady scent, Hera catches the faint, lingering odors of heated metal and a pungent herb. Looking up, she sees bunches hanging from the ceiling- all of the same dried plant with dark green leaves. It reminds her of a drug that many of the poorer citizens of Sigil chew on to distance themselves from their world.

What would a town like Haven need so potent a drug?

She wonders, reaching up to gently grab a crumbling leaf and sniff it.

I wish I could detect magic without anyone noticing.

“Used for food preparation, perhaps?” Alistair asks hopefully. 
 
“Not with that much blood,” Hera says. “You’ve killed men, Alistair, you

know.

”
 
“I’m just trying to be optimistic,” he says defensively, but even he sounds unconvinced. “The other explanation is slightly more disturbing.”
 
The approach slowly, horrified at the way blood has pooled and run over the sides of the butcher-block surface. Hera reaches out to touch it but draws her hand back quickly. “This is...unexpected,” she says softly.
 
“This is human blood,” Morrigan tells him, and Hera agrees.
 
“Ew,” Alistair squeaks. “How do you know?”
 
“We just do,” Hera says, offering no more explanation. “No one could lose this much and live.”
 
“I wonder…” Zevran says slowly. “The Crows often made sacrifices of blood and it gave them uncanny abilities.”
 
“Did you ever partake?” Hera asks, arching a brow at him.
 
Zevran’s face is curiously empty as he shakes his head. “Perhaps that is a story for another time, b

ella.

”
 
“This village isn’t what it appears to be,” Morrigan adds. “Let us discover what plot is afoot.”
 
They make to leave, but as soon as they step outside, a crowd of villagers comes running toward them, shouting and brandishing weapons.
 
“Well, this helps,” Hera says, and pulls her sword out. “Try not to kill them.”
 
A few seconds later Alistair runs a man through. “Hera, they’re

definitely

trying to kill us!”
 
“Fine!” she shouts back and changes tactics from defense to aggressive attack. Most of the villagers are using simple tools as weapons, and none are truly trained to fight except the handful of guards that join in with bows and arrows, so it isn’t long before the four companions kneel, panting and bruised but alive.
 
“I don’t think we’re wanted,” Zevran says with grim humor.
 
“Now I

have

to know what’s going on,” Hera says, rising and heading for the next building. 
 
Mostly they find a lot of empty cottages, some with altars like the first, some without, until they come across the village shop. “Zev, get that chest over there, would you?” Hera asks and gets to work on another. 
 
She glances at him from time to time while she picks the lock, noticing how he keeps his body sheltering his hands. Her chest pops open, and she’s about to speak when she hears a disgruntled sound and Zevran attacks the chest, breaking the lock and wrestling it open. They all stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed while he rummages through it as if nothing had just happened.
 
“Um...Zev? Everything all right over there?” she asks.
 
“The lock jammed is all,” he explains cheerfully. “Sometimes a little force is necessary to open things up, surely you know this, Hera.”
 
She chuckles and goes to investigate, grinning at what she finds. There’s a bow inside, made of wood so hard it feels like stone, a locket, and a pair of finely made leather boots. She strokes them before pulling them out, wondering if the soft, supple boots are like the Antivan boots Zevran had spoken of so fondly.
 
“Morrigan, take this,” she says, handing off the bow. She pockets the locket and turns to Zevran with the boots in hand. “Zev, these look like they’ll fit you.”
 
He takes them, eyes wide, and presses them to his face, inhaling deeply. “Hmmm, that smell,” he moans. “This is Antivan leather, isn’t it? I would know that smell anywhere! I don’t know how you’ve done it, but thank you.”
 
“What are you waiting for?” she asks. “Try them on while we have a moment.”
 
“But I’m not finished admiring them yet! Can you smell that?” he asks Alistair, putting the boots in his face. “Like rotting flesh, just like back in Antiva City.”
 
“Uh, no thank you,” Alistair says, making a disgusted face and moving away. “Suddenly I’m not upset at not being given anything.”
 
Zevran plops onto the floor, tugging off his boots and sliding the new ones on. “And they fit as well!” He cries out, throwing the older pair across the room with joy. “Marvelous!”
 
“Yes, yes,” Morrigan sighs. “Let’s get a move on, please. I saw a chantry further up, I expect we’ll find some answers- and this Father Imric, as well.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Further up the mountainside, they encounter more guards, this time better armed and waiting for them. Again, Hera tries not to kill any of them, but they seem determined to die for whatever cause their Andraste was championing. 
 
“There’s the chantry,” Morrigan says, pointing ahead. 
 
“Do you hear it?” Zevran asks, bewildered. “Singing from the chantry. The entire town from the sounds of it.”
 
“Let’s go join the choir,” Hera suggests, opening the doors with a flourish.
 
At the far end of the chantry hall is a gray-haired man in splendid robes speaking to the congregation around him. Hera notices the guards on either side of the hall as well and raises an eyebrow as she strides confidently up the length of the room.
 
“We are blessed beyond measure,” the man is saying, looking pious and self-righteous at the same time. “We are chosen by the Holy and the Beloved to be Her guardians; this sacred duty is given to us alone, rejoice my brethren, and prepare your hearts to receive Her.” He raises his arms, giving himself over to the thrall of religion, and Hera remembers how clerics in Sigil would stand at the street corners and preach for their gods all day long. “Lift up your voice,” he continues, ignoring their approach, “and despair not. For She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when her-” 
 
Hera pushes her way through the crowd and stops directly in front of him, forcing him to acknowledge her.
 
For a moment, he grimaces, then changes his expression to one of false friendliness. “Ah, welcome,” he croons. “I heard we had a visitor wandering about. I trust you’ve enjoyed your time in Haven so far?”
 
“Father Imric?” she asks, crossing her arms.
 
“I am,” he says with a smile, bowing his head.
 
“You killed the knights of Redcliffe,” Hera accuses, wasting no time. “We saw the bodies.”
 
The man looks to his people. “This, my brothers, is what happens when you let an outsider into the village. They have no respect for our privacy. She will tell others of us if we let her, word will spread, and then what? You, stranger, do not understand our ways. You would bring war to Haven with your ignorance.”
 
“Oh, you’re right about me bringing war on you,” she says with dark amusement. “You deserve it.”
 
“We don’t owe you any explanations for our actions- we have a sacred duty. Failure to protect Her would be a greater sin. All will be forgiven.”
 
“Not by me,” she says, drawing her sword.
 
Imric is ready for her and pulls his staff from his back to counter her attack. Morrigan shouts out a spell that stuns the villagers and guards surrounding them, and they use the opportunity to take care of the guards at the edges of the room. Villagers in a place of worship are usually unarmed and without armor of any kind, and these are the same. Hera regrets killing so many, but they risk their own lives by attacking them.
 
Imric’s robes are no great protection, but even so, he is the last to die. She and Zevran start sorting through them, taking what might be useful or valuable, while Alistair searches the adjoining room for a sign of Genitivi.
 
“Hera, look here,” Morrigan calls, staring at a blank wall. “This wall...something is wrong with it.”
 
“The mortar is a different color,” Alistair offers. “And it’s directly across from Imric’s chamber. I’d bet it’s a false wall.”
 
“Oh? And how shall we open it, Alistair the Wise?” the witch says snidely. “Why don’t the womenfolk stand aside so you might open it without our getting in the way? Zevran, stay away, Alistair is going to solve

all

our problems!”
 
Hera crouches beside Imric and taps Zevran’s arm, watching them quietly and trying not to laugh. “Well, I would guess…” Alistair begins, running his hands over the wall.

“I swear, you are the

stupidest

-” Morrigan’s words are cut off by the wall moving aside with a slow grinding sound.
 
Alistair grins at her, his hand on a torch set in the wall. “There was a switch,” he says smugly.
 
“Oh how I hate you,” Morrigan whispers bitterly.
 
Alistair’s grin gets wider, and he swaggers a little as he steps away from the wall. “I know.”
 
Hera and Zevran try not to laugh but fail, having to sit and lean against one another as they howl. Once they catch their breath, they stand and all four go into what appears to be a library.
 
“Why would you wall up a…” She trails off as they enter the room and see a man lying on his back in the center of the room. “Please be Genitivi,” she whispers, glancing up at the ceiling. “Please don’t be dead.”
 
At the sound of her voice, the man’s head lifts and turns to see her. “Who are you?” he asks softly. “They- they sent you to finish it?”
 
“My name is Hera,” she says softly, kneeling beside him. “I’m here to help you. Are you Brother Genitivi?”
 
“Yes.” He lays his head back with relief. “You don’t know how glad I am to see someone who isn’t from this village. I-” he sits up with a pained groan. “The leg’s not doing so well, and I can’t feel my foot.”
 
Hera looks up at Morrigan. “Morrigan, can you help?”
 
She glances down at the wound. “The leg

is

wounded, but that will heal in time. The foot...may have to come off.”
 
“Morrigan!” Alistair scolds.
 
“I thought you might say that,” he says solemnly. “But if the foot goes, it goes. There are more important things than an old man’s feet. I don’t have time to rest now- I’m so close! The Urn is just up that mountain!”
 
“I need to find the Ashes,” Hera tells him. “Arl Eamon grows sicker every day.”
 
“The arl is sick? Will he live?”
 
Hera shrugs. “The arl was poisoned under Loghain’s orders.”
 
“Politics,” he sighs. “Never did anyone any good. The arl is a noble soul, but the Ashes...the Ashes will surely cure him. Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain that holds the Urn- there is an old temple built there to protect it. The door is always locked, but I know what the key is. Imric wears a medallion that opens the temple door- I’ve seen what he does with it.”
 
“This medallion?” Zevran asks, pulling it from a pocket.
 
“Yes,” Genitivi says almost cheerfully. “That is your key. Take me to the mountainside and I will show you.”
 
“Are you sure you can make the journey?” Hera asks, looking carefully at his leg.
 
“It is not that far, and will you let me lean on you? For the Urn, any pain is worth enduring.”
 
“All right, let’s go,” Hera says, helping him to his feet.
 
Alistair stops her, asking Zevran to help the brother and pulls her aside. “I didn’t think we would find the Urn so soon,” he says. “Leliana wanted to see this so badly.”
 
“Alistair, the camp is three hours away,” she reminds him. “We can’t lose six hours walking, and with his leg...it would be the day.”
 
He nods, even though he looks upset at the idea of denying his friend something so special to her. “Yes, I know. It just...I know she wanted to be there.”
 
“We can’t afford to lose so much time,” she repeats. “I’m sorry, Hero. I’ll find a way to make it up to her.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They help Genitivi up the mountain, and when they stop to let him rest for a bit, Alistair pulls her aside. 
 
“Can you help him?” he asks softly, glancing at the old man rubbing his foot. “He’s not going to make it back down the mountain-

if

he even makes it to the temple.”
 
Hera nods. “I could if you want. Are you all right with my using magic?” she asks. 
 
Alistair looks conflicted but finally nods. “This is for the arl. He’ll die if we waste time.”
 
She nods again. “So be it. Distract them.” She walks over to Genitivi and kneels beside him. “Does it hurt very much?” she asks, touching it gently. 
 
He nods. “I will not let it slow us down much more,” he promises. 
 
Behind her, Hera hears Alistair pulling Morrigan and Zevran aside to tell them yet another horrible joke, and Morrigan begins berating him for it. Under the cover of their bickering, she prepares her spell mentally, running the long-familiar word through her thoughts and feeling magic pool in her fingertips.
 
“Let me rub it for you,” she offers. “I’m quite good at restorative massage.”
 
Brother Genitivi blushes and stutters, but lets her put her hands on his bare foot. As the brother starts to laugh at the childish banter behind her, she casts the spell under her breath, a soft breath scattering the faint wisps of shadow that appear before he notices. He flinches at the heat, and she pulls her hands away looking surprised. 
 
“I’m sorry, did I shock you?” she asks.
 
“I think you might have,” he tells her, rubbing his foot. “But whatever you did helped. It feels much better now.”
 
She nods and pats his shoulder. “Good, I’m glad. Are you ready to go?”
 
With Genitivi restored, if not totally healed, they make better time. As they get higher, snow appears, and Alistair explains that there’s always snow in the Frostback range. Hera stops and stares in awe as they approach a gorgeous ruined temple nestled among the icy pines, but Genitivi walks on, determined to get inside. She quickly follows them, and find a door locked at the mouth of the temple.
 
“Here we are,” Genitivi says with a tired sigh. “Give me the medallion, and let’s see if I remember. Yes...yes, you see...it can be manipulated like this…” He twists and opens hidden mechanisms in the medallion and fits it into a strange pattern cut into the stone door. Hera remembers seeing something similar on one of her adventures- Jameson had known how to open that door- and watches Genitivi turn the medallion in the lock. “And there! A key to open the way.”
 
They watch, crowding the door, as he swings it open. Genitivi smiles over at Hera, then leads them inside. Weak sunlight filters through broken windows, lighting the huge hall filled with snow and ice. Carved columns line the way with burning torches mounted on every other one. Hera, who has seen much in the way of majesty, finds herself swept up in the beautiful destruction of it all.
 
“Careful, Brother,” Hera warns, “the floor is icy.”
 
He only nods and puts up a hand, too busy looking around and taking everything in. Even Morrigan is silent as they enter, their leather boots softly tapping on the floor. In the center is a giant bonfire, roaring steadily and fed with logs on what can only be a regular basis.
 
“Someone’s here,” she whispers, making sure her weapons are loose in their sheaths. 
 
“Oh what I would give to have seen this hall in all its splendor,” Genitivi sighs. “As it was meant to be. Still, sweep away the ice and the snow, and the traces of beauty remain.”
 
Hera touches his arm, understanding the hold this place would have. Her own castle in Ravenloft had been much the same- full of dust and spider webs- and she had been in awe of it even through the layer of grime. But she didn’t have time to appreciate it now. “You need to stay alert, Brother,” she reminds him.
 
“I’m sorry, what? Oh, I was a little distracted, I apologize. The carvings were created just after Andraste’s death, and they may reveal things about her life that we do not yet know. I think I need more time to study these statues and carvings.”
 
“You want to stay here?” she asks, glancing at the others behind her. “Is it safe?”
 
“Oh, I could never keep up with you with my injuries. I should be safe, I don’t think there are any villagers here. Go, I will be all right,” he assures her. “Perhaps my destiny was to lead you the Urn.”
 
She nods. “Is there anything we should know about the temple?”
 
“It was designed to protect the Urn from anyone who would steal it or do harm to it. Namely, the Tevinter Imperium.”
 
“What sort of protection?” she asks.
 
“I’m not sure,” he admits. “The legends were never very specific on that point. Only the faithful shall lay eyes on the Sacred Ashes, death and misfortune await the unbeliever. The Maker’s gaze has fallen on Andraste’s final resting place. He weeps for his Beloved, and His wrath her betrayers endures.”

Death and misfortune await the unbeliever,

she thinks ruefully.

I guess it’s time to believe in something for once…

“So it is the wrath of the Maker that strikes men down?”
 
He shrugs. “That is what the legend says. And the Maker may indeed watch this place. Read between the lines, however, and you’ll understand that it is merely a simple truth draped in hyperbole and metaphor. After all, no one wants to hear ‘Willie toiled for many a year to perfect the curious mechanisms that would send a sharpened spike up the arse of the unwary intruder.’”
 
“Traps,” Hera mutters, wishing she had her brother with her; he was much better at disabling traps than she was.
 
“I think my decision to stay here was the best one,” he chuckles. “Don’t you?”
 
“Just try not to get into trouble,” she advises.
 
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” he promises. “Hmm...now I need something to write on…”
 
Before they go, they leave a little food and a black scroll of paper they’d found for him, then move deeper into the hall. 
 
“An ancient temple,” Morrigan says with only a little reverence, “lost to all but a select few. Magnificent.”
 
“I find it difficult to imagine you awe-struck,” Alistair tells her.
 
“How should we do this?” Hera cuts off Morrigan’s reply before they can start fighting. “We always handled things like this with a full sweep, left to right, then forward.”
 
“We?” Zevran asks.
 
“Hera and her brother,” Alistair explains. “They’re…”
 
“Adventurers,” she explains. “That’s what we’re called, usually.”
 
“Do you have many titles, Hera?” Morrigan asks. “You seem so faceted, we learn more about you every day.”
 
Hera laughs lightly. “I’m rather popular in Sigil and Ravenloft,” she says. “People always have lots of things to say about me.”
 
“Well, yes,” Alistair says awkwardly, wondering what exactly gets said about her. “I think your sweep idea is good.”
 
She nods. “Sweep it is. There’s a hallway that way,” she says, pointing. “Let’s start there.”
 
They enter a long hallway that leads to a small room holding three more villagers. Hera keeps wishing they didn’t have to kill the zealots, but they will not be reasoned with. After careful searching of the room, they find a long taper, a book on dragons that she thinks Wynne will enjoy, and another blank scroll. 
 
The scroll she leaves near the bonfire for Genitivi so that he can take his notes, and they enter a hallway on the far side of the hall, but it only leads to a ruined library. In spite of water damage and mold, Morrigan insists on having a look around. To her disappointment, she finds nothing of interest and stomps ahead, pouting. 
 
Back in the hall, Hera spies the old man making notes with bits of charcoal and muttering to himself. “I do hope he stays off the stairs,” she says, approaching them herself. “They look icy.”
 
It is here they’re ambushed. More zealots, this time in full splint mail and with sharp weapons, attack with a furious cry. It catches them off guard, and Hera is certain she would have taken an ax to the head had Morrigan not cast a spell to freeze their attackers in place. Hera is caught in the blast, her sword arm coated in thick ice she has to break off before she can retaliate.
 
Zevran isn’t so lucky and takes an arrow in the arm before they win the pitched battle. Unfortunately, there isn’t time to do more than knot a bandage around his arm before more pour from the landing above them. Zevran does his best to fight one-handed, and Hera stays on his injured side as they kill the last of them.
 
“Let’s get you patched up,” she says, helping him sit on a step while Alistair goes through the bodies, looking for valuables and better armor pieces.
 
“It does not hurt,” he lies, grimacing when she unknots the bandage and digs out the arrowhead. “At least it did not, before you began such- ah,” he gasps, “tender mercy.”
 
“Liar,” she snorts, amused. “Morrigan, Wynne taught you that healing spell, didn’t she? Would you mind?”
 
Morrigan sighs, but does as she’s asked, grumbling the whole time. Hera and Zevran ignore it, and when he can move without pain, she wraps a clean bandage over the slow-healing wound and kisses it.
 
“For luck,” she tells him.
 
“I am sorely in need of that,” he says with a gleam in his eye. “Perhaps more than such a chaste kiss will lend.”
 
“You’re going to need that luck,” Alistair quips from behind, and Zevran looks up innocently. “Oh don’t give me that look.”
 
Laughing, Hera puts out her hand so he can help her to her feet and looks around. “Well, two more rooms off to the sides. Let’s get to it. Zev, stay back a little until your arm is feeling better. I don’t want to get bottlenecked in a hallway with you in front.”
 
“Aye, Captain,” he teases, saluting her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

As soon as they open the door, a large creature comes barreling down the hallway, grunting and swinging it’s horned nose back and forth. Hera hears Alistair shout that there are two more men behind it with bows, but she gets crushed between the wall and the creature. Morrigan again casts her ice spell, and Hera closes her eyes and whispers a shield just as she’s encased completely in ice.
 
Unfortunately, her shield also shielded part of the thing, and she gags on its wretched scent. Stuck between the stinking thing and the wall, she hears the sounds of battle, specifically the clashing of steel and Alistair’s favorite warcry. Out of nowhere, there’s a great groan, and the beast pinning her to the wall relaxes and gets heavier.

It must be dead,

she thinks and hears Morrigan call out to her.
 
“Hera? Stay still, I’m going to melt the ice.”
 
She lets her shield down before the witch’s fire engulfs the ice, melting it down without so much as singeing her hair. “Thanks,” she says with relief as soon as she sees the others.
 
“Are you all right?” Alistair asks. “What happened?”
 
“This...thing...pinned me, is all,” she explains, wiggling and pushing to get leverage. “Help me push it away. It smells terrible.”
 
“Sure,” he says quickly and forces his way between it and the wall to help. “It’s a bronto, by the way.”
 
“A what?” she asks, straining to push. “Zev, is that a chest over there?” she asks, looking over its bulk into the room it ran out of it.
 
“Yes,

amora.

”
 
“Go pop it open while we do this,” she grunts as she and Alistair push the bronto out of the way. 
 
“Well...about that,” Zevran chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I cannot.”
 
“What?” she asks, sucking in a lungful of the stench rising from the dead beast and choking. 
 
He waits until she’s done coughing to answer, his voice uneven with nervousness. “Well...You see, when I told you I could pick locks...I was not...telling you I

could

pick locks in practice. I was telling you I could do it...in theory.”
 
Hera’s jaw drops, and Alistair bursts out laughing. “I

told

you!” Alistair laughs. “Hera, I told you he was lying!”
 
“You

lied?

” she asks. “You lied. To the person who

saved your life?

”
 
“Well, I

am

quite dexterous- as you know,” he stammers. “And I was very against dying at the time.”
 
“What else is a lie?” she demands, hands on her hips and biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at him.
 
“Nothing! Nothing else! I can warm beds and assassinate people and clean armor and everything I said was true! Except that one little, tiny little thing,” he amends, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself.
 
Hera approaches him slowly, looking like she’s either going to kiss him or slit his throat. Zevran swallows audibly, keeping his eyes on hers as she comes closer. “Zevran,” she says softly, lifting his chin with one finger. “I already knew you couldn’t pick locks.”
 
“

What?”

Alistair shouts. “You knew?”
 
“Yes,” she says, not looking away from Zevran. “And I kept it to myself because it isn’t important. I can pick, and so can Leliana. You will learn. But if I find out you’ve lied about

anything

else, I will flay the skin off your bones and show you-” she stops herself before she can add

why I am the Queen of Darkness.

“Y-Yes?” he prompts, looking half-afraid, half-aroused. “You will show me…?”
 
“How dexterous

I

am,” she says with a flirtatious giggle.
 
Zevran takes a deep, calming breath as she releases him and moves away. “I like you, Hera,” Zevran tells her, still a little shaky. “You look like you would make love to a man, stab him in the heart, and smile sweetly while doing it.”
 
Hera flutters her lashes and gives him a secretive smile. “Wouldn't be the first time. Let’s move on, shall we?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They make their way through the temple ruins, encountering more zealots along the way shouting about Andraste. Alistair explains to Hera that Andraste was the spiritual bride of the Maker, how she lead an army against the Tevinter Imperium and was later burned at the stake for it. 
 
“But why are they shouting for her now? As if she’s here to hear them?” Hera questions, scanning a tattered journal they’d found. “Wait...the Cult of Andraste? Have any of you heard of it?” she asks, looking up at them. Her three companions all shrug and shake their heads. “Well, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
 
Deeper into the temple they move, until they leave behind stone walls and enter hollowed out tunnels in the mountain itself. They encounter more and more cultists the farther they go, but Hera points out that as long as they’re meeting opposition they must be on to something. It isn’t until they enter a vast cavern and see a man in shining armor that she thinks this might be more than a mere village of zealots.
 
They approach slowly, weapons drawn, until he puts a hand up and tells them to stop. Hera listens thoughtfully as he tells her that they are the worshippers of an Arisen Andraste, and accuses them of violating a sacred space. When she tells him that she’s only after the Ashes, his demeanor changes.
 
“I am Father Kolgrim,” he says, suddenly friendly. “Leader and guide to the disciples of Andraste. The Prophet Andraste has overcome death itself and returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine! Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay her now.”
 
Hera shoots Alistair a look that clearly implies this man is insane, and he shrugs back in answer. “What has happened to the Ashes, then?”
 
“They are still within this temple,” Kolgrim explains. “But why would we need ashes when we serve the risen Andraste in all Her glory?”
 
“So I can have them, then.”
 
“So you are after the Ashes then?” he muses, rubbing his chin. “Perhaps there is a way to make up for your desecration.”
 
Hera rolls her eyes.

It’s always something.

“Just get to it, then.”
 
Kolgrim launches into a plan for Hera and her companions to enter the temple and make their way to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. It seems there is a Guardian of some kind that stops them from entering and retrieving the Urn. He claims they can have the pinch they need to cure the arl, but she must promise to pour a vial of blood into the ashes directly after. Behind her, she can hear Morrigan and Zevran voicing approval of this plan, both telling Hera it would have Kolgrim in the palm of her hand then. Alistair voices a little disapproval, his tone clearly implying that the idea makes him uncomfortable. 
 
“All right,” she decides. “Give me the vial. I’ll do what you ask.”
 
“You

will?

” Alistair asks in surprise. 
 
“Yes,” she says, taking the vial of dragon’s blood. It’s hot to the touch and reminds her suddenly of the vial of her own blood held in the depths of Ravenloft Castle’s vault. She tucks it safely away and follows Kolgrim out of the cavern and into the sunshine. They exit onto a stone walkway lined with pillars with nothing branching from it or a roof.
 
Blinded momentarily from the beautiful view of the Frostback Mountains, Hera almost misses the presence of the dragon lounging atop a nearby mountain shelf. Mouth open in awe, she walks forward, enraptured with the deep red creature shining in the sun like a ruby. It isn’t until the dragon screams, the sound like metal tearing, that she realizes she’s alone. Looking back, she sees Alistair, Zevran, and Morrigan frozen in place.

Dragon fear,

she thinks, turning back to them.

It strikes everyone the first time they see a dragon- some people never get used to it no matter how many times they see a dragon. I remember the first time I saw one; I had never been so afraid in my life.

She approaches Alistair first, getting close to his face and trying to dominate his field of vision. “Hero,” she says softly, turning his face to hers. “Hero, look at me.” He doesn’t respond, his gaze locked on the dragon, so Hera takes a deep breath, filling her voice with power the way her brother taught her and tries again. “

Alistair, look at me,

” she commands, and his eyes slowly break away and look at her in fear.
 
“Hera,” he whimpers.
 
“

You are not alone,

” she continues.

“I am here, and I do not fear the dragon. There is nothing to fear."

It works, and slowly she can see him coming back to her. She lets him lean against a stone while she moves on to Morrigan, doing much the same, and getting a sarcastic response- and a grateful look- from the witch. Zevran is harder, having never seen anything like this in the Crows and still getting accustomed to the darkspawn they hunt. She has to call him back several times, putting more and more power into her voice and risking Morrigan catching on to the game of secrecy Hera plays.
 
Finally, they’re ready, and walk to Kolgrim as one. “You see the majesty of the Risen Andraste,” he says smugly. 
 
“I do,” Hera says softly, looking back up at the gorgeous creature. “She is a thing of great beauty and power.”
 
Happy enough with her response, he points to a door at the far end of the walk. “The Guardian is through there,” he adds, pointing to a door at the end of the stone walkway. “We will await your triumphant return.”
 
“Thank you,” Hera says, bowing her head. “I will not disappoint those I serve.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They enter a second temple, this one far more ancient than the other. Hera can feel magic and power flowing through the place and knows Morrigan must feel it too. They climb a short flight of stairs and see the Guardian Kolgrim had mentioned at the far end of the hall.
 
“What is this place?” Alistair murmurs. “It’s different from the rest of the ruins.”
 
“It’s a place of power,” Morrigan says. “Even you must feel that.”
 
For the first time since coming to Ferelden, Hera feels something greater than just magic.

It feels as if the whole world is holding its breath,

she thinks, drawing a hand over a beautifully carved pillar.

Or waiting for something. There is a very real presence here.

He is dressed in ancient armor, but his beard remains neatly trimmed and he does not fidget with boredom the way a man in his position would.

He must not be human, or maybe even alive anymore,

she decides. 
 
“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” he says as they approach. His voice echoes off the walls with traces of magic. 
 
“Thank you,” she says, bowing to him. “I am Hera, come for the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”
 
“You have come to honor Andraste,” he responds. “And you shall...

if

you prove yourself worthy.”
 
“I need the Ashes to cure a noble man.”
 
“Still, you must prove

yourself

worthy. It is not my place to decide your worthiness. The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn, and be allowed to take a small pinch of the ashes for yourself. If not…” He simply raises his eyebrows and shrugs.
 
“What is this Gauntlet?” she asks.
 
“The Gauntlet tells the true pilgrims from the false,” he explains. “You will undergo four tests of faith, and we shall see how your soul fares.”
 
“Very well, let’s get started.”
 
“Before you go, there is something I must ask,” he adds. “I see that the path that led you here was not easy, there is suffering in your past- your suffering, and the suffering of others. You made a dangerous promise to dark and malevolent powers, and with it betrayed your brother. He will lose the only thing that matters to him. You keep dangerous secrets from him, and from your friends. Tell me, do you feel guilty, leaving your brother with a lie?”
 
Hera doesn’t waver, keeping her eyes locked with his. “Yes. But it was necessary; I have no regrets.”
 
“Then you do not dwell on past mistakes.”
 
“It’s easy for others to judge what you’ve done in hindsight,” Alistair comments. “But it doesn’t make it any better.”
 
“No, Guardian,” Hera says in a firm voice. “I do not. It needed to be done, so I did it. It is my way.”
 
The Guardian looks as if he might as something of the others, but Hera stops him with a hand. “I am the one being tested,” she says. “Do not ask them, Guardian.”
 
“Very well,” he concedes. “I will respect your wishes, Hera. The way is open, good luck, and may you find what you seek.”
 
A blinding light fills the room, and as they blink away the spots, he disappears. Hera ignores the looks from her friends and walks through the now-open door with all the confidence she can muster. 
 
The next room is full of spirits with riddles, each one unlocking a different lock on another door. Between the four of them, they are able to answer the riddles and learn more about Andraste as they do so. When the final door unlocks, they see a shadowy figure standing just inside the room.
 
Hera freezes as soon as she sees him. Tall and broad, with chestnut hair and a rakish grin playing on his lips. He’s dressed in his favorite hunting leathers, and if she closed her eyes, she’d smell the leather and sweat. A rugged, beautiful face, like a cherub grown into a man.
 
“Do not fear me, little beast,” he says, holding his hand out to her. “Come closer.”
 
“Who is that?” Alistair whispers behind them.
 
“You’re not...you can’t be,” she whispers, stumbling closer. “He’s

dead.

”
 
“Yes, you saw to that, didn't you?” he chuckles. “I bear you no ill will, my love. I deserved the death you sent me,” he admits, “but you did not deserve the betrayal that came first.”
 
“I...You were wrong,” she tells him in a hard voice. “I adored you. I

loved

you.”
 
“I know, beast. I’m sorry for using you the way I did. Take this, and do great things,” he says, offering something in his palm.
 
She ignores his offering. “You called me a monster,” she says with venom in her voice.
 
Anatoly gives her his charming smile and shrugs, taking her hand and pressing something small and hard into it. “Sometimes the world needs a monster, my little beast.”
 
She lashes out, punching him in the face. His head rocks back with the blow, but he laughs and rubs his jaw. “I guess I deserve that, too,” he laughs, and a faint wind comes from behind them, and he disappears into the shadows.
 
Hera covers her face with her hands, forcing herself to breathe slowly, to control the angry whirlwind of magic within her that screams to level this place.

It won’t do to fall apart now,

she thinks, struggling for control.

Not now. Not when we’re so close to the Ashes.

“Who...who was that?” Alistair asks.
 
“A past lover, it seems,” Morrigan suggests.
 
“Both of you shut up!” Hera snaps fiercely.
 
Alistair suddenly looks as if he’s been kicked, and his expression goes flat. “Of course, commander,” he grumbles.
 
Zevran says something to him, but she doesn't quite hear him. To Hera, they sound very far away, as if she’s at the other end of a tunnel. She feels alone; the betrayal from all those years ago seems so fresh and new. Suddenly she is a heartbroken girl who’s just lost her mother and her lover in a single blow, and grief threatens to break her resolve.

The Guardian should have just stabbed me in the heart,

she thinks ruefully.

It would have been easier than this.

She feels hands on her shoulders, light and gentle. Looking up, she sees Zevran standing in front of her, looking as if he understands everything that just happened.

I know betrayal,

his expression seems to say. He holds her gaze for several breaths, and she nods.
 
“Good,” he says, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We will move on.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Slowly the approach a crater in the middle of the path. Around the crater are twelve trigger plates, six on each side. “Well this looks complex,” Hera mutters, placing her foot on one of the plates carefully. A section of a stone bridge lights up but doesn’t look solid. She lifts her foot, and it disappears. “Right,” she says. “One of these.”
 
“Have you ever encountered something like this, Hera?” Alistair asks.
 
“No, but I’ve heard of them,” she explains, taking a moment to stand on each plate and register which one makes bridge sections appear.

I imagine the others make them solid. So it’s just a matter of finding out which ones.

It takes a little while, but they get two sections of the bridge complete by moving each person onto specific plates. It’s nerve-wracking, but Hera slowly steps onto the first section of the partially-revealed bridge. With a deep breath, she calls to Morrigan, flinching when she leaves her trigger plate and approaches.
 
“It is a clever thing,” she says, tapping her foot on the stone. “Solid, and yet a moment ago it was thin air. Hera, what do you-”
 
Morrigan is cut off by Hera’s scream as Alistair steps off his trigger plate and the stone beneath her disappears. Acting quickly, Morrigan drops to the floor and grabs Hera by the hand.
 
“Fool!” she shouts. “You’ve nearly killed her!”
 
“Hera!” he shouts, moving to step back into place.
 
“No!” Hera says quickly. “Don't do that. Don't move.”
 
Hera looks up into Morrigan’s face, fully aware that she could let go and kill her. She dangles in open air, staring up at the woman she’s called friend, and hoping it isn't her end. Something shifts in Morrigan’s eyes, giving her a predatory look, and Hera’s heart races.
 
“Morrigan,” she says, hanging on to her arm with both hands. “Don't let go.”
 
As swiftly as it appeared, the look disappears, and Morrigan braces herself. “Do not be foolish. I will not.”
 
With the help of a spell, Morrigan pulls her over the edge and helps her climb up. Gasping for breath, Hera embraces her, thanking her luck for such a friend.
 
“Luck?” Morrigan asks. “Do you not believe in fate?”
 
Hera laughs and hugs her again. “I believe fate is exactly why I’m lucky.”
 
After that, they manage to get the bridge solidified completely, and pass through the final door. Immediately they shield their eyes from a wall of bright flame, leaping higher than a man is tall but fed by nothing. Once Hera blinks the spots from her eyes, she notices an old stone altar before her and approaches slowly. 
 
The carved altar is waist-high and dusty from years of neglect; she brushes her hand over its surface, trying to make out the carvings. “Wait...it’s words,” she murmurs and grabs a bandage and her water skin. Carefully, she cleans the dust away so she can read clearly. 
 
“Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit,” she reads. “King and slave, lord and beggar, be born again in the Maker’s sight.”
 
“What do you suppose it means?” Alistair asks.
 
“If taken literally...we have to remove all our equipment,” she answers, studying the stone. “Down to the skin.”
 
“Finally!” Zevran cries. “Be my guest,

amora

, you are our leader.”
 
“W-What?” Alistair stammers.
 
“Shy, Templar?” Morrigan teases.
 
Hera drops her pack and starts unbuckling armor. In moments, she’s completely naked and unpins her hair, shaking it loose. Behind her, she hears several sharp intakes of breath, and she turns to glance at her friends, all in various stages of undress.
 
“Worth the wait, Zev?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
 
In response he starts reciting something in his own tongue, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “I...I think that’s the Chant of Light,” Alistair explains, awkwardly trying to cover himself in his small clothes.
 
Morrigan, like Hera, simply stands and waits for the men to finish.

I imagine modesty has as much importance in her life as it does in mine,

she thinks.
 
“C-Can you turn around?” Alistair asks, his face red and blotchy. 
 
Morrigan sighs and makes a derogatory remark, but turns. Hera gives him a slow look up and down, a smile spreading across her face, before turning and facing the flames. “I have never in my life been cloaked in anything close to goodness of spirit,” Hera says with a laugh, hoping it masks the small, uncertain voice in her mind telling her that she could live a thousand years and never be worthy.
 
“Are you a villain then, Hera?” Morrigan asks, surprised.
 
“Perhaps.” Hera shrugs. “I never thought so. Zeus and I have certainly spent our lives doing just as we pleased. If that helped people, well and good. People like us don’t always serve the good of the people.”
 
“How noble,” Morrigan titters. “Your Zeus sounds delightful.”
 
“He is,” she says wistfully. “I hope you get to meet him one day. Are we ready?”
 
“Yes, my Warden,” Zevran says behind them.
 
“I’ll go first,” she decides. “Morrigan, have that ice spell ready, if you please.”
 
With a deep breath, Hera walks toward the flames.

Andraste, I am no servant of the Maker,

she prays silently, the heat of the fire enough to make her hair flutter.

But this thing I do,

she explains, stepping into the flame itself,

is done for love.

Heat and flame envelop her, and for a moment she fears she will burn. Instead, time stretches, and before her she sees herself as a young girl, making foolish decisions and falling in love. All her bitterness and grief over Anatoly’s betrayal and her mother’s death fall away from her, and for once she feels light-hearted. She takes another step, passing out of the flames and into the cool air of the temple, and opens her eyes in wonder at this feeling having been cleansed. It is painful, like having an infected wound lanced, and tears spring into her eyes at the sudden ache in her heart.
 
“You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet,” she hears and turns to see the Guardian approaching. “You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the Sacred Ashes.”
 
The others pass through, carrying their gear, and take their time getting dressed. Hera is quiet and contemplative, shaking her head when Alistair moves to embrace her.

Not now,

she thinks, wondering at the strange heartbreak. Slowly, they approach the Urn, and Hera feels something strange, almost a kinship, with Andraste as they get closer. 
 
“I didn’t think anyone could succeed in finding Andraste’s final resting place...but...here She is,” he says in an awed tone.
 
“Nice vase,” Zevran drawls. “I should get one for my house.”

“I am in awe,” Morrigan adds. “Really.”
 
Trying to shake off the storm of emotions, Hera rolls her eyes at the jokes and looks up at the statue of Andraste.

Thank you, my lady,

she thinks, taking the promised pinch and securing the pouch inside her shirt for safety.
 
“And now the blood?” Morrigan asks.
 
“No,” Hera says softly. “We will leave her in peace.”
 
“Kolgrim will not like this,” Zevran warns as they make their way out of the temple and back into the sunlight.
 
Seeing Kolgrim waiting ahead, Hera makes sure her weapons are loose. “I really don’t care what he likes. We will deal with him.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera approaches Leliana slowly. “Lel,” she says softly, sitting beside her. “I am truly sorry. We had no way of knowing just how close we were when we left yesterday morning. How could we? If I could go back, I would, but there’s simply no time to make the trip again and possibly encounter more cultists.”
 
“I know,” Leliana grumbles, wiping her tears of frustration away. Leliana had kept to herself ever since Hera and the others had dragged themselves into camp this morning. They’d spent an uneasy night in Haven, restlessly tossing and turning in the beds of dead villagers, a large pyre burning in the center of town making them wish they had just continued on and left the ghostly hamlet behind them.
 
Over a cold breakfast, they had shared the story of finding Brother Genitivi and how he had led them to the temple of Andraste. As they spoke, Leliana did her best to hide the hurt of being left out. When Alistair spoke of seeing the ashes and the sense of peace that had accompanied them, her hurt had turned to anger.
 
Brother Genitivi had elected to stay with them until they made it to another village, but due to his injuries, Wynne had suggested that they remain where they were until the next morning. Morrigan and Zevran had loudly agreed, citing their own troubled sleep in Haven, and retired to their tents as quickly as possible. 
 
Shooting a guilty look at Leliana, who ignored her completely, Hera had avoided her until they drew the same straw for watch. 
 
“Please don’t feel too badly about it,” she pleads, tucking Leliana’s short red hair behind her ear. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. When this is all over, we will return, you and I.”
 
Leliana nods, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Do you really think Andraste is there?”
 
Hera nods and tells her about the peace and cleansing she felt as she passed through the flames. “It was a wondrous thing,” she adds, “and I have seen my fair share of what passes for gods. And yet...the hatred I’ve held for the man I saw there is gone. I am able to remember our happier days, and not just the pain of it. Your Andraste is influential, indeed.”
 
“Are you a believer, then?” she asks, her pitch rising.
 
Hera considers her words carefully. “I believe that Andraste was a truly special and powerful person, and that comes through in Her followers- mostly. In you, definitely.” Hera leans over and looks deeply into Leliana’s eyes. “And you are just as lovely as she ever was.”
 
Leliana blushes and looks away coyly. “You’re too much of a flirt for your own good,” she chastises, but can’t hide a small smile. “Alistair will get jealous.”
 
“Alistair has a lot of jealousy in store then,” Hera chuckles.
 
Leliana laughs. “Tell me about it all again,” she asks.
 
Hera tells her, keeping her eyes scanning the woods until Leliana falls asleep. After a while, she wakes her and sends her to bed, then keeps watch alone, thinking about Anatoly. 
 
*

Hera looks up as Alistair comes to sit beside her, watching the sun rise. “You’ve been awfully quiet since the Gauntlet,” he says, offering her a cup of coffee. “You didn’t even wake anyone else for their shift. Have you been sitting up all night?”
 
She nods, taking a sip. “You all needed the rest.”
 
“There were actually three people here who could have done it,” he reminds her. “People who didn’t nearly die yesterday. And a dog, who slept and ate all day.”
 
She shrugs. “I’ve had a lot to think about. The kind best done late at night.”
 
“Do you want to talk about it?” He keeps his tone even and careful, but she can see the tension creeping into his shoulders.

Is he afraid of what I would say?

“Not particularly,” she tells him honestly. “Not right now.”
 
Alistair nods, and they sit in silence for a while as the sky brightens. “Can I ask you just one question?” When she nods, he visibly gathers his courage. “Are you still in love with him?”
 
Hera is so shocked she laughs, nearly spilling her coffee. “I’m sorry,” she says, catching her breath. “I don’t mean to laugh at your question.”
 
“Right,” he says slowly. 
 
“It’s just...he’s been dead

so long

,” she explains. “And I hate him,” she adds without passion. “At least I did.”
 
“He was that bad, huh?”
 
“Worse,” she says softly, looking back to the horizon. “He was worse, Hero.”
 
“I’m sorry, Hera. You know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you?” he asks, putting his hand over hers. “I’m here for you, pretty lady.”
 
His touch is warm, but with Anatoly in her thoughts all night, she instinctively pulls away, pretending not to see how his jaw tightens or hear him clear his throat.

I don’t want them connected in any way,

she thinks, tugging at her boots.

I can’t allow him to touch me while I’m thinking of another. I just…

He’s too good, and I don’t want a dead man to spoil this.

“Let’s get an early start,” she suggests, standing and whistling for Ares. Somehow she can’t quite wrap her mind around the idea that this man might actually care for her, not so soon after seeing Anatoly in the Gauntlet.
 
“Hera.”
 
She turns, a pleading look on her face. “I... It just hurts,” she explains. “I can’t. Not now.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Zeus, I wish you would at least

try

to sleep.”
 
The drunken prince raises his head from the card table, squinting at the pink-skinned beauty before him. “Whoz zat?” he slurs.
 
“It’s Krynne, Zeus,” she says gently, coming to his side. With a shooing motion and a sharp look, she waves away the players, glaring as they gather up their winnings. “Rafiq and I have come back, remember?”
 
“Oh. It’s you. You didn’t bring

him

back, did you?” he sneers. 
 
“No, Jami stayed away this time.”
 
Something flashes across Zeus’ beautifully chiseled features- if she didn’t know him better, Krynne would say it’s fear. His feud with Jami had reached a boiling point when the fire wizard had accused him of leaving the work of ruling to Hera out of selfishness. Since then, Zeus had drowned himself in vice; Krynne’s heart broke for someone who had no idea how to grieve for such a loss. It was as if his sister had been his soul, and without her, he didn't know how to function anymore.
 
“Good,” he mutters, plucking at the lace on his cuff. 
 
“Zeus, darling, go to bed,” she pleads softly. “You need to sleep.”
 
“No!” he says, eyes wide. “What if she comes back?”
 
Krynne sits beside him, brushing his hair off his face and giving him a warm smile. “I promise I’ll wake you if she does.”
 
“I can’t,” he says in a small voice. "I have to wait."
 
“Darling, let us take care of you-”
 
“I hurt her. I don’t deserve to be taken care of,” he argues, turning his face away.
 
Krynne's heart swells with tenderness. Zeus has never one to show pain or accept blame of any kind. “Yes you do, love," she assured him, turning him back to face her. "Come along, Rafiq and I will get you to bed.” Krynne gestures to her husband, a tall, dark-skinned, devilishly handsome man not far away. “Gently, my dear.”
 
Zeus allows himself to be hefted to his feet, then all but carried to his rooms. “The king’s rooms,” he mutters, glaring at the lavish decor. “Imposter’s rooms, more like.”
 
“Why do you say that?” Krynne asks, pulling the linens back and gesturing for Rafiq to lay him down.
 
“I’m not king,” he says, sighing as his body sinks into the mattress. “Dear Dunkle rules in her stead.”
 
She can’t help the little giggle that escapes her as she and Rafiq tug off his boots. “Dear Dunkle” is Zeus’ personal endearment for his uncle the Duke. “You could, though. There's no one else would stand in for her.”
 
A soft sob comes from the head of the bed. “I miss her, Krynne.”
 
The words are barely more than a whisper, but the weight of his sorrow drops into her belly like cold iron. Krynne moves to go to him, but Rafiq cuts her off with a gesture. “Do you remember when my lady Aara left us?” he asks Zeus instead, rolling down his stocking. “When she and the Sheik made a mess of everything?”
 
“Yes,” Zeus sniffs, staring up at the ceiling. “You were such an angry little child. A sniveling, whining wretch.”
 
Krynne gives her husband an amused look, but Rafiq only rolls his eyes. “She was gone

five years

, Zeus,” he reminds him, making him sit up.
 
Zeus' head hangs, making him look even more like a broken doll. “She wrote you a note. My dearest love just

left.

”

So dramatic,

Krynne thinks, helping him out of his coat. Both of them. “And that note did nothing to ease his pain.”
 
“And she came back,” Rafiq adds. “Eventually.”
 
Zeus chokes on another sob, turning bloodshot eyes to Krynne. “Hera isn’t coming back,” he says brokenly. “She’s left me forever.”
 
Tears prick her eyes and she wraps her arms around him. “Oh, sweet Zeus,” she whispers into his hair. “She’ll come back, I know it.”
 
The dam finally breaks, and for the first time since his sister disappeared, he shares the burden of his grief. Rafiq sits on his other side, an arm around his shaking shoulders. “I’ve never loved anyone else,” Zeus sobs, clinging to her. “No one else understands me.”
 
“I know, darling. I’ve known you longer than anyone. I know.”
 
“Krynne, I

need

her.”
 
Looking up, she meets the warm brown eyes of her husband, currently red with tears himself. “She’ll come back.”

I hope.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“She kept watch alone all night,” Wynne says worriedly, studying Hera. “I can hardly believe she’s even upright today after everything that happened yesterday.”
 
“I know,” Alistair says, watching her race Zevran and Ares to the next mile marker. “She the last shift the night before, too.”
 
“Did she? I thought that was Leliana and Zevran.”
 
“Leliana started feeling poorly,” he explains. “Something about her stomach, so Hera took it.”
 
“What happened in the temple?” Wynne asks. “She’s been acting strange ever since you got back.”
 
He tells her about seeing someone called Anatoly, and the conversation they’d had. “She’s avoiding talking about it, but it hurts her. I don’t know how to talk to her about it.”
 
Wynne grabs his arm, her worry increasing. “Alistair, you

must

say something to her. She’s going to get hurt if she goes on this way. I’m worried.”
 
“What can I do, Wynne? She won't take orders from me.”
 
“But she’ll listen to a fellow Grey Warden.”
 
Alistair nods, his eyes on Hera. Sometimes, even her boundless strength and energy fails her, like in the Tower of Magi. Right now she seems fine, laughing and squealing as Ares tackles her into a pile of leaves beside the road. But if they were to meet one of the roving bands of darkspawn- an increasing possibility- she might not get through it unhurt.
 
“I’ll see what I can do,” he decides. “Would you be opposed to playing the tired old lady?” he asks suddenly. “If you tell her you’re too tired to go further, we can make camp early.”
 
“Alistair, that’s a wonderful idea. An afternoon to ourselves will be good for us all.”
 
They call to Hera, and Wynne explains how exhausted she is, and she doesn’t think she can go another mile. Their leader instantly consults their map, looking for a water source to make camp near.
 
“Alistair, isn’t there a spring nearby?” she asks. “I’m almost sure this is where the villager was talking about.”
 
He looks over her shoulder and nods, pointing to the spot. “Here, I think. It’s farther into the forest than we usually go.”
 
“Wynne, can you make it?” Hera asks, worried.
 
“I’m sure I can, if Alistair lets me lean on him.”
 
Alistair watches as Hera takes Wynne’s pack and plunges into the forest. “Well...it’s a stop,” he mutters as they all start to follow.
 
They find the spring an hour later and start camp. The forest is quiet, with shafts of warm sunlight filtering through the canopy. As soon as they stop, Hera immediately starts working: digging the latrine and fire pits, gathering water and setting it to heat. While she’s distracted, Alistair takes her pack and sets her tent up a little further from the others.
 
“Did you set up my tent?” she asks, approaching and wiping the sweat from her neck. “Thank you, Alistair.”
 
“You need rest,” he says, hammering in the last spike. “You haven't slept since the temple.”
 
She laughs. “Well...I’d be a poor leader if I didn't let everyone get a full night’s rest once in a while.”
 
“And what about you, Hera?” he asks, concern giving his voice a hard edge.
 
“Me? I’m fine,” she insists.
 
“Really?” he asks, standing and taking her hand. “Raven, you can’t run yourself ragged. You

have

to rest. No watch tonight.”
 
“I’m fine, I swear,” she tells him, looking up into his eyes. “I just…”
 
“Just what?” he presses, wrapping his arms around her.
 
Hera looks down, her hands on his chest. “I’m just afraid that I’m going to lose this,” she says softly, toying with a button on his shirt. “All of it: you, Ferelden, them. I just want to get as much time in as I can.”
 
“You could stay,” he suggests.
 
“I can’t,” she sighs. “And it’s not fair to you, but I can’t. Even if I want to.”
 
Alistair tilts her chin up and meets her violet gaze. “Hera, let’s get through the Blight,” he tells her. “We’ll figure out the rest later. For now, rest.”
 
“Alistair, I-”
 
“Later,” he demands, lowering his lips to hers. When he breaks away, he presses his forehead to hers and sighs. “Rest, Hera.”
 
She grins up at him. “Come rest with me,” she offers, tilting her head toward the tent.
 
Alistair laughs- she can always make him laugh- and shakes his head. “You temptress,” he teases. “Get some sleep, I’ll be back to wake you for dinner.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They make their way back to Redcliffe as quickly as possible, striking camp before dawn and not stopping until the sun is half set against the mountains. Hera wants to waste as little time as possible, and considers just giving the ashes to Morrigan and letting her fly to the castle, but hesitates. After the strange look Morrigan gave her in Andraste’s temple, she isn’t sure if defeating the Blight or saving the arl rank very highly on Morrigan’s list of preferred activities. 
 
She doesn’t say anything, but scouts ahead with the witch, keeping a close eye on her for anything unusual. The first day passes normally, Morrigan is taciturn and quiet, and Hera just goes about her business, not bothering Morrigan with idle chatter. 
 
“There is a river not far from here,” Morrigan tells her late in the afternoon. “If we head east for an hour, we will see it.”
 
“There is? It isn’t on the map.”
 
Morrigan sniffs with derision. “Your map is not so inclusive. This is a branch of the river that runs through Redcliffe. We can camp beside it tonight and begin to follow it tomorrow, it will lead us to the village.”
 
“That’s a great idea,” Hera decides. “We’ve been traveling hard for a few days, a little extra rest tonight will be appreciated. Why don’t you scout out a campsite and I’ll tell the others?”
 
Morrigan nods and takes to the air as Hera turns back down the path. As she walks, she daydreams about the few stolen moments she and Alistair have shared recently; hushed laughter, passionate embraces, his eagerness for more. The same eagerness and desire was in direct opposition with his religious upbringing and caused him much guilt. Only the night before, they’d gone gathering firewood and ended up rolling around in the woods, lips pressed together and hands teasing one another through their clothes, when he’d pulled away and begged for patience.

“Hera, I want...Maker, don’t know what I want!” he’d said, breathing heavily.

Hera pulled herself together, setting her clothes to rights and nodding. “I understand. I do, Alistair. But if you want more time…”

She laughs now, remembering

. “You’ve got to stop teasing me this way! I’m not used to chaste men.”

Even now her blood heats remembering his hands on her, and she’s glad for the brisk wind already lending color to her cheeks. She starts jogging, anything to get her mind off the path of desire Alistair seems bent on keeping her on.
 
*
 
Hera wraps her arms around Alistair’s neck, desperate to get him closer. She sighs when his hands roam down her back, cupping her backside and shifting her slightly. He had ambushed her on the way to wash clothes, pulling her into the bushes and on top of him. Half an hour later, they still have their clothes on, but her laundry is scattered around them, still unwashed.
 
“Alistair,” she gasps, pushing herself up on her arms. “You have to stop.”
 
He pulls her back down, kissing her neck. “Give me one good reason,” he demands, breath hot on her skin.
 
“Because if you don't, I’m not going to stop you,” she moans. “And then your first time will be in the dirt, surrounded by stinking socks.”
 
He groans, letting his head fall back to the grass. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one...but would that be a bad thing?”
 
“I can't say it would be my first time in the great outdoors, but is it really what you want?” she asks, sitting up and straddling him. 
 
He raises an eyebrow at her and raises his hips beneath her. “You have to ask?”
 
She grins back at him, shifting slightly and biting back a moan. “This isn't my ideal location,” she admits. “And we have second watch. And really disgusting socks. But if this is what you want...”
 
“Maker’s breath,” he curses. “I hate when you’re right.”
 
Hera slides off him slowly and pushes her hair back. “I can't wait to be with you,” she tells him, gathering the clothing. “But

you

said you wanted to go slowly.”
 
“I do.”
 
She laughs. “T

his

is not slowly. Think about it.”
 
He sighs and puts his hands behind his head. “I do,” he says dreamily. "So often."
 
“I can't believe that

I’m

the one putting a stop to this,” she mutters to herself. “Me. Hera of Ravenloft. Courtesan extraordinaire.”
 
“Me either,” he laughs, sitting up and reaching for her. "I'm dying to find out if your reputation really is what you say."
 
As if you'd be able to tell, she thinks with a wry smile. “

You

stay away,” she orders, slapping his hands away. “I’m going to go...jump in the river or something.”
 
Alistair laughs and sits up. “It’s really cold,” he warns.
 
“Good,” she mutters.

And he calls

me

the temptress.

“I’ll see you for watch?” he calls, watching her walk away. 
 
“Oh no,” she says smugly, stopping and leaning against the tree. “Not unless you want to while away a couple hours with Morrigan, too.”
 
“Are all women this evil?” he asks, scowling. “I hate her.”
 
“Best way to keep you chaste, Hero,” she teases and flounces off for the river.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“How old are you, Hera?”
 
Hera’s brows draw together, and she looks up from her mending. “How old am I?” she repeats. “Older than I look, I’m sure.”
 
Morrigan raises a brow curiously. “You

look

rather young. I would put you at no more than eighteen years of age.”
 
“Oh well I’m older than that,” Hera assures her.

Technically.

“My bloodline just ages really well.”
 
“You cannot possibly be old enough to say such a thing,” Morrigan declares. “Yet sometimes you act like an old woman,” she says, pointing to the pile of mending at Hera’s side. After dinner, Hera had simply gathered her things and the endless mending that everyone needed done and sat down to it during her watch with Morrigan.
 
“I don't mind mending. I was the only one with any skill for it for a while. The finer stuff- knitting, weaving, embroidery, I’m all thumbs with. But this I can do.”
 
“So...how old are you?”
 
Hera decides on a half-truth. “About twenty? Twenty-one?” she guesses. “The dates are strange here, and my name day was in the fall in Ravenloft.”
 
“Ah yes, your mysterious home. Tell me, how does one find a door when one cannot see it?” She tilts her head, giving her a scrutinizing look. "You did say that the mirror you passed through was destroyed on this side, yes?"
 
“There are always clues,” Hera answers. “Some are easy to find, others not so much. Some worlds have many doors, others one if any. I will find it.”
 
“And what of young Alistair? He was already an idiot, but now he’s gone stupid with love for you. Would you leave him now?”
 
Hera shrugs, biting her lip and ignoring the rush of guilt. “I...don’t know, Morrigan,” she says softly. “It will all depend on if I find a way home. He’s young; he would heal if we part ways.”

Wouldn't he? Surely he will, this isn't...

He'll be fine. He'll get over it.

Morrigan raises a brow and tilts her head. “He’s older than you, Warden.”

Damn. Why do I always forget that?

“You know a man is never as old as his age,” she laughs. “I’m younger

and

older than him at the same time. Age is just a number anyway, right?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They arrive in Redcliffe a few days later, stumbling with fatigue. Hera sends everyone to the tavern to rest and have something to eat while she and Alistair go to the castle. Accompanied by her ever-faithful mabari, they slowly climb the path, hardly speaking. She can tell something is bothering Alistair, but she lets it ride, knowing he’ll say something when he’s ready. 
 
When they reach the castle, Isolde is overjoyed to see them and rushes them off to the arl’s bedchamber. Erik, the physician they met before, is with him, watching closely for any sign of change. Irving is also there, and Hera feels a small sense of relief that someone with magic has been caring for the arl as well.
 
In a chair in the corner, Teagan dozes, but jolts awake when the door opens. “You’re back,” he says, coming closer. “Oh my lady, we were starting to fear the worst. Thank the Maker you’ve returned. Do you have the ashes?”
 
Hera pulls the pouch from inside her shirt and hands it to him. “We found them.”
 
Erik and Irving instantly begin working on a cure for the arl, and Isolde sits on the bed, holding her husband’s hand. “This may take some time,” Teagan explains. “I don’t understand everything they’ve said about it, but I do know that. Let me offer you a place to rest until there’s word.”
 
She looks over at Alistair, his face desperate for something to happen. “Thank you, but we can rest here,” she says, and nudges him to the chair Teagan had just vacated. “If you’d send someone to the tavern for our companions…?”
 
“Of course, my lady. And I’ll have rooms prepared for you all.”
 
She thanks him, sitting on the floor beside Alistair and leaning on his knee. With Ares’ head in her lap, they watch quietly while the mage and physician make a potion. Alistair is so quiet that she’s almost sure he’s fallen asleep until he brushes his hand through her hair gently.

“Thank you,” he says softly.
 
“For what, Hero?” she asks, resting her chin on his knee and looking up at him.
 
“Arl Eamon will live,” he answers, eyes still on the figures working. “I...I can talk with him when he’s better. I have you to thank for that.”
 
She smiles, blinking sleepily. “It was my pleasure, Alistair.”
 
Alistair looks down at the top of her head, eyebrows knitting together.

She really means that, doesn’t she? Everything she’s done has been for someone else- usually me. What kind of woman is she?

A cry from the other side of the room scatters his thoughts, and his heart freezes. “Is he dead?” he whispers as Hera stirs beside him.
 
“No,” she says softly, pushing the dog’s head from her lap and rising. “He didn’t die.”
 
Alistair follows blindly to the foot of the bed, where the arl is shaking his head and blinking slowly. “Arl Eamon?”
 
“Oh, he’s alive!” Isolde cries, kneeling on the floor and praying aloud.
 
“Alistair?” Eamon rasps.
 
“Careful, my lord,” Erik cautions. “You’re weak, and have been ill for quite a long time.”
 
Alistair stares at the arl, pale and thin from his long illness. This man had shown him kindness as a boy, had saved and repaired the amulet he wore now. Whatever the arl had allowed his wife to do to him, Alistair had to acknowledge that it had all led to his becoming a Grey Warden.

Those early years were all right,

he thinks, rubbing grit from his eyes.

It wasn’t until he was married that I had to go out to the stable.

And now he has no words for him. “My lord,” he says softly, his heart too full for anything else.
 
“Alistair, let me show you to your room,” Teagan suggests. “And we can let my brother rest. We’ll meet again for dinner.”
 
He nods, watching Hera take Teagan’s arm, flirting and laughing all the way to the rooms they’d held the last time they were here. Somehow she seemed refreshed, as if sitting on the floor had been as good for her as a full night's sleep. Watching them, all his confused feelings for both the arl and the woman begin to meld and expand until he’s brooding and stomping behind them, totally unsure of why he’s angry.
 
“Oh, Teagan!” he hears her delighted cry. “What a lovely idea!”
 
“Do you think so, my lady?” Teagan asks, and Alistair wonders what he’s missed. “Then perhaps I shall claim you as my first.”

First? First

what?

He narrows his eyes and studies the way she flutters her lashes and acts coy.

What’s that bastard planning?

“I would be honored, dear bann.”
 
Teagan stops in front of the door, holding a hand out to either side. “Alistair, you, of course, are in the room across the hall. My lady Hera,” he says slowly, lifting her hand and kissing it. “I have taken the liberty of having a few things added to your room to make your stay more comfortable. If you have need of anything, please do not hesitate to ask.”
 
Hera’s smile and the silly way she turns her shoulders to him makes Alistair’s blood boil. “A woman could get used to this kind of attention,” she simpers.
 
“A woman who deserves it certainly would need to,” he responds. “I shall see you at dinner.”
 
Alistair and Ares both snarl.
 
“Until then,” she says, and goes into her room.
 
“Why do you always do that?” he demands, following her into her room.
 
“Do what?” she asks, dropping her pack on the floor.
 
“Flirt with Teagan.”
 
Hera raises an eyebrow and looks at him over her shoulder. “I like him. Flirting with him is fun. Is that a problem?”
 
“Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate?” he asks, leaning against the door. “You’re a bastard, he’s a lord.” The words feel like a whip, striking her back without warning. 
 
“Excuse me?” she asks sharply, turning to face him. “What did you just say?”
 
Alistair realizes his mistake, but it’s too late now. Exhaustion, anger, and confused passion have all boiled down to a single insult he isn’t sure he would take back if he could.

She let Zevran kiss her. She let me. Has she let Teagan, too? Am I just another conquest to her; a story to take back to her brother and laugh over?

“Don’t you think it’s inappropriate to flirt with someone so high above your station?”

If that were true, she’d never have looked at me twice,

he thinks. In the back of his mind, he

knows

better, but doubts and questions have circled in his mind until he’s sick and has to have it out in the open.
 
Hera looks as if she’s been slapped. “You know

nothing

about my station, Alistair.”
 
“No, I don’t, do I?” he sneers. “You won’t tell anyone anything about yourself.”
 
“It’s not important.”
 
“I think it is,” his voice rising.
 
“Why?” she demands, balling her hands into fists. “Will it help end the Blight? Will it find my way home? Why are you so damn curious about something I clearly don’t want to talk about?” she shouts. Between them, Ares barks and jumps around, unsure of whose side he should be on. Alistair watches her take a deep breath before she speaks again. “Before we take this flirtation any further, you need to think about something.”
 
“What do you mean?” he demands.

Flirtation? Is that truly all this is?

Hera pulls her shoulders back and gives him a cold, impassive look. “I am not a good person,” she tells him. “I sell my body and the illusion of love. I use sex and people to get what I want without regret. My profession suits my nature. There are things I will never tell you. I’m not worthy of your affection, and I

will

leave you one day. Don’t think for a moment that I won’t.”

What? What is she saying?

Alistair shakes his head, confused. “Hera, this is about you and Teagan-”
 
“Just think about it,” she interrupts, using that infuriatingly logical tone she gets when she’s trying to explain something to someone who refuses to listen. “And about how you will feel when I walk away. If you want to proceed with your courtship, these are things you should be prepared for.”

Is she...is she trying to end this with me? Right here, in the middle of...everything?

Alistair stomps over to her, suddenly furious. “All right, I listened to you,” he growls, pointing at her. “Now you listen to me. I’ve watched you take on a fight that isn’t even yours, rescue a town plagued by undead, and

literally

walk through fire. You think you aren’t worthy of love? You’re a liar,” he spits. “So why don’t you shut up for once, and just let me court you?”
 
“Alistair-”
 
“Andraste’s flaming sword!” he roars, fisting his hands in his hair. “I have feelings for you, Hera! Why are you flirting with other men and talking about leaving me?”
 
For a second time, Hera looks as if he’s just slapped her across the face, and Alistair can feel the tension draining out of the room. “Feelings?” she asks, her lower lip quivering. “Are they...strong...feelings?”

Maker’s breath.

“What? Feelings?” he asks, suddenly nervous and blushing. “Did I say feelings?”
 
“Yes. You shouted it,” she reminds him, and her eyes start to sparkle and make his stomach churn. “Just now. I imagine the whole castle heard you.”
 
“I- I meant...Maker’s breath,” he sighs and gives up.

I was going to have to tell her eventually.

“I have feelings for you, Hera. Strong ones.”
 
Hera smiles and turns her shoulder- the same coy trick she used on Teagan and is making his knees turn to water now. “I see.”
 
“Do you...um...maybe...have feelings?” he stammers. “I mean for me?”

Please, Andraste. If she says yes I’ll build you a whole new temple.

Hera nods. “Yes,” she says, stepping closer. “In spite of my best efforts to ignore them.”
 
“Ignore them?”
 
“Yes. Feelings that are outside my nature.”
 
“L-Lustful ones?”
 
“Those too,” she whispers, her voice brushing over his skin like velvet.
 
He swallows hard to move the lump forming in his throat.

Praise Andraste. It’s going to be a

big

temple.

“Strong...ones?”
 
Hera nods again. “Yes. I have strong feelings for you, and not just physical desire,” she clarifies before stepping out of reach. “But I also have a powerful smell surrounding both myself and Ares. Can we continue this talk later, when you and I are more composed?”
 
Alistair nods, too tongue-tied to say anything, and he has to force out his next words. “A walk, maybe? After dinner?”
 
“I think that would be wise,” she says.

Alistair leaves her room dazed and a little confused.

What just happened?

he asked himself, leaning against the wall and staring at her door. He’d followed her in there to berate her for flirting with Teagan and ended up telling her he had feelings for her instead. “Maker’s breath,” he groans, banging his head into the stone wall.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“It’s the skills I have outside the bedroom that matter most,” she tells them. “That’s one of the reasons I can demand such a high price.”
 
“It seems to me that a woman who sells herself would focus more on the arts of the bedroom,” Morrigan chuckles.
 
“Oh, I’m quite focused on what I do in the bedroom.” With a hot look at her friend, Hera strokes her hand with a single fingertip, humming in amusement when the witch jerks her hand away with a sneer. “To the right man, I’m more valuable with my clothes

on

than off.”
 
“Is that so?” Morrigan asks dryly, shaking her hand as if she’d been shocked.
 
Hera glances fondly across the room at Alistair playing cards with Zevran and two other men in the castle’s large hall, her earlier fight with him forgotten. The arlessa and bann had been so grateful when Arl Eamon woke that they’d all been invited to stay and rest a few days, even throwing a large banquet to celebrate the arl’s recovery. “When I decide to build a person up, it happens- quite easily sometimes,” she says. “Leliana, you understand don't you?”
 
“Of course,” she says with a nod. “When I was a bard in Orlais, I knew women like you who used their wits and their bodies to get what they wanted. The nobles would take them on as mistresses, and they would train their children in the Great Game. You remind me of them.”
 
Morrigan shakes her head. “And what, pray tell, has grown since you’ve put your hand to Ferelden?”
 
“Him,” Hera answers without hesitation, nodding at Alistair. “He’s grown.”
 
“From a bumbling idiot into a romantic idiot,” she snickers. “I’m not certain that’s an improvement.”
 
Hera and Leliana laugh. “Oh, I don't know,” Leliana says thoughtfully. “I think it’s sweet. It’s like watching a boy become a hero in a story.”
 
“He dotes on you like a lovesick child,” Morrigan goes on. “And you allow it- encourage it, even though you talk constantly of leaving. I do not understand you, Hera. You claim to be a courtesan of great renown, yet you’ve tied yourself to that fool, with his flowers and silly favors.”
 
Hera shrugs. “I’ve never been courted before. I like it, so I’ll enjoy it while I can. Wouldn't you like to be romanced at least once?”
 
“Romance?” she scoffs. “Me? No man would dare.”
 
“Or woman either,” Leliana giggles into her winecup. 
 
Feeling a little of the wine herself, Hera laughs. “It really is great fun,” she tells her friend. “Especially when you like him.”
 
“How is this different than the men in your past?”
 
Hera props her chin in her fist and watches Alistair play cards and drink, truly allowing himself to relax for the first time in since they left the temple. “First, he can’t afford me. I charge more for one night than he’s ever seen. Second, this is not my home, and he was kind to me when we met.”
 
“Is there a third reason in your sickening list?”
 
“What’s wrong with spending time with a handsome young hero? He could do worse than learning to love from me,” she informs the witch.
 
“Do you think you’ll sleep together soon?” Leliana asks excitedly.
 
Hera drains and refills her cup before answering. “Gods, I hope so,” she groans. “He’s

killing

me. I’m a courtesan- I am not made for celibacy!”
 
“You are both idiots,” Morrigan sighs. “I had such hopes for you, Hera, but he’s made you a fool for love.”
 
Hera sushes them as he approaches, looking a little sick. “Um, Hera?” he says, jerking his chin toward the door. “That...uh...that walk?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair babbles nervously at her for a moment before he finally gets to his point. “I guess what I mean is that I want to spend the night with you. Here, in the castle.”

Is he really saying this?

she asks herself. When he’d asked her to take a walk along the castle wall earlier, she’d had no idea he was going to ask her

this.

Surprised, she looks up at Alistair with wide eyes. “You...you want to spend the night?” she repeats dumbly. “In...In my room? With me?”
 
“Well, yours would probably be more comfortable,” he chuckles. “I’m pretty sure Teagan gave you a bigger bed. And it’s kind of...pointless...if you’re not there. With me,” he adds quickly. “To-Together.”
 
She studies him a moment, looking to see if he means it. “Alistair,” she says softly. “Do you really mean that? I don’t want you rushing into something you aren’t comfortable with. You’ve asked to go slowly… I will wait for the right time.”
 
He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I wanted to wait until the perfect time, the perfect place. But when will it be perfect? If things were...we would never have met. We sort of stumbled into each other,” he babbles. “And despite this being the

least

perfect time, I still found myself falling for you, between all the fighting and everything else. Maybe...maybe this is too fast, I don't know, but…” he takes her hands and looks her in the eyes. “But I know what I feel. It took me a while to figure it out, but I know now. I want to be with you.”
 
Hera keeps his gaze for a long moment, then lets her eyes travel over his face, silent.

Damn me to seven hells,

she thinks as her heart begins to pound hard enough to rattle her ribcage. The torch behind him gives him a halo of light, reminding her of the day they met.

He really is perfect, isn’t he?

So what does he want with me?

“Um...is something wrong?” he asks, looking like he might be sick any moment.
 
“I’m just making sure I never forget this moment,” she says softly, smiling. 
 
He tries to flash her a grin, but it fails. “So you can look back and laugh?” he jokes flatly.
 
“So I can look back and keep it close to my heart on cold nights,” she informs him, being more honest than she meant to be. “Are you certain?” she asks, squeezing his fingers lightly.
 
“Yes. I love you, and I want to...to share this with you while we have the chance.”

He loves me. He said it. Out loud. So easily.

“Don't talk like that, there’ll be time,” she whispers, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. Her hand shakes and she feels as if she might faint.

He loves me.

Her heart beats to the rhythm of the words as if this new cadence was something she needed to survive.
 
“Will there?” he asks gravely. “I don't know that. You don't know that. I’d like to say I threw caution to the wind at least once. You’re going to find a way home eventually, and we might not make it through the Blight. So...” he shrugs.
 
Hera holds his gaze a long moment.

This might be the only chance we have for a long time. We’re going into dangerous territory; I have been plucked from worlds unknowing and unwilling before- who’s to say it won’t happen again?

“Say no more.”
 
“Is that a yes?” The hopeful lift in his voice is made more adorable by the uncertainty of his eyebrows raising, and she laughs in spite of the weight of the moment.
 
“Absolutely.” 
 
“So...um...what now?” he asks, blushing.
 
“Now, you come with me,” she tells him, a smile curling her lips. “And I take over.”
 
His smile grows slowly, and his nervous expression smoothes over. He is no natural leader, she knows that; putting himself in her hands will allow him to relax and not be so anxious. “Lead on, my raven.”
 
Hera leads him to her room, glad for his sake that no one else is in the corridor. “Ares,” she says, holding the door open. “Go to Alistair’s room.” The mabari trots happily across the hall and leaps onto the bed, rolling around and getting comfortable.
 
“Well at least someone’s getting some use out of it,” he laughs, joking to try and cover up the question he didn’t ask.
 
“You won't be,” she informs him, locking the door behind her. “Unless you decide you don't want to stay.”
 
“You know I’ve never done anything like this before,” he says nervously. “I- I don't know what’s...acceptable.”
 
“I know,” she reminds him, putting on the beguiling, murmurous tone she uses with all her patrons and lovers. “Just trust me, Alistair.”
 
She kisses him, wrapping her arms around him and molding her body to his. She can feel his heartbeat, already rapid, leap at her touch, and her own pulse follows. One hand runs up her back before tangling in her hair, while the other knots the silk at the base of her spine. Hera arches against him, ignoring the way her hairpins stab her scalp, and he moans into the kiss. Her head spins and she breaks away from him, stepping back.
 
In her pleasure house in Sigil, they would be in a lavishly decorated room filled with candles and incense, silk and velvet would surround them, wine and delicacies would be at hand. She would have been dressed in something glorious, her skin glowing and her hair artfully arranged. There would be a flautist hidden in a small alcove to provide music suited to the patron’s desire.
 
It would not be a small, dark guest chamber with only a fire in the grate and linen sheets gone soft with use. They would not be wearing borrowed finery that didn’t quite fit or have hands calloused from wielding weapons.
 
It would not be the perfect time or place there, either.
 
Hera touched him with reverence, drawing her fingers over his jaw and down the column of his throat before flattening her palm against his chest. She closed her eyes, reminding herself that she has been trained by the finest, that she is a woman known for the way a man’s knees go weak for a smile from her. 
 
And yet, for the first time in her life, she is a woman well and truly in love, and

she

is the one weak in the knees over a smile. The magic in her blood rises alongside desire, pinpricks at her fingertips only adding to the arousal coursing through her.
 
“Is something wrong?” Alistair breathes.
 
Opening her eyes and meeting his gaze, she shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “Just taking my time.”
 
Slowly, she unbuttons the doublet he borrowed from Teagan, her eyes on his as she slides her hands up his stomach and over his shoulders, easing the garment down his arms before it falls to the floor. He shivers when her hands untuck his shirt and slip under the hem, drawing it up and over his head, her fingernails dragging gently along his skin and making him suck in a sharp breath.
 
Hera kneels before him and removes his boots- the only thing on him that seems to be his own- and rolls down the socks. Desire and eagerness tell her to unlace his breeches, to skip a torturous arousal and take him into her mouth, but she fights the urge, wanting this night to be something he can hold close and remember.
 
Rising in one smooth motion, she cups his face and kisses him again, hands moving to guide his own to the laces at the back of her gown. His fingers fumble and he breaks off the kiss, looking embarrassed. “Can you...turn around?” he asks in a raw voice. “It’s knotted.”
 
She does so, giving him better access to the knot of satin he’s building. “Blast,” he mutters, tugging hard enough to make her stumble backward. “Is there any other way out of this?”
 
Hera gives him a hungry look over her shoulder. “I’m sure someone in the village sells dress ribbon,” she says. “There’s a knife in the side pouch of my bag.”
 
He grins and arches an eyebrow. “Good idea. Smart lady.”
 
She lets out a small giggle when he gleefully slices through the laces. The dress sags around her shoulders as she turns back to him, holding it up with one hand. Alistair’s face loses all amusement, settling into an intense look of longing. Hera was vain enough to know exactly what he saw: lustrous violet eyes made darker by the shadows and firelight, pale skin flushed with desire and lips still swollen from his kiss. Hundreds before him had seen the same portrait of aroused disarray.
 
But the sweet knowledge that he is

different

than all the others pricks her thundering heart like a needle.
 
Alistair’s hand reaches out, moving her own so that the dress falls farther and reveals a corset and silk chemise, dragging the dress down until her arms are free and it makes a puddle on the floor. He doesn’t have the skill or the grace she does; his hands have been rough since his boyhood and the only gentle touch he’s ever known has been hers.

Maker, don’t let me make a fool of myself,

he thinks, swallowing hard and staring at her.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“I- um- more laces,” he croaks.
 
“Allow me,” she whispers, reaching back and untying the strings hanging from the middle of the corset as easily as slipping off a sock. “I have more practice, you know.”
 
He breathes out a soft

ha

, but his mouth is too dry for more as the intimidating contraption falls to the floor, leaving her in only a thin chemise. She raises her hands and unpins her hair, letting it tumble down in waves darker than the night sky. The smile she gives him makes him grow bolder, putting a hand on the back of her neck and drawing her close for another kiss. 
 
“Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful,” he sighs when they part.
 
She bites her lip, looking suddenly shy. “So are you,” she says with a small laugh. 
 
He’s just beginning to wonder how to shed these last layers between them when she reaches down between them, dipping her fingers into the waistband of his breeches and biting him gently on the shoulder at the same time. His thoughts scatter as the breeches join his doublet and her dress on the floor. 
 
With a groan, he pushes her back until her legs hit the bed, his mouth on her neck, his hands shredding the thin silk of her chemise in his desperation for her. Her touch leaves a trail of fire and he wants nothing more than for them to burn together.
 
She arches her back and they fall onto the feather mattress.
 
Hera trembles in his arms as he explores her body with hands and mouth, his touch filling her with wonder and igniting a white-hot desire she hasn’t known in a long time. This is a dance she knows by heart, the steps as natural to her as breathing, but Alistair has only his gentle heart and eager flesh. It is enough. For all the death and horror he’s already seen in his short time alive, there is an untouched sweetness to him that made her feel cherished, worshipped.
 
“I love you,” he says as he slides inside her, and to her, it feels like a prayer.
 
Alistair presses his face to her neck, breathing heavily as his hips thrust. Hera knows that he won’t last long- he’s a virgin and they never do, no matter what trick she might use. To prove it, his movements speed up and he releases a low moan as he reaches his climax.
 
“Damn,” he gasps, rolling off of her. “Maker damn me.”
 
Silently, she watches him sit up, drawing his knees up to rest his arms on. He hangs his head as if he could hide the flush of activity and embarrassment. 
 
“Alistair…” she says softly, sitting up and resting her chin on his shoulder.
 
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, not looking at her. “That was- I-”
 
“w perfect,” she tells him, kissing his arm.
 
“But so...so

short

.”
 
She snorts out a small laugh, surprising him enough to look up at her with confusion. “Did you think you would last the night in one go?” she asks, her eyes twinkling. “No one does their first time.”
 
He frowns, clearly not expecting to hear this. “So you...knew it would be like- like this?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“And-”
 
“And the next time will be better,” she says, trailing a hand down his spine. “And the time after that, and after that…”
 
***

So this is why it’s called lovemaking.

Never in her long life had she felt like this: as if her world could end tonight with no regrets. She had loved Anatoly, true, but their every touch had still been under a contract, and later his betrayal had poisoned the innocent love of a girl. Even her sweetest, most gentle patron had always been just another signature on a contract.
 
To have someone make love to her was a new experience entirely. There was none of the innocent deception she had with her patrons, where they pretended to love one another to fulfill a need or receive payment, or the simple exchange of desire that she’d had with past lovers.

This

was true, and she thinks she might burst from joy.
 
The second time had, indeed, been better. As had the third.

Their skin slick with sweat and hearts still racing, he holds her close to him, curling around her as if she were something precious. “According to the chantry, I should be struck by lightning about now,” he murmurs against her shoulder.
 
“Is that so?” she purrs, glancing over her shoulder at him.
 
“Mmhmm. Then comes the fall of civilization and the end of the world.”
 
“They put awfully high expectations on you in your chantry,” she chuckles. “Do they expect all men to be so good their first night?”
 
“I suppose they do.” He clears his throat, and she turns over to look at him. “The, uh, the others,” he stammers. “They’ll talk, you know.”
 
She gives him a wicked smile. “First smart comment and I’ll feed them to the darkspawn.”
 
He laughs, throwing his head back with the sound, and she can see his uneasiness drain away. “This is why I love you. Have I… Have I told you I love you? Well, there it is. I do. I love you.”
 
She laughs at his endearing chatter and falls in love with him a little bit more. “You might have mentioned it earlier,” she teases.
 
“I do, you know,” he says seriously, tilting her chin up and gazing into her eyes. “I love you.”
 
“I love you, Alistair,” she breathes, melting into the gold-flecked depths.
 
“

Finally.

I’ve been waiting to hear that all night. Was that so hard?” he chuckles.

You have no idea,

she thinks as he kisses her again. “Will you stay tonight?”
 
Alistair rolls her over, settling her on top of him. “I’m not going anywhere, raven,” he says huskily.
 
Later, when he’s sleeping like the dead, she lies awake, listening to the sound of his breath rush in and out of his chest and thinking of all her past partners. If asked, she could name every single one, from her first to now. Her dhampir mind made her the perfect courtesan, her inability to forget the smallest detail- what flower to send afterward, or where to place a chaste kiss to stir passion- gave her an edge against others who had to keep notes or journals for their patrons. Her hard heart helped as well; when one doesn’t fall in love, there is never a chance for things to get messy.
 
Some stayed, paying for the privilege of dreaming beside her. Most merely paid her and wished her well, pressing a kiss and gift into her hands as she flitted away. It had never mattered to her, she never invited them to stay for herself. Anatoly had been the only one she asked to stay the night.

And now, decades later, here I am, wrapped in the arms of a man invited to stay. A man who has been freely given all I am, who has only asked for me to love him.

It’s the ones who stay that we wear in our skins,

she thinks, tracing the muscle definition in Alistair’s chest.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“The Crown Prince!”
 
The doors to the great hall swing open, surprising the crowd of petitioners and courtiers come to see the Duke. All heads turn to see Zeus Drakul, the playboy prince himself, striding down the length of the hall, followed by a demoness with pale pink skin and bright yellow hair and her dark brooding husband. Whispers explode behind them as the prince approaches the Duke.
 
“Dear Dunkle,” he says smoothly, giving his uncle a small bow.
 
“Nephew,” the Duke answers, bowing grandly. He looks a bit confused at his nephew’s sudden appearance. “How may I be of service?”
 
Zeus chuckles and explains that he’s there to take up the role of regent. Thanks to Krynne and Rafiq, he’s clear-eyed and sober for the first time in months, ready to do his duty. When she finally agreed to rule alone, the only thing she had asked of him was to take her place should something happen to her. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he wonders what foresight overcame her in those early days.

Gods, I hope I don’t ruin everything.

“Only until her majesty returns, of course,” Zeus adds, holding up a finger. “I fully intend to return to debauchery the moment her perfect ass is back on her throne.”
 
The Duke’s dark eyes widen slightly, and he nods, gesturing for the prince to take his sister’s throne. Zeus hesitates, staring at the silver velvet cushions.

This is for Hera,

he reminds himself with a little shake. With a careless saunter he’s practiced for nearly a hundred years, he takes the throne, sprawling out so that he still looks the libertine.

Come back soon, sister.

*
 
“I don’t know how you did it, love,” Rafiq chuckles, seating himself by the fire. “I’ve never seen him so…”
 
“Grown up?” Krynne offers, slipping her dress off her shoulders with a relieved sigh. It makes a slight

thump

as it hits the floor in a velvet puddle. “Court gowns are so heavy, how does Hera do it?”
 
“The same way she does everything, my love,” he murmurs, watching how the light plays on the tempting glimpses of flesh exposed by the shifting chemise. “With style.”
 
Krynn’s yellow eyebrows furrow, and she comes to sit in his lap. “Do you truly think we’ll find her?” she asks, curling into his arms.
 
Rafiq tucks her head beneath his chin with a sigh. “I...I don’t know, Krynne,” he admits. “It’s the silence that bothers me- she left no note and hasn’t written a word. The Hera I know wouldn’t just disappear unless something was wrong.”
 
Krynne swallows down the cold fear that something

is

wrong; the thought of her friend being in danger makes her insides quiver in fear. “We’ll find her,” she says firmly.

Gods willing, we’ll find her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The next morning is strange for both of them; he’s shy and awkward; she’s reserved and quiet. Both of them are unsure of how to proceed, and she finally breaks the silence before he leaves her room.
 
“Alistair,” she says, sitting on the bed. “Do you regret what’s happened?”
 
“Between us?” he asks, closing the door again. “Why would you say that?”
 
She gives him a nervous smile. “If I’m honest...I’ve never...there hasn’t been anyone like you,” she confesses, hoping he understands what she’s trying to say. “Not any of my patrons, or anyone. Ever.”
 
He comes to sit beside her, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “Not for me, either,” he says. “You know that. So what now? Where do we go from here?”
 
Hera shrugs. “I...I don’t know,” she answers, looking up at him. “I want to stay with you, but…”
 
“But you have to go home, eventually,” he finishes. “I could...I could come with you if you like. To Ravenloft.”
 
“You would do that?” she asks. “For me?”
 
“For you. I love you, Hera. And,” he adds with a grin, “I want to meet this twin of yours.”
 
“Zeus will hate you,” she laughs, “for a while, anyway. Then he’ll see how wonderful you are.” With a big smile, she lifts their hands and kisses the back of his. “We stay together, no matter what happens.”
 
“Right! I can handle that,” he says cheerfully.
 
“Then I suppose we should go find Teagan and the others,” she suggests. “The arl should be ready to discuss strategy now.”
 
***
 
Together, Hera and Alistair tell Eamon the story, starting from the moment Loghain turned traitor on the king. He stands away from them, facing the enormous fireplace with his head bowed. 
 
“And then we returned here with the ashes,” she finishes.
 
“This is most troubling,” he says, turning to the gathered adventurers. “There is much to be done, that is true. But I would first be thankful to those who have done so much. Grey Warden, you have not only saved my life but kept my family safe as well,” he goes on, gesturing to Isolde for emphasis. “I am in your debt. Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?”
 
Behind her, Zevran and Leliana snicker and whisper a comment about her “services” that is quickly silenced by a cold look from Wynne. Hera winks at her friends before speaking. “If you like, I won’t object,” she says lightly. “But it is not necessary. All I need is your assistance with the Blight.”
 
“You have that, madam. Allow me to declare you and those traveling with you Champions of Redcliffe. You will always be a welcome guest in these halls.”
 
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmurs, bowing her head and trying not to raise an eyebrow.

A shame there has not always been a warm welcome for the Grey Warden standing with me. You have missed so much treating him this way, Eamon.

“And for you, Warden, a shield of the same make as those that have been given to our finest knights,” he adds, motioning for a servant to hand it to her.
 
It’s heavy and unwieldy, too large for her to make use of. “Thank you,” she repeats, setting it at her feet with a heavy

thunk.

“I’m sure it will be of great use.”
 
Teagan comes to the rescue before she has to thank the arl for anything else. “We should speak of Loghain, brother,” he reminds him. “There is no telling what he will do once he learns of your recovery.”
 
“Loghain instigates a civil war even though the darkspawn are on our very doorstep. Long have I known him, he is a sensible man; one who has never desired power,” he says in disbelief.
 
Teagan shakes his head quickly. “I was

there

when he announced he was taking control of the throne, Eamon. He is mad with ambition, I tell you.”
 
“Mad indeed. Mad enough to kill Cailan, to attempt to kill myself and destroy my lands.” He turns to the rest of them. “Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped. What’s more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end.”
 
“You can unite the nobility against him, can’t you?” Hera asks. “Surely that is the best way.”
 
“I could unite those opposing Loghain, yes,” he says, nodding. “But not all oppose him. He has some very powerful allies. We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn.”
 
“But once everyone learns what he’s done…”
 
“I will spread word of Loghain’s treachery, both here and against the king. But it will be but a claim made without proof.” He starts to pace, thinking aloud. “Those claims will give Loghain’s allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daughter, the queen.”
 
Hera feels a hard knot settle in her stomach as realization dawns on Teagan. “Are you referring to Alistair, brother?” he asks, shocked. “Are you certain?”
 
She hears a soft intake of breath beside her as Eamon turns, nodding. “I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative,” he admits. “But the unthinkable has occurred.”
 
“You want to put

Alistair

forward as king?” Hera clarifies.
 
“That fool would be a terrible king,” Morrigan quips. “And run the whole country into the ground in a year.”
 
“Hey!” Alistair snaps at her. “I’m right here!”
 
Hera raises a hand for silence and repeats her question to the arl, who nods.
 
“Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair’s claim is by blood.”
 
“And what about me?” Alistair demands angrily. “Doesn’t anyone care what I want?”
 
“You have a responsibility, Alistair,” Eamon tells him. “Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?”
 
Hera frowns at his manipulation, looking at Alistair.

I don’t like it, but he’s right. As a prince...even a bastard prince...he has a duty. Just as I did, and Zeus now- at least, I hope Zeus has taken it up by now.

Alistair sputters angrily before taking a deep breath. “No, my lord,” he says flatly.
 
“I see only one way to proceed,” Eamon continues, almost ignoring Alistair’s reply. “I will call for a Landsmeet, a gathering of all the Ferelden nobility in the city of Denerim. There, Fereldan can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin. What say you to that, my friend?” he asks, looking at Hera. “I do not wish to proceed without your blessing.”
 
“Me?” she asks. “My lord, I’m not even from this world. What I say makes little difference.”
 
Eamon chuckles, and Hera isn’t sure how she feels about his response. “Madam, you are a Grey Warden, and leader of your band of adventurers. I believe what you say will make a great difference, and quite soon.”
 
Hera looks at Alistair and sighs. She feels another weight settle on her, but this one makes her heart hang heavy in her chest. “Then...I say we proceed with your plan,” she says, feeling slightly defeated.

I’m sorry, Hero.

“Very well,” Eamon says with cheer. “I will send out the word. But before we proceed, I believe there is the matter of the mage...my son’s tutor. He still lives, I understand.”
 
“He does; he is in the dungeon, brother,” Teagan explains, and Hera realizes that she’d never even asked what Teagan had planned to do with him,
 
“Have him brought here, Teagan. I wish to see him,” Eamon orders.
 
Teagan nods and goes to fetch the mage. Everyone focuses on their breakfast, and Alistair pulls Hera into a corner.
 
“What was

that?

” he asks. “I can’t be king! You know that!”
 
“I’m sorry, Alistair,” she whispers, not meeting his eyes. “But what choice is there? You’re the only one who can step in.”
 
“But Hera, if I end up king, we can’t be together,” he points out, lowering his head. “I won’t be able to go to Ravenloft with you.”
 
“Is that what’s bothering you?” she asks.
 
“Not everything, no. I don’t want to be king. I don’t want the responsibility of it. Being a Grey Warden is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he tells her, looking up. “If I’m king, I can’t...I’ll be king.”
 
Hera cups his cheek in her hand.

Maybe...maybe I could stay. Maybe Ravenloft doesn’t need me as much as I think. Maybe I don’t need Ravenloft as much as I need him.

“Hero, I- we’ll find a way; crowns and mirrors be damned,” she says and gets a weak smile out of him. “But if this is how it has to be, then that’s simply what we’ll do. Nothing’s been decided, anyway. Don’t fret.”
 
He still looks distraught but presses his forehead to hers. “I love you,” he whispers.
 
Before she can say anything, the door opens and Teagan returns with Jowan, the mage. Grasping Alistair’s hand, they return to see what the arl has to say.
 
“Jowan, what you have done is not in question,” he says. “You tried to assassinate me and sent into motion a series of events that nearly destroyed everything I cherish. What do you have to say in your defense?”
 
The mage hangs his dark head. “Nothing my lord,” he answers. “Other than to say I am sorry. I expect no mercy for what I have done.”

Good lad,

she thinks, watching him.

Not many would accept his fate this way.

“I see,” Eamon says, turning to Hera. “Grey Warden, have you anything to say on Jowan’s behalf?”

I could save him...somehow,

she realizes. “He seems earnest in his desire to repent.”
 
“Oh?” Eamon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That is...unexpected. And what would you have me do? As the injured party, my ability to see the merciful path is...strained.”
 
His tone is arrogant, and in that instant, Hera decides that if it comes down to a fight, she will simply take Jowan with her, and allow him to redeem himself in his own way. Perhaps one day he would make a decent Grey Warden. She looks over at Jowan, then at Alistair and Morrigan, considering her decision carefully. “Give him to the Circle of Magi,” she decides. “Allow them to judge his crimes and punish accordingly.”
 
“True enough,” Eamon agrees, surprising her. “And wisely said. Jowan, I hereby turn you over to the Circle of Magi. May the Maker have mercy on you.”
 
Jowan pales, and she wonders what punishment awaits him there. Judging by the cold dread his expression gives her, it must be horrible.

What fate did I just sentence him to?

To his credit, Jowan bows, gathering his courage. “Thank you, my lord,” he says evenly. “And you, my lady.”
 
Hera watches him go, feeling Alistair’s hand squeeze her own tightly, and wonders if that was the right decision. As the guards lead him away, Eamon speaks again.
 
“Now, back to the matter of the Landsmeet,” he says. “It will take some time to recall my forces and organize our allies. I would prefer to wait until that is done before calling the Landsmeet. In the meantime, I suggest you pursue the remainder of the Grey Warden treaties. We will need all the allies we can get if we are to defeat the darkspawn horde.”

Finally, we agree on something without reservation,

she thinks gratefully. “I agree, my lord,” she says. “If we could beg your indulgence for a few days to rest and restock our supplies, we will be on our way.”
 
“Of course, of course,” Eamon says. “Isolde tells me there will be feasting and banquets every night you are here, as well. Should you or any of your companions want for anything, only ask.”
 
“Thank you, my lord,” she says, bowing as he and Isolde leave the hall.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera looks around at her friends, well-fed and rested under the arlessa’s care for the last three days. Alistair, especially, looks happy, and she can’t help but remember how they’d laughed and teased one another in the small hours of the morning as he attempted to go back to his own bed only hours ago. The last three days had been a heavenly reprieve for the lovers, allowing them to walk arm-in-arm through the village and along the lake, finding the best places to hide from prying eyes, and even assisting the villagers rebuilding. They’d talked and laughed, for a short time forgetting everything that was wrong with the world. 
 
If the days were heavenly, the nights were so pleasurable it was sinful. Hera continued Alistair’s education in lovemaking and found it far more fulfilling than any of the others she’d taken to bed. He was generous and selfish in equal measures as well; he’d made a promising start, and Hera intended to ensure that he continued to improve.
 
But all the time, she knew the time would come when they needed to focus on the Blight and move on.
 
“So we have a choice here,” she says, leaning over the map on the table. “Orzammar is closest, technically, and we need the dwarves’ help.”
 
Leliana groans. “Oh don’t talk about dwarves,” she begs. “I still can’t forget the one in Redcliffe,” she says, glaring at Morrigan when she starts to laugh.
 
“Leliana,” Wynne interjects calmly. “We will eventually go to Orzammar. You’ll have to see dwarves again.”
 
Leliana just groans and lets her head fall to the table, making everyone laugh. “All right, all right,” Hera chuckles. “Does anyone have any thoughts on the matter?”
 
“If we go east now, we may just catch the Dalish before they move for the winter,” Alistair suggests. “Assuming they haven’t already run from the Blight, that is.”
 
Hera nods, studying the map.

And we’d pass close enough to Ostagar,

she thinks.

Maybe we could find the mirror, and my way home.

“I’m fine with that,” she says, straightening. “Any objections?”
 
“I once ran away from the Crows and sought the Dalish out,” Zevran says, leaning his chair back on two legs. “That is how city elves are, you know, we grow up on fairy tales of running away and joining the Dalish.”
 
“Did you find them?” Leliana asks.
 
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “It was...not like the stories, living so close to the earth. I prefer the finer things in life.”
 
Hera rolls her eyes, smiling. “Anyone else? Input?”
 
“It makes no difference to me,” Morrigan drawls, waving her hand and sending half a dozen tiny spiders up Alistair’s arm.
 
Alistair screams, the sound so high-pitched and full of terror that Zevran doubles over with laughter as the Grey Warden dances around slapping at his arm. Smothering a giggle herself, Leliana brushes it off and gives Morrigan a look that clearly means a scolding is coming later.
 
“I will go where you lead,” Sten tells Hera amidst the chaos. “So long as we are working toward defeating the archdemon.”
 
“Gathering an army is how we do that,” she agrees, idly watching the four adults acting like children. “Morrigan, stop terrorizing Alistair,” she sighs. “All right then. Everyone start packing, sell what you need to sell, and we’ll leave in the morning.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Leliana ambushes Hera on her way to the hot spring they’d been lucky enough to camp by. Ferelden is littered with them, and considering how much they walk and how often they get into trouble, it’s nice to soak their aches away at the end of a long day.
 
“Hera you

have

to tell me,” Leliana giggles, tossing her towel over her shoulder. “What happened?”
 
Hera gives her a satisfied smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 
 
“You do so!” Leliana laughs. “Hera! Something happened in Redcliffe! I’ve seen him sneaking into your tent, and we

all

know what’s going on in there. You aren’t exactly quiet.

Oh come on

,” she pleads, “it’s been a week since we left Redcliffe! You’ve got to tell me

something!”

Hera laughs. “Oh, all right. What do you want to know?”
 
“Everything!” she squeals.
 
They reach the stone pool, and Hera starts disrobing. 
 
“What are you doing? Don't you want to wait until I have a sheet up?” Leliana asks, holding up the sheet she brought as a blind.
 
Hera’s brow knits together. “Why?”
 
“You’re getting naked,” Leliana reminds her. “There are people just over there.”
 
She drops the last of her clothes to the ground and shrugs, her pale skin glowing. “Leliana, nudity doesn't embarrass me. It’s normal for people to see me...Leliana?” she asks, waving a hand in front of her face.
 
The bard shakes her head, unable to look away. “I’m sorry...you’re just...Blessed Andraste, suddenly I’m very jealous of Alistair. You’re- you’re

perfect.

”
 
Hera laughs and picks up her clothes, laying them over a bush. “Close enough anyway. There are women in the Raven Court who are more beautiful than me.”
 
“Hera, you’re being coy,” she accuses. “And lying.”
 
“I’m really not,” she defends, climbing carefully into the pool. A slow moan escapes as soon as she lowers herself into the water. “I’m beautiful, yes,” she says as Leliana undresses and climbs down into the pool. “There’s no point in being humble about that. But there are more beautiful women.”
 
“And yet they must all still pale to your charm,

amora.

”
 
Hera looks up at Zevran, naked to the skin, approaching the pool. “Maybe,” she admits. “I really don't think about it.” She gives them a wicked smile. “Being one of the beautiful people gives me that privilege.”
 
“You’ve changed the subject,” Leliana tells her, splashing slightly as she makes room for Zevran. “How was it?”
 
“At least

one

of them enjoys himself,” Zevran chuckles. “My good friend Alistair is...not subtle in his exertions.”
 
Hera laughs. “No, he isn’t. But I don't mind, it’s better than being silent. The quiet ones are harder to read.”
 
“But was it

good?

” Leliana presses. “The first time?”
 
“I’m not sure I should say,” she admits uncertainty. “He might be embarrassed.”
 
“Only if it is bad,” Zevran informs her. “Was it bad? Oh, I hope it was.”
 
“No!” Hera gasps. “It was

definitely

not bad.”  She chews her lip, looking at her friends. “Fine,” she sighs. “But do

not

tell him I said anything. I will dismember you and feed you one by one to Ares if you do.”
 
“I swear,” they say in unison.
 
“It was...perfect,” she sighs. “Really.”
 
Leliana sighs and Zevran laughs. “I cannot believe it,” he scoffs. “No man is good his first time. Except me, of course,” he amends.
 
“Zevran, I am a courtesan of the highest rank,” Hera says defensively. “If you think I can’t teach and please a man at the same time, I should go and find

myself

a teacher.”
 
Zevran laughs, covering his face with a hand. “Oh Hera, you are

so

in love,” he laughs. 
 
“I mean it,” she insists. “He was...gentle, considerate. No one has ever touched me like I was…”
 
“Special?” Leliana offers.
 
“Precious,” Hera decides. “I’ve been bought a thousand times over, pretended to be in love, and had some even believe they loved me. But…”
 
“But this time it’s real,” Leliana says softly. “Oh, it’s so romantic.”
 
“Yes,” Hera says softly, looking down. “This time it’s real.”
 
“That’s all well and good,

bella

,” Zevran says, “but he pleased you, yes?”
 
“Several times,” she says with an arrogant smile. 
 
Hera lights up when she sees Alistair approach, towel and fresh clothes in hand. “Coming to join us?” she asks.
 
“I thought I might,” he says, stripping to his small clothes. “What has you over here giggling like children?”
 
He settles in front of her, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Hmm, girl talk,” she murmurs, kneading his shoulders.
 
“Oh hey, you’re naked!” he says in surprise.
 
“Yes…” Zevran says, drawing out the word. He spreads his arms across the side of the pool and looks smug. “Girl talk is usually best done naked, you know.”
 
Alistair chuckles, looking over at Zevran. “Have they unmanned you?” he laughs.
 
“I was just offering to finish what you’d gotten started last night,” Zevran quips. “It seemed to finish so soon.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera, can I ask you something?” he asks later that night. 
 
“I suppose you just did.”
 
Alistair snorts in annoyance. “How...How was I, the first time?”
 
Hera slips under the blanket and props herself up on an elbow. “The first time?”
 
“You know. The first time I, uh, spent the night with you. Licking lamp posts.”
 
“Oh!” she laughs. “

Oh.

”
 
He groans and covers his face with his hands. “That bad?”
 
“Alistair, you were so wonderful,” she assures him. “How can I explain this without embarrassing you? Your lack of experience-”
 
“Virginity,” he clarifies. “Absolute, completely total virginity.”
 
“-Was refreshing,” she goes on, ignoring his interruption. “Sharing that with you, experiencing it together, was a gift, and one not lightly given, I know.” She rests her hand over his heart. “Our first kiss was the first one I’ve ever had that wasn’t part of some game or contract. You made me feel loved; I’ve spent a lifetime worshipping myself with other people’s bodies, but you make me want to devote myself to the Church of Alistair.”
 
He flushed all the way to the tips of his ears but looked pleased at the idea. “So it

was

good? For you, I mean.”
 
She leans to whisper in his ear. “You were incredible,” she whispers. “My favorite, without doubt.”
 
He grins arrogantly. “So I’m a natural.”
 
“With the best possible instructor.” She leans back, pushing her hair out of the way. “Was it...was it good enough?”
 
“Sorry,

what?

” he laughs, rubbing his ear. “I can't believe what I just heard! Hera, Courtesan Queen of worlds I don't even know exist yet, just asked

me

if

she

was good enough. I’m not even sure I’ve used up all my virginity yet.”
 
“Don't tease me, Alistair!” she says, unable to keep herself from laughing. “I’ve been brought in to educate rich young men on the arts of love, and sometimes they are...disappointed.”
 
“By

you?

” he asks, jaw dropping.
 
“By the experience as a whole. Sometimes a person builds in their minds this perfect idea of what their first time with a woman should be like, and all too often it’s unattainable. I just don't want you to feel the same way.”
 
Alistair smiles and runs a hand through her hair. “I had a very sheltered life, Hera. Other than- well, being terrified and rather intimidated by your experience, I had no idea what to expect.”
 
“That doesn't answer my question.”
 
He smiles gently. “You are incredible, in so many ways. You’re kind, strong, fearless, and a true leader. And you were magnificent. If I live to be an old man, my heart will race to remember it.”
 
Hera smiles and lays her head on his shoulder. “Was that so hard?” she laughs.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They take the West Road out of Redcliffe, intending to follow it until they move into the Brecilian Forest. All too soon they pass through what is left of Lothering, and Hera’s heart breaks for Leliana, who had lived in that very chantry.
 
The village is a burned-out shell of itself, left to fall in on itself in piles of ash that blind their eyes and fill their mouths. The taint left by the darkspawn tugs at the edges of Hera’s mind, echoes of screams and the snap of bones. As they move closer, she and Alistair both begin to pause, looking around as if Lothering is still aflame and they expect their enemy to leap out at them any moment. Reading his mistress’ tension, Ares lowers his head, sniffing cautiously.
 
“It’s so...empty,” Leliana whispers, tears filling her eyes.
 
Hera takes her cold hand in her own, blinking away the visions of civilians trying to outrun the darkspawn or fight back. In her mind’s eye, she overlays this ashen, blighted place with the colorful, lively village she had seen the first time, full of refugees determined to survive the Blight.

Surely some of them had escaped before the darkspawn came? So many were preparing to travel…

“The chantry!”
 
Leliana rips her hand from Hera’s, running for the bridge- damaged, but still standing. Hera drops her bag and follows, reminding herself to run as a human and not let her dhampir speed take over. Not to be left behind, Ares follows, reaching Leliana first. “Leliana, wait-”
 
Leliana skids to a stop at the gate, her skin as suddenly gray as the ash floating on the breeze. “No.” The word leaks out of her, no louder than the snuffing of a candle.
 
Hera slows, approaching her friend slowly and putting a hand on her arm. Leliana’s eyes are wide and a tremor runs through her. Following her gaze, Hera’s own eyes turn wide with shock.

Powers save me,

she thinks. Between them, Ares growls, hackles raised and ready to defend the women.
 
The chantry stands, but not as it was. Blood streaks the walls, sharpened bones are driven into the wooden pillars like spikes. The statues of Andraste lie broken on the ground, blood and a substance Hera doesn’t wish to think about smeared over the statue’s mouth. The colored glass that had once given lit the interior was shattered, some of it glittered in the dirt and ash at their feet. 
 
Worst were the doors. 
 
From this distance, Hera could see the marks clawed into the aged wood. The grooves weren’t deep enough for the claws and weapons of darkspawn; they were made by human hands. Hands that had desperately fled to safety only to find the doors barred against them.
 
The others hung back, standing awkwardly on the bridge and watching as Leliana fell to her knees, a scream so bitter breaking into the silence that Hera flinches from the sound. Her tears come then and Hera kneels, wrapping her arms around her while Ares paces and whimpers, trying to nuzzle Leliana.

I am sorry, my friend,

she thinks sadly, guiding Leliana’s head to her shoulder.

I am sorry for this pain, but this is what we face.

I have to find a way to save them.

Hera holds Leliana while she sobs brokenly, looking up when Wynne kneels beside them and puts a comforting hand on Leliana’s shoulder. Hera gently transfers the weeping young woman to Wynne and stands to walk over to the others.
 
“Sten, will you stay with them?” she asks, keeping her voice low. “I want to look around, see if there’s anything useful left.”
 
Sten nods, his eyes on Leliana. “I will stay. We will wait for you there,” he adds, pointing to the stone road leading out of Lothering.
 
“Morrigan, go with Zevran to the refugee camp,” Hera says. “Don’t touch anything that looks like it might be blighted-”
 
“-Covered in darkspawn blood,” Alistair explains. “Anything that looks like it has a black leather stretched over it.”
 
Morrigan and Zevran nod silently and hurry away, making Hera wonder if they’re eager to move on or fleeing the sound of Leliana’s grief. “Alistair, let’s try the other side of the bridge,” she suggests. “Ares, with me.”
 
The tavern is, like everything else, a skeleton of itself. Hera combs through it quickly, looking for anything that might still be useful, but all she finds is a half-burned copy of the Chant of Light. “Nothing.” She sighs when Ares trots over with a table leg. “Ares, put that down, you goose.”
 
“Damn.”
 
She looks up at Alistair; his back is turned to her, shoulders shaking. “Alistair, what is it?” she asks, going to his side. 
 
Alistair clenches his jaw, his eyes red and face streaked with ash. Wordlessly, he hands her a small rag doll. She takes it gingerly, brushing her fingers over the yellow yarn hair. “Children,” she whispers.
 
“Children.”
 
Hera looks up at him, heart aching. “I…”

If Zeus were here, he would have some comforting thing to say,

she thinks, swallowing hard.

I wish I had his talent.

“Cailan and Loghain could have- they should have

listened

,” he says, his voice raw. He takes the doll, placing it in a pouch hanging off his belt. “The Grey Wardens could have come from Orlais, we could have had help. Instead, all we have is a dead town and the ghosts of children.”
 
“Alistair-”
 
“When I’m king,” he says, lifting his chin and looking out over the ruins, “I’m going to make sure my people never suffer so needlessly again. I won’t turn away an offer of help for my stupid pride.”
 
The words fall into Hera’s gut like a stone.

When I’m king,

he’d said. 
 
It’s late when Alistair and Hera rejoin the group on the broken stone road outside the village, the setting sun casting long shadows that look like broken fingers reaching for their legs. No longer crying, Leliana stands silently beside Sten, staring at the desecrated chantry.
 
The darkspawn knew what they were doing when they chose to leave the chantry standing. Before, it had glowed in the warm light of a sunset, its graceful lines like welcoming arms; now it looked monstrous, as if some great beast were waiting with open jaws to swallow them whole. Hera shivers as darkness creeps along the edges of her visions, building in the shadows before spilling out into the open spaces.
 
“The village is clear,” Alistair says, “I don’t sense any darkspawn anywhere near. I...I suppose we could camp here, on the road,” he suggests. “Not that I like the thought.”
 
“I don’t want to stay here,” Leliana says in a rough voice. “Let’s camp somewhere else.”
 
“Leliana,” Wynne says gently, “traveling in the dark is dangerous and we can’t-”
 
“Yes we can,” Leliana argues, her words shaking. “We’ll just light a torch, and-”

“Leliana be reasonable,” Morrigan persuades. “We’ve been walking all day.”
 
“So we can walk another mile,” Hera decides, picking up her backpack. “Anyone who’s tired can give me their pack, and I’ll carry it.”
 
“But ‘tis too dark-” Morrigan begins.
 
“I can see fine. Follow me now, or find us in the morning,” she says, pointing toward some open farmland far off the road. “I won’t be upset if you’re tired and want to stay here.”
 
Without another word, she picks up her pack and takes Leliana’s hand. Leliana had watched the exchange with wide, fearful eyes, as if she had been afraid that Hera would change her mind and make her stay there. Squeezing Hera’s hand tightly, she sways a little closer to her. 
 
“Thank you,” she whispers as they walk away, leaving everyone standing in the growing gloom.
 
Hera doesn’t answer, listening for sounds of movement behind them.

Are they really going to stay?

She wonders.

Alistair would never side with Morrigan, but Wynne and Zevran? This is torture for Leliana, don’t they care?

As if to answer her unspoken question, she hears the familiar creak of Alistair’s armor behind them as he jogs to catch up with them. “You didn’t think I’d stay with

Morrigan

, did you?” he asked with a wry smile. He puts a hand on Leliana’s shoulder, stopping them for a moment. “Leliana…we’re all behind you. Literally,” he adds, jerking his chin behind them.
 
She gives him a wan smile and nods. “Thank you.”
 
One by one, Sten, Zevran, Wynne, and Morrigan follow silently.
 
They pass through abandoned farmland, moving in a long line and staying vigilant in case there are darkspawn lingering in the area. No one speaks, and only Leliana makes the occasional sniffle in the darkness. Hera’s leary to take over one of the abandoned cottages this far south, so they camp in an open field.
 
Leliana is exhausted and distraught, so Hera pitches her tent. Alistair gathers a handful of stones from a broken fence and starts digging their fire pit. A few moments later, Wynne and Zevran arrive with an armload of firewood each. Sten takes longer but appears carrying their two leather water bags. He tells Hera that he’d stopped at a well they passed, but the water had been brackish and slick with some kind of oil or growth, so he’d gone in search of a stream for fresh water. Morrigan comes last, appearing when the rest of camp is set, three small rabbits over her shoulder. To Hera’s surprise, once Morrigan skins the rabbits and passes them off to Wynne, she sets up her tent within the party’s circle- quite unlike her, but given their location, understandable.
 
No one speaks while they set up camp, and Leliana silently goes to the tent she shares with Wynne, saying she isn’t hungry. Even after her departure, dinner is a quiet affair, with only a few words spoken by Hera to admire the meal and those who had a hand in it and to announce that she would take watch all night. Zevran only nods and ducks into Leliana’s tent.
 
“Not alone, surely,” Wynne says softly. “You don’t get enough rest.”
 
“I’m fine,” she assures them. “You all get a good night’s sleep, I want to get as far away from here as quickly as possible in the morning.”
 
No one else argues, and they all turn in directly after dinner. Belting on her sword just in case, Hera walks outside the circle of firelight, arms wrapped around herself. After a while, Alistair joins her, hands in his pockets, and they walk in silence for a while.
 
“Is everyone in their tent?” she asks.
 
“Yes, Zevran went to his own just a minute ago. I think he and Leliana might be...”
 
She smiles at the idea. “Good, I think they’d be good together. Alistair-”
 
“I understand,” he interrupts. “About not wanting to camp there. I...I didn’t even think about how it would hurt Leliana to be there. I should have, and I’m sorry.”
 
Hera’s heart softens, and she takes his hand. “You don’t have to apologize to me,” she tells him. “I’m not angry. But being there...It would have driven her mad, and I couldn’t do that to her.”
 
“I meant what I said earlier. About protecting my people, I mean,” he explains. “I guess that means I should start by apologizing to her.”
 
Hera stops walking and looks up at him. “I know you did. I know being king isn’t what you want-”
 
“Not at

all

-”
 
“But it’s important,” she finishes. “Just...help me get through all this, and I’ll help you get through that.”
 
He grins and pulls her close. As always, Hera’s blood races and she feels her power rush to her fingertips, making them tingle. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he murmurs, lowering his head to kiss her.
 
Hera pulls away before their lips can meet. “Do you hear that?” she whispers, turning her head.
 
“No,” he says softly, moving in front of her and putting a hand on his sword. “What is it?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I sense darkspawn,” she tells him, drawing her sword. “Maybe six. Straight ahead.”“How are you better at this than me?” he asks, grabbing his shield off his back.“How are you not better than me?”“I asked you first!”“Well, I don’t know!”“Now I can sense them.”Their hushed bickering goes on a moment longer, the darkspawn creeping closer, before Hera spins around and casts a barrier around the camp, removing it and its bright campfire from sight.“What happened?” he whispers frantically. “What did you do?”“I hid the camp,” she tells him, “give me a moment, I want to make sure everyone is sleeping before this starts.” Another spell, this one stronger and more difficult to cast, settling everyone into a deep sleep so that the coming battle doesn’t wake them. For a moment it seems as if the spell wavers, echoing back on her and threatening to drag her into sleep before she forces the wild magic to do her will. Let’s hope it holds, she thinks, fingers burning. That was more difficult than it should have been- when was the last time I used magic freely?“Why did you do that?”“They need rest,” she answers in a normal tone. “They can’t hear anything now.”“Well, that’s- here they are! For the Grey Wardens!” he shouts, waving his sword and rushing the small band coming out of the field.“I’ll take the archers!” she calls, waving her free hand. Suddenly she’s cloaked in shadows and impossible to see, running toward the two archers attempting to get a clean sight on Alistair. She sends a wave of pure force ahead of her, knocking them on their backs and draws her dagger. In one swift movement, she slices through the gut of the first, then spins her sword around and uses it to pin the second to the ground.“A little help!” she hears and turns, seeing him fending off three of the small green genlocks and another larger, paler hurlock. She can’t use a magical attack without hitting Alistair, so she runs forward and joins the fray. Without hesitation, she uses one of her favorite spells taught to her by her old friend Krynne and lays her bare hand on one of the darkspawn, sending lightning shooting through it, stopping its heart as she draws another away from Alistair.“How did you-” Alistair grunts, ducking a wild swing from the roaring hurlock.“Spell!” she answers, putting her dagger through a genlock’s throat. The last genlock runs for her, tackling her to the ground. Hera wrestles with it, trying to keep its snapping jaw at arm's length, and hears Alistair shout.Suddenly the thing’s head explodes, showering her in bits of bone, blood, and brain. Breathing heavily, she looks up, seeing Alistair holding the kind of corrupted mace the darkspawn carry. He looks just like the kind of knight in shining armor she’s seen in her adventures: paladins full of righteous morality and goodness, covered in the blood of the vanquished. I don’t deserve him, she realizes, he is genuinely too good for someone like me.“Thanks,” she says softly as he lifts the genlock from her.Alistair gives her that one-sided smile that melts her heart as he pulls her to her feet. “That’s what I’m here for,” he quips, running his hands over her to make sure she isn’t hurt. “Poorly performed heroics and one-liners. Are you all right? You seem dazed.”Hera waves a hand and uses a spell to clean the blood and gore off them both. “Just tired,” she lies. “I’ll be glad when we’ve left Lothering behind.”“Is...is that what it’s like?” he asks, watching her walk into her illusion and disappear. “Battle, I mean. For you,” he stammers, following.Hera sits near the fire, rubbing her neck and casting her cleansing spell once more, just in case. “Sometimes. I don’t usually run into battle- Zeus covers me while I cast- but I can’t always be sure of how my magic will work here, or what reaction it would get. I have no desire to be arrested as an apostate or tortured by some zealous templar. But sometimes I used weapons and magic together.” She shrugs. “It’s just a matter of doing two things at once.”“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he says, sitting beside her. “I’ve heard of arcane warriors, but I’ve never seen one.”“Is that what I am?” she teases. “I’ve never been called that before.”He smiles and leans over to kiss her hair. “I think it’s the truest thing ever said about you, Raven.”She’s quiet a long time, leaning against him. “Alistair, how can you love me?” she asks, her voice so soft he almost misses it entirely.“What do you mean?”Hera doesn’t look up at him, keeping her eyes on her boots. “I’m not a good person. I’m a sorceress and a prostitute and-”“And I don’t care about any of that,” he says softly, lifting her chin and looking into her eyes. “I don’t, Hera. Run naked shooting lighting from your nose through the Grand Cleric’s chantry for all I care- I’ll hold your clothes for when you’re done. Just be yourself, and I’ll protect you.”Emotion threatens to overwhelm her, and Hera throws her arms around him, pressing her lips to his in a passionate kiss. She doesn’t know the words to express how much she loves him, so she tries to show him, instead.Alistair grips her close, passion and terror coming together in a tight knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. Maker help me deserve her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera and her friends had no idea what they would find when they approached the Dalish, but a werewolf problem was not it. They follow Mithra, the Dalish scout who’d met them at the edges of the forest, through the village to meet with their clan leader. Hera’s ears prick at sounds of pain and moaning coming from one side of the camp, but Mithra refuses to answer any question she poses. Hera is introduced to their Keeper, by Thedas standards an ancient elf who has lead the clan for centuries. She feels a certain strangeness radiating off him, as if she can almost feel his age if she were to try hard enough or cast a detection spell. It isn’t like meeting other ancient beings, whose life force just continues, his feels...stalled, somehow. Shaking her head, Hera decides it’s simply the combination of nightmares, constant travel, and withholding her magic putting strain on her senses.

The nightmares get worse every time,

she thinks, glancing at her yawning lover,

I wonder how long it will be before Alistair and I aren’t able to sleep at all?

Zathrian is nearly as tall as her- easily the tallest of elves in Thedas- and is so old he no longer has hair or eyebrows. His age doesn’t hinder him; he moves as smoothly and easily as a young man. But his dark eyes are what capture Hera, they hold a sadness so deep she can feel her own eyes prick with tears.

This is what comes from living a life longer than intended,

she thinks, pitying him.

My soul is prepared for longevity, this one was not.

She sends Wynne and Morrigan to the elves’ infirmary to learn what they can about the disease, and Leliana and Zevran to speak with the clan’s storyteller about the history and any other connection with the werewolves. Sten stands aside, watching everything that moves with his typical stoicism. 
 
Ares, however, puts himself between Hera and Zathrian, his hackles raised. When he begins to growl and edge Hera farther away from the Keeper, she stops and puts her hands on her hips.
 
“Ares, what is wrong with you? Don’t growl at people, you goose,” Hera chides as she and Alistair walk through the camp with Zathrian. “It’s rude.”
 
“I am not fond of canines,” Zathrian says archly, scowling at the mabari. “Perhaps it can tell.”
 
“Go find Sten,” she tells him, shooing Ares away. “Go on, he’s over there.”
 
He goes, but only after one last glare at Zathrian, still growling. As the dog leaves, she turns to the Keeper. “My apologies, Keeper,” she says. “Is it a distaste for canines in general, or the connection with the werewolves?”
 
“In general,” he sniffs. “As you can see, we are currently unable to uphold our treaty with the Wardens. Many of our hunters have been afflicted with the disease, and the werewolves ambush any party we send out to deal with the beasts.”
 
“Is there any way to help?” Alistair asks.
 
“Lycanthropy spreads like a disease,” Zathrian explains, “but it’s all linked to the original source of the curse: a wolf called Witherfang. Perhaps, if I had Witherfang’s heart, I could prepare a cure,” he adds. “Then we would be able to fill our obligation to the Grey Wardens.”
 
Hera glances at Alistair, feeling the weight of yet another crisis settling on their shoulders.

Just once I’d like to find help without having to save them first,

she thinks, seeing Alistair take a deep breath and set his shoulders. “So we get Witherfang’s heart,” she says with resignation. “And you will prepare to help with the Blight.”
 
They speak with Zathrian a moment longer, asking for supplies and a map of the forest, before leaving him to join Leliana. As they cross the camp, Alistair laughs softly, touching her arm to stop her. “Look there,” he says, drawing her attention to a young elf sighing sadly. “It wasn’t so long ago I had that look on my face, was it?”
 
Hera smiles up at him. “You still wear it sometimes,” she teases gently. “What do you think is the problem?”
 
“

Has

to be a girl,” he chuckles. “I’d lay gold on it.”
 
“Shall we go see?” she asks. “Maybe an experienced lover like yourself can be of assistance.”
 
“Oh you think so?” he asks, grinning smugly. “I suppose we could try.”
 
Hera laughs. “Hero, I love you, but you’re not exactly Casanova.”
 
“Who’s that?”
 
“A myth,” she tells him as they walk towards the elf. “I’ll tell you later.”
 
As soon as they approach, the young elf leaps to his feet, stammering out a greeting and looking dreadfully miserable.
 
“Hello,” she says, smiling warmly. “My name is Hera.”
 
“I’m Cammen,” he explains, “a hunter apprentice. Though I wish I could be a real hunter,” he adds sullenly.
 
Hera’s smile doesn’t dim even as her eyebrows knit together. “Why can’t you be?”
 
His face falls and he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be talking about this to an outsider,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
 
“I know all about being an apprentice,” Hera tells him. “Why don’t you try me?”
 
He looks slightly hopeful and shrugs. “I suppose there’s no harm. It isn’t like you can help me anyway.”
 
“Or perhaps I can,” she says, staying cheerful in spite of his gloomy mood. 
 
“I’ve been an apprentice for too long,” he explains. “To become a true hunter, I must bring back the pelt of a beast  I’ve killed myself. A boar or wolf or...something. But I can’t hunt in the forest, because we’ve been forbidden to enter since the attack.”
 
“We’ll find a way to deal with the werewolves, Cammen,” Alistair assures him. “You’ll be hunting again soon.”
 
Cammen shakes his head and leans against a tree, nodding to something behind them. “The real problem is Gheyna,” he sighs.
 
Hera leans on the other side of the tree casually, following his gaze to a pretty young girl with red hair and an animated face. “Girl problems, I see,” she says, winking at Alistair. 
 
“Oh, she is my heart’s desire,” he says dramatically. “I’ve asked for her hand, but she refused it. She will not bond with an apprentice, she says, and called me a child.
 
“What rubbish,” Hera says, pursing her lips in amusement. “You’re no child, anyone can see that.”
 
“If I were a hunter, I could prove it,” he says in agreement. “But I cannot hunt...and Gheyna will not bond with me. I feel so helpless!” he cries, then bows his head. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just...leave me to my misery.”
 
“Come on now,” Alistair encourages. “There must be some way to solve your problem.”
 
“You think I haven’t thought of this? There’s nothing I can do!” Cammen turns away from Gheyna, growing frustrated.
 
“Why don’t I talk with her?” Hera suggests. “I can be pretty persuasive, and I know a girl’s heart.”
 
“I suppose you could, but what good would that do? The situation hasn’t changed.”
 
Hera pinches his cheek gently. “You leave it to me. Alistair, keep our friend company for a moment.”
 
Alistair crosses his arms, grinning like an idiot, and watches her go. “Don’t worry, Cammen,” he tells him. “She’ll find a way.”
 
Cammen watches nervously as Hera approaches Gheyna. “Oh no,” he moans, “they’re talking!”
 
Raising an eyebrow, Alistair turns a stunned look to the elf. “What...what did you think they were going to do? Fight it out with sticks?”
 
“I don’t know!” he stammers. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just stayed quiet and miserable.”
 
Alistair chuckles and gives him a strong pat on the back. “It’ll be all right,” he promises again. “Hera knows what she’s doing.”
 
Suddenly, Gheyna covers her mouth in what could be outrage or realization, and Cammen moans. Alistair watches him cover his face and crouch behind the tree, babbling about what a horrible idea it was to involve two outsiders.
 
“Cammen,” he says, waving his hand as Hera and Gheyna hurry over. “Cammen, get up! Here she comes, man! Stand up!”
 
“Cammen!” the pretty redhead exclaims as she runs up. “Oh, I’ve been a fool!”
 
“Gheyna? What do you mean?” Cammen asks, paling a little. “H-Have you changed your mind?”
 
“I have,” she says happily, taking his hand. “The outsider has helped me see that I was wrong. I have made you miserable, and I should not have.”
 
“But what about my hunt?”
 
Gheyna sighs happily and shakes her head. “I don’t care about that. I know you will pass your hunt in time and we will be happy. Us and our children.”
 
For the first time, Cammen smiles brilliantly. “Thank you Gheyna,” he says, his voice rising in his joy. “You’ve made me the happiest man. I feel blessed by the gods!”
 
As Gheyna kisses Cammen’s cheek, Alistair meets Hera’s shining eyes over the heads of the elves and smiles at her.

You’re amazing, do you know that?

He thinks, and wonders again how he could be so lucky. They speak with the lovers a moment more, refusing any gift beyond their thanks, and again head towards Leliana and Zevran.
 
“You do good work,” Alistair says, catching her hand in his. “For a moment there I was as worried as Cammen.”
 
“Why?” Hera asks, laughing. “Sometimes you have to scare a girl to make her move. Cammen’s heart was in good hands.”
 
Alistair pulls her to a stop, glad they’re away from anyone who might bother listening in. “And mine?” he asks softly, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “Is it also in good hands?”
 
Hera looks up at him with those maddingly beautiful eyes and smiles. “The best, Hero,” she says softly, pulling him down for a kiss.
 
“Hera!” they hear right before their lips meet.
 
Hera turns her head at Leliana’s call, stopping herself from sighing. “We can finish this thought later, yes?” she says, stepping back.

“Is that a promise?” he asks, watching her walk toward the fire. 
 
“Absolutely, Hero.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Leliana is practically dancing with excitement when they reach the circle of elves around a fire. “Hera, I have the best news!” she exclaims, grabbing her hands. 
 
Smiling at her enthusiasm, Hera raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Have you found the archdemon?” she jokes. “It’s a mouse, isn’t it? I knew it!”
 
Leliana gives her a dry look, temporarily putting a stop to her excitement. “No, silly,” she scolds. “I’ve been speaking with the elves’ storyteller, and he knows Wynne’s friend!”
 
“Aenarin? Wynne will be glad to hear that,” Hera agrees. “Where is he?”
 
“In the forest,” Leliana explains. “He said that Aenarin doesn’t like to be around a lot of people anymore, so he stays in the forest. We’ll probably see him.”
 
“That’s very good news, did he have anything else?”
 
Leliana nods. “You’ll want to hear it yourself.”
 
Hera and Alistair follow her back to the circle, where a red-haired elf is waiting patiently. “We few wanderers greet you, shemlen,” he says. “My name is Sarel; I am the clan’s storyteller.”
 
Hera bows her head briefly. “Thank you, Sarel,” she says reverently. “My name is Hera.”
 
Sarel gestures for them to sit. “We understand you are venturing into the haunted forest to save our brethren.”
 
“Haunted?” Alistair gasps, settling himself on the ground. “Nobody said it was haunted.”
 
“He’s telling you now,” Zevran whispers.
 
“I suspect your efforts may be in vain,” the elf continues. “An entire group of our hunters went into the forest to do as you intend, and they have not returned.”
 
“Well, if I’m lucky I’ll find them,” Hera replies, sitting beside Zevran on a bench.
 
“An outsider to the rescue!

Of course!”

Sarel mocks, throwing his hands up. “What

were

we doing trying to solve our own problems!”
 
Hera scowls at his rude behavior.

Zeus would tear him to pieces for talk like that,

she thinks. “And you think sarcasm will help the situation, do you?” she sneers back. “Tell me, is it your people’s habit to throw away help when offered, or just your personal one?”
 
His mockery drains away, leaving him saddened and afraid. “Nothing will help us now,” he says softly, looking at the ground for a moment before facing her again, defiant. “Least of all an outsider.”
 
A dark-skinned girl with tattoos on her face speaks up before Hera can even open her mouth. “You’re being most unkind, Sarel,” she scolds. “Would you refuse our hunters help simply because of the hand that offered it?”
 
Sarel sighs, defeated. “You shame me. I have allowed my bitterness to cloud my better judgment. Forgive me, Grey Warden,” he says sincerely. “It is...most difficult to forget the lessons the shemlen have taught us.”
 
“It is even more difficult when you live amongst them, trust me,” Zevran commiserates. 
 
Hera looks over at Zevran, remembering again that this world doesn’t treat elves as equals- in fact, they are second-class citizens of Thedas, treated as if they are good for little more than servitude.

Oh, my friend,

she thinks, squeezing his hand.

You deserve a better world than this one. One day I will take you with me, and show you how valuable your kind are.

“Perhaps I can yet make amends,” Sarel offers. “Stay while I spin a tale for our children, and then I will tell you of the forest if you desire.”
 
Hera knows that it’s essential they get started soon, but she also knows the power of stories. “Of course,” she agrees. “Let me retrieve my companions.”
 
 Within moments, the entire party gathers around the fire, settling themselves comfortably as Sarel begins his tale. “Long ago,” he says, his voice becoming smooth and enchanting. It is a very normal, performance way, Hera notes, not feeling any sort of magic in his tone as she and her brother have been known to use. “Our people were slaves to an empire the shemlen had built on the darkest of magic. They took away our history and our language and left us

nothing.

And then that empire fell, and we were free.” 
 
His tone is fierce, and Hera wonders just what else they had lost during their time as slaves.

Elves I’ve known have always lived long lives...perhaps they, too, once held a certain immortality?

“Because Andraste came with her army!” a young boy cuts in excitedly. “And Shartan joined her!”
 
Sarel nods his approval. “Yes, Andraste the shemlen prophet came out of the south and challenged the Tevinter Imperium. Our ancestor Shartan fought at her side. And when the rebellion came to an end, we were given a new homeland in the west: the Dales. We began to rebuild the culture and history we had lost; we worshipped the Creators and made the Dales our home. Perhaps you know what happened next, stranger?” he asks Hera. “Do you know what happened to the Dales?”
 
“I’m afraid I’m from...far away...and do not know the history here,” Hera explains, pretending embarrassment at her ignorance. “But I would hazard a guess that you were not left unmolested.”
 
“And you, child?” he asks the boy at his feet. “What do you believe happened to the Dales?”
 
“The shemlens wouldn’t let us be,” he says.
 
“Indeed. They resented that we would not worship their Maker, and they resented our ways because they were so different. The shemlen nations grew cold towards the Dales. They called us blasphemers and tyrants and declared war upon us- a

great crusade

, so they said,” he adds bitterly. “They took our lands, forcing us to abandon our gods live as beggars in shemlen cities. But there were those of us who refused to abandon our ways,” he adds, his demeanor changing to hopeful and rebellious. “They emblazoned the symbols of the Creators on their flesh and vowed to keep their ancient law alive.”
 
“That’s us!” the boy chimed in. “That’s the Dalish!”
 
Sarel nodded, and Hera began to understand why their people were so cold toward them. She hadn’t seen the inside of an alienage, but she knew the elves suffered greatly in them. “Indeed child, we choose to wander- homeless- rather be ruled by the shemlen. And all our clans wander alone until we have a homeland once more.”
 
The boy nods, his expression serious and his pride shining in his face. “Then we bring the old ways back to our people,” he says solemnly. “Because they have forgotten it all.”
 
Sarel pats his shoulder proudly. “We are the Dalish,” he says grandly. “The keepers of the lost lore.”
 
“The walkers of the lonely path,” adds the dark-skinned elf who had scolded him earlier.
 
“We are the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit,” finished her companion.
 
Sarel raises his hands, then lets them drop in finality. “And that is the tale of the Dales, stranger,” he says, and Hera can see that his heart is lighter for the telling. “Thank you for allowing us to tell it.”
 
“Thank you for allowing us to hear,” Hera replies, bowing her head briefly.
 
“Now as I said I would, I can tell you what I know of the Brecilian Forest,” he says with a deep breath. “Do you still wish to hear it?”
 
“Yes, please,” she says, leaning forward to catch his every word.
 
“Our legends say that before the shemlen came, the Brecilian Forest was the place of our ancestors that predated even our oldest homeland. The people of the Imperium came here and gave the forest its name. If they found traces of our ancestors, we cannot say. If they did, those elves were slain or enslaved. We know only that a great many battles were fought here: these trees grow upon the graves of those who fought here, shemlen and elves both. So much death in one place tore the Veil into the Beyond,” he explains. “The shemlen know the Beyond as the Fade, the place of dreams and spirits. When the Veil is torn, spirits pass into our world freely. The legends say that one great spirit possessed the wolf, and became Witherfang, who passed its curse of rage onto men, and became werewolves.”
 
“Let me guess…” Hera says wryly. “There are many spirits in the woods?”
 
He nods. “The forest is said to be haunted.”
 
“They always are,” she sighs. 
 
He looks at her strangely before continuing. “Spirits possess the trees, the wolves, and even the bodies of the dead. They yearn for true life, you see.”

Of course they do,

she thinks.

Ravenloft is full of spirits seeking a way out. Part of my mission was to find a way to free them. I can only hope Zeus has taken up the cause.

She rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to focus on the problem at hand, and not one worlds away that she cannot help now. “How many werewolves are there?” she asks.
 
“Who can say?” Sarel says with a shrug. “When the shemlen lived in these parts, the curse would spread anew to a few of them with each passing year. They would run off into the forest, never to be seen again. Eventually, all the shemlen left. One assumes the werewolves survive by passing their curse to their offspring. They have had no new blood- until now, that is.”
 
Hera nods thoughtfully. “Thank you, Sarel,” she says graciously. “You’ve been most helpful.”
 
He returns her nod with a sad smile. “I hope it is of use to you, Grey Warden. Before you go, allow me to mark on your map the place Anaerin frequents. Your companion said you were looking for him.”
 
Hera retrieves her map and hands it to him. “I appreciate this. Wynne was his teacher, once. I hope to ease some of her pain by finding him.”
 
Sarel gives her another strange look, as if he can’t quite understand what he’s looking at. “You are a peculiar human,” is all he says, and gives her the map. “Safe travels.”
 
The companions are all eager to set out into the forest, and make quick work of resupplying with the Dalish trader. Hera hangs back when they reach the edge of the forest, looking back at Zathrian.

Why is he so much older than the others? Has he found their lost secret to immortality- and if so, why hasn’t he shared it with them?

“Hera?”
 
She tears her gaze away at Wynne’s call. “Coming,” she answers, adjusting her pack.

Something strange is going on here,

she thinks, following them into the shadowy forest,

and I mean to find out what it is.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera and her friends pick their way through the forest, following the trails marked on their map. Just as Alistair is voicing his hope not to get lost, Ares lifts his head, sniffing and growling. “What is it, Ares?” she asks.
 
“Wolves,” Sten says, drawing his sword.
 
Alistair gawks up at the giant. “Can you smell them too?” he asks in amazement.
 
“No, I can see them,” Sten answers, pushing past him to swing at a beast leaping from a ridge nearly on top of them.
 
They’re mostly common forest wolves, easy enough to cut down among the party, but there are two others that worry her. Hera squats in front of one, studying the coarse, prickly fur and almost humpback body. “What is it?” she asks, looking up at Alistair.
 
“A blightwolf,” he says, pointing to the creature’s twisted face full of fangs. “It’s tainted, see? There are darkspawn nearby.”
 
“Oh glorious day!” Morrigan cries with false cheer. “Darkspawn

and

werewolves! How lucky we are!”
 
Hera snickers as she stands. “Should we be on the lookout for owlbears as well?”
 
“Owlbears?” Leliana asks. “I’ve never heard of that before.”
 
“Surely some mythical, terrible beast from Hera’s homeland,” Morrigan explains, giving Hera a curious look and saunters off. “But if one can pass through a mirror, why not more monstrous creatures?”
 
Zevran actually

does

look a little concerned. “These owlbears…” he says slowly as they move on. “

Should

we be concerned?”
 
“No, Zev,” she assures him, putting a hand on his arm. “Tybalt destroyed the mirror I passed through. And of all the terrifying things in Ravenloft, owlbears are not native.”
 
“Well, that is reassuring,” Leliana giggles.
 
“We have

much

scarier creatures,” Hera says with a smile.
 
They walk on while Morrigan scouts ahead, helping them pick their way through the forest underbrush. Hera keeps a close eye on the canopy above, the shadows so thick it’s difficult to tell how long is left in the day. She’s nearly ready to call a stop for the night when Wynne cries out in surprise. 
 
“Oh look! What a pretty waterfall!” she says happily. “We can all bathe!”
 
Morrigan stops dead in her tracks, holding a hand out to stop them. “My Sten,” she calls softly, the words teasing but the tone serious. “Do come forward.”
 
With a growl, Sten draws his sword and comes forward again. “More wolves.”
 
Hera’s heart flutters at the sight of the werewolf. It stands on its hind legs, more than eight feet tall, with thick, mottled fur. She gasps, a smile lighting up her face; aside from the fur's coloring, it looks

exactly

like a dear, lost friend from her past. “Vincent…” she breathes, pushing forward. 
 
It growls as she approaches, lowering its head menacingly. “The watchwolves have spoken truly my brothers and sisters,” it grumbles. “The Dalish send a human of all things to repay us for our attack! To put us in our place! What bitter irony.”
 
“It speaks…?” Wynne gasps behind her.

Is it possible that Vincent made his way here, to Ferelden?

Hera wonders.

Is it possible

he

is Witherfang? He just disappeared all those years ago… Perhaps his gods brought him here as well!

She shakes her head, trying to focus on the moment and not the joy bubbling inside her, and the wolf’s words catching up with her thoughts. “Repay for your attack...? Who are you?” she asks.
 
“You speak to Swiftrunner,” it tells her. “I lead my cursed brothers and sisters.” It growls again, claws curling in a visible desire to attack. “Turn back now! Go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed! Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long! We will watch them pay,” Swiftrunner finished, satisfaction already filling his voice.
 
“So you

are

the ones who attacked the clan?” Hera verified. “That’s rather uncivilized of you.”
 
“Do not make jokes, human,” Swiftrunner warns. “I regret only that we did not inflict every single one of them with the curse that night. Turn and leave, while you still have the chance!”
 
“I cannot, my friend,” she says wearily. “I’m sworn to help them, but I’d rather talk instead of fight. Surely you are intelligent enough to see that we can work this out peacefully.”
 
“Peace is not an option,” Swiftrunner rumbles. “So I will take the choice from you!”
 
Around her, everyone draws weapons or growls, but Hera doesn’t move. She can’t bring herself to lash out at this creature who looks so much like her old friend that when it roars and takes a swipe at her, she stays frozen in place and only closes her eyes.

Vincent would never allow them to harm me...

Alistair grabs the back of her cloak and jerks her out of reach, throwing her to the ground behind him and acting as her shield. Blood pours out of a cut on her face, but the pain snaps her out of her frozen state. She scrambles back, letting the others rush forward and fight the werewolves off until they break and run away. Shame and shock fill her as she clutches her cheek, her trembling hand sticky with blood.
 
“Are you all right?” Alistair shouts, running over and sliding on his knees to her.
 
“Yes,” she gasps, shaking all over. “Yes, I’m fine.”
 
“No you aren’t,” he insists, wrapping her cloak around her. “Wynne?”
 
“No,” Hera says quickly, stopping the old woman from approaching to heal her. “No. Let it linger and teach me a lesson.”

Could my sweet, faultless friend come here-

be

this? No, I refuse to believe it. I was confused before; Vincent is a paladin, too good and pure to allow something like this,

she thinks, staring at the blood on her hand.

It is unworthy of him. Let it scar and serve as a reminder.

“Hera, it’s foolish to-” Wynne starts, but stops suddenly and nods. “If that’s what you wish. But it

does

need to be cleaned and bandaged.”
 
“Let’s make camp,” Zevran suggests. “They are not likely to return, and we cannot be out of the forest before nightfall. A waterfall is as good as any place.”
 
“Two on watch,” Alistair decides. “You,” he adds, pointing at Hera and using a firm tone, “will not be on watch at all.”

“Why not?” she demands, taking Zevran’s hand and standing. 
 
“Something has been plaguing you all day,” Wynne tells her. “What bothers you, Hera?”
 
“Nothing,” she lies lightly, shouldering her pack. “Let’s back a bit off the path and start a fire.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Does that hurt?” Alistair asks, carefully cleaning the cut on her cheek for the second time since they set up camp.
 
“No,” she lies, boldly meeting his eyes.
 
Alistair chuckles, tilting her face toward the firelight. “You’d never say if it did.”
 
“Probably not.”
 
He makes a soft shushing sound, studying the claw mark the wolf had left on her. “I don’t think it will scar,” he decides. “You haven’t yet, anyway.”
 
“I typically don’t,” she tells him, clutching her cloak closer. 
 
“Hera, what happened earlier?” he asks, taking a bandage from his medical kit. “You’ve never frozen in battle before.” 
 
Everyone else is sleeping except Sten and Morrigan, who circle the camp, whispering to one another; now and then, she can hear a word or laugh float on the night air, and she wonders if Morrigan is flirting again. 
 
She looks down at her lap. “I know, I’m sorry,” she says.
 
“I don’t understand; did something happen? Did I miss something?”
 
“No,” she says softly. “I just...I don't know. It felt wrong to attack them. Alistair, they can speak and reason. Fighting them wasn’t the right thing to do.”
 
Alistair nods, drawing her fur-lined hood up over her hair. “I understand, raven,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers. “But it scared me to death, seeing you freeze like that. You could have been hurt; you could have contracted the disease.

Please

be more careful.”
 
Hera tries to smile, but it turns into a grimace of pain. “I can't promise anything,” she groans, covering her cheek.
 
Alistair chuckles and picks up a poultice and bandage. “Serves you right,” he tells her. “Stay still so I can do this. Wynne said this will help it stay in place tonight.”
 
Once he’s finished, he orders her to bed, promising to join her soon. After cleaning up, he joins Sten on his walk.
 
“I have been wrong about her,” Sten says, sounding as if he must force the words out. “She is a good leader.”
 
“She is, isn't she?” Alistair agrees, pride in his voice.
 
“But she is not good to herself,” Sten continues. “She does not rest or eat properly.”
 
“No, she doesn’t,” he sighs. “Do you have an idea to help her? The qunari probably don’t have this problem.”
 
“No,” he says flatly. “The qunari never neglect their bodies in this way. It is understood that the body is a weapon, and must be honed as well as a blade.”
 
“Then I don’t know how we’re going to get her to do those things.”
 
Sten looks over at him, his expression unchanging. “You are also a good leader,” he says after a long pause. “You make sure she does those things for herself.”
 
“Me?” Alistair laughs. “I’m not a leader. I don’t lead. When I lead, people end up lost or dead and no one’s wearing trousers.”
 
“You do not like for others to see it,” Sten reflects, staring into the night. “You can guide her, and make her better. It will make you a better king until you all come to the Qun.”
 
Alistair stares at him in surprise. “You- you think

I’m

a good leader? Maybe the forest is getting to you,” he chuckles. “Wake me for my watch,” he adds, still laughing as he goes into his tent. Hera seems to be resting peacefully, so he strips down to his small clothes and settles down beside her, pulling her close and thanking the Maker for getting them both through another day.
  
Hera wakes with a start, flinching twice over at the throbbing of her cheek and cursing her new ability to dream. She can’t remember the nightmare in full, only flashes of darkness and blood, and Strahd’s cruel laughter. The sound of it, cold and dangerous, still echoes in her ears, but at least it wasn’t one of the Grey Warden dreams.
 
Those were becoming more and more difficult to bear; sometimes she and Alistair would both wake crying out and trembling, sick with visions.
 
Sitting up, she pulls off the bandage, feeling the tender area carefully. It still throbs, but feels half-healed already, thanks to her dhampir blood.

I really should have let Wynne take care of it,

she thinks ruefully.

They’ll wonder why it healed so quickly.

Alistair is dead asleep beside her, arms and legs thrust out and taking up as much space as he can manage and making it nearly impossible to get comfortable again. With a sigh, she dresses silently, shrugging into his purple and yellow tunic and pulling on pants. Grabbing her cloak and boots, she steps outside and sees Sten sharpening his sword by the fire.
 
“You are not on watch yet,” he informs her when she sits beside him and tugs on her boots and socks.
 
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, wrapping her cloak against the chill night air. “Do the qunari ever get restless?”
 
“No, the Qun does not make allowances for restlessness. If you feel that way, you are not fulfilling your role and need to focus.”
 
Hera raises an eyebrow. “That sounds terribly strict. Sten, would you tell me more about your people? And the Qun?”
 
The giant is quiet for a moment before she hears an irritated sigh. “No.”
 
“Can not, or will not?” Hera presses.
 
“The qunari cannot be summed up in a few simple words. The Qun is vast and not easily explained to outsiders. I have seen you try to explain your home, and how you got here,” he adds. “It is difficult to explain

and

understand. It is the same with my people.”
 
Hera nods. “Yes, it is. I don't suppose

you

understand what I mean when I say one can travel the planes?”
 
“You make it sound as simple as walking from one room to another. It cannot be so.”
 
She idly pokes the fire, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “It is if you have the key and know where the door is.”
 
“And you seem to have neither,” he says flatly, and Hera winces. “Or even the magic to find them.”
 
“Just cut a girl right to the heart, why don't you?” she jokes half-heartedly. 
 
“You are not so tender,” he snorts. “Why did you pause during battle today?”
 
Hera looks away guiltily. How could she possibly explain that the werewolves had looked and sounded too much like her old friend? That her heart leaped at the idea that he could be here, caring for these wolves? Vincent had been a creature very like a werewolf, and they had been close before he disappeared; she believed that if he had stumbled across a pack he would endeavor to care for and lead them. “They have regained their minds,” she says instead. “I cannot kill a creature that attacks from fear and misunderstanding.”
 
“You are foolish,” he states. “They would have killed you. They nearly did.”

She nods thoughtfully, looking down at the fire. “Perhaps I am a fool. Go on to bed, Sten. I’ll wake the next watch.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The next day is much of the same: werewolves and darkspawn attack from all sides, spilling out of the foliage in swirling packs of vicious teeth and claws. With more than just darkspawn to contend with, the way through the forest is slow and dangerous. Hera is most grateful for Wynne and Morrigan deciding to come along; she is nearly certain one of them would have been infected with the werewolves’ disease otherwise. 
 
It’s late in the day when they see smoke, and Hera stops them so she can scout ahead alone. The camp she approaches is small enough for a single person, just off the path they’ve been following.
 
“Can I be of help?” she hears and catches sight of a red-haired elf slipping out of the shadows as easily as she’s ever seen. “Are you injured?”
 
“Not badly enough for aid,” she answers, coming into full view. “My name is Hera. W- I saw your fire,” she adds.
 
“You should turn back,” he warns, “these woods are a danger to those who do not know the paths.”
 
“I have maps,” she answers. “And a keen sense of direction.”
 
“Are the rest of your companions coming then?” he asks with a wry grin. “You move well enough through the forest, like a silent halla, but your friends sound more like a herd of druffalo.”
 
Hera grins with him and nods. “I can get them.”
 
The elf crosses his arms across his chest and looks at her smugly. “Wanted to be certain it was safe to pass? Or safe enough not to be seen committing foul deeds?”
 
Hera’s smile is bright and easy and she finds herself liking this man instantly.

He is like the forest,

she thinks, studying him,

wild, but not cruel for all the wilderness.

“Actually, I’m hoping you’re the one I’ve been looking for,” she says, taking a chance. 
 
“And who would that be?”
 
“Aenarin,” she answers confidently. “Wynne’s apprentice from long ago.”
 
“Wynne...I remember that name,” he says in a fond voice. “Is she with you?”
 
She nods. “We’re here for Zathrian, but we were hoping to find you.”
 
“Go and get your friends,” he instructs. “I will gather more wood for the fire.”
 
Hera rushes to bring them forward, and he is waiting when they arrive. Wynne’s wrinkled face lights up with joy as soon as she sees the elf, and she takes his hand quickly. “Aenarin?”
 
He smiles up at her, tilting his head to one side. “I remember your face,” he says warmly, almost as if it were a joke between them years ago. “But younger, more impulsive. Stern.”
 
“You do remember!” she cried happily. “I thought they had killed you.”
 
His expression turns distant, and he steps back from her. “They very nearly did. They templars found me while I was searching for the Dalish. They ran me through and left me for dead.”
 
Wynne’s eyes fill with tears and she puts a trembling hand to her forehead. “I brought this on you,” she says sorrowfully. I was a dreadful mentor,” she admits, “harsh and impatient. I-I am sorry for the way I treated you.”
 
Aenarin shakes his head and gives her a peaceful smile. “I have put that behind me,” he explains, “and you should, too. I didn’t fit in with the templars and your chantry- my path lay elsewhere.”
 
Wynne shakes her head in disbelief. “Irving is a reasonable man, he will find some way for you to return,” she insists. “The Circle needs new blood, it

needs

to change.”
 
Aenarin only gives her his peaceful smile again. “I have fond memories of Irving; he was always kind to me. I will...consider your proposal,” he relents. “Perhaps I will speak with him. However, I promise nothing.” He gives Hera a curious look. “Perhaps the change you seek is right in front of you,” he wonders. “You know some magic, no? The blight will not last forever.”
 
“Me?” Hera laughs. “No, you are mistaken, Aenarin. There is magic to me, yes, but not how you mean it.”
 
“Hera is no mage,” Wynne argues. 
 
“Then outside help may shape the Circle,” he suggests.

Seven hells. If I had known that some mages here can sense magic...I’ve been a fool,

Hera curses inwardly.

I’m a magical creature. A sorceress. There have been times I’ve had more power at my command than the whole Circle together. Dark Powers damn me. Can Wynne tell? What does she know?

“Hera? Are you all right?” Leliana asks, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You look a little dizzy.”
 
Hera shakes her head, trying to dispel her thoughts. “I’m fine, thank you. Wynne, should we stay a little longer? Either way, we’ll need to make camp soon.”
 
“No, we’ve spent enough time on my personal affairs. It is time for us to move on,” she adds sadly, reaching for Aenarin’s hand again.
 
“Look at this,” he says, offering her a trinket instead. “It’s the hardened sap of a tree native to this forest. It’s been something of a lucky charm for me, and now I want you to have it.”
 
Wynne smiles fondly, admiring the sap stone strung on a bit of leather. “Very well, I’m grateful. May your gods smile on you, Aenarin,” she says softly, cupping his cheek with her hand.
 
“And on you,” he replies kindly before stepping away. “Go past the hermit’s camp along the path,” he tells Hera, “you will find a Great Oak who will shelter you for the night.”
 
They say their final goodbyes, and leave his small campsite and meet the hermit. Hera tries to trade with him for some fresh food, but only comes away with an odd little acorn. Frustrated with the madman, she pockets the acorn and pushes on, mumbling to herself about how in Ravenloft crazy old men stuck to their caves whenever someone happened by. Behind her, Morrigan laughs and whispers something, making Zevran laugh with her.
 
She’s just about to turn on the witch with a scathing remark when the tree to her left shudders and groans. Closing her eyes, Hera takes a deep breath. “Don’t wake up,” she whispers. “Keep your roots firmly planted where they are.”
 
“Um, Hera…” Zevran calls nervously, his laughter gone, and she can hear the weapons of her companions slither out of their sheaths, slings, and quivers. “Please draw your weapon.”
 
Alistair lets loose his jubilant warcry and runs ahead, Ares barking at his side. Hera hears the rattle of armor as Sten runs ahead of her while Wynne, Morrigan, and Leliana stay back to cover them.

Trees. Of course, it’s trees. What next? An elder dragon?

With a sigh, she opens her eyes as another tree’s roots begin to creak and snap as they lift, then a third. 
 
“I hate nature,” she grumbles, reaching behind her for her sword and dagger. Morrigan shouts out a spell, and every blade and arrow lights with fire. “What’s wrong with cities, huh?”
 
“I agree completely,

amora,

” Zevran chuckles, and gestures with his dagger for her to proceed him. “Shall we, dear Warden?” he asks cheerfully.
 
In spite of the day’s frustrations and her misgivings about the werewolves, she smiles as if he’d asked her to dance. “Yes, please,” she says pleasantly and strolls up to the nearest attacking tree. “I hate nature,” she repeats, and lops off a root, causing it to lose balance and stumble. “I much prefer the city.”

***

Her frustration intensifies tenfold when they approach a massive oak tree, it’s ancient bark giving way to a face high above them. Unlike the trees that attacked them, this one is almost humanoid, branches and twigs creating a ribcage of sorts, with leafy boughs branching off its shoulders and back. All in all, it looks like something one might find in the forests of Ravenloft.

I’m going home and never leaving the palace again,

she decides upon seeing it.

No hunting. No walks in the forest. If it has trees, the Dark Powers can take it. If this attacks me, I’m going to solely eat vegetables so that I can destroy plants with every meal.

“Damn me to seven hells,” she mutters when the oak’s leaves start to rustle and lift its roots. Darkness is falling swiftly, and she certainly doesn’t want to battle trees with their creaks and groans in the dark.
 
“What manner of beasts be thee,” it asks in a booming voice, the sound so loud it flutters the leaves of nearby trees, “that come before this elder tree?”
 
“Can’t you see me?” Hera asks. “I’m human.”

Mostly, anyway.

“Ah, yes,” it says, drawing the words out. “I remember thy kind. So brief of life, and all but blind to the perils you cause, the lives you take, such chaos is sown within thy wake.”
 
With pursed lips, she shrugs.

Chaos. That’s probably the best word for Zeus and myself. I can’t argue with that.

Wynne’s soft gasp cuts into her thoughts. “The world is certainly full of marvelous, unexpected creations,” she whispers. 
 
The oak puts a hand-like bundle of limbs up before she can say anything, and she closes her mouth quickly. “Allow me a moment to welcome thee,” it booms. “I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree.”
 
“It...rhymes?” Morrigan asks, hands dropping to her side in surprise. “‘Tis a rhyming tree. One can only imagine what kind of spirit is involved here.”
 
The Oak’s limbs lift in a shrug. “And unless thou thinks it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon? I have but one desire,” it explains. “To solve a matter very dire. As I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn.”
 
Hera raises her eyebrows at it. “An acorn?”
 
“All I have is my being, my seed, without it I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out, yet I shall die if left without.”
 
“An acorn…” she muses. “Who would…? An

acorn

!” She hurriedly digs into her pocket and removes her prize from the madman earlier. “Is

this

your acorn?”
 
“My joy soars to new heights indeed! I am reunited with my seed!” it cries, and the ground trembles with the oak’s delight. “As I promised, here it be, I hope its magic pleases thee. Keep this branch of mine with thee, and pass throughout this forest free.”
 
Hera takes the branch- a small twig in the oak’s hand, but a staff in her own- and feels the magic humming through it, power just beneath the bark. “Oh, thank you,” she says.
 
“I wish thee well, my mortal friend. Thou brought my sadness to an end. May the sunlight find you, thy days be long, thy winters kind, and thy roots be strong.”
 
“That’s beautiful,” Hera replies. “Elder, do you know of a place where we might camp safely for the night?”
 
“Safety and shelter, I give to thee, you may sleep beneath that tree,” the oak says, and points to a tall tree on a hill behind it. 
 
“That will be perfect, thank you,” she says, and picks up her pack, turning to the others. “Let’s get a fire and dinner going before it gets too dark, shall we?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera, you have said you and your brother sing, why don’t you sing something for us?”
 
Hera lifts her head at Leliana’s suggestion and laughs. “

Me

? Oh no, I’m barely fit for public. It’s a...tactic...I use in my profession,” she jokes. “Patrons like being serenaded by a beautiful girl. They especially enjoy it if she isn’t very good. It makes me seem real, I suppose.”
 
“I imagine it does,” Alistair murmurs, twisting a bit of her hair around his finger. “So why don’t you serenade me?”
 
“You wouldn’t thank me,” she assures him, nipping his fingertip gently. “And you’re not paying.”
 
“I’d like to hear something from Ravenloft,” Wynne adds, eyes on her knitting. “It’s been a tiring day for us all, and a new song would be rather uplifting.”
 
“Please,” Alistair pleads, sticking out his bottom lip in a picture of adorable, pathetic pouting.
 
“I’m not very good.

Really

,” she insists, “Zeus is the one who…” Hera looks around at the expectant expressions on Leliana and Zevran’s faces, the childlike excitement in Alistair, and the feigned disinterest from Morrigan and Sten. Even Wynne wore a look of steady expectation. “Oh, all right,” she relents, setting aside her mending. “Leliana, may I borrow your lute for my humiliation?”
 
The bard hands it over readily, and Hera tests the strings, looking for the right key and thinking. “This isn’t from Ravenloft,” she says, plucking an old melody with out-of-practice fingers. “But it’s Zeus’s favorite. Alistair, move over there,” she commands, pointing him to sit across from her. “I need space.”
 
“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees and leaps up to move.
 
Sitting in front of her friends- so new, yet so dear to her- she feels a little nervous. Hera knows the power of a leader, and that it’s important for them to see her as confident and decisive. But singing for them will let them see a part of her she doesn’t share with others- aside from her twin, she only ever sang for Anatoly and her most favorite patrons.
 
It goes against her nature to allow others to see her flaws- the Queen of Darkness must be perfect in manner, appearance, and make nothing one might call a mistake; Sigil’s Courtesan Queen was all joy, pleasure, and perfect beauty. Neither role had room for a young woman whose voice was merely

fine.

But Ferelden doesn’t need either of those women

, she thinks.

They need a Grey Warden. And Wardens are flawed people who find redemption in the order.

I hate personal growth,

she thinks with a small scowl.

It’s uncomfortable.

Her fingers move on the strings, teasing a quick, cheerful tune from the lute to settle around the companions and stretch her fingers. She toys with the melody for a moment, letting her hands remember the long-familiar song so they can begin to move faster and faster.
 
Hera takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes on the strings.

Thank the Powers Zeus isn’t here,

she thinks,

he’d never let me forget this.

“Lay down your weapons, lay down with me

We will stare at the stars and think what life could be

Island of memories we'll leave them where they lie

Could we make the choice for love and joy

“The moonlight's a path we can travel down

The river runs wild with what has gone before

Cast aside for new and more and more and more and more and more and more

At her best, her voice is smooth, thanks to her brother’s coaching, but she hasn’t sung in quite a while; for the first few stanzas it wavers, and now and then she goes off key. Keeping her eyes on Alistair, she picks up the pace, thankful that this is a song she knows so well she could play it in her sleep. He smiles a soft, goofy smile, his head tilting and the firelight dancing in his hair, making him look like some beautiful fire elemental, full of passion and freedom.

“Let me be your haven

Let me be your light

Sail with me across the ocean deep

And find a place for love and joy

“We've had trouble, we've had strife

We've made our plans

To march on towards the promised lands

Walk with me 'neath the rising sky

We will make a choice for love and joy

“The moonlight's a path we can travel down

The river runs wild with what has gone before

Cast aside for new and more and more and more and more and more and more

“Let me be your haven

Let me be your light

Sail with me across the ocean deep

And find a place for love and-

Let me be your haven

Let me be your haven

Let me be your haven

Let me be your haven.”

There’s no sound except the crackling of the fire, and she breaks her gaze away from Alistair, worried they didn't like it. But her fear is unfounded. Wynne smiles softly, obviously remembering another time and other people. Zevran and Leliana have far-off looks of mixed emotion, Sten hurriedly dashes away tears before anyone can see them, and Morrigan watches her with a hawkish, predatory look.
 
It’s Alistair who finally breaks the silence, clearing his throat. “That was...beautiful,” he says, looking as if he didn't know how else to say it. “Did Zeus write that?”
 
Hera shakes her head as the dream-like atmosphere dissipates and everyone shakes themselves into the present. “My mother did,” she explains, looking down at her hands. “It’s for my father; for their wedding. He never got to hear it.”
 
“She was very talented,” Leliana said, her voice thick. “She must have loved him very much.”
 
Hera suddenly feels shy and exposed, as if she’s just stripped away all her defenses in front of these people and revealed something more personal than she thought. Trying not to show it, she shrugs and sets the lute aside, hating the way her hands shake. “Talent was something she had in spades. But she...did not speak of him often,” she says and stands, so full of emotion she can’t keep still. If Zeus were here, he would make some joke or sing something bawdy and fun to get the attention off her; later they would bow their heads and weep for their star-crossed parents. 
 
But here, she was alone in her memories and grief.
 
“I’m...going for a walk,” she adds in a rough voice and hurries away from the circle of firelight before anyone can speak.
 
Alone, Hera takes a moment to herself. She hadn’t expected the song to dredge up memories of her mother’s sad smile, the way she talked about loving their father and their short time together. When she’d drank her father’s blood at her coronation, she had seen the long ribbon of his life; the brightest of his memories had been the time he’d spent with Mina. Covering her hands with her face, she surrenders to her tears.
 
“Hera?”
 
Alistair’s voice is soft and concerned, and when his hands settle on her shoulders behind her, she feels a little better. “I’m fine,” she tells him, wiping her face before turning to look up at him in the starlight. She tries to smile, but only succeeds in baring her teeth.
 
“You don’t look fine,” he teases, raising his eyebrows. “You look like you might murder someone. Should I go, and send Zevran instead?”
 
Laughter bursts out of her unexpectedly, and she feels the last of her sorrow break like waves against the safety and love of this man. “There are just things about my parents that...it wasn’t fair, what happened to them,” she explains. 
 
“Well that isn’t vague

at all

,” he chuckles, wrapping her in his arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”
 
Hera hesitates.

I could tell him the truth,

she thinks,

about everything. But what would it change? He will still become King of Ferelden, and I will still be the Queen of Darkness. Things between us will end. When this is over, knowing the truth won’t change anything.

I will still have to find my way home, he will still have to learn to be a king.

“Not really,” she says finally. “It’s...it’s a lot, is all.”
 
Alistair has to stop himself from sighing and settles his chin on the top of her head.

I wish she would stop holding back,

he thinks, and rubs her back gently.

It frightens me.

“Well, when you do, know that I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.”

Let me be your haven, Hera.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Morrigan holds up her hand, kneeling beside a tree and plucking a bit of fur from the bark. “There’s been a lot of activity here,” she murmurs, pointing to blood on the bark as Hera comes up beside her. “See the blood? They’ve been bringing their wounded through here.”
 
Hera nods. “We must be getting close to their lair,” she adds as the forest breaks and they stumble on another set of ruins. She walks a little forward, studying the broken stone overrun with vines. They’re beautiful, in a tragic way, and if she wasn’t counting the days until her next name day, she could easily spend days and nights haunting the ancient dwellings.
 
The forest is littered with such ruined marvels, but the overwhelming scent of wolf that nearly knocks Hera off her feet tells her they cannot simply pass these by as they have others. She hears a low growl and turns to Ares. “Ares, what is it, boy?”
 
The mabari’s nose has been stuck to the ground since they struck camp this morning, moving through the forest almost level with Morrigan as they both track the werewolves. At the sound of his name, the dog lifts his head, growling at something behind them. At the same moment, Hera’s ears pick up a soft brush through the foliage and looks over her shoulder just in time to see Swiftrunner emerge from the dense green undergrowth.
 
The werewolf is disturbingly close, its hot breath on her face making her nose wrinkle in disgust, but she raises her gaze past the heaving chest, razor-sharp claws, and fangs dripping saliva to meet its eyes. There is no doubt in her mind that Swiftrunner means to rip out her throat, and a strange sensation settles on her chest like a block of ice.

Powers save me, this is no time to learn rational fear,

she thinks, frozen in place as three more appear behind Swiftrunner. Hera can feel her pulse racing as fear grips her, and she hears blades slide through their sheaths and staves come loose from their harnesses. Without a word, she lifts a seemingly casual hand to stop them from attacking, her eyes never leaving the werewolf’s.

These creatures are nothing like Vincent,

she thinks, trying to keep calm in the face of what could very well be her death.

For one, Vincent has never smelled so horribly.

“The forest has not been vigilant enough,” it rasps. “Still you come. You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider, leave this place!”

If only you knew how right you are…

“You know I cannot,” she reminds Swiftrunner gently. “Why won’t you let me try to settle this dispute?” 
 
The wolf growls at her words, and Ares bares his teeth beside her. “You are sent by the treacherous Dalish to kill Witherfang. I will not stand by and allow that to happen!” it shouts, and Hera’s heart leaps in terror. Behind her, no one moves for fear Swiftrunner will rip her throat out before anyone can save her.

Powers save me.

“I’ve no int-tention of harming Witherfang,” she says, swallowing audibly and trying not to fidget. “I w-want to talk.”
 
She can almost hear her brother’s mocking laughter as she tries not to tremble.

By the Dark Powers,

he would laugh,

is this my Queen of Darkness, who braved the monster Strahd himself? How can such a queen be frightened of a slobbering, filthy beast?

He had the trick of teasing and inspiring at the same time, and she wishes he were here to do it now. Or at least aim his arrows at Swiftrunner’s heart.
 
“I do not believe you. I will not risk believing you. You are an intruder in our home,” Swiftrunner growls. “You have come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well.” The werewolf turns away from them, and Hera lets out a relieved breath, ready to faint as her adrenaline begins to drop and her heart slow. “Here, Witherfang protects us,” it continues, walking away. “Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!”
 
With Swiftrunner no longer right in front of her, Hera reaches shaking hands for her weapons, ready to draw. “Don’t turn around, Swiftrunner,” she breathes, hearing Alistair’s armor creak as he moves closer. “Don’t make this a fight.”
 
“I’m here,” he whispers to her right, and she nods.
 
Tension builds, thickening the air until Hera isn’t sure what the werewolves will do. Just as she’s ready to drop her hands and offer to talk again, Swiftrunner throws their head back and releases a chilling howl. Hera draws as the three werewolves rush her, but Alistair leaps forward, bashing his shield into the first one to reach them as her weapons clear their sheaths.
 
Ares and Zevran are at her side in an instant, and together they dance around Swiftrunner, slicing and swiping at the animal. All around them fur flies into the air as they pepper the werewolf with wounds; giving a false sense of comedy to the dreadful scene. In spite of it being three against one, Swiftrunner manages to rake his claws over her shoulder, leaving a long bloody gash and weakening her left hand. Just as Zevran was reaching out for the killing blow, a white wolf leaps between them, throwing him on his back and snapping at his face. All around them the fighting stops as the werewolves instantly retreat behind the wolf as it backs off the elf slowly.
 
Hera leaps to cover Zevran as he scrambles to his feet, keeping her weapons ready and her eyes locked on the mostly normal-looking animal. It was no bigger than a mabari, and if it weren’t for the unusual vine-like markings trailing through snow white fur, Hera would assume it was just any other wolf. But grey blue eyes meet her own defiantly as the werewolves make their escape, and she’s certain the wolf before her is Witherfang. No one puts away their weapons until the wolf turns and disappears into the ruins with its pack.
 
“They’re going that way,” Alistair pants, pointing his sword deeper into the ruins. “Let’s go.”
 
“Let’s catch our breath first,” Wynne suggests, coming forward and examining Zevran. “Are you hurt, Zevran?”
 
In spite of the harrowing experience, he manages to chuckle and wiggle his eyebrows at her. “If I am not, may I rest my head on your bosom for comfort?”
 
Wynne snorts and pushes him away while Leliana laughs behind her. “It seems you’re fine,” Leliana tells him, patting his shoulder. “And still repulsive.”
 
“You will fall for my wicked charms before long, pretty bard,” he croons, capturing her hand and placing a chaste kiss on the knuckles. Leliana groans and rips her hand out of his grasp, rubbing the spot he’d kissed on his sleeve.
 
“You really will attempt to seduce anyone, won’t you?” Morrigan quips, walking over to Hera and studying her gash. “’Tis a scratch, for one such as you,” she murmurs, and Hera raises her eyebrows at her. “Remove your armor and I will see to you. Zevran,” she adds, turning and putting her hands on her hips with a glare. “Yesterday you told me I should be showered in praise and men should worship at my feet.” With a snort, the witch moves on to Sten, and four clawed gashes in his arm. “Oh, my Sten,” she coos, opening the jar of elfroot salve and applying it tenderly.
 
“It is true, lovely Morrigan,” Zevran says quickly. “Men

should

worship such beauty. But alas, your beauty is untouchable for one as low as myself.”
 
Hera takes the opportunity to sit and rest while Wynne and Morrigan see to the minor injuries Sten and Alistair managed to receive.

My shirt is ruined,

she thinks, tugging at the torn, blood covered rags.  “What he means is that eventually, one of us will give in,” she laughs.
 
Zevran shrugs and smiles charmingly. “My odds are good,” he admits. “Shall I assist you, dear Warden?” he offers, coming to her side.
 
“Please,” she says with a wince as he rests her arm on his shoulder to reach the laces on her side. “Gently, Zevran,” she scolds teasingly. “I am not a two-copper whore.”
 
“Naturally you are far more expensive, Amora,” Zevran chuckles, working quickly to remove her armor.
 
Alistair groans as he comes to sit beside Hera, stretching his leg out in front of him. “Damn thing caught my knee,” he explains, grimacing and putting a wad of bloody bandages over it.
 
“We should find somewhere to make camp,” Wynne suggests, wiping her hands and kneeling beside his leg. “With the three of you wounded, we shouldn’t go further.”
 
No one argues, and Zevran, Leliana, and Morrigan leave to find a place far away from the ruins to camp. Hera is still on edge from her conversation with Swiftrunner, leaving her fidgety and cross so that she snaps at Wynne for tying a bandage too tight. The old woman glares at her, sniffs, and ties it tighter while Hera apologizes and tries not to pull away.
 
“Are you all right, Hera?” Alistair asks, taking her hand. “You seem upset. Is it your shoulder?”
 
She pulls her hand away, making a careless gesture and pulling a knee to her chest. “I’m fine,” she says, not looking at him. “It’s fine, Alistair. It just hurts.”
 
He looks hurt, and she hates herself for it. Closing her eyes, she rests her forehead on her knee and takes a deep breath. “I once had a friend named Vincent,” she says softly. “He was a...priest, I suppose. I met him when I first arrived in Sigil, and he was a shapechanger,” she continues. “He used to be an elf, he thought, but somehow had been trapped in another form when he was ripped from his world. He never regained his memory, and I only ever knew him as an enormous wolf.”
 
He makes a soft sound of realization, and she turns her head to look at him. “I can see why you’re hesitant to attack,” he tells her. “They remind you of your friend.”
 
She nods slightly. “He disappeared a second time,” she adds, her eyes focused on something he couldn’t see. “He lived in my brothel with us, acting as a guard, but generally just there to be generous and kind. One day we were in the garden sunning ourselves like the over-indulgent creatures we were, and he was gone. I thought...maybe...if I could find him here...”
 
“You thought your friend was Witherfang,” Wynne says, standing before her. “Or that he could be here with the werewolves.”
 
Hera lifts her head, turning eyes brimming with tears to Wynne and nods silently.
 
Crossing her arms, Wynne sighs. “Would your friend cruelly attack a people he didn’t know?”
 
“It’s been a long time, Wynne,” she says as the first tear streaks down her cheek. “Time may move differently here than Sigil, or even my own home. He could have changed.”
 
“

That

much?” the mage demands. “Either you don’t know him very well, or you’re just hoping it’s him.”
 
Hera dashes her tears away and stands. “How dare you! He was my best friend, and he just left! I don’t know where he went or if he’s dead or-”
 
“And you’ve found a pack of wolves who happen to look a little like him, so you assume your friend has lost the gentleness he had when he was with you?” Wynne asks logically. “I understand your feelings, Hera,” she adds gently, putting a hand to her cheek. “But I would be hard-pressed to believe these werewolves are being led by someone who inspires such love. Wherever he is, it is not here.”
 
Hera’s eyes go wide and she blinks quickly. “I- you-” She throws her uninjured arm around Wynne, hugging her close. “Thank you,” she whispers.
 
Wynne chuckles and pats her back gently. “You’re welcome, Hera. Now you should rest while we wait for the others to come back. It will be a little while before I’m ready to cast more healing spells.”
 
***
 
“My, Hera, you

do

heal quickly,” Morrigan says smugly, raising her eyebrows at her. “I wonder, do you react well to our healing magic, or is it something in your blood?”
 
Hera hides her expression by sipping coffee. “Must be the Grey Warden thing,” she says vaguely. “Your elfroot salve is getting much better, too,” she adds. “Who could refuse to heal with your talents, Morrigan?”
 
Placated, Morrigan purses her lips shrewdly and wraps clean bandages over the half-healed wound on her shoulder. “Who, indeed,” she murmurs. “Very well, you shall be able to lead us all into combat today; I suggest you eat heartily.”
 
“Yes, ma’am,” Hera says with a salute and heads over to the fire for her breakfast. “How is your knee?” she asks Alistair. They had slept in separate tents last night, as much because of their wounds as because she’d desperately needed time alone to think about what Wynne had said about Vincent. In the pale morning light, she refuses to acknowledge how wrong it had felt to be without Alistair’s arms around her.
 
“Better,” he says cheerfully, handing her a bowl. Breakfast consists of porridge, last night’s baked potatoes, and bits of dried meat mixed in. “Wynne hit me with another spell this morning, and it only twinges a bit now.”
 
“Good,” she says, snuggling under his arm. “Did you sleep well?”
 
“No,” he murmurs and dips his head close to her ear. “I hardly slept at all without you.”
 
Delight wells up in her, and she smothers a smile and ducks her head to hide her blush. “Well,” she says breathlessly.
 
“And how are the lovebirds this morning?” Leliana asks, yawning and grabbing a cup for coffee. “Not going to lose any limbs?”
 
“No,” Hera says, demonstrating by rotating her shoulder. “I feel good enough to hack off a few, though.”
 
“Good,” Sten says, methodically spooning porridge into his mouth. “Yesterday was a disaster. You will not allow it to happen again.”
 
“No,” she says firmly. “I will not.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I’m really not comfortable with everyone going into this,” Hera states flatly, looking around the group. “Sten is right, yesterday was a disaster, and we can’t let that happen again.”
 
“What do you propose?” Leliana asks, refilling her cup. “You don’t mean to leave some of us, do you?”
 
“That’s exactly what I want to do,” she says with a nod. “I’ll take Alistair, Zevran, and Wynne with me, and start clearing out the lair. If we aren’t back in an hour, the rest of you follow behind.”
 
“'Tis a good plan,” Morrigan says. “But if I may ask, Hera, why do you insist on Alistair always going in your little vanguard?”
 
Alistair spits out his coffee, the fire hissing as it catches the majority of the spray. “I- we- um-”
 
“This has always been about the Blight,” Hera cuts in sensibly. “Getting the Arl’s help, using the treaties, this is all Grey Warden business. I feel it’s only right that both of us head the mission and take the greater risks.”
 
Alistair’s face is a deep shade of crimson that looks unlikely to fade anytime soon, but he nods and clears his throat. “That’s what I was going to say.”
 
Zevran laughs. “Oh, we can tell, Alistair.”
 
Hera ignores them, looking to Sten. “You can lead the second wave, and catch any werewolves we’ve missed.”
 
“Yes, kadan,” Sten says.
 
“Wynne, are you up for a fight?” she asks, turning to the mage. “It’s likely to be a lot like yesterday.”
 
Wynne’s lips are a thin line of pink, and the wrinkles around her eyes seem deeper this morning, making Hera wonder if she should take Morrigan instead. The younger mage isn't as good a healer as Wynne yet, but even weak healing would be better than losing Wynne to exhaustion. But Wynne lifts her chin defiantly and straightens her shoulders. “Yes, Hera,” she says. “After you helped me find Aenarin, it is the least I can do. I will not fail you.”
 
“Good, I think we’ll need you today,” Alistair says with a whoosh of relief. “I can carry extra lyrium for you.”
 
“Thank you, Alistair,” she says. 
 
“All right,” Hera says with finality. “We have a plan. Let’s strike camp and head for the ruins.”
 
***
 
“Three ahead,” Leliana whispers, crouching low and drawing her bow.
 
As soon as she speaks, the leader of the trio steps back, gesturing for its fellows to follow. “We are invaded!” it cries. “Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!”
 
With a chilling howl, they melt into the surrounding foliage as Hera and Alistair come into view. “I think this is it,” he jokes. “Werewolf city. Kind of like flea heaven, isn’t it?”
 
Leliana snorts to cover her giggle, and Hera rolls her eyes with a grin. “I suppose every creature has an idea of heaven.”
 
“Exactly,” Alistair says. “Ares’ idea is a cozy room with a fire and a big steak.”
 
“Ares and yourself share the same small dreams,” Morrigan quips. “Both mongrels begging for scraps.”
 
“

Or

we just have good taste,” Alistair retorts cheerfully, scratching behind the mabari’s ears.
 
“You’ve seem to have chosen the same mistress, so you may be onto something,” the witch ponders aloud. 
 
Alistair turns on her with a fiery glare. “Morrigan, you’re-”
 
“

Parshaara

,” Sten growls. “Your childish squabbling is wasting time. Kadan, I will wait two hours, and then we will follow.”
 
“Wait three,” she decides, and they nod to one another. Hera kneels in front of Ares as Alistair stomps off toward the ruins. “You stay with Sten, boy,” she says, kissing the scarred snout. “Look out for him, will you?” The dog barks cheerfully and trots over to sit by Sten, who does a poor job of hiding his smile as he lays a hand on the dog’s head. With a grin, Hera stands and follows Alistair.
 
“Good luck,” Leliana says hopefully, clutching her bow.
 
Zevran tosses her a smile over his shoulder. “We do not need luck,” he tells her cheerfully. “We have the beautiful Warden on our side.”
 
“Come along, Zevran,” Wynne chides as they follow the Grey Wardens.
 
They enter the ruins and find themselves at the top of a long staircase, choked with rubble and enough garbage that Hera hears Wynne stumble and curse behind her. “Oh, what a stench,” Hera gags. With a grimace, she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and ties it over her face, looking around as the others do the same. “They’ve been living her the entire time, I suppose. Look at this place, it looks...elvish. Did the elves live underground?” she asks Alistair.
 
“Not in any of my history lessons,” he tells her as they descend into a large anteroom. 
 
It’s circular, with a dais in the center and massive roots threading through the space. This place is so ancient it makes Hera feel young as she weaves through branch roots thicker than her waist.

Zeus would hate this,

she thinks with a smile, dragging her fingers through the dust as she climbs over another root.

Aara and Goddard would love it.

“I guess we just slide down,” Alistair mumbles as the stairs end abruptly in a tangle of roots angling toward the dais.
 
She and Alistair make their way down first, with Zevran helping Wynne carefully. No sooner do their boots hit the stone floor do they hear a growl coming from the shadowed corners of the room. 
 
“Showtime, everyone,” Hera announces and draws her weapons. 
 
Two wolves explode from the shadows in rage-fueled energy, their shaggy coats streaks of gray as they head directly for Wynne. “Oh no, you don’t!” Alistair shouts, slamming his shield into the closest one. Zevran shoots forward, his sword plunging into the other’s chest just as Wynne lifts her staff and shouts out a spell.
 
The wolves- along with Zevran and Alistair- are encased in a thick wall of ice, and the air around them feels significantly colder. “Well, that takes care of that,” Wynne says pleasantly, leaning on her staff and grinning at Hera.
 
Hera chuckles, remembering the first time she’d been caught in that same spell in the library at the Circle. “I have to admit, I’m glad it’s not me this time,” she says, knocking on the ice over Alistair’s face. “Are you all right?” Muffled cries of what could be shock or outrage answer and Hera looks back at the mage and shrugs. 
 
“You should probably make sure the wolves are dealt with before I release it,” Wynne suggests. “I believe Zevran has the one, can you stick the other as soon as the ice dissipates?”
 
“Of course,” she agrees, and positions her sword over the wolf’s heart from behind. “Ready.”
 
The ice disappears in a small explosion, and she slides her sword smoothly into the beast’s chest. It gasps and shudders as Alistair leaps away, cursing loudly and shaking the ice off. “Andraste’s tits!” he yelps, teeth chattering loudly. “You could have got me!”
 
“I wasn’t going to get you,” Hera assures him sweetly. “I knew where you were. Zev, you all right?”
 
The elf is drawing his own weapon slowly out of the chest of the second wolf, letting it fall in a stinking, matted heap. “These creatures have a powerful stench,” he says with a wrinkled nose. “Is the smell worse down here?”
 
“I think it is,” Wynne agrees, checking them over for frostburn. “You both seem fine, let’s move on.”
 
“There’s a door down there,” Hera says, pointing down a long staircase. “Let’s see if it’s open.”
 
This staircase is, strangely, in good condition, with only the middle of each step worn by the passage of many feet or paws over the centuries. When they get to the bottom, they try the latch, but it’s locked tight; she tries to pick it, but once the latch gives, the door stays firmly in place.
 
“It must be barred from the other side,” Wynne offers.
 
“I would wager that’s a shortcut,” Zevran says wryly.
 
“Damn.” Hera sighs and pockets her lock picks. “It looks like we need to find another way in, then.”
 
Back at the dais, there’s another door, and as soon as she tries the latch, it swings open easily. Alistair frowns, looking from the door to the stairs they just climbed. “They’re leading us,” he says suspiciously. “Keep your eyes open for traps and ambushes, they want us to come this way.”
 
Hera nods as they enter a long corridor, with stairs branching off to either side. “Clean sweep,” she says. “Wynne, with me. Alistair, you and Zevran take the left. Shout for help.”
 
They part, each pair descending the short stairways to make sure the dead-ends aren’t harboring any wolves waiting to ambush them from behind. They make their way quickly down the corridor, satisfied they’re alone, until the silence is split by a shrill shriek, and Zevran is knocked to the floor from behind.
 
Hera spins around, but is thrown to the floor herself, a shrieking spider suddenly on her chest, its fangs snapping at her face as she tries desperately to fight it off. She can barely hear Wynne and Alistair shouting over the chittering sound emitting from the spider until everything is drowned out by the roar of flame as a fireball sends the spider flying off her to smack into the wall. She leaps to her feet before another spider can take its place, planting her back firmly against Alistair’s.
 
“Glad you could join the fun,” he quips, raising his shield to block another of the giant creatures from overwhelming him.
 
“You know me,” she grunts, kicking one in the face. “Fashionably late.”
 
Wynne shouts again, and lightning crackles from her staff, striking each spider with a deafening crack. Hera watches in amazement as they flip onto their back, legs curling up as they die.

I’ve got to learn that,

she thinks. 
 
“Everyone all right?” Alistair asks, lowering his sword. “Did it hurt you, Hera?”
 
“No, I’m fine,” she says, patting her hands over herself to make sure. “Zev? Wynne?”
 
“We are fine,” Wynne tells her and comes closer to brush her hand over Hera’s temple. “You’ve got blood on your face.”
 
“Shit,” she mutters and puts a hand to her head. Her fingertips meet a small gash just at her hairline that explodes with pain the moment she touches it. “I must have hit it on the floor. Ow, it hurts

now.

”
 
“Shh, it’s all right,” Wynne soothes, brushing her hand across the cut and leaving a soft blue glow. “There, better?”
 
Hera nods, sighing in relief as the magic knits her back together. “Thank you.”
 
Zevran and an injured elbow get her attention next, while Hera and Alistair take the chance to rest a moment. “At least we know we’re going the right way,” she says, leaning her head against his armored shoulder.
 
“Because spiders tried to eat us?” he chuckles, glancing back when they hear Wynne’s voice rise sharply.
 
“There wouldn’t be anything here if it was the wrong way,” she laughs. “Zeus and I learned a very valuable lesson in our adventuring: the people trying to kill you can lead the way.”
 
He gives her a wry grin. “Didn’t I say just that a little while ago? It seems your brother and I think alike; no wonder you like us so much.”
 
Hera stretches so she can kiss his cheek. “I like you both quite differently, Hero. I promise you that.”
 
“We can move on,” Wynne tells them, leaning on her staff. “If you are ready.”
 
“All set,” she chirps and climbs to her feet. “How’s the arm, Zevran?”
 
He bends it to show her, smiling. “The lovely Wynne has informed me I shall live to fight another day.”
 
“It will be a short day if you mention my bosom again,” Wynne warns.
 
“Consider my day longer,” he says quickly, ducking behind Hera. “

Much

longer, dear Wynne.”
 
Hera laughs and points her dagger down a staircase to their left. “That seems to be the only way that doesn’t end with rubble.”
 
“And we’ll have Sten on top of us if we don’t get a move on,” Alistair adds.
 
Halfway down the stairs, they hear a deep growl, and everyone freezes.

Was that a wolf?

Hera wonders, lifting her nose to the air for a scent.

I don’t smell anything but dust and spiders.

“That sounds...big,” Alistair says nervously.  A few more steps, and the growl is longer and louder. “Yes. Definitely big. And maybe hungry?”
 
No one speaks as they hold their breath, going down the turning stairs as silently as possible. The stairs open into a large circular room with yet another dais in the center. The statues still standing suggest that it was once some kind of formal gathering place, an audience chamber or something similar. There are even basins along the wall that still hold water; Hera approaches the one near the door. It’s amazingly fresh and not brackish like she first thought. In truth, if the room wasn’t filled with layers of dusty spiderwebs and the unmistakable scent of excrement, it would be a pleasant camping spot.
 
“Trap,” Zevran whispers, pointing directly in front of them. “Look there.”
 
“Zevran, take care of them, I’ll cover you,” Alistair orders, raising his sword. “I don’t like the feel of this place.”
 
Hera and Wynne hang back at the entrance, weapons ready, while Zevran meticulously moves through the first twenty feet. Hera’s eyes narrow as she catches a strange scent amid the stale air and dust. “Is that…” she begins, looking at Wynne.
 
Wynne’s face pales and her mouth hangs open as she looks past Hera. “Dragon,” she breathes just as Alistair’s war cry fills the room.
 
***
 
“I believe it’s been three hours,” Wynne mentions casually as they cross through yet another antechamber. This one had been unexpected- something Wynne had called an Arcane Horror had attacked them the moment they made it down the stairs, and undead had poured from every direction. “Sten and the others should be making their way through.”
 
“I hope so,” Alistair grumbles, yanking his sword out of the ribcage it had gotten stuck in during the fight. “He’ll hate to have missed

all

the fun.”
 
Hera doesn’t respond as she wipes her sword on the tattered robes of the Horror, leaving a bloody streak and only getting the weapon marginally clean. The last three hours have been a constant battle against undead, werewolves, spiders as big as she is, and a relatively small dragon. When they haven’t been fighting, they’ve been sweeping through corridors and tunnels that all look the same, growls and snaps in the shadows keeping them on edge. Everyone is so tense that even Zevran doesn’t have the spirit to joke and tease. On top of their raw nerves,  physically they’re exhausted and in pain- Wynne’s healing magic can only go so far, and Hera can’t use her own without discovery. 
 
“Hera, are you all right?” Alistair asks softly tilting his head at her. They’d abandoned their masks long ago after they became covered in blood and gore, rendering them pointless anyway. “That Horror didn’t get you, did it?”
 
She shakes her head, then wipes her arm over her face and sighs. “Just wishing we’d brought everyone,” she explains. “At least we lit torches along the way, so they can catch up quickly.”
 
“I wish they’d come too,” he says, his voice lacking the enthusiasm he usually has after a fight. “When this is all done, I want a nice, long bath, a big meal, and a night without watch.”
 
“I think the elves can help us with some of that,” Wynne tells him, patting his armored shoulder. “But let’s get through this first.”
 
“Come on, Zev,” Hera says, nudging the elf with her foot. He hadn’t moved since he’d fallen in battle, though his groans and occasional comments made it clear he was alive. “We’re almost there.”
 
“How can you tell,

amora

?” he grunts as she helps him up. 
 
“The smell is getting worse.”
 
“You cannot be telling the truth,” he huffs, dusting himself off. “This whole country smells like a wet dog.”
 
Hera shrugs. “Wet wolf smells different, I guess.” She points down the hallway with her sword. “That’s where they came from, let’s try that way.”
 
It’s a short corridor that ends in a dead-end room. The rubble here has been cleared away, and in the center is a dark pool of water, with carefully trimmed roots delving into it. The scent of wet animal is nearly overpowering here, and the floor has a thick coating of wolf hair. 
 
“No,” Wynne says in disbelief, studying the path of damp hair leading to the pool. “They can’t.”
 
“Alistair, let’s take a look at the other end of that chamber,” Hera suggests. “You two stay here.”
 
Alone, they speak in hushed voices. “Something’s wrong here,” she says as they walk. “Zathrian hasn’t told us everything.”
 
“I get that feeling, too,” he agrees. “But what is it?”
 
Fully aware that she might be exposing more of her nature than intended, she takes a deep breath. “Zathrian’s too old,” she explains. “Morrigan told me the ancient elves were immortal, right? Well, a soul has to be prepared for that kind of life,” she goes on, trying to ignore his curious look. “If you were to become immortal today, you’d be fine for a hundred years or so, but as time went on, it would get...boring. You become world-weary, no matter what your purpose in life used to be, and you retreat from the world.”
 
“How do you know this?” he asks.
 
“I’m- friends,” she stumbles, “with a few. There are some at the Ravencourt who are immortal. But my point is that Zathrian wasn’t prepared to be here this long,” she says quickly. “There’s something else going on here, and he’s at the heart of it, Alistair.”
 
He nods, taking it in, and looks around the room at the far end of the chamber. “Well, this is a dead-end, too,” he says in defeat. “You don’t think maybe Zathrian is connected to the wolves somehow, do you?”
 
“That’s

exactly

what I think,” she says with a smile, glad she wasn’t the only one with a crazy idea. “I just can’t sort out how.”
 
He shrugs, his heavy armor clinking. “Maybe we’ll be able to put it together when we find Witherfang.”
 
She nods as they return to Zevran and Wynne. “Well, Wynne, it looks like they do,” she says, gesturing to the pool.
 
“Oh no,” Wynne groans. “No. I can’t swim.”
 
“How are we supposed to know how far it is? Or if we can even make the swim?” Zevran asks, staring into the dark water. “I can swim fine, but if it’s too far even the best swimmer will not be able to hold their breath long enough.”
 
“I’ll figure it out,” Hera says and starts unbuckling her belt. “I can hold my breath for a while.”
 
“Oh, I have no doubt,” Zevran laughs, wiggling his eyebrows at her.
 
“Hera, you don’t have to-” Alistair starts before his jaw drops as he watches her strip down to her smallclothes. “You’re going to...like that?”
 
“Well if it’s too far, my armor will weigh me down,” she says logically. 
 
“If it’s far, how will we get all our armor through?” he asks.
 
“We can bundle it together,” Zevran suggests, sitting down and tugging off his boots. “Tie a rope to it, and pull it through. Simple. Do not go yet,

bella,

” he adds. “I’m coming too.”
 
She makes sure her hair is secure and out of her face before laughing at Alistair’s expression. “Don’t worry,” she says lightly. 
 
“‘Don’t worry,’ she says,” he mocks. “There’s only a pack of enormous, murderous werewolves on to the other side who think I’m coming to kill their leader and want me dead.”
 
Wynne sits on a stone, looking horrified. “Hera, I

can’t swim,

” she repeats. 
 
Hera crouches in front of her and looks her in the eye. “Wynne, you’ll get through this,” she promises. “If I have to tie you to my back and swim with you.”
 
Wynne lets out a surprised laugh and flushes. “I’m such a silly old woman,” she says wryly. “I lived my whole life surrounded by water and have no idea how to swim.” She digs into her pack and pulls out a sphere no bigger than her fist, strung on a piece of braided yarn. “Take this,” she says, handing it to Hera. “It’s a glowstone, it will light your way underwater.”

It’s so easy to forget they don’t know what I am,

Hera thinks, hanging it around her neck.

Dhampir can see perfectly well in the dark.

“Thank you, Wynne,” she says.
 
“Don’t worry, Wynne,” Alistair adds, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Zevran, leave those on!”
 
Zevran lifts his hands from his trunks and laughs. “I thought it would be prudent to have as little drag as possible,” he says charmingly.
 
Hera rolls her eyes and stands. “You’re incorrigible,” she laughs, walking toward the pool.
 
Alistair grabs her hand as she passes, catching her attention and pulling her close. “Please be careful,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to hers. “Don’t be a hero if there’s anything on the other side.”
 
Hera grins up at him. “That’s your job, right?” she teases, hiding her own nerves behind cheer. “I’ll be careful, Hero. Don’t say it,” she says, covering his mouth before he can say

I love you

. “You’d only make it sound like goodbye.”
 
She can feel his smile under her hand, and he mumbles something that sounds like “I do, though.” With a quick kiss, she and Zevran lower themselves into the pool, yelping at how cold it is.
 
“At least we will not be covered in blood,” he quips before taking a deep breath and going under.
 
With a deep breath of her own, Hera follows, keeping one hand on a nearby root. With the glowstone, what had looked like dirty, dark water is actually crystal clear. It isn’t deep, either, perhaps only ten feet, with a stone floor.

What is this place?

She wonders as she and Zevran swim forward, following a trail of roots.

What kind of elves would build such an intricate palace underground? I’ve only ever heard of Drow living underground, and these elves don’t have such distinct races.

It only takes a moment before they see light ahead, and the pool’s floor gradually slopes up so they can walk out. Once their heads break water, she and Zevran gasp for air, looking around at the chamber they’ve entered. 
 
Pillars line the walls, and dried-out corpses are scattered about like broken toys. “This must be it,” she says, pointing to the lit torches. “There haven’t been many torches lit ahead of us.”
 
They approach a door at the far end silently and place their ears to it. “Do you hear anything?” he whispers.
 
Closing her eyes, she casts her dhampir senses out, listening for anything as faint as a sigh. But all she can hear is the water lapping, torches hissing, and voices through the wall behind her. “No.” She tries the door gently, discovering it’s unlocked. “I’d bet there’s a trap beyond, though.”
 
Zevran nods. “Let’s return to Wynne and Alistair. We shouldn’t go in there unarmed.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When they emerge on the other side, chilled to the bone and gasping for air, several pairs of warm hands pull them out of the water. “Sten!” Hera coughs through chattering teeth. “You made it. Hello, Ares,” she adds, leaning down to kiss his nose.
 
Alistair wraps his cloak around her, chafing her arms quickly. “They got here just after you went under.”
 
“What did you find?” Leliana asks, helping Zevran with a blanket. Morrigan hands them both cups of hot water, and Hera sips hers with a small smile.
 
“Well, Wynne will be glad to know it isn’t far,” she says as Alistair wraps her in his arms. His warmth begins to permeate the chill. “You’ll only need to hold your breath a little while, and someone can lead you along the roots, they follow the floor here and come out the other side.”
 
“And on the other side?” Sten asks.
 
“Some sort of entryway,” Zevran explains. “A few corpses, but nothing woke up.”
 
“And a door,” Hera adds. “Unlocked, with some sort of larger room or hall beyond it.”
 
“We think it’s a trap,” he continues.
 
“How deep is the water?” Morrigan asks, looking over the edge.
 
“Not deep, ten feet, perhaps. And clear with a light,” Hera says, lifting the glowstone. “If we move fast, we can all be through in a minute or two.”
 
Wynne paces back and forth, shooting worried looks at the water. With a small smile at Alistair, Hera approaches her, drawing her away from the others. “If it’s too much, you can stay here,” she says softly. “Someone will have to stay with you, of course.”
 
Wynne’s eyes meet her own. “How long does it take?”
 
Hera thinks back, counting breaths. “About ten breaths. I will be there the entire time,” she swears. “If you can just keep from panicking, it will be fine, Wynne. I promise.”
 
“Do you think the armor will be a problem?” she asks. 
 
Hera looks over at them. “Sten and Alistair wear the heaviest, but they’re strong. If they have an issue, one of us can help, I’m sure.”
 
“I have a featherweight enchantment,” Wynne suggests. “It will make the armors almost weightless.”
 
Hera smiles, glad to see her mind turning to things other than her fear. “Then let’s get moving. You and I can go first, with Alistair behind. He swims like a fish, you've seen it.”
 
Taking a deep breath, she nods, and Hera leads her back to the group. “Wynne’s going to cast a few featherweight spells on our armor, and then Alistair, Wynne, and I will go through. Zevran, you and Sten next, and Morrigan and Leliana last.”
 
Wynne casts her spell while Hera gets dressed, sure that those in medium-weight armors will be fine. Alistair straps her weapons to his back before he lowers himself into the water first, shuddering as the cold slips through the cracks in his armor to soak into the wool padding beneath. Hera goes next, setting her jaw against the cold and putting one arm on the ledge. “All right, Wynne,” she says, holding a hand out to her. “All you have to do is hold your breath and don’t let go.”
 
Sten helps her into the water, keeping her stable while she wraps her arms around Hera’s neck. Her added weight dips Hera’s head under the water for a moment before she rebalances and comes back up.
 
“Are you ready?”
 
The skin around her eyes is tight with anxiety, but after taking several deep breaths, Wynne nods. “I think so.”
 
“This will be fast, I promise,” Hera repeats before diving underwater. Wynne’s arms tighten on her, and Hera uses her otherworldly speed and strength to zip through the water and to the other side, so that she and Alistair break the water at the same time.
 
“Easy,” he gasps, putting his hands out for Wynne. “You can put your feet down here, it slopes up. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
 
Wynne gives him a shaky laugh and makes her way out of the water to sit on a piece of broken stone. “Not as bad as I thought. Or as long. Still, I would not like to experience it again. You swim quite fast, Hera.”
 
“Natural swimmer,” Hera says quickly- it's not an entire lie, at least. “Fandemier had a lake we would swim in. I should get the glowstone back down there,” she adds, and dives back under just in time for Zevran to narrowly miss running into her.
 
She stays under, a beacon for the others as they swim through, until Leliana breaks through with a delighted smile on her face. “That was bracing,” Leliana says as they walk out of the pool.
 
“Come closer,” Morrigan says, and casts a spell over them, drying their clothing instantly.
 
Hera sighs in relief, glad to know she wasn’t going to spend the next two hours in damp clothes. “Morrigan, have I told you I’m in love with you?” she asks gratefully.
 
Morrigan chuckles and touches Hera’s cheek softly with her knuckles. “You could not handle

me

, Warden,” she says seductively.
 
Their eyes lock, and Hera raises her brows. “I’d love to prove otherwise,” she counters.
 
A tense silence follows before Zevran lets out a delicate cough, breaking the spell. “We should...ah…”
 
“Let’s move on,” Sten says gruffly. “Parshaara.”
 
Hera giggles and winks at the witch, feeling strangely buoyed by the unexpected flirtation. “All right, Wynne?” she asks, taking her things from Alistair and ignoring his scowl.
 
“Yes, thank you, Hera,” Wynne says with a nod. “Hopefully we will have another exit and I won’t have to live through that again.”
 
“There’s always hope,” Alistair grumbles sourly.
 
Hera raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.

It’s very likely that he simply doesn’t understand casual flirtation,

she thinks.

I suppose it’s a lesson he should learn now, before Arl Eamon makes him king and he has to handle the entire court.

She presses her ear to the door, closing her eyes and listening intently. Her dhampir senses are stronger than a human’s- even more so since the Joining ceremony. She hears the ragged breathing of several creatures, claws clicking on stone. “I can’t quite count, but we have at least four waiting,” she says, putting a hand on the latch. “Sten, take point.”
 
The qunari nods and hefts his greatsword, ready to meet any attack. Hera throws open the door, seeing nothing, and Sten leads them into the next room. Long and narrow, the space is broken up with barricades staggered through the room, and she can see two more stairwells leading down on either side. It’s strangely quiet, as if everyone is holding their breath- a moment ago she could hear them, but now there’s nothing.
 
Alistair lowers his sword with a relieved breath. “There’s noth-”
 
Hera doesn’t have time to scream as a werewolf appears directly in front of her, its claws raking through her scaled armor and throwing her through the air. Everything happens slowly, as if they were all suddenly granted the grace and drag of being underwater, and she watches wolves swarm the party before she hits the wall and everything goes black.
 
***
 
A dull throb in her head permeates the darkness, and a low groan escapes her.

Damn me,

she thinks, struggling to open her eyes. Everything hurts, and something in her side burns and pulls, making her breath catch whenever she tries to inhale too deeply. A blind hand finds the source of the pain, glancing over sharp edges of torn armor sticky with blood.

Claw marks,

she thinks, prodding tenderly. She can hear something, but it's muffled and far away. She tries to focus on the sound, but focusing on anything makes the throb worse, so she settles for getting her eyes open. Light needles into her eyes, doubling the pain and forcing her to squeeze them shut again.
 
“Hera?”
 
She tries to answer, but makes a thick-tongued sound instead. She slowly opens her eyes again, blinking as heads swim away from the bodies of those around her. The hallucination would be amusing were it not so painful to be alive.
 
Alistair’s disembodied head appears at her side, and she feels something surround her. Looking down, she swears for a moment that the roots running through the ruins have wrapped around her and made her a piece of the ruin itself, but after blinking once more, she can see it’s only Alistair’s arm.
 
“Hera, can you hear me?”
 
She nods, the movement sending nauseating pain through her, so she closes her eyes tight. A roaring fills her head, and when she can open her eyes again, Wynne is beside her.
 
“Hush,” Wynne soothes, brushing her hair off her forehead. “You’ll be all right soon. Just sleep a while.”
 
Magic brushes across her forehead, cool and comforting, and even as her own power rises in answer, Hera sighs and sleeps.
 
Alistair’s heart leaps into his throat as he watches her face go slack. Already a pale woman, seeing her white as a sheet and covered in her own blood makes him sick with fear. “Wynne, will she be all right?” he asks as she goes to see to the other injuries. “She’ll be fine, won’t she? Her head, it’s bleeding a lot and-”
 
“Yes, Alistair,” Wynne assures him, carefully healing a gash on Sten’s arm. “Head wounds bleed quite a lot, but she will be fine. She needs rest and time.”
 
“We don’t

have

time,” Morrigan reminds her, leaning heavily on her staff and pressing on a bloody spot on her leg. “Look at where we are, Wynne!”
 
Alistair jumps to his feet and starts to pace, glancing down at Hera every time he turns. The bleeding from her head has stopped, and though the deep slashes in her side are healing, they still weep blood. Even magical healing will need time to repair all the damage done to her. “Morrigan’s right,” he says. The words taste bitter in his mouth, but it’s true. He’d tell Morrigan all sorts of lies- he loves her, she’s right, she’s perfectly trustworthy- if only Hera would wake up with her indomitable spirit and prod them to continue on. “Wynne, how much lyrium do you have? If you can speed up Hera’s healing-”
 
Leliana stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Waking Hera before she’s ready may only cause her more harm,” she says sensibly. “Perhaps we can make camp in one of these stairwells? They lead to dead ends, and we can move some of the junk to form a bit of a wall.” 
 
Zevran nods in agreement, rubbing his twisted knee. “We

all

need to rest, Alistair, and Hera most of all.”
 
“You didn’t exactly come out of this unscathed either you, know,” Leliana adds gently.
 
Panic starts to churn inside Alistair and he has to fight it down just to breathe. He wants

out.

Out of the ruins and the cold underground where fresh air and sunshine can’t reach him. Never in his life has he wished for space and wilderness so badly. But looking at his friends makes his own words come back to haunt him.

“When I’m king,”

he’d said in Lothering, angry that Loghain and Cailan had ignored the darkspawn threat

. “I’m going to make sure my people never suffer so needlessly again. I won’t turn away an offer of help for my stupid pride.”

I suppose fear and panic fall into that, too,

he decides, gritting his teeth.
 
“Camp, then,” he says with a sharp nod. “Morrigan, you and Wynne stand guard while the rest of us set up camp.”
 
Morrigan arches an eyebrow at the commanding tone of his voice. “As you say,” she says. “I shall prepare a warding spell as well.”
 
***
 
The next time Hera wakes, it’s to a cool cloth over her eyes and significantly less pain. She lifts a hand to the cloth, pushing it back to see Alistair sitting against the wall, his chin resting on his chest plate, sound asleep. Glancing around, she sees Morrigan lying nearby, bandages on her leg, and Leliana nursing what must be a sore shoulder as she and Wynne talk softly with Zevran and Sten, both sporting bandages as well. They must have moved to a safer location, for they are camped in a small room with only a wide set of stairs leading out.
 
Hera closes her eyes and reaches out with her magical senses, feeling her magic bump against a ward set in place- it feels like Morrigan’s power, iron-hot and ready to explode. For the moment they seem to be safe; she relaxes, focusing on listening to the conversation a few feet away.
 
“...I’m glad he finally fell asleep,” Leliana whispers.
 
“I believe Morrigan had something to do with that,” Wynne chuckles softly. “His pacing was going to drive her mad.”
 
“All the same, he needs the rest,” Sten agrees. “Kadan will not be able to focus if he is not his best. They are a danger to one another.”
 
“They are,” Zevran says softly, “but will

you

be the one to tell them that?”
 
Before the conversation can go much farther in that direction, Hera slowly sits up. The movement disturbs Alistair, who comes awake snorting and blinking rapidly. “Hera,” he murmurs, brushing his hand over her cheek. “Thank the Maker.”
 
“What happened?” she asks. “How long have we been here?”
 
“It was a trap, just like you said,” he explains. “One of them got his claws into your side and threw you into the wall. You’ve slept about two hours.”
 
“Is Morrigan all right?”
 
He nods. “She’ll be fine. She fell back on a broken crate and got a few nails in her knee. Everyone else is all right, too, Wynne saw to them. We were more worried about you,” he says softly, taking her hand and pressing her palm to his cheek. “The werewolf nearly ripped you open.”
 
Hera puts a hand to her side, feeling the torn and mangled scales through her gloves. “I suppose we’ll need to go to Soldier’s Peak to get this repaired,” she sighs. “That will take more time than we have.”
 
“Don’t worry about that, Raven,” he says and takes her hand from the hole in her armor. “We’ll get it fixed somewhere.”
 
He looks at her with such love and warmth that she’s overwhelmed with guilt for all the things she keeps from him, and all truth rushes to her lips. “Alistair, I-”
 
With a grin, he covers her mouth with his hand. “Don’t say it,” he teases. “Whenever you get that look on your face, it always sounds like you think you’re done with me.”
 
Tears prick her eyes, and she draws him down for a kiss. “Never, Hero.”
 
“If you two are finished embracing, we have a wolf to find.”
 
Hera breaks away from him and looks over at Morrigan. “Nice to see you’re feeling better.”
 
Morrigan sneers at her and brushes invisible lint from her skirt. “

I

am not the one who was incapacitated the moment battle began.”
 
“She’s right,” he says regretfully. “We need to finish this.”
 
He helps Hera to her feet, and she spends a moment strapping her gear back on. “We’ve already searched the area,” Zevran offers. “The room we encountered the wolves up these stairs, and the only door is there.”
 
“So deeper we go,” Leliana says, keeping her bow ready. “Does anyone else never want to be here again?”
 
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wynne says, looking around. “I’m rather fascinated. I wonder if the Dalish would allow the Circle to do some research? Perhaps we could help reclaim some of their lost history.”
 
Hera smiles at her, knowing how Wynne feels.

If no one was trying to kill me, I’d rather enjoy spending more time here,

she thinks, and lets Sten take the lead down the stairs. There’s a ragged tear in his armor as well, and the shirt beneath it is stained with blood.

What a battle I missed,

she thinks as she follows. 
 
This part of the ruins speaks to some deep part of her; making her crave the taste of blood and the use of her power, even though she’s well aware that neither of those things can be dealt with.

I should find time to feed,

she decides.

I should have just done it in Denerim last time, I’m not willing to risk the Grey Warden treaty for a taste of the Dalish.

She almost doesn’t notice when Sten comes to a stop and nearly runs into him. “What is it?” she whispers, and peeks around his bulk. Four werewolves stand there, waiting for them. “Damn me to seven hells,” she mumbles, and steps around him, approaching slowly, sword and dagger ready. Three of them lunge forward, but one of them growls loudly.
 
“Stop!” the one obviously in charge shouts, and she freezes in place. “Brothers and sisters, be at ease!” Slowly, the other three stand down, though not without growls and snaps of protest. Returning its gaze back to Hera, the werewolf continues. “We do not wish any more of our people hurt. I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?”

Are you serious? That’s exactly what I’ve wanted to do since the beginning, you flea-bitten fool!

“Talk,” she says curtly. “I’ve been

trying

to talk for three days! Fine.” Hera takes a slow, deep breath, trying to keep calm.  “It’s no matter. Talk.”
 
“Hera…” Alistair whispers.
 
“Not with me,” the wolf rasps. “I have been sent to you on behalf of the Lady. She believes you may not be aware of everything you should be. She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley in peace is an honest one.”
 
Hera nods, straightening her shoulders. “Then take me to this Lady.”
 
“Follow me. But I warn you, if you break your promise and harm her, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay.”
 
Leliana mumbles something behind them to Wynne about their belief in the Fade, but Hera doesn’t listen; she’s far more intent on the werewolf in front of her, weighing the chance of this being another ambush. 
 
“No attack will come from me or mine,” she assures the wolf and sheaths her weapons as a show of honesty. The others take her cue, and when all the weapons are put away, they follow the group through another labyrinth of ruins. The roots get thicker the farther they go, and the weight of the surface above weighs down, reminding Hera of dungeons and dwarf tunnels, where the weight of the world is so heavy it can make it hard to breathe.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The last door they go through is broken, the hinges stopped in place by roots and vines clogging the space between door and frame. They enter a chamber echoing with growls and snarls; indeed, it is so large that entire trees grow here, and Hera’s eyes go wide with surprise when she realizes the trees so overwhelmed with abundance that petals float through the air in a rainbow of silk. Here, she can see the trunks of trees so ancient everything before this seems new, and standing on a dais in the center of it all is what surely must be the Lady: a powerful spirit in the form of a woman. Her skin is the same color as the underside of a new leaf, and, like Witherfang, she has vines wrapping around her arms and legs. Long hair runs down her body, covering her breasts, and the vines hide her nakedness further. In the back of her mind, Hera congratulates this spirit on first-class titillation, and makes a note to find a similar method of using silk vines later.
 
Something about this place- the spirit of it, the life in the roots, or simply the raw emotion of the wolves- makes Hera’s thirst stronger, her throat going dry and desire burning in her belly.

I’m dhampir,

she reminds herself firmly,

blood is not a requirement. Only a pleasure, the beast within, inherited from...

Wait.

The realization breaks through her like a wave, and she can’t believe what she’s seeing. The thirst distracted her, but now she can see the truth of it.

The beast within the beauty...By the Dark Powers, the Lady

is

Witherfang...

she realizes, watching the spirit sway in time with the falling flower petals.

Oh, Zathrian...you have so much to explain. What have you done?

“This is a parley?” Alistair asks incredulously. “All I see is a lot of werewolves ready to eat us.”
 
Swiftrunner stands beside her and growls, claws flexing and ready to attack. Then, the woman reaches out and touches his shoulder, and he relaxes instantly. All around them, the snarls and growls hush in reverence. The Lady brings a calm to the scene that Hera hasn’t seen in the wolves- cementing her notion that Witherfang and the Lady are one and the same. Swiftrunner had mentioned the day before that Witherfang gave them protection and purpose, and it seems she calms the beast as well.
 
The Lady tilts her head and stares at Hera, and for a moment she can feel a recognition, as if this spirit knows of her long life and the many years she has before her. A small, secretive smile passes between them, and a fluttering breeze ruffles the tendrils hanging against Hera’s neck.

Your secret is safe,

the smile says to her, and Hera feels her magic pulse in answer.
 
“I bid you welcome, mortal,” the Lady says, and though she doesn’t raise her voice, it echoes softly through the chamber. “I am the Lady of the Forest.”
 
“Thank you,” Hera responds, bowing her head in respect. “I am called Hera, and I am glad we have this chance to talk.”
 
Swiftrunner chafes at the civility of the moment and rears his head. “Do not listen to her, Lady! She will betray you!” he cries. “We must attack her now!”
 
The Lady of the Forest gives him a knowing look. “Hush, Swiftrunner,” she scolds gently. “Your urge for battle has only seen the deaths of the very ones you were trying to save. Is that what you want?”
 
Glancing at Swiftrunner, Hera wonders what the honest answer is as the wolf straightens and tries not to look chastised. “No, my Lady. Anything but that.”
 
“Then the time has come to speak with this outsider, to set our rage aside,” she says soothingly, stroking his fur before turning back to Hera. “I apologize on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his nature.”
 
Filled with a lust for blood so strong her throat aches, Hera can only agree. “As do we all, Lady.”

Hera is certain the Lady of the Forest knows something is not right about her- whether or not she knows

what

exactly it is remains a mystery, but if the spirit can sense Hera’s rising need she doesn’t react. “Truer words were never spoken,” the Lady says instead, tilting her head curiously. “But few could claim the same as these creatures: that their very nature is a curse forced upon them.”
 Seven hells... My thirst, the vampire part of me, is not something I could have chosen. That’s why I feel so connected to this place, these wolves. What a fool I am, Zeus would have known instantly, she thinks, almost laughing. The curse is what’s aggravating my desire for blood. Thank goodness! I thought I was losing control. 
“No doubt you have questions, mortal,” the Lady continues, and Hera has to tear herself away from her thoughts to listen. “There are things Zathrian has not told you.”
 
“Oh? Such as?” Alistair asks shrewdly.
 
“It was Zathrian who created the curse that these creatures suffer,” she explains, “the same curse that Zathrian’s own people now suffer. Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive the Dalish away. Zathrian was a young man then. He had a son and a daughter he loved greatly, and while out hunting the human tribe captured them both.”
 
Swiftrunner releases a sound full of regret. “The humans...tortured the boy,” he admits slowly. “Killed him. The girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but she learned later...she was with child. She...killed herself.”
 
“Oh no,” Leliana whispers with a soft gasp.
 
“So Zathrian cursed them,” Hera says without judgment. 
 
Swiftrunner nods. “Zathrian came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be. Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe. Many were killed, but others were cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and savage creatures…”
 
“Twisted and savage,” the Lady says sadly. “Just as Witherfang himself is. They were driven into the forest. When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals.”
 
Swiftrunner goes down to one knee and bows his head in reverence. “Until I found you, my lady,” he says, and his voice takes on a soft tone. “You gave me peace.”
 
“I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature,” the spirit explains. “I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. And he brought others to me.”
 
“So your ambush on the Dalish, was that for revenge?” Hera asks.
 
The spirit’s expression hardens, and her eyes narrow. “In part. We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian’s children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago but those who are long dead. Word was sent to Zathrian every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he has always ignored us. We will no longer be denied,” she insists in an angry voice.
 
“So you’ve been spreading the curse, hoping he’ll come to settle it himself,” she muses. “A harsh method, Lady.”
 
“Please, you must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will end this curse.”
 
“Yes,” Hera says softly, bowing her head. “I’ll bring him.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera, are you sure about this?” Alistair asks as they leave the Lady’s chamber.
 
“No,” she says honestly. “I don’t know if he will do it, but I want to try and give everyone a chance to get out of this alive.”
 
“I don’t think Zathrian has that chance,” Morrigan muses. “Magic such as this comes at a great price, and he has lived longer than he should have.”

So Morrigan can feel his age also,

Hera thinks, pushing open the door she was told would lead them to the exit.

Can she feel mine as well?

She’s almost ready to ask when they see Zathrian himself waiting for them.
 
“Ah, here you are already,” he says in a cheerful tone.
 
Crossing her arms over her chest, Hera raises an eyebrow at him. “Somehow I’m not surprised to find you here. We need to talk.”
 
“He wishes to see if we’ve done his work for him,” Morrigan says scathingly. “Is that not correct, sorcerer?”
 
“Do not call me that, witch,” he snaps back. “I am Keeper of this clan, and I have done what I must. Did you acquire the heart?”
 
“You know I have not,” Hera drawls, matching Morrigan’s dry tone perfectly. “As I said, you and I need to talk. Now.”
 
“About what? You know what they did, and what I have asked of you.” He sneers at them, his next words snide. “If you want my clan to join your army, you should go back and get the heart.”
 
“Of a creature

you

cursed to suffer? You’ve been allowing others to suffer for crimes that aren’t theirs for centuries, Zathrian,” she accuses. “No, I won’t be your puppet. You’re coming with me to speak with the Lady of the Forest.”
 
“You

do

realize this Lady is Witherfang in disguise, do you not?” he asks sarcastically.
 
“Yes, I do.”
 
“Do you even care about what happened?” he demands.
 
Hera nods, compassion on her face. “Yes, I do, and I believe this has been going on too long. They will only continue to attack and infect your clan until you are the last one left. Would you allow your people to suffer further?”
 
Zathrian squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. “Swear to me that you will protect me should they attack.”
 
“I will do no such-”
 
“Yes,” Alistair says quickly, stepping in front of Hera. “Yes, of course, we will. But you have to speak- civilly- with the Lady of the Forest.”
 
Zathrian nods and leads the way down the stairs while Hera stares in shock at Alistair, who holds her arm in a firm grip. “What was that?” she demands in a furious whisper. “I have no intention of keeping them from ripping him apart.”
 
“And yet he’s walking right into the heart of their lair,” he murmurs as they follow. “We have to get them in the same room to force him to end the curse, Hera.”
 
“I- you-” she gapes, nearly tripping on the cluttered stairs. “You’re clever.”
 
He grins as they reenter the lair, filled with werewolves. “Sometimes. Maybe you're rubbing off on me.”
 
Zathrian storms into their lair with an air of ownership and pretentiousness. Growls echo off the stone, and magic swirls through the air in rising tides of power. The Lady raises her arms, keeping Swiftrunner from running forward to attack the elf as he approaches. Quietly, Hera and her companions stand to the side, weapons loose and ready for the inevitable confrontation.
 
“So here you are, spirit,” he says arrogantly. 
 
“She is the Lady of the Forest!” Swiftrunner nearly shouts. “You will address her properly!”
 
Zathrian tilts his head in amusement, raising an eyebrow at her. “You’ve taken a name, spirit? And you’ve given names to your pets? These…

beasts,

” he says in a disgusted tone, “who follow you?”
 
The Lady’s voice is calm and soft, warm as a spring breeze in the trees. “It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian,” she informs him, swaying with the falling petals. “And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are.”
 
“Who they are has not changed from whom their ancestors were!” he shouts. “Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only-”
 
“Zathrian,” Hera says calmly. “You do your clan little justice this way.”
 
Swiftrunner turns to the Lady. “He will not help us, Lady!” he shouts, the sound blowing her hair back. “It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!”
 
“No, I am here to talk,” he argues, getting his temper back under control. “Though I see little point in it. We all know where this will lead. Your nature compels it, as does mine.”
 
The Lady steps forward, reaching a hand for him. “It does not have to be that way,” she says softly. “There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian. Surely your retribution is spent.”
 
“My retribution- and my pain- is eternal, spirit.”
 
“Has time healed none of your pain, Zathrian?” Hera asks him. “Or have you let it fester until it poisoned you?”
 
“Your pain is not the only reason you will not end the curse,” the Lady says, her voice growing harder. “Have you told them how it was created?”
 
Hera shakes her head, frustrated with the constant run around. “I know what I need to know. You were bound to a wolf.”
 
“Indeed,” the Lady says. “Such powerful magic could not be accomplished without Zathrian’s own blood.”
 
“Blood magic,” Alistair whispers. 
 
Hera looks to the mage, unsurprised.

How else would he live so long?

“It’s no wonder you have not shared the secret of your ‘immortality,’ Zathrian,” she tells him. “A Keeper using blood magic would be exiled at best.”
 
The Lady nods. “Your people believe you have discovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrian,” she says accusingly. “But that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.”
 
“No! That is not how it is,” he argues. 
 
Hera’s magic tingles at her fingertips as her control over her temper slips, and she lifts a hand to strike him before she feels Alistair’s hand settle on her arm gently. Taking a deep breath, she levels a dark look at him. “Just how far will you go for your revenge, Zathrian?” she asks. “You’ve lied to your people, destroyed lives, and set nature against its path.”
 
“I did it for my people!” he tells her, his voice breaking. “For my son and my daughter! For them, for

justice

, I would do anything!”
 
“You do not understand justice!” she snaps, raising her hand.
 
“The curse would not end with his death,” the Lady says, her words stopping Hera from attacking him. “His life, however, relies on its existence. And I believe his death plays a part in its end.”
 
“Then we kill him!” Swiftrunner declares, and Hera can’t think of a reason not to help. “We tear him apart now!”

By the Powers...we have to get out of this forest,

she thinks, stepping back and grabbing Alistair’s arm to anchor her.

This place, this curse, it makes me feel savage and bloodthirsty.

“For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still!” Zathrian laughs bitterly. “What would you gain from killing me? Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never do it!”
 
“You’ll end the curse if I have to force you myself,” Hera says in a low, fierce voice. Stepping closer to him, she lifts her chin and meets his gaze, letting him see what he will there. “I won’t help you do this.”
 
“We’re standing for what’s right here,” Alistair agrees, squaring his shoulders. “No matter what.”
 
Zathrian’s face twists in rage, and he turns away quickly, lifting his staff. “Then you die with them!” he shouts. “All of you will suffer as you deserve!”

Foolish mortal,

Hera thinks, drawing her weapons,

you couldn’t begin to know what I deserve.

There’s a flurry of movement as werewolves and companions prepare for battle, growls and metal sliding through leather sheaths filling the air. A light bursts from his staff and Zathrian shouts something in the Dalish tongue, making the air feel heavier so close to the center of the room. Trees begin to shift and wake as a frustrated howl echoes off the walls. Hera looks around to see the wolves- including the Lady of the Forest- completely paralyzed, a faint golden light surrounding each of them.
 
“Alistair!” she shouts, and he’s already moving and shouting, a cleansing force of power radiating from him and freeing the wolves around him. 
 
Witherfang and Swiftrunner leap at Zathrian while Hera and the others focus on the sylvans and sudden demons appearing around them. Flames burn bright along Hera’s sword and dagger, courtesy of Morrigan, making the sylvan trees easy prey.
 
To make matters worse, the air goes ice-cold and a wind howls, a brief announcement to a sudden maelstrom of sound and blinding snow.

I hate magic here,

she thinks as the flames on their weapons flicker.

I want a spell like that.

Just as suddenly, the blizzard dies. All around them are dead and injured wolves, sylvan trees lying on their sides, lifeless and still. The weight of magic in the room is gone, the power that had been singing in her veins little more than a whisper now. Hera looks to the dais in the center of the room and sees Zathrian on his knees before the Lady.
 
“No,” he whispers, bowing his head in defeat. “No more. I cannot… I cannot defeat you.”
 
“Finish it!” Swiftrunner demands as they approach. “Kill him now!”
 
The Lady shakes her head at the werewolf. “No Swiftrunner,” she says gently. “We will not kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how may we expect there to be room in his?”
 
“Wise words, my Lady,” Hera says, wishing that mercy was always a choice.
 
Zathrian’s sigh is heavy, coming from the depths of his soul. “I cannot do as you ask, spirit,” he murmurs. “I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I cannot do it,” he says brokenly. 
 
Hera kneels beside him and puts a hand on his arm. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough, Zathrian?” she asks gently. “Aren’t you weary of the world?”
 
He gives her a sad smile as if recognizing her immortality for the first time. “You speak as if you know the burden yourself.”
 
She blinks once, deliberately. “I know the burden of living.”
 
“Perhaps I have lived too long,” he agrees, nodding. “This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root. It has consumed my soul.”
 
“All the more reason to find peace,” she says, helping him to his feet.
 
He nods again before turning to the Lady. “What of you, spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?”
 
The Lady’s expression is infinitely loving and kind. “You are my maker, Zathrian,” she says compassionately. “You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet, of all things, I desire nothing more than the end,” she explains, his sadness mirrored in her face. “I beg you, maker...put an end to me.

We

beg you...show mercy.”
 
Zathrian is quiet a long time, and Hera looks over her shoulder at Alistair and Morrigan, who both shrug. She steps back, letting the Keeper have his space, and reaches for Alistair’s hand.
 
“You shame me, spirit,” Zathrian says finally. “Let us put an end to it all.”
 
Without another word, he strikes the floor with his staff and falls. Hera can tell he’s dead before he hits the floor, and makes no move to catch him. Light surrounds the Lady, building until it blinds them and they have to look away, and they hear the werewolves give one last long, lonely howl before the sound turns to the strangled cries of men and women.
 
When the light fades, there are no werewolves in sight. Even those killed in the battle have become human once more. Blinking, Hera and her companions group together tightly as the pack greets one another in this new form. Curiously, their golden eyes still hold the wild spirit of the wolves, their bodies twitching as they attempt to relearn old gestures.
 
“Swiftrunner?” she asks, approaching slowly.
 
A man with dark auburn hair and a long beard turns to her. “It’s...it’s over,” he says in a gruff voice. “She’s gone, and we’re...human. I can scarcely believe it.”
 
“And yet it’s true,” she says with a smile. “What will you do now?”
 
He looks around uncertainly. “We’ll leave the forest, I suppose. Find other humans, see what’s out there for us. It should be quite interesting, don’t you think?”
 
His sudden hope makes her chuckle softly. “Yes, I think it will. But the Blight is still a problem,” she reminds him. “You’ll need to go far north and find weapons before you leave. Darkspawn could be anywhere.”
 
He nods, thanking her for her advice, and starts guiding his people deeper into the temple to equip themselves. “Thank you,” he says, stopping and turning back to her. “We...we’ll never forget you.”
 
She smiles and lifts a hand in farewell. “Nor I, you.”
 
Once they were gone, she turns to her friends. “Well, that’s done. Do you think the elves will still come to our aid now that their Keeper is dead?”
 
“We have done as they asked,” Sten says, frowning. “They would not break their oath now.”
 
Hera nods. “Let’s hope you’re right, Sten. I suppose we should go find out.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When they emerge from the temple, it’s nearly sundown, so they decide to make camp at the edge of the lair. Quietly, they make camp while the golden light burns through the riot of color in the foliage above them.
 
“Can you believe it’s autumn already?” Leliana asks, catching a bright orange leaf as it flutters in front of her. 
 
“Deep into autumn,” Wynne corrects, easing herself onto a log with a groan. “These old bones feel the change every day. It will be winter soon.”
 
Hera nods, crossing her arms and watching the light fade.

Autumn. It’ll be winter in Ravenloft.

“And we’ve so much left to do,” she says softly.
 
“There’s time,” Alistair assures her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “We’ve gotten the support of two armies- and the third will join us- we won’t be stopped now.”
 
Biting her lip, she nods and looks away quickly.

But will I see the end of it? Time is slipping away so quickly, and I desperately want to see Zeus before...

“You’re right, of course,” she says, trying to hide her anxiety. “Let’s gather firewood; the nights are getting colder and the last thing we need is to get hit with illness.”
 
“Good idea,” he says before turning to ask Leliana and Morrigan to see if there’s any game available. The two women head off in a different direction while Sten and Zevran see to fresh water so that Wynne can begin to make more of her elfroot salve. 
 
Hera whistles to Ares as they walk into the forest, talking of necessities. “What is winter like here?” she asks, throwing a stick for the mabari to chase. “How soon does it snow?”
 
“It’s already snowing in the south,” he tells her. “And places high in the mountains like Soldier’s Peak are almost always snowed in. It’s going to get a lot colder, and pretty soon.”
 
Hera shivers. “And I thought Ravenloft was cold,” she jokes. 
 
“Doesn’t it snow there?”
 
She tilts her head, thinking. “Yes, but not so early. Or perhaps the Dark Powers took pity on the realm and gave us time to prepare for the changes. When the realm was cursed, everything was stuck in time. It was always the edge of summer, when the nights start to get chilly and you can tell autumn is just a day away. When we broke the curse, the people were totally unprepared. The Raven Queen herself helped lead a great harvesting of the crops, and negotiated trade for food and supplies before she was even crowned. Thanks to her, no one starved that winter.”
 
“Your queen sounds like a formidable woman,” he chuckles.
 
Hera grins and shrugs. “She is a woman, like so many others. But back to my original thought,” she says, gathering more wood in her arms. “How do we prepare for winter? Should we find a place to bed down for the season? Will we be able to travel?”
 
“Well, we could use a stop at Soldier’s Peak for repairs,” he says, his free hand slapping at a silverite plate hanging crookedly on his hip. “We could stay there for most of the winter, but we need to get to Orzammar as soon as possible. The darkspawn horde will slow down as well, if for no other reason than the snow will fight against them.”
 
“So we’ll send a message to Eamon in Redcliffe about the elves and make our way north,” she suggests. “I think we could spare a week or two to rest and replenish before leaving for the dwarves, don’t you?”
 
Alistair puts an arm around her shoulders and nods. “I think so, if we can keep everyone in one place long enough for a break.”
 
“That’s our plan then,” she agrees. “Let’s get this back to camp. I have a craving that has nothing to do with dinner.”

A slow, confident smirk crosses his face, making Hera realize how far he’s come from the beloved, shy Warden who had once blushed at the very

idea

of a courtesan. “As my lady commands,” he murmurs.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Zeus stares up at the portrait of Hera, hoping to ease the emptiness inside him. He’d had it painted for her birthday; she’d posed for it months before her disappearance- and she’d not even seen it finished. The canvas is nearly as tall as he is, leaving the viewer waiting for her to reach out a hand for assistance to step off the wall. Usually, it helps. Hera’s hair tumbles over her shoulder in the blackest waves, framing a face too beautiful to put into words. Her chin is lifted, bordering somewhere between confidence and reverence, but her eyes are serious. He’d chosen the gown himself, a red velvet so heavy and cool to the touch it had slithered over his hands like water. And though it sat off her shoulders and showed quite a bit of her decolletage, the artist had managed to make it sensual without being vulgar.  And in her hands, a raven spread its wings, ready to take flight. Zeus had suggested it to the artist as a metaphor: Ravenloft poised and ready to take its place in the universe again with the guidance of its new queen. Now he wondered if Hera had been the raven- eager to fly, held back by queenship. His heart ached at the thought of her feeling confined by her status; it wasn’t what he’d intended when he’d turned down the idea of being king alongside her. He’d simply never wanted to imply that he was her equal in any way.   She had been the one to risk her life and confront Strahd. She had stabbed him in the heart and drunk his lifeblood, taking in the unbearable power of his centuries. Zeus had hidden in the shadows, arrow notched and waiting to see if they were all about to die. Hera had deserved to be queen, but he’d never meant for her to see it as a punishment.  “Forgive me, my own sweet love,” he whispers, putting a hand on his heart. “When you come home- because you will -” he insists, “we will sort out this problem of respectability, and we will have an end to your secrets.” “Are you leaving a button?” Zeus looks over his shoulder at the elf’s words. Goddard, with his wild black hair and ridiculously patched and embroidered robes, a small dark woman behind him, carrying a basin in her hands. Zeus frowns down at the pile of buttons on the floor. “I don’t even know why they’re here,” he mutters. The buttons had appeared suddenly several months ago- winter, he thought. Just one carefully carved wooden button smelling of cedar at first, resting on the edge of the frame. It hadn’t been long before more were left, piling up on the floor before being swept away by the staff. There is no rhyme or reason to the buttons, some are faceted gems, others crudely made, some are carved or covered with true craftsmanship. The Duke had told him that a similar phenomenon was happening in the villages that had a statue of their queen. “Lecai, that sounds like something you might know,” Goddard says, placing a small table beneath the portrait.  “Aara,” Zeus says warmly and takes the basin from her. “Do you understand these buttons? Is it a ritual from your world?” he asks, passing the basin to Goddard so he can set it upon the table. She smiles softly, her eyes misty with memory of her world, its door forever locked to her and Goddard. "I heard once that when someone wants to express their feelings, they rip the second button from their shirt and give it to the one they love. My brother once had a ring made for his wife from a button.” She kneels, scooping the buttons up and letting them fall into the basin. “Traditions like this tend to travel, given enough time. I suppose this is Ravenloft's way of showing its love." Zeus’ chest tightens, looking up at the portrait of his sister. "It’s been nearly a year," he murmurs. "I wish she would come home." "So do we all, Zeus." "Lecai, why the second button?" Goddard asks. She smiles at him and reaches for her own shirt, heavily embroidered and quite fine. "It's the one closest to the heart," she explains, ripping off a lovely gold button. She presses it to her lips, whispering a prayer in her ancient language before putting it in the basin.  Tearing away his own button, Zeus grins up at the portrait. "Even missing, she's still setting trends."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair pulls her close, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You make me feel like the Maker,” he breathes.
 
Hera laughs and looks over her shoulder. “Do I? That must make me the Master Maker.”
 
“You are everything, my blaspheming raven,” he says softly, rising on an elbow so she can roll into her back and look up at him. “I love you, and I am a very lucky man.”
 
Hera’s smile is genuine, and her heart swells. “You are...so much more than I thought possible,” she says, stroking his cheek fondly. “I never thought I would love anyone again.”
 
His eyebrows draw together in a frown. “Are you ever going to tell me about him? The man you spoke with in the Temple of Andraste?”
 
Hera’s violet gaze spears him, her eyes suddenly filled with so much sadness he instantly regrets asking. When she speaks, her voice is steady, but she looks away to hide her emotion. “I can’t, Alistair.”
 
“Don't you trust me, Hera?” he asks in a strained voice.
 
Hera sits up and turns her back to him, cutting their connection even more. “It has nothing to do with trust,” she says softly. “It’s experience.”
 
“I’m not...whoever it is that hurt you.

Him.

I’d never do that,” he swears, putting a hand on her arm. 
 
She looks over her shoulder at him, and her beautiful, unusual eyes are full of an old pain. “I believe you, Alistair. I do. But it was...too much. I can’t risk that happening again.”
 
“I don’t understand,” he persists, sitting up and running his hand through his hair. “Why would someone hurt

you

? You’re...you’re you,” he says with a shrug and a smile. “You’re perfect.”
 
Hera pulls her knees to her chest, remembering the night her world fell apart. “Some people owe their loyalty to power more than they owe it to love. I’m sorry, but...I can’t.”
 
She sounds so hollow Alistair thought if he knocked on her chest, it would echo. “I’m sorry.” Alistair wraps his arms around her, lifting her into his lap. “I won’t ask again, raven,” he murmurs into her hair.

Maker, never let me hurt her the way he did,

he prays, burying his face in the silky black waves.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When they return to the Dalish, they meet a young woman on the edge of the camp who is packing her things hastily. “I suppose you saved them, didn’t you?” she asks angrily, straightening and pushing dozens of blonde braids over her shoulder. 
 
“Yes,” Hera answers, frowning. “You don’t seem pleased about it.”
 
“Because it didn’t matter!” she shouts. “I came all this way- lost

everything

- and the one person I found who…” Tears fill her blue eyes and she scowls at them. “Theron died anyway, just like Tamlen.”
 
“Are...are you not Dalish?” Hera asks in surprise. She takes a better look at the woman, her style of hair and the heavy kohl streaked from tears, the difference between her clothing and that of the other elves. “No...You’re not like them at all, are you?” she asks gently.
 
“Obviously,” she snorts and goes back to packing. “I’m from Denerim; we came here seeking sanctuary. Now I’m leaving.”
 
“Why?”
 
“None of your business.”
 
“What’s your name?” Hera asks. “We could travel together.”
 
“You could help us,” Zevran offers quickly. “A fiery goddess like yourself-”
 
“Why don’t I get you a ladder so you’ll get off my back?” she snaps. “I don’t want your help, and you don’t want mine.” 
 
With a muttered curse, the woman grabs her bag and cloak and starts for the path out of camp. Hera and Alistair exchange a surprised look and a shrug. “What was

that

?” he asks.
 
Zevran sighs, watching the slender elf go. “A dream made flesh, my friend.”
 
“Keep your eyes in your head, Zevran,” Leliana advises as they walk toward Lanaya’s aravel. “I don’t think she spared you so much as a look. If she had, you might have gotten hurt.”
 
“I do not need to be seen to love,” he sighs again.
 
“Do my ears deceive me, or has the fool fallen in love by being cursed at?” Morrigan asks. “Zevran you truly are astounding.”
 
“A fool in love.”
 
Hera is still frowning as they meet the new Keeper. “Who is that girl getting supplies?” she asks, nodding toward the pretty blonde elf.
 
Lanaya sighs. “That is Kallian Tabris,” she explains. “She came here from the Denerim alienage after their arl’s son was murdered. They say she took the blame, but disappeared from the city before the authorities could find her. She didn’t say anything to you, did she? Her attitude is...not kind.”
 
“She was upset that someone died,” Hera tells her. “But if he was suffering from the curse, he should have been fine.”
 
Sorrow comes over Lanaya’s face and she shakes her head sadly. “Theron Mahariel. The two of them stumbled into camp just as the curse took hold of us. He was from another clan- I understand that one of their people died recently, named Tamlen- and they were searching for a cure to a disease both Theron and Tamlen contracted. They were to be wed, but he died yesterday of a mysterious illness. She had hoped it was the curse, so ending it would cure him. But Theron...he died this morning.”
 
Leliana puts a hand on Zevran’s arm and turns him away. “Don’t do that, Zevran,” she advises softly. “She’s grieving.” 
 
“No,” he says softly, still watching Tabris. Something shifts as Hera watches him; his eyes turn dark and his mouth settles into a grim line. His hands twitch, reaching for Tabris without meaning to, every line of his body yearning to be closer to her. “No, I know what it is to lose…”

If I let him go to her, would he hold her? Let the anger of her grief crash against him until both their walls fell?

She wonders. She’s never seen that sort of depth in his eyes, the anguish there.

Does love at first sight truly exist? Even I felt a connection with Alistair the moment we met; is Zevran feeling the same with Tabris now?

Would she treat him as the treasure he is?

“Where will Tabris go now?” she asks Lanaya. “Does she have any other family?”
 
“I don’t know. Perhaps back to Denerim, or another alienage. She did not fit well here.”
 
Hera nods. “Sten, you and Wynne go get what supplies we need,” she says. “I want to talk to Lanaya a bit before we go.”
 
“Will you not stay here?” the Keeper asks. “We could shelter you for a time, but we will be moving on soon.”
 
“Thank you, but no,” Alistair answers. “We have somewhere to stay the winter.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sten takes the lead once they’re through the tunnels leading to Soldier’s Peak, stomping his way through the waist-high snow without so much as a shiver. Behind him, Hera flounders, shivering and soaked to the bone, hating herself for agreeing to come back. Behind her is a string of people-

her

people, she reminds herself- all feeling varying degrees of the same emotion.
 
Finally, they reach the gates, thrown open by one of Levi’s many cousins, hoping for news of the outside world. “You’re the first faces we’ve seen in ages!” he chatters, leading them into the keep.
 
Hera drops her pack and lets her sodden cloak fall where it will and rushes over to the roaring fire. “I can’t imagine why,” she says, flinching at the almost painful tingle of heat meeting frozen flesh.
 
“Well, if it isn’t the Grey Warden and all her friends! Hello, and welcome back!”
 
“Hello Levi,” Leliana says brightly, joining Hera at the fire.
 
“I don’t suppose you’ve come to keep us all company for the winter, have you?” he asks, waving in a young girl with a tray full of hot tea. “I daresay you all look a little worse for wear.”
 
“You’re right about that,” Alistair says, slurping the scalding brew. “Ow, that’s hot!”
 
“We’re in desperate need of repairs, Levi,” Wynne explains calmly, looking as if she’s spent all morning in the warm room and not traipsing around in the snow. “We were hoping your brother could assist with that?”
 
“Oh, I’m sure he can,” Levi tells her. “In the meantime, why don’t we get you settled and filled with a hot meal?”
 
Morrigan almost cooes with pleasure at the idea. “Hmm, Levi, if you weren’t so repulsive I would kiss you.”
 
Giving her an equally disgusted look, he backs away from her. “Well...I thank you,” he says uncertainly.
 
***

Hera can’t help but be amazed an hour later. A year ago, a basin of hot water and a straw-filled mattress would have horrified her, leading to a delightful, hour-long rant with her brother about the barbaric lodgings. But now those things seem luxurious beyond telling.
 
Alone, she sits quietly on the bed, dressed in just a shirt and wrapped in a blanket, and takes a moment to think about her life.

Everything is so different now,

she thinks, looking down at the callouses on her hands.

I don’t know if Zeus would recognize me anymore. Or if I even recognize myself. In spite of our adventures, I’ve never been a warrior or leader; I’ve always let Zeus or someone else take those roles. Even my uncle the Duke was the right hand of the Crown, doing more for the people than I could. I’ve been the lovely one, the distraction for the guards, the one who paid in a different currency when coin wasn’t enough.

Who am I now? Am I still Hera, courtesan to royalty? The Queen of Darkness? Or am I just a Grey Warden: a poisoned warrior used by an Order that lies to its recruits and discards them when they are too old to continue the fight?

Is this all just a distraction from the death I know is coming?

Is there a place for a Warden Queen in Ravenloft or Ferelden?

Tears fill her eyes and she pulls her knees to her chest.

I’ve never wanted any of this. And yet here I am, filthy and in pain much of the time, fighting a war that isn’t even mine. I can’t tell anyone I’m dhampir, or Queen of Ravenloft. All I can do is lie and fight and kill. A Grey Warden, indeed.

If I die here, I just want one person to know who I really am.

I

want to know who I really am.

A knock breaks through her thoughts, and she hastily brushes away tears as Alistair pokes his head into the room. “Hera, you aren’t even dressed,” he scolds in a cheerful tone, entering the room fully. “Dinner is- are you all right?”
 
She nods, wiping her eyes as he comes to sit beside her. “Just lamenting my beautiful hands,” she jokes, holding them out for him to see. “They’re terribly calloused now, it’ll take months to make them soft again.”
 
Alistair chuckles and kisses each palm. “Your hands are still the softest I’ve ever seen.”
 
“Powers preserve me, the women in your world are far too rough for my liking,” she teases.
 
“Come on, put on some trousers and your shoes,” he instructs. “I’m hungry.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What did the Guardian mean?” Alistair asks after they’ve had dinner. Zevran has been telling Leliana an exaggerated version of the trials, making himself seem like quite the hero. It had Alistair rolling his eyes so hard it hurt, but it reminded him of the Guardian, and the peculiar exchange he’d had with Hera after. “When he said you keep a dangerous secret?”
 
Hera looks up at him, blinking slowly. She’d been half asleep, sitting in his lap and leaning against his chest. Dinner had been a thick, savory stew full of vegetables and soft, fresh bread that lay heavy and warm in her stomach, making her sleepy. “Hmm? Why are you thinking about that?” she asks, amused. “That was months ago.”
 
“The Guardian; he said you kept a dangerous secret,” he reminds her as the rest of the group goes quiet.
 
“Oh…I can’t really talk about it,” she says, trying not to sound as if she’s avoiding the topic and failing miserably.
 
“Can’t?” Zevran asks. “Something keeps you from it?”
 
She nods, expression grim. “There are things I can’t- or shouldn’t- tell anyone. It’s...safest.”
 
“So you

are

keeping secrets,” Leliana accuses. “That’s not exactly fair, Hera. We’ve all told you of our pasts.”
 
“You’ve all been so honest with me,” Hera starts, leaning away from Alistair and pulling her knees to her chest. “And I appreciate that. You know I’ll help where I can, but…” she shrugs. “There is no helping me. Even if we all packed up and went to Ravenloft tonight there would be no way of helping me.”
 
“Don’t say that,” Wynne argues from her place by the fire, placidly knitting. “I’m certain we could help you with whatever problem you have. We certainly all owe you the effort, at least.”
 
Hera thinks of the place between planes, the utter darkness of it all, and the deal extracted from her. “I appreciate that, Wynne, and if there were a solution I know you would, but there simply isn’t.”
 
“But, surely, Hera-”
 
Her impatient gesture cuts Zevran off, and she gets to her feet. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she says sharply. Before anyone can respond, she stalks off, taking the first door that leads outside onto the frozen battlements. 
 
Alistair follows a few seconds later, placing a heavy blanket around her shoulders. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks, worry making his voice a fraction higher than normal. “Should I not have asked that in front of everyone?”
 
She sighs and turns to him, annoyed with herself for losing her temper. “No, you have every right to ask.” They walk a little farther, and she clutches the blanket closer. “I just can’t tell you all of it.”
 
“You can trust me with anything, Hera,” he says softly.

Can I? Can I tell you who and what I am? Will you love me in spite of it?

“I hope that’s true,” she answers. “Because this is…” she shakes her head, unable to explain the scope of it.

We both know I’m leaving when this is over. Is it fair to even ask him to love me?

His arm comes around her shoulders in an easy, comfortable embrace. “It

is

true, raven.”
 
“Do you remember how you weren’t totally honest about your parentage?” she asks softly, not looking at him. “Well, I haven’t been totally honest with you, either. But before I tell you, you must promise not to tell the others. I don’t want anyone else to be in danger because of me.”
 
“Is it so bad?” he asks seriously. “I’ll protect you, Hera, whatever it is.”
 
She smiles sadly and squeezes his hand. “I believe you, Alistair. I do. But this won’t be easy for you to accept.”

If you can accept it at all. How does one do this? “Alistair, I’m a century-old half-monster who drinks blood. Let’s kiss and make up now.”

That would go well.

“Worse than a bastard prince?” he asks with amusement. “Or an assassin raised in a whorehouse willing to jump into anyone’s tent? Oh wait- we have a murdering qunari and a chantry sister who shoots squirrels through the eye,” he laughs. “You seem to have accepted our foibles well enough.”
 
“This isn’t a foible,” she says softly, looking back down. “Alistair.” She takes a deep breath. “You know I am a bastard,” she begins. “At least as far as I knew for many, many years. My father was from Ravenloft, my mother from a smaller region called Fandemeir. She was part of the court of the Countess de Fandemeir, a plane with direct access to Ravenloft. This is confusing, I know, but travel between worlds and planes isn’t hard if you know where the door is-” She stops and takes a deep breath. “I’m rambling. That isn’t important. All you need to really know is that there was once easy access between them. Fandemeir was small enough that a ruling countess was all they needed- Leliana mentioned the Free Marches once, it’s very similar. She could have been called queen if she wanted, but she liked it that way.”
 
“Hera...I don’t care that you’re a bastard,” he says warmly, bringing her hands to his chest. “We can be bastards together.”
 
“That isn’t it, there’s more,” she warns. “Zeus and I didn’t care, either. We always received a monthly stipend anonymously, if we had any debts they were paid. Whoever our father was, it was clear he cared for his misbegotten spawn, but couldn’t acknowledge us publicly. Later, we learned it was our uncle who provided for us.”
 
“Did you ever find out who your father is?”
 
She nods. “Yes, but that’s another story. You see…” Her bottom lip trembles annoyingly, and she bites it to force a stop. “Alistair, I’m afraid that you think I’m something I’m not,” she admits.
 
“Hera, you have me worried,” he admonishes gently. “Tell me.”
 
“I’m not human.”
 
“Well you aren’t a dwarf,” he chuckles, “and I’ve seen your ears, so no elf. What else could you be?”
 
“I’m a dhampir.”
 
He frowns. “A dhampir? What’s that?”
 
She takes a deep breath.

Now or never, Hera.

“My mother was human. My father was a vampire.”
 
“You’re…” Alistair’s frown deepens at the unfamiliar word. “What? What is a vampire?”
 
“Undead,” she whispers, watching him fearfully, “Do you...do you have vampires here? Blood-drinkers?”
 
“Blood-drinkers?” he shakes his head in confusion. “Maybe...maybe a demon?” he suggests.

That word.

Hera looks down, biting her lip and hearing a century-old mob screaming that word at Zeus and herself. “Some would call us that.”
 
“But-” He pauses, his confusions beginning to shift into something else. “But you didn’t even

have

a connection to the Fade before you came here.”
 
“It’s only your world that requires a Fade connection for its monsters,” she says, looking up at him. “Even the darkspawn have a connection to it. In the realms beyond...it’s not necessary. We simply exist.”
 
Alistair steps away from her, his face a storm of emotions.

Is he angry? Hurt? Is he afraid of me?

She wonders. The last thought settles in her belly like a lump of cold stone.

Please, no; I don’t know if I could take his fear.

“Explain this to me,” he says. The hard edge of his voice cuts, and she flinches. “What exactly do you mean when you say

blood-drinkers

?”
 
Hera swallows, her mouth and throat dry as an old bone. “I mean that vampires- and dhampirs as well- need to drink the blood of the living in order to survive. Vampires are able to create others, by draining a person of all their blood and then-” she pauses as his expression darkens.
 
“Go on.”
 
“Then they feed their blood to them. The blood is what changes them.”
 
“That sounds almost like- are you a darkspawn?” he accuses. “Or a demon?” 
 
“It’s not that simple-”

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters, running his hands through his hair and beginning to pace. “You lied to me! How could I not sense it? Is that what the Guardian meant? Your dangerous secret?”
 
“I wish I could tell you it was,” she says softly.
 
“There’s

more?

Oh this is perfect,” he grumbles, bitter laughter spilling from him. “First you lie about magic, and now this. How did you make it past Duncan? Are you some kind of darkspawn spy? Why didn’t he kill you on sight?”
 
Hera knots her hands in front of her, tears burning. “No, Alistair. Look at me, I’m not darkspawn, and you know it. That’s not possible, is it? I went through the Joining.”
 
He stops his pacing, staring at her with wide eyes. “Your Joining. You were so nonchalant, toasting the cup before you drank.” He laughs again, harsh and grating. “You weren’t worried about it at all, were you? You drink blood

all the time.

”
 
“With the exception of my Joining, I haven’t drunk a

drop

since coming to Thedas,” she counters, her own temper beginning to rise. “If I were a demon, don’t you think this would all be easier? I could just seduce you into believing whatever I want and you’d be none the wiser!”
 
“How do I know you haven’t?”
 
The words fall between them like an ax, leaving a silent stillness brimming with anger and energy.

I shouldn’t have told him,

she thinks sadly, blinking back tears.

I should have just continued my lies and left him as planned.

“I didn’t lie,” she says softly, “not really...you assumed I was human. Just like I had no idea you were royalty. I never assumed anything of your history.”
 
“The man in the temple, he called you a monster. A beast. Can you even die?” he asks, one hand on his sword-hilt. Hera flinches, her dread and heartache turn to shuddering fear, and she has to fight not to tremble.

He would draw his sword on me,

she thinks in horror.
 
“Y-yes,” she stammers. “Please don’t draw that, I can be killed almost as easily as you. I’m not a monster, not in the way you mean it. I’ll prove it.” She shows him a golden ring, twisting it off her shaking hand and offering it up. “Catch it, I can’t afford it to be lost in the dark.”
 
Alistair catches her ring with one hand, his movement sharp. “So?”
 
Hera stands before him, beautiful and sorrowful. “Use your Warden abilities. Do you sense darkspawn?”
 
He’s silent a long moment. “No.”
 
“Do you sense anything evil?”
 
Another silence. “No.”
 
“That ring protects me from daylight,” she explains, pointing to his clenched fist. “I can go into daylight without it, but it’s draining. You’ve noticed how I’m faster than others, stronger than I look, and my senses are heightened. You even mentioned it before the Joining-”
 
“In the Wilds,” he adds, nodding. “That genlock was out of range, and you took it down with one shot.”
 
In spite of the harsh tone, Alistair’s hand moves away from his sword hilt. Willing to accept that as a small victory in itself, Hera continues. “That’s my father’s blood- the Joining has only enhanced it. I don’t get ill, my wounds heal faster than a human’s; I can smell the sweat that lingers in the smithy from here and hear Zevran telling Leilana a dirty joke inside. If I wanted, I could cast an illusion and force you all into doing my bidding- I have no intention of doing so, however.”
 
“Small thanks for small favors,” he says tersely. 
 
“In daylight, my abilities and energy are halved. It’s exhausting, leaves me weaker than a human, and it forces me to feed. That ring essentially cancels that out, so that it doesn’t cause me harm. I can live more like my human half with it.”
 
Alistair shakes his head. “I don’t understand. You’re half a monster, but you wear a piece of jewelry that...keeps the monster tame?”
 
“I

am

a monster, Alistair,” she says softly. “Without that ring, I am. I have to feed on blood, and while it can be very exciting and sexually pleasing for both participants, it’s not something I do often. With the ring, I am basically an exceptionally talented human.”

“Have you ever...fed...on me?” he asks, his face hard. “Put me under an illusion so I would forget?”
 
“No,” she says, hurt that he would ask such a thing, but understanding his need to hear the answer. “I swear on your Maker and whoever mine is, no. I would never, I swear. I only like to feed on a consenting partner, not because I have to,” she explains. “I haven’t drunk a drop of blood in Thedas.”
 
He smirks, but his voice is still bitter and hard. “Not since your Joining, anyway. What else can you do?”
 
Hera sighs, realizing that, once again, the one thing she cannot control will very likely force her to lose the one she loves. “I can see, smell, hear, and heal faster and better than any human. Much, much better than humans- you could tell something was different about me even before the Joining. I stopped aging at twenty. I am faster, stronger, and more agile. And I have a perfect memory,” she adds sadly. “I am literally unable to forget something, no matter how much I would like to.”
 
“The man in the temple. The one who betrayed you,” Alistair guesses, piecing the story together. “He’s the reason you fled your home after your mother died.”
 
Hera nods, and when she speaks, her voice is colored with bitterness. “I was eighteen and foolish, a girl grieving for my dying mother, and thought Anatoly loved me. One night I let it slip in an argument and he told the Countess, his mother, what I was,” she goes on, her fury with Anatoly building. “The Countess hated vampires; later I learned she hated our father especially. Zeus and I were thrown out, and the village mob hunted us like monsters. No matter that we had never harmed a single person in all our days. We fled and rebuilt our lives as best we could. I supported us for quite a while. The ring was a gift from our father,” she tells him. “He sent my mother two of them after we were born so that Zeus and I could live normal lives if we wished.”
 
“And lie to people?” he says sharply.
 
“I never lied to you.”
 
“You kept the truth from me.”
 
“You did the same.”
 
“My secret only makes in line for the crown.”

So does mine,

she thinks, but stops herself from saying it.

No, I won’t tell him that I’m the queen of Ravenloft, too. This has been too much, another secret would break me.

“Do you really think I’m a monster?” she asks. “Me. Hera. Courtesan. Grey Warden. Your lover. Did I magically change into a horrible creature by removing a piece of jewelry?”
 
She bites her lip against tears as he stares at her. Hera, always calm and cool under scrutiny, fidgets under his gaze. His emotions are written in every line of his body- confusion, hurt and anger making him tense and distant and Hera wishing she had never shared this awful truth.
 
“Alistair,” she whispers, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I never meant to cause you pain. I’ll understand if you want to end this now. I’ll leave tonight if I have to-”
 
“Shut up,” he orders and starts pacing once again. “I’m thinking.”
 
She nods, clenching her hands in front of her, waiting for him to break her heart.

At least now he knows,

she thinks, watching him mutter and stalk over to the edge of the battlements and stare at the mountain range, hands on his hips.

At least someone knows the truth, as far as I can tell it.

Alistair stares out into the darkness, trying to make sense of what she’s just told him.

She drinks blood, the same way she drinks water and wine. I don’t even understand how an undead thing can have a child with a human! Maker’s breath…

She’s

not human. She had sex with me and she’s not even human. How could she keep this from me?

She’s a liar and a monster.

His heart starts racing in panic, but he clenches his jaw against it.

And yet…

She’s generous and brave. Fearless. What could the Joining have done to her- could it have hurt her? Changed her into something horrible? It’s designed for- well, not a dhampir. It could have put her in serious danger! And she did it anyway, to help Ferelden; to be a Grey Warden.

Alistair sighs, squinting in the starlight at the mountains.

Dhampir. Courtesan. Grey Warden.

Hera.

Rubbing a hand over his chest, as if to ease the ache of her lie, he shakes his head.

The woman I’m still madly in love with.

Maker damn her for being a liar.

Andraste, help me understand.

After what seems an eternity, Alistair sighs and the tension leaks out of his shoulders.
 
“Come here,” he says, turning to her.
 
She takes a tentative step forward before he curses and rushes to her, crushing her against his chest and kissing her deeply. Hera’s heart stops beating in that instant, and when it starts again it pounds faster and harder than ever. He releases her, breathing heavily, and looks down at her.
 
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, resting his chin on her head. “I’m an ass, and I’m sorry.”
 
“I shouldn’t have lied,” she sniffs. “But I was afraid of this world and its people.”
 
“You were right to be afraid,” he advises. “Tybalt would never have given you the chance to explain. Duncan, either. I’m glad you waited. And glad you felt you could trust me.”
 
“You hold my life in your hands, Alistair,” she whispers, trying to temper relief with caution. “What will you do with it?”
 
“I promised I’d protect you, didn’t I?” After a moment he leans back to look at her. “You don’t use your abilities to make the...fun bits...better, do you?”
 
With a wicked grin, she punches him in the shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Are you complaining about our sexual activities?”
 
“Oh

no

,” he chuckles, kissing her forehead. He takes her hand, sliding her ring back onto her finger. “Let’s not lose this,” he tells her, “you’ll be a lot easier to kill if we did.”
 
“I’d rather not,” she agrees. “Alistair...there’s more,” she tells him. “But the Dark Powers prevent me from telling anyone. It’s part of my deal.”
 
“Why are you telling me if you can’t tell me?”
 
“Because even if I can’t tell you, I want to.”
 
“Can you tell me anything?”
 
She shakes her head, throat tightening on the words.

Sorceress, dhampir, queen, a curse I literally can’t talk about...I wish I could tell him everything.

She coughs and clears her throat, raising a hand to lay against her neck. “Only that you won’t like it.”
 
“Somehow I’m not surprised,” he says, and sighs. “I’m going to need some more details about this dhampir thing, you know.”
 
She nods, her face solemn. “There isn’t much more to say on them, but I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
 
“And...some time,” he adds, stepping back and breaking their contact. “I need to think about all this.”

It was foolish to hope he could just accept me with open arms.

“I understand.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“...That’s what I heard,” Levi says, holding his hands out. “There are a few survivors hiding in the Hinterlands, but Bann Loren’s been rooting them out.”
 
“Survivors from Ostagar,” Hera whispers, sitting back and looking at Wynne and Alistair. “You don’t think it’s possible that any of them are Grey Wardens, do you?”
 
Tight-lipped, Wynne nods. “I think we have to look into it, just in case.”
 
“But we’ve come all this way

north

,” Zevran groans, putting his feet on the floor and letting his chair rest on all four legs.
 
“But Bann Loren’s lands aren’t that far from here,” Leliana tells him, pointing to their map. “And if it comes to nothing, we can always go on to Orzammar.”
 
“But that means we have to leave as soon as the armor is ready,” Hera tells them. “We’d planned to rest here a while, but that won’t be possible if we find another Warden.”
 
“I did not enjoy the idea of staying locked in a prison all winter, anyway,” Morrigan says from the corner. “Let us continue traveling, and see if this rumor leads to another Grey Warden.”
 
“Alistair, what do you think?” Hera asks, watching him pace the length of the table. 
 
“I think it’s not a choice,” he says, looking up from the floor at them. “If there are any Grey Wardens left in Ferelden we have to find them.”
 
She nods and looks to Sten at the far end of the table. “Sten? This has to be something we all agree on.”
 
Sten empties the cup of hot tea he’d been nursing, making a face at the bitter dregs. “Another Grey Warden would make defeating the archdemon easier. We should go.”
 
Hera meets Alistair’s gaze and nods. “All right. I’ll go speak with Mikhail and see when we can leave. Wynne, you and Leliana see what supplies can be spared. Sten and Zevran, start sharpening weapons, we need to be ready if Bann Loren’s men are uncooperative.”
 
“And what shall I do, oh fearless leader?” Morrigan asks.
 
Hera gives her a small smile. “You can reinforce our gear with that waterproofing spell you’ve got,” she advises. “Boots, socks, and trousers most importantly.”
 
Given such a small duty, Morrigan pouts. Laughing, Hera touches her shoulder lightly. “And perhaps you could scout the surrounding area, as well? The sky is clear today, and you can enjoy some freedom.”
 
Alistair watches in amazement as Morrigan’s sullen pout turns to a warm smile. “I shall do so, my friend,” the witch says.
 
“How do you do that?” he asks as soon as they step outside.
 
“Do what?”
 
“Make everyone feel useful and happy to do it.”
 
Hera shrugs as if it’s nothing. “I don’t know. I try to let people’s skills show themselves, and use them. It’s a little selfish, really, I always end up being the pampered one while someone else does my heavy lifting.”

You have no idea the weight you carry, or how well you do it,

he thinks as they walk into the smithy.

***
 
“Mikhail, you

can’t

be serious,” Hera sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. 
 
The blacksmith matches her scowl and folds his arms over his chest. “You show up last night with your armor-

my

armor- in pieces, and want to know when you can leave again? Now, without it,” he grumbles, “or in a few days, with it like new.”
 
She turns to Alistair, unsure of what to do. He puts his hands on her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “We’re already behind the rumor,” he reminds her. “We have no idea when the rumor originated, if there’s any truth to it, or anything else.”
 
She nods and looks back to Mikhail. “Alright, Mikhail. Let me know when Alistair and I are ready to go, and see if you can put a bit of a rush on Zevran’s, too. We can always send Morrigan back with news if we mean to move on to Ostagar,” she tells Alistair.
 
“Now that’s a good idea,” he agrees. “It won’t take all of us just to check out a rumor, and they can always meet us on the road.”
 
They leave the blacksmith to mutter ominously to himself and his apprentice. With little else to do, they wander around the keep’s grounds. For the most part, only the main keep and a few outbuildings have been utilized, leaving much of Soldier’s Peak still feeling empty and abandoned.
 
“Hera, can you tell me more about…?” he asks, looking bashful.
 
“About what?” she asks, pausing to lean against an old stone fencepost as if she has no idea what he’s asking about. “What’s on your mind, Hero?”
 
“What we talked about last night.”
 
“Ah.”
 
She’d been expecting this. He’d forgiven her the lies and the secrets, but after their rushed embrace in the darkness, that had been it. He hadn’t come to her bed that night or invited her into his own afterward and had been distant all morning. On the balance, however, he hadn’t been cold or angry, just...cautious.
 
“What would you like to know?” she asks, pushing her hair over her shoulder.
 
“Well, everything to start,” he says nervously, keeping his voice down and resting against the fence beside her. “I don’t understand how something other than a darkspawn or a demon can drink blood and live.”
 
“You and I did it in our Joining,” she reminds him. “But that’s irrelevant. Vampires are…” She pauses, trying to decide how to explain it without it sounding monstrous. “Monsters. There’s really no other word for it. Originally, cursed things of nightmares, but they aren’t savage- at least no more than anyone else has the potential to be. They’re beautiful and seductive, incredibly fast; they can transform into bats or a wolf or mist and cannot see their reflections. They’re… what is it Sten said? A race of people cannot be summed up in a few words?” she says with a sigh. “But in the simplest terms, they were once humans who died and were resurrected presumably without their soul- that is up for debate. Because they’re still technically dead, they need blood to animate their bodies. Without it, they start to shrivel up like any corpse and are unable to move.”
 
“But you’re only half that, right?”
 
She nods. “My father was a vampire, but my mother was human. Beautiful and special, but human.”
 
“So what does that mean for you and your brother, exactly?” 
 
He looks as if he’d rather not have this conversation, but Hera knows it’s important to him to ask these things. What she doesn’t know is how it will affect their relationship. “It means that we’re alive,” she says slowly. “Always have been. There are differences between us; Zeus has fangs, I don’t. I have a cousin who can transform into a swarm of bats, and another who cannot see her reflection. It also means that I can walk in daylight-”
 
“But it weakens you without the ring, right?” he asks anxiously, grabbing her hand to see if she’s still wearing it.
 
“Yes,” she says with a smile. “Full-blooded vampires can’t. It also means that I can eat and drink, like I said last night. I have a soul, sullied as it is,” she jokes.
 
“Do you have any idea how insane this sounds?” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.
 
Hera touches his arm gently. “Yes, I do. And I know the whole concept sounds terrifying and like a demon. But I’m

not

a demon, Alistair.”
 
“I believe you.”
 
“So if you drink blood, does that mean I’m your type?”
 
Hera stares at him, blinking in shock at his joke, before throwing her head back and laughing. “That joke is so bad you could kill the archdemon with it.”
 
He gives her a small grin, a shadow of his usual confidence. “Thorny roses and bad jokes- Grey Wardens use only the best weapons against the Blight.”
 
“And...about us?” she asks, holding her breath. “Was that kiss last night one of farewell?”
 
“I...I need to think,” he admits sheepishly. “I feel like I’ve been lied to, even though it was for the best.”
 
She steps back, clasping her hands in front of her. “Take all the time you need.”
 
He nods, his face unreadable, and leans on the fence, leaving a noticeable distance between them. Staring ahead of him, his shoulders dip just a little, as if this newest secret had added more weight to them.
 
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For everything.” She starts to walk away, hoping she hadn’t just left their relationship in ruins. 
 
“Hera?”
 
She stops and turns, hope lifting her heart. “Yes?”
 
“How old are you really?”
 
“Nearly a hundred, give or take a few years,” she says with a shrug.
 
“You don’t know?”
 
She smiles sadly. “At some point you quit counting, Hero.”
" alt="" />
Fanart by Lorekeeper247

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera keeps her bow ready as they creep through the frosty meadow. They’d traveled for a week before finally hearing some of the rumors for themselves in a small village. Someone- a Warden perhaps- had escaped Bann Loren’s prison and fled to the woods. No one knew when exactly he’d been imprisoned, but everyone was certain he was a survivor of Ostagar.
 
Morrigan leads them, silently placing her feet among the damp leaves, her senses alert for sounds or signs of human life. Alistair hated following her through the woods, but eventually, Zevran convinced him that of the four of them, she would be best at tracking in the wilderness. Which meant that for the last three days, Alistair had pouted and resented every decision Morrigan made.
 
The small group reaches the edge of a ravine, a goat trail winding down the side, and Morrigan motions Hera forward. “Look there,” she whispers, nodding her chin toward a handful of armed soldiers harassing another dressed in rags.
 
Using the tip of her bow to slowly move some of the brush aside, Hera studies the group before waving Alistair forward. The ragged man looks familiar, but Hera only remembers seeing him moving through the camp.
 
“I know his face,” she whispers when he squats beside her, “but I never spoke to him.”
 
“I think that’s one of Cailan’s men,” Alistair tells her. “I’m almost certain of- hey!”
 
The soldiers start attacking the man and Alistair leaps to his feet, shouting and drawing his weapon. Happy for the burst of activity, Zevran follows him as he races down to the goat trail to join the fray. Staying where they are, Hera and Morrigan start with a ranged coverage, picking off two before they reach the group.
 
The battle is a short one with the sides evenly matched, but when Hera and Morrigan join them below, the ragged man they’d heard about is gasping for breath with blood pouring from his middle. Alistair kneels beside him, shaking his head. 
 
“I remember now,” he says in a gruff voice. “His name is Elric, he was one of Cailan’s honor guard. Can we do anything to help him?”
 
Morrigan kneels, putting her magic to work, but Hera can see he’s lost too much blood even before the witch shakes her head. “No,” she says simply, and stands so that Hera can kneel in her place. “I can only spare him a little time.”
 
Alistair helps Elric sit up as he wakes. “Th...Thank you,” he says, breathing slowly. “I didn’t expect the Bann’s men to notice my escape so quickly. Now I’m a dead man.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Hera says softly, taking his hand. “We tried to help.”
 
Recognition dawns on him as he stares at her. “I know you- you were there at Ostagar! The girl that Grey Warden brought in. You caused quite a stir.”
 
She glances up at Alistair with a small smile. “It is nice to be remembered.”
 
He sighs and leans back on the ground with a soft groan. “You know how things went there,” he tells them. “For me, it was either this or die in some darkspawn’s belly...or be hung as a deserter.”
 
“Wait- you deserted?” Alistair gasps.
 
Elric nods. “I fled the battlefield when Loghain betrayed us. I abandoned my men and they died, and Cailan with them,” he says bitterly. “He was my king, my friend. Maker, all that time in Bann Loren’s prison and I couldn’t stop thinking about what they suffered that dark night in Ostagar…”
 
“Hush,” Hera soothes, brushing his hair back. “We don’t often get to choose our deaths.”
 
“I know. The darkspawn were too many, even with Loghain’s men. Cailan, for all his bravado, knew there would be no victory there.”
 
Raising her eyebrows sharply, her eyes fly to Alistair’s face, seeing the same surprise there that she felt. “He knew?” Alistair chokes.
 
Elric’s face twisted in pain, and more blood poured from his wound.

He’s dying, and quickly,

Hera thinks, covering her hand and putting pressure on it. “Elric, do you know of any Grey Wardens that might have survived?” she asks.
 
He shakes his head, grimacing. “No. I only know the king entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said, it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens.”
 
“Where is this key?”
 
“I stashed it in the camp- it’s probably still there.”
 
“Where?” Alistair demanded, knowing the man’s life is slipping away. “Where Elric?”
 
“Behind a loose stone,” he gasps. “At the base of a statue. The one near-” he groans, and Hera can feel the blood slowing beneath her hands. “Near his tent. Maric’s sword,” he says urgently, clasping at Hera’s hand, “it’s too powerful to be...pawed at. Get the documents. His arms. Promise,” he pleads.
 
Hera nods solemnly. “I promise, Elric.”
 
“Good,” he sighs. “I knew Grey Wardens would help. I’m going to rest now,” he tells them and closes his eyes.
 
Hera and Alistair stay silently at his side as his breath grows slow and ragged. When his last breath rattles from his throat, she lays his hand on his chest with a heavy sigh. “Well, not a Warden after all,” she mutters, rocking back on her heels. “What now?”
 
“We should build him a pyre,” Alistair says in a dull voice. “The border of Loren’s land isn’t far, if we carry him, we can make camp and see him sent properly to the Maker’s side.”
 
“What utter foolishness,” Morrigan snaps. “We’ve come all this way for news of a key? How does it benefit us, or our mission?”
 
“Whatever’s in that chest was meant for Grey Wardens,” Alistair says in a harsh tone. “Since

we’re

the only two Wardens in Ferelden, it’s meant for us. I’m going to get it.”
 
Morrigan opens her mouth to retort, but Hera cuts her off. “Morrigan, you should prepare to fly back to Soldier’s Peak. Tell the others we’ll meet them at Oswin Village and see if we can find someone willing to float us down the river. We can decide how to approach from there.”
 
Morrigan raises a brow and stares hard at her for a moment before nodding. “As you wish, my friend,” she says finally, and with a flourish, she flies away.
 
“Good, she was getting on my nerves anyway,” Alistair mutters. “Zevran, let’s see if we can figure out a way to carry him.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was a quiet evening while they pitched camp, each of them picking up the duties normally performed by another in their group. Together, they built a pyre for Elric and kept a close eye on the fire as they made their supper and went about their business. 
 
After a while Alistair sends Hera and Zevran to their tents, promising to wake one of them for the next watch, feeling only slightly guilty when he turns his cheek to receive her kiss goodnight. It had been over a week since she’d told him what she is, but he still can’t bring himself to reach out to her. All he can remember is that she’s been lying to him since the moment they met, and wonder what else she’s hiding.
 
“Goodnight, Hero,” she whispers, looking a little heartbroken as she backs away.
 
“Goodnight, Hera.”
 
It was a cold, quiet night, the kind that made the stars seem farther away than in the summer. Wrapped in a fur beneath his cloak, he sighs and watches the pyre burn.

What am I supposed to do with this?

He wonders, glancing over at Hera’s tent.

She isn’t human- or elf or dwarf or...anything! What she is...it’s monstrous. First, she hid her magic from us, and now this...Maker’s breath.

What she is hasn’t changed- well, the Joining changed her, but it didn’t make her more human. If the Wardens are to be believed, it made her less.

The thought hits him like a blow to the chest.

That would mean

I’m

not really human, too. Wouldn’t it? If I’m not entirely human, it shouldn’t bother me so much that she isn’t, either.

It’s the lie I hate most of all, even if she didn’t feel as if she had a choice.

He sits in silence, stewing in his own thoughts until he hears a deliberate step behind him. “Come to kill me finally?” he asks wryly as Zevran comes into view.
 
“I thought you might enjoy some company,” he says cheerfully. “You seem to be spending your nights alone lately- that must be lonely. For both of you,” he adds pointedly.
 
Alistair scowls as he sits beside him. “You wouldn’t understand.”
 
“Wouldn’t I? I seem to understand that something happened at Soldier’s Peak to drive a wedge between you,” Zevran says calmly. “And I understand that whatever it is makes our lovely leader feel guilty. Tell me, my good friend, what happened? Perhaps I can help.”
 
“You can’t,” he mutters, hunching his shoulders. “I promised I wouldn’t talk about it.”
 
Zevran nods, making an agreeable sound in his throat. “That man,” he says, nodding toward Elric’s pyre. “He was close to your king, was he not? Would you say he is lucky to have deserted the field and lived another season?”
 
“I...I don’t know,” Alistair admits, turning to look at him with confusion. “Why?”
 
“It was longer than he would have had if he had stayed.”
 
“But he wasn’t able to go home, see his loved ones or anything,” Alistair argues. “He was in a prison, cold and miserable and probably tortured. No! Of course he wasn't better off.”
 
Zevran’s eyebrows raise slightly. “But that season- that borrowed time- it would have been better if he

could

have been with someone he loved, yes?”
 
“Zevran, what are you...I see.” Alistair huddles down in his fur, frowning. “You don’t know what she- what the problem is.”
 
“It could not have been so awful. She is affectionate still, and you do not push her away.”
 
“I’m not pulling her close, either.”
 
The elf shrugs. “Whatever it is, forgive her,” he advises. “We could all die in the Blight, and wouldn’t you rather die knowing a woman like

that

loved you to the core of her soul?” Zevran claps him on the shoulder. “Go get some rest. You’ve been sitting here longer than you think, my friend. I will mind the fire.”
 
Alistair stays where he is, scowling.

You think you’re so clever, Zevran,

he thinks bitterly. “I hate you when you’re right,” he grumbles. “Do you think she’ll let me into her tent?”
 
Zevran chuckles and wraps his cloak around himself tighter. “I think you should find out.”
 
Alistair shuffles through the leaves, unsure of the reception he’ll get inside her tent. He hesitates, one hand on the flap, before taking a deep breath and calling out softly. “Hera? Can I come in?”
 
He can hear her waking, the adorable little purr she makes in her throat when she’s been sleeping deeply, followed by a groan of dismay realizing she can’t sleep any longer. “Is it my watch already?” he hears.
 
“Ah...no. No, I...I wanted to talk.”
 
“Oh, come in, then.”
 
He ducks in as she sits up, the light of the campfire and the pyre bathing her in a warm glow even through the heavy canvas tent walls. His heart stops seeing her with her hair in wavy disarray, her face still soft with sleep, and a shiver runs through him.

At least she isn’t naked,

he thinks gratefully, sitting at the foot of her bedroll.

I’d never get this out if she was.

Even so, the sight of her wrapped in a fur and his purple tunic peeking out makes him want to lie down and make love to her.
 
“Alistair?”
 
“Huh?” he asks, blinking rapidly.
 
She yawns, shoulders shifting. “You wanted to talk?”
 
“Oh. Right.” He shifts, letting his own fur slide down his shoulders. “I wanted to say...I’m sorry.”
 
She frowns and shakes her head as if trying to clear away the fog of sleep. “You’re sorry? For what?”
 
“For...this,” he says, glad his face is in shadow and she can’t see him blush. “For the last week.  You trusted me with something important-

again

- and I acted like a complete ass. Again.”
 
“Oh Hero, you don’t have to apologize,” she says quickly. “

I’m

the one who’s sorry. You were right: I kept things from you. I still am, but I honestly can’t tell you-”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts. “I love you, and I don’t care what your parents were. I don’t care if you're a demon, darkspawn, or just a woman.” 
 
Her face goes blank, and she looks down at her hands knotted in her lap. “Do you mean that?”
 
Moving to his knees, he shuffles forward and lifts her chin. In the dim light, her violet eyes sparkle with unshed tears, making them look more like gems than ever. “Every word. I love you, Hera, and if we die tomorrow, I want to know I didn’t waste the time we had together.”
 
Alistair decided that very night that he was never setting up his tent again. Usually, they each pitched their own tent or rented their own room, and one would wait until late to sneak off to be with the other. He wasn’t sure why, but neither of them had been eager to broadcast their new level of romance, even though they’d been sleeping together for months. So far as everyone acted as if nothing was going on- and aside from a little gossip and amused remarks after their first night together- they were happy enough.

Now Zevran’s words just circled in his thoughts:

we could all die in the Blight, and wouldn’t you rather die knowing a woman like that loved you to the core of her soul?

Suddenly keeping the appearance of not being together seemed so pointless. He loved her, and he wasn’t wasting another moment.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera, Alistair, and Zevran camp a mile outside of Oswin while they wait for the others to join them. Afraid of being too recognizable, she sends Zevran into town to arrange passage down the river and buy supplies while she and Alistair study the map.
 
“We can cross the lake here,” she says, pointing to a small mark over the narrowest part of Lake Calenhad. “You said there’s a ferry here, yes?”
 
He nods. “We can meet the Imperial Highway there, too,” he agrees. “Bypass Lothering-”
 
“Take a

wide

pass at Lothering,” she insists. “I imagine things are worse there than it was the last time we passed through.”
 
“The Blight is getting worse, too. We may not be able to actually make it to Ostagar,” he warns, frowning. “If we can’t, we’ll have to make a run for Redcliffe.”
 
“It’s a plan,” she agrees, and hesitates before asking her next question. “Alistair, what do you hope to find there?”
 
He scratches his jaw, newly bristled with gold whiskers. “I really don’t know. It would be foolish to hope for much, wouldn’t it? To hope for some sign of Duncan?” he sighs and picks at a loose thread in his shirt cuff.
 
Hera reaches out and takes his hand, weaving their fingers together. “I know what foolish hope is like. Sometimes you just have to indulge in it a while.”
 
His face starts to crumple, but he holds himself together. “Do you think we’ll find anything? A way home for you, maybe?”
 
She pauses, shocked that the thought hadn’t occurred to her earlier. “I hadn’t thought of it,” she admits. “But I suppose it’s possible.”
 
“Would you leave?”
 
She watches the fire, thinking. “I’m needed at home,” she says softly. “Zeus needs me.”
 
“We need you,” he says quickly. “

I

need you, Hera.”
 
Slowly she raises her gaze to meet his own. “I made a promise to fight the Blight,” she tells him, her voice low but steady. “I’m not leaving until this is finished.”
 
The words sound strange, leaving a faint ring in her ears and a heaviness in her heart. Knowing the power of words from her brother, Hera is certain there’s more truth to the sentence than she intended, and a shiver of fear runs through her at the thought.
 
“Are you cold? Here, take my cloak,” Alistair says, settling warm wool across her shoulders.

I’m not leaving,

she thinks, clutching the fabric closer as the horror dawns on her. Just the thought makes her feel like a great bell has been struck in her soul, sending waves of vibrations through her until she can’t stay still.

I’m never going to see my brother again.

***
 
Almost a week later they’re joined by Sten, Morrigan, Leliana, and Wynne, with Ares bounding happily alongside. Hera clutched at the mabari’s neck when he arrived, wishing she’d brought  him at the start and promising not to leave without him again. 
 
“You were a good boy for them, weren’t you?” she cooed, rubbing his ears and laughing as his tongue lolled out of his mouth. “I bet you were, my big beautiful boy.”
 
“He has fleas,” Leliana warns, wrinkling her nose. 
 
Hera gasps playfully and looks at the dog in shock. “Do you have fleas? Well, we’ll just have to take care of that, won’t we?”
 
“I think you’d miss your dog more than you’d miss me,” Alistair laughs, taking Wynne’s pack and removing her tent kit. “We aren’t leaving for another two days; our boatman has business to finish before leaving.”
 
“Good,” Wynne sighs, easing herself onto a log near the fire. “I could use a day or two of rest.”
 
“Was it a difficult journey?” Hera asks, concerned. “Wynne, I can rub some peppermint oil into your feet, that would help.”
 
“I would not turn you down,” Wynne chuckles. “Today I actually

feel

like an old woman; I’ll take what comforts I can get.”
 
“What have you been doing all this time?” Sten asks, frowning and looking around at the camp.
 
“Hunting, drying what herbs we could find, drying meat,” Alistair tells him, grunting as he works on Wynne’s tent. “Zevran is in the village gathering the last of the supplies.”
 
“Why don’t we stay in town?” Leliana asks, sitting next to Hera and warming her hands over the fire. “Surely there’s an inn or something.”

“We aren’t sure how loyal the area is to Loghain,” Hera explains. “We haven’t even gone into town ourselves.”
 
“Well you are certainly far enough from the main road,” Morrigan sniffs, dusting her hands as she returns from setting up her own solitary camp. “Bodhan won’t know how to find us.”
 
“We’re meeting him in Orzammar later,” Leliana reminds her as Ares comes closer. “Ugh, disgusting, get off me,” she groans, pushing Ares’ head out of her lap.
 
“We’ll get the fleas taken care of,” Hera says cheerfully, grasping him by the scruff and giving him a gentle shake.  “Stay off of Leliana until later, boy.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Zeus watches the night sky slowly give way to morning and sighed restlessly. He’d have to get up and close the drapes soon- nothing annoys him quite like early morning sunlight. Hera’s rooms would be full of the dreadful stuff; she knew what that soft, golden light would do. Her hair would look like a piece of the night left behind on the pillow and her skin would glow, making her look like a heavenly angel.
 
Having been to Heaven- at least one of them- he thought she could teach the angels a thing or two.
 
Thinking of her makes his heart ache, and he reaches up to rub his chest. Over the years, so many had accused their connection of being incestuous- irrelevant, as Zeus had no interest in sex with

anyone

- but they didn’t understand what it was to share a womb. The first thing Zeus had heard had been the cries of his sister, following him into a world where they were no longer one. Being apart from her...it feels as if he was missing a lung or an eye. Breathing was more difficult, the world was tinged with grey.
 
With a scowl, Zeus throws back the blanket and stomps over to draw the curtains, using more force than necessary to shut out the horrible day.

Perhaps they are right,

he thinks, standing alone in the dark.

Perhaps I have loved her too well.

But no one else had ever been so

deserving

of love, he’d never seen anyone ask so little for themselves. Material things, adoration, yes- those things she had demanded with all the force of her beauty. But she’d never been so bold as to ask for

love

.

“Who needs love when I have you?”

she would say, laughing and running a hand through his hair.

“You are half of myself. That is enough.”

“It’s not fair,” he whispers, turning back toward his bed. “

Someone

had to love her. Why shouldn’t it be me?”

And what of you?

A small voice asked.

Who will love you now that she is gone?

Who

are

you without her?

His mother and sister had been the strong ones, forging their spines from steel while he lazed about being charming. His only true desire had ever been for money and luxury- and sharing it with those precious few who mattered to him.
 
“Bugger it all,” he grumbles, and reaches for the ever-present pitcher of wine on his table and fills a cup. “I can’t be

her

, the brilliant Queen of Darkness and Savior of Ravenloft.” He takes a long, slow drink. “But I

can

be the brat king with a damn fine council.”

And I can wait until she comes back, bright as the dawn.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair scratches at his beard fiercely. “Damn dog,” he mutters. 
 
“I told you to let me put some oil on it,” Hera reminds him. “I got most of them off Ares before we even came south.”
 
“I didn't think I’d

actually

get fleas!”
 
“And why not?” Wynne asks. “We’ve been on the road since fall- and

you

since early spring. It was bound to happen.”
 
“Nobody else has them,” he grumbles.
 
“Sten does,” Leliana cheerfully offers. “He just picks them off and washes his socks.”
 
“I do not have fleas,” Sten says in his usual flat tone. “The Baresaad are not susceptible to small vermin.”
 
“Oh lucky you,” Alistair pouts, watching Hera gleefully sharpen the razor.
 
“I’m going to bed, dear,” Wynne says, patting Leliana on the shoulder. “Call me should she slit his throat.”
 
“I won’t cut him,” Hera argues as Wynne bundles herself into her tent.
 
With a yawn, Leliana stands and stretches. “I think I’ll go on as well. Wake me for my watch,” she adds, following the mage. She and Wynne had decided to share a tent for the time being- it was warmer and easier than setting up individual ones as snow started to fall. Hera hadn’t slept alone since Elric’s pyre, so she could understand the desire for less work.
 
Turning back to her work, Hera thinks about the last two weeks. The weather turned bitter the farther south they traveled, which meant two things: the fighting was slowing down- leaving them time to make the long journey to Ostagar before returning to their quest for allies- and Alistair had grown a beard alarmingly fast. He’d done his best to keep it trimmed, but when he finally admitted that Ares had given him fleas, Hera decided it had to come off.
 
“What if I let you oil it?” he asks hopefully. 
 
“No,” Hera says quickly. “The beard goes.”
 
“But it’s so fluffy and-”
 
“No. It’s scratchy.” 
 
She sits in front of him, deftly cutting away tufts of hair before lathering his face with warm water and lavender soap. Hera’s hands are steady and confident as she glides it up his throat, her focus totally on her task.
 
“Did-”
 
“Alistair!” Hera scolds, holding the razor away from his soap covered face. “You can’t talk while I’m literally holding a blade to your throat!”
 
“I just noticed,” he says, ignoring her. “Your eyes have changed.”
 
“What?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
 
“Your eyes have changed,” he repeats. “When you first got here, they were lighter, more violet.”
 
“What are they now?”
 
“Darker...bluer, maybe? Still purple, but different. You haven’t noticed?”
 
“We don’t exactly get a lot of time to gaze at ourselves in mirrors,” she reminds him.
 
“Right, but I thought you’d have noticed,” he says with a shrug. “I like it.”
 
“Well thank you,” she giggles. “I grew them myself.”
 
“I wonder if it’s the taint,” he muses, tilting his head back for her.
 
“I don’t know, but stop talking,” she orders, sliding the razor over his jaw.

Is it the taint? Or is it a progression of my curse? Is it the Dark Powers warning me that my time is coming? Is Zeus experiencing any changes? Gods watch over and protect him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The group pauses as they top the hill, staring out at the Blighted landscape before them. What had once looked like an idyllic painting of a country road cutting through lush forest has turned into a gray and barren bundle of sticks. The thick green grass she remembered had turned brittle; the brilliant blue sky smudged with dirty clouds. Hera’s stomach cramped at how the Blight had leached the world of color. Even in the distance, they can see the thick black clouds that hang low over the dead trees, silent violet lightning flashing eerily.

This is what will happen to all of Thedas if we don’t stop this.

“Stop,” Alistair whispers, holding a hand up. “Hera, look.”
 
She moves from the back of the line to his side to see what he’s pointing at. From their vantage point, she knows he can’t see the detail she can, but he can see the darkspawn force moving through the destruction like a swift river.
 
“There’s at least fifty,” she says softly. “We could wait them out- they’re heading west. But there are more coming,” she adds, looking farther ahead.
 
He mutters a curse and turns to their friends with a harsh look. “Ostagar will be overrun,” he tells them. “We don’t know what we’ll find there- if we find anything. This isn’t part of our mission,” he adds sorrowfully. “But I have to try. I have to see.”
 
Hera nods. “I’m not going to ask that any of you come- I understand if you don’t. You can meet us in Redcliffe, and give news to Arl Eamon if we don’t come back.”
 
Wynne frowns, leaning on her staff. “Excuse me, but do you really think any of us would stay behind? I have a score to settle as well, if you’ll remember.”
 
Hera gives the woman a grateful smile. “How could I forget?”
 
“I have no intention of seeing this horde again if it can be helped,” Morrigan huffs, crossing her arms. “But neither can I allow you to rashly seek your own death.”
 
“Well I’m not staying behind,” Zevran pipes up, “a hero always needs a good-looking sidekick, no?”
 
“You’ll need an archer,” Leliana says simply, swinging her quiver around and counting her arrows.
 
Alistair sputters out thanks, unable to express his gratitude at having so many allies at his side. Seeing Sten staring out at the blight storm, Hera approaches quietly. “This is where the darkspawn took to the surface,” he says thoughtfully.
 
“It is. A little farther south, we believe.”
 
“Will the archdemon be here?”
 
“I don’t know, Sten,” she says honestly. “I don’t know what will be there.”
 
She waits patiently while he studies the roiling storm on the horizon, the muscles in his jaw working. “I will not waste an opportunity,” he says finally. “If we do find the archdemon there, we shall slay him and end this.”
 
“Good man,” she says, patting his arm gently.  “Ares, are you with me?”
 
The mabari barks joyously, jumping around her.
 
“That decides it,” she adds, turning back to the group. “Morrigan, can you fly ahead and scout the best way to approach? We’ll make camp here.”
 
The witch nods, handing her pack to Leliana and walking away from the group. “Hera, walk with me before I go,” she says, nodding her head toward the road.
 
Hera joins her and they walk on, waiting until they’re well out of earshot before Morrigan speaks again. “This is a foolish endeavor,” Morrigan says, her tone reminding Hera of Flemeth. “The Korcari Wilds are dangerous enough for those who are not wise to their ways, and this storm...I do not like it. It blocks out the sun.”
 
“Darkspawn don’t like light,” Hera reminds her. “Perhaps it hurts their eyes.”
 
“I will find your path, but we must only spend a day- and no more, mind you- on this,” Morrigan warns. “Any longer and we will surely die.”
 
“I understand, Morrigan,” Hera says, grasping her arm. “Thank you. Be careful,” she adds, wrapping her arms around the witch.
 
Morrigan stiffens, clearly taken by surprise, before softening a little and patting Hera’s back awkwardly. “Well, yes. You can stop that. Alistair is a terrible influence on you, Hera.”
 
Hera laughs and pulls away. “Be careful,” she repeats.
 
“Careful is not how we’ve gotten this far,” Morrigan reminds her, and a light flashes as she takes wing.
 
“I

hate

that you’re friends,” Alistair groans behind her.
 
Laughing, Hera lets him lead her back to their hasty camp off the road. “I’m afraid there’s no fire tonight,” Wynne says as they approach. “Sten is worried it will attract too much attention.”
 
“We’ll manage,” Hera sighs, wishing Sten wasn’t absolutely right. This far south the snow is already falling in thick blankets, softening the blighted land but otherwise causing more trouble than not. “Morrigan thinks we can’t spare more than a day in Ostagar,” she tells them. “I agree, it’s not far from here, but we can’t hold our own against that many darkspawn.”
 
Sten nods. “The witch is right. Unless the archdemon is there, it is useless to throw ourselves at the horde.”
 
“Double the watch,” Hera decides. “Two each for two hours- we’ll lose a little sleep but I don’t want to stay in one place too long. When Morrigan gets back she’ll need rest. We’ll wake early and start moving.”
 
Hera and Alistair take the second watch, breaking up their precious sleep with the anxiety of watching for an attack. They sit back to back, huddled in their cloaks, passing a wineskin back and forth.
 
“You know they could all get sick,” he says, his voice softer than the rustle of leaves.
 
“Can they catch the taint from the land itself?” she asks with a small gasp.
 
He nods and she feels the movement in his shoulders. “Some do. But if they get darkspawn blood in their mouths...they say Queen Rowan caught the blight-sickness in the Deep Roads, and that’s what caused her to waste away.”
 
“Do you think there’s any way we can convince them to stay here?”
 
He coughs, nearly choking on the wine. “Not likely. Wynne has a vendetta to settle, and the others wouldn’t dream of being left behind.”
 
Hera sighs, wishing he were wrong. “I’m sure it will be fine, Hero.”
 
“You have such hope,” he sighs, “and all I feel is hopeless.”
 
She snorts, taking the wineskin from him. “Then I’m giving a performance worthy of my brother. Alistair, my doorway is somewhere down there,” she says, sorrow making her words catch in her throat. “Look at it. I’m never going to find it, not like this. We can’t stay long enough to look. If we don’t find a way to end the Blight soon, I’ll never go home.”
 
“I’m sorry, Hera.”
 
“Me too.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Morrigan had found them an ancient path through the Wilds that wound its way around Ostagar. They travel in groups of two, each pair keeping the one before it just within sight to avoid being too loud or too large a group and catching the notice of the darkspawn. Hera walks with Morrigan, keeping her senses open and ready to sense anything of the mirror she had passed through so many months ago.  Do you really think you’ll find it now? She asks herself, scowling as she pauses to watch Morrigan lift her head and sniff at the air.  Look at this place, everything here is tainted. You heard it from your own mouth- you aren’t leaving. Besides, it isn’t safe to linger here searching for false hope.   No. She shakes her head against the morbid thoughts, anger with herself flaring. I have to have hope. I have to see Zeus before I die.  “We are there,” Morrigan whispers, pointing to the familiar wooden gates at the edge of the forest. Once they had stood tall and strong against the dangers of the Korcari Wilds, but now they hang off their hinges, broken and splintered. “Gather the others.” Hera signals to Sten and Leliana, who in turn signal to Wynne and Zevran, and finally Alistair. While waiting for them to creep closer, she looks up at a tree, wondering if the dying thing would hold her weight long enough for a good look. “I could lift you up,” Morrigan offers softly. “You would be unable to move.” “Perhaps you could just catch me if I fall?” Morrigan chuckles, eyes sparkling, and turns away silently, her expression making Hera decide against climbing the tree. Instead, she scouts ahead, moving silently through the snow and using a spell to mask her presence. She can feel the darkspawn crawling all over the fortress, feel their taint infecting everything that once lived there. Usually, the darkspawn presence is like an itch between her shoulderblades, but with so many, it throbs in her head like a pulse.  I wish Alistair and I were the only ones here, she thinks. I could cover us with a spell and slip in and out without notice. Perhaps we should make camp; then he and I can come back later tonight.  She ends her spell as soon as she hears the last of her friends gather outside the gates and creeps back to where they’re hiding. “They’re everywhere,” she whispers, her gaze landing on Alistair. His expression is pure despair; the fortress he’d once put so much faith in, the men he’d respected and cared for so deeply, the hope that she’d felt permeating this place were all gone. All that was left in Ostagar was death and darkspawn. “Hero, are you all right?” she asks, putting a comforting hand on his arm. He shakes his head as a roar of fury echoes off the snow. “They’ve sensed us,” he says, drawing his sword.
***
The day is nearly gone by the time they return to where King Cailan’s body hangs crucified on the long bridge crossing the main body of Ostagar. It’s a gruesome sight that makes Alistair’s stomach revolt. His king- his brother - hangs there, bits of his hacked away by darkspawn blades. Flesh hangs off him in tatters and the stench of his rot makes him clench his teeth; somewhere behind him, he hears one of the women get violently sick.  This is too much, he thinks, staring up at Cailan. It had been a stroke of luck that they had found the chest of documents Elric had told them about, undamaged and safely buried, but this was more than Alistair thought he could bear. This is what the darkspawn do. They destroy everything they touch with despair and hate until there’s no hope left.  “Alistair, are you all right?” Wynne asks, breaking into his thoughts as he stares up at the king. He groans, sick at the sight. “They left him here to rot. It isn’t enough that they covered everything he had in their taint. We need to do something.” “He deserves a pyre,” Hera says softly, coming to stand beside him.  Alistair nods. “He was a good man,” he says in a ragged voice. “Who hoped too much, and died too young. He deserves what little honor we can afford to grant him.” “We cannot stay,” Morrigan reminds them. “We may have cleared the area for now, but more will come, and quickly.” “You all go back to camp,” Hera suggests. “Alistair and I will see to the king and meet you there.”  “Hera, ‘tis madness!” Morrigan argues.  She shakes her head, looking over at her fellow Grey Warden. “Go, Morrigan. We’ll meet you there,” she repeats. Alistair hasn’t heard Hera use a commanding voice often, but it’s clear that this is not a suggestion. “You really aren’t suggesting we-” Sten interrupts her, putting a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder. “It is a matter of honor for them,” he says in his typical stern voice. “We will do as Hera says and wait until nightfall.” Hera nods and thanks him, entrusting Cailan’s armor and Duncan’s weapons to him for the time being. She had hoped that, of all of them, Sten would understand the most.  “Hera, you should make sure he’s all right,” Leliana suggests, coming up beside her and nodding toward Alistair staring up at the body of his brother. “Cailan was his brother, he needs this.”  This is so much worse. Hera’s mouth is a thin line. “His brothers in arms all died here, too. Cailan is just the one we’ve found.” Zevran volunteers to stay, but Hera argues and orders him to go with the others, feeling only slightly guilty about throwing her weight around. Most of the darkspawn have run off or been killed by this point, so Hera feels safe enough watching the others head for the gates. Alone, she approaches Alistair quietly, wrapping her arms around him and laying her cheek against his blood-smeared armor. Splattered in blood herself, another smear on her cheek won't make a difference. Covered in blood and pinned to the wooden X with thick, wicked darkspawn arrows, Cailan’s frozen body doesn’t look as if it’s been touched by carrion. She can see the wounds that killed him, crusted with black decay, and the strips of flesh hanging off him, presumably damage left by tainted whips and blades. Did the darkspawn torture him after he died? She wonders as the wind picks up and sweeps snow around their feet. It looks as if they flayed a corpse.   Vividly she remembers her meetings with Cailan- first in the war council, and then again in his personal tent. He’d called her the pretty new recruit and smiled charmingly, but his charm had worn away to worry when she’d entered his tent and he greeted her as Queen of Ravenloft. He’d been so hopeful, so sure of himself and the men around him, even when she had little to offer in the way of assistance.  His hope didn’t keep him alive, she thinks bitterly, closing her eyes on the sight. “Do we have enough time?” Alistair asks in a cracked voice.  “I think so,” she whispers, lifting her head from his shoulder. “The others are waiting at the camp, but we should hurry. We can’t stay there.” He nods, and they set themselves to removing the king’s body from its crucifix and carrying it toward Duncan’s camp. There’s no time for a proper pyre, so they busy themselves with removing the darkspawn trash from the remains of Duncan’s watchfire and piling what wood they can find to help the blaze. “It’ll take too long,” Alistair says as they lay Cailan atop it. Hera had used a little magic to clean the blood from him and repair what damage she could, leaving his sunshine hair shining and his pale skin unmarred. “It took all night for Elric.” “I can help with that,” she says softly. “It will be fast and sure, but there are risks,” she advises. “Anything living will be able to see it for miles, so we have to run as soon as the first flare goes up.” She can see Alistair’s internal debate on his face- to allow magic to send Cailan to the Maker, or risk everyone’s lives to see him burn naturally? After a moment he nods and steps back from the makeshift pyre. “Do it, and let’s be done.” “Do you have anything you want to say?” “No.” Nodding, she closes her eyes, curling the fingers of one hand into a claw and calling on her power. The rush of magic in her blood makes her heart skitter and breath catch as if she’s being touched by a new lover, and a small smile finds it way to her lips as she calls out the words of magic. Heat rushes over her skin as a bright white flame dances over her arms and down to her hands. Her hair flutters from the heat, coming out of her braid and streaming around her as the flames grow more powerful and become tinged with violet.  Maker’s breath...she’s beautiful, he thinks, unable to take his eyes off her. Is this what Andraste was like?  Alistair gasps as the brilliant flames shoot from her hands to the pyre, lighting up the darkening sky like a new dawn. Cailan’s body is engulfed instantly, and Hera staggers back as the fire flares with a blinding light. “Are you all right?” he asks, catching her before she falls. How much power did that take? He wonders frantically, looking down at her as she struggles not to faint. How has being in our world affected her?  Her normally pale skin looks nearly gray and she nods. “We have to go,” she whispers. Alistair shivers, suddenly feeling as if the archdemon itself is looking right at him as hundreds of darkspawn below the earth suddenly sense the Grey Wardens. “Can you walk?” She nods again, stronger on her feet as she looks around. “Now, Alistair. Run.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They don’t stop running for three days.
 
Hera and Alistair can’t sleep for the darkspawn dreams haunting them, constantly feeling their black fangs nipping at their heels as the group flees across the Hinterlands. The two Wardens pace in agitation and fear while the others drop into exhausted sleep whenever they’re allowed to stop.
 
Halfway to Redcliffe Alistair finally calls a stop, claiming that the presence of the darkspawn is suddenly gone. He and Hera have kept to the back of the group, keeping an eye out for any darkspawn that managed to catch up with them, and allowing her to cast spells freely and hide their party whenever they stopped for a short rest. No spell, however, can mask the horror they all feel as the tainted horde makes its steady progress toward them, and any time Alistair or Hera try to rest they are terrorized by the archdemon’s eyes watching them.
 
The sudden silence is just as terrifying.
 
Exhausted and half-starved, they all collapse where they stand, unable to even pitch their tents in the snow. Looking over her friends with pity, Hera draws on the last of her waning strength and manages to set up a tent for Wynne, Leliana, and Morrigan to share- for the once, the solitary witch has no argument about sharing accommodations as the women shuffle through the tent flap.
 
“What about you?” Zevran asks, watching Sten stoically work to put up a tent even as his fingers fumble.
 
Gently, Hera takes the cord from the giant, ignoring the trembling of her fingers as she knots it around a stake and hammers it into the frozen ground. “I’ll find a place,” she says slowly as the four of them work on the single tent. “Ares and I will manage.”
 
“Hera, you should rest,” Sten argues.
 
She nods, waving a hand carelessly, and sits on her pack. “I will. As soon as we have a fire going.” Ares whines and bumps her shoulder with his head, seemingly as concerned as everyone else. With a tired laugh, she wraps her arms around him and nuzzles his warm neck. “I promise,” she concedes. “I’ll find my way into one of these tents as soon as I wake you all for dinner.”
 
“With luck, it will be ours, my friend,” Zevran says to Sten, managing to sound cheerful even now. “Come, Sten, let us sleep while our Grey Wardens deem it safe.”
 
With a small groan, Alistair squats in front of her, his forehead creased with worry. “Hera, you have to rest,” he whispers, brushing hair off her cheek. “You’ve been fighting harder than any of us, what with your-”
 
She shakes her head quickly, not wanting the word

magic

to cross his lips. “I’ll be fine,” she swears, reaching into his pack and drawing out the firewood they each keep. “Can you sense anything nearby?” she asks, unwrapping the oilcloth from the bundle.
 
He shakes his head, helping her arrange the dry wood while Ares snores in the snow. With a fire crackling brightly and a thin soup of dried vegetables and salt pork bubbling, the two Wardens spread out the oiled canvas of their tent on the snow, not bothering to actually put it up. Sitting close together, Hera finally lets her eyes close while Alistair watches the soup.
 
“You scared me back there,” he whispers to her sleeping form. “I’ve...I’ve never seen anything like that.”
 
She sits up quickly, startled out of sleep. “Hm? What? Are they back?” she mumbles, reaching for her dagger. “Ares, to me!” The mabari raises his massive head, scenting the air before laying it back down with a canine groan.
 
“No,” Alistair soothes, touching her cheek gently so that she focuses bleary eyes on him. “We’re safe here.”
 
Her lower lip quivers and she looks away. “Safe,” she repeats, her tone brittle. “For now.”
 
“You’ll always be safe with me,” he assures her, kissing her forehead. “We’ll be in Redcliffe soon, and we can stop running.”
 
Her sigh is so heavy his own heart sags with the weight of it. “I don’t know if there’s ever going to be a time to stop running, Hero,” she says sadly. “In a hundred years, all I’ve done is run.”
 
“After this poor dinner, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t stop,” he quips, lifting the spoon to let a thin dribble of peas, onion, and salt pork splatter back into the pot.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In spite of the chase being over, they barely slow their progress as winter deepens. Snow falls thicker and ice cakes the roads, making travel perilous. To make matters worse, Leliana and Wynne develop wracking coughs deep in their chests, and none of Morrigan’s herbal knowledge can help ease their discomfort. Even Wynne’s magic is affected- she feels so terrible that she can barely focus to cast a spell, or have the breath to do so.
 
“We have to stay in Redcliffe for the winter,” Hera decides late one night, listening to the two women cough in their tent. “We didn’t have enough time to resupply properly in Soldier’s Peak, and we can’t risk their getting worse- or all of them getting sick.”
 
“Well, if you believe Sten, he’d never fall prey to sickness,” Alistair mutters as he pokes at the fire. Dry fuel has been scarce, making them dig for wood through the snow- a heavenly joy for Ares, but misery for the rest- and still end up with small, smokey fires. “He says the qunari have superior blood and that illness is eradicated in his homeland.”
 
She brushes his hair off his forehead, checking for fever beneath the loving gesture, and tries to offer a smile. “Sten will outlive us all, I’m sure,” she agrees. “How are you feeling?”
 
“I’m-” He cuts himself off, scowling. “I’m fine.”
 
“Alistair.”
 
“It’s just…” He sighs. “Why didn’t we find more? We didn’t even have time to find the Grey Warden camp! There could have been something important there.”
 
“Oh, love,” she soothes, rubbing his back. “You can’t blame yourself; we had no chance of picking Ostagar over. We went in knowing we wouldn’t have time, remember?”
 
“It doesn’t change how I feel about it.”
 
“I know. But we found Duncan’s sword and dagger.” She’d made certain that he’d taken his mentor’s sword, but he’d argued that she should carry his dagger. Out of respect for Duncan, she’d agreed. “And the king’s sword and armor. That’s something, isn’t it?”
 
He gives her half a smile and shrugs. “It is. I’m glad you have Duncan’s dagger to protect you- is it crazy that I sleep a little better at night because of it?”
 
Hera smiles and hugs his arm. “Not at all. Go get some sleep, I’ll keep watch.”
 
“You know, I’d sleep

a lot

better if you would use Cailan’s sword, too,” he adds. “Dragonbone is far superior to anything we’ll get around here.”
 
“If it will make you feel better,” she agrees, thinking of the runes carved into the blade.

I hadn’t intended to carry it- it feels wrong to take his brother’s sword. And yet...there’s something about it. What had Zevran said?

She wonders, watching Alistair go into their tent.
 
“That’s one sexy sword,” she whispers, picturing herself wielding it with a dhampir’s strength, speed, and grace. All who watched would love her and despair.

I would be glorious.

***

Ragged and half-starved, they stumble into Redcliffe so late that even the tavern is dark, and they have to take shelter in the chantry. Truly safe for the first time in weeks, no one keeps watch as they drag braziers closer and rearrange pews into a defensible square. Zevran tries to tell Sten that it isn’t necessary- they are in the chantry of all places- but the qunari only grunts before gathering cushions from all corners of the chantry and carefully placing them among his newly arranged pews.
 
“I would have some small comfort,” he tells Zevran.
 
“I am not arguing over

comfort,

my friend,” the assassin says quickly. “Only the need to rearrange the entire chantry.”
 
“Does a house not provide comfort? Do walls and a roof not lend security?” Sten demands, fussing with the pillows and cushions. “I do not like the vastness of this room. I would have a smaller one. Argue if you will, elf, but I will have this. You may assist, or sleep elsewhere.”
 
“Oh, believe me, Sten, I will assist,” Zevran chuckles. “You have all the cushions.”
 
Laughing softly, Hera helps Wynne and Leliana settle in while Alistair and Zevran make their beds in the space on the floor. Even Morrigan is too tired to argue about sleeping inside the chantry as she curls up on a pew, grateful for a warm place to rest her head.
 
Gratefully, Hera curls up in the soft pallet in the center, smiling at Ares snoring beneath Sten’s pew.
 
“We made it,” Alistair whispers, sitting with her head in his lap. “I almost didn’t think we would.”
 
“Honestly, me too,” she admits, closing her eyes as he brushes her hair with his fingers. “Leliana and Wynne are so sick, and I don’t think Morrigan is feeling well, either. I think we should let them rest tomorrow and go to the castle ourselves.”
 
Alistair looks around the dim chapel at their companions, thinking of all they’d suffered since leaving Soldier’s Peak. He and Hera had promised them time to rest and relax over the winter, but learning about Ostagar had changed everything. The guilt he felt ate at him with every cough and sneeze he heard.
 
“We could go now,” he suggests. “Have someone send a cart for them so they could sleep in a real bed.”
 
She looks around, listening to the soft sounds of sleep and the crackle of braziers. “I think we should stay,” she decides. “I don’t want to leave them, even if it means a bed for myself. Besides, this little pillow fortress of Sten’s is pretty comfortable.”
 
***
 
Dawn comes too soon, and the soft voices of the sisters wake them. The women are surprised to find a ragged party of adventurers have built a fort of cushions and pews in their chapel overnight. Before they can even gather their things, however, the doors are thrown open and Arl Eamon strides in with a big smile, his brother Teagan and a host of others trailing behind him.
 
“Alistair, my boy!” Eamon cries excitedly. “We were hoping to hear from you soon.”
 
Alistair greets his uncle while Teagan gravitates to Hera. “My lady,” he says softly, kissing her hand. “I was thrilled to hear of your safe arrival; I was beginning to fear for your safety in the silence.”
 
Hera gives him a tired smile, uneasy at being caught half-asleep and filthy by the court of Redcliffe. “The messaging service in Ferelden is rather unreliable, as a member of the nobility, you should see to improvements,” she teases.
 
Teagan gives her a warm smile, his eyes sparkling. “I’ll do just that, my lady,” he promises, “just as soon as Ferelden is at peace again.”
 
Unsure of how to respond to the warmth coming from him, Hera turns her shoulder and pushes her tangled hair back. “See that you do,” she laughs before lowering her voice. “Teagan, I hate to be a burden, but Leliana and Wynne are both ill- and I suspect Morrigan isn’t far behind. Is there any way you can have them driven to the castle and seen by a healer?”
 
“Is Wynne unable to tend them?” he asks in concern, glancing over at the coughing, miserable mage. “I thought she was a healer.”
 
“She is, but she’s so ill that she can hardly focus to cast anything,” Hera explains softly. “Please, Teagan.”
 
“Of course,” he amends, returning his smile to her. “I’ll see to it immediately. Is there anything else you require?”
 
“Could you have a bath waiting for me at the castle?” she asks wistfully. “It’s been a rough few weeks.”
 
“Just leave it to Teagan,” Eamon is saying, clapping his brother on the back as they approach. “He will see to all your desires. Warden Hera, would you accompany Alistair and I to the castle? Teagan will make arrangements for your friends.”
 
“Of course,” she answers, bowing her head politely. “We were just discussing the necessities.”
 
“Yes,” Teagan agrees quickly, taking up her hand for another formal kiss across the knuckles. “I will see to your personal request, as well, my lady.”
 
“Thank you,” she says with a grateful smile as he steps away to begin speaking with some of the servants they’d brought.
 
Alistair gives her a strange look before turning back to Eamon. “You said there were horses outside, Arl Eamon?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In spite of their lack of sleep, it proves to be a long day for the two Wardens. Eamon pulls them into his study, demanding they give a full account of everything they’ve seen and done since they were last there. Hera and Alistair consume vast amounts of tea, bread, cheese, and slices of cold ham while they talk, detailing their encounter with the Dalish and at Ostagar. When they finish, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing.
 
“This is rather unfortunate,” he says finally. “We’ve heard of Loghain building an army in Denerim. Wardens, we need the final treaty signed and in hand by spring, and no later.”
 
“I don’t think it will be a problem, Eamon,” Alistair assures him. “The dwarves can be difficult, but they deal with the darkspawn all the time. They’ll know exactly what the surface is going through during a Blight. I’m confident they’ll hold up their end of the treaty.”
 
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Eamon sighs. “The Landsmeet can’t meet until after the snow thaws- the roads aren’t clear enough for an entire court to travel across Ferelden- so that gives us time to get our affairs in order.”
 
“And for us to secure the dwarves as allies,” Hera says, nodding. “We’ll manage, my lord. Have faith.”
 
“I do, I do,” he says absently. “I just wish there were

more

of you Wardens.”
 
Before either can answer, Teagan enters the study. “Brother, Isolde tells me you’re to rest in the afternoon, and if we expect either of our guests to be at dinner this evening, we should let them rest as well.”
 
“Yes, yes, of course,” Eamon says testily. “See them to their rooms if you please. I’ll do as my wife says or pay the costs,” he adds, trying to look amused at his wife’s demands. “Rest well.”
 
They both nod and climb wearily to their feet.

I wonder how cold that bath has gotten,

Hera wonders as she and Alistair follow Teagan upstairs. “How are Wynne and Leliana?” she asks instead.
 
“Seen by our healer and resting comfortably,” he promises. “I’m told they’ll both be feeling better this evening.”
 
“Good,” Alistair breathes as they top the stairs. “I don’t know what we’d do without them.”
 
“My lady, your room is here, and ready,” Teagan says, gesturing to the room she’s used before. “There will be a bath arriving in minutes. Alistair, you’re across the hall.”
 
“No need,” Alistair says cheerfully, grabbing his pack from his assigned room and following Hera into her own. “We’re sharing a room these days.”
 
Teagan starts, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, and Hera feels a little pity for him as he struggles to keep his expression neutral. “Are you?” he says, clearing his throat. “I see. I’ll...inform the staff there will be two baths-”
 
“Two baths aren’t necessary, uncle,” Alistair interrupts with a grin. “A waste of hot water.” 
 
Hera gives him an apologetic smile, hoping Teagan doesn’t take it too hard.

Poor man,

she thinks,

did he enjoy our flirtation so much? In a different situation, I would gladly have invited him to my bed.

“Of...of course,” Teagan manages, looking distraught. “Rest well, Wardens.”
 
Following him into their room, Hera stretches and falls into a chair by the fire. “You Fereldens,” she laughs. 
 
“What?” he asks with wide-eyed innocence and trying not to grin.
 
“You and Ares are more alike than you think,” she tells him, tugging off her boots. “Marking territory and growling at anyone who comes sniffing.”
 
“Well, he had to learn somehow.”
 
Hera stands and wraps her arms around his waist, looking up at him. “There’s a trick to it, Hero,” she explains. “I would have let him know about us, but gently.”
 
He loses the battle against his grin. “Oh? How?”
 
“I would have sent you to dinner smelling of my perfume, shown you special attention, and let him step back quietly. Now his feelings are hurt and will need to be soothed.”
 
He laughs as the door opens and servants enter with a big wooden tub and bucket after bucket of hot water. “You and your fancy manners,” he laughs, going to dig in his pack for clean clothes. “Are you sure you aren’t Orlesian?”
 
“All politics are played in the bedroom,” she warns him. “If you’re to be king, it’s time you understand that now. Marriages, affairs, secret bastards- they all play into the larger picture.”
 
All the amusement leaves his face and he takes her hand, looking worried. “We aren’t...this isn’t...politics...is it?” he asks softly. “You aren’t-”
 
“No,” she whispers, lifting his hand to her lips. “No, this has nothing to do with politics, Hero. We’ve talked about this before, remember?” 
 
Alistair rubs the back of his neck and looks around the room, avoiding her. “I know. I remember what you said, but…” He trails off, giving her a helpless look.
 
“But it will grow more complicated when you are king,” Hera finishes for him. “And it

will

be political then.”
 
“I’m not losing you.”
 
Hera suppresses a shiver as the words trickle down her back like ice. “I don’t want to lose you either.”

I just hope that’s an option.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I think you’ve broken Teagan’s heart,” Alistair muses, watching her prepare for bed. It was one of his favorite things to do, and she always made a show of it. She had this nightgown made of lace and silk so light and thin he could see the shadow of her body through it, that only made its appearance when they slept somewhere certain to be free of fleas or lice. The way it hugged her breasts before falling in loose folds made him more grateful for clean sheets than he’d thought possible.
 
“Have I?” she asks, brushing out her long black waves. He knew that it was a small pleasure to let her hair hang loose. He couldn’t blame her, she kept it braided and pinned out of the way most of the time; it must feel good to let it fall to her hips. “How?

You’re

the one who marked your territory this afternoon.”
 
“All that attention you gave me tonight at dinner,” he chuckles, leaning against the windowsill. “He can’t pretend not to know now.”
 
She shrugs, her focus on a snarl in her hair. “His attentions would have moved on before long. They always do.”
 
“I don’t know about that, he seemed quite...taken with you after the battle in the village.”
 
“Did he? I didn't notice,” she lies with a smug smile.
 
Alistair laughs outright, crossing his arms. “You didn't? You flirted with him enough. He’s hardly been able to see anyone else since they showed up at the chantry this morning.”
 
“That’s impressive,” she muses. “I must be more lovely than I thought. We smelled terrible, and I’m sure we all looked worse.”
 
“You know what I mean,” he teases. “Every time you’re around him you use all your feminine wiles and he gives you anything you want.”
 
“I’m just trying to feel my way,” she defends innocently. “We needed him when we first got here, and I don’t see how that changes now. He’s a fine ally,

and

he gives me anything I want. We’ll be going into battle; we need good equipment.”
 
“Oh sure,” he grins. “And what about after Connor was saved? At dinner that night? Was there a battle to prepare for then? And the second time, when we came back from the Temple of Andraste?”
 
“Were you jealous?” Hera asks slyly, glancing over at him. “Seeing me flirt with him?”
 
Alistair thinks back. “Well, that was...what? Four months ago? Six? Maker’s breath, it takes a long time to get around!”
 
“We

do

walk everywhere,” she reminds him. “Don't change the subject.”
 
Alistair flashes her a grin before trying to look stern. “Yes. I was jealous.”
 
“You were?” she gasps, feigning innocence.
 
“I’d never wanted to rip a man’s arm off just for brushing it against a woman’s before. And Leliana and Morrigan were gossiping about it. I had to watch you smile and charm him…” he shakes his head. “It was almost unbearable.”
 
Hera laughs and comes over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “My my,” she says, making her eyes wide. “What’s changed between now and then? If memory serves- and mine

always

does- I was flirting with him again tonight and you didn’t seem to mind.”
 
“What’s changed? Hmm.” He smiles and wraps his arms around her waist, fitting their bodies together. “The Tower of Magi,” he says. “When you were hurt so badly. I knew then that I was in love with you, I just didn't know how to say it. Or feel it.”
 
“It took me a long time to figure that part out myself. For a courtesan, love is dangerous.”
 
“And in Haven,” he continues. “The dragonfear hit me like a fist. I was paralyzed. The only time I had ever seen something like that was in my dreams.”
 
“The archdemon.”
 
He nods. “But you...you were so calm, even though you were scared, too. You went to each of us and talked us out of it. I don't know if we could have walked into that temple without you.”
 
“I’ve known dragonfear,” she says. “I knew it then, too, but our need was greater than my fear.”
 
“But everything in the temple, really,

especially

when you punched Anatoly,” he chuckles. “I liked seeing you all riled up. Hmm, what else? Oh, the bridge! You figured it out and I almost killed you for your cleverness. You didn’t even get upset.”
 
“There wasn’t anything to be upset about,” she tells him. “What else?”
 
“Watching you help the werewolves,” he lists, kissing her brow. “You helped that Dalish boy get his girl.”
 
“They were sweet. You should say more nice things about me,” she suggests, lifting her eyebrows and grinning. “I like it.”
 
His mouth curls slow into a smile. “Poor Teagan. He has no idea what he’s missed out on.” A thought occurs to him, and he raises his brows. “You didn't think of him that way, did you? Do you?” he adds.
 
Hera mirrors his expression. “Are you asking if he is competition, or if I would accept him as a patron?”
 
“Um...both?”
 
“As competition, no. You have nothing to worry about. As a patron...He is a fine, wealthy lord. Stable. If I were accepting contracts…” she shrugs. “He would make a fine patron.”
 
“Are you...accepting...contracts?” he asks timidly. 
 
“Have you seen me with anyone else?” The sharp edge to her voice warns him that he is treading on thin ice, which isn’t really how he’d meant to go about this.
 
“No, but-” he sighs and rests his head on her shoulder. “This is a conversation I never wanted to have.”
 
Hera moves back, confused. “I don't understand. You’ve wondered about my loyalty to you or my feelings for Teagan?”
 
“Your profession,” he says, embarrassed.
 
She makes a small sound of realization and pulls away from him. “My profession,” she repeats. “Alistair if you’re asking if I’m using you for my own gain, the answer is-”
 
“No,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “That’s not what I’m asking. It’s just...one day this will all be over. I might be king, if Eamon has his way. What will you do then? I mean- do you intend to

stay

a courtesan, or…?”
 
“I

am

a courtesan,” she says. “That won’t change, whether I take contracts or not. It is how I’ve made my living. I enjoy it, it’s profitable, and I follow no one’s rules but my own. And,” she adds, “it’s irrelevant. The first thing- the most

important

thing- is that I have to try to find my way home. There are too many variables to decide now.”

And yet it will still be an issue,

she thinks.

Whether it’s now or in a year.

“Is...that what you want?” she asks, looking up at him. “For me to...not be a courtesan, and be something else?”
 
“I will take care of you, no matter what.”
 
“Absolutely not,” she says with more harshness than she means. “I will not be a kept woman ever again. Your jealousy isn’t worth that much.”
 
“That’s not what I mean,” he says defensively. “And I expect you damn well know it.”
 
Hera takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Let’s wait,” she says calmly, “talk about it once this is all over. It seems I have more to consider than I’d thought.” She offers her hand with a smile. “For now, let’s make sure Teagan has plenty to be jealous about.”
 
Alistair chuckles as she tugs him to the bed. “His face when you said two baths weren't necessary was

priceless.

”

***

“Do you have any idea how much I adore you?” Hera asks before he drifts off to sleep.
 
He grunts and groans and makes other childish noises, scrunching his face in the dim light of the fire. “No?”
 
“Then I will tell you.” Hera smiles fondly and brushes a hand through his hair, making it stick up wildly. “I lived my whole life in darkness,” she tells him. “No sun, no warmth. Just me and my brother, doing whatever we desired. Sometimes it brought us joy, sometimes just money or comfort. I didn’t know any other way- all I’ve ever known is how to hold my own, and take care of Zeus.”

“It sounds lonely,” he says, picking up her hand and kissing her fingertips.
 
“I suppose it was, but I didn’t know it. I had Zeus, and he has always been half of me. But you...you brought sunlight into my life,” she says. “And happiness I can feel all the way through my soul. No matter what happens with the Blight, I will

always

be thankful for this.”
 
He smirks up at her, twirling some of her hair around his finger. “Are you saying I make life worth living?” he teases.
 
Hera laughs. “Certainly not,” she lies. “I’m far too shallow for sentiment like that. But you make me very grateful I was walking in the woods that morning, and I will love you all of my life.”
 
Alistair tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

How can I tell her how lonely I’ve been my whole life? How much I love her? How much

better

just being alive is because of her?

He clears his throat roughly, trying to ignore the burning in his eyes- he cries too much already. He knows Hera doesn't mind, but it’s not kingly, and if the Arl is right, he will be king.
 
“I love you,” he says dumbly. “I know it sounds stupid after what you’ve just said, but...I do. I don't know how else to say it; I’m not eloquent like you. I just love you, and I’m so glad the Maker brought you to me.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Alistair, have you read these?”
 
Alistair looks up from his chess game with Sten, frowning at the papers in Hera’s hand. She looks agitated, her lips pressed into a thin line and her hair mussed. “Uh, no?”
 
“Do not make that move,” Sten tells him gruffly, catching Alistair’s hand. “I will defeat you in two moves if you do.”
 
Confused by both Hera’s question and Sten’s advice, Alistair just stares from one to the other. “All right…”
 
With a huff, Hera studies their game board for a moment before picking up a piece and moving it for him. “There. Checkmate,” she tells Sten. “Can we talk now?”
 
“A bold move. Admirable. Is this about the archdemon?” Sten asks, looking up from the board.
 
“No. It’s politics,” she tells him.
 
“Then I will leave you to this,” Sten says, standing. “Alistair, come find me when you are ready to continue your conditioning training.”
 
Alistair nods, waiting until they’re alone before speaking again. “Politics? What do you mean?”

Maker’s breath,

he thinks,

I’m not even king yet.

“These letters we found in Cailan’s chest,” she explains, sitting on the wide window sill. “Have you read them?”
 
“No,” Alistair says. “I haven’t really thought about them. Honestly, I

forgot

about them until now.”
 
“I wanted to read them before telling Eamon about them, and I’m glad I did. Empress Celene was ready to send reinforcements to Ostagar- she was just waiting for Cailan’s response,” she explains, putting the first letter on the board. “Which never arrived. He asked me about reinforcements from Ravenloft, why wouldn’t he accept Celene’s offer? Did Loghain talk him out of it?”
 
“If he knew about this, he would have. And after Ostagar, Loghain closed the borders so no one could get in,” Alistair adds, picking it up and skimming over it. “He hates Orlais, there’s no way he’d accept and Orlesian army at his side.”
 
“And

this

one,” Hera adds, waving another page. “...

A son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside.”

“Who wrote that?” Alistair asks, raising his eyebrows. “Celene?”
 
Hera shakes her head. “

Eamon.

He was trying to get Anora put aside to put someone else on the throne as Cailan’s wife.”

Eamon?

Alistair frowns. “But Cailan

did

need an heir…”
 
“And what better way to do that and put a woman of his choosing in Anora’s place?” Hera lays the final letter on top of the pile. It’s from Empress Celene, written in a decidedly different and far more familiar tone than the first. “How old is Celene?”
 
Alistair shakes his head, rubbing his jaw. He hadn’t expected to be drilled on the royalty of Thedas. “I don’t know; I don’t think she’s older than Anora, though.”
 
“Which puts her in prime childbearing years, assuming she’s fertile.”
 
“You don’t

really

think that Arl Eamon was trying to negotiate a marriage with Cailan and Celene, do you?”

Eamon wouldn’t break up a royal wedding just for a solid alliance with Orlais, would he?

“I think there’s plenty of evidence,” Hera says, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s married to an Orlesian noble- the same noble whose family held Redcliffe. It would be in his interest to have a royal couple in his debt.”
 
Pinching his nose, Alistair takes a deep breath. “Cailan

loved

Anora. Everyone knows that. They had one of those silly love stories nobody ever really believes is true. He was a bit of a prick, but he wouldn’t have put her aside- and Eamon wouldn’t have asked him to.”
 
Hera gives him a look that makes him feel as if he doesn’t understand what she’s trying to show him. Whatever it is upsets her deeply. “Raven,” he says, reaching out and putting a hand on her knee. “Eamon only has Ferelden’s best interests in mind.”
 
“But not-” Hera cuts herself off and looks away from him. 
 
“But not what?” he asks, standing and tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “Hera, why is this bothering you so much?”
 
She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it quickly, biting her lip. “It’s nothing,” she says. “Just...Alistair, I don’t think you can trust him.”

“

Eamon?

” he chuckles, wrapping her in his arms. “You’ve been playing in politics too long, Hera. It’s different in Ferelden. We can trust Eamon and Teagan, I promise. They have Ferelden’s best interest at heart.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Wintering in Redcliffe is nothing like the other grand locations Hera has previously spent the cold months. It’s wet, muddy, and full of the smell of wet dog- most notably Ares, who seems to need a bath every other day. She accompanies Alistair and the Guerrins to the chantry for services, even though she doesn’t quite understand their interpretation of Andraste- her experience in the Temple makes her think that, somewhere along the lines, the good chantry folk have misplaced her meaning.
 
Staying in one place for more than a few days makes one thing clear to Hera: the refinement she found in Sigil and Ravenloft has no place in Ferelden; the differences only make her feel the time and distance more. The sweeping, delicate architecture of her palace seems like a figment of the imagination against Redcliffe Castle’s carved hardwood and exposed rafters. Simple songs from her childhood carry an air of elegance and musical mastery that makes even Leliana’s Orlesian music sound heavy-handed and limping. There is beauty in Ferelden, but in her heart, she feels the loss of her home deeply.
 
Which is not to say that she does not enjoy it here— it rather reminds her of some of her past adventures. She comes to a deep understanding just how different her world is to Thedas- like a wooden button to a diamond- and it leaves her feeling as clueless and addled as her first day in Sigil. It also makes her wish for a few days more in Ostagar, to acquaint herself with Ferelden and the people here- it would have made things

much

easier in those early days.
 
But there’s something that strikes a chord of familiarity, too: Satinalia. It takes a bit of explaining, but she understands it to be a celebration of an old goddess no longer worshipped in Ferelden, but like many cultures, the holiday’s meaning has shifted to some other focus. Evergreen branches and red ribbon begin appearing over doorways and fireplace mantles, the fresh scent filling the chill air and bringing a certain kind of cheer to the otherwise dark rooms.
 
A great amount of light finds its way into the castle in the form of lamps, candles, and magical glowstones like the one Wynne had. They fascinate Hera, as they seem to be totally independent of both the mage who create them and the Fade, and she asks Alistair so many questions he can only point her to Wynne and the mysteries of the Fade. 
 
One day Hera is with Isolde, watching a young man juggle a number of different-colored glowstones in a dark room when Alistair approaches with fresh tea.
 
“I thought to find you in the library, studying maps again,” he says.
 
She looks up with a smile and makes room for him on the couch. “Connor asked me to come watch.”
 
“Hera, I’ve learned more about the glowstones, if you still want to know,” he offers, nodding to the juggler. “Wynne said you hadn’t asked her yet, but she told me about them.”
 
Watching the man with bright eyes, she shakes her head. “I’ve decided that your Fade holds many mysteries,” she whispers as he twitches her blanket over his legs. “I have no desire to know the secrets of all magic; it takes away the wonder.”
 
He chuckles in her ear, putting an arm around her and tucking her close. “You seem different,” he says. “Has the spirit of Satinalia gotten to you?”
 
She shrugs and leans against him. “It reminds me of Lady’s Day back in Sigil,” she explains. “It feels...familiar, I suppose. Gift giving and merriment. We have something like it in Ravenloft as well; it’s called the Longest Night, and there’s a grand costume ball. We dance and feast from dusk to dawn.”
 
“I don’t expect this year to be very merry,” he warns. “Not much dancing during Blights, I’m afraid.”
 
“I don’t either,” she agrees in a soft voice. “I may not know much about darkspawn, but I know they destroy any joy they find.”
 
“We’ll need to leave soon, won’t we?” It’s a question, but not one he needed to ask. She can tell by the way his brows draw together that he’s been waiting for this.
 
“We’ve stayed long enough.”
 
She nods, her eyes going to Isolde and her son Connor, laughing at the juggler’s antics. They’ve had three weeks of rest, necessary for Leliana and Wynne to recover and for repairs to equipment, but each pale dawn brought with it a deep-seated dread that slowly overtook Hera through the day. Time was running out: for her, and for Thedas. The darkspawn would come to Redcliffe, and they would come soon unless she and Alistair stopped the Blight.
 
“Let’s go speak with the Arl, then.”
  
“You’re certain?” Eamon asks, pacing before the fire. “So soon?”
 
“We’ve stayed long enough,” Hera repeats, her hands clasped behind her back. “We need to leave. Tomorrow.”
 
“Alistair, this is what you’ve decided?” the arl asks, ignoring her. 
 
Hera’s jaw drops open. “Arl Eamon, I—”
 
“Yes, yes, I know what you think,” he says, waving a hand at her. “I want to know what

Alistair

thinks.” The arl gives her a small smirk. “Since he will be king, I’d like it if he grew accustomed to making decisions.”
 
It takes all of Hera’s willpower to rein in her temper. This is the man they had risked their lives to save, the man who had neglected Alistair all his life, and Hera almost wishes they hadn’t.

Why is it that old men always want me to shut up and look pretty when I’m the only one who knows what’s going on half the time? He never cared about what Alistair’s thought before.

Alistair puts a hand on her shoulder and gives it a small squeeze. “Hera is right, my lord. We’ve stayed long enough, and we need to move on.”
 
Arl Eamon’s smirk turns into a thinly veiled sneer. “One woman’s opinion is hardly anything to base this one.

You

need to be the one—”
 
“

Hera

is our leader,” Alistair says firmly, pulling his shoulders back. “

She

got us this far, and

she

is the one our allies have agreed to follow. If she says we should go, we will go.”
 
Hera tries not to react— no one had ever said it so plainly, but it was true: they all looked to her for guidance in one way or another. Eamon gives her a long, harsh look before nodding. “Tomorrow then. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll need to tell Isolde, she’ll want to make sure you all have a fine meal tonight.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“My lady?”
 
Hera looks up from the map at the servant. “Yes?”
 
“Arl Eamon requests you,” he says simply.
 
With a sigh, she pushes herself to her feet. “I’ll be back,” she tells Alistair. 
 
He waves her away, more concerned with checking his pack for the hundredth time than whatever the arl could want. Hera follows the servant sent to fetch her, chuckling at the formality of being sent for. Another monarch might balk at being expected to answer a lower lord’s call, but Hera spent more time playing at Sigil’s Courtesan Queen than Ravenloft’s Queen of Darkness and knows well the games lords play.

I play them better than most,

she thinks as she enters the arl’s study.

And the first rule is to never trust a man who smiles as much as Eamon.

It helps that her personal dislike of him aligns with that particular rule.
 
“Thank you for seeing me, Hera,” Arl Eamon says graciously, offering her a chair near the fire and one of his wide smiles. 
 
“It is my pleasure,” she answers, sitting without paying him any courtesy. “What might I do for you?”
 
In spite of every effort to the contrary, Eamon still looks weak after his long illness, the age lines around his nose deeper now than they had been while he slept. But for the most part, he looks as if he is recovering well. “My brother has informed me that you are not...Ferelden,” he explains delicately. “Is that so?”
 
“It is,” she answers. “Indeed, I am not even of Thedas, my lord. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to broach the subject.”
 
Eamon makes a small sound. “It is

that

part I do not understand. Can you explain further?”
 
Hera hesitates, then decides to be partially honest. “I cannot explain it, Arl Eamon, not in any way you will understand. Suffice it to say I fell through a magical portal into this world from my own.”
 
“How is it you became a Grey Warden then?” he asks, frowning in confusion. “Do you always join a secret order when you fall into a new world?”
 
Hera shrugs, ignoring the disbelieving edge to his words. “I was taken to Ostagar by Ser Tybalt, and tested by Warden-Commander Duncan before my Joining. Alistair was there, you can ask him if you don’t believe me.”
 
“And you are a...courtesan,” he adds, his smile growing tighter. 
 
“I am.” She smiles at his forced, overly polite expression, enjoying the same small pleasure she gets whenever anyone is uncomfortable with her profession. “It is my living. And a good one.”
 
“I see.” Eamon sits back, stroking his beard. “And what do you intend to do after the Blight is finished?”

So you think it’s your business what I do with my body, do you?

She thinks, biting the inside of her cheek. Men— especially

human

men— always think their opinion matters to a courtesan of her standing.

As if I have

ever

cared what men like him think of me.

“Assuming I survive, I intend to find a way back to my homeland,” she says in a clipped tone. “King Cailan was interested in an alliance with my people. Should Alistair desire the same, I will offer to act as a liaison between our courts. My profession is my own, and unless you’re paying me a fee, not any of your concern.”

As if he could afford it,

she adds silently.
 
“So you agree that Alistair should be king?” he presses, ignoring the barb.
 
“I believe that sometimes a person must rise above their desires and take up responsibility when it comes to them. It has fallen to Alistair to be King of Ferelden.” The arl looks relieved, and she raises an eyebrow. “My lord, am I here because you wish to speak about my future, or about Alistair’s?”
 
The relief is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he squirms under her gaze. “Your relationship with Alistair,” he says, “it has been obvious since I first saw you two together. I’m curious to know...how far has it progressed?”

Ah,

she thinks, smiling pleasantly.

This is the heart of it.

“Far enough for that question to be considered rude by polite society,” she says, making her voice sweet and unassuming. “Are you asking about my availability, or whether he is incurring a debt?”
 
“Debt?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion before shooting up with realization. “No. Oh

no,

I only mean that I know the boy,” he says hastily. “I do not want him hurt by a fairweather love.”
 Hera makes the sort of eye contact with him that makes men uncomfortable- long and steady. She learned in her youth that some men need to be treated the way they treat her in order for them to hear her; and it is something she’s perfected over the years. “It is my understanding that you knew the boy,” she clarifies. “And not the man.” 
“All the same, I know him.”
 
Hera struggles against the rising tide of her temper.

This man dares to think he knows what’s best for Alistair.

“Arl Eamon, you neglected Alistair as a boy- don’t argue it,” she adds, holding up a finger when he opens his mouth. “I’ve heard the stories of sleeping in stables and with dogs. I’ve heard of Cailan being fawned over and Alistair being ignored. Of your wife making his life miserable because of her own insecurities. And his being sent to the monastery at ten years old. You knew a stableboy-

barely

- and then banished him to a life for which he was clearly unsuited, and never saw him again. Forgive me if I inform you that you do not, in fact,

know Alistair

.”
 
Eamon flushes and looks as if he might start shouting, but keeps himself in check. He clenches his jaw and she has to stop herself from laughing when a vein in his forehead pops up. “All the same, I intend to put him forward as king,” he says. “And you are a complication.”
 
Hera gives him a smug smile and raises an eyebrow. “You’ll find I’m the

queen

of complications, my lord. Make him king,” she says with a shrug. “It matters not to me. He would not be the first king I’ve known.”
 
“Hera,” he says sternly, meaning to scold her as a child. “I’m trying to be polite— and inform you that your tawdry romance is over.”
 
She stares at him a moment, expressionless, before bursting into laughter. “So why am I here alone?” she asks when she catches her breath. “Shouldn’t he be informed too?”
 
“It would be easier for him if you...handled it,” he says vaguely. 
 
“You mean if I ended it voluntarily as opposed to you telling him to put me aside,” she says, nodding thoughtfully as her amusement drains away. “Telling Cailan to leave Anora didn’t work, you couldn’t convince him to do it on your own, so you thought you’d try it the other way. We found the letters in Ostagar,” she explains when his jaw sags. “The one where you begged Cailan to set aside his wife and leave room for a more suitable match. Celene would have fit the bill just right, wouldn’t she?” Hera shakes her head at his stunned silence, laughing softly. “You’re right, Eamon, it

would

be easier your way.”
 
She hears his relieved sigh. “I am glad you see it my way. I am prepared to offer you quite a good place in Orlais should you decide to stay,” he says. “Isolde has a cousin, a minor lord, who can keep you-”
 
“Oh I

do

understand

,

” she says, her voice suddenly dripping with cloying concern. “You mean to make a stableboy king of him. Give him a common touch to help him connect to the people. It’s a brilliant plan, really,” she admits, sitting back. “

And

you’re willing to find me a patron, pay me off so I will disappear quietly. Generous of you.”
 
“So you will do it?” he asks, hopeful. “You will release him?”
 
“No.”

For a moment, he turns such a deep shade of purple that she’s certain that Eamon’s heart will stop. Her dislike of this man grows by the minute, and she isn’t afraid of making him angry. 
 
“Why not?” he demands. "You just said that a person must set aside their desires for their responsibilities!"
 
“And that is true,” she says, her tone entirely reasonable. “However, my relationship with Alistair does not oppose your plan to set him on the throne.”
 
“But he cannot—”
 
Hera ignores his interruption and continues speaking over him. “At any rate, you are not his father, nor mine, and even if you were, we have reached our majority,” she explains, shrugging. “If I did not love him, I would still say no, just for the pleasure of tweaking your nose. And you should know there is no way a

minor

lord could keep me in the fashion to which I am accustomed,” she adds with a chuckle. “I am a companion for kings, not a bankrupt cousin.”
 
“You like having a king in your pocket,” he accuses. 
 
“Only a liar would say no,” she replies with a pretty smile. “But with

this

king, you are wrong all the same.”
 
“Mark me, Hera whoever-you-are,” he says grimly, pointing at her. “I will see him crowned king.”

“I have no argument with that,” she says, standing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, your future king is waiting for me, and

we

have to plan our next move.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera.”
 
“Yes, Sten?” she asks, not looking up from the elfroot she’s peeling. 
 
“I want to tell you something.”
 
She gestures to the space in front of her. “Sit, help me peel these for Wynne.”
 
He does, taking up a small knife, and she moves the bowl of peeled root from her lap to sit between them. They work in silence for a while, the small sounds of night either muted by the falling snow or obscured by the crackle of their fire.
 
“I told you before that I was sent here,” he says finally. “I was not sent alone. I came to these lands with seven of the Beresaad, my brothers, to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Ferelden countryside without incident- seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe- until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad. They came from everywhere: the earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harbored the darkspawn.”
 
“I know that fear,” she says supportively.
 
“I saw the last of the creatures cut down too late,” he continues, ignoring the comfort she offers. “I fell.”
 
“And the others?” she asks, looking up at him.
 
“I am told no others survived.” He doesn’t raise his eyes to look at her, but keeps them on his hands, efficiently peeling root after root. “I don’t know how long I lay on the battlefield among the dead. Nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I awoke, I was no longer among my brothers, and my sword was gone from my hand.”
 
“You probably dropped it on the battlefield,” she says logically. “It’s an unfortunate loss.”
 
“Perhaps I did,” he agrees. “I searched for it, and when that failed I asked my rescuers what had become of it.”
 
“And then?”
 
“They...they said they found me with nothing. I panicked, and unthinking, I struck them down.”
 
The regret in his voice is almost enough to bring tears to the eye, but knowing he would disapprove of such emotion, Hera looks down at her hands and returns to work. “A lost blade is nothing to panic over, Sten. Someone like you should know that.”
 
“That sword was for

my

hand alone,” he admonishes. “I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people. Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the Arishok, I would be slain on sight by the Antaam. They would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath.”
 
“If it's that important, then we will look for it.” She says it with a shrug and a small smile. What's one more thing to do?
 
“If I knew where to look it would be in my hand now.”
 
“You said you were near Lake Calenhad, right?” she says, reaching into her pack for her map. “Look, we’re here, a day outside Redcliffe. You couldn’t have been this far down, so you must have been on the north side of the lake.”
 
“I believe so.”
 
“There aren't many good places to camp there- did you plan to go to the dwarves?”
 
“No, we meant to head south, to Ostagar,” he says, pointing to a spot. “I believe we were in that area.”
 
She tilts the map for better light. “That’s not far from the Circle of Magi,” she muses. “I’ll bet someone there saw something. If we can get a boat in Rainesfere, I think we can make a detour. We’ll find it, Sten.”
 
He looks a little shocked at her willingness to help. “Perhaps those words are empty, but thank you, all the same.”
 
Hera gives him a smile, and they silently return to peeling elfroot for the remainder of their watch.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I didn’t think I would be back here so soon,” Wynne says as their boat approaches the docks slowly. 
 
“We aren’t going back to the tower,” Leliana reminds her gently. “Don’t worry, Wynne.”
 
“I’ve been given permission to travel with the Wardens; I have nothing to worry about,” Wynne tells her. All the same, she turns her back on the tower.
 
“You know, Wynne, I have heard

such

stories of the Circle,” Zevran says with a mischievous smile. 
 
“Is that so,” she says flatly, looking across the distance at the tower. From outside and at a distance, Hera imagines it looks the same as ever, but she remembers the chaos and carnage they found inside those halls that will haunt Wynne and many others for all their lives.
 
“Oh yes,” he says gleefully. “I visited the Antivan Circle on official Crow business once. Met a beautiful young apprentice who was very eager for a taste of the outside world…”
 
“And assassin as well, I imagine,” Morrigan chuckles.
 
“Please,

please

get to the point,” Wynne says tiredly. 
 
“All I wonder is if the templars guard the mages here as closely as they do in Antiva,” he says innocently, winking at her. In Antiva, the templars watch the Circle like a jealous husband guarding the chastity of a wanton bride.”
 
Hera, Leliana, and Morrigan all laugh, earning themselves a stern look from Wynne. “Interesting metaphor,” the elder woman sniffs indignantly, “but yes, it is not too different in Ferelden.”
 
Zevran leans forward, his eyes bright. “And is it

also

true that when the moon swells to fullness, the mages of the Circle gather together and, naked under the stars, make love to each other?” he asks breathlessly. 
 
Wynne’s mouth falls open, and even Alistair has to laugh as she struggles for words. “What?” she finally squeaks, glaring at him. “No! Maker’s breath…”
 
Looking truly dejected, Zevran leans back against the side of the boat. “Oh,” he says gloomily. “I found out recently it was not true in Antiva and hoped it would be in Ferelden. Alas,” he sighs.
 
“That sounds rather Orlesian,” Alistair chuckles.
 
Wynne straightens her shoulders and presses her lips into a thin line, making Zevran laugh. “You’re a horrid boy, Zevran,” she snaps, making Leliana and Morrigan laugh.
 
“Wynne, I’ve been waiting for just the right moment to ask you that,” Zevran defends, the innocence in his face almost believable.

And he chose right,

Hera thinks as the boat crosses the last few yards.

Everyone’s been quiet and reflective since the tower came into sight. He’s managed to break everyone out of their own thoughts.

“Well, here we are,” she says as the boatmen secure the vessel to the dock. She waits until everyone is off before paying him and following them up to the inn.
 
“The Spoiled Princess,” Alistair says gloomily, putting an arm over Hera’s shoulders. “Has anyone tried to kill us here yet?”
 
“Yes,” Hera and Sten answer together.
 
“We were looking for Brother Genitivi,” Wynne reminds him.
 
“It was raining,” Leliana fills in.
 
“It was glorious,” Zevran sighs happily. “A quick and bloody battle.”
 
Not to be outdone, Morrigan joins in. “You stank of wet dog and mud as always.”
 
“Well

that

part I remember,” Alistair says cheerfully, sticking his tongue out at Morrigan. “It was different than all the

other

times I’ve stank of wet dog and mud.”
 
Hera laughs and ducks out from under his arm. “Why don’t you all go inside and get us some rooms? Sten and I will have a quick look around. Ares, go with Alistair.”
 
“Hera, it’s dark,” Wynne says sensibly. “You won’t see anything.”
 
With a flirtatious look at Sten, Morrigan slinks to his side. “I’ll provide your light, my Sten,” she purrs, the tip of her staff lighting up.
 
He looks down at her and shrugs. “Very well. Bring it this way.”
 
They follow Sten up a hill and head off the road. “How far is it?” Hera asks.
 
“Here,” he says, stopping suddenly. All around are the skeletal remains of what she can only assume are Sten’s qunari brothers. The snow in the area has been trampled down so that the corpses are clearly visible.
 
“Here?” Morrigan asks, looking around and wrinkling her nose. “There isn’t anything here but bones and rot.”
 
“I know.”
 
Hera lifts her nose, catching a sour smell in the air. “But someone is here,” she murmurs, creeping closer to the brush. 
 
A ragged man leaps out of the shrubbery, brandishing his knuckles. “Back off!” he shouts. “I was here first!”
 
Hera squeaks and takes a surprised step back. She’d known someone was there, but she didn’t expect a madman to leap out of the bushes throwing punches. “Who are you?” she gasps.
 
“That don’t matter none to you,” he says, lowering his fists. “I’m an honest businessman. I wasn’t bothering nobody. And I was here first.”
 
“Wasn’t bothering nobody?” she repeats harshly. “You’re surrounded by corpses.”
 
“They’re mine!”
 
“You did not kill these Beresaad!” Sten growls.
 
The man shrinks back, cowering under the weight of Sten’s gaze. “Not literally, you understand. They’re not

my

bodies. I mean, I only got one, and I’m not dead or nothing. But I was here first!”
 
“There’s something very wrong with you,” Morrigan tells him.
 
He shrugs. “I get that a lot.”
 
“Have you seen a sword lying around here while you were scavenging?” Hera asks, casting another glance around.

No sense in dancing around the subject, I suppose.

“Why? You looking to buy one?” he asks, a hungry look on his face.
 
“Only if it’s a qunari blade.”
 
He frowns, his face looking pinched as he tries to repeat her word. “A cue-what?”
 
“These giants you’re pillaging, you fool,” Morrigan explains sharply, pointing at Sten.
 
Realization dawns and he nods. “Oh, them. To tell the truth, this place was mostly picked clean when I got here. I got part of a glove the wolves didn’t chew too badly though! I think it was a glove, anyway… I know, don’t say it,” he sighs. “I got cheated. I knew the guy who was here before me. He sold me this spot, said he’d found giants and all kinds of crazy valuables. His name’s Faryn. Squirrely little bastard, if you ask me-”
 
“Which we did not,” Morrigan interrupts.
 
“The blade,” Hera reminds him. “Where is Faryn? Do you know?”
 
He shrugs. “He was going to Orzammar, he said, I imagine he’s gotten there by now.”
 
Hera turns to Sten with a bright smile. “Did you hear that, Sten? He’s gone to Orzammar!”
 
“I have ears, Hera.”
 
“

We’re

going to Orzammar!”
 
“I also have mighty powers of memory.”
 
Hera digs in her purse and finds a silver piece for the man. “Thank you,” she says as they hurry off. “Happy hunting!”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They make their way west for Orzammar. Sten makes Alistair and Hera run ahead of the party all day, carrying everyone’s equipment, to build endurance. Somehow the giant keeps up with them, running between them and making snide comments about them all day. He

claims

it is to prepare them for the archdemon, but Alistair is certain the qunari practice subtle torture techniques, and that Sten must have excelled at it in qunari torture school.
 
Finally, he calls for a stop and tells them to set up camp in the snow while he goes back for the others to lead them to the clearing. While they wait, Hera pitches their tent and he digs fire pits. Together they get one fire blazing and the other banked, then set potatoes along the edge of the second to bake slowly overnight. She had taught them to do this so they could have something ready to eat any time, and to cover small, plucked birds with a thick layer of clay and set them among the coals when both clay and birds were available. In the morning they would be tender and juicy, and all you had to do was break open the clay coat.
 
An hour later the others arrive, and he watches Hera make her weary way to the hot spring pool that had made the decision to stop a simple one. He follows as soon as Sten returns, hoping to avoid more work from the qunari, silently thanking the Maker for the abundance of Ferelden hot springs.
 
Steam wreathes the pool, glowing in the light of her lamp, making Alistair think of fairy tales he’d heard as a boy. He approaches noisily so as not to startle her, crunching through the snow and muttering to himself, but it’s unnecessary: she’s fast asleep, leaning against a boulder near the edge of the pool.
 
She wakes the moment he splashes in, but closes her eyes when he draws her close and lets her lay against him. “You’re worn out, aren’t you?” she murmurs.
 
Alistair sighs as the heat begins to work through his tingling muscles. “You must be too,” he says, drawing her legs over his lap. “He made you carry more.”
 
“I can do it,” she insists, reaching a hand up to rub his stubbled cheek. “Superhuman strength and all.”
 
“Can you even

get

stronger?” he asks jealously.
 
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I can’t exactly let him know that, can I? I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
 
“Lucky,” he mutters, smacking his lips against her neck and making her giggle. “I feel like I’ve been beaten.”
 
“You have, sort of.”
 
They linger in the pool until Zevran comes for them, ogling them both, and tells them dinner is ready. “Sten has declared that neither of you will have watch, as well,” he adds, watching Hera climb out of the pool and wrap a towel around herself. “He says you need the rest.”
 
“Zevran, stop looking at her that way,” Alistair grumbles. “And me too.”
 
“How can I ignore such perfect beauty?” he asks, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You are a pearl among pebbles,

amora.

And

Alistair,

” he gasps and clutches his chest with a grin. “You are both too beautiful for words.”
 
Somehow, she finds the energy to be charming, and Alistair feels only slightly jealous when she turns that teasing smile on the elf. “Yes, I know,” she tells him, and makes her way to camp, barefoot and damp through the snow.
 
“She’s insane,” he mutters, dressing as quickly as possible. “Look at her, dripping wet and practically naked!”
 
“Yes, I know,” Zevran sighs. “My good friend Alistair, are you aware that you are the luckiest bastard alive?”
 
Alistair grins over at his friend, tugging on his boots. “Yes, I am.”
 
They follow behind and join the meal at the fire. “Where’s Hera?” Alistair asks, sitting down with his bowl of stew.
 
“Why did you let her walk around in just a towel?” Leliana demands. “She’ll catch a cold!”
 
“I...Well...have you

seen

her naked?” he asks in an embarrassed voice. “It’s hard to think, let alone tell her what to do.”
 
Zevran laughs, choking on his stew, and Sten smacks him on the back with great force. The blow throws him to the ground, his bowl slamming into his chest hard enough to bruise. “T-Thank you, Sten,” he gasps, groaning as he raises up to find the bowl unharmed but his stew all over his shirt.
 
“You are welcome.”
 
Everyone laughs except Morrigan, who raises her voice over the noise to answer Alistair’s question. “She took a cup of tea and some bread and went to her tent,” Morrigan explains, not looking up from the book she’s reading. “She asked me to tell you not to bother her.”
 
“Me?” he asks.
 
“You, specifically. She said she’d rather I turn you into a toad.”
 
“Now I

know

you’re lying.”
 
Wynne chuckles at their bickering. “She did take tea and bread to her tent,” she confirms. “I thought she’d just dress and join us, but it seems not.”
 
“I’ll check on her,” he offers and fills a second bowl of stew. He pokes his head inside their tent and his heart melts.
 
Hera lies sleeping among the cured furs they’d traded for fresh pelts, wearing only his templar tunic. He lets the tent flaps fall closed behind him and sets the bowls near her cup of cooling tea, stretching out beside her. “Raven,” he whispers, gathering her hair in one hand and tossing it aside.
 
“Hmm?” she mumbles.
 
“Wake up,” he says softly, kissing her earlobe. “You need to eat something.”
 
“No,” she sighs, rolling over and cuddling close to him. “Sleepy.”
 
“No,” he chuckles. “Wake up. Eat. You don’t want Sten to come in here and make you eat.”
 
“No,” she moans, shivering. “Cold.”
 
“Put on some clothes,” he laughs. “Come on, get up. You can wear my coat if you’ll sit up and eat.”
 
She groans, letting him pull her to a sitting position and put the bowl of stew in her hands. “I hate Sten,” she grumbles, blowing over the hot food. “He’s cruel.”

“Me too,” he laughs and picks up his own bowl.
 
They eat in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of conversation and laughter outside. These are the moments he likes best, when they can be quiet with one another. He doesn’t feel like he has to try and be charming or brave, he can just be himself. She always seems so open and generous with everyone, but when they’re alone, he sees that she’s really just as scared of the Blight as he is- and she has even more to be afraid of. He knows she’s afraid of never finding a way home- and whatever she keeps from them scares her so much she can’t even speak of it- but he’s glad she trusts him enough to show him that she isn’t always as confident and skilled as she wants the others to think.
 
“It’s times like this when I miss Zeus the most,” she says softly, looking down at her food. “He always knew what to say when I was too tired to go on.”

“I can’t imagine you ever being so tired.”
 
He sees her blink rapidly, as if she’s blinking away tears before she speaks again. “I am

so

tired, Alistair,” she whispers. “Not being with my twin is like missing a limb, and I’m tired of fighting. Tired of being afraid of tomorrow and trying not to show it.”
 
“I know,” he says, putting a hand on her knee. “Me too.”
 
“Is it ever going to end?” she asks, looking up at him, eyes glassy with tears. “Will we ever have time to be...I don’t know, happy? Will I ever see my brother again?”
 
“I hope so.” He takes the empty bowl from her and sets them aside, then pulls her into his lap. “I hope so, because I can’t wait to see you dressed up in something other than armor. I think I’d like to meet your brother, too.”
 
“He’s all I’ve ever had,” she sniffs. 
 
“Not anymore.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The road to Orzammar is remarkably clear of snow and well-tended as they get closer to the dwarven city. The dirt road turns to smooth stone, snow-laden pines towering on either side with enormous statues of both male and female dwarves in various poses.
 
“What are these?” Hera asks, marveling up at one of a woman with long braids on the sides of her head and a hammer in her hands. “Dwarven heroes?”
 
“Sort of,” Leliana tells her, stopping beside her. “They’re called Paragons.”
 
She frowns, looking up at the statue. “Like a ‘paragon of virtue’?”
 
“As if you would know virtue if you saw it,” Zevran quipped.
 
Hera lazily kicks out at him, missing widely as he dances out of reach. “I would so.”
 
“Again, sort of,” Leliana explains, rolling her eyes. “They’re the elite of dwarven society- they can form their own houses if living and come from any caste, even casteless.”

“How does one become a paragon?”
 
“You have to do something great- invent a new machine or perform a great act of bravery in battle. They’re seen as the perfect role models, almost like gods.” Leliana’s voice is soft and reverent as she stares up at the statue’s face. “They pray to the Ancestors, and a living paragon is a Living Ancestor, someone wise and worthy of imitation.”
 
“That’s quite interesting,” Hera murmurs, looking at the statue with a new perspective.

Perhaps these dwarves are different than all the others I’ve encountered. That would be a nice change.

“I’m sure we’ll learn more once we’re in the city,” Leliana adds as they start walking again. “Do you take an interest in dwarves?”
 
“I have an intense dislike of them, actually,” Hera answers, "with very few exceptions."
 
“I doubt that will change,” Morrigan chuckles.
 
Hera shrugs. “I’ve never heard of a Paragon, so these at least seem different. Perhaps these dwarves can change my mind.”
 
They follow the road, crossing a bridge that leads them into a clearing surrounded by foothills. Out of the wind and piles of snow, it’s warmer here, and the scent of roast meat is on the wind. 
 
“A market?” Zevran asks, confused. 
 
“Most traders aren’t allowed in Orzammar,” Alistair explains, “so they just sort of gather near the doors. I’ve heard there are no laws up here at all.”
 
“Let’s get something warm to eat,” Wynne suggests. "It will prepare us for whatever is in store."
 
Hera agrees, sending them off to find food and a warm place to rest while she and Sten start asking around for Faryn. A gray haired dwarf merchant points him out with a sneer, informing them that no one here will miss him should he disappear. Thanking him, they walk over to a ragged human with a blanket spread at his feet. The tattered wool is littered with junk, most of it useless and, Hera assumes, stolen off dead bodies. When he sees her, he jumps to attention.
 
“Step right- Maker’s breath!” The red-haired man pales, his eyes traveling slowly up Sten’s armor. “Beg your pardon, friend,” he stammers. “You...ah...startled me a bit.”
 
“Yes, I do that sometimes,” Hera says seriously, drawing his gaze back to her. “You’re Faryn, right?”
 
He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’ve...ah...heard of me?”
 
“Where is my sword?” Sten demands.
 
“I...ah...I don’t know what you mean, ser.”
 
Hera shrugs, certain he’s lying. “Just kill him, Sten,” she says lightly. “We can search his body for it easier than talking to him about it. Besides, we have food waiting.”
 
Sten takes a menacing step forward, growling slightly. Faryn flails his arms, stumbling back and covering his head. “I don’t have it!” he admits. “I swear by Andraste’s knickers! I sold it before I got here!”
 
“Oh? To who?” she asks, examining her nails.
 
“It’s true, I swear it! I sold it to a dwarf in Redcliffe. Name of Dwyn.”

Dwyn? Now that’s a familiar name,

Hera thinks with a grin, glancing at Leliana across the market. “Dwyn, you say? I know him.”
 
“He’s the one with the sword, I promise you. Said he was a collector.”
 
“We’ll see,” Sten says firmly, fists clenched. 
 
Hera wrinkles her nose at the man. “If he doesn’t have it or know your name, I’ll be back for you,” she promises. They leave, heading for the others. “Redcliffe. That’s good to know,” she says amiably. “We know where it is and who has it now.”
 
“Unless Dwyn has sold it.”
 
“Why don’t we send a letter to Arl Eamon?” she offers. “I’m sure after all we’ve done the Arl will make sure it’s waiting for you when we arrive. I’m sure Alistair will write to him for you, the Arl won’t deny him anything.”
 
“That is...generous,” Sten says.
 
Hera arched an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
 
“You are surprising, Kadan.”
 
She smiles up at him, raising an eyebrow at the unusual word. “Am I? Here I thought I was an open book.”
 
“If that is so, your pages have been blacked out.”
 
***
 
Hera gapes at the Hall of Heroes, the vaulted ceiling rising high above their heads so that statues of paragons may stand tall. Molten lava flows through channels cut in the stone, offering light and warmth against the chill air coming through vents in the mountain.
 
“This is amazing,” she says, approaching one of the paragons. 
 
“Truly, ‘tis,” Morrigan says beside her. “It is very different from what you’ve seen before?”
 
Hera nods, running a gloved hand over the lovingly carved stone. “I have been through caverns that were dark and filled with glowing fungus,” she explains. “Spider webs so strong they could be woven into frames to make doors. Old, uninhabitable places, abandoned long ago. These harsh edges and sharp angles are the same, but the dwarves I’ve met have all been very secretive of their homes. Outside of those who live in cities, of course," she amends. "But Zeus and I have never been welcome in one of their mountains.”
 
“Why is that? Don’t the dwarves trade?” Wynne asks.
 
Hera nods as she moves from statue to statue, reading the plaques on each one. “They are suspicious of my kind, and did not trust us.”
 
“Suspicious of your kind?”
 
Hera catches herself before her lips can form the word

dhampir

, reminding herself once more that of all her secrets, that one is the most dangerous. “They thought we were elves,” she lies. “Too delicate for stone.”
 
“How strange.” Wynne raises her eyebrows as they approach another set of great stone doors. “You don’t seem elven at all.”
 
“There are as many kinds of elves as there are humans.” The doors swing open on smooth and silent hinges, revealing their first glimpse of Orzammar.
 
Heat pours through the doorway, a welcome change from the frosty weather outside, but the comfort is quickly forgotten in the majesty of what lay before them. Hera tilts her head back as the doors close behind them, taking in the levels of the city glowing in the light from lava pouring through stone channels. Directly ahead is a massive building soaring straight up into the rock of the mountain, lit brightly as if it were a holiday.
 
A busy market spreads out to their right and left, making up a pleasant common area for visitors and locals alike, while above them are elaborately carved dwellings watching the scene.
 
“This is incredible,” she breathes.
 
Sten puts his hands on his hips, looking around them. "Why would such a small people build things so tall?” he asks in disapproval. “They must own an impressive array of ladders."
 
“The last great Dwarven city,” Leliana tells her, coming to her side. “There were others, larger and grander. I read about them.”
 
“What happened to them?”
 
“Darkspawn,” Alistair says grimly. “And the same will happen here if we don’t stop the Blight.”
 
Hera forces herself to focus on the task at hand.

This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,

she thinks, taking in the majesty of Orzammar as they walk toward a group of dwarves to ask directions.

No darkness, no smoke in the air. It’s as if they’ve evolved past their brethren on the other planes. These dwarves are so different. Have I been dreading approaching them for nothing?

A shouting match breaks out among the group, explaining quite a lot about the state of things in the dwarven kingdom, her heart sinking as she listens. In seconds, Hera learns that a lord named Harrowmont was named the king’s successor in place of the prince, that sovereignty is not passed through the blood, and how quickly they will raise a blade to defend their honor. A dwarf in shining red armor tries to quell the argument, calling for handlers to separate them so they don’t start a riot, but, as always seems the case with dwarves, it ends with the peacekeeper’s death before they’re run off.

And once again, dwarves make certain I’m totally wrong, Powers damn them.

“These dwarves are

exactly

like every other I’ve seen,” she mutters, amazed at what she just saw take place. “May the gods give me patience.”
 
Hera takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for what lay ahead. Her past experiences had taught her that the race tended to be aggressive, selfish, and far more political than one might expect from a people that spend their lives clutching at stone. These would require careful handling if she was going to get what she needed.
 
“Some things never change, I guess,” Zevran chuckles.
 
“Why would they be different?” Sten asks, frowning. “Are your elves and qunari so different in your world?”
 
“Well,

yes

,” Hera says. “But now’s not the time, let’s see what’s going on.”
 
A dwarf that she can only guess to be a captain of the guard approaches, waving his hands. “Veata, surfacer!” he says in an annoyed tone. “I am bid to let you walk the commons, but keep your place. Warden or not, I want order.”
 
“Ahh, yes,” Hera says, unsure if they’re being welcomed or warned. “Well, we have no intention of starting anything.”
 
“

Finishing

-” Zevran starts before getting Alistair’s elbow in his ribs. 
 
Hera gives the dwarf a brilliant smile, wishing she’d left her hair down instead of braiding it around her head. “Perhaps you can help me,” she says softly, stepping closer and angling her hips toward him. “The Blight is coming and I need Orzammar’s help. Where would I-”
 
He scoffs and makes a gesture to cut her off. “Surface problems. Well, we have no king to hear you, but you can join the shouting at the Assembly in the Diamond Quarter if you want. Bunch of deshyr lords bickering over sand,” he mutters almost to himself. “Bhelen, Harrowmont...is one so different? No Paragons here.”
 
Hera knows when a long-winded rant is coming, so they make a quick exit, excusing themselves before hurrying away. 
 
“Hera, did you

really

just try flirting with that dwarf?” Morrigan laughs. “Have you no dignity, girl?”
 
Ignoring how his rebuff had left her stinging, she shrugged and turned the same smile on Morrigan. “One never knows what you can get from someone with a smile and a look.”
 
“Keep your smiles away from me,” Morrigan teases back. “I believe our tastes might not run the same course.”
 
Hera slows her pace to match hers and wraps a hand around her waist familiarly. “Morrigan, I have

no

tastes,” she whispers in her ear. “They are

all

pleasurable to me.”
 
“Have you no decency?” the witch shrieks, jumping away. “Do not touch me so casually, Grey Warden!”
 
Hera winks at her friend. “Forgive me, sweet Morrigan. Sometimes I cannot control myself around your raw sensuality.”
 
“I have trouble myself,” Zevran adds, reaching for her. 
 
Morrigan sneers and slaps at his hands, a spell ready on her lips when Wynne steps between them. “Children, leave Morrigan in peace,” Wynne scolds.
 
With a playful pout, Zevran and Hera give her space as they walk toward what they hope is a tavern.
 
“I do not need your assistance!” Morrigan’s voice was full of scorn for the older mage- she clearly had not let go of her opinion of Wynne and the Circle. “I am not some scared child you need to protect.”
 
Wynne smiled placidly and nodded. “By all means, make her uncomfortable then.”
 
Zevran and Hera both pout comically. “Well it’s no fun now,” Zevran mutters.
 
“You’ve ruined the game for them,” Leliana giggled.
 
Sten scowls down at them. “There is no time for such games,” he scolds, “we should be acting. The archdemon is our goal.”
 
Hera patted Sten’s arm. “We are. The best news is always found in the taverns. I don’t want to walk into the Assembly without a little knowledge, Sten.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Everyone at the table gags but Wynne and Sten, who sit calmly sipping their ale.
 
“That’s wretched!” Leliana gasps.
 
Hera pushes her tankard away, shaking her head quickly and covering her mouth with the other hand. “No. Alistair was right.”
 
“Wynne, how are you

drinking

that?” Alistair asks as Wynne sips the foul brew contentedly. “I tried dwarven ale once, I thought it was something they tricked surfacers into drinking as a joke.”
 
Wynne smiles over at Alistair and gives his hand a motherly pat. “It isn’t so bad,” she says. “I rather like it.”
 
Sten shrugs and takes another swallow. “It is acceptable.”
 
“Disgusting,” Morrigan coughs.
 
“Um, Cora,” Alistair calls, waving her over. “Could we maybe have some water?”
 
“Plain water,” Leliana says quickly. “Clean and cold.”
 
The dwarf tavern keeper laughs. “You surfacers are all the same. No stomach for real drink. Lady, your drinks are all on the house,” she adds to Wynne. “You’ll have hair on your chest before you leave Orzammar.”
 
Wynne chuckles. “I do hope that’s only an expression, but thank you.”
 
Once they’d all washed the foul taste of dwarven ale from their mouths, Hera and Alistair turned to business. “So we know that King Aeducan is dead,” Alistair starts. “And that Harrowmont was with him at the end-”
 
“-And

he

says the king named him the heir,” Leliana adds.
 
“But Bhelen is his son, and thinks

he’s

the rightful heir,” Hera finishes. “And you said dwarves vote on these things, Alistair?” she asks. When he nods, she rests her cheek on her fist. “So it isn’t a matter of lineage, which...makes things a little easier, actually. Bloodlines can get muddy.”
 
“Except that we have an entire Assembly unable to come to an agreement,” Morrigan reminds her. “A bloodline would make things simpler here.”
 
“So who’s

right

?” Hera muses, staring off in the distance. If Harrowment is telling the truth, then he should rightfully be king of the dwarves. But Hera herself had murdered the man who sat on her father’s throne— who had, in turn, murdered the rightful king— for the right to rule. “I suppose we have to go to the Assembly,” she sighs and turns toward the bar. “Hey Cora, where is the Assembly? Is it the large building in the middle?”
 
Cora laughs, cocking her hip as she balances a tray with one arm. “No, hun, that’s the proving grounds. You want the Assembly, you gotta go up. Follow the Commons around and you’ll see a big set of doors on the right, there’ll be a plaque beside it that says Diamond District. Follow the stairs and you’ll find it- big stone doors. The Shaperate is just past that.”
 
“The Shaperate?”
 
“You know even less than most surfacers who come down here,” the dwarf laughs. “The Shaperate is where our history is kept. Go find them when you have the chance; they’ll explain more.” 
 
Hera tosses her a couple of gold pieces, laughing as she catches them with her free hand. “You need a room later, you come find me,” Cora adds, dropping the coins into her bosom. 
 
They gather their things and move on, stopping at a few merchants to sell some of their excess supplies and resupply while they have the chance. At the far end of the market they find the doors Cora described, swinging open as someone passes through and revealing a wide set of stairs.
 
“Um, excuse me! I- um- do you have a moment?”
 
Hera turns to see a pretty dwarf girl anxiously hopping from one foot to the other. “Can I help you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
 
“You look like you’re not from around here,” the girl says.
 
Hera glances around at her friends and smirks. “Is it that obvious?”
 
The girl’s excitement increases visibly and she manages to ignore the smothered laughs behind Hera. “I’ve been trying forever to find someone who really knows the surface world,” she explains. “I-I don’t suppose you’ve heard of something called ‘The Circle?’”
 
“The Circle of Magi? Of course.”
 
“I’ve been trying to reach someone there for years; I’ve sent missives with every caravan, but I never get a reply. I want to know if they would accept me for study.”
 
Hera shrugs. “Is there any reason they wouldn’t?” Morrigan laughs, and she turns to look at her. “What?”
 
The girl laughs, covering her button nose when she snorts. “You

really

aren’t from around here,” she giggles. “Dwarves can’t do magic.”
 
“Really?” Hera’s brows draw together in a frown.

How strange. I’ve always known magic to come to dwarves the same as anyone- through study or luck.

“Is it because they have no connection to the Fade?” she asks Morrigan.
 
“It’s the lyrium,” Alistair says. “It doesn’t affect them, so they’re able to mine and work with it. A person with a connection to the Fade would go mad.”
 
Morrigan chuckles and shakes her head. “One day you must take me to see your homeland,” she says. “I would see the place where dwarves can do magic.”
 
“It’s not

that

strange a concept,” Hera mutters, pouting as Morrigan laughs at her.
 
Getting back to the matter at hand, Wynne steps forward to look at the girl. “So why do you want to study at the Circle?” she asks, leaning on her staff. 
 
“I don’t want to

do

magic,” she explains. “No dwarf can cast spells, but I don’t see why I can’t study it. It would be a valuable exchange. Orzammar would learn of one of the great natural forces of the surface, and the Circle would gain access to our knowledge of lyrium smithing.”
 
Hera looks to Wynne, who gives a small shrug in answer. “I suppose I could ask them,” Hera says. “It will be some time; I can’t leave Orzammar just yet. But we could put the Circle in our path.”
 
The girl starts hopping from one foot to the other again. “That would be wonderful! My name is Dagna, daughter of Janar of the Smith Caste. Tell them I’ve already started reading the Tevinter Imperium’s ‘Fortikum Kabad,’ and it’s just fascinating! Did you know the Imperial Magister Lords once had genealogies of every human family known to produce a mage child?”
 
Leliana giggles. “She’s so enthusiastic and adorable! I’m glad we’re helping her.”
 
As if just realizing that it’s true, Dagna gasps and presses fluttering hands to her chest. “Oh, I’ll go pack my bags right now! I’ll be waiting outside my father’s shop!”
 
“Now Dagna, I said it’ll take some time…” Hera calls after her, but the girl is already running off. 
 
“She’s going to be standing outside that shop for a long time,” Alistair chuckles.
 
“At any rate, she

is

of the smith caste,” Wynne says reasonably as they head for the doors. “The Circle will need help rebuilding.”
 
“Why would a dwarf want to study magic?” Sten asks, his voice a little disgusted. “Part of the problem with this country is the treatment of your mages. They should be controlled, unable to do as much harm as they do. In Par Vollen we keep our people safe from saarebas.”
 
“How do you do that, Sten?” Alistair asks.
 
“Saarebas have their tongues cut out,” he says simply, “and are kept in pens.”
 
Hera freezes in place, making Leliana run into her. “What did you say?”
 
Sten repeats himself, going very slowly for her benefit.
 
“Isn’t that a little harsh?” she asks, suddenly grateful she fell into Ferelden and not any qunari stronghold.
 
“As a fish stranded by the tide knows the air, or a drowning man knows the sea, so does a mage know magic,” he says sagely. “Magic is something that comes only in excess, and must be controlled.”
 
With a shiver, Hera starts moving again.

He’s right, I suppose. For some it is like drowning, but for others, it’s like breathing. I don’t know what I’d do if my magic were suddenly gone from my veins. It’s as much a part of me as my lungs or the bones of my hands.

The stairs open to yet another set of doors, these cleaner and more polished than the pair at the bottom. “I suppose this is where the upper crust lives,” Zevran says, admiring the new view of the Commons.
 
"So the closer you live to the surface, the higher class you are. Unless you're actually on the surface," Alistair muses.

These dwarves are more isolatory and harsh than I’ve encountered before,

Hera realizes, moving to stand at the railing and look out over the city.

But I have to admit, this city is beautiful. I thought at first that Ferelden couldn’t be much different than any of the other worlds I’ve been to. Instead I’ve learned so much about them…

Why, in a world so dangerous and afraid of wonder, do I feel so at home? Shouldn’t I hate a world that would destroy me out of fear?

“Hera, are you all right?”
 
She flinches at Leliana’s touch on her shoulder, blinking away her thoughts and nodding. She had been so lost in thought that she never even noticed the others were walking further into the Diamond Quarter’s level. They hurry to catch up, passing by a pair of dwarves arguing loudly about someone named Branka. “Of course,” Hera lies, giving them a wide berth. “Just… thinking.”
 
“About the dwarves? We’ll find a way to get them to honor the treaty, don’t worry.”
 
Pushing away the weight on her mind, she gives her friend a small smile. “I’m sure we will. It’s what we do, after all.”
 
*** 
 
The Assembly is exactly what it sounds like: a collection of Orzammar’s nobility assembled for the sheer purpose of shouting at one another. They are so loud that Alistair can hear the ruckus before they even enter the assembly hall. He watches Hera take in the argument going on with a blank expression on her face, wondering how she’ll respond.

She always knows exactly what to say and do,

he thinks.

I suppose having to deal with nobility all the time as a courtesan means she had to be just as political as them. I really need to start paying better attention, I could learn a lot from her- and I’m going to need it if Eamon has his way.

But she never gets the chance. Ares joins in the din, barking cheerfully as though to help, catching the attention of the steward, who ushers them out like a harried mother gone gray-haired too soon. “Stone-forsaken fools and dusters…” the steward mutters, locking the door behind him. “I’m sorry. This is the Assembly of the Clans. Only deshyrs and occasional guests of state are allowed in.”
 
“You don’t recognize a Grey Warden?” Leliana’s outraged question makes Alistair look down at his dirty, rumpled clothing- Grey Warden colors and insignia, yes, but travel-worn and badly in need of cleaning and mending.
 
“It is understandable,” Sten says disapprovingly. “They hardly look like the intimidating Grey Wardens of legend one hears of, the woman especially.”
 
“Excuse you, Sten,” Hera says primly, straightening her shoulders and flicking her long hair over her shoulder before turning back to the steward. 
 
She gives the qunari a regal look, and Alistair has to laugh when it’s met with Sten’s expressionless shrug. She turns away, shaking her head, and doesn’t see the amusement flash across Sten’s face.

And here I thought qunari didn’t like anyone outside the Qun,

Alistair thinks, grabbing Ares’ collar to keep him from sniffing the dwarf.

It seems my traveling courtesan has managed to capture more hearts than just my own.

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Hera is saying. “Here about a treaty.”
 
The steward rubs his forehead and sighs so deeply it seems to come from the soles of his feet. “Forgive me— I am so exhausted. I completely forgot about the message from the gate guard.” He pulls himself up to his full height and tries to look dignified. His efforts are mostly useless; his doublet is wrinkled, there’s a red spot between his bushy eyebrows, and his beard is beginning to come out of its intricate braids. He looks, all in all, like a man who is beginning to question his life choices. “Welcome to Orzammar, Warden. I hope you can forgive our unrest. The loss of our king has hit us hard.”
 
For what seems the millionth time, Alistair feels a hollow echo in his chest at the sentiment.

Does anyone else feel the loss of Ferelden’s king as deeply

, he wonders.

Or is it only because he was my brother and leaves his empty throne to me that fills me with dread and discomfort?

Somehow, the shadow that passes over Hera’s face comforts him.

She didn’t know Cailan, but surely she misses the guidance of her own queen. The way she talks about the woman makes me think they’ve been close.

“Respect for your role is great,” the steward goes on, “but you won’t receive a proper hearing until we have a king on the throne.”

Ferelden might have a traitor for a regent, but at least

someone’s

in charge.

“Is there any way we can help break this stalemate?” Hera asks, frowning.
 
The dwarf shrugs. “I must admit, Warden, I am at a loss myself. It lies with Prince Bhelen or Lord Harrowmont, and they are slow to trust anyone in these uncertain times. I only wish there was more I could do for you,” he ends, shaking his head and setting his gray braids swinging.
 
Alistair watches her take on a shrewd look. “These contenders for the throne, they have spokesmen, yes?”
 
“Oh yes. Vartag Gavorn over there speaks for Prince Bhelen,” he says, pointing over at a surly looking man in red armor. “Dulin Forender will find you as well, I’m sure.”
 
Hera gives some vague, adoring response Alistair doesn’t listen to, instead studying the armored dwarf to the side.

He looks like a hired thug and not a prince’s companion,

he thinks, eyebrows drawing together.

I don’t like him.

“Warden, welcome,” Gavorn calls, motioning them closer. “It is always a blessing for Orzammar to host your order. I am Vartag Gavorn, top advisor to our good Prince Bhelen. What news do you bring?”
 
“Thank you for the warm welcome, Vartag,” Hera says. “I’m afraid our news isn’t cheerful- we’ve come seeking aid against the Blight.”
 
“Yes, the treaty.” He nods, rubbing his chin. “I’ve seen it in the shapers’ libraries. Now, the difficulty is that the treaty only compels our

king

, and we are sadly lacking one of those right now.”
 
Alistair watches Hera take the bait, listening to Gavorn explain that with Lord Harrowmont and some of the other lords rising against the prince, Bhelen can’t help them until they’ve done a favor for him first. Looking over at the others, he sees a myriad of reactions to Gavorn: Wynne and Leliana frown, disliking the man instantly; Morrigan and Zevran both look bored- that makes sense, as Morrigan has no love for politicians and their world, and for Zevran this is nothing new- and Sten looks...like Sten. He might as well be squatting beside Ares yawning.
 
“Yes, well, that

is

interesting, Vartag,” Hera murmurs, her lips settled into a soft pout while she studies papers in her hand.

Maker damn me, did I miss something?

He wonders, glancing over her shoulder and nodding thoughtfully.
 
“I’ll see what I can do about this,” she says, tucking the papers away. “And where shall I find you again?”
 
Gavorn gives her a smile that’s more slime than cheer, making Alistair like him even less. “I’ll be around, Warden. You won’t have any trouble finding me.”
 
Gavorn walks off, settling himself on a stone bench along the wall. Hera gives Alistair an amused look and rolls her eyes. Alistair chuckles, practically hearing her thoughts:

Damn dwarves, so dramatic.

“So what now?” he asks as they exit back into the Diamond Quarter. 
 
“I suppose we should look into this,” she says, pulling the papers back out. “Cora said the Shaperate was near here. I imagine we can find answers there.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera is totally unsurprised when another dwarf greets them outside the doors of the Assembly- and it shows in the way she keeps her expression carefully neutral when he speaks. Like the other, he is dressed in fine armor, but that is where the resemblance ends. Where Vartag was scruffy and had the look of hired muscle, the dwarf that surely must be Dulen Forender has an air of respectability.

It’s probably because he combs his hair,

she thinks, picking up the scent of perfumed oil underlying the sweat and ale.

And bathes, too. Vast improvement.

“I heard that was a Grey Warden here,” he says pleasantly. His voice is smooth- for a dwarf- and Hera has the feeling that an accomplished politician stands before her. “I am Dulen Forender, second to Lord Harrowmont, King Endrin’s own choice as successor. Word is spreading that the surface may suffer a Blight. It is shameful we are not in a better position to help.”
 
“Yes, it is,” she says, a little harsher than she intended. If I hear one more person talk about how damnably sorry they are but won't offer up help, I'm going to scream. “People are dying, Master Forender. Dwarves are dying, along with everyone else.”
 
“I understand, Grey Warden, but we

need

a king on the throne-”
 
“I know,” she sighs, putting her hands on her hips. “Could I speak with Lord Harrowmont?”
 
“In ordinary times, he would be honored to meet you,” he says apologetically, smoothing his expression into one of polite rejection. “Unfortunately, we’ve already caught more than one of Bhelen’s spies approaching Harrowmont under the pretense of friendship. So I’m afraid I won’t be able to take your word. If you want to speak with Harrowmont, you will need to prove he can trust you.”
 
“How can I prove I’m not working for Bhelen?” she asks.

Yet, anyway. I want to find out more about these two before I go choosing sides.

“That’s a generous offer. If you mean it, you might attend the Proving today. The deshyrs take it very seriously. And unfortunately, Behlen has found some way to blackmail or intimidate House Harrowmont’s best fighters into stepping down.”
 
“So you want me to find out why your fighters stepped down?”

Damn me to seven hells, I’m not working for anyone yet and they’re already giving me a headache.

Hera sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, wondering how many times her friend Aara has thought the exact same thing. As far as she knew, Aara had a harder time with dwarves than she did.
 
“That would be...enlightening,” Dulen acknowledges, but his tone leads her to believe there’s more. “Though I hope you won’t pry too deeply into things they don’t wish revealed. If you wish to show your loyalty, enter the Proving as his lordship’s champion. With your order’s reputation, I have no doubt the ancestors would favor your arm.”
 
“Do not hope so much,” Sten muttered.
 
Hera, Leliana, Alistair, and Wynne all shot him a glare, but it only made him shrug and stuff his hands into his pockets as Morrigan and Zevran snickered at his comment.
 
“Bhelen would never work with anyone who humiliated him in that way,” Dulen explains. “Harrowmont would have no fear of meeting you then.”
 
Hera looks over at Alistair, feeling a little bewildered. “Dulen, I’d like to discuss this with my companions and find out a little more of the two of you. I’d rather not pick sides, but that doesn’t seem to be a real option, is it?”
 
Dulen’s mouth settles into a grim line and he glowers at her. “I’m afraid not, Warden,” he says stiffly. “But I will suggest you talk to the people. The arena is located off the Commons, I’m sure you’ve seen it. Talk to the Proving master and tell him you’re entering Lord Harrowmont’s roster. If I see you in the lists, I’ll know your choice.” 
 
She nods, thanking and bidding him farewell before she turns to the others. “Well?”
 
“Neither of these men will fight their own battles,” Zevran scoffs. “They are cowards.”
 
“Their lives have been in danger,” Leliana argues. “You heard Dulen say they’d captured spies.”
 
Sten’s frown deepens. “We should not be making this decision for them.”
 
“I agree, Sten, but it seems we’re without an option,” Wynne says thoughtfully, walking over to the edge of the level and sitting on a stone bench. “But we should try and choose someone good for Orzammar.”
 
“But

who’s

good for them?” Alistair sat across from her, setting his backpack down and rubbing his hands over his face. “The prince or the lord?”
 
“We’re no closer to our goal than before,” Hera sighs, tossing her pack next to Alistair’s and sitting beside him. “Morrigan, do you have any ideas?”
 
“

Me?

” Morrigan’s golden eyes grow wide, and she hesitates before speaking again. “Why me? I know nothing of kings and dwarves.”
 
“Exactly,” Hera says, waving her closer. “The rest of us have lived under a ruler of some kind, so our judgment may be clouded.”

Especially mine,

she adds silently.

I see potential allies, men I can manipulate and use, not a proper leader for them.

Morrigan watches her shrewdly for a moment. “Then I say we listen to the people,” she decides. “Mingle among them, shop and waste our time a little. You and Alistair may go to the Shaperate and look into those papers, and the rest of us shall see what we can discover about these potential kings of stone.”
 
Alistair snorts beside her. “That’s...a good idea, actually.”
 
Morrigan’s expression sours and she sniffs, lifting her chin. “

Some

of us have them,” she says haughtily. 
 
Even Alistair chuckles, scratching Ares behind the ears. “Oh go on, have your fun at my expense.” Hera’s relieved to hear amusement- and not venom- in their voices, and hopes that things may finally be changing between the two.
 
“So we’ll go to the Shapers, and you talk to a few people up here and few below,” Hera decides. “We’ll meet at the Proving Arena in an hour.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I don’t see how we can support Behlen.” Wynne’s voice is filled with the heat of her anger, and Hera can see little sparks coming off her fingertips every few minutes. “He had Prince Trian killed, framed his younger brother Duren for the deed, and exiled

him

into the Deep Roads as punishment!”
 
“But Wynne, he will end the dwarves’ isolation,” Leliana reminds her. “Give the casteless a chance to better themselves. They could join the army.”
 
“

And

he will break some of this stodgy tradition- like this stalemate,” Zevran adds.
 
“And what will Harrowmont do? Keep them in the mountain?” Morrigan asks, pacing. “He is a traditionalist, he will not change Orzammar in his lifetime.”
 
Hera watches the debate silently, arms folded over her chest. She and Alistair had discovered that Behlen’s papers to discredit Harrowmont were fakes, and the Shaper had agreed to look into the matter for them. As for what she’d heard of Harrowmont, he seemed a decent enough fellow, intending to lead the dwarves in the same traditions they’d followed for centuries- a direct challenge to Behlen’s progressive attitude.

They’ll never make a decision,

she thinks, watching Alistair argue for Behlen-

that

was surprising, as he was so keen to avoid the crown waiting for his own head.

Behlen wants to make changes, an admirable trait, but not something I can use right now. He would throw Orzammar into chaos trying to make change happen quickly. If he honors our treaty, his casteless would put inexperienced men against the darkspawn- are extra blades worth it? Behlen is the one who started the brawl when we entered the city… Aggressive. If he would kill both his brothers, will he try to fight me over the treaty? Or just send me green casteless instead of good, blooded soldiers?

Harrowmont will grow stale before long, but in the immediate future, he might be a better choice. He’s stable, said to be an honest man. And if Dulen is telling the truth, he’ll honor the treaty and give me the troops I need to stop the Blight.

“Harrowmont is our man,” she says, her tone making it clear that she’ll have no more arguing as she heads into the Proving Arena. 
 
“What? Wait, I thought-”
 
Hera waves her hand, cutting Alistair off. “If we just stand around debating it, then we’re moving no faster than the dwarves, Alistair,” she tells him. “And we’re running out of time. I’ll fight in the Proving, and we’ll get Harrowmont crowned king.”
 
Wynne scowls. “Hera, this is madness, you can’t just make a decision like this without-”
 
“Without what, Wynne?” she asks, rounding on her. “The dwarves have gone round and round over this. What we need is a decision, and a quick one. The Shaper said Bhelen’s papers were fraudulent, so we have to go with the one who hasn’t lied to us.”
 
“Yet,” Morrigan says dryly. “And what about when he does?”
 
Hera fixes her with a determined look. “Then I’ll deal with him on my own.”
 
***

Alistair, Zevran, and Sten all lean on the railing, eyes on Hera in the stadium below.
 
“Kadan is doing well,” Sten says, watching her fight her second match. 
 
Alistair nods, torn between admiration and concern for her. She’d listened to both Bhelen’s and Harrowmont’s advocates, and decided that she would support traditional Harrowmont for king instead of the progressive ideas of Prince Bhelen.

She was right about one thing- we would have stood there and talked about who was better for days. I just hope she made the right choice.

Her first opponent, Seweryn of the Warrior Caste, had underestimated her, shouting to the crowd that a skinny human female would never defeat him. Hera had laughed and defeated him before he ever struck his first blow. The party had rushed to her side as soon as she left the stadium, but she had simply waved them off and asked for the next round. Her shining battle grin was partially what had him worried- she could be rash in battle without someone beside her to temper it.
 
The other thing that worried him was her opponent- or rather,

opponents

. Myaja and Lucjan were a formidable team, and she was going against them alone. Wynne and Leliana were too worried to watch, and stood well behind them, listening to the screaming crowd and steel crashing against steel.
 
“Is she hurt?” Leliana asks, hiding her face in her hands. “Maker, I’m so nervous. This was a terrible choice.”
 
“Not really,” Zevran assures her. “She is doing well.”
 
“That’s what Sten just said.”
 
Alistair raises his hand to calm her. “It’s fine, Lil. She’s playing it smart.”
 
“For once,” Sten mutters. “Look at that! What are you doing?” he shouts angrily when one of the dwarves gets inside her guard. “She has forgotten all our training.”
 
Zevran laughs, watching her drop into a crouch and sweep Lucjan’s feet out from under him, then coming up in a solid blow to Myaja, stunning them both. 
 
“My my,” Morrigan drawls alongside Sten. “She

is

playing it smart for once. It is...interesting to see how she does it alone. I have wondered.”
 
“She doesn’t fight alone,” Alistair explains, pointing to the way she moves from one stunned dwarf to the other, taking what opportunities are there. “Look, she’s acting almost like a shield- I use that same positioning sometimes. Her brother probably has a ranged attack, or only uses one weapon. See how she stays between them, switching her attacks between them and keeping them from moving forward? She’s keeping them from reaching some unseen partner.”
 
“You can tell that by watching?” Zevran asks, taking his eyes off her to look at Alistair. 
 
“I

was

educated to be a warrior,” he reminds them. “I’ve also been fighting by her side since the beginning of all this.” 
 
Myaja crumples at Hera’s feet, and they all cheer, causing Leliana to barrel her way between Zevran and Alistair to see. Seconds later Lucjan follows, and they head back to the fighter’s resting area once more.
 
“Are you all right?” Alistair demands, running his hands over her briefly.
 
Hera feels deliciously tired after her two fights and doesn’t mind either his attention or the bruises she’ll have later. “Hmm,” she hums as he checks her for injuries. “I’m fine. Mostly.”
 
“Let me see to your cuts,” Wynne says, leading her to a seat as blue light glows around her hands. “Leliana, would you go collect my winnings?” she adds, handing Leliana a ticket.
 
“Your winnings?” Morrigan asks. “Wynne, you’ve been betting on our Warden?”
 
“I knew you were no boring old lady,” Zevran chuckles.
 
“Of course I have,” Wynne chuckles, running her finger over a cut above Hera’s eyebrow. “I’ve been using our group funds, and more than doubled it so far. You’ve been very profitable,” she tells Hera. “Morrigan and Sten, go with her please, I’d hate for her to get robbed.”
 
“Don’t bet it all,” she warns as they leave. “The foreman said they’re getting harder.”
 
“I haven’t been,” Wynne explains, smearing a stinging salve on her visible cuts. “Nothing’s got through your armor?” Hera shakes her head and accepts the water Alistair offers.
 
“Don’t heal anything, Wynne, I want them to see,” she explains, taking a long drink. “I need to get back out there.”
 
“Are you crazy?” Alistair asks. “You need to rest a little while.”
 
“I can’t,” she insists, rising. “We don’t have time to waste.” She looks up as the foreman approaches. “Who is my next opponent?”
 
“Well, this bout should be quick and dirty,” he tells her. “You’ll be fighting Hanashan, one of the legendary Silent Sisters.”
 
Hera looks at him blankly. “I don’t know what that means.”
 
“She’s a ferocious fighter,” he explains, “and dedicated enough to cut out her own tongue.”
 
“Gross,” Alistair murmurs.
 
“Are you ready to begin?” he asks her, ignoring the mumbled comment. Hera nods, and he goes through the doors to the arena.
 
Hera moves to follow, but Alistair grabs her hand first. “Be careful,” he says softly, squeezing her hand. 
 
She gives him a split-lip smile. “I always am, Hero,” she quips, blows him a kiss, and follows the foreman.
 
“No you’re not!” he calls after her. She only raises a hand in acknowledgment, and he sighs and looks at Sten. “No she’s not.”
 
***
 
Later that night Hera falls into bed, bone-weary and damp after a second blistering hot bath. Lord Harrowmont insisted they stay with him as guests, and had his own physicians see to Hera after the Proving. After they’d had some time to rest and regroup, they’d shared a lavish dinner while they discussed the deaths of the two princes, and why Harrowmont and King Endrin both felt Bhelen responsible.

Even King Endrin believed his son responsible for the others’ deaths.

She groans, shifting on the thin mattress and trying to find a comfortable position.

Taking back Ravenloft was almost easier than getting a dwarf crowned here.

“Hera,” Alistair says as he slides into bed beside her. “Why Harrowmont?”
 
She turns to face him, sore muscles hungry for the warmth of his arms.

At least I’ll sleep well tonight.

“Behlen wants to revolutionize their entire society,” she explains, yawning. “Change is good, but it also brings instability to an already fickle people. Harrowmont will give us what we need without added chaos of social revolution.”
 
“Is he the best choice as king, though?”

Was I the best choice for Ravenloft?

“I can't say,” she confesses, looking down at the gold, wiry hair on his chest. “We don't know them well enough. But my gut tells me that Harrowmont is a man of honor, and will see us through the Blight. Behlen is...angry, and that doesn’t make for a good king.”

Please, please let him be the right choice.

He nods, running his hands over her bandages, still unconsciously checking for wounds. She makes a soft sound of pleasure, and he increases the pressure slightly, massaging through the bandages gently. “Raven...do you think I’m the right choice?” he asks in a low voice. “To be king of Ferelden? I’m angry,” he admits shamefully, “with Loghain, and the nobles supporting him.”
 
“Is that what this is about?” she whispers and reaches up to cup his jaw. “You are a good man who loves his country. I have faith in you, Hero.”

He lets out a deep breath and gives her a relieved smile. “Well, if

you

have faith in me, then Eamon must not be as crazy as I think.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera and the others rise early and meet Harrowmont in his study, ready to talk business. Harrowmont himself lacks the frivolity seen in many nobles; indeed, he is so formal and serious that half the Ravencourt would have shunned him within minutes and the other half would condescendingly praise him the only dwarf with manners. But Hera is used to dealing with the pretension and delicate feelings of courtiers and finds Harrowmont’s straight-forward nature refreshing.
 
“I trust you slept well?” he asks, setting a sheaf of papers and a pair of spectacles on his desk. “We do not get many visits from the surface, but I do try to be accommodating.”
 
“It was fine, my lord,” Hera assures him. “Your hospitality is unmatched in Orzammar. Now, how do we make sure you are the one who sits on the throne?”
 
He sighs and looks up at her with apprehension in his lined face. “I appreciate what you have done, Warden,” he says slowly, “and I apologize for putting one of your rank through such trials. I never sought the throne. My role was to serve Endrin, first as his advisor, then as an elected deshyr in the Assembly. But both Endrin and my colleagues have asked me to step up, and I will not back down when Orzammar needs me.”
 
Hera waves a hand impatiently. “The time for posturing was last night, my lord. All I want is your help against the Blight.”
 
He shakes his head, shoulders sagging. “For us, the darkspawn are a constant menace,” he says patiently. “A Blight may not elicit the same urgency you are used to.”
 
“My lord, your world could

die

,” she reminds him. “This is bigger than simply a

constant menace.

”
 
“Would that I could help you.” Harrowmont lifts his hands helplessly. 
 
“You

can!

” Hera growls. “I’ve done what you asked and took the place of your men in the Proving— and won, if I might add. All you have to do is act!”
 
Harrowmont shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, Warden. Ultimately, the Assembly decides what troops to send. If they no longer fear a civil war, they’ll have no reason to hold back. If you want my support to count, I will have to be king, and right now, there is no sure way to get there.”
 
“Is there an

unsure

way to get you there?” Zevran asks.
 
The gray-haired dwarf gets the familiar glint of ambition in his eye, and Hera’s curiosity returns.

What is he thinking?

As if afraid she can read his thoughts through his eyes, he turns and begins pacing, hands behind him.
 
“Have you heard of a woman named Jarvia and the criminal cartel she runs?” he asks. The question is a light, casual one, as if asking about the weather on the surface, and Hera hears a soft sound of realization behind her. 
 
“Let me guess,” Leliana yawns, feigning boredom and putting a hand on her hip. “We take them out, you get the credit. Is that your idea?”
 
“Jarvia and her cartel are a menace,” he explains. “Every day—
 
“The darkspawn are a menace,” Hera cuts in. “Jarvia sounds like an annoyance. One that doesn’t really compare to our current situation. Why does

this

problem need to be solved?”
 
Lord Harrowmont sighs again, making Hera wonder how many times he’s had to fight with someone to make even the smallest difference. “Because it is immediate, Warden, and I cannot be elected king without some kind of spectacle. The people and the Assembly have to

see

that I can make Orzammar safe. And before you start about the Blight again, the Assembly receives pleas from the common folk every day, begging for something to be done about her. So far, no one has managed.”
 
“Yes, Leliana, that

is

his plan,” Morrigan says cheerfully. “He is not implicated in disruption of the peace, yet he will have the credit of cleaning them out. It’s a foolish, cowardly thing.”
 
“Let’s hear him before we decide anything,” Hera tells them over her shoulder. 
 
“They have the right of it,” Harrowmont says simply, shrugging. “Jarvia hides her base in Dust Town, the raw edge of the city where no one but the casteless and criminals live. But if you help me, it will show the Assembly that I, and not Bhelen, have the ability to defend and rule the city.”
 
“By having the Grey Wardens on your side as endorsements and errand runners,” Zevran adds. “It is a good plan, really.”
 
Hera looks over at Alistair. “Well, Grey Warden?” she asks. “It’s

our

names and order that are doing the work here, what do you think?”
 
His brow furrows, and he looks back to Lord Harrowmont. “She’s a criminal?”
 
The lord nods. “The Carta extorts money from the merchants, steals outright from the deshyrs, and doesn't worry about the blood on their hands. Jarvia is just another leader in a long line of the worst of us.”
 
“And you will have men ready to fight the Blight?” Alistair presses.
 
“Do this for me, and when I take the throne, I promise that I will not stop until the Assembly sends troops to aid you,” Harrowmont swears.
 
Hera can practically see Alistair remembering their conversation the night before.

Harrowmont will give us what we need without added chaos of social revolution,

she’d said, and hoped it was true. “Alistair,” she says, getting his attention again. “Do you want to think about it?”
 
“No,” he says firmly, making up his mind. “No, we need the dwarves, and this is what they need in return. Let’s go catch a rat.”
 
“Thank you, Grey Wardens,” Harrowmont says with a sigh of relief. “Look for Jarvia in Dust Town, and do whatever it takes to see justice served.”
 
“That’s what Grey Wardens do, my lord,” Alistair tells him. 
 
***
 
“We’re being watched,” Sten says after soundlessly appearing at her side. 
 
“Bhelen’s men, by my guess,” Zevran adds, keeping his sword loose in its scabbard. 
 
Hera glances around casually, flicking a piece of imaginary lint from her shoulder, and catches sight of six dwarves in matching armor. “Boys, I think you’re onto something,” she murmurs. “Only six?”
 
“Pitiful really,” Alistair chuckles.
 
“Be ready.” Sten nods to Alistair, who starts to hang back to walk with Wynne.
 
“I’m quite capable of protecting myself,” she chuckles, leaning on her staff. 
 
“The Commons are packed with people,” Hera adds. “I don’t want you or Morrigan getting a knife in the back, is all.”
 
“Aren’t you sweet,” Wynne laughs.
 
Morrigan isn’t mollified, and puts her hands on her hips, ready to argue. “I do not need-”
 
“Harrowmont has suckered the Warden!” a voice in the crowd shouts, drawing a hammer nearly as large as he is. “Bhelen will not allow it!”
 
They seem to come right out of the stone, crossbows twanging and axes glinting in the lava’s light. Hera has had enough experience fighting dwarves to know the moment to drop her swing or jerk a hip out of the way. It’s not quite a reflex, but enough to keep her from getting maimed. Sten, however, stands head and shoulders above them all, and only the lowest of his swings make contact. If she weren’t dodging Morrigan’s beloved fireballs

and

trying not to get killed, it would be an amusing sight.
 
The dwarves may not have been prepared for Sten’s height, but they came well-armed all the same. While Hera has to slide on her knee, dodging a blow and sticking her dagger into an exposed armpit, the dwarves simply move their hands further down the handle of their massive hammers and axes, allowing them to do serious damage to Sten if they come into contact. Leaving her own attacker to bleed on the stone, she takes advantage of the wide-open space the dwarf leaves as he swings for Sten’s torso. A flurry of strikes finds the gaps in his armor, and Sten’s smooth, controlled motion takes off the head just as she’s tackled to the ground by a poor dwarf lit aflame by Morrigan, her own skull bouncing off the stone.
 
The impact knocks the breath from her, and, combined with the weight of the dwarf and the heat of the fire, it is impossible to draw another. The dwarf’s head rests on her hip, igniting her tunic and scorching the plates there. Pain blossoms along her legs; all Hera can do is pray her hair doesn’t catch and try to scramble away. 
 
Dimly she hears a desperate, sucking sound, and black spots dance across her vision. Frost, cold and welcome, sketches its way over her as the world around her fades.
 
***
 
“Don’t move her,” Wynne warns.
 
“Let me through—”
 
“Ares, back!” Sten’s voice is unmistakable, the command cutting through the muffling pressure in her head. “Alistair, stay where you are.”
 
“Sten, you—”
 
There’s a grunt and rustle of leather and metal, followed by muttered curses. Hera feels the corners of her lips turn up when a cold nose nudges her cheek, followed by a tentative lick. The beginnings of a smile fade as full consciousness arrives, conveniently followed by an agonizing pain in the lower half of her body.
 
“You’re awake, thank the Maker,” Leliana says, her relief rushing out on a held breath. She picks up Hera’s hand and clutches it tightly before looking off to the side. “Wynne.”
 
“Hera? Are you all right?”
 
Alistair’s panicked tone makes her turn her head, opening her eyes and meeting his worried hazel gaze. The movement makes her want to vomit, but she bites her tongue against it until it passes. Like her, Alistair is lying down a few feet away. “Always, Hero,” she whispers, her small smile growing when she realizes Zevran is sitting on his chest to keep him in place. “Are you?”
 
Alistair grunts. “A split skull,” he says, and she notices the blood at his hairline dribbling down his temple for the first time.
 
“And I imagine we’ll have a dead Crow if he doesn’t get off Alistair,” Wynne says as she kneels beside Hera, a concerned look on her face. Whispers fill the air, and she realizes that there’s a ring of people around: some out of morbid curiosity to see the smoldering flesh of one of their own, others to see what will happen next. 
 
Hera’s eyes widen and her face turns ashen as a horrifying thought occurs to her. “Lel,” she whispers, gripping the bard’s hand tightly. “My hair. Did it burn?”
 
“Your...your

hair?

” Leliana asks in a high pitch. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
 
“Please, Leliana,” she whispers furtively. “Just tell me if my hair is ruined.”
 
Leliana’s blue eyes travel over Hera’s head. “No, you’re lucky. The braid was a good idea.”
 
“Are you dispensing beauty advice at a time like this?” Wynne asks with a chuckle, lifting a hip plate and checking the skin beneath. “Flash burns, it looks like. You’ll be fine, but this might hurt.” 
 
Wynne’s magic smooths over Hera’s angry, blistered flesh, cooling and mending as it spreads, leaving it only tender and bright pink. Shivering at the sudden temperature change, Hera closes her eyes, sighing before sitting up slowly and touching the back of her head. Her fingers come away clean, but she’s certain there’ll be a painful knot there soon.

I can manage a bump on the head later,

she decides,

I’ll just heal it myself when no one’s looking.

A warm breeze from the nearby lava brushes over her, and she looks down, seeing just how much damage the dwarf did with his fire. “Ahh...did no one notice this part?” she asks, gesturing to the remnants of her pants. The fire scorched her boots and armor, leaving black marks on the metal and leather, but the fabric of her trousers is nothing but ash below her thighs.
 
“You can blame me for that,” Morrigan says airily, tucking a stray lock of hair back into the knot on her head. “I set the dwarf aflame.”
 
“Yes, but now I’m nearly naked,” Hera counters dryly, twisting her lips into a moue of disapproval.
 
Morrigan gives her a sly look and raises an eyebrow curiously. “Have you suddenly found modesty, Hera? I am shocked to my core.”
 
Hera laughs, taking Sten’s offered hand to lift her to her feet, the back of her trousers hanging behind her. “Of course not,” she scoffs. “But if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask, Morrigan.”
 
“Hey! I’m not all right with that!” Alistair says, shoving Zevran off him. 
 
Hera laughs and walks over to him as he sits up. “Jealous, my love?” she whispers, kissing the bloody spot on his head. The scent of his blood is enticing, and hunger curls in the pit of her stomach, a familiar ache she’s never had to suppress before.

I can’t feed here,

she reminds herself, brushing his hair back so Wynne can heal it as well.

I imagine there’s nowhere in Thedas I could feed in true safety. They don’t have vampires here. But,

she tells herself with a deep breath of fresh air,

I can go without. It won’t be the first time.

It’s just not going to be pleasant

“No,” he pouts, glaring at Morrigan. “We should go back and get you into some new clothes,” he adds, sliding a hand up her leg. 
 
“Alistair, we aren’t exactly alone,” Hera teases, jerking her chin toward the crowd of strangers watching. “When did you become such an exhibitionist?”
 
“When did you become a prude?” he teases back, eyes crinkling. “But...you’re right, if we’re going to take down the Carta, you should at least wear trousers.”
 
“You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” she decides. 
 
“After what just happened, no one should travel alone,” Sten says, waving a hand at the dead bodies around them.
 
“I’ll go,” Leliana offers.
 
Hera tosses her braid over her shoulder. “It’s a plan, then. You all go on to Dust Town and Leliana and I will meet you there.”
 
Alistair frowns, clearly not happy with this idea. “Hera, even

two

of you isn’t enough,” he says, pulling her aside. “You were just on fire a few minutes ago.”
 
“That was Morrigan’s fault; I doubt any of the dwarves are going to use that trick.” She gives him a bright smile and caresses his jaw. “Love, I’ll be fine. They won’t try anything again so soon.”
 
He grimaces. “I still don’t like it.”
 
“Wait at the tavern,” she suggests, waving her hand toward it. “See what Cora knows about Jarvia and her Carta. We won’t be long.”
 
Alistair finally gives in, following the others into the tavern while Leliana and Hera hurry back to the Harrowmont estate. Whispers follow them through the Commons, some centering on the brawl that had just happened, most on the indecency of surfacers prancing around in their all-together. Hera ignores it, keeping her chin up and reminding herself of her brother’s belief that it’s better to act with dignity than to actually have it.
 
The servants at the Harrowmont estate try to make a fuss when they arrive, but Hera laughs them off, swearing she’s fine and only needs a change of clothes. Lady Harrowmont, embarrassed that her husband’s opponent would behave so poorly, promises to provide her with a new suit of clothes, which Hera accepts gratefully, then agrees to stand for measurements when they return.
 
She hurries Leliana into her room, closing the door before anyone else can follow and leaning against it with a sigh. “Dwarves,” she chuckles. “Lel, are you all right?”
 
Leliana stands in the middle of the small room, taking in the rumpled bedding and clothing strewn about- Alistair is less than tidy when there’s space to be had. Candles burned low in the night while she and Alistair had sat up talking, half-filled wine glasses forgotten in the midst of an embrace. It is obviously a room belonging to lovers.
 
“Yes,” she says, turning back to Hera. “It’s just...strange.”
 
Hera leaves her spot at the door and starts digging in her pack for clothes. “He’s a whirlwind, I know,” she chuckles, tossing trousers on the bed. “Throws his clothes everywhere the moment the door is closed.”
 
“I was jealous of him, you know,” Leliana says, turning her back as Hera begins to remove her clothes. “At first.”
 
“Oh, I remember,” she laughs, then smothers it quickly. “I’m sorry, Leliana, I shouldn’t laugh. You were hurt, and it was unkind of me.”
 
“No, it’s fine, it

was

overdramatic and…” Blushing Leliana shrugs, twisting her fingers together. “I was embarrassed. When you said you couldn't afford any connections, I believed you and just assumed you wouldn’t bother with anyone. And then…”
 
“And then I allowed Alistair to court me,” Hera finishes. “I am sorry if it causes you pain.”
 
“Not anymore- not since we talked about it. But at first…terribly so.”
 
“What changed?”
 
Leliana shrugs. “I saw how you were with him- how you

are

with him. You truly love him, even though you didn't want to. You acted as if all you felt was lust. Watching you fight against falling in love with him...it would have hurt more to be on the other end of so reluctant a romance.”
 
“I…” Her voice trails off as she considers her friend’s words.

She’s right. I wanted to sleep with him; I didn’t want to love him. Does he know it, too? Have I caused him heartache by trying to keep it simple? Damn me to seven hells, I never thought of it that way. And now here we are, in the middle of some ridiculous fairy tale, and I’m going to die soon.

Tears prick her eyes and she blinks them away quickly, discarding the burned clothing and tugging off her boots. “I never thought I would fall in love again,” she says softly. “I never

wanted

to. It was horrible the first time.”
 
“I know. You...you keep things from him,” Leliana explained. “From all of us, really.”
 
“I have to,” Hera reminds her. “Please believe me, I’d like nothing more than to confide in you, and get help, but it just isn’t going to happen. There is no help for my situation.”
 
Leliana shakes her head, looking annoyed. “Hera, you’re missing my point: you’re keeping it from

him

, and it’s obvious that it won’t be good when he

does

find out.” She shakes her head slowly. “I’m not trying to convince you to tell us what’s going on. It just makes me glad that it’s not me, is all. I don't think I could handle the secrets.”
 
Hera chuckles, pulling her trousers up. “So you’re not jealous because otherwise I’d be keeping things from you.”
 
“Deadly things, I think.”
 
Hera pulls a new shirt over her head, turning to Leliana. “Yes. Things that will get you all killed. Can I ask a favor of you, Leliana?”
 
“Of course you can,” she says, coming over to help with her armor.
 
Hera makes a point not to look at her when she speaks next, afraid that Leliana will see the truth of it all in her eyes. “When I’m...gone, will you be there for him, help him? You’ve been to court, you could help him find his way.”
 
“What do you mean, gone?” Fear creeps into Leliana’s voice and she looks up with dread in her eyes.
 
This time Hera can’t blink back her tears or look away from her friend. “I lost him the moment Eamon said he was going to make him king,” she says softly, brushing her fingers across her cheek. “I can’t ask him to come back to Ravenloft with me now.”
 
Leliana’s nimble fingers freeze in the middle of fixing a buckle. “Can’t you stay here?”
 
Hera shakes her head, her expression mirroring the ache in her heart at the thought of leaving him. “I’m needed in Ravenloft.”
 
“Why, Hera? Are you royalty or something? Is that why you have to go back?”
 
She opens her mouth to answer, but closes it a second later. “I have responsibilities,” is all she says, looking away. “My brother wasn’t ready to take over all my affairs when I disappeared.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

An arched passage and down short set of stairs is all it takes to reach Dust Town from the Commons. But those few steps change everything around them as the clean-swept stone disappears from beneath their feet, turning to a thick, half-dried mud that sucks at their shoes as they walk. The light and warmth provided by flowing rivers of lava dissolve into a drafty, eternal twilight lit by glowing orbs hanging from high above or lamps with a burning lump of coal giving off a thin and smoky light.
 
“Let me guess,” Alistair says with heavy disapproval, “this is where the poor people live.”
 
“It’s depressing,” Zevran groans.
 
“It’s disgusting,” Morrigan corrects.
 
“It is hardly different than the alienages,” Leliana reminds them. 
 
“Is it?” Hera asks, slowly taking in the run-down building with their broken stone walls and tattered strings of cloth stretched across the spaces to make individual rooms. Clotheslines hung above a small laundry equipped with only a few bubbling pots and a tired-looking laundress moving from one to the other, stirring the clothing inside.
 
“That’s right,” Alistair says, snapping his fingers at the memory. “The alienage was closed off when we were in Denerim.”
 
Hera nods, frowning. “The guard said there had been riots, remember? Seven hells, this is terrible,” she mutters as they go down the cramped street and into what could only be called the square. “This is as bad as the Hive.”
 
“The what?” Zevran asks.
 
“The slums in Sigil,” she explains. “It’s...it’s a hive,” she adds with a shrug. “People live on top of each other, filthy and poor, full of criminals. But it’s so large, and there are so many people, that there’s little to be done about it.”
 
“Doesn’t Ravenloft have slums?” Wynne asks. 
 
Hera shrugs again, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t know, but I don’t get out of the palace often.” She satisfies herself with half a lie- she

doesn’t

get out of the palace often, but she had worked to lift up the villages and settlements that had suffered under Strahd’s reign. Part of that had been finding new ways to employ the poor, increasing trade with Sigil, and in some cases offering employment as servants in her pleasure-house or her brother’s gladiator academy in Sigil.
 
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Leliana agrees.
 
“Keep your distance,” Zevran mutters under his breath, eyeing the beggars and rough-looking dwarves loitering around. “Half will kill you and the rest will pick your pockets.”
 
“Should we split up?” Leliana asks.
 
Hera looks back at Sten, Zevran, and Morrigan- three people she wouldn’t want questioning anyone.

Sten looks like he’ll arrest someone for looking at him the wrong way, Zevran needs to keep his hands off his knives for once, and Morrigan is just...Morrigan.

“Let’s stay together,” she suggests.
 
They spend an hour asking various people about Jarvia, meeting with angry silence or fearful denial. It’s clear that Jarvia holds Dust Town- but whether it’s protection or tyranny is muddy. So many stories and answers conflict with one another that Hera can’t tell if Jarvia is trying to save the casteless or use them for her own ends.

In the end, it’s all the same, isn’t it?

She wonders, taking a seat on a dusty stone step and propping her elbows on her knees. She lets her head hang between her arms.

Either way, she’s silenced them.

“This is impossible,” she groans, clasping her hands behind her head. With a soft

whuff

, Ares settles at her feet, seemingly as discouraged as his mistress.
 
“Giving up, are we?” Morrigan asks, sitting next to her. “Very well, we shall battle the Blight without the dwarves.”
 
Hera pushes her hair to one side to look up at her. “Morrigan, no one will speak with us,” she reminds her.
 
Morrigan leans back, watching Alistair and Sten talk amongst themselves, Zevran and Wynne chuckling beside them. Leliana kneels beside a young woman clutching a swaddled infant, talking softly and pressing something into her hand. Knowing Leliana, it’s probably money and directions to the nearest chantry.
 
“Not about Jarvia, ‘tis true,” Morrigan agrees. “Your charms are no use with the dwarves; their form of decadence is too different from your own.”
 
“And what do you suggest?”
 
Morrigan smirks and jerks her chin toward a small boy crouched in an out-of-the-way corner playing with sticks. “Children often see more than they’re meant to. Often my mother would use me as a spy whenever templars moved too close to our home or we traveled near a village. I would wager that child could tell you who to ask, if not how to find the cartel itself.”
 
Hera’s brows draw together.

Why didn’t I think of that?

“Morrigan, one day I’m going to kiss you for this kind of brilliance,” she warns, waving Leliana over.
 
“I’m afraid our tastes do not run the same,” Morrigan says, glancing toward the men.
 
Hera grins, raising an eyebrow at her. “Zevran, is it?” she teases.
 
Morrigan’s disgust is so instant and intense that Hera has to laugh. “What’s so funny?” Leliana asks as she approaches.
 
“Nothing,” Morrigan says quickly, smacking Hera’s arm with the back of her hand. 
 
“Leliana, do children like you?” Hera asks.

“I suppose so,” Leliana answers. “I worked with the children in Lothering sometimes.”
 
“Well, children don’t like

me

, and I’m almost sure Morrigan will only make him cry-”
 
Morrigan lets out an indignant huff. “I would

not

-”
 
“Yes you would,” Hera laughs. “You’ve almost made Alistair cry, and he’s a grown man.”
 
“Alistair is a fool,” Morrigan snorts, scowling at Leliana when she giggles.
 
“Anyway.” Hera turns back to Leliana. “That boy over there is one of the last people we haven’t spoken with. Do you think you could talk to him? See if he knows anything?”
 
“I suppose I could try,” she says, shrugging. “Alistair, come here.”
 
“What do you need?” he asks as he jogs over.
 
“If we

needed

anything, we would ask my Sten,” Morrigan sneers. 
 
Hera snickers and looks up at him with big, innocent eyes. “Go help Leliana,” she suggests. “Ares, go with them.”
 
The mabari leaps up at his name, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth and butting Leliana’s leg with his head. Alistair looks from one of the three women to the other, his eyebrows moving up and down with indecision before finally shrugging. “All right. What are we doing?”
 
“We’re going to go play in the dirt,” Leliana says, hooking her arm through his. “Come along, Ares.”
 
Wynne walks over, a small smile of amusement on her face. “Now what are you two up to, looking so utterly innocent?”
 
“Why does everyone assume I’m up to something dastardly?” Morrigan asks, throwing her hands in the air. “If I had a grand plan of deviance, it certainly wouldn’t start in muddy dwarven slums.”
 
Wynne’s smile turns to a smirk. “There’s just something about two dark-haired young ladies with mischief in their eyes that tells me you’re up to

something

, Morrigan.”
 
Hera giggles at Morrigan’s snort of indignation, pointing to Leliana and Alistair sitting with the boy, playing with sticks. “Look, I think it’s working,” she says. “That was a good idea.”
 
“Of course it was,” Morrigan says, preening a little. “It was mine.”
 
Wynne laughs and leans on her staff. “They have a way with children, don’t they?” she asks, watching Leliana and Alistair. “The innocent ones always do.”
 
“I’m not so sure I’d ever call Leliana innocent,” Hera muses. “Every now and then she lets something slip. I think she might be more than just a musician.”
 
“Of course she is, you cotton-headed ninny,” Morrigan laughs. “She’s

Orlesian.

”
 
Hera laughs with her. “I don’t know what that means exactly, but all right.”
 
Leliana ruffles the boy’s hair and stands, turning to them with a beaming smile. Zevran and Sten join them as they gather on the stairs waiting to see what they discovered. “It seems that there’s someone here we

haven’t

spoken with,” Leliana says slyly. “Someone who, for a few coins, will tell us everything.”
 
“Well, who is it?” Morrigan demands.
 
“Her name is Nadezda,” Alistair explains. “The boy said she’s usually around here after the Provings close for the day.”
 
“Which is hours away,” Zevran grumbles, plopping onto the step in front of Hera. “So we wait?”
 
Hera combs her fingers through his hair, smiling at his pleased purr. “We could wait,” she agrees. “Or we could go find her.”
 
“Parshaara,” Sten grumbled. “I will not wait any longer. We shall seek her out.”
 
“That sounds good to me,” Alistair agrees. “The sooner we get Lord Harrowmont on the throne, the sooner we can get back to Arl Eamon.”
 
It doesn’t take long for them to find Nadezda begging near the Proving arena. A beggar woman wearing filthy rags dragging a leg behind her wouldn’t have been out of place in Dust Town, but among the patrons of the Provings, she sticks out like a glowstone in the dark. Hera gestures to her, using one of her brother’s sleight-of-hand tricks to flash a gold coin at her.
 
“Well, well,” the woman says, approaching with a slow, rhythmic gait that speaks of long years with a damaged leg and a crutch. “It’s not often ol’ Nadezda locks eyes with such a fine-dressed stranger,” she cackles. “Help a poor cripple?”
 
Hera sits on a nearby bench, crossing one leg over the other and looking at her regally. “I might have money, if you have information,” she says airily. “I’ve been searching all day and my patience is too thin to haggle.”
 
The dwarf perks up, leaning on a wooden crutch. “What are you looking for?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “Ol’ Nadezda hears a lot these days.”
 
Hera’s own eyes twinkle in response. “Know anything about the carta?”
 
Nadezda laughs, the sound harsh and sharp. “Know it? I

lived

it, my friend, and let me tell you, it’s worse now than in my day.”
 
“Oh?” Hera arches a brow. “Sten, get this woman a seat, would you?”
 
He grumbles, but the qunari does as asked, setting a stone stool behind the dwarf. Nadezda chuckles and climbs up, eager to earn her coin. “Jarvia took over the carta not more than a year ago,” she explains. “And already she’s got every duster with both legs bearing swords for her.”

Both legs,

Hera thinks, pointedly not glancing at the leg Nadezda was dragging behind her. “I see. Does the carta have a base anywhere?”
 
The dwarf nods her redhead enthusiastically. “They do, but it’s not easy to find. Jarvia’s got real paranoid. She’s got carta members all carrying these finger-bone tokens,” she explains, holding up her fingers in an estimation of their size. “She scratches some mark into them, so she knows they came from her.” She narrows her eyes at Hera for a moment until she sees the glint of gold between her fingers again and starts talking. “There’s doors to her base all over the city, but only one is ever open at a time, and if you show up without a token, you’d never know it was there.”
 
“And where would we find one of these tokens?” Leliana asks behind Hera. 
 
Nadezda shakes her head. “Can’t help you there, solraka,” she says with a shrug. “The carta members keep them real tight.”
 
Zevran squats beside Nadezda and takes her hand. He looks up at her soulfully, his bottom lip pouting softly. “And where would we find one of these carta members?” he asks.
 
The old woman’s grin is big enough to show her many missing teeth, and she pats his cheek fondly. “They’re everywhere, my boy. Go to Dust Town and look around, you’ll find some.” She looks back to Hera and holds out her hand. “Now, what about that coin you promised?”
 
Hera tosses her the gold piece, grinning when she plucks it out of the air. “I’ll think of you when I go to bed with a full stomach,” she says, sliding down and bowing awkwardly.
 
Hera laughs and nods graciously. “Take care of yourself, Nadezda,” she says, winking.
 
“Women like me always do.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“So we’re back in Dust Town...” Alistair muses, “looking around...seeing nothing…”
 
Hera tips back the bottle of wine, taking a long drink. They’ve been loitering around for a while now, pretending to drink and gamble amongst themselves and the unlucky. Behind her, Sten frowns, watching anyone who gets too close. 
 
“Do you think we’ve seen nothing?” Hera asks, throwing her dice expertly. “Doubles. I win again.”
 
Zevran curses in Antivan and throws his money down. “There have been four dwarves enter the building behind you, Alistair,” he grumbles, pointing at Hera. “And

she’s

a cheat!”
 
Hera gasps. “Liar!

Wynne’s

the cheater!”
 
“Yes, actually, I am,” Wynne chuckles.
 
Zevran and Wynne start loudly bickering back and forth, encouraged by Leliana. Ares happily joins in, adding a deep

woof

every now and then. “Zevran, storm off into the building,” Hera whispers, leaning toward Alistair and smiling flirtatiously. “Alistair, Morrigan, and I will back you up, and the rest of you will cover our backs.” She drags a hand slowly up Alistair’s chest, wiggling her eyebrows at the way his face turns red. “I have a feeling that where there’s four, there’s more. All right?”
 
“All right!” Zevran shouts, jumping to his feet and shaking his fist at Wynne. “I am done being cheated by you and your exceptional bosom, Wynne! You have broken my heart and my purse for the last time!”
 
“Oh Zevran, don’t be so overdramatic,” Wynne says, bored and rolling her eyes. “Walk it off, my dear.”
 
With a frustrated shout, he stomps off, waving his arms and ranting in a mixture of Antivan, the common tongue, and something else Hera doesn’t recognize. “Morrigan, go make sure he isn’t too upset,” Hera says in a bored tone, scooping up her dice. 
 
“Me?

You’re

the leader, you go do it,” the witch orders with a haughty scoff.
 
“Fine,

I’ll

go.” With a huff, Alistair climbs to his feet, rolling his eyes for effect. “Since you two are too lazy- and he’s

your

friend,” he adds with a pointed look at Hera.
 
Hera waits until he’s halfway to the building Zevran disappeared into before throwing the dice down. “What babies,” she grumbles. “Come on, Morrigan.”
 
With some more grumbling, Hera and Morrigan follow, trusting the others to get into formation behind them. “I shall stay somewhat in the middle,” Morrigan says softly, “just in case.”
 
“Good idea.” Hera pushes open the door and finds Alistair and Zevran with their hands in the air.
 
“Well, look what we have here...” A middle-aged dwarf in leather armor that had seen far better days nudges a younger dwarf beside him with a grin. “Seems the elf was telling the truth. Come on in,” he adds. “I want a good look at you.”
 
“Your timing is terrible,” Zevran mutters as Hera slips between the men and puts her hands up.
 
“Not now, Zev,” Alistair warns.
 
The younger of the two steps up and gives her a pompous look. Like his friend, his armor is not new, but it has, at least, been well-cared for, and the short sword on his hip is particularly well-made. “Jarvia said you were looking for trouble,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Congratulations, you found it.”
 
“Thanks,” Alistair quips, giving them a dashing smile. “We’re overachievers.”
 
The older one chuckles, and they hear the creak of leather and the hiss of weapons being drawn as six more dwarves rise up from hiding places. “I almost like that one,” he says, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Kill ‘em.”
 
Morrigan shouts out a spell and a wave of pressure radiates off her, stunning the carta thugs surrounding them. While they stagger in the sudden silence, Hera can hear a brawl starting outside and Wynne swearing at them.
 
“Is that

Wynne

?” Alistair laughs as he slams his shield into the nearest dwarf.
 
Zevran laughs, springing into action and stabbing his dagger into the throat of an archer just getting his bearings.
 
Hera kicks out at the younger of the two leaders, catching him in the chin and making his jaw close with a sharp

click.

He stumbles back and drops his sword, shaking his head to clear it. Before he can get his sword back in his hands she’s off, bringing her own weapon down on an archer and slicing off his hand. Blood spurts everywhere and he screams, clutching the limb to his chest.
 
“Wait! Sweet stone, wait!”
 
“Hold!” Hera shouts in answer, turning away from the unconscious dwarf crumpled at her feet. “You yield?”
 
“Sweet bloody stone, yes!” the older dwarf squawks.
 
“Good, you can-” A wet gurgle to her left cuts her off and she looks to see Zevran dropping a dwarf with his throat slit. “Zevran,” she sighs.
 
“My apologies,” he says, shrugging and offering her a charming smile. 
 
Hera closes her eyes for a moment and shakes her head. “Morrigan, make sure everyone outside is all right,” she says. “It’s a little too quiet.”
 
“As you wish.”
 
The older dwarf looks around himself in shock. “Sweet bloody stone, look at them all…” he murmurs, wiping blood dribbling from his lip and looking down at his unconscious friend. “Sodding ancestors, what do they teach you on the surface? You fight like a bleedin’ archdemon!”
 
Hera levels her sword at him, using the tip to raise his chin a fraction. “Tell me how to find Jarvia, or we’ll finish the lot of you,” she threatens calmly. 
 
He starts to nod, but the prick of her dagger makes him think better of it. “The base is below the city,” he says quickly. “Y-You can get to it through the wall on the third house on this row.” He digs into a pocket and produces a small white bone. “Put this token in the slot and it’ll open.”
 
Hera lowers her blade and takes the bone. “Very good,” she says with a smile.
 
“W-Will you let me go now?” he stammers, edging away from her.
 
Hera looks from Zevran to Alistair, both covered in blood, then to the now-handless archer moaning in the corner. “You don’t want to be at Jarvia’s when I get there,” she says firmly, sheathing her sword and dagger. “I suggest you find legal employment.”
 
“T-Thank you!” he says, making a sloppy bow in gratitude.
 
They leave him to tend his comrades and meet Morrigan and the others outside. “Everyone all right?” Alistair asks, pulling a rag out of his pocket and wiping blood off his shield.
 
“Right as rain,” Leliana says cheerfully. “We only got four.”
 
“It was such a pathetic fight I stopped halfway,” Sten adds, rolling his eyes. 
 
Zevran laughs so hard he has to put a hand on Sten’s arm for balance. With a grimace, Sten pulls away, brushing his arm off and looking at Zevran as if he’d just wiped something disgusting on him. 
 
“Well that’s nice, Sten,” Hera laughs. “We got a token, so let’s get going, shall we?”
  
The dwarf standing before them is large and bulky, his wide shoulders straining against his leather armor. “What’s the password?” he asks, his voice rumbling in his chest like an earthquake and he gives her a suspicious glare.
 
Hera giggles at the way speaking distorts the tattoos on his face. “Jarvia sucks lizard eggs?” she offers cutely. Behind her, even Sten makes a sound that could be mistaken for laughter, and she glances back in appreciation.
 
The dwarf snorts and crosses his arms. “Looks like we’ve got a comedienne, boys.”
 
Hera puts a hand to her chest in a picture of sincere gratitude. “Thank you,” she gushes, smiling prettily with her eyes wide. “I thought it was funny, too.”
 
Before he can answer, an arrow flies past Hera, making the loose strands of her hair flutter, and sinks into his throat. “That was funnier,” Leliana says, nocking another arrow.
 
Hera draws her sword and looks at the remaining three carta members as their leader falls to his knees, clutching at the arrow. “Don’t you boys want to go home?” she asks as they stare at one another and try to decide what to do. “You’re outnumbered. He’s dead. I haven’t had lunch, and am feeling a little grumpy. But I’d happily look the other way if you wanted to get out of here.”
 
Zevran chuckles and nudges Leliana with his elbow. “If you surrender, you won’t have to go to the trouble of killing us, you know.”
 
One of the dwarves- presumably the second in command at this particular entrance- shrugs and drops his axe into a ring on his belt. “Fine with me,” he says. “Come on, boys. I’ll buy the first round.”
 
“No, no,” Hera says, reaching into her pocket. “Let me.”
 
He catches the coin she flicks his way, salutes her, and the three disappear.
 
“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to work on all of them,” Wynne says, watching them go.
 
“For once, I have to agree with you,” Morrigan agrees. “But I am glad it’s worked this time.”
 
“No point in picking a fight we don’t actually need,” Alistair adds. “Leliana, that was a good shot.”
 
“It certainly was,” Hera says, running her fingertips up the bard’s arm. “I have no idea those hands were that fast.”
 
“You flirt,” Leliana giggles.
 
“Parshaara,” Sten grumbles, pushing his way to the front of the party. “Let’s go.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The house they entered leads them into a series of tunnels stretching deep into the mountain, filled with small alcoves carved out for small groups of carta members. Hera lets Zevran and Leliana move ahead, catching many of them unawares and causing general chaos while the rest surge ahead to finish them.
 
Morrigan approaches her after one such skirmish, watching Hera drag a pair of dwarves back into their stone chamber where Leliana and Zevran are searching for anything valuable. “I have been studying Mother’s grimoire,” she says, knotting and unknotting her fingers. “Do you wish to hear what I have found?”
 
Hera straightens and pushes a fallen lock of hair off her face. “Odd time to bring it up, but all right. What did you find, Morrigan?”
 
Morrigan looks down at her hands, her expression troubled. “‘Tis not what I expected,” she says. “I had hoped for a collection of her spells, a map of the power that she commands. But this...is not it.”
 
Hera draws her away from the others while they catch their breath and settle down for a small lunch Cora had prepared. “Morrigan, you look rather disturbed,” she says, keeping her voice low. “What did you find?”
 
“Disturbed?” Morrigan’s hawkish eyes fly open as if insulted that she could feel such a thing, but she blinks slowly and breaks eye contact. “Yes, perhaps that

is

the right word. One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me.” She takes up the book she keeps lashed to her belt and opens it to a page marked with a dark green leaf. “Here, in great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries.”
 
“C-Centuries?” Hera stammers.

That’s it! That’s what I felt when we met. Flemeth really

is

an ancient being. No doubt she saw me for what I am, as well. Did she tell Morrigan? Damn me for being dhampir.

“Is it a spell of immortality, then?”
 
Morrigan sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “If only ‘twere so. Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime,” she explains. “There are stories of these many witches of the wilds throughout Chasind legend. Yet I have never seen one, and always wondered why not. And now, I know. They are

all

Flemeth. When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter, and when the time is right she takes her daughter’s body for her own.”
 
Hera’s eyes go wide and her jaw drops.

That is...much worse than what I am.

“That’s...horrific,” she chokes out. “She steals their lives from them?”
 
Morrigan nods. “That is what the book says.”
 
Hera can hardly believe what she’s hearing.

And it’s the darkspawn and the mages who are monsters in this world,

she thinks bitterly,

never the crabby old mother in the woods, right?

“Morrigan, I’m so sorry,” she says, squeezing her arm gently. “What can we do about it?”
 
“W-We?” Morrigan looks surprised at the word. “You would offer your assistance so easily?”
 
“Well yes,” Hera laughs, “you can’t imagine I would just leave you to handle something like this yourself.”
 
“I…” Morrigan looks more troubled now than before, and steps back, brushing away Hera’s touch. “There is only one possible response to this,” she says, her face losing all expression. “Flemeth needs to die. I will not sit about like an empty sack waiting to be filled. Flemeth must be slain, and I need your help to do it.”
 
“Absolutely,” Hera says firmly. 
 
The lovely witch lets out a relieved sigh. “Then what needs to be done is for you to go back to the Flemeth’s hut in the Korcari Wilds without me. If I am present when she is slain, I cannot be certain that she will not be able to possess my body right then. So I must remain at the camp. Confront her, and slay her quickly,” she says softly, her face a mixture of anxiety and disappointment. “I doubt she will truly be dead even then, but it will take her years to find a new host and recover her power. If that is even possible.”
 
“Morrigan, we can’t risk going that far south again,” Hera protests. “It will take forever, and the Blight is getting worse every day. Is there a way to call her? Get her closer to a place we desire?”
 
Morrigan shakes her head. “Her true grimoire will be in her hut,” she says. “It is the thing I

must

have. With it, I can defend against her power in the future. Everything else in her hut is yours,” she adds quickly, as if worried Hera will refuse her for lack of payment. 
 
“Morrigan, I said I’ll help you,” Hera assures her. “We’ll just have to figure out how to get back into the area safely. Come one, let’s have some lunch, and tonight you and I can start planning.”
 
“I

am

grateful,” Morrigan says as they walk over to the others. “The sooner this can be done, the sooner it will set my mind at ease.”
 
“The sooner what can be done?” Leliana asks.
 
Hera sits on a squat stone chair and takes the thick slice of bread Alistair hands her. It’s stuffed with bits of meat, cheese, and some sort of gray-green vegetable she thinks might be a form of lichen but chooses to ignore and crunch through anyway. “Morrigan needs our help,” she says, and together, they start explaining the situation.
  
Leliana reaches out, missing Alistair by a hair’s breadth. “Ali-”
 
The explosion roars through the tunnel, the force of it knocking Hera off her feet. Her instincts have her rolling back to her feet and flinging a hand out, wordlessly casting a barrier spell ahead of her before she even realizes what she’s done. Thankfully she isn’t the only one quick to react: Morrigan had been following at a distance and cast her ice spell at the same moment.
 
Ice bloomed across the door he had opened, dousing the flames and sealing off the doorway. Alistair’s armor is caught in the blast, freezing him against the glacier in front of him, and Leliana’s left leg is frozen in a block up to her knee. Behind her, Hera can hear Zevran helping Wynne to her feet and Sten’s curt reply when Morrigan asks if he’s injured.
 
“Alistair? Leliana? Are you hurt?” Hera asks, coming closer.
 
“Aside from being stuck to the inside of my armor, I’m fine,” Alistair says, wincing as he tries to pull away from the wall of ice he’s attached to. “I really should have mended the hole in this shirt.”
 
“I think my ankle is hurt,” Leliana says, grimacing.
 
“Morrigan, the ice, if you please,” Wynne says, bustling to the front of their line. “Sten, come help Leliana so I can have a look.”
 
Hera lets the healer take over, using the flutter of activity to dissolve the barrier behind the ice even as Morrigan waves a lazy hand to melt her spell. They all take a moment to check themselves over, making certain nothing and no one was harmed when the trap went off.
 
“This carta certainly loves its bombs,” Morrigan says, hands on her hips and gazing into the room beyond. “This is the third one we’ve encountered.”
 
“We should be more careful,” Hera agrees. “Zev, you and Leliana will move ahead-

slowly

- and disarm anything you find. When you’ve cleared a room, we’ll enter behind you.”
 
“Of course, Warden,” Zevran says, standing. “Shall I inspect this room, or wait for my lovely partner?” he asks, giving Leliana a seductive look.
 
Leliana rolls her eyes, focused on Wynne and the cool blue magic wrapped around her ankle. “I’ll check it with you,” Hera chuckles. “Everyone stay here.”
 
“We have been in these tunnels some time; we must be nearing the end, yes?” Zevran says, crouching low and putting his face to the floor. “Trap, three stones forward. Use this,” he hands her a small metal ball from his pocket. “I would suggest closing the door and crouching down.”
 
Hera does as he says and rolls the ball across the floor, ducking even further when a dozen arrows fly out the wall and ricochet off the stone door, flying wildly.
 
“

Hera!”

Zevran’s arms are around her, gripping tightly and rolling them out of the way. He covers her face with his shoulder, keeping his own head down as the bolts chip at the stone floor around them and shards fly.
 
For a moment, neither speak in the sudden silence. A glance shows a single bolt stuck an inch deep into the very stone tile where Hera had been only seconds before, and a shudder runs through her.
 
“Zevran, you saved me,” she whispers, and feels a slight tremble from him as well.
 
He lifts his head, his face pale, and tries to muster a grin for her. “Yes, well...One must always take the chance to press one’s body to that of a great beauty.”
 
She smiles at the weak joke. “Oh, of course,” she agrees. “I will admit to using rather strategic methods to get a man’s arms around me.”
 
His ear twitches and he grins wider, the color returning to his face as he gets to his feet. “Well, let’s see how often we can contrive to find ourselves in one another’s arms before we die.”
 
She takes the hand he offers, letting him pull her to her feet. “That sounds a bit like a challenge,” she teases.
 
He cocks an eyebrow, looking incredibly smug. “Perhaps it is, my lady.”
 
“Zevran,” she says as they get back to work, checking the room carefully, “have you enjoyed your time as an assassin?”
 
“Should I not?” he asks with amusement. “There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva: you are respected, you are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses. Even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at.” He chuckles, tossing a stone from the floor and springing a hidden trap. “Ahh, that’s clever,” he says with a nod when two long spikes stab from either side of the room’s exit. “Back to your question. Yes, I enjoyed it. As for the killing part…” He shrugs. “Some people simply need assassinating- or do you disagree?”

Like Strahd.

“No, you’re right,” she says. Her voice turns bitter as she remembers the thin and hungry peasants she met traveling through Ravenloft when she first arrived. A scowl overtakes her features when she recalls how their eyes had grown wide when she handed out the winter rations that fall and used her own fortune to purchase food from Sigil to get them through the harsh winter. “Sometimes an assassin is

exactly

what people need.”
 
When he doesn’t respond, she glances over.

I’ve shown too much,

she realizes and struggles to squeeze the venom out of her voice. “How fortunate that

I

, in fact, needed assassinating,” she says with a smile. “Otherwise I’d never have found you.”
 
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite dim the curiosity burning in his eyes. “Yes, I often find myself the instrument of fate. I console myself with the knowledge that most of them had it coming.” He comes to her side and puts a gentle hand on her arm. “Most,” he repeats, “but not you.”

No, my friend,

she wants to say,

I have something more horrible coming.

But even the thought of confessing her knowledge- of showing someone how afraid she is of the future- has her throat so dry that the words simply die on her breath. “Not yet, anyway,” she teases and opens the door to let Alistair and the others inside. “Careful, we got everything in here and at the door, but we need to move down the corridor slowly.”
 
Alistair looks down at the dozen bolts scattered across the floor. “This looks exciting,” he says, “are you two all right?”
 
“Nothing my trusty rogue couldn’t handle, right Zev?”
 
Zevran catches her eye for a moment before turning his face to grin at Alistair. “I simply held her close whenever the danger approached. Thanks to me she doesn’t have a scratch.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In the end, finding Jarvia was as simple as opening the right door. Leliana and Zevran catch most of the traps before Alistair can trigger them, and the carta members are spread across the maze of tunnels so that the small groups are unable to support one another, making them easier to eliminate.
 
Hera is waiting at the end of a tunnel for Leliana and Zevran to give the all-clear, listening to Morrigan and Wynne quietly debate the best way to cast a healing spell. Beside her, Alistair is toying with a broken strap that makes a plate over his thigh clank when he walks and Sten leans against the far wall with his eyes closed. Ares whines and she squats down beside him.
 
“What is it, Ares?” she murmurs, scratching his ears. “Are you hungry?”
 
She offers the mabari a bit of her leftover lunch, but he ignores it, whining and looking around expectantly. “No, I don’t think anyone will mind,” she chuckles and walks him back down the tunnel they’ve just passed through. “Don’t leave anything in the middle,” she advises. “In case we have to run, I don’t want to be the one slipping in a pile of dung.”
 
She hears one of the scouts returning to the group- Leliana, she suspects, by the light steps- and the soft rumble of hushed voices. Leaving Ares to his search for the perfect place, she joins the others.
 
“—Just on the other side of the door,” Leliana is whispering to the group. 
 
“Is this it, then?” Hera asks. “We’ve found her?”
 
“I think so,” Leliana says with a nod. “Go listen at the door.”
 
Hera silently creeps down the tunnel toward Zevran and puts her ear to the door. Sure enough, she can hear several rough voices- carta members, she assumes- and above it all, a woman’s voice, giving out orders to track down and eliminate whoever the council has sent after them this time. Jarvia’s voice is harsh and brittle, filled with the arrogance of a woman who gives an order and expects it to be followed without question.
 
Not unlike Hera herself at times.

I suppose the luckiest adventurers live long enough to see ourselves in our enemies,

she thinks, frowning.

At what point do the heroes become the villains? When one kills a dictator and takes his throne?

“Hera?” Zevran asks softly, bringing her back to the present.
 
“That’s them all right,” she whispers to Zevran, and they hurry back to the others. “Morrigan, come behind me and freeze anything that moves,” she says, keeping an eye on the stone and metal door. “Then move back with Wynne and Leliana and cover us. Everyone else fan out, and watch out for traps.”
 
“Alistair,” Morrigan says pointedly.
 
“It was only once,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his head.
 
Hera ignores them and beckons to Morrigan to follow close behind as they approach the door. “I’ll cover you until you can move back,” she tells her. “Wait for my signal to strike.”
 
Hera tests the doorknob with achingly slow fingers.

She’s expecting us,

she thinks and pulls her shoulders back.

They’ll be ready for a hard fight.

Winking at Morrigan beside her, she kicks the door open and swaggers in. 
 
It’s clearly Jarvia’s home base, a long room with comfortable furniture and treasures spilling out of boxes running the length. Guards in well made, matching armor are stationed through the room, and in the center stands Jarvia, looking as arrogant as a queen in her throne room- and in truth, all that’s missing

is

a throne. Stacks of barrels and boxes create a crude dais, letting Jarvia feel surrounded by her wealth.

She might feel like a queen; I happen to

be

one.

Hera matches her attitude, but adds polish to it; she sniffs and looks down her nose at the guards before turning her attention to Jarvia with a superior look.
 
Behind her, Zevran whispers “trap, three steps forward,” and Hera nods, stopping just in front of the tripwire.
 
Jarvia steps forward as well, looking up at Hera with thinly veiled hatred. “So, Harrowmont finally realized we’re taking the city,” she says with a sneer. “But he still can’t be bothered to send his own men.”
 
“Some vermin require specialized help,” Leliana quips.
 
Jarvia shakes her head, chuckling lightly at the joke. “Well, you picked the wrong side, strangers. It doesn’t matter who’s king as long as there’s a queen!”
 
Hera gives her a haughty look. “And I suppose

you

are that queen?” she laughs. “Please, Jarvia, all the silks in the world wouldn’t make you more than an upstart-

at best.

”
 
Jarvia’s brittle laugh makes the men at her side flinch. “I don’t need to dress like a deshyr to rule the city. I’ve got all the power I need.”
 
Hera looks back at her friends with a giggle. “Do you?” she asks, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. “I’ll make a deal with you: you and your men come with me quietly, in chains, and disband the carta,” she offers.
 
Jarvia’s eyebrows draw together sharply; Hera can see her facade begin to crack, belying the anger and doubt underneath. “And what do I get in return?”
 
“I won’t be the one to remove your head from your shoulders,” Hera says simply. “I doubt you can escape death entirely, but wouldn’t it be more shameful to be killed by some weak, pitiful creature like a human?”

I’m

not

human, but I am

like

a human,

she thinks, mentally shrugging the half-truth away.
 
Jarvia pales for just a moment, picturing her fate before she shakes her head, her hand making a quick gesture of denial. “I can run this city from the darkest pit in the Deep Roads,” she says.
 
“

Really?

” Hera gasps, her eyes widening in feigned surprise. “That would be impressive since your entire carta is

dead

. And here we all are, whole and unbloodied.”

She must have known,

Hera thinks, watching the words hit Jarvia like a stone. Her face twists, the veil of her hatred falling away to reveal how deeply her anger runs. Rage makes Jarvia tremble as she draws a dagger and points at Hera. “You’ll pay for their deaths a hundred times over,” she growls. “Kill them!” she demands of her men. “But leave the pretty one alive: I have plans for her.”
 
Hera smiles brilliantly, drawing her weapons. “Oh, Jarvia! You think I’m pretty?” she asks sweetly, jumping over the tripwire and lashing out with a kick. “Thank you!” 
 
Sound explodes around her: the crackle of lightning, Alistair’s war cry, Zevran laughing, the clash of steel and stone. She senses more than sees Alistair to her left, his shield thundering against armor. More than once Hera hears Leliana’s arrows screaming through the air around her and she has to hope her friend’s aim is true and doesn’t get her in the back.
 
“Hera, traps!” Leliana shouts as Hera parries a strike from Jarvia’s razor-sharp daggers.
 
“Where?” she shouts back, sliding back to avoid a sweep to her middle. The movement is instinctual, not calculated, and she can feel a thread of tension across the back of her legs as she puts pressure on the tripline. “Leliana, where?” she repeats, leaning forward to avoid setting off the trap.
 
Jarvia grins and throws a small vial on the floor. “Everywhere,” she says as smoke fills the air.
 
Somewhere near, Alistair swears and drops to the floor, his armor loud against the stone. Coughing on a lungful of smoke, Hera can hear movement and steps, but the smoke is too thick even for her dhampir sight to allow her to see more than a foot ahead. Grabbing a small barrel, she rolls it across the floor to her left, hoping for a clear path out of the smoke. It explodes, sending splinters flying, and she hears Sten curse and grunt.
 
“Sorry, Sten!” she cries, racing past him and out of the cloud. She nearly collides with Zevran, but he drops to his knees, sliding into the smoke to avoid her.
 
Jarvia appears behind Sten, daggers aimed at the exposed backs of his knees.

No.

Hera leaps, tackling the dwarf before she can cripple him. They hit the floor rolling, struggling for dominance, and set off a trap, the bomb sending long, wicked splinters shooting through the smoke-filled air. 
 
“To me!” Jarvia screams when Hera manages to get a knee in her back, pinning her to the floor. “I need help!”
 
An arrow flies past Hera’s head, whistling in her ear and sinking into a barrel a few feet ahead. The distraction lasts only a second, but it’s long enough for one of her men to slam his maul into her shoulder, knocking her off Jarvia and into the wall. She sprawls, dazed, her weapons scattered.
 
“Hera!”
 
The sound is fuzzy and distant, and Hera can’t quite focus her eyes on anything further than her hands. She hears her name again and turns her face toward Alistair’s voice, but only blinks in response. Someone else shouts her name, and Hera turns in time to see both Jarvia’s helpful thug turn into a block of ice. Wynne appears above her, magical barrier glowing, the butt of her staff jabbing painfully into Hera’s hip as she casts a healing spell over her. 
 
“Thanks, Wynne,” she says, feeling her head clear and her eyes sharpen as she leaps to her feet.
 
“Try not to get into any more explosions,” she suggests, a bright light shooting out of her staff.
 
“Yes, ma’am.” She sketches a salute and snatches up her weapons.
 
Renewed, Hera scans the room, looking for Jarvia. She catches sight of the carta queen sneaking toward a corner of the room.

Must be an exit,

she thinks and throws her dagger. It catches Jarvia in the thigh and makes her scream in rage.
 
“I’m going to wear your teeth as a necklace!”
 
“That would be impressive,” Hera mutters to herself, wrapping both hands around her sword hilt and running up to her.
 
Blades clash, the ringing of steel and silverite drowning out most of the battle behind them. Jarvia is a better duelist than Hera, who spent much of her life using magic as her best defense, but Hera’s superhuman speed and strength are her greatest benefits. They move in a blur of blades, sparks flashing when their strikes meet stone instead of flesh. 
 
It’s pure luck that Jarvia leaves herself open, and even greater luck that Hera’s sword hits the exposed spot at her neck and not the stone directly behind. Blood spurts from the wound, Jarvia’s hands dropping her daggers and reaching up to clutch her neck. Dark, wide eyes meet Hera’s as she gapes wordlessly, her breath gurgling in her throat before she slumps to the floor.
 
Breathing heavily, Hera picks up one of the dwarven daggers and sinks it into Jarvia’s heart for good measure. “I’m here to crown a king, not a criminal queen,” she mutters. Behind her, the noise lessens, the cacophony of weapons replaced by groans of the wounded and death rattles of the dying.
 
She turns, surveying the carnage.

This was so unnecessary,

she thinks, sheathing her sword.

She could have come peacefully.

“Everyone stay where you are,” Leliana orders. “We need to make sure we don’t set off more traps. Zevran?”
 
“On it, lovely Leliana.”
 
“Does anyone know anything about dwarven society?” Hera asks, her eye on an ax hanging on the wall. “I expect we need to prove she’s dead.”
 
Wynne follows her gaze, the blood draining from her face. “Hera, you don’t mean to…?” she trails off, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
 
Hera shrugs, content to wait patiently for Leliana and Zevran to finish clearing the traps. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“It’ll be two years

tomorrow!

By all the holy sodding ancestors, how can you people just ignore that?”
 
Hera can’t help but hear the loud, slurred shouting as they make their way back to Lord Harrowmont’s estate. Lifting her head, she sees a thick-chested, red-haired dwarf dressed in battered, dented armor arguing with one of the guards. She slows, shifting the box containing Jarvia’s head to one hip and blatantly listening. “Go on,” she tells the others. “I’ll catch up. Ares, go with Alistair.”
 
“Branka didn’t go alone, Oghren,” the guard says venomously. “She took the whole house. Everyone but

you.

”
 
Leliana hisses softly beside her, electing to stay for the gossip as the others go on. “That was unkind.”
 
Hera turns her head to face her but doesn’t speak, listening as the guard tells him to go down to Tapsters and drown his sorrows. 
 
“You think I’m afraid of some warrior-cub who’s barely off the teat?” the angry dwarf scoffs. “I’ll-”
 
“You lift a weapon or attack a single citizen in Orzammar and you’re stripped of your caste and exiled,” the guard laughs derisively. “Even you can’t have forgotten that.”
 
“What’s going on here?” Hera whispers to Leliana. “Who’s Branka?”
 
“I’m sure Lord Harrowmont can tell us,” Leliana suggests. “Let’s ask him tonight.”
 
Hera watches the red-haired dwarf stalk off, feeling a little embarrassed for him to be put in his place so publicly.

I don’t know the situation,

she reminds herself.

And I’ve done the same many a time, with little pity for anyone. This Oghren is clearly being punished for something.

“Hera?”
 
“Coming,” she says, turning her attention back to the matter at hand. 
 
Leliana gags a little and nods to the box. “It’s dripping down your leg,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s disgusting.”
 
“Damn,” Hera mutters, holding the box away from her body.

Damn dwarves.

Alistair and the others are waiting patiently with Lord Harrowmont in his study when they’re shown in. Without preamble, Hera sets the box on the floor and flips the lid open, revealing the grimacing face of Jarvia frozen in death. The scent of blood intensifies and Ares lowers his head and growls at the box, putting himself between it and Hera.
 
“Hush, boy,” she commands softly, giving Harrowmont time to absorb the gruesome sight. “Don’t forget

you

helped, Ares.”
 
Lord Harrowmont turns gray and swallows hard, averting his eyes. “I...ah...heard the news,” he says, nodding toward Alistair, who must have told him. “I suppose it was unrealistic to expect them to surrender.”
 
Hera shrugs, hands on her hips. “For what it’s worth, I tried. They choose to fight instead.”
 
He shakes his head sadly and lowers the lid, putting Jarvia once more in the dark. “Would that some of the noble caste had such loyalty,” he sighs. 
 
“It’s a sweet sentiment,” Hera agrees, knowing full well what sort of loyalty nobility tended to have. “But that’s neither here nor there, my lord.”
 
He nods, clasping his hands in front of him. “I have no desire to go back on my word,” he assures her, “but when Bhelen heard the news about Jarvia, he raised the stakes.”
 
“Wait-

Bhelen

knows about Jarvia?” Leliana asks sharply. “How? We came straight here!”
 
“The casteless sell information and news to the criers,” Harrowmont explains nonchalantly. “I knew before you got here.”
 
“And I imagine that some people have the casteless in their purse,” Zevran says knowingly.
 
Hera raises an eyebrow, wondering just how much of Orzammar is in Harrowmont’s purse.

Although I can’t blame him,

she tells herself.

I’ve spent good coin on lesser news.

“That would be a good investment in this situation,” she says, shrugging. “I would suggest expanding your network once you’ve been crowned. Bhelen will do the same, I’m sure.”
 
“What has Bhelen done, now that word is out?” Alistair asks. His words are hesitant, as if he can feel disaster coming.
 
“He is forcing a vote in the next two days,” Harrowmont says, a hint of anger in his tone. “By law, that prevents the Assembly from hearing any other pleas. To help with your troops, I will require your assistance one last time.”
 
Hera catches herself before she curses, glancing over at Alistair as he hangs his head in frustration with his hands on his hips. Behind them, she can hear sighs and muffled groans.

It was easier getting myself crowned than it is to make this man king,

she thinks, giving Alistair a sympathetic look and patting his arm. “What do you need?” she asks Harrowmont, doing her best to keep the disappointment from her voice.

There’s always something else.

“Do you know anything of the Paragon Branka?” he asks, hope lighting his eyes.
 
“I’ve heard a few things in passing,” Hera says, nodding. “She disappeared, didn’t she? Left someone from her house behind?”
 
He nods, handing her a sketch of a dwarven woman. It’s difficult to judge her age— Hera has never been inclined to spend much time with dwarves, and aging in a race can vary from world to world— but she looks to be about middle-aged, with deep folds beside her nose and across her brow. Her full lips are set in a hard line and even in a drawing, her eyes look cold and unforgiving. Once, she might have been a sensual woman with hooded eyes and a mouth made for kissing, but it seems that life underground made her as hard as the Stone she so loves. 
 
“Two years ago, she took her entire house into the Deep Roads,” Harrowmont explains as Hera hands the picture around. “Some mad quest to uncover ancient secrets. No one’s heard from her since. Were she to return and endorse someone for the throne, the Assembly would be honor-bound to accept her wishes.”

“The Deep Roads?” Alistair’s voice is brittle with shock as he realizes what Lord Harrowmont wants. “You want us to go into the

Deep Roads

and find her?”
 
“Alistair, what’s…” Hera turns to face him, her words trailing off as her eyes fall on him.
 
Alistair looks as if he’s been punched, his eyes wide as saucers as he stares at her. “The Deep Roads are where Grey Wardens go to die,” he says, the words wavering slightly. 
 
“I don’t understand,” she says, brows drawing together. “What are you talking about?”
 
“Damn me,” he mutters, running his hands through his hair. “I need— we have to talk later.”
 
She almost argues, demands that he tell her now, but the anguished mix of emotions stamped into his features stops her. “Very well,” she says, and turns back to Harrowmont. “Are you sure Branka would support you as King?” she asks, turning her back to Alistair to shield him from the lord’s view. “I’m not tracking her down just to end up with Bhelen anyway.”
 
“You can’t be serious?” Alistair croaks behind her. “You’re not thinking of

going?

It’s suicide!

”

Ignoring him, Harrowmont lifts his hands in question. “It’s hard to say what she would do. She wasn’t exactly known for her predictability.”
 
“Like someone else we know,” Leliana whispers, answered by several snickers.
 
“That is not true,” Morrigan hisses behind her. “If there’s a flame spell anywhere around, you can be certain she will get in the way.”
 
“Hush, you two,” Hera snaps. “Pick on me later. I apologize, my lord,” she adds sincerely. “You were saying?”
 
“Youth will always find the lightness of things,” Harrowmont chuckles. “Branka wasn’t like that, however, even when she was young. She never seemed to like being a Paragon. She was devoted to her craft- she was a greatly talented smith- and never cared for politics. But she was one of the most brilliant minds Orzammar has seen. Branka hated darkspawn with a passion. She would certainly be a valuable voice to support your treaty.”
 
“What if she’s dead?” Wynne asks, leaning forward on her staff. “If the Deep Roads are as terrible as we’ve heard, it is a very real possibility, my lord.”
 
“Her entire house went with her,” he explains, confirming the gossip Leliana and Hera heard earlier. “It would take a lot to kill so many.”
 
“The Deep Roads are filled with

darkspawn,

my lord,” Alistair says, his voice strange and hollow. “There’s a reason Grey Wardens go there to die.”
 
“Then bringing proof of her death or a body to return to the Stone would still show that, as an ancestor, it was

my

hand she guided to her remains.”
 
“I see. Let us discuss it, and we will bring you an answer at dinner,” Hera decides, rubbing the back of her neck. 
 
“Of course, of course,” he says graciously. “You deserve a hot meal and a chance to rest. Bhelen can do nothing tonight, anyway.”
 
“Except send someone in our place,” Zevran chimes in. “We should decide now.”
 
“Zevran is right. My lord, will you excuse us while we talk?” Hera asks.
 
“Of course. Please, use my study, I will wait outside.”
 
As soon as the door is closed on Harrowmont’s back, Alistair grabs her arm and drags Hera across the room. “Do you remember when I told you that after thirty years, the real nightmares start, and that’s when a Grey Warden knows their time has come?”
 
Hera nods, dread pooling her stomach. “I remember.”
 
“When that time comes, they all go to the Deep Roads,” he says in a hushed voice. “To die in battle against the darkspawn. The place is a Grey Warden graveyard. Eventually, the taint overcomes you and... it’s different for everyone, but it’s known as the Calling. And we all hear it, eventually.”
 
“Can being in the Deep Roads affect the taint?” she asks, eyes wide with understanding.

It’s no wonder he’s upset.

The fear in his eyes makes the dread in her stomach turn hard and cold.
 
“I don’t know,” he admits. “The nightmares will probably be worse. But the place will be overrun with darkspawn, even if we all went down there we wouldn’t likely return. We need the troops, yes, but we need to be

alive

to lead them.”
 
“That decides it,” Hera says in a soothing voice. “You, Wynne, and Leliana will stay here. The rest of us will go.”
 
His jaw drops, leaving him gaping like a fish. “What? No! There’s no way I’m letting you go down there alone!”
 
“I’ll hardly be alone,” she counters calmly. “And

you

certainly aren’t going. You have bigger things in your future

and

you’re the senior Grey Warden.”
 
“You’re out of your mind!”
 
“Excuse me, Warden,” Morrigan says cooly from the other side of the room. “Are we going, or not? ‘Tis your decision, in the end.”
 
Hera looks at the group, ragged from a day spent crawling through Dwarven tunnels after the carta.

Wynne’s healing magic is too valuable to risk, and Leliana, bless her...Alistair will need her knowledge of court and politics later. Sten will understand, he’s here to atone for murder, and Zevran is as good as dead where the Crows are concerned. No one but Flemeth would miss Morrigan, and if she dies, then there’s no need to seek out her mother.

What a storyteller’s band of misfits we are.

“Yes, we’re going,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “But not all of us.”
 
“What do you mean?” Leliana asks, leaning against the desk. “You don’t mean to leave us, do you?”
 
Hera bites her lip and nods. “No one’s going to miss a couple of murderers and an apostate,” she says softly. “Not like they would a powerful mage or a chantry sister.”
 
“You make the right choice, kadan,” Sten says, nodding once in agreement. Beside him, Zevran sets his jaw and pulls his shoulders back.
 
At the back of the group, Morrigan mirrors Sten’s nod. “And Alistair?” she asks. “Will he be going, as well?”
 
Lowering her eyes to the floor, Hera shakes her head. “No,” she says softly. “The prince stays. He is too valuable.”
 
Alistair practically growls at her words and he jabs a finger at her. “This isn’t over,” he says angrily, and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
 
“Go rest,” she tells the others. “I’ll speak with Lord Harrowmont, and we’ll leave after dinner.”
 
As promised, he waits calmly outside the door, hands clasped behind his back. Hera meets his eyes while her friends file out and make their way to their rooms. They don’t speak until the door is closed again, leaving them alone with their decisions.
 
“My lord, will you house those I leave behind?” she asks. “Alistair is the heir apparent to Ferelden, and I cannot risk his life, or those I need to protect him.”
 
“Of course, Warden,” Harrowmont says, his eyes glinting curiously. “I was unaware that the Grey Wardens took royalty.”
 
“He was conscripted,” she explains, conveniently leaving out his bastard status. “But he will be the King of Ferelden, and your ally once you’re crowned.”
 
Harrowmont breathes a sigh of relief, as if hearing her statement is a comfort to him. “My men have traced Branka’s disappearance to an ancient crossroads known as Caridin’s Cross. It is many miles below where we normally venture, but I can provide a map to lead you there.” He reaches out and boldly takes her hands in his, looking up at her with a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Warden,” he says in a quivering voice. “May the ancestors guide your steps.”

Was it so long ago that I asked a band of strangers to risk their lives so that I could be queen?

She wonders, holding his gaze.

Are the Deep Roads more dangerous than the traps and monsters of Ravenloft castle?

Hera’s eyes grow steely and her expression hardens as she pulls away from him and gestures for Ares to follow her. “Do not thank me yet, my lord,” she says in a voice hard as stone. “You might find the crown heavier than you’d like.”
 
“I am of the Stone,” Harrowmont responds. “I can bear the weight.”
 
She leaves, pausing at the door and turning her profile to him. “I hope you’re right, my lord. We’ve put the success of the Grey Wardens and the fate of the world in your hands. Have my troops ready when I return.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You spent

how much

on whores?”
 
Zeus grins and flicks a feather off his trousers. “Dunkle, I’m ashamed of you! They’re

courtesans

. Hera would be appalled.”
 
Sneering at the hated nickname, the Duke pinches the bridge of his nose. “Zeus, you didn’t even sleep with any of them!”
 
“Not true!” Zeus argues, sitting up quickly and wagging a finger at his uncle. “We all climbed into bed together and I slept nestled against the bosoms of angels. What I didn’t do is

have sex

with any of them- why would I do that?”
 
The Duke glares at him, his sharply angled eyebrows furrowed. “You spent half your

yearly

allowance to sleep on a pretty girl’s tits for

one night

?”
 
“I slept

very

well. And,” he adds, wrinkling his nose, “I didn’t sleep

on

anyone’s breasts. I just...found them comforting to have around.”
 
The Duke’s pale face has gone red with rage, making his dramatic widow’s peak hairline look even more like the villain of a

commedia dell’arte

than usual. “You aren’t getting another copper,” he says slowly. “I’m closing the treasury.”
 
“Dunkle, that’s unreasonable!” Zeus says. “I do everything you ask, can’t I have these little luxuries?”
 
“

This

is not a little luxury.” The Duke’s voice shakes with anger as he points to the bed full of staring females- a pleasurable selection of human and not- and feathers spilling from torn pillows. “

This

is selfish, stupid, irresponsible- your sister would

never

behave this way!”
 
“Well I am

not

my sister, am I?” Zeus roars back, getting to his feet. “I’m not Hera, not your lovely little Raven Queen-”
 
“No, you’re the Brat Prince masquerading as a king!”
 
“

You made me do it!

Why not get someone else if I’m so terrible at it?

”

The Duke throws his hands out in helplessness. “We needed you! Not your cousin, or me, or anyone else!

You

, you idiot!” Hands on his hips, he spins around and looks up at the ceiling. “Powers help me, you are

just

like your father. Vlad, I hope you’re happy,” he says to the night sky painted on the plaster above.
 
Zeus pauses, his mouth half-open.

Me?

“What do you mean?” he says, lowering his voice.

No one has ever said I’m like Father… That’s always been Hera.

The Duke runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Zeus, you are our crown prince. Our queen is gone. It is your duty to step up and take her place.”
 
“I can’t be her,” Zeus says, his voice small. “I’m only half-”
 
“No, you’re whole, my boy.” The Duke’s arm comes around his shoulders, leading Zeus out of the bedroom and into the hallway. “Let yourself be your own man. We don’t need a pale imitation of your sister when you can be your own blinding self.”
 
The sheer magnitude of what the Duke is asking of him is overwhelming. Zeus hasn’t felt so small and frightened since he was a child and Hera was leaving for her education. In many ways, this felt the same. “I...”
 
“You are not alone. You do realize that, don’t you?”
 
Zeus looked at his uncle, his expression carefully arranged into the nonchalance people usually expected of him. “Of course I know that. I’m surrounded by people all the time.”
 
“You know that isn’t what I mean,” the Duke sighs. “Walk with me.”
 
Zeus straightens his shoulders and fixes a grin on his face, as if the Duke were telling him some joke as they walk the halls of the palace.

I wish Krynne and Rafiq were here,

he thinks.

It’s easier when they’re here.

I wish Hera were here.

“Now Zeus, I understand that you don’t want to be Regent,” the Duke begins. “But you’ve chosen to do it, so you must settle into the role.”
 
“How can I do that? I don’t know anything about statesmanship.”
 
The Duke laughs. “Did Hera? The only politics she knew were the ones in bed; you know about people and what motivates them. The important thing is that she was willing to learn and I need you to be willing as well. How can I help you do that?”
 
Zeus shrugs. “I don’t know. I just...I’m a figurehead anyway.”
 
“You don’t have to be. Why don’t we set up a council of advisors? They can school you on important topics and manage the day to day running of the realm. Then the mundane can be seen to, you can have a bit of freedom, and we can try to continue on.”
 
Zeus thinks a moment, realizing that this idea must have been rattling around his uncle’s head for some time if he’s mentioning it so casually.

The council can work behind me, allowing me to learn kingship and being the face for the people all at the same time.

That could work.

“And you will...help me?” Zeus asks, clasping his hands behind his back. He hates how young he sounds and clears his throat.
 
“I will. But you will have to help me as well,” his uncle warns him. “I will not tolerate this sort of behavior any longer.”

“Agreed. But I will need my freedoms.”
 
The Duke chuckles, the corners of his mouth flicking upwards for just a moment. “Understood.”
 
“That includes my allowance, Dunkle.”
 
The Duke heaves a great sigh and waves a hand in surrender. “Fine. But be a little more frugal for a while.”
 
Zeus laughs, a short, barking sound. “You know, this is not how Hera would have handled this.”
 
The Duke’s hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “You are not your sister, Zeus. We will work together and find our way.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera isn’t surprised to find her lover pacing their room when she enters, kicking clothing and spare gear out of the way in his frustration. Thinking it’s a new game, Ares leaps forward, catching a sock in his mouth as it flies through the air. “Alistair, you haven’t even bathed,” she says, chiding him gently. “Come here, let me help with the buckles.”
 
He whirls on her, his angry glare hot enough to make her skin sizzle. “Why?” he demands. “Why would you do that? How

dare

you talk about leaving me here!”
 
Calmly, she moves deeper into the room, unbuckling her armor and setting it gently on the table so she can clean and polish it later. “I

dare

because I can.” Her voice is level, even though she loathes the idea of heading into the darkness without him by her side. “Because I love you, and I want you safe.”
 
“Am I not allowed to want you safe?” he asks. It’s not truly a question, but the words are as heavy as a stone dropping to the floor. “I told you who I was because I wanted to be honest with you, not so you would use it against me. I wish I’d never told you I was Maric’s son.”
 
Hera’s bottom lip quivers and her eyes fill with tears.

This is exactly why I didn’t tell you who I am,

she thinks, her teeth biting into her lip. “I’m sorry, Alistair,” she says, methodically removing every piece of armor. “I know this isn’t what you want.”
 
“I’m a Grey Warden!” he growls. She can hear the clank of his armor as he waves his arms around and sets to pacing again. “Defending against the Blight is my

purpose

! That wouldn’t change even if I was a legitimate son!”
 
“Don’t you think being king

is

defending against the Blight?” she asks quietly, hating the way her hands tremble. She laces her fingers together, hoping he didn’t see, and turns to face him finally. “The Circle will support you. The Dalish will treat and trade with you now. Both have promised their armies and will send them to Redcliffe. And if you stay here and learn some statecraft from Lord Harrowmont, the dwarves are your allies until the mountain falls. All these things defend against the Blight. We took those treaties from the Korcari Wilds to force their hands, and it is your job as both a Grey Warden and heir apparent to make sure they are willing to renew them for the next Blight.”
 
“Don’t go without me,” he chokes, anger giving way to worry. He swallows hard and steps closer, taking her hands and kissing her knuckles. “You don’t know what it’s like. I’ve heard stories; Duncan went into the Deep Roads with

six

other Grey Wardens, and only

two

of them came back. ”
 
“Oh Hero,” she whispers, feeling her resolve crumble. “I’m not afraid.”
 
“The Deep Roads are full of the taint,” he explains. “Duncan went once when he was a new Warden. He said there is no light to be had, and the weight of the mountain crushes you, making it hard to breathe. You can’t tell day from night, and the darkspawn can sense you. They’ll hunt you relentlessly, and there are legions of them flooding the Roads headed for the surface.” 
 
His hazel eyes are bloodshot and damp, his fear dragging his face into long lines of despair.

What do I do, take them all?

“Alistair…”
 
“Don’t make me wait to know if you’re alive,” he pleads softly.
 
Hera leans forward and rests her forehead against his chest plate, her shoulders slumping in a sigh deep enough to have come from her toes. “Why do you always have to fight me when I just want to protect you?”
 
She hears the rumble of a chuckle start in his chest, amplified by the heavy plate. “I’m just-”
 
A knock sounds, crisp and sharp. Hera lifts her head and frowns. “Get out of that bloody plate,” she tells him as she walks to the door. “I think you have someone’s guts in your hair.”
 
“Maker, I hate that spell Morrigan uses,” he grumbles. “She only ever uses it on

my

opponents.”
 
Hera laughs and opens the door, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Wynne, I thought you would be bathing.”
 
“Yes, well, I have something I wanted to talk with you about,” she says, coming into the room.
 
Hera offers her a chair at their small table, picking up the various bits of laundry Alistair throws from the connected bathing chamber. “What’s on your mind?” A boyish giggle comes from the other room, and a damp piece of linen lands on her shoulder. “Alistair, stop throwing your smalls at me,” she scolds, picking it off with two fingers and a wrinkled nose.
 
“You said earlier that Morrigan would be accompanying you to the Deep Roads,” Wynne sniffs indignantly, ignoring the business with his clothing. “I’ve come to tell you that won’t do.”
 
Hera lifts her brows at the clipped words. “Oh?” Hera asks sharply, setting the pile of clothing on the bed and making a mental note to have it all laundered while they’re gone. “Do tell, Wynne, because I’m dying to know why you think you know better than me.”
 
Wynne gives her a small, polite smile and Hera can feel her temper rising. “You said that no one would miss her beyond her mother, and while that may be true, I don’t believe she’s the right choice. And since I very much doubt Alistair will allow you to leave him behind, you’re going to need me.”
 
Hera sinks into the opposite chair and buries her hands in her hair.

I can’t recall ever having so many people demanding to be taken on a suicide mission. How lucky I am.

“Wynne, I’m not taking everyone,” she says firmly. “That’s out of the question. I need some of you left behind to carry on if we don’t come back.”
 
“I’m not suggesting you take us all,” Wynne defends. “But if the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden are going, they’re going to need a better healer than Morrigan.”
 
Hera lifts her head just enough to look at the older woman. “You want to go

instead

of Morrigan? As in, leave her here and go down into the darkness with all the monsters?”
 
“Do you think this is the first time in my life I’ve seen horrible things?” Wynne laughs confidently. “I was your age during the Orlesian occupation.”

Somehow I doubt that very much, Wynne.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Hera says, irritation turning into admiration at the woman’s courage. “Very well, you’re on the list. But you should go prepare now, we’re leaving after-”
 
“Hera, do I have any clean socks out here?” Alistair asks, wandering into the room with only a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. “Can you- Wynne!” He grabs his shield and turns bright red all the way to his ears, inching back toward the bathing chamber.
 
“The Maker blesses me indeed,” Wynne says appreciatively.

His blush deepens and he coughs self-consciously. “I’m- um- I’ll just-”
 
“Go, go,” she says, waving her hands and laughing at him. “It seems I have packing to see to. Thank you, Hera,” she adds, standing.
 
Hera watches her go, closing the door behind her.

I hope you don’t regret this, my friend.

Hera and Alistair enter the long dining hall, already full with Harrowmont’s supporters and household. Seated at the high table with the lord himself are Morrigan, Sten, Leliana, Zevran, and Wynne. The idle chatter falls away as they approach, silence settling among them in its place. Alistair sits, Ares laying at his feet, but Hera remains standing.
 
“Well?” Leliana asks finally.
 
“Do not make us wait, sweet Warden,” Zevran adds, toying with his cup of wine. “Who will go into the Deep Roads?”

Forgive me, friends,

she thinks, taking a deep breath and not knowing whether it's the forgiveness of those staying or going that she wants. “Sten,” she says, and the qunari nods in agreement. “Wynne, and Alistair. The three of you will stay here, and if we don’t return, you’re to carry on with the mission. We will leave tonight, as soon as we’re done eating.”
 
“Defeat the archdemon and end the Blight,” Morrigan says slowly, “

without

a Grey Warden at our side?”
 
“Lead the armies,” Hera answers. “You, Morrigan, will be at the head of the mages. Zevran will lead the Dalish- they’ll probably be stealthy like you,” she adds.
 
“And me?” Leliana asks, her voice low. “You always leave me behind, Hera.”
 
Moved by the sadness in her voice, Hera goes to kneel by her chair and takes her hand. “You are a dangerous woman,” she tells her friend in a soft voice, “and you know how to capture men’s hearts. You’re a mystery, Leliana.” The two women smile at one another, both holding their own secrets close. “And I need to know that someone like you- someone who’s like

me

- can lead the rest. I have such faith in you,” she adds softly, brushing soft red hair out of blue eyes. “Because, one way or another, I’m sending Alistair back, and he’s going to need you if I can’t come with him.”
 
Tears spill over Leliana’s lashes and she dashes them away with an embarrassed laugh. “One day I hope to make people feel the way you make them feel,” she says, squeezing Hera’s hand. 
 
“You have to be alive for that,” Hera tells her, kissing her knuckles. “So stay here, safe and alive, and wait for Alistair to come back.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They walk together, as a full group, towards the stairs leading down to the Commons. Zevran is loath to stay but tries to hide it, chattering about the mischief he and Leliana will get into to keep the bard’s spirits up. “Oh, Leliana, it will be

glorious

,” he brags, wrapping an arm around her waist and painting a picture with his free hand. “We will be famous throughout Orzammar, I tell you.”
 
Half-listening, Hera stops a guard to ask where exactly the entrance to the mines is, and he laughs. “Going down to the Deep Roads, are you? You surfacers,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Just go down to the commons and turn right. You’ll see it, it’s always guarded.”
 
“You’re one of the dwarves we saw arguing about Branka, aren’t you?” Leliana asks. “You and that red-haired fellow.”
 
His amusement fades and he shakes his head again, this time with disappointment and pity. “Saw that, did you? Oghren’s barely even warrior caste anymore, and he just clomps in here like he’s entitled!”
 
“Who is Oghren?” Wynne asks. “We’ve heard of Branka, but not him.”
 
“Oghren’s a drunken wretch,” he snorts. “He comes up here two, three times a week, hounding people to lead some suicidal rescue mission after Branka. Gets quite violent about it,” he adds, screwing up his face in dislike. “I’d be scared if they hadn’t practically gelded him after he killed young Lord Meino.”
 
Zevran lets out a squeak of surprise, his hands twitching in a denied desire to cover himself. “What do you mean

gelded

?” he asks, swallowing hard.
 
Hera coughs to cover a giggle, turning her face away so he can’t see her fighting not to laugh. Alistair and Sten aren’t as sensitive and laugh outright at his discomfort.
 
“Well,” he said conspiratorially, leaning closer to the group. “He killed Lord Meino’s youngest son in a duel to first blood.”
 
“Who would have thought to find a dwarf who gossips like an old woman?” Morrigan whispers to Hera, who has to cover her mouth to stop the laughter bubbling up her throat.
 
“It was a

huge

scandal,” the dwarf continues. Judging by the glare he gives Morrigan and Hera, he doesn’t appreciate being called a gossip. “Oghren should have been executed, but he’d won honors in the Deep Roads.” His words come faster as his excitement builds, taking great pleasure in Oghren’s fall from grace. “Instead, they stripped him of weapons and forbade him from engaging in fights within the city limits. If he breaks the decree, he’ll be exiled.”
 
“He must be a warrior of some merit,” Sten decides, crossing his arms over his chest.
 
“Why does this Oghren care so much about Branka?” Alistair asks. 
 
He sighs, his enthusiasm bleeding into pity, and shakes his head sadly. “She’s still his wife, isn’t she?” he asks, surprising Hera with the compassion in his voice. “Even if she took their entire house into the Deep Roads and abandoned him.”
 
“Poor thing,” Leliana says softly. 
 
He shrugs and grunts, not agreeing or disagreeing with her. “It’s been two years since Branka left. No one has ever stayed in the Deep Roads that long and survived. The search teams who went out found nothing, but Oghren wants to keep risking lives searching.” Bitterness weaves its way into his voice, and Hera wonders how many comrades he’s lost to the search.

These Deep Roads sound like an awful place,

she thinks, shuddering.

Dark and dangerous, full of Grey Wardens’ bones. I hope Alistair and I don’t find our ends there, as well.

Stop,

she orders herself, listing her eyes to the mountain above them.

I won’t allow Alistair to die there and I know my own end.

Strangely, there’s a small piece of comfort in that knowledge. She

will

die, and soon, but she’s reasonably sure it won’t be in the Deep Roads.
 
“Why did she go in the first place?” Zevran asks, wrapped up in the story now that he’s learned there wasn’t an

actual

gelding.
 
“Chasing some old treasure,” the dwarf tells him, pushing the words away with his hands like stale bread. “She was very secretive, told no one outside her house, if she even told them. Quite rude about it, really. Said she never asked to found a house, that she didn’t care about politics, and that we were too self-absorbed to defeat the darkspawn.”
 
“She was looking for a way to end them for good?” Alistair asks, struggling to sound like a serious, inquisitive Grey Warden and not a young boy lost in a story.
 
“Who can say? She actually

threatened

anyone who said they’d come after her,” the guard says. “There’s been nothing heard or seen of her, so we’ll never know.”
 
“We should get going,” Hera says quickly, waving her arms to shepherd the group toward the Harrowmont estate. “Thanks for the story.”
 
“All right,” he says with a farewell wave. “If you see Oghren causing any more trouble, just tell a guardsman he’s at it again.”
 
“Hera, what are you doing?” Wynne demands as she’s swept along with the others. “I am no sheep to be herded.”
 
“Aren’t you? The Chantry treats you so,” Morrigan quips.
 
Alistair frowns, hanging back. “He might know more-”
 
“Hush,” Hera orders. “If she’s been making threats, I don’t want any of her friends to know

we’re

going after her, too.”
 
“If she has any,” Zevran mutters.
 
“What will the three of us do while you’re gone?” Morrigan asks.
 
“Listen,” Hera tells her. “Be useful to Harrowmont if you can. And stay out of trouble.”
 
Leliana’s eyes shine with mischief, and Hera has her doubts about leaving her behind. “I know how to be useful,” she says with an evil little giggle.
 
Watching Morrigan and Zevran eye the petit bard with curiosity makes Hera wish

she

were staying, too.

I do hope they have fun, whatever it is,

she thinks as they clatter down the stairs toward the marketplace. “Just don’t hurt our cause, or get yourselves killed.”
 
“Yes, beautiful Warden,” Zevran says cheerfully.
 
The group stops at the stairs leading down to the mines’ entrance. “Be careful, and don’t get arrested,” she tells them sternly. “Leliana, I’m counting on you.”
 
“Oh

her?

” Morrigan nearly shrieks indignantly. “

I

am the responsible one, Hera!”
 
Zevran simply wraps Hera in his arms, holding her close and leaning her into a dip so low the tail of her braid coils on the stone. “I will be certain to keep them safe,” he murmurs, using one hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek. “But you must promise to return safely as well.”
 
Hera feels a faint blush stain her cheeks at the gallant gesture.

If it hadn’t been Alistair, I’m certain Zev and I would have run ourselves ragged in the pursuit of pleasure,

she thinks, feeling suddenly bashful.

What a lovely race it would have been, too.

“I’ll try, Zev,” she whispers back, raising her head to kiss his cheek. 
 
“You are very lovely when you blush,

amora,

” he murmurs, heat simmering in his voice.
 
“Zevran,” Alistair says, his tone low with warning. “Would you mind putting my love back on her feet?”
 
“Certainly, my friend,” Zevran says with a charming smile. He lifts her back to his feet and approaches Alistair, draping himself over the Warden’s shoulders in a pantomime of his pose with Hera- only this time, he plays her part. “I will miss you all terribly,” he says in a quaking, melodramatic voice. “Bring my good friends back to me, Sten,” he adds, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Alistair, will you not hold me?”
 
Alistair gives him a deadpan look before rolling his eyes. “Just this once,” he groans and lifts his arms.
 
Zevran leaps up, hooking his legs over Alistair’s arm so that he’s being carried, then proceeds to fling his arms out in desperation. “Keep Wynne’s bosom safe. I rely on it so!”
 
“Really, Zevran!” Wynne scolds. “On your feet and go find something useful to do.”
 
With a laugh and a kiss blown to the old woman, he jumps back down and wraps an arm around Leliana’s waist. “Come,

bella,

let us find gainful employment.”
 
His lighthearted antics relieve some of the tension between them all, leaving Hera feeling slightly better about leaving them behind. Adjusting the pack on her shoulder, she follows Sten down to speak with the men guarding the entrance to the mine.
 
“Stranger!” a rough voice calls out. “Hey, stranger!”
 
Hera stops, turning in the direction of the dwarf shouting at them. “You mean me?”
 
He nods, huffing a little as he approaches. As he gets closer, she realizes it’s the same dwarf from earlier- Oghren, the warrior whose drinking had caused his fall from grace. He looks a little disoriented, as if expecting to find someone else- or perhaps semi-sobriety is so uncharacteristic of him that he can no longer recognize it. Dressed in rust-colored, highly polished armor, armed to the teeth, and carrying a bundle of wood and torches nearly as tall as himself on his back, he looks as if he’s ready to begin an expedition of his own.
 
“Have you seen a Grey Warden hereabouts? I’ve been privy to the rumor that he...or was it she- you understand this was many mugs ago,” he explains, belching so loud the gorget around his neck rattles, “was searching for Branka on Lord Harrowmont’s own command.”
 
“Disgusting,” Wynne hisses, covering her nose. 
 
Hera gives Alistair a sly look, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I might have, what does this Grey Warden look like?” she asks.
 
“Stout and muscular,” he says confidently, “fair of face, but with a strong jaw and a bold nose, surrounded by a great glowing nimbus.”

Damn me to seven hells,

she thinks, turning wide eyes to Alistair,

that’s exactly how I saw him the first time, too.

“Actually-”
 
“If she’s a woman,” he adds, so awestruck by his own description he doesn’t hear her. “She might be more slight, but her eyes will shine with the light of purity and her large but chaste bosom will heave magnificently.”

Oh dear, I’m afraid he isn’t looking for me

at all

, she thinks, covering her mouth on a snicker. “Per-”
 
“I’ve been looking for hours,” he says dejectedly, “but I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that. Very frustrating.”
 
“Perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong places,” she suggests. “Because you’re looking at her. Although I’m afraid I don’t think my bosom has ever heaved magnificently.”
 
He gives her a long, disdainful look up and down, his bright red nose wrinkling above his equally red beard. “Well if you’re the best they’ve got, then standards must have fallen way down,” he says rudely.
 
“Excuse me!” she asks shrilly. “I’ll have you know-”
 
He raises his hands placatingly. “But I suppose that would account for a human in Orzammar. Say, could I ask you a favor?”
 
Hera crosses her arms, letting out a huff of irritation. “No. Not after you just had the nerve to insult me!”
 
“Ah stuff your head!” he snaps. “I have a bleeding Paragon to find. I don’t have time to worry about your sodding feelings. I’m not saying I should be your first pick for a dance partner at whatever highness’ inaugural ball, but in the Deep Roads, I’m your man.”
 
Hera glares at him a moment longer before glancing at Alistair, who just shrugs. “We took someone who was hired to kill us,” he reminds her.
 
“Yeah,” Oghren says agreeably, nodding enthusiastically as if he knows what Alistair’s talking about. “And if you’re looking for Branka, I’m the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her.”
 
“Why haven’t you gone after her yourself?” Sten asks.
 
Oghren looks up- and then has to look a little higher to see Sten. “By the Stone, you’re big,” he mutters, craning his neck. “I have gone after her, believe me. But where she was going, it’s a lost thaig. No one’s seen it in centuries; I searched as far as I could, but…” He sighs, dropping the abrasive facade for a moment. “It would take teams of warriors searching for weeks on end to cover enough ground to hope to find it. Which, I assume, is what Harrowmont’s men have done,” he adds hopefully. “And they shared what they’ve found with

you.

”
 
“Possibly,” Hera muses, her pride still smarting from the numerous rebuffs she’s taken in the dwarven city.
 
“But they still haven’t found Branka herself, and that means whatever they’ve got, it’s not enough if you don’t know what she was looking for. If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka. Otherwise, good sodding luck,” he finishes bitterly. 
 
Hera looks back at Wynne and lifts her eyebrows. “Don’t we have enough heavily armed lunatics following us already?” she asks, hoping the mage will see the sense of the matter.
 
Wynne’s laughter joins Oghren’s. “Perfect!” he says cheerfully. “What’s one more?”
 
“Oh Maker,” Alistair laughs. “How can you say no to

that

?”
 
“Branka was a brilliant girl, but half the time she’d add two and two and make it fifty,” he explains, tapping his temple. “You want to find her, you need someone who knows how she thinks.”
 
“If I say yes, will you be drunk the whole time?” Hera asks. 
 
“Maybe not the

whole

time, but mostly,” he says, shrugging. “It’s how I fight best.”
 
Hera pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “I’m going to regret this, I can feel it,” she mutters. Taking a deep breath, she looks up and offers Oghren a hand. “We have a deal, it seems.”
 
He spits into his own palm and grabs her hand before she pulls away in disgust. “Good on you, Warden!” he says cheerfully while Hera stares at her palm with a grimace. 
 
“Yes...well...” she mumbles, patting his shoulder in an attempt to clean his spit off her glove. “We should get going.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera cranes her neck, staring up with wide eyes. “Dwarves built all

this?

” she asks. “Why is it so big?”
 
“Compensation, maybe,” Alistair snorts.
 
“Hey!” Oghren glares at Alistair and puts his fists up in a challenge. “This dwarf doesn’t need to compensate for

anything

. I got enough for anybody!”
 
Sten looks Oghren up and down, frowning. “Doubtful.”
 
“Hera, you seem surprised,” Wynne says, coming up beside her and ignoring the men. “What did you expect?”
 
“Not...

art,

” she says softly, taking it all in slowly. The tunnels leading to the mines are enormous, the impossibly high ceiling arching over their heads, filled with carvings of mountains and rivers of lava. The carved rivers are echoed on the floor as well; stone streams travel along the edges of the tunnel, filled with brightly glowing lava to provide warmth and light. “Those carvings must be huge,” she adds.
 
“They are,” Oghren says proudly, hands on his hips. “They have to be to be seen down here.”
 
“And the tiles! They’re lovely. Oghren, why would the dwarves spend so much time on mining tunnels?”
 
“These don’t just go to the mines. They used to go to the other thaigs, and had to be big enough to move equipment through.” The ruddy-faced dwarf gives her a slap on the backside. “Might as well make it worth the trip, if you know what I mean.”
 
“Hey!” Alistair snaps as Hera squeaks in surprise.
 
“Oghren, if you do that again I’m going to cut that hand off,” she warns him, her eyes narrowing into violet slits. Her voice has a sharp edge to it as it echoes the power she keeps hidden. “And I’m not joking.”
 
Oghren chuckles, but the sound is laced with regret and apprehension as he lifts his hands and backs away slowly. “All right, that’s a line. I see it, right there in the stone.”
 
Her appreciation of the caverns soured, she starts walking again.

Dwarves,

she thinks with a scowl. “So what

was

Branka looking for?” she asks, ignoring her irritation.
 
“The Anvil of the Void,” he says, catching up to walk beside her again. “Might have been the most important invention in Orzammar’s history. The smith Caridin built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace while it was protected by golems forged on the Anvil.”
 
“A hundred years of peace?” Alistair’s voice is softened by awe. “No darkspawn raids?”
 
“Not a one,” Oghren says, puffing out his chest. “As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there if she could ever find it.”
 
Hera pulls out the map Lord Harrowmont gave her. “Did she know where it was? This only takes us as far as Caridin’s Cross.”
 
“All she knew was that it was past the Cross,” he tells her, shaking his head. “No one’s seen that thaig for five hundred years.”
 
“Five hundred? No wonder there’s no map leading to it.” Wynne taps her staff on the floor as they walk, the white light radiating from the top growing brighter. “How

does

one map dwarven-made tunnels?”
 
“You’d have to ask the Shapers; warriors like me don’t have much use for that stuff.”
 
Sten snorts and mutters a curse under his breath. “If Branka is your wife and you are a true warrior, why did you not go with her?” 
 
Hera has to fight back a giggle as, once again, Sten shoots straight for the heart of things. Oghren’s face turns a deeper red than his beard and he makes his own snort in return. “Why do you sodding think?” he snaps, waving his hands around. “She left me! Ran off and took our entire sodding house on her mad quest for the Anvil.”
 
“Because you would have talked her out of it?” Hera asks.
 
“It was a stupid move,” he grumbles into his beard. “If I’d been with her, she’d have made it back years ago. But I forgive her,” he says softly, pushing ahead to walk in front of the small group.

He sounds so sad.

Hera watches his stout back as he tries to outpace the pain of his wife leaving him.

Perhaps there’s more to him than the gossip says,

she thinks, looking around her at the slowly decaying splendor.

Perhaps there's more to these people than I originally thought. Even if a few are drunken louts who can’t keep their hands to themselves.

“Well, are you coming or not?” Oghren growled. “Caridin’s Cross is only a few hours from here. We’ll camp there for the night.”
  
“Leliana, Hera

did

say for us to be useful, no?” Zevran wheedles, his hands as expressive as his face as he sloshes wine over the lip of his cup. “We will help this Shaper Mildrate-”
 
“-Shaper

Assistant

-” Leliana corrects.

Zevran just continues on as if she hasn’t even spoken. “-Find his stolen book. It will be easy, we will make some extra coin,

and

Hera will be proud of us!”
 
Leliana’s cool blue eyes slide over to look at Morrigan, who was busy nursing her own cup of wine. “Morrigan? What do you think?”
 
The dark-haired witch pins her with those strange eyes, making Leliana wish the woman wasn’t so damned beautiful.

She’s like a wild animal, totally untamed and free. I wonder what-

She shakes her head, pushing the thought away before she can even finish it.

Didn’t Hera teach you anything?

“The Grey Warden

did

say for us to make ourselves useful,” Morrigan drawls. “And something as simple as a missing tome could hardly go wrong.”
 
“Morrigan my dear, I knew you were gorgeous as sin and twice as clever,” Zevran says charmingly, picking up her hand and toying with her fingers. Leliana watches his smile turn smoldering and sighs, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. “But now we agree on one matter, we should agree on

other

matters, yes?”
 
Morrigan gives him her own sultry smile. “Zevran, you simply can’t ever understand…” she murmurs, leaning closer to him. “That I don’t want you anywhere near my matters.”
 
Leliana giggles as Morrigan pats him on the top of the head as if he were a child. “You know she doesn’t want you, Zev, why do you try?”
 
Zevran shrugs and gives her a mischievous grin. “Even a blind pig, you know. Come, lovely Leliana, let us find some adventure.”
 
He jumps to his feet and bows dramatically, offering his hand to her. Rolling her eyes and laughing, she takes it and lets him pull her to her feet. “Why do I have the feeling I’ll regret this?”
 
“I assure you,

bella,

you will not.”
  
In design, Caridin’s Cross was like all the other tunnels that lead into the mines. Pillars stretched endlessly into the dark overhead and to each side of the crossroad, offering wide corridors for plenty of space for wagons and travel, tiles were set into the floor with precision. But that was where the similarities ended.
 
The rivulets of lava had become clogged or diverted long behind them, making the journey darker and colder with each step, and the stone tiles are cracked and shifting underfoot as they walk. The ventilation was also damaged, leaving them with stale, dusty air. Being this deep underground made Hera feel as if she were sinking underwater, the pressure slowly building until she feels as if her chest is bound. Combined with the growing sense of darkspawn in the back of her mind, she nearly itched with discomfort.
 
In the dim white light of Wynne’s staff, the place looks like the perfect setting for a nightmare.
 
“Caridin’s Cross!” Oghren says reverently. “I can’t believe Harrowmont actually tracked this place down.”
 
“Wait, didn’t you

know

where it was?” Alistair asks. “You said it was a few hours’ walk from the mine entrance.”

Oghren shrugs. “I had an idea. This used to be one of the biggest crossroads of the old empire,” he tells Hera. “You could get anywhere from here. Including Ortan Thaig.”
 
“Why abandon it, then?” she asks.
 
“The other thaigs all fell.” He gestures for Wynne to follow him toward a pillar, examining it closely. “No sign of Branka,” he groans. “Not here, anyway. But trust me, we’ll see her tracks once we’re on the path to old Ortan Thaig. She was going to Caridin’s home.”
 
“Who was this Caridin?” Wynne asks, leaning on her staff. The lines around her face look deeper here, but whether it’s exhaustion from the long day and their hike through the Roads or just a trick of the light, Hera can’t tell.
 
“Branka’s hero, the most famed Paragon to ever rise from the Smith Caste,” he says, his mouth twisting into a smile at his superior knowledge in this instance. “He built the Anvil, and he was the only one who ever knew its secret. He was an Ortan before he founded his own house, and even then, he spent most of his time in their thaig. Branka figured it was the best guess for where the Anvil was located.”

And yet she didn’t tell you when she was leaving?

Hera wonders.

How many other secrets did she keep from you?

“Do you know where to go from here?” Sten asks. Somehow the qunari is the only one of the small group who

doesn’t

look worse for wear. If Hera didn’t know better she’d think he was as well-rested as if he’d just woken up from a long night’s sleep. 
 
“Aye,” Oghren belches, stretching the word. “Branka dug up some maps of the ancient empire.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks around, his brows drawn together in thought. “It’s a little tough to tell with so much of it collapsed now, but as near as I can figure, we’re on the right path to Ortan Thaig.”
 
“Great,” Hera says, shifting the pack on her shoulder. “We’ll rest a while, then get started.”
 
Oghren’s chuckle echoes through the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for someone to say that for two sodding years.”
  
Leliana looks up at Zevran hanging upside down from the ceiling. “You were right,” she giggles, nimble fingers plucking at the rope around her wrists. “

I

don’t regret this.”
 
“Leliana,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes at her. “This is not funny.”
 
“

I

think it is. What did you think would happen? We didn’t have that much gold and you knew it!”
 
Zevran lets his shoulders drop into the laziest shrug Leliana has ever seen. “I was hoping Morrigan was holding out on us, honestly.”
 
Leliana glares up at him. “Zevran, you are an idiot.”

“Hey! This wouldn’t have happened if

you

hadn’t kissed

me

!”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera keeps watch while the others sleep, closing her eyes and allowing both her dhampir and Grey Warden senses to reach out, looking for darkspawn. For the moment, she can feel nothing beyond the strange sensation of being watched that is simply the taint of her Joining. The darkspawn taint has come alive the deeper they move into the tunnels. She can feel it twisting through her veins, sluggish and cold against the hot rush of her inhuman blood. If she focuses, she can sometimes sense the taint passing through her heart and her blood grows hotter than normal, as if it means to burn away the blackness inside her. The heat travels through her torso, momentarily free of the sticky sludge before the cold seeps back into her veins. For the space of a few frantic heartbeats, she is free.
 
Those moments grow fewer and farther between the deeper they travel, but it gives her hope that eventually there will be a way to free the Grey Wardens from the taint of the darkspawn.
 
It is a small, fragile hope, but it gives her strength against the sense of the army massing just beyond sight. Her superior hearing picks up every echo of boots and feet on stone, every clash of metal in the distance.

It’s strange here, so far below everything,

she thinks, opening her eyes and gazing into the dark. Unlike her companions, Hera can see perfectly well in the dark. For her, the shadows are alive with broken stone, the drip of water somewhere in the distance, the deeper shadow of lichen crawling over the wall. Somewhere, beyond the curve of the tunnel, is the faintest glow, lighting the darkness by the smallest degree, and the scratch of some small animal.

Perhaps it is the darkness or promise of danger, but this place makes me miss home so much,

she thinks, pulling a knee to her chest and making Ares huff in disapproval of her movement. The weight of Zeus’ absence is nearly more than she can bear, and tears burn, falling before she can blink them away.

Foolish tears,

she scolds herself.

I’m a warrior queen. I’ve slaughtered men and drunk the blood of my enemies. And yet ever since I came to this world, I find myself as brittle and weak as any soft-hearted fool who ever dared to walk the planes. I never thought the Joining would make me both less and more than human,

she thinks, looking down at the blue veins standing out on her wrist.

I am human, vampire, and now darkspawn. All wrapped up in a pretty little package on its way to destruction.

Oh Zeus. I would give my eyeteeth for a lecture from you now.

Sten’s breathing changes, growing less deep and even, so that Hera is turning to him just as he sits up. “You’re awake,” she says softly, brushing her hand across her cheeks. After a low grumble of annoyance, Ares moves his head off her leg and lays beside her, watching Sten with bright eyes.
 
Sten nods, shifting to sit cross-legged. “You need rest as well.”
 
She shrugs, turning back to look into the darkness. “Would you believe I’m not tired?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“You- you

do

?” she asks, turning back and raising her eyebrows. 
 
He stretches his back, a series of cracks following the action. “You are not like the humans of Thedas,” he says simply. “I suspect it is because you are not one of them.”

Have I given myself away somehow?

She keeps her face carefully arranged in an expression of slight amusement.

Does he know?

“Sten, I assure you, I’m a human,” she lies, and follows it with a soft laugh.
 
“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But you yourself say you are not from Thedas. So you cannot be a Thedosian human.”
 
Hera snickers. “Well, by that logic, I suppose you’re right.”
 
“What I do not understand is how deep your endurance goes,” he says. “It is beyond all the limits of every human I have seen.”
 
“Believe me, I’m nearing the bottom,” she says with a heavy sigh. “There’s...there’s just no end to it. All of it. The fighting and the fear and the constant wondering.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I’m being maudlin. Go back to sleep.”
 
“If you wish.” But instead of lying back down, he simply stays as he is as if waiting for an answer to a question. “It is strange to be in a crowd and hear a language that is not your own,” he says finally, looking past her. “To see faces that are, and aren’t, like yours. Do not let the strangeness cause you distress, Kadan.”
 
Somehow, Sten always finds a way to put words to impossible feelings. “Do you ever get homesick?” she asks.
 
He hesitates, his great forehead wrinkling in thought. “I...I miss the smells of Seheron,” he says slowly. “Tea and incense and the sea. Ferelden smells like wet dogs.”
 
Hera laughs softly, and Ares lifts his head and whines. “That it does, my friend.” They sit in silence for a moment before she speaks again. “Sten, would it help if you taught me some of your language?”
 
A smile tugs at his lips and he shakes his head. “Hearing it on the tongue of a

bas

would not give me comfort.”
 
“But you call me Kadan.”
 
“It is not the same. Would hearing your tongue from me ease your sickness for home?”
 
 Hera thinks of the short, sharp sounds of the people of Ravenloft. Sharp as a vampire’s tooth, but beautiful and lyrical as well.

Would

it help? Somehow I don’t think so.

“I think I see your point. Get some rest, I’ll wake everyone when it’s time to go,” she assures him, patting Ares on the head.
 
He nods and stretches back out, and before long, his soft snore falls into place amongst the other small sounds of sleep. Hera stands and walks toward the shadows slowly, as if she could solve all her problems if she could only see far enough. Hoping for a game, Ares leaps up and follows, his nails clicking on the stone.

I wish Zeus were here,

she wishes for the thousandth time, her hand falling to scratch Ares behind the ear.

I don’t think I would fear these roads so much if he were. What secrets does the endless maze of tunnels hold?

Wordlessly, she casts a single ball of light forward. Ares sprints off, chasing it as it lights up the stone before it hits something and dissipates. Confused, he tilts his head, waiting for it to reappear. “Sorry Ares,” she whispers as he turns and trots back to her. “I’ll find you a ball when we get back to the surface. Promise.”
  
The door opens, a bright light blinding them. Lifting her head, Leliana squints at the tall figure in the doorway. “Morrigan, is that you?”
 
“You didn’t think I was going to let those smugglers sell you to slavers, did you?” she sniffs.
 
As Leliana’s eyes adjust to the light, she watches Morrigan pluck a piece of lint off her shoulder. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
 
“’Tis why I bought you myself,” she explains, kneeling down to untie Leliana.
 
Zevran laughs, his whole body swinging. “I have never been so happy to be purchased.”
 
Turning, Morrigan arches a brow imperiously, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “Are you so happy to be left in the hands of a terrifying apostate?” she asks in a low voice, dragging her fingernail down the side of his face. “I may decide this is the perfect chance to see what’s so tempting about blood magic.”
 
Face suddenly a deep red, he gulps. “I have never been so frightened

and

aroused by the idea, my dear.”
 
Hera’s eyes are far away as she stands at the edge of camp, bending all her dhampir and Grey Warden senses to searching for any darkspawn nearby. She and Alistair had agreed that with her superior hearing and sight, she should be the one to keep watch for trouble while camp was set up and struck.
 
“Hey, Princess,” Oghren grumbles, tying a heavy bundle of firewood to his pack, “you gonna help, or just stand there and look ugly?”
 
Hera ignores him, her attention on a band of darkspawn some distance away, but slowly heading their way.
 
“I

said

are you gonna-”
 
“I heard you,” she snaps, “you drunken rockbiter.” She turns in time to hear Alistair’s snorting laugh and see Sten’s quick grin before it’s replaced by his normal placid expression. “What do you want?”
 
“You gonna help?” he demands, waving his arms around and indicating the small camp strewn about.
 
“I

am

helping,” she tells him. “Do you really want to be attacked by darkspawn with no warning?”
 
“Eh...what?” he asks, rubbing his chin.
 
“The Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn,” Wynne explains, shouldering her bag. “The opposite is also true, unfortunately. Hera is making sure that we are not caught unawares.”
 
“Oh.” Oghren grumbles to himself as he swings his firewood-laden pack onto his back. “Still ugly.”
 
“Kadan is useful, above all else,” Sten says flatly, carrying Hera’s bag to her. “I do not care if she is ugly.”
 
With a sigh, Hera takes it from him. “Sten, you know just how to get to the heart of things.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Oh goodness!” Wynne gasps, covering her mouth and nose. “What is that stench?”
 
“Darkspawn corruption,” Alistair says, pointing to a patch of oily-looking rot, its spidery tendrils crawling out from a black, fleshy sac the size of his fist. They’d spent hours avoiding roving bands of darkspawn, only fighting when there was no way around them. The spiders, however, they couldn’t avoid. They had left them exhausted and so nervous the group flinched at every shadow. 
 
“The taint has spread this far,” he adds flatly. “Oghren, do you know how long it’s been since anyone’s been through here?”
 
Oghren scratches his cheek through his beard. “Well, I heard something about some Grey Wardens come through,” he says after a long pause. “But that was years ago. I can’t say the last time the army moved any troops this far down.”
 
“Don’t touch it,” Hera says softly when Ares starts sniffing around the sac. “Ares,

no

,” she adds, grabbing his harness and pulling him back. “Don’t even sniff it, boy.”
 
“It can spread,” Alistair explains, answering the unasked question. “Hera and I are immune to it, but you three aren’t, so be careful.”
 
Behind them, Oghren’s face is as hard as the stone he reveres as he hefts his ax. He doesn’t say anything else, but Alistair has the feeling that Oghren knows more about the darkspawn than any man should.

He was in the army,

he reminds himself.

That guard told us that he won honors down here fighting darkspawn.

Alistair can feel the darkspawn, something like an itch between his shoulder blades or a whisper he can’t quite make sense of. What he

does

know for certain is that the deeper they travel into the depths of the earth, the more aware he is of the taint in his blood: the cold, sluggish tide of it in his veins. It makes him feel smothered; like he's walking into a pool of filth that pulls and sucks at his boots the further he goes.

I should ask Hera if she feels it the same way,

he thinks, watching her distract Ares with a treat. 
 
With a small gesture for them to wait, she moves ahead of them, sneaking around corners to make sure there’s not an ambush waiting. They can sense darkspawn, but who knows what else is down here. In any other situation, watching Ares skulk around trying to keep up with her quick grace would almost be funny.

I wonder if her dhampir blood changes how it feels. If they can even feel her because of it. There’s so much I don’t know about the taint- I bet that mage at Soldier’s Peak could tell us. Maybe he'll still be alive when this is all over.

“Alistair, are you all right?” Wynne asks.
 
“No, he is not,” Sten says, frowning at him. “He has been affected by these roads.”
 
“What? Me? Oh!” he stammers, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword casually. Unfortunately, he misses and can only let his arm swing awkwardly, smacking his elbow into the shield on his back. “Uh, yes. Yes, I am. Fine, that is.”
 
Wynne gives him a bewildered look. “Well, if you’re certain…”
 
“Damn me to seven hells!” Hera’s curse echoes through the tunnel, sharpened by frustration.
 
Running ahead, Alistair finds her standing in front of a cave in, hands on her hips and scowling at the broken stone. “I suppose now is a good time to rest?”
 
“Oghren!” she called, shrugging off her pack and throwing it down. 
 
“Hold on!” comes the grunting response. “I’m taking a piss!”
 
She moves to kick her bag, but stops herself, all the air leaking out of her in a long sigh. “We’ve been traveling for a full day,” she says, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. With a soft groan, Ares sits at her feet and looks up at her. “They’re going to have the vote the day after tomorrow.”
 
“Those deshyrs aren’t going to be able to decide what time to vote, let alone actually get started,” Oghren assures her. “We got time, Princess.”
 
Setting his own burden down, Alistair leans against the wall beside her. “If Oghren’s right, we’re making good time,” he assures her, rubbing Ares between the ears. “According to the map Branka left behind, we shouldn’t be too far from Ortan Thaig.”
 
“It should be on the other side of this stone,” Oghren grumbles. 
 
Sten comes up to stand in front of the wall of crumbled stone and dust, studying it closely.

What is he thinking?

Alistair wonders and opens his mouth to ask when Sten speaks.
 
“I can move it.”
 
Hera’s laugh is brittle with exhaustion.

She didn’t sleep at all last night,

he realizes as she slides down the stone wall to sit beside Ares. “No you can’t, Sten,” she says, burying her face in the mabari’s short, rusty fur. “It a damn wall of stone.”
 
Sten ignores her, nodding to himself and stroking his chin. “Alistair, start a fire,” he orders. “Kadan and Wynne should rest while we attend to this. I will move it.”
 
Alistair slides his eyes down to Hera to see what she thought of him giving such orders, but she’s sound asleep, her arms draped loosely around Ares’ neck. “I guess you’re right,” he chuckles. “Let me at least get her comfortable, and we’ll get started.”
 
Wynne smiles and pats Alistair’s arm. “I’ll see to her, and the fire, too.”
 
Oghren stares down at Hera and snorts. “You know, asleep like that, she ain’t that ugly.”
 
Leliana leans back in her chair and drinks deeply from her cup. “You are very beautiful, Morrigan,” she says slowly.
 
Morrigan smirks, refilling her own cup from the flagon of wine on the table. “Tell me something I do not know.”
 
“But you always dress in such...

rags

.” The disdain in Leliana’s voice makes Zevran choke on his wine, hiding his laughter in a fit of coughing.
 
Morrigan arches an eyebrow, leaning her chair back and putting one foot on the table. “Do my

rags

offend you, Leliana?”
 
“It suits you I suppose,” she admits, eyeing the long, mostly bare leg. “A little tear here, a little rip there to show some skin. I understand. It’s very useful.”
 
Morrigan chuckles. “You understand I lived in a forest, I hope?”
 
“You’re not in the forest now,” Leliana reminds her. “We made some good money today, maybe we could get you in a nice dress. Silk, maybe?”
 
“What nonsense,” Morrigan snorts, waving to the waitress for more wine. 
 
“You’re right,” she muses. “Velvet is heavier, better to guard against the cold in Ferelden.

And

it’s so dramatic; you’d look amazing swishing around in velvet. Hmmm…” Leliana’s eyes travel up and down Morrigan slowly, taking in every inch of exposed skin. “It should be low cut in the front,” she decides. “We don’t want to hide your...features.”
 
Morrigan’s brows draw together and she puts a hand over her chest, taking her foot off the table. “Stop looking at my breasts like that,” she demands, her face flushing. “‘Tis most disturbing!”
 
“Come here, lovely Morrigan,” Zevran croons, opening an arm to her. “I will shield those lovely breasts of yours.”
 
Leliana tilts her head, pursing her lips in indecision. “Don’t you agree? But if it’s low cut in the front, we’ll put your hair up and show off your lovely neck.”
 
“You,” Morrigan says and drains her cup. “Are insane.” She hiccups, rising onto unsteady legs and grips the back of her chair for balance. “I would sooner let Alistair dress me.”
 
Leliana and Zevran watch her wobble toward the door. “Morrigan!” Leliana calls, following her just as drunkenly. “Come back! It’ll be fun! I promise! We’ll go shopping together and get new shoes!”
 
Zevran catches Leliana about the waist, laughing. “My dear, I do believe that Morrigan is as cold and unyielding as a wall of stone.”
 
Leliana twists in his arms until they’re nose to nose. “How appropriate that we’re in Orzammar then,” she grumbles.
 
Still laughing softly, he pulls her closer and kisses the tip of her nose. “Do not fret,

amora

,” he murmurs, his eyes on her lips. “Not all of us are so cold.”
 
Leliana looks down and groans, pulling away with a snort of disgust. “Zevran!”
 
“What?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera is startled awake by a series of sharp, loud words her sleep-addled mind can’t comprehend. Sitting up, she turns toward the sound just in time to see Wynne make a sweeping gesture with both arms.
 
“What’s-”
 
Something crashes into the caved-in pile of rock so hard that the shockwave of it rattles her teeth. Bits of stone bounce and scatter across the small hallway they’d made camp in and dust fills the air, choking their small fire into dim embers.
 
“Vashedan!”
 
“Maker’s breath!”
 
“Damned witch!”
 
Their curses are punctuated by deep coughs and groans, heard but unseen in the chaos.

What happened?

Covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve, Hera blinks the dust out of her eyes, trying to decide if they’re being attacked or not. “Ares!” she coughs, eyes watering. She hears a small whine as he nudges her foot gently.
 
Another phrase in the strange tongue- Hera recognizes it as ancient Tevine this time; Wynne had explained that was the language of magic here. She doesn’t understand it, but it reminds her a great deal of Latin, the tongue of the Argonaut patron she’d once known. A cool breeze sweeps the dust from the area, blowing out into the dark space beyond where the cave-in had been.
 
“There, that’s better,” Wynne said, clapping her hands together in a job well done. “I’m sorry to have woken you, dear.”
 
Still blinking her eyes clear, Hera gapes at the sight of Alistair, Sten, and Oghren standing to one side of the corridor, covered in so much pale dust they look like ghosts. Each man bore widely different expressions of irritation, each one pointed at the smug old mage.
 
“That was unnecessary,” Sten says, his tone even flatter than usual if such a thing were possible. “I had the situation under control.”
 
“You didn’t,” Wynne argues, her voice sickeningly sweet. “You were bickering with Oghren like a pair of children, trying to decide who was going to squeeze through the impossibly small opening you’d dug out.”
 
The bickering begins again, and Alistair moves to sit beside Hera. “Are you all right?” he asks.
 
She nods, looking down at her filthy- well,

filthier

- clothing. “Just wishing I’d had some warning,” she sighs. “How long was I asleep?”
 
“Two, maybe three hours,” he tells her. “We hadn’t even made anything to eat.”
 
Looking up at him, she laughs and reaches up to brush away bits of rock from his hair. “What happened any-?”
 
“Pasheera,” Sten says, raising his voice until it bounces off the walls. “The thaig is open, we should-”
 
Alistair and Hera both lift their heads, faces turning toward the thaig as one. “Darkspawn,” he says softly.
 
“We are

not

helping that chant-spewing dwarf,” Morrigan says, her voice firm with finality, snapping her book shut. “Absolutely not. Is this why you have come to bother me?”
 
“Why not?” Leliana asks, tucking her feet underneath her. It was strange, curling up in an armchair knowing Hera and the others will be sleeping somewhere in the Deep Roads. For the hundredth time, she sends up a small, silent prayer for their safe return. “All he wants is a

chance,

Morrigan! Surely we can give him that.”
 
“As does Zevran, and you’ve given him none.” A slow, smug grin spreads across Morrigan’s face and she crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s been trying to show you all day.”
 
“What do you mean?” Heat creeps into Leliana’s cheeks, and she takes a large gulp of wine, choking on it.
 
Morrigan laughs, setting her bare feet on the low table between them. “Leliana,” she says, twisting her long damp hair over one shoulder. “He

wants

you. Have you really not noticed?”
 
“Zevran wants everyone,” Leliana mutters, looking down into her cup of wine. “He’d have Sten if he could.”
 
Morrigan’s laugh bounces off the small sitting room between their chambers. “My Sten would never,” she says gleefully.
 
“You call him that a lot,” Leliana says, glancing back up at her. “My Sten.”
 
Morrigan shrugs, a small, satisfied smile on her face. “It amuses him.”
 
“Are you two…?” 
 
Morrigan’s smile doesn’t waver, and she lifts one shoulder casually. “Will you and Zevran become lovers?”
 
“I...I don’t know. He only seems interested because Hera’s not here. And there was that woman with the Dalish; he talked about her for a while. And it wouldn’t be anything but sex to me, I usually prefer women over men.”
 
"So does he," Morrigan laughs, "I asked." She leans forward and puts a hand on Leliana’s knee. “Listen to me, Leliana,” she says in a low, serious voice. “If you desire him, simply take the open path before you and knock on his door. He will not turn you away.”
 
Leliana scrunches up her face in thought. “You really think so?”
 
Sitting back, Morrigan takes up her cup and shrugs again. “You should go find out. Unless you’re afraid, of course,” she says airily.
 
Leliana’s pride rises at the challenge. “Afraid?” she scoffs. “Of

Zevran

?”
 
“I could understand,” Morrigan tells her, voice dripping with compassion. “He is an Antivan Crow, no matter how foolish he pretends to be. ’Twould be a dangerous affair to begin.”
 
In one smooth motion, Leliana drains her cup and rises, giving Morrigan a haughty look. “I’m not afraid of him

or

the Crows,” she says.
 
Morrigan watches her storm out into the hallway, presumably headed for Zevran’s room.

Now I’ve got the night to myself,

she thinks with a deep sigh and returns to the book at her side.

I do hope he can keep up with her.

“I think they're all gone; I can’t sense anything,” Hera says, wiping black darkspawn blood from her sword on a ragged bit of cloth. “Alistair, can you?”
 
He shakes his head. “No, but I have to admit, darkspawn

and

spiders were a bit much. Everyone all right?”
 
Wynne and Sten both assure him they’re safe, but Oghren just stands rooted in place staring out at the thaig. “Ortan Thaig,” he says softly.
 
Hera starts to approach, but the glint of light on twisted metal catches her eye first. Turning toward the caved-in tunnel, her eyes follow a metal and stone reaching for the distant ceiling. It looks as if it would have spanned the entire tunnel, were it not for the torn, stretched hole they had just passed through.
 
"Oghren, what is this?" she asks. “A door of some kind?”
 
The dwarf gives it a scornful look before turning away to glare into the darkness beyond. "That's a seal, princess," he says gruffly. "When the First Blight hit, it was the dwarves who suffered the most. Those damn monsters swallowed up the Deep Roads and all our thaigs with them." He tugs on his beard, still scowling. "We had to seal the tunnels," he says, his voice getting lower. "Not everyone made it to Orzammar."
 
Understanding hits her like a hammer to the chest. "Oh," she says lamely, eyebrows raised.

What a horrible nightmare,

she thinks, touching the stone gate with its bands of metal and runes.

Being trapped on the wrong side, hearing them come for you as time and resources ran out? What comes over a person when they realize there is no escape?

The rattle of Oghren shaking his own thoughts away pulls her back from her own and he lifts his ax once again. "We can right all this once we find Branka," he reminds her. "She'll have found a way to bring it all back."
 
Nodding silently, Hera and the others follow him through the broken gate and into Ortan Thaig.
 
Hera has seen towns and buildings abandoned before, but the thaig has a different environment entirely. This isn’t a city deserted, this is a city

invaded

. Pillars lie on their sides, some of them with the brittle remnants of bone and armor sticking out from beneath them. Soot streaks up the sides of buildings, scorching the stone as it had sought out something to burn.
 
And it was

enormous.

She had thought Orzammar large for a city inside a mountain. Ortan Thaig had been built in a cavern so large that even her superior dhampir sight couldn’t see where it ended. 
 
Slowly they make their way deeper into the thaig, communicating through whispers and gestures, climbing over or moving around rubble. Spider webs cover everything in layers so thick they have to cut their way through sometimes; once Alistair trips and gets himself so tangled in the sticky ropes that Sten has to take a dagger to them. Hera freezes when she hears the skittering sound of the spiders’ movements across stones.
 
“Spiders ahead,” she murmurs, moving forward to take the lead. “Wynne, brighten your light.”
 
The white glow increases, doubling their field of view as a cry rips through the silence, bouncing off the broken walls until Hera isn’t sure where it came from. 
 
“What is

that

?” Sten asks, drawing his greatsword and pointing to a small glowing figure hurrying toward them.
 
“Shouldn’t be anybody but the Legion down here,” Oghren grumbles, lifting his ax threateningly. “And they don’t look like that.”
 
Hera had never had a great deal of necromantic power before she ascended to her throne, but when she drank her father’s blood, it had opened new paths of magic for her. Now, the magic in her blood cries out in a great, ringing note as more of the figures appear, all screaming as before.

Shades,

she realizes.

They’re dead.

“Spirits,” she whispers before realizing they can’t hear it over the shouting. “They’re spirits,” she repeats.
 
The group is suddenly overrun, and while they may be only spirits, their weapons carry a true edge. Hera’s sword passes through the first of them, making it disappear, when she sees a spirit wielding a crossbow take aim at Ares.
 
“Ares!” she screams.
 
It’s too late.
 
Everything around her slows to a crawl as the bright bolt slices through the air and directly into Ares’ throat. Her magic, already an excited churning in her blood because of the darkness and the dead, surges painfully to the surface of her skin. With a wordless cry, she throws her hands out, magic splitting the skin of her fingers in blinding purple arches of lightning. 
 
“

No!”

she commands in a voice too loud for any human to have uttered. It doesn’t echo, it doesn’t fade away. It is simply a command, laced with power so great it drops into the world like a stone through water. 
Waves of shadow and mist surge from her; her companions drop to the floor unconscious and the spirits are blasted into nothing. In a blink Hera is at her mabari’s side, her weapons clattering to the stone behind her.
“Ares, no,” she whispers, hands shaking as she runs them over his matted fur. Blood seeps from inside her gloves, darkening the leather. “Breathe, boy.”
 
Alistair is silent as he comes to kneel beside her; a small part of her mind wonders why he wasn’t knocked unconscious with the rest of them, but her worry overrides it. Ares hasn’t done so much as draw a breath, and Hera puts her hands over the wound.
 
“You’d better do something fast,” Alistair whispers, tearing his shirttail off and pressing it over her hands to help the bleeding. “Before they realize-”
 
The air around them becomes painfully cold, and he bites off his words as shadows engulf her hands. Hera’s entire being is focused solely on Ares, willing him to be alive as the darkness wriggles its way inside the wound on his throat. The sight makes Alistair’s stomach quiver, and he wonders what kind of magic she has that she

hasn’t

shown him.

Can she really raise the dead?

He wonders.

Is she

that

powerful?

“Ares, come back,” she whispers. The words hold no power, she isn’t using any of her skill or art to save him; it’s a simple, broken plea that breaks Alistair’s heart. "You can't have gone far. Come back."
 
A sigh escapes the warhound, followed by a deeper breath. He still bleeds from the hole in his throat, but at least he’s alive. Hera’s own sigh mirrors his and she sags over him, choking on tears. “Ares,” she whispers, her arms tightening around him.
 
The dog whines in response and Alistair can feel his shoulders relaxing as the mist clears away. At the sound of a cleared throat, he turns and sees Wynne and Sten staring at them. They both stand with arms crossed over their chests and matching stoney expressions. Behind them, Oghren sits up, his head in his hands, and groans.
 
“Just what happened here?” Wynne demands.
 
Hera lifts her head, turning watery red eyes to Wynne before Alistair can answer. “Help him, Wynne!”
 
The mage’s stern look drains away and she kneels beside Ares, a healing spell already forming in her hands. Alistair glances at Hera, glad that she hadn’t healed the dog completely. 
 
“Kadan,” Sten says grimly. “A word.”
 
“In a minute, Sten,” Hera says, her voice shaking. “Wait.”
 
Alistair puts his hands on her shoulders and pulls her back gently. “Go,” he says softly. “I’ll sit with him.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Didn’t we just get abducted and nearly tortured just yesterday?” Zevran asks as they descend the broken-down steps that lead into the slums of Orzammar. “Haven’t we learned our lesson?” “I should hope so,” Morrigan says and arches a brow. “I don’t have enough gold to buy you back a second time, Zevran, so you’d best be worth the investment.” “Oh, he was,” Leliana says with a smug grin.  Morrigan snorts, hiding her amusement. There are shadows under Leliana’s eyes and Zevran grins whenever she glances at him, but she has the look of a satisfied woman. “Seems so,” Morrigan murmurs.  Zevran clears his throat and lifts his chin, acting like they aren’t talking about him as if he were little more than a stud horse. “Perhaps tonight I can show you just how good an investment I am,” he says slowly, meeting her gaze. “Leliana should not be the only one to profit from your coin.” Covering a laugh with a cough, Morrigan looks away before her expression cracks into a grin. “I daresay you could not please me, ” she says haughtily. “My Sten is all I want. Now, enough of this nonsense- we are looking for a fellow with tattoos on his face.” Zevran makes a vague gesture toward the beggars and rough-looking characters that fill the slums to bursting. “That would be...several.” “Well,” Morrigan huffs. “Let us begin.”  Hera takes a deep breath, preparing herself for his anger. “Sten, I swear, I thought you-” He cuts her off with a sharp movement of his hand. “No. I cannot understand why you would keep such a powerful weapon to yourself. You are to battle the archdemon, you should share these things with us. A grenade so powerful as to fill the battlefield with mist and knock our enemies unconscious? That is useful, Kadan.” “A...A grenade?” She stares up at him, her mouth hanging open.  “That is what you used, correct?” Hera closes her mouth with a click of her teeth and nods. “Yes, you’re right, Sten. I’m sorry, I only had the one- it was an experimental one I found in Denerim.” She hadn’t thought his frown could get any deeper, but there he was, deepening it like a disappointed father. She had seen one or two in her time and Sten could outdo the best of them. “When we leave, you will send away for them to be brought to Redcliffe.” “I-” Hera pauses, unsure of how to explain that it was not a grenade, but her magic spiraling out of control. She flexed her fingers, healed by the same shadows that had saved Ares’ life. “Yes, Sten,” she says finally. “If I can find the person who created it, I will have more made.” A yelp behind her makes her whirl around and run over to Ares, lying with his head on Alistair’s lap. “Ares! Oh my sweet boy,” she murmurs, throwing her arms around him.  Exposing myself was worth it, she thinks as he licks her face. I’d have confessed everything for this moment, and damn the consequences.   “Ugh, he stinks!” Leliana complains, helping Zevran drag the dead thug off the street and into one of the abandoned shacks nearby. “Of course he does, bella,” Zevran agrees cheerfully. “He is a dwarf.” “And he’s so heavy!” she huffs, dropping his arms and making his head hit the floor with a thud.  “He is a dwarf, as Zevran said,” Morrigan says, kneeling beside him and going through his pockets. “’Twould have been easier had he simply told us what he was hiding,” she adds, pulling out a scrap of parchment. “But much less fun ,” Zevran quips. “What is that?” “A receipt of sale,” Morrigan murmurs, her eyes scanning it again before handing it to Leliana. “It seems our missing tome has been handed off.” Leliana reads the scribbled note aloud. “Gredin, Proving Grounds, ten gold. Not a very good speller, but he gets the point across. To the Provings then?” Zevran rubs his palms together. “Perhaps we have time to place a few bets, as well? The Warden’s debut did much for my purse.” “Then you can pay me back for having to purchase you from lyrium smugglers yesterday,” Morrigan tells him, holding her hand out as they walk. Zevran gasps. “You would begrudge me my freedom? ” he asks dramatically, looking as if he's just taken a mortal wound. Morrigan rolls her eyes and wiggles her fingers at him. “I- well- I suppose you are right,” he says. “You said it was thirty, yes?” “Fifty,” she corrects primly. “I demand a fee for your use of my girl last night.” “Ah well,” Zevran sighs dreamily. “It was worth it.” Leliana turns bright red, her nose wrinkling and reminding Morrigan a little of her mother. “Morrigan! You- you bitch! ” she shrieks. Morrigan stares at her for a moment before throwing her head back and laughing. “I’m joking, Leliana. ‘Tis Hera that is the seller of bodies, not I. What is between you and the Crow is neither my business nor my profit.” Turning to Zevran, she taps a foot and holds a hand out. “Zevran, I did not buy you with kisses and wishes, pay me now,” she adds testily. Still chuckling, Morrigan has the pleasure of seeing Leliana gaping and coming undone by her words. “I... Um. Thank you, Morrigan,” she says, her flute-like voice still slightly suspicious. “That’s rather...sensitive of you.” Tucking Zevran’s money away in her purse, Morrigan scowls. “Alistair has made you all believe I am a heartless shrew,” she huffs. “‘Tis not so.” Leliana opens her mouth to answer, but the roar of the Proving Arena’s crowd drowns her out the moment they pass through the massive doors. The smell of roasting meat, stale ale, and sweaty bodies is nearly overwhelming, and Morrigan has to cover her mouth a moment before she can breathe again. “Why can they not pull fresh air into the arena?” she complains. “They have ventilated the rest of their city.” “And lose the good stoney scent of the Provings?” a dwarf woman beside them chuckles. “What you’re smelling is dwarven pride, my dear!” Leliana’s nose wrinkles again. “I’m suddenly very glad the dwarves stay underground,” she mutters to Zevran. He nods absently, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Ah, there he is!” he exclaims, grabbing Leliana’s hand. “Come, bella, let us place a bet. How much shall we wager?” Leliana giggles. “A bold man would bet everything.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What was

that

?”
 
A barely-seen creature escapes with a shout that sounds about as intimidating as a kitten’s roar. Arching her eyebrow, Hera looks to Oghren with confusion. “You said no one has been down here,” she says evenly.
 
“There hasn’t,” he grumbles, scratching his head. 
 
“Perhaps he’s hurt or ill,” Wynne says, taking a few steps forward. “We should try to find him.”
 
Hera follows, stopping short when the creature- a hunched, limping dwarf so pale Hera can see faint gray veins tracing along flaky skin not covered in rotting leather armor. His hair hangs in ragged clumps, much of it having fallen out. But it’s his eyes that send a chill down her spine: though he stares directly at her, as if he can see straight into her soul, they’re as clouded and empty as a dead fish.
 
“There’s nothing for you here!” the dwarf screeches. “It’s mine! I’ve claimed it!”
 
Hera takes a tentative step forward. “Who are you?” she asks in a soft voice, hoping to soothe him. “What are you doing down here?”
 
He shakes his head as if dispelling inappropriate thoughts. “You’ve come to take my claim! You surfacers are all alike: thieving scoundrels! Well, I found it first!” His desperate shooing gesture breaks Hera’s heart and she looks over to Alistair.
 
“You can feel it, can’t you?” he asks quietly. “The taint in him.” When she nods, his jaw tightens.
 
“Begone you!” the dwarf is shouting at Wynne, cowering when she attempts to approach him. “You’ll bring the dark ones back, you will! They’ll crunch your bones!”
 
“They can try,” Sten says firmly, lifting his sword. 
 
The dwarf turns and runs as fast as his limp allows. “It’s my claim!” he shouts behind him. “Not yours! Crunch your bones!” 
 
The last of his words are drowned out by a deafening hiss, making Hera look up just as an enormous, round, black body drops from the ceiling and knocks her to the floor. She screams, raising her arms to shield her from gnashing fangs dripping with poison.
 
It bites into her hand, slicing effortlessly through her leather gloves just before Alistair smashes his shield into its body, sending it flying with a high-pitch sound loud enough to make her wince. She sits up, trying to get to her feet as Wynne’s ice spell freezes the remainder of the spiders- one of which has tackled Oghren as well. When she finally stands Alistair is gone, hurrying to help the dwarf.
 
The spider’s poison is quick; Hera sways before sitting down hard, her vision blurring and her hand on fire. Distantly, she watches as Sten gives each frozen spider a powerful blow, shattering them into dark pieces of ice and gore and nodding appreciatively. “Wynne, you’re proving more useful than I anticipated,” he says in a comically muffled voice.
 
Wynne’s dry response is lost amidst the painfully sharp sound of ice cracking as Oghren breaks through. Hera winces at the sound, followed by a bellow of indignation. “By the stone, witch! Warn a dwarf! A man’s got to protect himself!”
 
“That spell really goes deep, doesn’t it?” Alistair teases, pulling Oghren to his feet. “I’ve been hit with it a few times. Are you hurt?”
 
“Nah,” he mutters, shaking ice out of his red beard. He catches sight of Hera and tilts his head at her. “You all right, Princess? You look uglier than usual.”
 
“Oh, Hera!” Wynne cries, suddenly realizing that Hera’s sitting on the floor behind them staring at her hand. “What happened?”
 
Hera shakes her head. “I...don’t know,” she says softly, closing her eyes against the spinning cavern. “Wynne, it burns.”
 
The older woman deftly strips the glove off her hand with a small knife, her brow furrowed. “Oh dear,” she mutters. The skin is an angry red, blistering already forming along her rapidly swelling arm. 
 
The spinning and the overwhelming burn seem to crawl inside Hera’s mind, twisting Wynne’s words into a strange sound that seems to squiggle in her ears. Without warning, Wynne’s eyes triple in size, her mouth widening. The distorted face scowls and Hera’s eyes open wide in surprise and mad delight. “

Oh d-d-dear,

” Hera giggles, mocking her with a high-pitched voice. When Oghren snorts to hide his own laugh, it only encourages her. “

Oh d-d-d-dear!”

she cackles. “What

ever

shall we do about it?”
 
“Hera, stop,” Wynne scolds, a sphere of cool healing magic forming between her hands. “The spider toxin must be muddling your mind. You’ll feel better in a moment.” 
 
“Toxin,” Hera repeats, the word slurring on her tongue. “It feels furry.”
 
“Your arm?” Wynne asks quickly, eyebrows shooting up into her hairline and off her face entirely.
 
Hera laughs harder and sticks out her tongue, pointing. “Furry.”
 
“Maker’s mercy,” Wynne mutters. “Sten, hold her still.”
 
Hera flutters her lashes at Sten as he kneels beside her. “Hiya, big boy,” she says, giving him what she thinks is her sultriest smile. Like Wynne, his eyes and mouth are comically large, but his serious expression isn’t quite as funny. “You’re cute.”
 
“You are unwell, Kadan,” Sten says dryly, rolling his eyes.
 
“Want to make me better?” she whispers, leaning close and laying her head on his shoulder.
 
“Alistair, perhaps you should do this,” Sten suggests, looking straight ahead and ignoring her.
 
Hera hears Alistair laugh, the sound a soft tawny bubble in the air she reaches out to pop. “Oh no, I think you have it.”
 
Wynne grabs at her arms and huffs in frustration. “Sten,

hold her

please.”
 
“Hold me Sten,” Hera whispers, fluttering her lashes once more.
 
“Kadan, please.”
 
Sten’s hands wrap around her upper arms, locking them against her. The sensation tickles, and Hera giggles again to the amusement of Oghren and Alistair. Then the magic flows from Wynne’s hands, spreading over Hera’s hand and arm like a soothing balm. For a moment it looks as if the spell will work: Hera’s mind begins to clear as the terrible redness turns pale and smooth and her arm begins to return to its former slender state.
 
But then a blister bursts, spreading a disgusting green pus, and the spell dissipates in Wynne’s hands. The burning rash returns, spreading higher up her arm. “Blast!” Wynne mutters.
 
“Ow!” Hera cries, eyes wide and filling with tears. “Why would you do that?”
 
Alistair kneels beside her, taking her gently from Sten. “Hush, raven. The poison’s confused you. Wynne wouldn’t hurt you intentionally.”
 
“I might if she doesn’t stay still,” Wynne mutters.
 
Hera sighs, leaning against Alistair’s chest plate. “You’re cold.” Alistair’s chuckle rumbles through the metal, tickling her ears and she smiles. “Feels good.”
 
“Whatever you’re doing to calm her, keep it up,” Wynne says, pulling a bottle of glowing lyrium from her pouch. She drains it, sucking in a sharp breath as her pupils dilate and her body grows rigid for a moment. 
 
Alistair watches in fascination as the blue light forms between her hands again, stronger and deeper in color. This time when it spreads over Hera’s arm, it sparks as it makes contact with the blisters, and Hera shudders, turning her face away. When the light fades, the wound is gone and her skin is smooth and perfect.

Does anything leave a scar,

he wonders,

or is it the magic?

“There,” Wynne says, her voice full of tired satisfaction. “How does it feel?”
 
Hera takes a slow, deep breath and sags against Alistair completely. Wynne’s magic feels like dipping into a pool of cool water, clearing away the toxin’s madness and slowly restoring everything to order. “Well I’m not dizzy anymore,” she says and flexes her fingers. “Much better. Who knew spider’s poison could go into effect so quickly?” She looks at Wynne, who sits back, blinking and rubbing her hands together. “Are you all right?”
 
Wynne waves off her concern, her expression shuttered. “I put more into the ice spell than I’d thought. I just needed a bit of a boost. Let’s go see about this dwarf.”
 
“Oghren, what are you doing?” Sten demands, frowning. “You’re wasting time.”
 
“I’m coming, you nug-humper.” Oghren jogs back to the group, the plates of his armor rattling loudly. “I saw somethin’,” he explains, breathing heavily. “Thought I’d look.”
 
“What is it?” Hera asks, letting Alistair pull her to her feet. Oghren hands her a bundle of scrolls, sealed with heavy wax and labeled with a spidery scrawled name. She blinks a few times, feeling as if she isn’t connecting the dots he’s laid out.
 
“I’d bet my drawers that those are house records,” Oghren huffs. “And

somebody

will pay for them.”
 
Hera nods and hands them back to him. “Just don’t get too involved in your fortune-hunting, we have enough to see to. But first, the dwarf.”
 
“I’ll take point, shall I?” Alistair says, putting a hand on Hera’s shoulder. “Why don’t you hang back and use your bow for a while? We don’t have a lot of time to rest, but that should be easier than being right in the middle of it all.”
 
She almost argues with him, almost reminds him of her unnatural strength and endurance, but Hera stops herself.

He… He looks like a king,

she realizes, swallowing her words and nodding.

And he has to start leading sometime.

“That sounds fine,” she says. “Give me a moment to string my bow.”
 
She quickly switches her prepared weapons before Alistair leads the way down a dark tunnel smelling of midden and rot. In the shadows, he can see darkspawn corpses littering the sides, most with large chunks cut away from their middles. It’s a sickening smell, the tainted bodies rotting into a puddle everywhere around them- within a few yards Wynne has to stop and cover her mouth with a handkerchief before she can go further. Breathing as shallowly as possible, he wishes he had a clean cloth to do the same.
 
“There’s a glow ahead,” Alistair whispers, drawing his sword again as they turn a corner.
 
The tunnel opens into a small cave, littered with broken stone benches and pillars, but with a cheerful fire burning.

Where did he get the wood?

Before he can do anything, Hera is ahead of him, approaching a filthy, stinking dwarf cowering on the far side of the fire.
 
“Hello,” she says gently, offering a kind smile.
 
He snarls and bares his teeth at her. “Go away! This is mine! Only I get to plunder its riches!”
 
She doesn’t flinch, but her smile grows softer. “I just want to talk to you,” she assures him. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
 
The poor wretch raises an arm against her concern as if even the smallest kindness will break his bones. “No! No talking! You leave my territory!”
 
“We aren’t here to steal anything, I promise. Look, I’ll give you something instead,” she adds, pulling a small pouch of her own rations from her pack. “Dried meat. Some bread.”
 
The dwarf lifts his head, eyeing her cautiously. “You-you won’t take anything from Ruck?” he asks suspiciously. “You won’t take his shiny worms? Or pretty rocks?”
 
Behind him, he hears Sten bite back a groan at the delay, but Alistair just shakes his head in wonder.

She can charm anything, can’t she?

“I just want to talk,” she promises again, sitting on the stone floor and offering the rations.
 
“Ruck not mind that, maybe…” he says, watching as the others all follow her lead and sit. 
 
“So your name is Ruck?”
 
“Yes. Ruck is my name. I do not hear it much, so sometimes I speak it aloud. Ruck! Ruck! Ruck!” The repetition of his own name delights Ruck so much that he snorts and giggles like a gleeful child.
 
“I have some questions,” she tells him when he pounces on the rations. “Would you mind answering a few of them?”
 
Chewing on a strip of dried meat, Ruck tilts his head and looks from Hera to Alistair, his eyes narrowing when they land on him. “I will answer

your

questions,” he says finally to her.
 
Alistair feels the familiar prickle on the back of his neck indicating darkspawn, but it’s strange, almost as if the taint was both in front of him and a long distance away.

It’s Ruck,

he realizes with a sharp breath. 
 
The general filth on the man’s body suddenly becomes darkspawn blood splatter, thickening his hair into ropes and flaking off the deteriorating leather armor. Alistair’s stomach twists as he thinks about the corpses lining the walls of the tunnel leading into this room- corpses with their middles torn into…
 
“Damn me,” he breathes, eyes wide. 
  
“Maker’s breath,” Leliana mutters, putting a lot of distance between herself and Zevran. “Morrigan can you believe him?”
 
Morrigan scowls at the dwarves staring at them as they pass. “He did it to impress you, simpering fool that he is,” she says, pausing to hiss like a cat at a child who had stopped to stare.
 
Leliana’s jaw drops and she looks from Zevran’s bare backside to Morrigan. “To- to impress

me?

”
 
“Of course,

you

,” Morrigan chuckles. “I cannot think of any other reason he would have been so bold as to wager everything he carried.”
 
“But...

why

?” Leliana demands.
 
“I do believe he’s taken a fancy to you.”
 
“That’s stupid.” Leliana’s blue eyes darken slightly as she watches Zevran- naked except for his weapons and without a care in the world- swagger through the crowded commons. Shocked gasps and outraged protests roll off his shoulders as if there were no more than a light rain.

A bold man would bet everything,

she’d said,

and Zevran is certainly bold.

“Leliana, a piece of advice, if I might,” Morrigan says thoughtfully.
 
“Hmm?”
 
“Like Hera, Zevran is not long for our acquaintance. If you’ve a hunger, I suggest you feed it before he disappears like a bird on the wing.”

He would make sure it stayed light and easy, especially after last night. Hera was wrong; I

can

be casual about things.

“I think you might have a point, Morrigan,” she murmurs.
 
“Well of course I do,” Morrigan sniffs. “Now ‘tis time to return this troublesome book before more of Prince Bhelen’s lackeys come to pester us.”
 
“Shouldn’t we let him get some clothes on first?” Leliana laughs, watching him bounce up the stairs with his typical buoyant energy.
 
“No need,

bella

,” Zevran says over his shoulder. “Orzammar is a warm place and I have no shame for myself.”
 
“That’s for certain,” Morrigan says, glancing behind her at a loud clanging echoing up the stairwell. “Zevran, you’ll want clothing on quite soon, I think.”
 
“Oh, why is that?” he asks.
 
“Because,” she says slowly as they emerge in the diamond district. “Those are Bhelen’s men behind us.”
 
Zevran draws his sword and dagger, a wolfish grin on his face. “Ladies, behind me. Lovely Morrigan, if you will do that magic you do so well.”
 
Leliana shakes her head, pulling at his shoulders. “Zev, no, you’re not even wearing-!”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After the dark master woke, he called his children and they all went. Far, far to the south.

Hera chews on her bottom lip, her mind split between scouting the passage and remembering what Ruck had told them. They had learned that Branka had indeed passed through, leaving the broken bits of wood that had fueled his fire. Following the skittering path of his thoughts, they’d also been told that the spiders had taken a great deal of the campsite and deposited it in some sort of nest.
 
More troubling was what Ruck had said to Hera.

Once you take in the darkness,

he’d said with a cunning little grin,

you not miss the light so much. You know, do you not?

Hera shuddered, remembering the blank stare he had given her.

Ruck sees, yes. He sees the darkness in you.

Far behind her, she can hear the others still talking about the encounter. “You mean I’m supposed to believe that witless nug-humper actually

saw

Branka and now all her stuff is wrapped up in a spider’s web?” Oghren grumbled. 
 
“Yes, I suppose you are,” Alistair answered, sounding as weary as she felt.

We should rest soon,

she thinks, peering around a corner and finding only another empty, crumbling, unfinished tunnel made by hands long dead. Sometimes she felt as if the whole mountain would come down on her at any moment; those were the times when her chest felt tight and even the cold air seemed to smother her.

As soon as we find a safe place, I’ll set camp,

she decides. A sudden turn opens into another enormous cavern, accessible by a stone bridge curving sharply over the echoing sound of a river below. Below the water’s noise, she hears something else: a scratching, like a stiff-bristled brush against stone.
 
“Spiders, maybe?” she asks Ares as he trots to her side for a scratch. “Do you hear them, too?”
 
He lowers his head and growls softly, the hair along his spine bristling. 
 
“All right, calm down,” she soothes, running her hands along his back. “We’ll wait for the others.”
 
Alistair breaks away from the group and jogs ahead, looking worried. “Something wrong?”
 
“No,” she says, grabbing his chest plate and pulling him as close as possible. Automatically, his arms raise to wrap around her. As uncomfortable as an armored embrace is, Hera accepts it gratefully, wanting nothing more than to be held for just a few moments. “But there are probably spiders over there,” she adds, jerking her chin toward the cavern over the bridge. “Quite a lot of them, I think.”
 
She hears his shiver more than feels it, the soft rattle of buckles on metal making her smile. “I’m really starting to hate spiders,” he tells her.
 
“Oh don’t worry, Hero,” she murmurs. “I’ll keep you safe.”
 
His grimace morphs into a soft, knowing smile. “Will you? Good, I may need protection…” he whispers, dipping his head to capture her mouth in a slow kiss that warms her to the core.
 
“Is this necessary?” Sten asks when Oghren starts pretending to gag. “Is Kadan in some kind of distress that requires such...comfort?”
 
Hera breaks away, laughing. “Maybe I am, Sten.”
 
Sten frowns, looking from one to the other. “In that case...which one of you is the prostitute? Alistair, giving the comfort, or you, taking it?”
 
Alistair’s laughter bounces off the walls, his face taking on a charming blush. Hera’s stomach flips, realizing once more how deeply she loves him and how horrible it’s going to be when it all ends. “Me, I guess,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t worry, I take items on trade.”
 
“Who’d want to kiss

that

face?” Oghren asks, obviously disgusted. “Princess, I don’t know if anyone’s told you this before, but you’re not nearly as pretty as you are ugly.”
 
Even Wynne has to laugh this time as Hera rolls her eyes. “Yes, Oghren, you’ve mentioned it a few times. Now that you’re all here,” she adds, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the bridge. “I thought we’d have a real rest, but there are spiders over there. Lots of them.”
 
“I hate spiders,” Oghren grumbles, his scowl so deep it could teach Sten a thing or two.
 
“Then you’re going to

love

this,” Alistair adds, his voice full of false cheer. “There are darkspawn ahead, too.”
 
***

“That was…” Zevran gasped as he sits heavily on the step, covered head to toe in blood- most of it his own. “Not my best idea.”
 
Leliana sits beside him, handing him a bottle of Morrigan’s health brew. Morrigan’s was far more bitter than Wynne’s, but she had a knack for making an astoundingly powerful potion. “Here, drink this,” she orders, eyeing the armored dwarves lying dead around them. 
 
She had seen Zev fight before, of course, but never with such skill and stealth. Naked as could be, he had slipped in and out of their reach, taking only shallow cuts in exchange for the deep groves he’d left in whatever flesh had been exposed or accessible through gaps in the armor. He had been as graceful and agile as a dancer, his hands so quick the daggers flashed in his hands like stars. He’d killed without hesitation or mercy, the grin on his face making it plain that he

enjoyed

it to some extent.
 
For the first time since they’d met, Leliana believed some of his wild tales of the Crows.
 
“Leliana, help me get these off,” Morrigan says, breaking into her thoughts. “At the very least we can give him some trousers.”
 
Leliana moves to help her remove the armor and trousers of the tallest of the dwarves, but Zevran grabs her hand first. “Do not worry about me,

bella

,” he says, full of wincing charm. “I am fine.”
 
Within moments, he’s clad in a too-short pair of dwarven trousers and limping along the path to the Lord Harrowmont’s house, flirting outrageously with both women. How he can manage it while bleeding so much, Leliana will never understand.

He was so repulsive at first,

she thinks, glancing over at him when he starts to lean a little more on her.

He came on too hard and too often. Perhaps he took a page from Hera’s book? She could certainly write a novel on seduction.

She flirts to avoid the truth of things— has he been doing the same all this time? When he talks about the cruelty of his childhood, he does it almost cheerfully.

Leliana’s glance has turned to a full stare now, her blue eyes widening with the idea.

He makes light of it so that no one sees how much it hurts him still. Oh Zevran, what walls you’ve built.

“Are you thinking of last night?” His voice is low and private, his head tilted toward her ear so that his warm breath brushes her cheek.
 
“No,” she scoffs. If it has all been an act to protect himself, he would not thank her for speaking her

real

thoughts. “Why, are you?”
 
“I can think of nothing else,

bella.

”
 
“Zevran,” Morrigan says slowly, drawing their attention. “Tell me, how is your seduction of Hera gone? Do you still believe you might win her from Alistair before this is over, or has your heart gone away with the mysterious Tabris?”
 
Leliana’s eyebrows shoot up and she pushes him off her with a shocked gasp. “Was I just a placeholder then?” she demands, putting her hands on her hips.
 
Zevran stumbles, but manages to keep his feet. “Yes, as I have been for you,” he says with a shrug. “Tabris is, for the time being, lost to me. We both wanted Hera, neither of us got her, so why not enjoy one another?”

I hate that he’s right.

“I hate you,” she amends, stamping her foot. “And you too, Morrigan. You got me into this in the first place.”
 
Morrigan scoffs, putting a hand to her chest in mock indignation. “All I did was tell you to take your pleasure where you may, Leliana. It is not my fault you took it.”
 
He gives Leliana a smoldering look, rocking on his heels and thrusting his hips without subtly. The movement makes him wince and fold up like an old man, destroying the thin veneer of sensuality. “And you

did

take your pleasure with me,

bella.

You cannot deny that.”
 
“Disgusting,” Morrigan sniffs. “I’m sorry I even brought it up.”
 
Leliana catches the small smile Morrigan hides as she turns her head.

Why is she like this? Why bring two people together only to ridicule them for whatever happens? It’s a little cruel,

she decides with a frown.

If she had wanted to play such games,

she

should have approached Zevran.

Or does she really have feelings for Sten?

Sometimes I hate her.

“Come along, Zevran,” Morrigan drawls, beckoning him to follow. “I shall heal your wounds and you may dress before we return to the Shaperate. ‘Twould be a shameful day for Hera to hear of conducting business in your state.”
 
“As if she wouldn’t appear before the Shaperate as naked as he is if it got things moving,” Leliana mutters.
 
“At least there are no spiders here, yes?” he says cheerfully. “I imagine they are up to their ears in them down there.”
 
“I can change that, Zevran,” Morrigan reminds him, skittering her fingernails up his back.

Zevran shudders and leaps away with a sharp cry of pain. “

Amora,

please no, beautiful Morrigan,” he says. “I hate spiders.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“No. Absolutely

not

,” Wynne says firmly. 
 
“Wynne, be reasonable-” Hera starts.
 
“No,” she repeats, laughing. It takes on a brittle quality, as if every step deeper into the earth has been like a grindstone to her nerves. “This is ludicrous.

Beyond

the Dead Trenches? Hera, I might have left the circle to help you on this journey, but I didn’t leave it to just throw my life away!” She begins to pace, twisting her hands around her staff, knuckles white. “Can’t you

feel

it? The weight of the mountain is smothering us!”
 
Hera grinds her teeth at the way Wynne’s voice lifts into a near screech. She and Alistair had been right: there had been darkspawn across the bridge and some kind of spider colony, complete with a queen. She’d be picking the sticky stuff out of Sten’s braids for an hour if he could stand it. Even poor Ares hadn’t escaped the web; he’d gotten the worst of it and the number of baths the mabari would need was currently inestimable.
 
But when the battle was done, they had found an abandoned campsite beneath the newest webbing. Branka had left her journal to whoever may come after her, explaining that the Anvil of the Void had not been made in Ortan Thaig, as previously believed, and that she intended to go south past the Dead Trenches. Hera had raised her eyebrows and looked to Oghren, who grimly explained that it had once been known as Bownammer, a fortress permanently lost to the darkspawn less than twenty years ago. 
 
Whether it was the spiders or the journal, Wynne had reached her breaking point.
 
“Wynne, we don’t have a choice,” Hera says gently. “Branka pushed on, so we must do the same.”
 
“The Legion of the Dead have been trying to take it back for more than fifteen years, Hera,” Wynne reminds her. “Oghren said-”

“I know what he said,” Hera cuts in.

A perfect memory has to be good for something, right?

“And perhaps, with the Legion’s help, we could slip past the bulk of the horde-”
 
“The

horde

,” Wynne snaps. “You want us to just

slip past

an actual horde of darkspawn.”
 
“Branka did it!” Oghren says, pointing to the journal tucked away into his chestplate. Hera couldn’t blame him; Branka was his wife, as far as he knew, she was dead. 
 
“You do not know that.” Sten shifts, tilting his head as he speaks and allowing Hera to get at more spider silk. “This is a failed mission.”
 
“But if the archdemon is down there…” Hera leads. “You’ve been telling me for months that I should just walk up to it and kiss it hello.”
 
“I have done no such thing,” Sten harrumps. “I have said you should quit stalling and approach it like a warrior.”
 
Wynne stares at him with shock. “You

want

to go, Sten?”
 
“I do.”
 
“Alistair!” She turns to him, pacing in the darkness. “As the Senior Grey Warden, surely you understand the-”
 
“We have to go, Wynne,” Alistair says softly. “One way or another, we have to know for sure.”
 
Hera sighs, patting Sten on the shoulder to indicate that she was as close to finished as she was getting for now. “Get some rest, Sten. We’ll work on it more later.”
 
“My thanks, Kadan.”
 
“Oggy, you’re next, come on,” she says, pointing to the stone Sten abandons.
 
“Don’t you call me that, you ugly prissy princess!”
 
“Stop calling me an ugly prissy princess and maybe I will! Now sit down, shut up, and let me do this, please!”
 
Wynne just stands there, staring at them with her mouth open. Hera starts on Oghren’s snarls, glancing up at her with pity. The poor woman was filthy from head to toe, her typically tidy bun falling apart.

Is it the shadows that make her look so old?

Hera wonders.

Or is the strain of this too much for her?

“Wynne,” Hera says softly, “didn’t you believe me when I said that this was a suicide mission?”
 
Wynne’s mouth opens and closes a moment while she searches for words. “I...well...no,” she says finally. “I didn’t.”
 
“I told you all,” Hera reminds her in a gentle tone. “I tried to get you and Alistair to stay for this very reason. But now we have no choice but to press on, no matter how afraid we are.”
 
“I’m not afraid, Hera,” Alistair says from the edges of the firelight. His voice is so sure and steady it breaks her heart. “If it means we have the chance to stop the Blight before the archdemon ever reaches the surface, I’ll gladly die.”
 
“You’ll do no such thing,” Hera says primly, pushing aside the ache in her chest at the thought of losing any of them. “Wynne, get some sleep. There’s a flash of whiskey in my pack if you need it.”
 
Wynne shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I’ll have any. Hera.” She waits until Hera meets her eyes before speaking again. “Don’t let me die down here.”
 
Hera wants to smile, to reassure her that everything will be all right. But the shadows down here hold monsters that not even Ravenloft boasted. “I’ll do my best, Wynne,” is all she can manage.
 
An hour later, only the Grey Wardens are awake, sitting close together staring quietly into the darkness beyond. Hera sips at a small cup of water, grateful they’d brought extra water skins in lieu of tents.
 
“What do you know about it?” she asks softly. “The Dead Trenches, I mean.”
 
“I know that when Grey Wardens leave to answer their Calling, that’s where they go,” he says. In spite of his earlier certainty, his voice is grim and hollow, as if the idea of following in their footsteps is a nightmare he’d rather avoid. “And that we probably won’t live through it.”
 
“As long as I’m alive, I’ll make sure you are, too,” she says.
 
“You’re not exactly...like us, though, are you? You’re stronger, faster, tougher. You can do things the rest of us don’t even know about.”
 
Twisting to face him, she puts a hand on his cheek and studies him. “Alistair, whatever happens, you’re going to bring the army of allies together. Thedas is your world and you’re the hero it needs. My

entire

purpose is to see you succeed.”
 
He gives her a nervous smile that trembles on the edges a little. “You talk as if I didn’t put my pants on backwards just a few days ago.”
 
Hera laughs softly, laying her head on his shoulder. “That was a rather uncomfortable day, wasn’t it?”
 
“I wasn’t about to give Morrigan the pleasure of knowing she was right.”
 
They fall silent again, his arm around her shoulders and passing the tin cup back and forth. Alistair’s head bows as he begins to dooze, jerking upright just as a snore escapes him. 
 
“Get some sleep, love,” she whispers.
 
He mumbles unintelligibly, shaking his head and yawning. “Can’t,” he gets out finally. 
 
“Why not?”
 
He rubs his bloodshot eyes, shifting to try and keep himself awake. “Haven’t you noticed the dreams?”

Hera nods and rubs his back. “They’ve gotten worse,” she says. “It’s our proximity to the horde, isn’t it?”
 
“I guess,” he mumbles, climbing to his feet so he can begin pacing. “I’m seeing...I don’t know what I’m seeing. But it speaks to me, Hera. And I don’t like what it says.”
 
His desperation fear is written in his every movement; Hera’s tried to hide the same by sleeping very little. “I know,” she whispers, watching him. “But you have to sleep.”
 
“With...with

that

thing talking to me?” he asks. “How? I feel like I’m having my Calling!”
 
“No.” She stands and goes to him, putting her hands on his shoulders and summoning the small power she used to comfort him after the massacre of Ostagar. “Alistair, you

will

get through this,” she says, her voice ringing softly with confidence and power. “I can help, if you like.”
 
“With…” He lowers his voice until it’s barely a whisper. “With magic?”
 
She nods. “It’s a simple cantrip, barely any magic at all.”
 
“What...what will it do?”
 
“It’s a sleep spell,” she says simply. “Usually deep enough not to dream, but with the hive mind, I can’t be certain.” Her hand moves from her shoulder to stroke his jaw. “I will watch over you if you like.”
 
“Will you?”

Always,

she thinks sadly, nodding again.

I’ll protect you with my life if necessary, Alistair.

“Yes, love, I will.”
 
***

Zevran looked down at Leliana, sleeping peacefully amidst the tangle of sheets.

How lucky I am to be traveling with such beautiful women,

he thinks, stroking a finger along a bare shoulder.

If only Tabris had joined us, instead of setting out on her own.

He had spent the evening soothing Leliana’s ruffled feathers with compliments and honesty, explaining that all he sought was a few night’s entertainment- and in exchange he would give the same. After that, it was decided- they would each take what they wanted, and no more. It was a perfectly reasonable situation, after all, and Leliana’s feelings toward him weren’t as disgusted as he’d initially thought.
 
It had made for a

very

interesting night. Leliana enjoyed far more than just sex- she had, in fact, tied him to the foot of the bed and used a belt on his backside, scolding him for what she thought was deception and teasing him mercilessly until he begged for release.
 
After months of wanting and having no one but himself to turn to, it had been

glorious.

Still, he can’t help but remember the little blonde elf he’d found among the Dalish, and wish it had been

her

who lay beside him. Tabris had stolen his heart and if he managed to live through this insane suicide mission that somehow gave him hope for the future, he planned to go searching for her.
 
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
 
Zevran shook himself, blinking. Leliana gazes up at him, soft and sleepy and nothing like the elf that haunts him. “I am sorry

bella

,” he says quickly, his lips curling into a smile. “It is only that I was unable to sleep.”
 
Her smile is just wicked enough to stir heat in his gut. “Aren’t you tired?”
 
“No.” With a playful growl, he rolls on top of her, capturing her lips between his teeth.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The sleep spell Hera had cast on him had worked- to a point. With it, Alistair sleeps almost well, only jolting awake from visions of darkspawn once or twice. What helps the most, though, is finding her smiling at him each time, only three little lines between her eyebrows indicating that she’s worried about him.
 
And she

is

worried about him. It’s obvious in the way she’s hesitant to scout too far ahead, knowing he brings up the rear in case any darkspawn appear behind them; how she orders Ares to stay with him instead of at her own side. He feels a little like a child being taken care of, but his own childhood had been so devoid of that sort of care that he isn’t quite sure how to thank her.
 
All he knows is that the Dead Trenches chill him to the marrow and that every minute brings him closer to the horde. 
 
“Hera,” he whispers, and her eyes pop open instantly. She has the unsettling ability to be deeply asleep one moment and wide awake the next, as if she was never asleep in the first place. It’s a sharp contrast to the warm, sleepy mornings they had spent trailing fingers and lips over one another’s flesh in the safe confines of Redcliffe Castle.

Maker, I miss those mornings; they almost feel like a dream.

“What is it?” she asks, keeping her voice low and rubbing Ares’s left ear to soothe him.
 
When they’d fallen to the floor in a tiny niche in a wall, Wynne had warned them not to speak above a whisper or risk being heard through the spell shielding them from detection. The constant presence of darkspawn leaves Alistair and Hera uncomfortable- he can feel his skin crawling as the taint reaches across the short distance between Grey Warden and darkspawn- so they hadn’t even risked a fire. Once everyone was asleep, Alistair had watched Hera cast a similar spell to assist Wynne’s, but hadn’t given him any details of it.
 
“Can you feel that?”
 
She nods, not needing him to explain how the hair on the back of his neck had begun to stand up. As if he can feel it as well, Ares lets out a low growl from his place at their feet. “Well...we

are

...there, aren’t we?” she whispers, sitting up and going to look out of the crack in the stone. “Ares, stay back. We have to be close, I can feel them just…”
 
She falls back, eyes wide with shock and fear, as dozens of hurlocks stomp past their hiding place, their blades and armor clanging loud enough to wake the others. Alistair drags her back, covering her mouth with his own before she can scream or make any other noise.

Don’t scream,

he prays silently, willing everyone to hear his thoughts over the hammering of his heart against his armor.

We’re dead if you do.

The stench of the taint and rot is enough to gag a person- he can hear Wynne trying to hold back from just that reflex- but it’s the

sound

of them that horrifies him. Gnashing teeth and garbled words crawl inside his head to form images of ripping limbs from bodies still breathing to be gnawed upon and torn with black fangs, flashes of women of all races being defiled and used, left bloody and covered in black vomit.
 
And somewhere, deep in his blood, the taint in him yearns for it as well.
 
Alistair squeezes his eyes shut, trying to banish the thoughts projected by the passing darkspawn. Hera trembles in his arms, a sure sign that she’s seeing the same thing, and he feels a cool tear hit the hand covering her mouth.
 
No one moves until the group is long gone, their presence a faint pull in the back of his mind. “I-I’m sorry,” he says softly, letting Hera go.
 
When she turns to him, it’s like she’s someone else. Fearful tears fill wide eyes and her ivory skin looks gray. “Damn me,” she whispers, gathering a whining Ares in her arms and holding him tightly in her trembling arms.
 
“It will get worse,” he warns.
 
She closes her eyes and nods, taking slow, deep breaths. Alistair runs his hands over her hair and she buries her nose in Ares’ rusty, filthy fur. “I know.” When she speaks, her voice sounds stronger and the shuddering stops. “Wynne, what can we do to shield ourselves?”
 
Wynne brushes a hand over her sleep-ruffled hair, trying to compose herself. “I don’t think...the ward I cast over camps is stationary. I don’t know how well it will work on a person, but we can try.”
 
Amazed, he watches Hera piece herself back together; her back straightens, color returns to her cheeks, and her eyes are as cold and sharp as knives. It’s like watching her shut away the soft parts of herself, reminding him that she’s been a warrior before.

This is a woman who led her friends through a castle full of nightmares, killed a man she thought she loved, and still managed to come out on top,

he reminds himself.

I wouldn’t want to follow anyone else through the Dead Trenches.

“Wynne, try to cast it on our gear, maybe that will work best,” she suggests, pulling her spare blanket out of her pack. “Sten, help me cut this into strips, we’re going to put it between the plates of our armor so it doesn’t rattle so much. Oghren, gather all our rations and findings and redistribute it so the weight falls to those who can carry it- give me the heaviest pack,” she adds.
 
“Aren’t you a little scrawny for that, Princess?” he asks with a snort.
 
“I assure you, Kadan can carry it,” Sten tells him, patiently following her orders. Even after all these months, Alistair is amazed by the depth of deference Sten has for her.
 
“And me?” Alistair asks.
 
Hera’s quick hands already have a stack of flannel strips growing beside her. “Get your armor on, you’re first. After that, try to fashion some of these spare parts into something Ares can wear.”
 
An hour later, the sounds of their armor muffled by wool, the six of them crept slowly toward the lost fortress of Bownammer. Alistair isn’t sure about the others, but the deeper they go into the earth, the colder the taint in his blood feels. Before Ostagar, it had been a chill in his blood he could never quite get rid of, no matter how hot the bath or warm the blanket. Even the additional wool doesn’t give him any warmth, though Oghren huffs and complains about chafing.
 
They come to a large ravine between them and the fortress of Bownammar, accessible only by a bridge ahead, nearly lost in the vastness of the cavern that suddenly opens around them. Silently, they approached and looked down on the horde gathering below.
 
“There must be thousands,” Wynne whispered, the light of their torches reflected in her wide eyes.
 
As if in answer, Ares drops his head, growling and moving to stand in front of Hera.
 
Hera nods, feeling their hunger and hatred like a pulse in her mind. Somewhere over the dull roar from below comes a wordless insistence to

move

, to go above ground, to tear and destroy. Closing her eyes, she makes a valiant effort to push it aside, to remember why they’re here. A touch on her hand makes her open them to see Alistair beside her, jaw clenched against the same push.
 
“The archdemon,” he says in a low voice. “That’s what you’re hearing. I hear it, too.”
 
“They are going to the surface, are they not?” Sten asked. “Kadan, if we find the archdemon, we should stop it here.”
 
“I know, Sten-”
 
Hera breaks off, throwing herself to the ground when the air is filled with the sound of tearing metal. Something flies past them, leaving the stench of rotting meat in its wake, screaming again. The stone beneath them shudders and Hera looks up, seeing the archdemon for the first time in the flesh.
 
Once, it had been a dragon; now tattered flesh hangs off its bones and black meat crawling with maggots stretches across its form. Pus-filled blisters cover what little skin is left, oozing black liquid that splatters across the bridge as it lands. She can feel the corruption’s pull deep in her gut- for a moment she wants to give in to the lure, like a lover drawing her into a hot bath.

Would it be so bad?

It seems to say, the words like the caress of a whip before it strikes.
 
Alistair’s grip on her hand tightens and clarity returns with the whip-crack. With an answering squeeze, she holds her breath while the archdemon turns its back on them and unleashes a blaze of purple magic over the horde. A raucous cry comes from the ravine, chilling and cruel as more images of death and destruction assault the Grey Wardens. 
 
“Think like them,” Sten instructs, crawling close to her ear. “Think like them and it won’t see you.”
 
Hera nods, trying to do as he says. Squeezing his eyes shut, she thinks of the unending hunger of the vampire, held back only by a small band of gold on her finger. She thinks of the burning want, the satisfaction of tearing flesh with her hands and teeth, the euphoria that comes with giving in to the beast inside her.
 
And then the dragon takes wing, disappearing in a haze of magic and stench. Its presence fading, she rolls onto her back, taking slow, deep breaths and trying to calm her roiling stomach. Eyes still closed, she focuses on the cold stone below her until her heart stops racing and she can sit up once more. It’s not easy to push away the preternatural hunger of her nature now that it’s been brought to the surface, but with a century’s worth of iron will, she manages.
 
“Always heard the Dead Trenches were bad for the Wardens,” Oghren says, offering Alistair a hand up.

He looks as terrible as I feel,

she thinks, pushing a loose strand off her forehead. Ares comes over, butting his head against her shoulder until she pets him. “It certainly isn’t pleasant,” she agrees. The words fall flat when her voice trembles. 
 
“It must be headed for the surface,” Alistair says, staring in the direction it flew in. “Come on, if we’re going to find Branka, we need to do it fast.”
 
The thought of the archdemon breaking into the surface world spurs him on, giving him an edge of aggression Hera can’t help but admire when they approach a band of dwarves that prove to be the Legion of the Dead. Even the darkspawn trying to hold the bridge against the Legion are unable to slow him down- Alistair’s blade cuts through them like a scythe.
 
Even Wynne doesn’t try to calm him; Hera guesses that she’s finally realized that Alistair

must

become hard if he’s to rule. So she lets him deal with the Legion, asking about Branka and ignoring their leader Kardol when he tells them she’s dead and to abandon their mission. 
 
“Past our line the darkspawn kill everything,” Kardol says confidently.
 
Alistair’s jaw tightens and he hefts his shield, seemingly ignoring the blood pouring from a hole in the side of his armor. “Then move your line,” he says in a steely voice.
 
Kardol chuckles condescendingly. “I’d

gladly

lead an assault on the Dead Trenches,” he explains, “but without an ass on the throne, we have no orders.”
 
“Then you should help us put one there,” Alistair grumbles. 
 
Kardol shook his head, the tattoos on his face moving into the shape of reluctant refusal. “I can’t, my boy. I won’t take fool’s gold from a pretender. You want to go digging blind, be my guest.”
 
Alistair takes it as an invitation; he nods, straightens his shoulders, and prepares to cross the bridge without the Legion.
 
“Alistair,

wait,

” Hera insists, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a stop. “There’s an ogre over there,” she tells him, nodding to the far end of the bridge. “Take a break, catch your breath.”
 
“We

can’t

,” he argues, but follows her to where the Legion sit, taking stock of wounds and weapons and stripping the bodies of darkspawn. “If we wait, the archdemon will be on the surface and Ferelden will be lost.”
 
“And we won’t survive if we go in there without healing! Now sit down and let Wynne see to that,” she orders, pointing to a gaping, bloody hole in the side of his armor. 
 
Scowling at her, he obediently sits on a large chunk of rubble at the base of a statue. “Fine. But it doesn’t hurt.”
 
She gives him a small smile. “Liar.”
 
While Wynne sees to his wound, Hera goes to check on Oghren and Sten while they talk with Kardol. “...redemption for the promise of the greatest sacrifice,” Kardol tells them. 
 
“Sten, can we talk a moment?” she asks. He allows her to draw him away- if he’s curious as to why, he doesn’t show it. “You told me earlier to think like a darkspawn so the archdemon wouldn’t see me,” she says. “Why? I thought your whole goal was to approach the archdemon as soon as possible.”
 
Sten nods once, his lips settled into a firm line. “It is. But you are not ready,” he explains. “If you were, you would not have been so afraid to meet what is surely going to be a horrible end. Next time, you will not fear it.”
 
“I- Damn me, Sten,” she sighs, letting her shoulders sag. “I hope you’re right.”
 
“I do not make a habit of being wrong.”
 
She watches him return to his conversation, turning his words over in her mind.

Next time, you will not fear it,

he had said. Turning to look in the direction the archdemon had flown, she takes a shuddering breath. Time was running out and her birthday was fast approaching.

I hope you’re right, Sten, because I think I’ve just seen the demon that will kill me.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Dead Trenches are as horrific as Alistair had promised; the darkness has a solid quality to it, so thick and deep that Wynne’s mage light has trouble lighting more than a few feet before them. Hera’s dark vision has never been more useful; she’s able to see blocked passages and damaged paths before they get to them, allowing her to steer them around obstacles. 
 
“It goes on forever, doesn’t it?” Wynne breathes, holding her staff out to try and light what appears to be a bridge.
 
It doesn’t, but Hera knows how the darkness makes the human feel blind. “It has to have an end somewhere,” she says. “Let’s stop here for a short while.”
 
Alistair drops his pack onto the ground with a loud thud and Hera shudders at the way it echoes hollowly; Oghren just falls to the ground with a rattle; Sten shoves his torch into a crack in the wall and lowers himself onto a boulder slowly.
 
“Are you hurt, Sten?” Hera asks, coming over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Can I help with something?”
 
He nods, jerking his chin to his shoulder. “I believe it is out of place,” he explains. “It aches.”
 
She nods, sliding a hand under his armor. “Hmm, it feels fine, if a little swollen. Let’s get this armor off you and see what’s going on.”
 
To Sten’s relief, it isn’t dislocated, but Hera massages the shoulder anyway while Wynne weaves healing magic between her fingers to ease the ache. After, they settle in for an hour of rest, chewing on dried strips of meat and sipping water from their skins. 
 
“What do you think is out there?” Alistair asks, nodding to the open door leading to the dark unknown. 
 
“Monsters,” she says, scrubbing at Ares gently with a cloth to remove a bit of the darkspawn blood caked into his fur.
 
“Well

of course

monsters,” he chuckles.
 
“Hopefully Branka,” she sighs. “I feel sad for Oghren- all this belongs to his people, and the darkspawn have stolen and destroyed so much of it. And his wife is out there, somewhere.”
 
“Does it make you think of Ravenloft?” 
 
“A little. In some ways it’s very similar to Ravenloft’s situation- this certainly makes me think of fighting our way through the castle. There were traps and a labyrinth, more monsters than I care to remember.”
 
“But the ending was happy, right?” he said encouragingly.
 
“Well, it was an

ending

,” she continues, pulling her knees to her chest. “Knowing it had to end is what kept us going. And like that,” she adds, patting his leg comfortingly, “this will end, too. Get some rest while you can, Hero.”
  
Oghren wrenches his ax out of the mass of shriek bodies, bringing two bones as black as obsidian with it. “Blighted bastards,” he spits, yanking the bones off the blade. “Those ones are the worst.”
 
Hera looks to Alistair sitting on a rock and examining a new gouge in his blue-enameled armor. “Yeah,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Shrieks are the worst.”
 
“Wynne, are you all right?” Hera asks, kneeling beside her. “Can you heal yourself?”
 
It had been a terrifying sight, seeing Wynne surrounded by the stealthy shrieks with their wicked claws. Hera had tried to fight her way to her, but they were outnumbered and caught off guard crossing the bridge. When Wynne had taken a slash across the chest and fell to the stone, Hera had let her preternatural strength and speed take over, her weapons becoming a blur as she hurried to the mage’s side.
 
Even now, Wynne’s hands shake as she tries to uncork a healing potion. “Let me,” Hera says softly, taking it from her. “Do you want to drink it, or pour it onto the wound?”
 
“L-Let me drink it,” Wynne says, wincing as she tips her head back.
 
“This is why you should wear armor,” Sten says, his tone disapproving.
 
“She can’t, Sten,” Alistair reminds him. “We’ve talked about it, remember?”
 
“The saarebas always wear armor,” Sten argues. “It is for their protection, as well as for those around them.”
 
“I cannot wear it,” Wynne sighs, leaning against Hera’s arm and closing her eyes. “It is too heavy.”
 
“Maybe a bit of leather?” Hera suggests. “Sten, you found some earlier, didn’t you?”
 
“Duster armor,” Oghren says, spitting again. “Not much good against darkspawn, but better than fancy silk robes.”
 
“The coat, at least, Wynne,” Alistair says firmly. “We can’t let you get hurt again.”
 
“Oh, I’ll be fine, Alistair,” she argues, waving a hand. 
 
Alistair draws himself up to his full height and straightens his shoulder. For a moment, Hera can see the king he’s going to become: fair but stern. “This isn’t up for negotiation,” he tells her, steel ringing in the words. “That’s an order.”
  
Leliana stops short, forcing Morrigan to bump into her. “A dwarf?” she says, eyes locked on a dwarf wearing the silk robes of the chantry. “A

chantry

dwarf?”
 
“Will wonders never cease?” Morrigan sneers. “It seems the chantry infestation has reached even these fine folk.”
 
“What’s he doing?” Zevran asks. “Is he here to preach? To...to who?”
 
“Aren’t

all

chantry chattel here to preach?” Morrigan counters. “Leave him be, I’ll not listen to his nonsense today. No- Leliana- I said-”
 
“I just want to talk to him,” Leliana says, leaving them standing in the path.
 
“Maker’s blessing on you, sister,” the dwarf says cheerily when Leliana approaches.
 
“And on you, brother,” she says. “I didn’t think dwarves believed in the Maker.”
 
He sighs, all the cheer draining out of him. “I’m Brother Burkel, of the Redcliffe Chantry,” he explains, “returned to my ancestors’ land to spread the Chant of Light.”
 
“Redcliffe!” Leliana gasps. “Were you there during the siege?” 
 
“Oh no,” he says, waving his hands. “I heard of it when the Revered Mother wrote to me. I’ve been here quite some time. I’m petitioning to open a Chantry in Orzammar.”
 
“Who would be your Revered Mother?” Leliana asks. Behind her, Morrigan groans and mutters something about encouraging him.
 
“Don’t dwarves worship their ancestors or something?” Zevran asks, draping an arm over Leliana’s shoulders. “The Rock or some such.”
 
“The Stone,” Brother Burkel corrects. “It’s obvious the world wasn’t created by the mortal souls who dwelt within it. Yet the dwarves of Orzammar persist in worshipping their own forefathers.”
 
“And what, pray tell, is so wrong with that?” Morrigan demands. “'Tis a wise man who looks to his ancestors for lessons already learned.”
 
Burkel’s eyes pop open wide with shock. “You speak as if these people have deliberately chosen to reject the Maker,” he says defensively. “But most of them haven’t even heard His name.”
 
Morrigan laughs derisively. “'Tis no name I’ve ever heard in my heart, nor one I would want to.”

Burkel draws himself up to his full height, looking to Leliana as if he’s prepared to go to war with Morrigan over the matter. “How can they choose the path of enlightenment if they never learn it exists?” he asks.
 
“That path is just as dark as all the others,” Morrigan sneers.
 
“Morrigan, please,” Leliana sighs, rolling her eyes. “Can we stop having a religious debate every time the Chant is heard? No one is making you join the chantry.” Turning back to Brother Burkel, she summons up a smile for him. “I’m sorry about that, Brother. Whose permission do you need to open a chantry?”
 
“The Shaperate controls changes in Orzammar’s structure and society,” he explains. “I need the shaper of memories’ permissions to open a prayer meeting.”
 
“That would be in the diamond quarter, yes?” Zevran asks, looking thoughtful. “But why them? Are they not simple record-keepers and historians?”
 
“You aren’t serious,” Morrigan hisses behind them, arms folded over her chest.
 
Both Leliana and Brother Burkel ignore her. “The shaper of memories controls the Shaperate, Orzammar’s record system. Like the chantry’s historians, but more thorough. They track the birth and lineage of every dwarf born in the city, every property sale, death in battle, marriage, or divorce.”
 
“I see,” she murmurs thoughtfully. 
 
“Should we encounter

such

an august individual, I’m certain we shall mention it,” Morrigan says quickly, grabbing Leliana by the arm and dragging her away before he can say anything more.
 
“Morrigan, that was rude,” Leliana chides as they make their way into Tapster’s Tavern.
 
“No more so than his preaching at me,” she counters. “You aren’t truly thinking of helping him, are you?”
 
“Well...yes,” Leliana says. “If this chantry could help just one person as much as it’s helped me, it’s worth any trouble.”
 
“And upset the structure and society of this wondrous place? T’would be a cruel thing, Leliana.”
 
“Do you think so?” Zevran asks and waves over the server. “Would it not be kinder to give them the choice?”
 
“Zevran, you too?” Morrigan asks with a pout. “Of all things, I thought an assassin might agree with me.”
 
He chuckles, smiling at the man who approaches, and orders three cups of wine. “The...ah...surfacer stuff, I believe?” he says, tilting his head and grinning up at him. When the server is gone, he turns back to the women. “I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me, sweet Morrigan,” he says sadly. “I might not be able to recite the entire Chant of Light, but I am no-”

“If you say

barbarian

, I will kill you,” Morrigan says, pointing a sharp fingernail at him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“

First day, they come and catch everyone.”

The woman’s voice is low but clear, forcing the entire party to stop in their tracks. “What was that?” Alistair whispers, looking around quickly. He’s already pale and sweating, but now he looks as if he might be truly ill.
 
Hera looks around, trying to listen for any other sign of life.

I can’t hear anything,

Hera thinks, eyes raking the shadows and ears straining to hear more.

Not so much as a heartbeat.

“Not a darkspawn, I think,” she whispers back. “I don’t sense any closer than just a second ago. Oghren?”
 
A muffled rattle of armor tells her that his skin must be crawling as suddenly as her own. “I got nothing, Warden,” he mutters.
 
“You don’t think it’s Branka, do you?” Wynne asks.
 
Hera looks back at him in time to see him shake his head. “No, but it might be one of her people. Blighted bad place to get lost,” he adds.
 
“Let’s see if we can find her,” Alistair says, beckoning them on.
 
Hera can’t remember the last time her weapons were sheathed as they creep through another corridor infested with the darkspawn taint. The thick, leathery growths cover everything, giving but not tearing under their boots. Hera feels the pull of her blood toward the awful stuff like a vague, almost-conscious thought nudging at her mind. “Ares, stay away from that,” she says, reminding that dog not to sniff or lick anything down here.

“Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.”

“What is she talking about?” Sten asks, his irritation masking a nearly indiscernible tremor in his voice.
 
“Darkspawn,” Hera whispers as the corridor crumbles to bare stone tunnels again. “They eat people.”
 
Oghren’s disgusted sound makes it clear that while not surprised, he’s still revolted by it. “That’s the worst thing,” he grumbles darkly. “Seeing your buddy’s arm get torn off and gnawed on by one of those blighted bastards.”
 
“Well let’s avoid that, shall we?” Wynne suggests, trying to bring some leverage.
 
“Wynne, dim your light,” Hera tells her. “Ares, stay with Alistair.”

“Fifth day, they return and it’s another girl’s turn.”

Hera leaves them in the tunnel, crouching low and sliding through the shadows. The voice cracks on this latest line and she can hear a faint, stuttering heartbeat somewhere ahead.

So she is alive,

she thinks.

It sounds like she’s been here a while.

Out of sight of the others, Hera sparks a small, dim ball of light and sends it further into the tunnel. It lights up the taint-covered stone before it hits a far wall and goes out. She’s had to be extra careful since they left Orzammar- if she allows her magic to build up without an outlet, she runs the risk of it turning wild and hurting herself and others; but with Wynne and Sten watching her so closely here in the Deep Roads it’s been difficult to expel the excess energy. Sparking another, she gasps softly at the needle-like pricks in her fingers and puts more power into the small light than necessary.

Is my magic changing, or have I simply not been using it often enough?

She wonders as she returns to the others and waves them on.

“Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.”

“It’s louder now,” Sten points out.
 
They follow the tunnel until they encounter a bend, a fire burning so brightly they all have to shield their eyes against it. Around it are broken spears and bits of bone and skulls, claw marks in the stone, and a smear of flaking, coppery blood on the wall.
 
Not far ahead is a larger shrine, this one with a macabre statue made of broken, blood covered weapons and bone. And echoing all around them, the woman’s voice.

“Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.”

“What?” Oghren chokes out.
 
“Don’t answer him,” Wynne says quickly, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. “I don’t want to hear the answer.”
 
Alistair shrugs. “I don’t know it, anyway,” he mutters, shadows making the scowl on his face seem deeper so that he looks like an old, haunted warrior instead of an exhausted young man with too many cares on his mind.

“Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.”

Hera’s stomach rolls hearing this.

They’ve raped her,

she realizes. Her entire adult life has surrounded sex and desire; for those things to become weapons makes her physically ill, and she has to put a shaking hand to Alistair’s arm to keep herself steady.

Powers save me,

she prays silently,

you’ve used me hard, but...not that. Not darkspawn.

“Are you all right?” he whispers, hefting his shield so that no one else can see the look of horror on her face.
 
She nods, swallowing hard before taking a deep breath. “Yes, I’m fine,” she says, rubbing her knife blade over her pants as if to sharpen it and hoping it covers the way her hands shake. “I’m fine.”
 
She ignores the way his expression says he clearly doesn’t believe her and nods again, as if the simple movement could banish the intrusive images of being held down by the rotting hands of a hurlock. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
 
Alistair clenches his jaw, watching the way she sloughs off whatever fear had taken hold of her. She moves a bit farther ahead, Ares at her side, avoiding talking with anyone about what’s on her mind.

I wish it were so easy for the rest of us,

he thinks, letting Wynne and Oghren pass him by so he can bring up the rear with Sten. 
 
“This is harder than we anticipated,” Sten says, jerking his chin toward Hera. “But she knows her duty.”

“Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.”

With a shudder, Alistair renews the grip on his shield. “I hope you’re right, Sten, because I’m worried for her.”
 
“As am I.”
 
“Best not let her hear that,” Wynne advises over her shoulder.

“Now she does feast, as she’s become the beast.”

“Wynne, your light,” Hera calls. “We have a small problem.”
 
They’ve come up to a large bronze door that refuses to open. There’s no lock on it, nor are there visible hinges to manipulate. Ogren runs his hands over it, looking for some kind of hidden mechanism, muttering to himself about engineers and how much he hates them.
 
Alistair and Sten both put their shoulders to it, trying to knock it open. Wynne attempts to melt it with fire. Thinking it his turn, Ares simply lifts a leg and relieves himself on it before giving Hera a look of pride and accomplishment.
 
And underneath all the noise they make, the same steady voice recites her chilling poem, slowly gaining momentum.

“First day, they come and catch everyone,

Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat,

Fifth day, they return and it’s another girls’ turn…”
 
“She can stop that anytime she likes,” Oghren mutters. He beats a meaty, armored fist on the door. “Hey! We heard you the first time!”
 
Alistair watches Hera chew her lip as she examines the door quietly.

If she weren’t hiding her magic from Wynne and Sten, she’d have gotten us through in a blink,

he thinks.

I wonder just how much we’ve held her back? How powerful would she be in her own world?

If I really do become king, I’m going to make sure she never has to hide anything about herself.

“Hey Princess, you gonna kick the door down?” Oghren chortles as Hera takes a step back.
 
“Would you like to see me do it?” she asks, arching a brow at him.
 
Oghren’s guffaw echoes off the stone and he slaps his knee, unable to hold back. “Sure!” he gasps. “If you can do it, I’ll buy a round for all you and all your friends of that fancy surface stuff when we get back!”
 
Alistair bites his lip at her small smile and the way she pulls her braid over her shoulder and toys with it. “Wouldn’t you like to bet something

really

good?” she asks, flicking her eyes up and down him. “Like...a hundred gold pieces?”
 
Oghren keeps laughing. “Sure, Princess,” he says, shaking her hand. “If you can kick that door down all by your ugly self, I’ll buy the round

and

give you a hundred.”
 
Without another word, Hera turns back to the door and gives it one mighty kick, right in the center. Dust billows, metal screeches, and stone cracks and scrapes as the door falls into the room beyond.
 
Wynne and Alistair both laugh when Oghren’s jaw drops, leaving his mouth gaping like a fish. “Did you know she could do that?” he asks Sten, who only nods in approval before giving him the smallest of smiles.
 
“Well, we have something to look forward to once we get back to Orzammar,” Hera tells Wynne.
 
Before the elderly mage can answer, Hera raises a hand, her eyes going sharp and narrow as the poem filters through the dusty air.

“First day they come…

”
 
“Seems we’ve found our poet,” Alistair says, stepping through the doorway.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Most noticeable in the chamber are the giant, flesh-like sacs growing along every flat surface. They hang above their heads, pulsing as if they have a heartbeat, a wet, gurgling sound coming off them. 
 
“Watch out,” Oghren says, pointing his sword above Sten’s head. “I bet that’ll smell worse than a bronco’s ass if it pops on you.”
 
Hera looks up, realizing that Sten’s head is so close to the roof that it almost brushes against the low-hanging sacs. His sword

does

brush against them, leaving them swaying behind him as he passes. “Uh, Sten, you might want to…” She holds out a hand, then lowers it to indicate crouching.
 
“Oh dear,” Wynne says, realizing the sacs swinging above her head and stepping aside.
 
Sten looks up and his nose almost touches one of the pulsing sacs. His face draws up into a look of revulsion, and Hera realizes she could learn a few things about disgust from her stern friend. 
 
“You are correct, Oghren,” Sten says, and crouches a little as he walks. “That would be…” he shudders, “unfortunate.”
 
In the center of the room crouches a dwarf woman, her head bowed. Once, her hair might have been blonde, but now it’s caked with what Hera can only guess is tainted blood, leaving it in stiff, dark clumps. The scent of rot, excrement, darkspawn, and death nearly overwhelms her; only Sten’s hand on her shoulder steadies her before she swoons.
 
They approach slowly, not wanting to startle her as she rips open one of the sacs with her fingers and starts rifling through the stinking, wet contents. When she shoves something black and sticky into her mouth, Hera nearly gags.
 
“Hello?” Hera softly says behind him.
 
The dwarf ignores them, intent on the work at hand. Oghren groans, the sound so low and despairing that Hera wonders if they’ve just found Branka. The woman’s skin reminds her of Ruck’s gray-tinged flesh, but paler, peeling and flaking off in large pieces along her hands and face. Her lips have deep cracks in them, the surrounding area swollen with dark infection. Veins that were faint on Ruck are clear and vivid black on this dwarf, fading into bruises and cuts that leak a substance more like tar than blood.
 
In between bites from the sac, the woman continues to mutter her poem, adding in new and horrifying verses.

First day, they come and catch everyone.

Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.

Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.

Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.

“That’s unsettling,” Alistair murmurs.
 
“

Unsettling?

” Wynne hisses, covering her mouth and turning her face away. “It’s sickening!”
 
“Damn, woman!” Oghren says, stepping aside as Wynne starts to gag. “If you’re going to spew, do it somewhere else.”
 
“Calm down, everyone,” Alistair says, not taking his eyes off the dwarf woman. “Hera, do you want to...?”
 
Hera nods silently and takes a few steps closer. “Hello?” she says again, a little louder.
 
This time the woman seems to hear her and rises to her feet. Her head stays tilted to one side as if her neck is broken and her eyes are so milky and clouded Hera isn’t sure she can actually see them. 
 
“What is this?” the dwarf rasps, eyes moving across the room as she sniffs loudly. “A human? Bland and unlikely,” she says quickly, answering her own question. Her head bows as she starts to mutter to herself. “Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers’ faces and open doors.”
 
“Maker’s breath,” Wynne whispers, turning back to look at her. “What have they done to you?”
 
“First day they come and catch everyone,” the dwarf repeats.
 
“Is this corruption?” Hera asks Alistair. “It looks...different from Ruck.”
 
“Corruption!” the dwarf screeches, her head snapping up with a loud crack. “The men did that! Their wounds festered and their minds left. They are like dogs, marched ahead, the first to die. Not us. Not me. Not Laryn. We are not cut,” she explains, seemingly to herself. “We are fed. Friends and flesh and blood and bile and… and…”
 
“Slow down,” Hera says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. Pity for the poor creature overwhelms the revulsion, and she kneels in front of the woman. Somewhere behind her Oghren groans again, and she hears the muted rattle of his armor as he moves. 
 
“What happened to Laryn?” he asks in a weak voice.
 
The woman shudders and turns her head, squeezing her eyes closed. “All I could do was wish Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so I would be spared,” she says thickly. “But I had to watch. I had to see the change. How do you endure that?” she asks Hera, looking up at her with those haunting, empty eyes. “How could

Branka

endure that?”
 
Hera can’t look away.

I’ve seen madness before, but this…

In the poorest parts of Sigil were those who flocked to the Soup Kitchen, people who had sold their eyes or bodies to alchemists, who allowed testing to be performed on them for money or food. Zeus and Hera had tried to help them, to give money to the Soup Kitchen and public housing, but it had become apparent that some people simply had a hunger that food and shelter couldn’t satisfy.
 
Hera knew in her bones that this poor dwarf had known that sort of hunger— and been ruined by it.
 
“Branka was here!” Oghren cries, shoving his way to the front. He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her like a rag doll. “Damn you, Hespith! Where is she?”
 
Milky white eyes stretch wide as her head jerks back and forth. “D-Do not talk of Branka, of what she did. Ancestors preserve us, forgive me,” she weeps, sinking to the floor as soon as Oghren releases her. “I was her captain and I didn’t stop her. Her lover, and I could not turn her. Forgive her...but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become.”
 
“What do you mean, Hespith?” Hera asks, putting a restraining arm across Oghren’s chest. “What did Branka do?”
 
“I will not speak of her! Of what she did! Of what we have become!” Hespith’s voice grows stronger and she scrambles away from them and climbs to her feet. “I will not turn! I will not become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!”
 
Before Hera can stop her, Hespith bolts out of the chamber and through a door on the far wall.  “A lover in the dark… How do you know her?” she asks Oghren.
 
“My cousin,” he grumbles, spitting. “Her and Branka were close, but I didn’t know

that

close.”
 
“Your

cousin

?” Alistair says.
 
“Yeah, what of it?” Oghren’s defensive tone changes to a growl, his eyebrows drawing together in a deep scowl.
 
Alistair shakes his head, realizing that whatever joke he was about to make would only get him punched in whatever area Oghren could reach best. It would have been amusing if they were surrounded with what Hera can only assume are the remains of Oghren’s friends and family.
 
“Let’s go,” Oghren snaps. “Branka’s still out there and Hespith can’t have gotten far.”
 
The door leads them onto what appears to have once been Bownammer’s high street, the wide path of stone jutting out into a dark cavern. Though Hespith is nowhere in sight, they can hear her voice echoing off the stone.

“She became obsessed… That is the word, but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil.”

“That’s unsettling,” Wynne says, turning around to try to locate Hespith. “There are so many places for her to hide. We should find her, perhaps I can heal her.”
 
“Wynne,” Sten says, getting her attention. Crouching as he was, it put him almost at eye level with the mage. But as stoic as he was, Hera could see how he shuddered whenever they heard the soft

plop

of a sac falling to the stone. “Focus. She is not our mission.”
 
Hera follows his gaze to the ogre emerging from some dark corner. It lowers it head and charges, faster than it looks and giving Hera flashbacks to the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar, when she was certain she’d met her death with Alistair.
 
“Don’t worry, Princess, I’ve got this,” Oghren says, lifting his ax above his head. With a roar nearly as loud as that of the ogre, he runs for the beast.
 
Hera chases him, Sten and Alistair not far behind. “Oghren, wait-”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“See, Princess? I told you I had it.”
 
Hera watches with distaste as he swings his battleax again, intent on hacking off one of the ogre’s horns. “How do you plan to carry that?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

I suppose he’s entitled to his trophies…

“The second one seemed to appear from midair, don’t you think?” Wynne asks, her hands moving in the small, gentle circles of healing magic. Sten grunts under her treatment, but shows no other sign of discomfort as her spell knits the gash in his side closed.
 
“I never saw where it came from either,” Alistair adds, wiping the sweat from his face. The deeper they go the colder it becomes, but their armor is heavy and stuffed with bits of wool where a breeze might flow through and offer some refreshment.
 
Hera shrugs, sipping from her waterskin. “I didn’t see it, either.”
 
“It came from the door in the wall,” Sten says once Wynne allows him to sit up. “Did none of you see it?”
 
“Clearly we didn’t,” Hera says, stretching her arm out until the shoulder pops. 
 
“Let’s go see what it is,” Oghren orders in a sharp turn. “Maybe that nug-humper is hiding in there.”
 
What Hera wants most is to lie down and curl her body against Alistair’s, but time feels strange down here. At any point, it seems as if they’ve only been gone a day and yet it also seems as if they left Orzammar a month ago. Even her own internal clock feels off and she can’t tell if her limbs are heavy with the nocturnal desire to sleep or if she’s simply exhausted from the endless movement and battle.
 
“Well, you coming or not, Ugly?”
 
With a sigh and a stretch of her back, Hera picks her pack and follows him.
  
The Shaperate looks at Leliana with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. “That is an...odd request,” he says slowly. “Especially for one so new to our city.”
 
“One of Orzammar’s own has returned to spread the Chant,” Leliana explains.
 
Morrigan listens with only half an ear, arms folded over her chest and brooding about being dragged into this foolishness.

Zevran is barely Andrastrian, why does

he

care? Is he so infatuated with Leliana that he would encourage her even in this?

Seeing the way he nods encouragingly while the bard and the old dwarf speak, the sneer on her face intensifies.

Fools. Both of them.

When

will

Hera return? It’s been two days! Damn her for leaving me behind.

“The Chantry could educate children of all castes!”
 
Morrigan’s ears prick at the talk of charity and education. “In mythical lore and their own self-righteousness,” she warns. “Shaper, your castes will crumble.”
 
“Morrigan! You aren’t helping!” Leliana hisses.
 
Morrigan’s sour expression turns sweet. “Then perhaps I should have been left abed this morning instead of roused early and ordered to attend you.”
 
“Nobody ordered you,” Zevran says, trying to soothe the conflict. “Shaper, Leliana is right, the Chantry

would

offer education to the masses- should they choose it. No one will be forced.”
 
The Shaper looks from one woman to the other with suspicion. “I am not certain this is in Orzammar’s best interest,” he begins. “Our castes have served us well. But it’s possible this service could benefit our people. Very well. He may hold a prayer meeting as he requested, if not build a new temple to his god.”
 
Morrigan’s sarcastic response slides down her throat as Leliana’s face brightens.

She truly believes,

she thinks, watching her friend bubble over with thanks and triumph.

Even if I do not, should I ruin this moment of victory for her? Perhaps it will ease the pain of not having seen the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“Oh thank you!” Leliana cries, looking as if she’d like to embrace the poor man. “You will not regret it!”
 
The white-bearded dwarf can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “At least the words would come from one of our own. Now, is there anything more?”
 
Zevran practically leaps in front, shaking the man’s hand and cutting off anything else Leliana might ask for. “No, Shaper. We thank you for your time,” he says quickly. “This is more than we could have hoped for.”
 
As Morrigan turns on her heel to leave, she hears the Shaper speak once again.
 
“I will record this conversation in the Memories. I hope I do not come to regret it.”

’Twould have been a kinder thing to tell them no and let them burn in their rage, Shaper,

she thinks.

For I have seen what the chantry can do.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sten grabs a tentacle and uses its flailing to propel him to the Broodmother’s enormous shoulder. Hera, suspended upside down by another tentacle, can only watch as he nimbly crosses over to sink his sword into her skull. It is a neat kill, severing the back of the neck and leaving the head dropping forward in a parody of submission, but utterly different from the chaos surrounding them. Alistair defends Wynne against the shrieks and hurlocks that ambushed them while they tried to find a way to kill the horrific combination of flesh and nightmare that made up the Broodmother. Somewhere below her, Ares has a smaller darkspawn by the leg, having already ripped off an arm with his vice-like jaws. Hera’s almost certain that Oghren fainted within a minute of seeing the Broodmother, because she never saw or heard him during the fight. She couldn’t blame him, really. It was one of his own cousins that had transformed into the fifteen-foot tall monstrosity of breasts and tentacles. If there had been anything left of the girl called Laryn it had been lost in the bald, screaming creature that reportedly gave birth to darkspawn by the horde. Even now in the throes of death she thrashed, shaking Hera like a rag doll before going suddenly still and dropping Hera right on her head. Ears ringing and blinded by pain, Hera groans and rolls onto her back, rubbing the crown of her head. She sits up slowly, dizzy and confused, but before she can even stand, Sten grabs her and hauls her away from the body, carrying her like a bundle beneath his arm and shouting for Ares to retreat as the body releases a noxious, bright green gas. The unexpected movement and speed makes her sick and she groans again, wondering if this is the day she vomits in front of someone for the first time. Sten drops Hera unceremoniously on a flat bit of stone covered in darkspawn blood and gore and orders Ares to watch her. Struggling to keep herself in a sitting position, she blinks slowly, looking around. She can see Alistair and Sten’s swords moving, clashing against claw and armor, but she isn’t sure if the deafening sound in her ears comes from them or the knot growing on her head. Wavering, she puts a hand on Ares’ head to try and steady herself, but it only succeeds in making him whine and lean against her. “Oh, are you hurt, boy?” she asks, looking down at her hand blearily. It’s smeared with sticky, warm blood, and Ares whimpers at her touch. “Is that your blood? No matter.” She snaps her fingers and a subtle glow surrounds them, as gray as the mist before dawn. Her head clears instantly, the splitting pain reduces to a dull ache, and the cut on Ares’ head closes up neatly.  Hera sighs in relief, closing her eyes briefly as the sounds of battle end as abruptly as it always begins. When she opens them, she sees Wynne standing a few yards away, staring at her with an open mouth and wide eyes. Damn me to seven hells. “Hera...what just happened?” Wynne asked, leaning heavily on her staff and stepping over a corpse. “Did you just use magic? Was that a spell you cast?” Hera looks around, hands twisting in her lap. Alistair and Sten are leaning on their weapons, breathing heavily and staring at her. Alistair’s face is dripping with sweat and sticky black blood, his eyes the size of saucers. Sten is in a similar state; blood falls from his elbow to land on the stone with a splat louder than seems necessary in the sudden stillness. Everyone- except Oghren, blinking slowly and trying to catch up to the events- is staring at her, waiting for an answer. Damn me.  “No, Wynne,” she lies, looking back to the mage and meeting her eyes. She lifts her hand, showing Wynne the enchanted ring that protects her from both her vampire thirst and the sun’s damaging rays. “My ring is enchanted, it can heal minor wounds once a week. The person wearing it just has to snap and it works.” Wynne’s lips go thin and white with her displeasure, reminding Hera of the Countess de Fandemir when she was about to go into one of her terrifying tantrums. As a child, the Countess’s fits of rage had terrified Hera; seeing Wynne’s spine stiffen and her lips set this way makes Hera want to hide.  “I see,” Wynne says flatly, lifting her staff. “Well, I have no enchanted ring, nor do I have enough energy to heal all our wounds, so-” “That’s where they come from.” Hera and Wynne break their eye contact, their gazes flying to a dark space above them where Hespith stands. Where has she been? “That’s why they hate us...that’s why they need us,” Hespith continues. “That’s why they take us, that’s why they feed us.” “Oh Hespith,” Hera whispers, pity washing over her. “But the true abomination is not that it occured.” The dwarf woman’s words stop and start, as if she chokes on the words. “But that it was allowed . Branka-” she gasps, a sob caught in her throat, “my love… The Stone has punished me, dream-friend. I am dying of something worse than death,” Hespith says, her milky eyes settling finally on Hera. “Betrayal.” The word echoes as Hespith fades back into the shadows. Hera suppresses a shudder, but a soft rattle of armor tells her that not everyone bothered to hide their unease.  “Was she this unsettling before she ran away with your wife?” Alistair asks Oghren. Oghren shook his head and sighed. “Hespith always was a few stones short of a mountain, if you know what I mean.” Hera leaps to her feet, avoiding looking at Wynne. “Well, let’s set up camp and see if we can find-” “No.” Oghren’s voice is flat, but his face is so deep in a scowl that Hera hesitates before speaking again. “Oghren, we need -” “ To find Branka, ” he interrupts. “And you lot want to get back before the deshyrs cast their vote. Now if I’m right- and since I’m a dwarf, let’s assume I am- you’re running out of time, Warden.” Hera looks to Alistair, who nods. “He’s right, Hera,” he adds reluctantly.  She turns to Sten, who only offers his usual stoic gaze, and then Wynne, drooping and tired, but who nods as well. “All right,” Hera says, picking up her pack. “Let’s find Branka.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Lord Harrowmont, we have to find a way to stall,” Leliana says, pacing in front of his desk. “It’s only been two days- can’t we buy some more time? Another day, at least?”
 
Harrowmont looks as if he’d rather become a juggling surface performer than answer. “Lady Leliana, it’s really not-”
 
“Surely a politician like you can manage it,” Zevran says. “You can make speeches, have a debate on topics of great importance to the people-”
 
“Zevran that’s a perfect idea!” Leliana squeaks, throwing her hands up. “A debate!”
 
Harrowmont shakes his head. “I’m sorry, my friends, but this has all been done before. The vote will happen tomorrow.”
 
“But you can

start

a debate,” Leliana says, eyes sparkling. “About something you know Bhelen will fight you over. The other lords will join in, surely?”
 
“I imagine ’twill be a grand display of dwarven cooperation,” Morrigan says, sounding bored. Morrigan had, she felt, done a fine job of hiding her own concern over Hera’s timing, but kept reminding herself that her friend had style above all else. She would arrive in time; Morrigan was sure of it. 
 
Leliana, on the other hand, had started pacing and wringing her hands the day before, barely eating. Zevran had proven a fine distraction for a while, but Morrigan was starting to wonder if Leliana might need an apothecary for her unease.
 
“I could try,” Harrowmont says agreeably. “We won’t meet until midday, I should be able to stall at least a few hours.”
 
Leliana looks as if she might leap into his lap and cover his face with kisses. Morrigan smothers a snort of laughter, remembering the last time Leliana had kissed a dwarf and how utterly disgusted she’d been after.
 
“Are you all right?” Zevran asks, glancing over at her.
 
“Fine,” Morrigan says, snorting again.
 
Anyone would know Branka for a smith the moment they saw her. She was short and stout and appeared to be all muscle from the way she swung her ax around as if it weighed nothing at all. Like Oghren, she had a ruddy complexion matched up with red hair, though darker and less prone to sticking out in every direction than his. But what worried Hera most was the way she had spoken of the members of her house. She had called them worthless, treated them as if they had meant nothing to her when she threw them to the dangers of Caridin’s gauntlet and watched them die with a clinical eye.

Test subjects,

she had called them, her voice and eyes colder than any ice Hera had seen.
 
And all for an anvil.
 
Oghren had told her all about Caridin’s Anvil of the Voice; how it had created the golems that had protected the dwarven cities from enemies above and below ground.

And

how Caridin and the Anvil had disappeared.
 
Branka had gone mad for it, insisting that the Anvil of the Void was the only weapon against the encroaching darkspawn and that she was the only smith capable of wielding it. She spoke with such passion and conviction that Hera can easily see how she’d convinced an entire household to follow her into the unknown. Whatever madness grips her, she

believes

she’s right.
 
“If you wish me to get involved in this imbecilic election, I must first have the Anvil,” Branka says, her words falling like judgment from a chantry pulpit. “There is only one way out, Warden. Forward. Through Caridin’s maze and out to where the Anvil waits.”
 
Hera can smell death wafting off Branka, sickly sweet and coppery on the back of her tongue.

This is a woman who has sacrificed her entire house to the Deep Roads,

she thinks.

And she won’t hesitate to throw us and her husband into the fire.

Oghren is so furious he practically vibrates with it. “What has this place done to you?!” he demands, his voice thundering off the stone. “I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance.”
 
Branka draws herself up to her full height and lifts her chin proudly. “I am your Paragon,” she reminds him. “Get past the traps, or die down here with the rest of them.”
 
***

And I thought Andraste’s Gauntlet was difficult,

Hera thinks, watching Sten climb over the fresh corpse of an ogre. When Oghren had sliced through the tendons in its leg, it had fallen and now fills the narrow tunnel leading deeper into Caridin’s maze. Thankfully, the crash into the stone walls had also snapped its neck.

Caridin must have been a tough taskmaster.

“Is everyone all right?” Wynne gasps, leaning against the wall and looking at the ogre before her with disgust.
 
“Do you have any potions left, Wynne?” Hera asks. 
 
“One,” Wynne says, patting the small pouch at her side where she keeps the bottles well wrapped. “I’d like to save it.”
 
Hera looks over Wynne’s shoulder, meeting Alistair’s eyes.

I could help,

she thinks, raising an eyebrow in question.

Wynne already suspects- she

saw

my spell earlier.

But would she call me apostate and look at me with the same disapproval she does Morrigan? Or will she understand and finally believe my story? Will she hand me over to templars when all this is done?

“I’ll be fine, dear,” Wynne assures her. She takes a deep breath and looks up at the ogre, wrinkling her nose. “Assuming Alistair will help me climb over that thing.”
 
“Of course, Wynne,” he says quickly, stepping closer and taking her elbow.
 
With Oghren ahead of them, huffing and puffing his way over the ogre’s crumpled form, Hera and Alistair help Wynne up and over, pausing for a few hasty bites of flat, stale bread and dried meat.  The small break seems to revive Wynne- allowing her to regain enough energy to cast a spell over herself- but Hera still keeps a worried eye on her nonetheless. The last thing they needed was their healer wearing down or getting hurt.
 
The tunnel branches off from an arena-like area that had been filled to bursting with darkspawn- and, Hera had noticed, the decaying remains of Branka’s family. This discovery brings Oghren to his knees, struggling to hide his emotion behind a stoic facade. The others quietly turn away, forming a circle around him so that he can have a moment of privacy and they can watch for danger. After a few minutes, Oghren gets to his feet, pats Hera on the shoulder and affectionately calls her ugly before muttering about moving on.
 
Whether the arena had been lit by Branka or there were rivers of lava flowing where she hadn’t seen them, Hera doesn’t know, but the tunnel they pass through was dark and cold, lit only by thin veins of lyrium. The dim blue light makes their shadows melt into the darkness and leeches the color from their faces. Hera gets a chill when she realizes that it makes them all look undead.
 
But it’s oddly beautiful, too, in spite of the dwarf and darkspawn corpses littering the path.

Somehow it reminds me of home,

she thinks, noticing how the lyrium forms constellation-like patterns in the darkness above, its song a little stronger than what she remembers hearing during the ritual the Circle had performed at Redcliffe.

Dark and full of things that would like nothing more than to devour me whole.

“What does raw lyrium do?” Hera asks, her fingers trailing above a glowing blue crack in the stone. So close, the song gets louder, thrumming over her skin and making her magic race through her blood. “Could it invigorate you, Wynne?”
 
Wynne looked around her, pondering the question. “Perhaps. Raw lyrium is not something I’m familiar with, our potions are made from refined powder.”
 
“The raw stuff is potent,” Oghren says, not bothering to look at it. “It’ll kill you. That’s what they say, anyway; dwarves can’t use the stuff so I don’t really know.”
 
“You can’t?” Hera asks. “Is it because dwarves don’t have magic?”
 
He scratches under his arm and suppresses a belch.“We ain’t got a Fade like you humans. A dwarf’s dreams are like everything else-”
 
“Empty?” Sten asks.

Hera snorts, trying to swallow a laugh as Oghren glares at him. “

Stone,

” is all he says. “The only thing we see in our sleep is stone.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The door sticks when Hera pushes on it. She’s about to kick it in with supernatural strength when, with a chuckle, Oghren swaggers forward and nudges her aside. “Hey Ugly, let a dwarf handle it,” he says confidently, pulling a hammer the size of his fist from his belt. 
 
Hera watches, fascinated, as he taps the door in what seems random spots before striking it hard in the bottom left corner. Dust falls and the door shudders before he pushes it open with one hand. The hinges scream in protest, but move at his command.
 
“Oh, impressive,” Hera coos, nudging him with her hip. “You should teach me that sometime.”
 
He wrinkles his red nose in utter revulsion and takes a few steps away from her. “Why in the stone would I do that?”
 
Hera puckers her lips at him and raises her eyebrows. “Never know when a girl needs a party trick. You dwarves are tough nuts to crack.”
 
“And I thought you couldn’t get uglier,” Oghren mutters, slipping his hammer back into his belt. 
 
Hera ignores him, her eyes traveling down the dark hallway to the one source of light beyond the door. “Seven hells,” she breathes, starting down the hall slowly. “What

is

it?”
 
A column of stone hangs from the ceiling, marbled with glowing lyrium. At its point is a large statue of some kind with four identical faces. They put Hera in mind of the tattooed faces of the Legion of the Dead; fanged maws open in a stone scream and heavy stylized brows furrowed. 
 
“They’re enormous,” she says as she gets closer. Each mouth is as tall as she is, the eyes are larger than her head, and the whole thing is surrounded by four anvils carved with dwarven runes. “Oghren, is this—?” Hera doesn’t finish her question as the eyes of the faces begin to crackle with lightning. 
 
“Oh no,” Alistair says in a low voice as the faces rotate. “This is going to be bad.”
 
Smoke pours from each of the mouths, black as pitch and sparking with lightning. From its depths rise three spectral dwarves, raising their arms in silent war cries and brandishing weapons. 
 
For a moment Hera isn’t sure their weapons are real— until she feels a shield slam into her that sends her skittering across the floor on her back, armor scraping the floor loudly. She slides to a stop right in front of Ares, who looks down at her in concern and whimpers. 
 
“Those are real,” she gasps, trying to suck in a breath. “Go get ‘em, boy.”
 
Alistair is already locked in battle, his Grey Warden battle cry echoing off the walls and mingling with Oghren’s scream of rage. Hera feels Wynne’s magic sweep over her, easing the spasm in her chest and allowing her a deep breath so she rejoin the fight. 
 
Ares and Alistair are holding one side of the statue while Sten and Oghren take the other, so Hera takes center front, hoping Wynne has a clear enough view to provide additional support. 
 
“Oghren, the anvil!”
 
Hera’s focused on the two spectral warriors before her and doesn’t see whatever it is that causes Wynne to shout for Oghren. But whatever happens causes the faces in the center to pour smoke from their mouths, wrapping around the spirits and devouring them.
 
Breathing heavily, Hera watches the stone faces turn, the one that had been before Oghren spewing something like blood from its eyes. “Oghren! What did you do?”
 
“I don’t know!” he shouts, leaning on the anvil beside him. “It lit up, so I smacked it with my axe before it could spit anything else out at me.”
 
“The anvils hurt it!” Alistair realizes as the three remaining eyes crackle with lightning once more. “Watch your anvils!”
 
This time they’re ready for the spirit warriors to rise from the smoke, bearing their wickedly sharp weapons. Hera follows Alistair’s lead, turning her opponents so that she can keep one eye on the anvil beside her. And as soon as someone dispells one of the spirits, cutting through it like a knife into mist, a light falls upon all the anvils.
 
Each touch the one closest to them and watch as a ray of light shoots from the anvil to the faces. The blood like substance pours from the stone eyes, smoke whisking away the warriors for a brief moment of silence.
 
“Get ready,” Alistair warns once the faces turn again.
 
On and on it goes, faces turning, smoke billowing from their mouths, until one of the spectral dwarves slams his hammer into Hera’s chest. Hera simply falls under the blow, feeling as if her chest has been shattered. Bones crunch beneath her weight and blood fills her mouth as she coughs feebly. Curling into a ball, Hera gags and chokes, black spots appearing before her eyes.

Powers take me now,

she thinks, body shaking.

Take pity on me and end it now.

She isn’t sure if the echoing laughter is only in her head, but she’s in too much pain to feel any more fear of death. Closing her eyes, the sounds of battle are drowned out by the roaring in her blood as her magic crashes into her. Hera coughs, shadows spilling from her mouth as well as blood, so deep and black it feels as if she’s vomiting a true void. The darkness forms two long-fingered hands that wrap around the spirit, growing larger and larger until it covers the ghost whole before swirling away into nothing, the smoke of her magic mingling with the smoke from the stone faces.

Wild magic. So this isn’t the end, after all.

It’s comforting to know that her magic will still rise up and protect her when she cannot do it herself— at least until the right time comes. With a gurgle, Hera faints, shadows pooling around her.
 
It’s the shadows that alert Alistair to Hera’s magic, the deep purple, incense-scented smoke swirling in the corner of his eye. “Hera!” Alistair shouts, unable to tear away from his opponent. “Wynne, help her!”
 
“I have it,” Wynne answers, staff moving in a large circle and forming a barrier around Hera as she gets closer. 
 
Alistair has to turn his focus back to the stone faces, trusting that Wynne will care for Hera even though he wants nothing more than to run to her side.

A king would keep fighting,

he reminds himself, lifting his shield again.

A king wouldn’t run to his lover when there’s a battle to be won. He would trust her.

I trust her.

Finally, the smoke stops spilling from the stone faces and the spectors melt away like fog in sunlight. Gasping breaths and groans of pain fill the sudden absence of steel on steel, and Alistair limps over to see about Hera.
 
“Is

this

the Anvil?” he asks, nodding to the strange set of stone faces that had been shooting lightning from the eyes. It seems just a little too… well,

magical

for dwarves. He knows that there are no dwarf mages— they have no connection to the Fade, and thus, no ability to tap into the magic there— but he can see no other way for such a thing to exist.
 
Oghren, hands on his knees and gasping for breath, shakes his head. “No,” he gasps. “The Anvil is just...an anvil.”
 
Wynne runs her hands over her face, looking haggard. “This is a Spirit Apparatus,” she explains. “I think. Don’t touch her, Alistair,” she says quickly when he kneels beside her and takes her limp hand. “Let her rest a moment while the magic works.”
 
“Is this thing magic?” Sten asks, looking down at Hera. “Kadan, can you speak?”
 
Curled up on the ground at his feet, her lashes flutter and she groans. “No,” she says in a ragged whisper.
 
“Wynne is she going to be all right?” Alistair asks. Seeing Hera drop like that had nearly made him sick, and her reluctance to move isn’t comforting in the least.

I trust her. Her magic wouldn’t let her down.

“Yes, I think so,” Wynne answers, kneeling beside Hera again and putting a hand on her forehead. “It would take some study to be certain of how the apparatus works, but magic is a good place to start. Has the pain eased yet Hera?”
 
Hera shakes her head, curling her body tighter. Alistair wonders if she would be able to heal herself, given a bit of privacy, but he had seen her magic careen out of control when she fell and wasn’t sure if she had enough energy to try. She’d explained after Kinloch Hold that in times of desperate danger it did something she’d called Wild Magic, exploding around her in a defensive and almost sentient burst of power that drained her. He assumed that’s what had happened when shadows had raced forward to wrap around the spirit and drown it in darkness. If it was, then by her description it would have left her feeling like a limp rag. 
 
Whining, Ares lays down beside her, trying to offer her what warmth and comfort he has. “She’ll be all right, boy,” Alistair assures him. “Give her a minute. Wynne,” Alistair says, gesturing for her to step away. “Those lyrium veins…being around them helped you, right?”
 
Wynne nods. “Yes, I haven’t felt so energized since I was your age.”
 
He mirrors her nod, rubbing his chin in thought. “Do you think- well...Hera’s world is magical…You might say

she’s

pretty magical— because of her world—”
 
“Do I think it might energize her own magic and help her heal faster?” Wynne asks, raising her brows and tapping her chin. “Yes, I think that might work.”
 
Alistair’s jaw drops and he waves his hands quickly. “What? Magic?

Noooo

… That’s not what I meant!”
 
Wynne raises silver eyebrows at him, her lips a thin line. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Alistair,

you

are a Grey Warden, and you don’t heal as quickly as she does- even with help. I doubt she has much power, she doesn’t seem to have much training at all, really, but the odd healing spell is always useful. That trick with the shadows, though…” she folds her arms, tapping her fingers on her elbows. “That wasn’t planned. How long have you known she’s a mage?”
 
Alistair’s face turns red.

Maker, Hera is going to be so upset that Wynne knows.

“Since the Circle Tower. She’s been trying to hide it, keep from using it; she doesn’t want anyone to think she’s an apostate.”
 
“I see.”  Wynne looks over her shoulder at Sten, who is trying to encourage Hera to stand by ordering her to simply stop being in pain.

It is easy,

he says, frowning at her,

just decide it no longer hurts.

“I suppose at this point it doesn’t matter. But she needs to learn how to control it, at least. I’ll have a talk with her about it later,” she decides.

Oh Maker.

“What will you do?” he asks, feeling his stomach knot up. 
 
Wynne chuckles and pats his arm comfortingly. “I won’t tell her you told me- I’m old, not blind; I’ve noticed one or two things before now. But you might be right about the lyrium. See if you can move her closer to one.”
 
Alistair clenches his jaw and pulls his shoulders back. This might be the worst injury she’s received, and judging by her current state, this will hurt her. Badly. Waving Sten aside, he crouches beside her, wiping a few strands of sweat-soaked hair off her face. “Raven,” he says gently. “Listen, I’m going to move-”
 
“No!” she gasps, flinching away from him.
 
He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, frowning. “I’m

going

to move you,” he says in a firm tone. “Just close enough to touch that raw lyrium vein. Now you can scream all you want, but Branka is on the other side of that door, waiting for the Anvil, and if we want to get her help, we have to move on.”
 
Without another word, he picks Hera up as gently as possible, hardening his expression against her whimpering sounds of pain.

I have to hurt her to help her,

he thinks, but his teeth grind against one another as he crosses quickly to the nearest vein. 
 
Hera bites her tongue, tasting blood, but manages not to scream when he moves her. The raw lyrium’s song is much louder now, almost vibrating through the air.

What I need is blood,

she thinks as he lays her down near a large lyrium vein. 
 
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sitting beside her. “I wish I could do more for you.”
 
Hera wants to scream

yes, there is! You can open a vein in your arm and let me feed,

but knows better. If Wynne didn’t think her a blood mage and attack, Sten and Oghren might simply kill her. And with her magic depleted, she would have no defense against them. 
 
To make matters worse, she isn’t sure what the Dark Powers— who seem to hold some sway over her fate, even here— would do should someone attempt to take their prize. At any rate, it would not go well for anyone involved; the

last

thing she wants is to be left in the Deep Roads alone after bringing about the deaths of her companions.
 
But the lyrium calms her, the soft, indescribable song flowing through her like cool water, beckoning her to reach out and touch it. One trembling hand obeys and is welcomed with tendrils of blue magic, swirling around her hand like mist.
 
“Oh,” Alistair breathes.
 
“Oh,” she echoes, eyes wide as the magic-laced mist travels up her arm, weaving its way between the pieces of her armor to absorb into her skin like a frosty balm. Her breath begins to come a little easier, the ragged pain tearing at her lungs easing so that she can shift onto her back. 
 
Her first deep breath pulls in a lungful of the mist and Hera feels as if she’s been struck by lightning. Magic swells joyfully, filling her until she thinks it might overflow in another burst of wild magic. Her pupils dilate and her back arches as she struggles to keep control, but bright laughter bubbles out of her as all her pain disappears. She feels her body healing itself, her magic wrapping around every broken piece of her. Not even blood could heal her so quickly, or with so much

pleasure.

By the Powers,

she thinks with a giggle,

this is amazing. I should take some home with me.

Beside her, she senses more than sees Alistair tense beside her, ready to try one of his templar abilities on her. Another deep breath of clean, cold air, and she relaxes to the floor with a dreamy smile on her face.
 
“Hera?” he asks, “are you all right?”
 
She blinks slowly, looking up at him and wishing they were alone so she could show him just how good she feels. “That was better than sex,” she purrs, shifting her hips wantonly.
 
Alistair has long since lost his virginal embarrassment, but the look she gives him makes his breath catch and all the blood drain out of his head. “Well,” he says thickly, clearing his throat. “I...ah...I suppose we should move on then?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The tunnel ends abruptly at an open doorway. Beyond the stone and metal decorating the arching entry are waterfalls of lava casting light and heat over an enormous cavern. In sharp contrast, veins of raw lyrium as big as Sten’s leg wrap over and around stone pillars, their blue light gleaming off the massive metal form standing in the center. It looks like a suit of armor standing on its own, but far larger than any armor Hera’s ever seen.
 
“Golems,” Oghren says in awe. “And all in one piece. When Branka sees this...”
 
“She can’t be far behind,” Hera reminds him. “She was tinkering with that locked door when we left.”
 
As they draw closer, they see more golems- these made of stone- standing guard on either side. They don’t move, so Hera assumes they either aren’t alive or need some kind of power source before they can wake up, so to speak.
 
The metal one in the center, however, creaks a little as it draws itself up to its full height, towering over even Sten. “My name is Caridin,” it says, its voice echoing off the shell and giving it a strange, tinny sound.
 
“

You’re

Caridin?” Hera asks, jaw dropping. “But- but you’re a golem!”
 
The golem nods. “Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar. If you seek the Anvil of the Void, then you must care about my story, or be doomed to repeat it.”
 
“Alive…” Oghren breathes. “He’s

alive.

”
 
Hera squeezes her eyes shut a moment, trying to process what she’s seeing. “What do you mean?” she asks. “You made the Anvil, didn’t you?”
 
Caridin nods again. “I rose to fame and earned my status based on the Anvil of the Void. It allowed me to forge a man of steel and stone, as flexible and clever as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible. But I told no one the cost.”

Forge a man… No, surely not.

Alistair beat her to the question, his voice hollow. “You don’t mean…?”
 
If a golem made of steel could look ashamed, Caridin managed it. “No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my golems live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere.”
 
Wynne gasps, covering her mouth. “Blessed Andraste, what a dire shortcut.”
 
“Was it worth it?” Sten asks. Hera looks over to him, eyes widening slightly at the hunger in his voice.

He’s taking it all in,

she reminds herself,

reporting back to his leader. Would knowledge like this become part of the Qun?

“So said my king,” Caridin answers. “I had only intended to use volunteers, but he was not satisfied…” Caridin turns and looks out over the cavern and his voice becomes heavy with grief. “Soon a river of blood flowed out of this place. Finally it was too much,” he says, turning back to them. “I refused. And so King Valtor had me put on the Anvil.”
 
“And you became this,” Wynne whispered. “Maker bless you, Caridin.”
 
“What now?” Hera asks. “Are you seeking revenge against the dwarves?”
 
Caridin shakes his head. “No revenge. The blow of the hammer opened my eyes. My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind. Without the ability to control the golems, they were unable to continue building their army, so they left, sealing us in. We,” he says, lifting his arms to gesture to the golems along either side of him, “have remained entombed here ever since, and I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil.”
 
“So why haven’t you?” Alistair asks. Hera can hear the anger burning in his words. “If you felt so bad about destroying people’s lives to build your golems, why haven’t you destroyed it yet?”
 
“Alas, I cannot do it myself,” Caridin explains sadly. “No golem can touch the Anvil. But you…”
 
Hera’s gaze moves to the Anvil, set atop a high flight of stairs. “So many lives were lost, and so needlessly-”
 
“

Not

needlessly,” Oghren snaps. “People were dying, it was a war. Dwarves have been fighting the darkspawn a lot longer than you surfacers.” The bitterness in his voice gives his words a sharp edge and Hera winces, knowing she’s been fighting the darkspawn less than even the surface dwellers of Thedas.”
 
“But the cost was too high,” Caridin said. “It was not volunteers and criminals in the end. It was men taken from their homes. Nug wranglers and scribes, who didn’t know what it was to be a soldier. You’re a soldier, I can see that,” he tells Oghren. “Would you force your own people into such a horror?”

How different is it from commanding an army of the dead?

Hera asks herself, watching Oghren’s expression change from bitter to pensive.

The legions of Ravenloft lie resting only because they have not been called to rise again- but Strahd used them. And I have not released them into an eternal rest.

“No,” Oghren says finally. “No. The war is for those who know what they’re getting into.”
 
Hera looks down at her hand, where the queen’s ring rests, and thinks of what a ghoulish army she could unleash on the darkspawn.

Am I no better than a dwarven king who ordered innocents to the anvil? How long does a vow of service and loyalty last?

Hera takes a deep breath, preparing to ask Caridin the same question and hear herself called a monster. “Caridin, I-”
 
“

No!”

They hear Branka before they see her come around the corner. Hera had no idea how she got through the stone wall that sealed them into the cave with the Spirit Apparatus, but her flushed face and panting breath tell Hera it wasn’t easy. 
 
“The Anvil is mine!” she shouts, running into the cavern and skidding to a stop several yards away from Caridin. “No one will take it from me!”
 
“Now, wait a moment,” Alistair says, holding his hands up for peace. “We can-”
 
“You!” Caridin raised a hand to Hera in helplessness. “Please, help me destroy the Anvil. Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!”
 
“But we need a Paragon’s endorsement,” Alistair says. “Unless

you’re

willing to support a new king?” His eyebrows raise with his question. “I suspect

Caridin’s

support would lend more weight to a candidate’s claim than Branka’s.”

Good,

Hera thinks, watching the idea play across Alistair’s face. He’s careful not to let his desperation for support show, but Hera has watched him long enough to see the gears in his mind turning.

Now he’s thinking like a king.

“Don’t listen to him!” Branka argues, striding forward and grabbing Hera by the arm. “He’s been trapped here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness. Help

me

claim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you’ve never seen!”
 
“Somehow I doubt that,” Hera says, jerking her arm away.
 
With a growl, Oghren pushes his way between the two women. “Branka, you mad, bleeding nug-tail,” he snaps. “Does this thing mean so much to you that you can’t see what you’ve lost?” he demands. “Our whole house is

gone

. Because they followed

you

!”
 
Branka sneers, turning her nose up at him. “Look around,” she says bitterly, “is this what our empire should be? A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory!”
 
Madness gleams in Branka’s eyes, and Hera knows Oghren can see it as well when he steps back, shaking his head. “You want too much,” he mutters. 
 
“The Anvil enslaves living souls,” Hera says. “I’m sorry Branka, but it must be destroyed.”
 
“Thank you, stranger,” Caridin says behind her. “Your compassion shames me.”

This, too, is a lesson to take home. I would make it right, given the time,

she thinks sadly.
 
“No…” Branka says in disbelief. She backs away in the face of the group obligated to end her quest. “You will not take it! Not while I still live!”
 
“Branka, don’t throw your life away for this!” Oghren argues. 
 
Hera puts a hand on his shoulder. “She’s not the Branka you knew, Oghren. But we

have

to destroy the Anvil.”
 
Oghren shakes her hand off and turns. “Just give her the blasted thing,” he tells Hera. “She’s confused. Maybe once she calms down we can talk to her.”
 
“She is obsessed,” Sten says firmly. “The Paragon is beyond redemption.”
 
Branka spits in their direction. “You aren’t the only master smith here, Caridin!” she says, reaching for a long, thin rod hanging off her belt. “Golems! Obey me!” she cries in triumph. “Attack!”
 
All around, the golems began to move, their stone and metal joints cracking and screaming with disuse; Caridin makes a sound that, if he were breathing, might have been a gasp. “A control rod! My friend, you must help me! I cannot stop her alone!”
 
Hera’s blades hiss as they come free of their sheaths; behind her, Wynne shouts a spell that makes flames swirl and dance along the steel. All around her, she hears battle cries and the roar of golems, but she keeps her eyes on Branka.
 
Branka beats her shield with her maul, mouth open in a shout barely heard over the clashing of stone and metal; as a result, Caridin freezes in place with a bellow of rage. At least two of the golems take a stand beside Caridin, lifting their fists to defend him.
 
“Wynne, stay back!” Alistair shouts over his shoulder as one of Branka’s golems stomps over. “I’ll cover you!”
 
Hera and Branka run toward one another, eyes locked, but Oghren steps in the way before they meet, his ax striking Branka’s shield with a mighty blow. Hera uses the opportunity to slip behind her, meaning to make use of the gaps in Branka’s armor. A sidelong blow from one of the golems catches her shoulder, knocking her to the floor as it sweeps massive fists for Oghren.

We’re all too tired,

Hera realizes, watching the sluggish way Sten swings his sword. Alistair’s shield droops, and even Wynne’s face is pale with exhaustion. Well-rested Branka and her golems will destroy them.

I can’t let that happen,

Hera thinks and gets to her feet, her knee brushing one of the raw lyrium crystals.
 
Lightning strikes, flooding her veins with life.
 
Hera leaps into the fray, her blades a blur as she strikes Branka’s golems so hard it sparks on the stone. “Alistair!” she shouts, driving a golem toward a ledge overlooking the pit of lava far below. 
 
“Kind of busy!” he shouts back, bashing his shield against a golem to force it back.
 
The golem Hera is driving back tips of the edge, plummeting to its end with a roar. Without stopping, she spins, attacking Alistair’s golem from behind. “The lyrium!” A bit of magic helps her voice carry across the battle. “Touch it!”
 
“Foolish girl!” A hand yanks Hera’s braid so hard she bends backward over a lifeless golem and Branka’s voice screeches in her ear. “I won’t let you win!”
 
Hot metal presses against Hera’s throat, breaking the tender skin, and she closes her eyes. Her death has trailed her like a shadow for two years, a constant companion.

Zeus...I’m sorry. Be a better ruler than I was.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Leliana puts her ear to the door, listening intently. “They’re talking about...trade rights?” she whispers. “I think that’s what it is.”
 
Morrigan leans against the wall beside her, arms crossed and tapping her elbows. “This won’t work,” she says. “They’ve decided that it’s time to crown a new king, the vote will happen whether they return or not.”
 
“Hush, Morrigan!” Leliana holds her breath, listening to a sudden silence. “Something’s happened.”
 
“Where

is

Zevran, by the way? Did you leave him tied to Hera’s bed this morning?”
 
Leliana whirls, her face red as beets. “What?”
 
A slow smile curls over Morrigan’s red lips, just as wicked as the glint in her eyes. “Don’t be coy now, Leliana,” she teases. “I know the two of you have been having your fun in our fair Wardens’ bed.”
 
The blush deepens in spite of the haughty sniff Leliana gives her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
 
“Don’t I? Seems obvious to me that-”
 
Morrigan’s cut off by the slamming of the door in the Assembly’s entryway. Zevran sways under the weight of a large tray in each hand, loaded with food and ale. “I come with nourishment!” The announcement is needless, but Leliana gives him a smile anyway.
 
“You expect us to be here quite some time,” Morrigan says, the corner of her lip curling. “Zevran, what

is

that?” she asks, pointing to a bowl of burnt brown lumps.
 
“Roasted...something,” he says, shrugging. “The man said it was a root, and I did not think you would enjoy a speared nug.”
 
Leliana gasps, her eyes welling up with tears. She had only seen a nug this morning, scampering across the marketplace; instantly, she fell in love with the adorable pink creatures. Morrigan takes up a tankard and hands it to her. “’Twould seem you made the right choice,” she tells Zevran.
 
Zevran gives Morrigan a smooth smile meant to melt her bones. “I usually do, lovely, lovely Morrigan,” he croons.
 
Leliana and Morrigan exchange a look before the same disgust appears on their faces. “You just can’t turn it off, can you?” Leliana grumbles.
 
Zevran plucks up a hot root, tossing it between his hands to cool. “I cannot,” he says without apology. “

You

have made what you want quite clear, my dear, and it is not exclusivity. Or have you changed your mind?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.
 
Leliana snorts.

That’s the last thing I want from him,

she thinks. “Hardly.”
 
Zevran chuckles, and they begin to eat in silence, listening to the rumble of noise in the Assembly beyond. The dwarves locked behind the door grow loud enough to be heard clearly sometimes as they argue, other times it’s hard to believe there’s anyone there.
 
It’s Leliana who finally speaks, picking at a small bread roll she’s almost certain has stone dust mixed into it. “I’ve been wondering,” she says slowly, glancing up at them.
"Do you think Hera is keeping things from us?"
 
'And 'tis her right to do so," Morrigan says quickly. "We are all keeping secrets."
 
"Except perhaps Alistair," Zevran chuckles. 
 
"What do you think it is?" Leliana asks, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Another lover, a marriage?” she suggests. “Or perhaps something more dangerous?”
 
Zevran makes a dismissive gesture, chewing thoughtfully. "Lovers she's had, there has been no secret of that. And I do not think marriage is to her taste, either; Alistair would find it difficult to rein her in with a ring."
 
"I would not have thought

Alistair

was to her taste, and yet here we are." Morrigan's nose wrinkles as she speaks, making Leliana giggle. “I must say I am supremely disappointed in her on that count.”
 
Leliana’s giggle turns into a snort of laughter. "You don't think maybe it has to do with her place at Ravenloft, do you? Perhaps she's closer to the queen than she lets on. Oh! Could

they

be lovers? What a story that would be! Caught between two crowns! Scandal

and

romance!”
 
"Perhaps she

is

the queen of Ravenloft," Zevran teases, building on Leliana’s idea. "Wouldn't that be grand? She has spent all this time sleeping rough and covered in blood and dirt, and all the while a throne awaits her? It is no wonder she was drawn to a bastard prince! Like draws to like."
 
“Don’t tease me, you ass.” Leliana's eyes narrow.

Could it be true? Is our Hera the Queen of Darkness? Has she come to Ferelden to save us from the Blight? It sounds a bit foolish and romantic, but… Maker’s breath, what a song that would make!

Zevran waves his hand lazily, spilling ale over the side of his tankard. "But I jest," he says, stretching his legs out in front of him. "For all her elegance and beauty, I truly believe that Hera is some Orlesian noble unfortunate enough to be trapped in Ferelden and talented enough to hide her accent."
 
"Really?" Leliana asks, frowning as Morrigan snickers. "That's what you

really

believe?"
 
“I would rejoice to learn that her story is as true as she claims,” Zevran explains. “But it is not practical. The story itself is outrageous.”
 
"For once I believe Zevran and I can agree: Hera is not a queen," Morrigan. "But not because of her tale of how she came to be here. She is too proud of being a courtesan- what woman would brag about selling her body and not wearing a crown?"
 
"Morrigan! You

like

Hera!" Leliana cries.
 
"Yes, I do," she says with a nod. "But she is a great mystery to us all, and unless I see this mirror of hers with my own eyes, I will continue to question."
 
"So you don't believe that Ravenloft exists?" Zevran asks, bright-eyed and curious. "At

all

?"
 
"Do you?" Morrigan asks, raising an eyebrow. "I see a depth of cruelty in her, even if she hides it. Darkness like that is not easily come to, and a world of monsters and living dead is just the sort of place to create a woman like Hera."

***

It ends abruptly, Branka’s head exploding in a spray of bone and blood, her fingers wrenching her head farther back before releasing her. Gasping, Hera bats away the hand holding the knife and slides to the stone floor, looking around. She’s covered in blood, the heat and scent of it making her want to lick it off her fingers.
 
The golems fighting her friends freeze in place, the control rod now controlled by no one. The silence is so sudden Hera’s not sure that she hasn’t lost her hearing somehow and has to rub her ears until Alistair’s strained and cracked voice breaks through.
 
“Is everyone all right?”
 
Sten and Wynne respond with tired mutters, lowering their weapons and sitting heavily on whatever bit of stone is nearest them. Hera nods to Alistair, but his eyes are wide and focused beyond her. Rising up on her knees, she looks over her shoulder.
 
Breathing heavily, Oghren still holds Branka’s maul, staring in wide-eyed horror at the body of his wife. He looks as if he’s just walked in to find her this way, and not like he did it himself seconds ago.
 
“Oghren?” Hera whispers.
 
“Yeah, Princess?” he says, just as softly. His eyes are still focused on Branka, and the skin beneath his beard turns gray.
 
“Oghren, look at me,” she says.
 
He tries to obey, tearing his gaze away from Branka and blinking rapidly until his eyes find Hera. They stare at one another for a long, quiet moment.

Thank you,

she wants to tell him, but the words dry on her tongue.

That can wait until I’m not covered in her brains, I’m sure.

Then he clears his throat and sets his jaw, giving her a squinty look. “You know, covered in blood, you’re even uglier than before.”
 
Her response is interrupted by a stone-crunching sound, followed by a sigh of relief as Caridin regains mobility. Everyone watches silently as the Paragon lumbers over to look down at the body of one of Orzammar’s brightest.
 
“Another life lost because of my invention,” he says sadly. “I wish no mention of it had made it into history.”
 
“Yeah, you ain’t kidding,” Oghren mutters. “Stupid woman! Always knew the Anvil would kill her.”
 
Caridin turns to Hera. “But at least it ends here,” he says, his voice almost light with relief. “I thank you for standing with me, stranger. The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it.”
 
Hera’s eyes follow his pointing hand to a wide set of stairs flanked by tall pillars. Huge lyrium crystals wrap around them, curling over the top of the stairs like rivers of light. At the top stands the Anvil, sitting on a dais. Even from a distance she can see the lyrium pulsing inside it, feel power rippling off it. 
 
“Is there any boon I can grant you for your aid?” Caridin asks. “A final favor before I am freed from my burden?”
 
Dripping with blood and bone, stinking from three days of battling for every mile of the Deep Roads, Hera lifts her chin and addresses him with respect. This is why she’s here, after all. “I need a Paragon’s support to settle the election,” she tells him. “We came for Branka’s help, but

your

support would be far more influential.”
 
Caridin inclines his head, his understanding of dwarven politics not dulled in the slightest. “For the aid you have given me, I shall put hammer to steel one last time and give you a crown for the king of your choice.”
 
“Thank you, Caridin,” Wynne says. “And for this, I will ensure the Circle of Magi knows the dangers of golems. Your words here will not fall to deaf ears.”
 
They all sit on a long fallen pillar while Caridin goes to the Anvil. His skill is a thing of wonder; the speed and confidence with which he works the metal is like a dance, and it isn’t long before he sets his hammer down, staring at the crown on the Anvil.
 
“Go,” Alistair whispers, nudging her.
 
Hera moves slowly up the stairs, feeling in her bones that when she reaches the top, this world will change forever. All around her, the lyrium’s song dances along her skin. Caridin hands her the crown, pointing to his maker’s stamp.

A crown made by a long-lost paragon,

she thinks, measuring the weight of it in her hands.

This will put an end to their squabbling.

“There,” he says with finality. “It is done. Give it to whom you will.”
 
“Thank you, Caridin.” Hera places the crown on the step and rolls her shoulders. “I will destroy the Anvil, as promised.”
 
He nods, making Hera wonder if he could smile inside his metal shell. “That would please me, night-child.”

Night-child?

She stares up at him with wide eyes. “You know me,” she says softly, “for what I am.”  
 
Caridin shakes his head, keeping his voice low. “Not entirely, but enough.”
 
Hera’s lips turn up in a small smile.

The wonders of Thedas never cease, it seems.

The hammer that Caridin had used to forge the crown had looked small in his hands; in her own, it was a heavy sledgehammer- but still not powerful enough to destroy even a normal anvil, let alone the Anvil of the Void.

It’s going to take a lot of power to do this in one strike,

she tells herself.

I don’t think my dhampir strength can do it alone.

Magic thrums through her, lighting her every nerve on fire before settling with a pleasant warmth in her shoulders and arms. With a deep breath, Hera lifts the hammer over her shoulder, putting magic and strength into the blow. The explosion of light blinds her, forcing her to close her eyes and turn her head away as the lyrium coursing through the Anvil explodes, shaking the stone and steel until it falls into impossibly small bits of rubble.
 
Caridin comes to stand beside her as the dust clears; Hera assumes it is to be certain that it is destroyed. But he doesn’t spare more than a glance for her before he lifts his head, straightens his shoulders, and walks to the cavern’s edge, staring at the river of lava below.
 
“You have my eternal thanks, stranger,” he says. “Atrast nal tunsha...may you always find your way in the dark.” Before she can reply, he pitches forward.
 
“Wait-!” she cries, reaching for him. It’s too late, however, and she’s left watching as he plummets to his death in the glowing lava below. “Caridin!”
 
Sten is beside her in a moment, putting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Do not spoil his end,” he tells her firmly. “He wanted this, kadan. It is not for you to grieve for it.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hera, are you

sure

you don’t want to eat something first?” Leliana asks, trailing behind her. “I mean, covered in blood and gore carrying a crown made by a legendary paragon is a great entrance for kingmaking, but-”
 
Hera laughs, hurrying down the corridor. “It

was

quite an entrance, wasn’t it?”
 
“It was

perfect

,” Leliana agrees. “But-”
 
“Lord-

King

Harrowmont will be giving a feast later,” Hera reminds her. “I don’t think I can make the same entrance twice, do you? Besides, even Ares needs a bath,” she adds, patting the mabari’s head. “It’s a good thing your hair is short, boy, or else it would be awfully matted.”
 
“My bathtub is bigger!” Leliana desperately throws herself in front of Hera’s door. “I had a look around the rooms while you were gone,” she says shamefully, her face growing red. “It’s perfect for a long soak.”
 
“Leliana, Alistair’s already agreed to use one of the spare rooms so we can both bathe. Please just let me pass.” When she doesn’t move, Hera lifts her eyebrows at her friend. “Leliana...is there a reason I can’t go into my own room?”
 
Leliana blushes deeper and bites her lip but holds her gaze. “Yes.”

Oh, dear.

Hera can read it all over her face.

She’s had someone in there.

Fighting against a rising tide of giggles, Hera does her best to scowl at Leliana. “I see. Who was it?”
 
Leliana’s blush drains away, leaving her nearly gray. “Damn him,” she mutters.
 
“

Him?

Leliana, I didn’t think you cared for men. Was there a dwarf involved?” Hera can’t keep the smallest of giggles from bubbling up, and quickly lifts a hand before Leliana can answer. “Don’t tell me. Sometimes not knowing is funnier. Is the bathing room fine?”
 
Leliana’s brows draw together in confusion. “Yes…”
 
Another slip, another titter of laughter spilling into the corridor. “In that case, I will close my eyes and let you lead me to it. I can soak in a bath while you clean up after your…” She bites back a broad grin. “Amusement. And then you can come tell me about it while we bathe Ares.”
 
Leliana eyes her suspiciously. “No teasing? No scolding for having sex in your room?”
 
This time Hera

does

laugh until tears streak down her cheeks. “Leliana, I’m a prostitute! Why should I shame or scold a grown woman for exploring desires? Come, let’s get me to a bath, and then we’ll talk.” Her smile becomes suddenly sharp and her eyes gleam. “Or I can ask Morrigan. I’m sure she’ll-”
 
“No, no,” Leliana laughs. “I’d rather tell you myself.”

***

Alistair falls into the bed, grunting softly. “We’re done kingmaking, right?” he says, covering his eyes with his arm. “We can leave and not have to meddle with dwarf politics anymore?”
 
With an answering huff, Ares settles onto a large cushion in the corner, seemingly as tired as Alistair.
 
“Mm-hmm,” Hera murmurs, letting her dress fall to the floor with a thud. It’s a strangely beautiful thing made by a brilliant dwarven seamstress, the bodice off the shoulder and snug through the body, stiff with gems and bronze-painted leather adding structure and cinching in the waist. The skirt was long and bronze, hugging every curve she had. Alistair had spent all night watching the way it had clung to her, dreaming of when they could finally be alone.
 
Alistair had fared almost as well with his finery, clever tailoring and coordinating fabric inserts lengthened the doublet, allowing for his size. It was, thankfully, less heavy than her clothes, and he’d shed it quickly to lie naked in the bed.
 
“Maker’s breath.” He sighs, eyes roving over her as the golden lamplight turns her shift nearly transparent. Even with the pallor of the Deep Roads making her pale skin look sickly and not ethereal, she’s beautiful. She’ll probably be beautiful when the Calling overtakes her and she has to return to the Deep Roads. A strange, horrific beauty— no one makes it to their Calling without the taint ravaging them first— but he’s certain that

she

will find a way to be stunning anyway. He shifts his gaze to her hips, remembering how he’d once had to imagine how perfectly her backside would fit in his hands. 
 
Sadly, none of her tricks and illusions could hide how her generous, luscious curves have begun to dwindle over the months. She’s still dangerously beautiful and soft, but he couldn’t help but notice how she had only picked at her dinner. How her ribs are more visible than before.
 
“Alistair?” she murmurs, looking at him over her shoulder and toying with the tie on her shift. “You’re staring.”
 
“You give me plenty to appreciate,” he says with a slow grin. Then her shift falls to the floor and his mouth goes dry.

Andraste’s ass, she hasn’t worn any smalls all night

. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he croaks as his need for her increases.

I don’t think there will ever be a time when I don’t want her.

Hera gives him that small, satisfied smirk that always makes his guts knot and reaches up slowly to unpin her hair, letting it fall in a tumult of wavy black silk. “Yes, I do,” she tells him. “Thank you for noticing.”
 
He laughs, moving to his knees and holding his hand out to her. “Come here, wench,” he commands, his voice husky with rising desire. After what felt like an eternity in the deep roads, unable to have more than a stolen kiss in a shadow, his body aches for her.
 
She raises her eyebrow at him, laughing low in her throat. “As my king desires,” she murmurs, sliding into his arms. With a growl, he flips her onto her back, grinding against her hips as his lips explore her throat. He’s just about to take his expedition lower when she freezes beneath him; across the rooms, Ares raises his head and growls.
 
“Raven?” he asks, lifting his head. “What’s wrong?”
 
Her wide eyes meet his the same moment there’s a faint sound in the hallway, like flesh on stone. “I smell blood,” she whispers. “Lots of it.”
 
Another sound, this time followed by a single, trembling whisper.

“Amora.”

Dread drops into Hera’s stomach when she hears him. “Zevran,” she says, slipping from under Alistair and racing for the door. Ares jumps to his feet and follows at her heels, barking at her sudden distress. She throws it open, not caring that they’re both naked and flushed with desire. “What’s wrong?”
 
Zevran kneels on the floor, holding his side and covered in blood, his face ashen. In spite of this, he manages to give her an appreciative smile. “I should be attacked more often,” he gasps, his face contorting in pain.
 
Hera scoops him up, carrying him into the room and closing the door with her foot. “Alistair, get some of the health potions!”
 
Alistair’s already moving, a sheet wrapped around his waist as he clears off the table to let her stretch their friend out upon it. “Unbuckle his armor,” he tells her quickly, uncorking one potion with his teeth and shoving the bottle at Zevran’s face. “We’ll pour the other directly on the wound.

Back

, Ares,” he adds, pushing against the dog as he tries to nose his way in to help.
 
“What happened?” Hera asks as she strips him, hoping the wound isn’t as bad as Zevran looks. His golden skin is gray and he groans when she pulls his blood-sticky armor away from his torso.

Damn me to seven hells,

she thinks, her hands slick as she tries to put pressure on the wound. “Ares, will you stop barking? I can’t hear him and you too!”
 
“Crows,” he grunts out, visibly trying not to squirm. “Dwarven Crows. Funny, I didn’t know there

were

any dwarves in the order.”
 
“Hold still,” she says, her voice thick with tears. Alistair hands her a damp cloth, and she gently wipes the blood away from his side. The flesh falls open under her hands, deep and bleeding heavily. “Oh Zev, why didn’t you come for help?”
 
“I’m here now,” he jokes through gritted teeth.
 
“If you weren’t bleeding I’d hit you. Alistair, will-”
 
“On it,” he says, shooting her a smile and heading for the door. “Let’s hope Wynne doesn’t sleep naked, too. Ares, with me.”
 
Zevran yelps out a laugh. “Alistair my friend,” he wheezes, “you were not sleeping.”
 
“No, we weren’t,” Hera agrees and bites her lip.

I’d heal him if I thought he could keep quiet about it.

“Zevran, I-”
 
“It is no matter,” he says, patting her hand limply. He winces, the breath leaving him in a hiss.
 
“Alright,” Hera murmurs, brushing his hair back. “Don’t talk any more till Wynne sees you.”
 
As if on cue, the door opens and Wynne greets them with an exasperated huff. “Must you always be naked?” she asks, clutching a borrowed dressing gown at the neck and edging Hera aside. “I swear I’ve never seen so much flesh before traveling with you.”
 
“Is this really the moment to discuss the Grey Warden dress code?” 
 
“You should put

something

on,” Wynne chides, picking up the bloody cloth and wiping at the gash in Zevran’s side.
 
“Where is the fun in that, Wynne?” Zevran asks. “Her lovely breasts are taking my mind off my pain.”
 
“Hush you,” she commands, swatting his leg gently. “You’ve woken me up from a well-deserved rest.”
 
His chuckle turns into a groan as Wynne’s hands press against his wound. Hera turns away to wash her hands and runs right into Alistair, his arms holding a sheet open for her. “He’ll be fine, Raven,” he murmurs, wrapping the soft linen around her. “Wynne always takes care of us.”
 
“I’m just…” Hera sighs.

I’m tired, I have calluses and broken nails, I’m sick of sleeping in a bed not stuffed with the feathers of aasimar. I can’t eat and I’m losing weight. I want silk sheets, perfumed soap, and wine so heady the scent makes the world spin. I want to go home and spend a thousand years being worshipped. I’m so tired of seeing my friends’ blood pouring out of them and being helpless to heal them.

And I need to feed on someone. It’s been too long.

“Raven?” he asks, tipping her chin up. The worried look in his hazel eyes melts the knot forming between her shoulders, letting them relax. 
 
“I’m just annoyed,” she tells him. “Zevran has horrible timing.”
 
“Judging by the state of dress I was greeted with, I have

perfect

timing.” When Hera turns, Zevran is sitting up, still pale and trembling a little, but otherwise whole. “Thank you, Wynne,” he says, grabbing her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Your touch is as soothing as ever.”
 
A faint pink stains the older woman’s cheeks as she slaps his hands away and mutters something about returning to her bed. “And

you

make sure you get some rest,” she adds over her shoulder as she leaves. “Goodnight.”
 
“Goodnight, Wynne,” Hera says before turning back to Zevran. “Well? Crows, you said?”
 
Zevran nods. “

Amora,

I left one alive,” he adds. “Would you like to see him?”
 
“Yes!” she says quickly. 
 
“I think I’ll stay here,” Alistair says, yawning. “Get some of that sleep Wynne mentioned.”
 
Hera follows him to the bed so she can lean over and plant a loud, smacking kiss on his mouth. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she whispers, tugging gently on the sheet wrapped around his middle. “I’ll be back soon. Ares, stay here.”
 
Alistair gives her a smug grin and flops back onto the mattress, his limbs falling into the perfect arrangement of seduction and exhaustion. “I’ll try to stay awake.”
 
Barefoot, Hera follows Zevran, adjusting and rewrapping the sheet around her as they walk until it drapes around her like an ancient gown. Where it a finer fabric, she would almost look like a noble lady taking an evening stroll.
 
“Where did you leave him, Zevran?” she asks. 
 
“There’s a storage room off the next hallway,” he explains, turning left and going deeper into the house. Most of Harrowmont’s household had moved to the Palace immediately following the scene in the Assembly, leaving only a small crew to care for the Grey Wardens and their companions. Hera had appreciated the privacy when they returned from the new king’s feast, but now she was even happier about it as they hurried through empty halls. 
 
Zevran stops at a small door, nearly hidden in the carving of the wall, and opens it to reveal a few dusty shelves with boxes and oilcloth-wrapped packages.
 
And one very wide-eyed dwarf tied hand to foot and gagged, sitting in front of a bloody pile of his dead companions. The scent of so much blood makes her mouth water.
 
“Crows, are you?” she murmurs, squatting in front of him, doing her best to ignore the blood soaking the sheet pooling at her bare feet. “Rather small birds, aren’t you?”
 
“Dwarves are uncommon in the Order,

amora

,” Zevran says, casually leaning against a shelf. “But this one says his name is Govran. I think it’s common knowledge that my attempt to kill you was not successful, yes?”
 
The dwarf glares daggers at Zevran, so Hera pulls the gag away. “You always were a piece of shit, knife-ear,” he snaps. “Your reputation outruns you.”
 
“Now Govran, that’s just rude.” Zevran clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “And in front of a lady, too.”
 
“She’s just a Grey Warden whore,” Govran adds, spitting in Hera’s face. “Oughta be used to it.”
 
She flinches and reaches up to wipe away the spittle. “Zevran, go to bed,” Hera says calmly, her eyes sparking as she meets Govran’s ugly stare. “Leave me one of your knives, please; we’ll take care of this mess tomorrow.”
 
Zevran pulls a blade and lays it beside her feet. “As you say, my Warden. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to know you, Govran, but...well, you know the truth.”
 
Hera waits until the door is closed behind Zevran before moving so much as an eyelash. “You’ve made a horrible mistake,” she whispers to Govran, running the back of her hand over his rough, bearded cheek. His beard is cut close to his jaw and allows her clear access to his throat. The beast inside her, the one that yearns for blood, purrs and curls in her belly at the sight and scent of so much blood. “Considerate of you to keep your beard short,” she murmurs.
 
She feels the tremor move through him even as he clenches his jaw and tries to wrest himself out of reach. “Don’t touch me, bitch. The Crows aren’t done with you yet.”
 
“I imagine you’re right, Govran,” she says. Thirst burns in the back of her throat, her constant companions these long months. Leaning forward, she eyes the pulse beating rapidly at his throat.

It’s been so long, and I am

so

thirsty…

“Govran,” she says huskily, lashes fluttering with a desire so intense she can barely restrain herself. “Have you ever been so hungry you couldn’t bear another moment?”
 
Unlike her brother, Hera has no fangs, but it has never impeded her before. With a flick of her wrist, the ropes binding the dwarf snap. He moves as if to escape, but Hera’s speed allows her to catch him by the shirtfront, lifting him to rest against the wall as she stands.
 
“W-What

are

you?” he chokes, legs flailing as he grabs her arm in fear.
 
Govran’s small, piggy eyes are wide with fear- as wide as they can get, at any rate. Power vibrates through her, crafting the illusion of a sparkling black gown, gem-like eyes heavy with kohl and hard as stone, a silver crown nestled among curls. 
 
“It’s been a long,

long

time since I’ve felt like myself,” the Queen of Darkness whispers. Zevran’s knife appears in her hand, pressed against his throat. “And you’re going to help me with that, Govran.”
 
“N-No.” He trips over the word, making her smile deepen. “P-P-Please.”
 
She laughs, a low sound devoid of joy and full of danger, and her hand moves.
 
It begins with a single drop; a bead of scarlet building on the ruddy flesh before breaking free and sliding down to stain his collar. Hera makes another cut, wider and deeper than the first, before leaning close and covering it with her mouth.
 
Blood fills her mouth, hot and flavorful. She moans in pleasure, dropping the knife and drawing his struggling body into a lover’s embrace. Heat floods her body alongside her magic, building in her core before exploding through her veins. His blood is heat and metal, stone and mushroom, filled with the memories of a dirty, dangerous childhood before being plucked from the masses and handed a crossbow and a mask.
 
He moans, hands roaming her body as the bite arouses and calms the fight in him. Her own flesh responds, aching for more than a dying man’s last hardness. Every inch of her throbs in time with his heartbeat. 
 
Hera sinks to the floor, arms locked around Govran as he goes slowly still. When his heart begins to slow, skipping beats and stumbling toward death, she lifts her head and looks at him. Govran stares at the ceiling blindly, his breath rattles in his chest and his mouth works to form words. Silently, Hera picks up the knife and cuts her fingertip, smearing the blood over the wounds in his neck and watching as they knit together perfectly. With a deft twist, she snaps his neck and lets him fall on top of the other bodies.
 
She has to stop herself from purring as she rises to her feet. “Thank you, Govran,” she says simply, her thumb wiping her bottom lip. The black gown melts back into a blood-stained sheet and the crown disappears, but her eyes keep their hardness. “That was delightful.”
 
Hera opens the door with a lazy wave of her hand and steps into the hallway. Magic hums along her skin. She lets it free, letting it dance through the air and reveling in the joy of the power she’s worked so hard to keep secret. A snap of her fingers and the dark blood staining the sheet she wears disappears. 
 
Reinvigorated down to her core, Hera’s senses stretch and expand, allowing her to count every beating heart in the house, smell the bread dough resting in the kitchen, hear the crackle of a fire. With the smug satisfaction of a cat having eaten a mouse, she scoops up the trailing end of the sheet and makes her way back to her room.

I’ll never sleep with all this energy,

she thinks.

Perhaps Alistair will help me alleviate some of it.

With a lighthearted laugh, she hurries down the corridor, leaving bloody footsteps in her wake.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Three days later, Hera feels as if she’s hanging on the horns of a bull as King Harrowmont glares down at her. “I

am

sorry, your majesty,” Hera says with a shrug, looking up at Harrowmont with the most sincere expression she can work up. “What could I do? They attacked one of my people- nearly killed him, in fact. And being dwarves, I didn’t think disposing of their bodies would go over well.”
 
Harrowmont pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “So shoving them into a storage room so that a poor maid can stumble on them while looking for sheets seemed like a good idea?”
 
Hera can hear smothered giggles behind her and tries not to roll her eyes. “It was late, my lord, and there was no contacting you after the feast. I simply dragged them into the first empty room I found. I could have tossed them over the railings and into the lava pit below…”
 
The new king already has deeper grooves around his mouth than the day before, turning his look of disapproval into a well-weather glare. “That would also have been unacceptable,” he admits with a sigh. “Very well.

Apologize

to the girl at least, won’t you?”
 
Smiling at her small triumph- murdering a bunch of dwarves in their own stronghold could very easily have landed them all in some tiny, dark cell for all their days- she gives Harrowmont a low bow. The poor maid who had discovered the deed the morning after had fainted and woke up screaming about the ancestors’ wrath some time later. It had been chaos until the screams reached Hera’s room.

I can manage an apology,

she thinks. “Of course, your majesty.”
 
“Then you are free to go, assuming there is nothing else you need from me for the time being?”
 
“Only to have your troops ready to depart for the surface as soon as possible, your majesty,” she reminds him. 
 
“Yes, of course,” he says and waves her off. “My army will be in Redcliffe as soon as possible. I will send a representative to the Arl in a few days.”
 
“Thank you, King Harrowmont,” Alistair says, bowing. “Ferelden will not forget this.”
 
“See that the Grey Wardens do not, either,” the king replies, raising an eyebrow. “We deal with darkspawn on a frequent basis; their assistance would be appreciated.”
 
Alistair nods, his jaw tightening.

There will have to be a new Warden-Commander in Ferelden before anything can be done,

Hera thinks as they take their leave of the king.

But Alistair will not forget.

Outside the palace they run into Oghren, dressed in shining armor, so new the polish still bears a workman’s fingerprints. “Oghren, look at you!” Hera says, clasping his wrist in greeting. “That armor suits you.”
 
He blushes, turning almost the same shade of red as his beard. “Being friends with a Warden has perks, even if she

is

uglier than a bronto’s ass,” he chuckles. 
 
“

What

?” Zevran snaps, narrowing his eyes at Oghren. “

Amora

, who is this?”
 
“Calm down, Zevran,” Wynne says, patting his shoulder. “This is Oghren, remember?”
 
Hera laughs at the scrutinizing look Zevran gives the dwarf. “Well, he

has

been bathed,” she teases. “You don’t look packed, Oghren,” she adds, raising her eyebrows. “Are you staying, then?”
 
During the feast the night before, Hera had offered him a place in their party- a chance to redeem himself by fighting the Blight. But the way he shuffles his feet and looks away tells her that he’s made a decision already.
 
“I...ah. Well, Warden, it’s like this,” he grumbles, finally convincing himself to look up at her. “Finding long-lost thaigs and raising the Ortans to nobility and all… Well, it means you get a second chance.”
 
“You mean Harrowmont’s letting you back into the army?” Alistair asks, jaw dropping.
 
“Yeah, he is,” Oghren says proudly, drawing himself to his full height. “I’m gonna lead the first wave headed to Redcliffe.”
 
“Oghren, that’s wonderful,” Wynne says happily, clasping her hands together.
 
“You have proven yourself worthy,” Sten says, nodding. “It is good you will join us again soon.”
 
Oghren returns his nod before looking up at Hera. “Uh, can I have a minute, Warden?”
 
“Sure,” she says, looking at her friends. “I’ll meet you at the manor.”
 
“That was decent of you, Warden,” he says when they’re alone, “letting me be the one to take those scrolls the Shaper.”
 
“You’re welcome, Oghren,” she says, strolling to lean on the railing and look down on the market. “I owe you a lot more than a little glory for saving my life.”
 
He chuckles, resting his arms on the rail beside her. “It ain’t a

little

glory,” he says gruffly. “And...I thank you, Warden.”
 
Smiling, Hera leans toward him and drops a kiss on the top of his head. “We’ll see you soon, Oghren.”
 
***

“I’m glad it’s starting to grow warmer,” Leliana says, taking a deep breath of fresh air. Their time in Orzammar had led to a subtle shift of the seasons; spring was beginning to shoulder its way into the mountains with a clear day and the slow drip of melting snow.
 
“Perhaps ‘twill actually

be

warm when we reach Redcliffe,” Morrigan grumbles, burying her nose deep into her scarf. 
 
“You are certain you sent the message?” Sten asks Hera as they make their way toward the enormous doors of Orzammar. “The dwarf in Redcliffe will have received it, yes?”
 
“He’ll get it before we get there,” Hera repeats. “Lord Harrowmont sent both messages before we went into the Deep Roads, Sten. I’m sure Arl Eamon will take care of it for you.”
 
“Perhaps dear Dagna will hear from the Circle before the army leaves,” Wynne says hopefully. “I should like her to travel with an escort.”
 
Leliana nods. “I spoke with her this morning. She intends to come to Redcliffe with the army and travel to the Circle across the lake.”
 
“See Sten?” Alistair laughs. “Everything is taken care of,

and

the first thaw of spring.”
 
Sten’s face settles into his typical stoic expression, but Hera detects a bit of a spring in his steps.

That sword is pretty special to him,

she thinks with a small smile.

I wonder if it will make it easier for him to feel redeemed? I’ll have to ask later.

“What’s this?” Zevran asks, breaking into her thoughts. They had just passed out of Orzammar’s surface market and were making their way for the main road when an arrow sunk into a tree near Leliana.
 
“Bandits!” Wynne cries.
 
Hera pulls her bow off her back, letting Sten, Zevran, and Alistair rush ahead into a waiting group of bandits. Searching the trees, she picks off a few foolish enough to show themselves before a man in full steel armor lunges at Leliana.
 
“The red-headed one!” he shouts, raising his sword.
 
Morrigan grabs for Leliana, managing only a handful of red hair and yanking her back as quickly as possible. Leliana falls onto her back with a scream, but it opens the space enough for Hera to leap in and put an elbow into the face of the soldier. The man reels back, cursing and dropping his sword.
 
“Not bandits!” she shouts over the din. “Ares, to Leliana! Get her out of the way!”

Ares leaps to obey, releasing a man’s leg to run over to Leliana. Grabbing her armor in his mouth, he drags her away and stands guard, head low and teeth bared, while she gets to her feet.
 
“Wait! Wait don’t kill me!” A man’s voice begs. “I give up!”
 
The ambush comes to an abrupt end as the last three attackers hit their knees and throw up their hands. Lowering her bow, Hera glances around at her friends before nodding for them to back away.
 
“Who are you?” she asks the one who’d spoken. He’s lying on his belly, head covered with his hands and praying softly. “And why shouldn’t we kill you all?”
 
“These are no common bandits,” Leliana says. Her usual bright and cheerful demeanor is gone, hidden behind frosty blue eyes and a voice so cold it burns to hear. “None of them. Their weapons are well made and they’re well-trained.” She squats in front of the man and jerks his helmet off so she can lift his head by the hair. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” she asks. A dagger appears in her hand so quickly it’s almost magic, the point of the blade resting under the tip of his chin. “Who are you?”
 
“My n-name’s E-E-Egbert,” he stammers. “And I’m s-someone who regrets taking you on. Was told it would be an easy job. Kill the little red-haired girl, deal with the others as we pleased.”
 
“You came to kill me?” she asks, scowling. When he doesn’t answer quickly enough, she jerks his head higher. “Say it.”
 
“Who would want to kill Leliana?” Alistair asks.
 
Leliana stands and takes a step back; Egbert coughs and lifts his hands, struggling to his knees now that his neck isn’t directly on the proverbial block. “It don’t pay to ask someone why they want someone else dead,” he explains quickly. “I just need to know what to do, and where to get my money.” He spits as if the word leaves a foul taste in his mouth. “Ha!

Money.

I’ll be lucky to get away with my life, it seems. Maybe we could work something out?” he suggests hopefully.
 
“Speak quickly,” Leliana orders. 
 
Behind her, Zevran twirls his dagger in his hands and looks menacingly at the other two, but they stay on their knees and cower under Morrigan’s glare.
 
“I’ve no real quarrel with you,” the would-be assassin explains. “Me or my men. Wasn’t me that wanted you dead, but I know how you can find out who does.”
 
“Your life for information, then?” Hera suggests. When Leliana nods slightly, the rest of the party sheath their weapons, taking their cue from her.
 
“I have some directions written down on how to get to the house,” he says, digging into a pouch on his side. “It’s in Denerim. Here,” he says, offering it to Leliana. “It’s the best I can do.”
 
Leliana takes the slip of paper and pockets it without looking at it. “Leave,” she says coldly. “I never want to see you again.”
 
“Yes ma’am,” Egbert says, and gestures for his two remaining comrades. “All right, men, let’s go. Maybe the market will have something to soothe our aches. Don’t worry, miss, we’ll trouble you no more.”
 
As they go, Leliana grabs Hera’s arm and drags her out of earshot. “It has to be Marjolaine,” she whispers. “It

has

to be.”
 
“But why now?” Hera asks in the same hushed voice. 
 
“Maybe someone saw me,” Leliana suggests. “Maybe she’s had me watched and now she wants to finish what she started.”
 
“Leliana, we won’t let anything happen to you,” Hera assures her friend.
 
Leliana nods, but her anxious expression doesn’t soften. “She needs to answer for what she’s done to me,” she decides. “If we go back to Denerim, I would like to seek her out.”
 
“Of course,” Hera says. “Arl Eamon wants Alistair at the Landsmeet, we’ll be going there soon, I imagine.”
 
The tension leaves Leliana’s shoulders and she takes a deep, relaxing breath. “It’s time to settle this score for good. I deserve to leave her- and that old life- behind.”
 
Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Hera leads her back to the group. “Everyone deserves second chances, Leliana.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The slow thaw of snow turns the roads into a sticky, muddy mess and makes the roads more difficult to travel. Forced to stop early and scrape the mud off themselves, Hera and Zevran make dinner, bickering about spices and how many wild leeks to use while Alistair rubs beeswax over the leather bits of his gear to help waterproof it. “Zevran, I’ve made this before!” Hera says, exasperation making her voice pitch. “ I taught you how to make it!”

“ Amora, ” Zevran says calmly, “you are lovely, and have a great many talents of which I am constantly in awe. But- I love you, you know that, yes?- your soup is terrible. I have improved it. Let me show you.” Alistair laughs at her comically outraged shriek that sends her voice into such a high pitch that he can hardly understand what she’s saying. They’ve only been out of Orzammar a day, and already she looks better; there’s a rosy tint to cheeks that had been sallow and sickly when they emerged from the Deep Roads, and the shadows that pass over her eyes now and then seem to appear less often. Overall, she seems almost whole again. The taint in the Deep Roads had been hard on all of them; Wynne had been pale and weak and required several days’ rest before they were fit to travel. Even Sten had complained of fatigue and some kind of indigestion, though what kind of indigestion he’d taken out of the Deep Roads was beyond Alistair’s ken. Alistair hadn’t said anything yet, but he was afraid that the taint had infected with a wasting sickness that only the Joining could cure— which was, in truth, not much better. Even now they felt poorly enough to go to their tents early and let Leliana, Zevran, and Morrigan take their place in the nightly watch.  Personally, his nightmares had gotten more frequent the closer they came to the horde; coupled with the growing sense of connection between himself and the hive mind, it left him feeling vulnerable. And monstrous; the hunger for... something constantly eats at him in the quiet parts of his mind. He doesn’t understand it, but he definitely feels a pull toward the horde and whatever atrocities they inflict on the world.  How bad was it for her down there? He wonders, watching Hera. I know she was hiding something from us, and it wasn’t just her magic. That, too, had been affected in the Roads; when Ares had been hurt her magic had spiraled out of control. She hadn’t talked about it, but he’d seen a growing weight pressing on her the whole time. Did the Deep Roads affect her more than anyone else, because she’s dhampir? There were times she seemed...comfortable in the dark, he thinks, frowning. Is the archdemon getting to her? Could she be convinced to change sides, being what she is?   Idiot, he scolds himself. She’d never do that. She’s a Grey Warden; from what she’s told me of Ravenloft she knows what it is to fight for home.  “Alistair, are you all right?” Hera asks, sitting back on her heels and smiling at him across the fire. “You’ve been staring at me for a solid minute.” Cheeks burning, he forces a laugh. “What can I say? You’re so pretty in the firelight.” Her smile turns from friendly and open to the small, private one she gives him when they’re alone in their tent. “Firelight is rather flattering,” she says. “Even if we’re all covered in mud and muck.” “Should we leave Zevran to the soup and do some washing?” Leliana suggests. “Morrigan said she was going to wash some things. Maybe she has some of that crystal grace soap left.” Alistair can feel Zevran’s gaze on him as the women gather laundry and join Morrigan at the nearby stream. Once they are gone, Zevran sets the soup spoon aside and comes to sit beside him. “You are worried for her?” he asks softly. Alistair unclenches his jaw and nods. “I don’t know how to keep her safe,” he admits softly. “She’s going to make me King of Ferelden, and who knows what will happen then? I don’t even know what’s going to happen with the archdemon. Maybe we’ll both die fighting it.” “Has she not decided to stay?” Zevran asks, surprised. Alistair rubs his chest, not sure if he’s imagining the hollow ache there. “Nothing definite, but she does say that we’ll make it work. I don’t know what she’s thinking, Zevran.” Zevran pats his knee before returning to the soup. “Enjoy the now, my friend,” he advises, stirring slowly. “The future is uncertain, and these small moments will be what carries us through the darkness ahead. Wake Sten and Wynne for dinner, will you?” Morrigan returns with Hera and Leliana, all three wrapped in blankets, their hair damp and smelling of mountain flowers, just as Wynne and Sten emerge from their tents. “I washed a few of your things as well,” Hera tells Alistair, ducking into their tent before returning with her own cake of beeswax and her leathers. “Are you feeling better, Wynne?” “A bit, thank you,” Wynne says, wrapping her cloak tight. “I’m sure we only need some rest.” Alistair can tell she wants to fuss over the two of them, but she holds back, only nodding in agreement. “We’ll be in Redcliffe soon; hopefully we can take a few days and let you both recover.” “I am fine,” Sten says flatly, even though the exhaustion on his face is plain. “Spare me your concern, Kadan.” Hera chuckles and pats his shoulder as she passes. “Of course, Sten. My mistake.” Alistair squints at his lover as the blanket wrapped around her shoulders flaps as she walks. The blanket reaches her ankles, but he can still see the cuffed trousers slouching over her wool socks. “Raven, what are you wearing?” he asks suspiciously. I know I left a clean pair of trousers in my pack...  Hera gives him a smile so sweet his suspicion grows. “Just some clean clothes I found in the tent. I had to make do since everything else was filthy.” “They look suspiciously like my last clean pair of trousers…” “Of course not, Hero.” But when she sits beside him, opening the blanket for Ares to snuggle between them, Alistair gasps. “Liar!” Hera quickly sweeps the blanket back around her and clutches Ares close, burying her grin in his short fur. “What?” “You’re wearing my trousers!” Zevran laughs, handing Alistair a bowl of soup. “I should say they look better on her than you, my friend,” he chuckles. “On her, they are long and charmingly too big, so it leaves the hope of them falling down. We must conspire to take the blanket from her.” “Zevran,” Wynne chides softly. “That’s rather undignified.” “I am not the one missing my trousers, Wynne.” Hera looks up at Alistair innocently. “Mine were all filthy, Hero. You know we just went to wash things. Everything is still damp.” “So you took my last clean pair?” “I could let you have them, but then I’d be in just a shirt.” “You should give them back,” Leliana and Zevran say at once. “I do not understand this conversation,” Sten grumbles into his bowl. “It has no point. She has stolen the trousers. She should give them back.” “It’s simply nauseating banter between lovers, my Sten,” Morrigan explains. “Ignore them.” “I have a solution for you both,” Wynne says calmly. “Hera, come with me, I have a clean robe that may just fit you.” “One day this will all be over and I’ll be wearing them cuffed to the knee while I work in a garden,” she teases as she follows Wynne. “You won't mind the loss of your trousers then.” “Oh? Why is that?” he asks, following. “Because it will be such a charming sight you’ll fall in love all over again.” Alistair laughs, catching her by the waist and drawing her close. “Don’t you know I fall in love with you every day?” he whispers in her ear. Hera pulls back to stare at him, a look of surprise flitting across her lovely features. Why does she look so surprised? He wonders. Did she really not know?  “I—” She stops, mouth hanging open. “I do now.” “You should hurry and change before dinner gets cold,” Wynne suggests, holding out the spare robe. It’s well past midnight when Hera goes inside her tent, patting Ares on the head as she goes by. Like Wynne and Sten, Alistair didn't stand watch tonight, so he’s already asleep, sprawled out over the pallet made by their combined bedrolls. Yawning, she quickly strips off Wynne’s borrowed robe and slips under the blanket with him, worming her way into the warm spot at his shoulder.

How can he take up so much space? she wonders, trying to find room to get comfortable. It isn’t as if he’s a giant. After several minutes of trying to move his limbs, she gives up and straddles his hips, laying down on top of him.  His arm comes up to rest across the small of her back, and she smiles, kissing his chest. I hope Ravenloft doesn't mind me slipping back to Ferelden often, she thinks. Or maybe I should just convince him to spend half the year in Ravenloft. We could move back and forth, like taking a court on summer progress, only just the two of us.  Thoughts of warm Ferelden days and cool Ravenloft nights carrying her into sleep, a guard against the darkspawn hive mind and their bloody dreams.  But the taint is not the only thing that brings nighttime terror. Hera wakes sometime later, Alistair mumbling and struggling beneath her. Sitting up, she watches him, his breath fast and shallow, and his heart racing under her hand. His fists lashes out against an unseen enemy, but she dodges it easily, catching his wrist and holding it in place. “Hero?” she whispers.  It’s not the archdemon, she realizes, or I'd be having the same dream. It has to be something else, something here. We’ve been in the Deep Roads...what did it do to him? Has the taint in him grown? Is...is this his Calling?  “No,” she whispers, releasing his wrist. “Not yet.”  His struggle intensifies, and she climbs off him, worried and wondering if she should wake him. Just as she decides to, he sits up with a wordless cry, his eyes wide with fear and his chest heaving. Another swing of his fist, and she realizes that he still isn’t aware of his surroundings. “Alistair,” she whispers, putting a hand on his chest to calm him. His skin twitches beneath her hand in agitation, but he still doesn’t look at her. “ Alistair. ” It’s the same trick she’d used on him so long ago at Flemeth’s hut in the Korcari Wilds. It works now, snapping him out of his panic and leaving him pale and trembling. He takes a deep breath, his wide eyes bloodshot, but seeing her. “Raven,” he whispers. “Are you all right now?” she asks, lifting a hand to his cheek. Alistair takes a deep breath and falls back to the pillows, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn't mean…” “It was a nightmare,” she soothes, lying beside him and smoothing his hair back. “Is there anything I can do for you?” His arms come around her and he holds her tightly. “Promise me you won't die,” he says in a raw voice. “I wish I could promise that,” she whispers.  “I’ll take a lie right now if you’ve got one.” His heart races under her ear like a stampede of wild horses. “I promise I won’t die,” she whispers.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Your Majesty?”
 
Zeus looks up from his card game to the footman in his uncle’s livery. “Yes?”
 
“The Duke asks for your attention to a certain matter.”
 
“Elric, tell my dear Dunkle that kinging hours are over and he shall have to wait until morning.” The other players- a delightful mix of male, female, and some who are distinctly both, neither, or totally other- titter and chuckle around the table. Resting his cards against the bosom of the lovely little thing in his lap, he places a chaste kiss on her shoulder. “I am otherwise occupied.”
 
“But my Lord Regent-”

“

Later,

Elric.” The unmistakable power in Zeus’s voice flutters across the table, ruffling cards and slips of paper. “I’m enjoying myself. If it’s so important, remind him that

he

is the head of my council, and it’s

his

job to see to things.”
 
“Y-Yes, your Majesty.”
 
“Zeus, that wasn’t very nice,” the human girl in his lap chastises, tweaking his nose gently. “You scared the boy.”
 
Zeus chuckles and captures her fingers, kissing the tips. “My lovely Anka, that was no

boy

. I daresay he’s older than your grandmother. Ciprian, you will lose this one,” he adds to one of the players. “I call.”
 
The blonde man in question throws his cards down with a grimace. “You cheat,” he mutters, watching Zeus pull his winnings across the table.
 
“Yes, I do,” Zeus laughs, dropping a gold coin into Anka’s cleavage. “But you will never catch me at it. Who’s next?”
 
“I am.”
 
Silence ripples across the table as all eyes turn to face the Duke, currently glowering at his nephew.
 
“Dear Dunkle!” Zeus cheers, motioning for a chair to be emptied for him. “How good of you to join us; you work too hard, this is exactly what you need. Ciprian, go, you’re all out of money tonight anyway,” he says cheerfully, and nudges Anka from his lap. “Anka, go with him and lift his spirits.”
 
With a fanged smile, Ciprian offers Zeus a low bow. “Your Majesty is always generous. Shall we, my dear?” he adds, offering the girl his arm.
 
“Be gentle with her, cousin,” Zeus calls as they wander off. “Shake her too hard and all her coins will fall out.” 
 
Anka whirls around and jumps up and down a few times. “No, sire, they will not,” she assures him, patting her bust. “I keep my money where it’s safest.”
 
Zeus laughs, waving them off and taking a long drink of wine before turning back to the table. “Now, Uncle, what brings you here?”
 
Shrugging out of his impeccable coat, he drapes it over the back of Ciprian's vacated chair. “It seems the only way to you get your attention after midnight is to play your games,” he explains. “So, here I am.”
 
“The great and dreadful Duke Konstantin has come to play

my

games,” Zeus teases, shuffling the cards so quickly his hands blur. “How blessed I am.”
 
Cards fly across the table at preternatural speed, but the two men look as if they’re barely paying attention to a lazy game. “You’ve done well as Regent,” the Duke says after a few moments of silence. “Your father would be proud.”
 
“I am not sure that is a comfort, Uncle,” Zeus says, leaning forward to draw a card, “having never actually known him in person.”
 
“Your sister, then,” the Duke amends. “She

will

be proud to know you’ve taken up caring for the people.”
 
“I have

always

cared,” he says defensively. “That’s why I made you head of the council.”
 
The Duke’s eyebrows raise slightly. “But you need to take more interest, my boy.”
 
“What do you want?” Zeus asks sharply. “This is my private time and you are invading it with talk of heavy things. Even a King Regent is allowed his debauchery from time to time.”
 
“Aye, but your

time to time

is all the time,” a voice from the crowd calls out.
 
Ignoring the laughter that follows, the Duke shrugs. “The Queen never ignored a summons,” the Duke adds casually. “She put aside her personal endeavors, as you know.”
 
Zeus sighs, throwing his cards down. “Fine. Let’s have a cup of wine and a walk around the garden if that will suit you.”
 
The stars had begun to fade, an almost imperceptible shift between the sun and moon. Ravenloft was slipping into autumn like a comfortable slipper, the summer breezes warming the air until day gave way to night’s cooler whispers. In another week there will be frost. Lifting his face to the moon, Zeus offers up a prayer for his sister’s safety and swift return. It’s the same thing every night-

Let her be safe, let her come home-

since her disappearance.
 
“It’s been nearly a year,” the Duke says softly, looking into his silver cup.
 
“It’s been torture,” Zeus responds, taking a heavy drink. His fear for her was constant, but he didn’t enjoy putting it into words. Somehow, speaking it made him more afraid. “You know that, don’t you?”
 
“Of course I do, my boy; I know loss as well as you.” The Duke’s voice carries an unexpected hurt and Zeus regrets giving his uncle the grief he does. “Don’t forget how much I loved your father. He was a brother to me.”
 
“But not a

twin.

I feel as if...as if I’ve lost a lung. A hand. A foot. We have always been one and the same, two halves of a whole. And now…” Zeus has to swallow against the lump in his throat, blink burning eyes. “Now I feel like half a person.”
 
The pity on the Duke’s face is almost too much to bear. “Zeus, you know you must-”
 
Banishing the look of grief from his face, Zeus waves a hand at his uncle. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

I cannot speak more of her without embarrassing myself,

he thinks, tucking the image of his beloved twin into his heart.
 
To the Duke’s credit- and his nephew’s relief- he accepts the sudden change of subject without question. “Mountwend,” the Duke says easily.
 
His answer surprises Zeus; he’d expected a lecture on some new way he was failing to uphold his duty, not a mine. “The new mining town? What of it?”
 
“There have been strange tunnels found in the mountain. I have reports of men digging directly into other, fresh tunnels.”
 
“So something is already in the mountain?”
 
The Duke nods. “But they can find no sign of life. Only the new tunnels.”
 
Zeus frowns. “That’s...unusual, to say the least. What do you think it is?”
 
“I don’t know,” he says, lifting his hands uncertainly. “That part of the realm hasn’t been open since your father was king. The surveys have shown no sign of any creature native to Ravenloft, nor is there any spectral evidence. There are, however, patches of thick black discharge; no one knows what it is.” The Duke’s brow furrows, bringing his steep widow’s peak nearly into his eyebrows. “It is almost as if there is something

new

here.”
 
Zeus set his cup on the base of a statue as they passed and clasped his hands behind his back. Mountwend had been established when the mists had unexpectedly rolled back far to the south, revealing a mountain. In the chaos surrounding Hera’s disappearance, the Duke had given over the management of the new area to one of the court- Count Elmsear, a fairly new vampire eager to prove his worth to the Duke. More concerned with the search for his sister, Zeus had put it out of his mind. 
 
“That’s odd. But why bother me with it now?”
 
The Duke shakes his head. “Because you’re the Regent, and even if I

am

head of your council, I need direction. This is not my area of expertise, nephew; from the stories you tell, this is your sort of adventure.”
 
Zeus laughs, but the sound lacks amusement, coming out tinny and small. “But

I

take my direction from

you

.”
 
The Duke lifts his hands helplessly. “I have no advice.”
 
“What does Elsmear say?” Zeus asks. Vampires were the ruling class of Ravenloft for one reason: their longevity made them excellent stewards of the land and people. Elmsear had been a miner before the change and had been excited to begin, but if he could not protect his land and people, perhaps he was not a good choice after all.
 
The Duke’s arms cross over his chest and his frown deepens. Zeus almost chuckles- he hadn’t known it was possible for the Duke to look even

more

disapproving. “Elmsear is a mining genius,” he admits, “but even he says that he’s never seen anything like this. Perhaps we can contact some of your adventuring friends?” the Duke suggests. “They can investigate the mines for us.”
 
“Hmm,” Zeus hums, looking at his feet as they walk. “Offer the job to our people first. We may have some adventurers in Ravenloft eager to make some extra coin.”
 
“As you wish, Majesty.” The Duke bows and backs away to leave.
 
Zeus whirls around, a startled look on his face. “Dunkle-” he says quickly. “Do you truly think she will be proud?”
 
The Duke smiles and returns to his nephew’s side. “I know she will, my boy,” he says, embracing him. “I know it in my bones.”
 
Zeus tries to smile as his uncle bows again and walks away. Hands behind his back, Zeus walks deeper into the garden, his hair glowing as brightly as the moonflowers draping themselves over trellises and arbors. In the spring there would be roses as well, a red so deep it looks black in the daylight. Hera had sent for them, along with a gardener who had assured her he could grow them as large as a cabbage.

In the spring…

She might not be back to see them.

It was a hard truth to swallow, but one it was time to accept.

Who am I without her? And who is she without me?

How do we even begin to figure it out? Is she as lost as I am?

“Ivan,” he says, knowing that his favorite cousin is within earshot.
 
Ivan’s coppery hair catches the moonlight as he steps out of the shadows, giving Zeus a formal bow. “My lord.”
 
“How does a man find himself?”
 
“I suppose he must know he’s been lost first.”
 
“You’re no help,” Zeus growls at his friend.
 
“You didn’t ask me to be of help, cousin,” Ivan says cheerfully. “Let’s go have a drink. Even a Regent is allowed a bit of fun now and again, yes?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair doesn’t like mornings. Especially the damp, muddy mornings that become more and more prevalent as spring emerges from the snowbanks and frozen rivers.
 
No matter what training he’d endured growing up, it is a simple fact, as Hera learns. She, however, enjoys the cool misty beginning of the day and wakes early to take advantage of it. It gives her a moment to stretch and reflect on the path of her life.

Time is almost up,

she thinks one morning, noticing that the dew didn’t turn to frost overnight.

It’ll be autumn in Ravenloft soon.

Sten is typically the only one who gets up when she does, and they make breakfast in companionable silence. Hera fries eggs and sausages bought from peddlers on the road or farms they pass, and Sten makes a surprisingly delightful fireside bread.
 
When Hera can stomach it, it’s a pleasant breakfast. But the taint settles in her stomach like a ball of ice, making breakfast little more than a chore to get through. As if in defiance of the weight, Alistair has started to eat more than usual, but Hera has noticed that it doesn’t stop his trousers from sagging or hide the fact that he’s had to add holes to his belt.
 
On one such morning, Hera makes a cup of strong coffee and carries it into her tent. Last autumn, Alistair had simply stopped erecting his tent and started sleeping in hers. It had effectively announced to the world that they were a couple- a nearly terrifying thing for a woman who hadn’t tied herself to a man in decades. Hera, who had never experienced such easy intimacy with the best of patrons, had been skittish for nearly a week. Alistair, Powers bless him, had simply let her do as she desired, welcoming her when she was in his arms and giving her space when she needed it.
 
Now she loves living in the same space as him. He brings a sense of comfort and protection, as if he would be her personal knight in shining armor, fighting his way across the planes with her. Waking in the arms of a lover had always been a sweet scene she had created for her patrons, but experiencing it herself brings a heady joy.

It’s no wonder they’ve all been willing to pay so high a price.

“Alistair,” she says softly, kneeling beside him. “Wake up, my darling.”
 
Alistair doesn’t flinch.
 
“Alistair…” she whispers, setting the coffee down. “I’ve come with coffee.”
 
His nose twitches, but he rolls away and buries his head in his pillow. She laughs softly and drapes her arm over his side. “My darling boy,” she says happily, combing his hair with her fingers. “You have to wake up.”
 
He doesn’t speak, but she hears a soft grunt of disapproval. She twists her fingers, tangling them in his hair, and tugs gently. “It’s time.”
 
“N’i’snot,” he grumbles, and quick as snake, pulls her down to him.

Hera giggles as he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, running his hand down her back. “Little longer.”
 
Hera always starts to wake him up earlier than necessary, knowing it will end this way. “Just a little,” she agrees and closes her eyes.

If Zeus could see us now,

she thinks with a satisfied smile,

he wouldn’t believe it was me.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“There’s a village not far from here, isn’t there?” Leliana asks when they stop for their midday meal and to rest. 
 
Alistair pulls out their map, taking a moment to find their location. “If we’re here...hey, you’re right, Leliana! There’s a village a little further down the road.”
 
“Oh, can we find an inn?” Leliana asks, clasping her hands together. “Or a tavern or a barn or

anything

! I’m so sick of dwarves and camping. I want a nice clean bed made for a human’s height!”
 
“Is it safe to stop at an inn?” Wynne asks. “We’re already taking a chance by traveling along the Imperial Highway. Loghain’s men could be waiting in every village.”
 
“In which case, we will deal with them once they show their dastardly faces,” Zevran growls.
 
Hera laughs at the way he plucks a dagger from seemingly nowhere and runs the flat across his tongue in a fearsome expression. The endless walking seems to have spoiled Zevran for a fight, and if Hera were honest, she could use a little action as well. “With protection like that how can we worry?” she asks Wynne. “I agree with Leliana, after all this mud clean sheets and a dry bed are in order!”
 
A few hours later they come upon the little fishing village, a place that would be pretty if all the buildings weren’t the same shade of faded gray. According to a woman repairing the fence around her garden, the tavern serves as an inn when needed, but also a town hall and sometimes a chantry when a brother or sister passes through.
 
“Who speaks the Chant of Light for you?” Leliana asks.
 
“Old Mother Yusra,” the woman says, stretching her back. “She ain’t a Chantry Mother, but she births all the babes and remembers the important bits of the Chant. She could read a bit before her eyes went off.”
 
“Leliana, why don’t you do it?” Alistair suggests. “You have your copy of the Chant of Light, and you

are

a sister.”
 
“I’m a laysister,” Leliana clarifies, shaking her head. “I’m not-”
 
“You’re closer to the chantry than a midwife,” Wynne adds in a low voice. 
 
“And yet a

midwife

can actually do good,” Morrigan argues. “Your Chantry only destroys.”
 
Wynne groans. “Morrigan, when will you stop attacking anytime the Chantry is mentioned?”
 
While the three women bicker, Hera moves closer to the woman under the pretense of helping with the fence. “Alistair, help me,” she says, jerking her head toward the fence.
 
The woman steps back, putting her hands on the small of her back with a satisfied sigh. “I thank you,” she says, offering Hera a smile. “These old bones seem to be getting older every day.”
 
Smiling back, Hera lets Alistair handle the fence and straightens. “How have things been in this part of the country?” she asks. “Any bandits? Darkspawn?”
 
Shadows build in the woman’s wrinkles as she frowns. “Aye,” she says darkly. “There have been darkspawn attacks from the south. Some survivors have passed through, but they’re all headed for Denerim. They haven’t made it this far. Yet.”
 
“Not into Orlais?” Hera asks.
 
“Them mountains keep the common folk out,” the woman explains, nodding in the direction of the mountain range. “A peddler said Teryn Loghain is keeping the borders shut tight, nobody in nor out.”
 
“I see.” 
 
“I think that’ll hold,” Alistair says, standing and dusting his hands off. His actions are casual, but his face is set in a scowl. “And if you can, get to Denerim yourself,” he adds. “Go as far as you can.”
 
The woman’s face pales and she clutches at the kerchief around her neck. “I thought it weren’t true about it being a Blight? Teryn Loghain says—”
 
“We’re Grey Wardens,” Alistair says firmly. “Listen to

us

, not the Teryn.”
 
She sets her jaw, her faded blue eyes turning steely as she stares at him. “I...I see.”
 
“Have faith,” Hera says gently, squeezing her arm. “We’re Grey Wardens— ending Blights is what we do. But pack only what you can carry and leave as soon as you can, just as a precaution. Tell the others once we’re gone.” 
 
The woman takes a deep breath and nods. She turns to look back at her house, as gray and aged as herself. A tremor runs through her, but she pulls her shoulders back and faces Hera again. “Aye, I’ll tell them.”
 
“You said the tavern is this way?” Hera says a little louder, jerking her thumb down the road. 
 
Trying to control her trembling, the woman nods again. “Aye, the big building further on. Jep’s got a few rooms upstairs he’ll let. And...Thank you,” she adds quickly, “for the fence.”
 
Alistair gives her a small bow and a winning smile, but Hera can see the concern on his face for the woman. “It is my pleasure, madam.”

Why do I feel like he’ll be back to help her pack later tonight?

Hera thinks as they leave.

“Kadan,” Sten says, catching up with her.
 
“Sten.”
 
“You are recovered from the Deep Roads, yes?”
 
“Mostly,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”
 
“Your footwork needs improvement. When arrangements have been made, I want to train with you in the mud.”
 
Hera’s shoulders droop, all fantasy of a bath in the very near future dwindling away.

There’s no point in fighting it. If I try, he’ll drag me out

after

I’ve had a bath.

“All right, Sten.”
 
“War turns the field of battle to mush,” Sten explains, not noticing her disappointment. “You will need to be sure on your feet if you mean to defeat the archdemon.”
 
The image of a marble floor slick with Count Strahd’s crimson blood appears before Hera’s eyes, her mouth filled with the heat of it as she drank directly from his heart. She'd been covered in it, more than a body should have been able to hold, her feet losing purchase as she drank and drank until she thought she'd be sick of it. The memory feels so real that she almost slips in the muddy road. Sten grabs her arm, supporting her entirely with one hand while she gets her feet under her.
 
“Thank you, Sten,” she says, swiping a hand over her eyes and trying to banish the vision and the metallic taste in her mouth. “I suppose I’m more tired than I thought.”

He grunts with disapproval and releases her. “We will train tired, then.”
 
An exhausted sigh leaks out of Hera as she trudges back to the tavern. Covered in mud from head to toe, she wonders how much hot water she can wheedle from the kitchen to bathe with. Not being a true inn, there’s no dedicated bathing room, just a small wooden tub in a cramped little closet. Leliana had mentioned there was a draft as well.
 
“You did well, Kadan,” Sten says as they walk. “But your hair is unreasonable. It is too long.”
 
Hera drags her matted, hip-length hair over one shoulder protectively. “No, it isn’t.”
 
“It is,” he argues. “It gets in the way, flies around your head when you fight.”
 
“I pin it up most of the time, Sten,” she reminds him. “It will be fine. I know how to handle my hair in a fight.”
 
He answers her with a grunt as they approach the open back door of the tavern. A thin slip of a girl comes out in a rush, carrying a bucket. “Me mum told me you weren’t to come in with all that mud on you,” she says, holding the bucket out. “You both have to go to the well and rinse it off before you can come in.”
 
Hera’s head drops back, staring at the darkening sky. The tavern is probably the only thing in the entire village that stands a hair above the description of “ramshackle," but with its loose shutters and more than a few shingles hanging off the edge of the roof, it’s hardly worth the cost of freezing well water.
 
“But it’s so cold,” she says, the whine in her voice grating on her own nerves.
 
“It will be bracing,” Sten says, taking the bucket and walking toward the well.
 
Hera turns to sneer at his back before sighing. “All right,” she says, trying to smile at the girl. “Thank you.”
 
The girl returns her smile shyly and twists her apron in her hands. “Me mum also says you can have a proper bath once you ain’t dripping mud all over her clean kitchen.”

As it turned out, the matron’s idea of a “proper” bath had consisted of another bucket of cold water, a chipped basin filled with hot water and a cramped closet that looked as if it used to be a pantry. Hera assumed the small flannel towel and stool were luxuries and was grateful for them.
 
Hera had started with her hair, dipping her head into the bucket and rubbing the last of her little ball of soap into a thick lather. It had taken three buckets before her hair rinsed clean and she started on the rest of her body. She was just finishing when Morrigan walked in.
 
“I’ve come with clean clothes,” Morrigan announced, holding the small folded pile.
 
“Thank you,” Hera says gratefully, backing into the corner so there’s room for Morrigan to close the door. “Are you sure you don’t want a room? I can put Alistair in with Zevran and Sten and you and I can share. Just think, Morrigan, we can giggle and tell stories all night!”
 
Morrigan chuckles. “I would not sleep in this rickety hut for all your stories. But perhaps for a pair of clean socks, I would endure one or two. You have quite the abundance compared to the rest of us,” she adds.
 
“I wash them any chance I get,” Hera says, wringing out the threadbare washcloth. 
 
“A wise woman,” Morrigan says, nodding. “I...I wanted to talk about my mother.”
 
“I haven’t forgotten,” Hera assures her, briskly rubbing the towel over herself. 
 
“I didn’t think you had. But my mother...she is powerful,” she warns. “And I cannot be there, in case she attempts to possess me then.”
 
“What could she do? Turn into a dragon and eat us?” Hera laughs, taking her shirt from the top of the pile and dragging it over her head.
 
“Twould not do to underestimate her.”
 
Hera shrugs and sits, her fingers beginning to work on the knots from her hair. “I don’t intend to, Morrigan. But you’ve said there is only one way to keep you safe, and I intend to keep my word.”
 
“I-” Morrigan’s mouth hangs open, but nothing else comes out.

I don’t suppose she’s had many friends, growing up the way she did,

Hera thinks. “Morrigan, I’m going to handle it. Or die trying,” she adds with a small smirk.
 
Morrigan snorted and batted Hera’s hands away from her head. “You are doing a terrible job of this,” she mutters, drawing a comb from her pocket. 
 
Hera smiles, preening under her friend’s attention. “I am not,” she argues cheerfully. “You’re better at it anyway.”
 
“You must miss your maids,” Morrigan continues, her voice softening just a little. “The people who take care of you.”
 
Looking down at her broken nails and calloused hands, Hera has to swallow past the lump in her throat to answer. “I miss home,” she says in a rough voice. “I

do

miss being pampered and having someone see to my every desire, but I miss my brother more.”
 
“I know.”
 
“Do you?”
 
“The longer this drags on, the less you talk about him,” Morrigan tells her. “But when you do, you sound… It’s not sadness. It’s deeper than that.”
 
Unthinking, Hera raises a hand to press against her chest. “It’s like a wound I can’t heal,” she whispers. “We have never been so distant from each other.”
 
“I have heard some say that twins can feel one another’s presence, sense if they are in danger. Is that true for you?”
 
“Yes,” she says. “It has always been a surety. But this is different. Being on different planes has never made me feel so...cut off. I know he’s alive, but that’s it. I cannot feel his joy or grief, I don’t know if he’s in danger.”
 
“When this is finished, perhaps I can repay your help with my mother and assist you in finding your door? You said it was near Ostagar, yes? I know the Wilds, I am sure I could offer assistance.”
 
Hera turns and catches her wrist, desperation in her eyes. “You would do that? You would go back to Ostagar and help me?”
 
Like her voice, Morrigan’s hawkish eyes turn soft, looking more like melted caramel than a bird of prey. “I would, my friend.”
 
Tears fill Hera’s eyes so fast they burn and she throws her arms around Morrigan’s waist. “Thank you.”
 
“I did not give you permission to embrace me,” Morrigan scolds even as her own arms encircle Hera’s shoulders. “You are always so eager for a touch.”
 
“Only yours, Morrigan,” Hera sniffs.
 
“Disgusting.” Morrigan disengages and scowls at her, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Go find Alistair if you desire a touch so badly.”
 
Hera smiles as Morrigan leaves her to finish dressing.

I suppose this will be as clean as I’ll get until we return to Redcliffe.

She sighs, thinking of the large wooden tub draped in linen that Teagan always had brought into her room. In her mind’s eye, she sees the steam curling over the water, scented oil making the room smell like a garden. It’s nowhere as decadent as the deep, heated pool of her own bathing chamber in Ravenloft, but to Hera, the wooden tub and linen luxury are immeasurable.
 
When Hera finally emerges from the closet, the kitchen smells like a haven of fresh-baked bread and hearty stew. The girl from earlier rushes over, a bowl in one hand and half a loaf in the other. Her mousy brown hair is piled on top of her head and a blush colors her cheeks- a change from the pale skin and limp hair hanging around her shoulders earlier. “Me mum says you have to eat,” she says nervously, shoving the food at Hera and not meeting her eyes. “Your friends are in the taproom. The handsome knight said for you to meet him in there.”
 
Balancing the bread over the bowl to free one hand, Hera smiles softly and cups the girl’s cheek. “You’re quite pretty,” she says, tilting her head back. “How old are you?”
 
The girl’s eyes fly up to meet hers, a brown so deep it reminds Hera of freshly turned earth. With her hair out of the way, the simple prettiness of her shines. After a bit of work and some time to recover from her current lifestyle, a girl like this would be quite an asset in a pleasure house.

A shame I can’t take her to Sigil when I go,

she thinks, imagining the girl in silk and velvet.

She would be suited to the life, I think.

“S-Seventeen,” the girl says breathlessly. “Sweet Andraste, you’re…. When you’re not covered in mud, you’re awfully beautiful.”
 
“Thank you.” Hera’s smile widens.
 
“You and that knight- are you t-together?”
 
“We are.”
 
The girl deflates a bit, and her blush turns from charming to embarrassed. “Oh. Me mum said you’d say that,” she mumbles, looking down at the floor.
 
Hera taps the girl’s chin gently. “Chin up, my dear. You’re young, and hearts flutter often. Be confident and unafraid and you will capture a knight of your own.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Maeve, get back to work!” A woman- presumably the girl’s mother and wife of the tavern keeper- barks. “Leave the lady alone, girl!”
 
“I’m sorry!” the girl gushes. “I didn’t mean-”
 
“Unafraid,” Hera reminds her, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Maeve’s ear. “They’ll flock to you.”
 
“You just can’t turn it off, can you?”
 
Hera turns at Leliana’s giggle, shrugging as Maeve runs back to work. “Just a little sisterly advice,” she explains.
 
Leliana shakes her head, grinning. “Come on, Alistair and Zevran are having a drinking contest. They’re spilling so much Ares is getting most of the bottle. You’ve got to see this.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera gasps and shakes her hand, the pain lingering, cursing under her breath. "I don't understand," she says to herself, looking at the burn on her palm. "It's never done

that

before."

Leaving Alistair to his game with Zevran, she and Ares had come upstairs thinking to go to bed early. Since she was alone, she’d simply opened the door and waved a hand to light the small lamp on the other side of the room. Child's magic, as easy as breathing. But somehow the spell had twisted, shooting flames across her hand instead of to the wick.

What happened to my spell?

she asks herself, making a fist and ignoring the way her scorched flesh protests.

I've been careful, but I suppose Wild Magic can happen whenever it wants. It

was

Wild, wasn’t it?

A voice calls from the hall. "Hera, are you all right?" As if to answer her, Ares whines and shoves his nose into her hand to sniff.

Wynne. Did she see?

She glances at the cracked door. "I've burned myself is all," she says, walking over to pull it open with a little laugh. "Ares bumped into me as I was lighting the lamp."

"You should be more careful," the elder scolds gently, taking her hand and examining it closely. "Come with me, I'll put something on it. Ares, stay here."
 
“I’m fine,” she insists, but follows Wynne to the room she’s sharing with Leliana. After so long in her company, Hera is very aware that Wynne will have her way in matters of health and healing.
 
Wynne fusses over her, and in spite of the small burn, Hera feels a girlish joy in it.

Would my grandmother have been like this

, she wonders.

Mother certainly wasn’t, and she never said anything about her parents; only that they hadn't spoken in a long time. I imagine the whole family is dead now.

“Wynne, can I ask you something?” she asks as the mage wraps a bandage around her salve-covered hand.
 
“You may.”
 
“Does the magic here ever...go wrong?”
 
Wynne lifts her head, looking at her curiously. “Go wrong? Of course. Spells backfire, or words are mispronounced. The control of magic must be precise, if so much as a gesture is incorrect it can lead to disaster.”
 
“No, I mean-”
 
“You mean something is wrong with

your

magic,” Wynne corrects, going back to knotting the bandage. “I'm no fool, Hera. Why didn't you just tell me you were a mage?”
 
Hera’s shoulders stiffen and she jerks her hand away. “I'm not,” she says tersely.

Technically.

“You have magic, you must be a mage.”
 
Hera toys with the knot on the bandage, trying to find a way to explain it as simply as possible. How could Wynne, who so deeply believed in the chantry’s view on magic, truly understand? “Magic is different where I come from. I’ve told you that my people don’t treat magic users the same way as Thedas? Well, that’s because

anyone

can use it, but that doesn’t mean they’re a mage like you.”
 
Wynne frowns. “What do you mean, anyone?”
 
“Anyone,” Hera repeats. “Magic can be learned, if you have the time for study, or you can be born with it. I’m a sorceress- born with magical ability- but Zeus learned it. I didn't have to be taught, I've always just known. And there are many different kinds of magic, beyond the elements and spiritual.”
 
Shaking her head, Wynne gets up and starts pacing. “Hera, you can stop lying,” she says testily. “You can tell me the truth.”
 
Looking up at her, Hera’s brows draw together. “Wynne...you don’t believe me?”
 
Wynne gives her a look worthy of any angry grandmother. “That you fell through a mirror with a Grey Warden and landed in Ferelden? My dear, it’s a good hero’s origin story for a fantasy tale, but hardly believable.”
 
Stunned, Hera stares at her.

Does anyone believe me?

Clenching her jaw, she stands, giving Wynne a cold, regal look. “Thank you for your help, Wynne,” she says. “Goodnight.”
 
“Hera, we should talk about-”
 
“No,” she says sharply. “I am not an apostate, and I never have been. Your Chantry laws mean

nothing

to me. If you find

that

too difficult to believe, then perhaps we shouldn’t discuss it any further.”
 
“Hera, I don’t mean to upset you,” Wynne says, softening her voice. “But you

are

an apostate-”
 
Hera goes to the door before answering. “I’m not. Nor am I untrained. This was just an accident. Those happen, no matter how well trained a person is.”
 
“And what happened in the Deep Roads? Was that also an accident?”
 
Hera freezes. “Was

what

an accident?”

Damn me to seven hells. I’d hope she’d have forgotten in the chaos.

“You told me that your ring is enchanted,” Wynne reminds her. “That it can heal small wounds once a week. I might have believed that had I not seen what happened with the Spirit Apparatus. You lost control and nearly got yourself killed by it.

And

I was right about your reaction to the raw lyrium, too.”

Shit. I can’t keep making stupid mistakes.

Hera swallows, trying to find a way to buy herself some time and coming up with nothing.

Zeus would have been able to talk himself out of it. A pity that my charms are a different kind. I suppose there’s no use hiding it from her.

“Well, that’s it, then,” Hera says with a shrug. “I told you I’m a sorceress and not a mage like you. My power is nothing like yours. If you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”
 
“I can help you-”
 
Hera almost laughs.

Help me? Wynne, I’ve been casting spells since before you were born!

“No, I don’t think you can,” she says with a sad smile. “Suffice to say that I won’t be casting anything else in this world if this is how my magic reacts,” she adds, holding up her bandaged hand. “Don’t worry, Wynne. I’m a Grey Warden; the Chantry and its Templars can’t do anything to me.”

And it isn’t as if there’s much time left, anyway.

“It’s

you

I’m worried about,” Wynne says, her shoulders sagging. “If you won’t listen to me...at least talk with Morrigan.”
 
“

Do not

say anything to Morrigan,” Hera orders. “Or to anyone at all, Wynne. Keep this to yourself.”
 
“Alistair has known since the Circle, has he not?”
 
“Yes. I suppose he told you when I was hurt.”
 
“He did.” The two women stare at one another for a long, silent moment before Wynne sighs. “Fine. You helped me find Aneirin and make my peace. I will keep your secret.”
 
Hera almost reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder but stops. “Thank you, Wynne. It’s not a secret you’ll need to keep for long.”
 
Alistair and Zevran meet Hera in the hallway, hanging onto each other for support. Their drinking contest got the better of both of them, leaving them unable to manage the stairs alone, but even in his alcohol-soaked haze, Alistair notices the bandage. “Hera, what’s wrong?” he asks, pushing himself off Zevran to stagger closer. “Why do you have a bandage on your hand?”
 
She looks upset, the frown on her face making lines appear beside her mouth. “Wynne knows,” she mutters.
 
“Wynne knows what,

amora?

” Zevran asks, grabbing the wall for support. “Alistair, next time just slide under the table early, my friend. We will both fare better if I outdrink you sooner.”
 
Ignoring him, Alistair puts a steadying hand on Zevran’s shoulder. “Wynne knows...?”
 
The look Hera gives him is clear- she’s upset and worried about what Wynne will do.

Don’t be stupid, Alistair,

he thinks, rubbing his face.

Blight, why did I drink so much?

“Wynne knows…

Oh.

” He drops his hand, staring at her with wide eyes. “Wynne knows

.

I knew that.”
 
“So I heard,” she says testily. “You should have told me.”
 
Zevran looks from one to the other, confused. “Wynne knows...what?”
 
“Uh, Zev...We’ll talk later,” Alistair says. “I need to speak with Hera.”
 
Zevran gives him a confused look, but nods and opens the door to the room he’s sharing with Sten, while Alistair lifts an arm for Hera to proceed him into their own so he can stop and hang on to the door frame. Silently, he watches her sit on the bed, covering her face with her hands and letting her hair hang forward. A small fire had been lit while they were downstairs, throwing shadows around the room and reminding him of torches in the Deep Roads. 
 
The memory makes his stomach clench, the drink and the dark making him wish for a bucket.

Don’t think about that, not now,

he tells himself firmly.

Don’t think about the dark. Look, Ares is asleep in the corner. This is an inn, not the Deep Roads. Hera needs you.

Gritting his teeth against the dizziness, he gets out of the chair and walks slowly to her side. “Raven, is it that bad?” he asks, squatting before her and rubbing her calf. “What did she say? And what did you do to your hand?”
 
“It’s fine, I just burned it,” she explains with a sigh, unwrapping the bandage and revealing an angry, blistering burn. Before he can even draw breath to curse, she turns her hand over, wiggling her fingers, and the burn disappears, leaving only clean, pale skin. “I was trying to light the lamp over there, and...I don’t know what happened. My magic didn’t work right.” Wiping the salve off with the bandage, she shrugs. “She thinks I’m an apostate.”
 
“That makes sense,” he says, brushing his fingers over her palm.

Blast. I should have told her the minute I had a chance alone,

he thinks.

That was stupid of me.

“But you’re a Grey Warden; Wynne could go to the nearest Templar and tell them everything and there isn’t anything they could do.”
 
“Alistair…” When he looks up, Hera’s eyes are bright with tears. 
 
“What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, moving to sit beside her so he can put an arm around her. “Hera, what’s really bothering you?”
 
She doesn’t look at him, which worries him more than anything. “Do you believe me?” she asks in a small voice. “About..about the mirror and Ravenloft and...everything?”

So this is the root of it,

he thinks and squeezes her shoulders. “I knew Tybalt,” he tells her. “He wasn’t a man for wild tales or excessive drinking. I heard him tell Duncan what happened.”
 
“I don’t think anyone else believes me,” she says softly. “Wynne definitely doesn’t. And Sten  just thinks I’m crazy.”
 
“Sten can’t consider a world outside his rules,” Alistair reminds her. “And Wynne has been locked in a tower since she was a little girl. Let them think whatever they want,

I

believe you, and so did Duncan.”
 
“And Cailan,” she says, lifting her head. “He believed me.”
 
“There you have it,” Alistair says with a smile. “Three Grey Wardens and a King- you can’t get much better than that. Come on, let’s go to bed, Raven.”
 
Her smile is small, but it reaches her eyes. “But I’m not sleepy.”
 
Desire rolls through him, pulling him under until all he can think of is holding her in his arms. He stands and pulls her to her feet.

I believe you,

he thinks, his lips running over her jaw and down her throat.

I believe you.

His hands dive into her hair as lips and tongues meet.

I believe you.

If he could, he would press the words into their bodies until the whole world believed her. But he can’t, so he lets the heat and need build under his skin until he’s ready to catch fire. Hera responds eagerly, her kiss and touch cooling relief. Their clothes fall away and he lays her across the bed, staring down at her in the firelight: flushed skin, damp hair, shadows pooling in the valleys of her body. Nothing in the world could be so perfect- how could she

not

be telling the truth?

I believe you.

The sheets that have seen so many washboards that they’ve been forced to be soft; the bed creaks with every movement and the ropes sag, making them both roll into the middle- not that Alistair minds. He doesn’t care that the lamp smells like fish oil even when it isn’t lit. In this moment, the little tavern is the center of the Golden City. Clean, well-fed, and still a little drunk, he pulls Hera closer, nestling her body against his.

She’s gotten so thin,

he notices, sliding a hand up her side. He could count the ribs if he wanted. When they had met, Hera had been somehow athletic and lush at once. There had been...well, the sinful sort of curves that had made him blush just to think about. Her hips hadn’t been so sharp and her cheekbones so pronounced. He tries to remember the last time he’d actually seen her eat something- that had been tonight, hadn’t it? He’d been busy drinking with Zevran, he hadn’t noticed if she’d eaten the stew or if she’d just pushed it around and gave bits to Ares.
 
For that matter, his own dinner wasn’t sitting well. No meal had, really, since the Deep Roads. He hadn’t gotten sick, but he found his appetite waning. The memories of the darkspawn’s hunger made his stomach roil anytime he smelled food; he’d been trying to counter it by eating everything he could, forcing himself to remember that he was human, flesh and blood and nothing like the monsters down below.
 
Except the monsters had come to the surface now, and he might be turning into one of them.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

For Hera, spring is an unwelcome and unexpected change. One moment she’s slogging through mud up to her knees and pelted with rain every day and night, the next the sun comes out and there are tiny white flowers growing along the roadside.
 
“Oh, I love spring!” Leliana cries on a particularly sunny day. “I love the flowers and the warm breeze.”

Spring. It was late spring when I arrived here.

“'Tis something to behold after the gray, wet winter,” Morrigan agrees.
 
Even Sten agrees with them, commenting on the roads and how less mud will make travel faster. 
 
The blood drains from Hera’s face as she counts backward.

It will be early fall in Ravenloft.

“Hera, are you all right?” Zevran asks, putting a hand on her elbow. “You look as if you have just seen a ghost!”
 
Her wide eyes meet Alistair’s, who looks just as concerned as Zevran.

I’m out of time. It’s coming soon. I will truly have to say goodbye.

“Um- yes, I’m fine,” she says, breaking away from her lover’s eyes to meet Zevran’s. “Just...spring fever, I suppose. All this fresh air is making me dizzy.”
 
It’s painfully obvious that no one believes her- Wynne and Morrigan both scowl at her, Leliana looks away kindly, and Sten shakes his head. But Zevran and Alistair both continue to watch her with concern. 
 
“I’m fine, really,” she says, heart pounding.

When will it happen? Will my demon be the archdemon? Will the Powers somehow reach across the planes and do it themselves? How much time do I have left?

“I just...can’t believe it’s spring already.”
 
“Time goes quickly, doesn’t it?” Alistair asks gently. “Hard to think that it’s almost a year since the battle at Ostagar.”
 
Hera nods, dropping back so that the others can walk ahead of her. Alistair stays with her, lacing their fingers together.

Out of time

beats against the confines of her mind, each word matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. “It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?” he asks softly. “The nightmares, the fighting...it just doesn’t seem to have an end.”

Out of time.

Oh, Hero...it has an end.

“No, it doesn’t,” she says, bowing her head. “Alistair, I-” Her throat tightens, and she isn’t sure if it’s the curse keeping her from speaking or the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. “I love you.”
 
He smiles, as bright as the sun. “I love you, Hera. Don’t worry, this will all be over soon. Arl Eamon will have a plan.”
 
Her fingers tighten around his hand, struggling not to tremble.

This will all be over soon.

Out of time.

Oh my love, I am so sorry for this.

Redcliffe had undergone some changes since they’d been there last. The village green where they had burned the dead is now covered in tents, a massive communal fire in place of the pyre. The factions are clearly not ready to mingle, however- Hera can see the aravels of the Dalish along the lakeshore and the dwarves’ attempt to hide from the sky by huddling against the shadowed side of the chantry. The men gathered by Arl Eamon are easy in the village, training and trading with the villagers, but the mages are nowhere to be seen. Hera assumes that the Revered Mother has either locked them up in the chantry or that Arl Eamon has offered them space in the castle.
 
They pause at the tavern for a rest and a drink before continuing on to the castle. The owner, Owen, is a chatty man, and tells them that everyone in the village is hosting as many soldiers as their home will fit in an effort to make room for the coming armies. “This isn’t even all of the dwarves, they say!” he says, filling their mugs. “I tell you, Warden, you’ve done a great thing here! After that nasty business with the undead…” Owen shakes his head sadly. “I wasn’t sure we’d ever recover, not with a Blight coming.”
 
“And now?” Alistair asks.
 
“Well, now I think we can whip those darkspawn and send them running!” he laughs. “You Wardens are doing the Maker’s work, you know?”
 
Hera nods, sipping her ale slowly. “Thank you, Owen.”
 
“I suppose we should be on our way,” Wynne says, standing and stretching. “If I sit much longer I’ll just have to stay right here until tomorrow.”
 
Hera lingers at the back of the group as they walk toward the castle.

This is it,

she thinks, anxiously twirling the end of her braid around her finger.

We’ve gathered the armies from the treaties. The darkspawn dreams are coming more and more frequently.

A shudder runs through her as she watches Alistair ahead of her, joking with Leliana and Zevran.

And I’m about to lose him to the crown.

“Hera? What ails you?”
 
Morrigan’s voice jerks her out of her thoughts. “N-Nothing,” she lies, not meeting her friend’s eyes.
 
Morrigan grabs her by the arm, forcing her to stop walking. “Lies. You lie all the time,” she accuses, “and usually we let it pass. But I refuse to allow it now. Tell me what’s wrong.”
 
Hera’s throat constricts and her eyes burn with sudden tears. “It’s almost over,” she whispers, turning her back so that no one else can see her suddenly falling apart. “We’ve been doing this so long that I somehow never expected for all this to end. And now I’m going to lose him- either to war and death or a crown he doesn’t even want.”
 
“Did you truly think sleeping in the woods and pretending that a Blight wasn’t coming would last?” Morrigan asks, her voice uncommonly gentle. “Oh Hera, you knew this would come.”
 
“I

know

!” she sniffs, trying to blink away her tears before they start falling. “I know! And I’ve done every bit of it. Morrigan- what if he doesn’t want me when he’s king?” 
 
At her whisper, Morrigan raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That once you make that idiot a king he’ll abandon you?”
 
“It’s foolish, I know.”
 
“Haven’t you intended to go your own way when this is over? I thought you’d be eager to find your way home.”
 
A single tear slides down her cheek as she says the words she’s been most afraid of. “Morrigan, I don’t think I have a way home anymore.”
 
Morrigan’s eyes widen and her jaw drops in surprise. “But I thought-”
 
“Kadan, Morrigan. You are being left behind,” Sten calls.
 
Morrigan’s gaze moves behind Hera, giving her time to brush a hand over her face. “Coming, my Sten!” she says. “I was merely entertaining a small flirtation, my love.”
 
“Morrigan,” Hera says, catching her hand. “Thank you.”
 
“Do not thank me,” Morrigan says sadly, squeezing Hera’s hand. “I am unworthy of your friendship.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Arl Eamon stands beside his wife and brother, looking healthier than he has in the months since his illness. In front of him, Hera and Alistair report on their agreement with the dwarves, leaving out a great many details of the experience.
 
“Excellent,” Arl Eamon says, rubbing his palms together. “You have acquired all the allies you could and we can now call the Landsmeet. I trust you are ready to present yourself as Cailan and Maric’s heir, Alistair?”
 
Leliana watches Alistair’s shoulders straighten as he draws himself up to full height.

He will be a good king,

she thinks, smiling softly. Over the last months she had seen how his boyishness had faded away, replaced by a slow-growing confidence. Hera had been right all that time ago- with her influence and his experiences the past year, he

had

grown into a man capable of being king.
 
“I am, Arl Eamon,” he says in a firm voice.

And yet...Hera doesn’t seem very happy about it,

she thinks, her eyes turning to her friend. As Alistair takes on the burden of being a leader, Hera’s shoulders slump for the quickest moment before assuming her usual regal posture.

Here she is, having loved and led him for almost a year, and now...well, she’s always said that as soon as this was all over, she was going home. I wonder if she thinks he’s ready? Surely she must, otherwise she would speak now.

The thrill of being present at what must surely be an historic moment ripples through the companions- even Sten gives a small nod of approval at Alistair’s words, and Morrigan almost smiles.

I suppose even she isn’t immune to knowing the quest is almost over,

Leliana thinks, fingers itching for a quill.

This will make a beautiful story. In spite of the horrors we’ve seen, we’re all still here, still alive. We’ve seen beauty and done great things. Even if Hera

does

leave him, a bittersweet goodbye can always be written in. Everyone loves a good ending.

“I shall make the arrangements,” Eamon says, dismissing them with a gracious gesture. “Please, see yourselves to your rooms- Isolde has kept them ready for you- and we will see you at dinner. Alistair, if I might have a word in private?”
 
The group breaks up, each headed to whatever comfort calls them loudest- Leliana suspects it’s a bath for everyone, but she catches up with Hera on their way up the stairs. “Hera, can we talk?” she asks.
 
“Of course.” Hera’s smile is charming, open, and as practiced as any Leliana has ever seen. “What’s on your mind?”
 
“I was wondering how you feel about all this?” Leliana asks, keeping her voice down. “About Alistair becoming king.”
 
“It’s what we’ve been working towards,” Hera reminds her in an even tone. “Isn’t it? Crowning Alistair and building his army.”
 
“You don’t seem very happy about it, though.”
 
Hera lifts a shoulder casually, as if the thought of her lover becoming king is as every day as changing her socks. “Of course I am. Alistair will be a good king. Leliana,” Hera stops on the and turns to face her. “Are you worried about going to Denerim? I won’t let Marjolaine hurt you.”
 
In all the fuss, Marjolaine had almost slipped Leliana’s mind-

almost.

You don’t easily forget someone who wants to kill you, and yet...she had. But Leliana knows this is simply Hera pivoting the conversation away from her own worries, and, for now, she’d let her.
 
But she’d want the truth soon.
 
“Oh, a little,” she says, chewing her bottom lip and twisting her fingers together into the picture of nervousness. “Marjolaine is a formidable opponent-”
 
“As am I,” Hera assures her, giving her arm a squeeze. “Don’t fret, dearest.”
 
A year ago Leliana would have swooned at the gentle smile and being called

dearest

by someone as breathtakingly beautiful as Hera, but now she knows better. “I won’t,” she promises, putting her hand over Hera’s. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
 
Hera squeezes her hand and starts to break away, heading to her own room. Before their fingers part, Leliana renews her hold, forcing her friend to stop in her place. “Is something wrong, Leliana?” Hera asks, her brows knitting together.
 
“I want to talk with you sometime,” she says quickly. “Privately, before it all ends. I want to know everything.”
 
Hera’s face stays exactly as it was a moment before, but something in her eyes shift.

Will she be willing to tell me all her secrets?

Leliana wonders. 
 
“I’ll tell you everything I can,” Hera says. “Before it all ends.”
 
Leliana watches her go, frowning.

That sounds ominous.

“You’ve been busy,” Wynne comments as Leliana takes a seat. “You’ve ink on your fingers.”
 
“I do? Damn,” she mutters, looking down and grabbing her napkin. 
 
“What are you writing?” Zevran asks, passing her the salt. “An emotional telling of our epic love affair?”
 
Wynne’s lips twist in disgust. “Zevran, not everything is about you.”
 
“And it wasn’t

that

epic to begin with,” Leliana snorts. “But no. I’m working on a song about the Blight.”
 
Wynne nods in approval. “They say art comes from the dark days as well as the bright.”
 
Sten and Morrigan join them, a small, satisfied smile on her face. “Art, you say? And what art can come from the world today?”
 
“Leliana is writing a song about us,” Zevran answers.
 
Morrigan arches a brow as a plate is set before her. “Are you? ’Twould be a long song, indeed.”
 
“It won’t be

everything,

” Leliana explains. “Mostly...them,” she says, nodding to the high table where Hera and Alistair sit with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan. Eamon has Alistair’s attention, muttering something low, but Hera charms and flirts with both Teagan and Isolde, making them laugh.
 
“

Them

?” Morrigan asks, sputtering into her wine. “A prostitute and a bastard prince?”
 
“I have to agree with Morrigan,” Sten says, methodically soaking his bread with gravy from the roast. “The Grey Wardens are merely doing their duty; no one tells stories about bakers.”
 
“Don’t you think it’s tragically romantic?” Leliana asks, resting her chin on her fist and smiling when she catches Alistair watching Hera and ignoring his uncle. “An exiled woman falls into a battle, feels she must help in any way possible, and then meets the love of her life? A beautiful love set in a time of fear and darkness? And

now

she’ll have to decide if she truly wants to go home, or stay with him. That’s a story worth telling.”
 
Zevran chuckles and winks at Wynne. “A brightness in the dark, eh, Wynne?”
 
Wynne smiles and pats Leliana’s shoulder. “I think it will be lovely. But Leliana, do an old woman a favor and make my old bones ache less in your tale.”
 
“And Zevran should be far more charming,” Morrigan quips.
 
“Morrigan should be warmer and more inviting,” Zevran tosses back.
 
Laughing, Leliana looks at Sten. “Any other requests?”
 
“No,” Sten says stoically. “I am exactly as the Qun demands. If there is such a thing as perfection, I am it.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Zeus pulls the hood of the plain brown cloak further down, obscuring his features as he passes by the Blood on the Vine Tavern and heads deeper into the alley that runs alongside it. Vistani usually park their wagons there, as the Blood is owned by some of their own and they feel safest there. Sure enough, a bright red lantern swings over the entrance to a large wagon, casting light over a brazier holding a cookpot, a young woman bent over a washing tub, and a man mending clothing. Beneath the wagon, a pile of children slept in a nest of blankets and pillows.
 
“Good evening, Astrid. I am here to see Madam Eva,” Zeus says, the glint of gold between his fingers catching the eye of the woman. 
 
She straightens, rubbing the small of her back, and approaches. “Mama is tired,” she says, peering into the depths of his hood. “Come back tomorrow.”
 
“I’m afraid that’s not an option,” Zeus tells her with a small growl.
 
A reedy voice drifts from the wagon. “Tell His Majesty to come in,” it says with a small laugh. “I have been waiting.”
 
Zeus grins and throws back the hood. “Why do I even try, Good Mother?” he chuckles, tripping up the stairs. “You always know me.”
 
“You can hide your face, child, but not the brightness you carry.”
 
The woman looks older than Zeus’ hundred years. Her back is bent from years of work, hands crabbed and so arthritic he can almost hear them creak from across the room as she hobbles over to put a hand on his cheek. In her youth, Eva had traveled the planes as a renowned seer; in her maturity she had chosen to return to Ravenloft with her family. 
 
“You want to know if I’ve seen her,” the old woman says, the lines in her face deepening as she frowns.
 
“I just need to know she’s safe,” he whispers, closing his eyes and not allowing himself to lean into her touch. “Look, Madam Eva, please.”
 
Madam Eva nods and gestures for him to sit at a small table. “We shall try the cards, eh?” she says with a small chuckle. “Queenie always did like the cards and you love a good shuffle.”
 
A deck of weathered cards appear from an old velvet bag and make a leathery slap against each other as she shuffles. Zeus concentrates on an image of Hera, filling in as much detail as possible, begging the Powers for news of her as he cuts the cards and watches Madam Eva lay out three cards.
 
“The Lovers,” she says, turning over the first card. A man and a woman stand on a field, a blue sky behind them, storm clouds in the distance. They’re both draped in blue and reaching for each other. “There is a man in her life,” she explains, her eyes distant. “A tall man. Brave. Of magical origin.”
 
“Of course she’d find a lover,” Zeus mutters. “What else?”
 
Another card is turned over, and Madam Eva gasps. “It is The Lovers,” she whispers.
 
Zeus leans forward, examining the card. It’s identical to the first, but upside down compared to its mate. “What does that mean?”
 
“There is a battle coming,” she explains, “a fight for love.”
 
She turns the last card and snorts. “The Lovers

again.

This is foolish,” she snaps and sends her deck fluttering across the room. Zeus plucks one out of the air and stares at The Lovers yet again. The air is full of the same card as Madam Eva mutters to herself and pulls a small clay jar from a shelf.
 
“Damn girl.”
 
Zeus watches in fascination as she scatters salt across the table. She stares at it for a moment before sweeping her hand across it irritably. “Bah!” she spits.
 
“What is it?” Zeus asks, watching as she goes to the window.
 
“Queenie don’t

want

to be seen,” she tells him, leaning out the window. “Astrid, bring me fresh water and a glass.”
 
“She doesn’t

want

to be seen?” Zeus asks, panic rising. “What do you mean?”
 
“All I can see is the man. A battle. Silk and lace. But not her. She’s nowhere to be seen, so either she doesn’t want me to see her, or the Powers don’t want her seen.”

Astrid comes into the wagons, carrying a tall, wide glass full of water. “Here, Mama,” she says and sets it on the table. 
 
“Stay, child,” Madam Eva says. “Tell me what you see.”
 
Zeus watches as Madam Eva cracks an egg into the water. Both women squint at it, frowning. “Astrid?” he whispers.
 
Like the old woman, Astrid’s eyes take on a faraway look. “I see a man,” she says softly. “A golden man, with a shadow around him.”
 
“Blasted girl,” Madam Eva mutters. “Give me the crystal. Put out the lights.”
 
Astrid flinches as she comes back to herself and leaps to do as commanded. “Yes, Mama.”
 
“Mother Eva, why do you keep seeing the man?” Zeus asks. This whirlwind of divination is making him dizzy, but he feels as if he has to keep trying. “Who is he?”
 
“The Lover, child,” Madam Eva explains emptily as she lights a candle. “If this doesn’t work, nothing will. Light the incense, Astrid, and help me.”
 
Sweet blue smoke filters through a small brass censer Astrid sets on the table, a step ahead of the old woman. Next comes a small wooden base and a ball made of milky, polished crystal the size of his head. Madam Eva and Astrid sit close together, both putting their hands on the crystal.
 
“Powers that Be,” whispers Madam Eva, “part the veils of the planes and show me the one who’s lost.”
 
“Powers that Be,” Astrid follows, “fill me with the power to see the paths she’s crossed.”
 
Outside a drum begins, slow and rhythmic. Zeus is fully aware of the performance that comes with a crystal ball- he has a rather lovely one sitting on a shelf and has pretended to sway with magic more than once- but this feels...different. The incense takes on the scent of Hera’s favorite perfume, so thick with violets he can taste it on his tongue. The shadows dance with the candle flame and from the corner of his eye it looks as if they take on his sister’s shape.
 
A low hum comes from Astrid, mingling with the drum beat as she falls into a trance, her hands moving away from the crystal at the same time as Madam Eva’s.
 
“Child, come see,” Eva whispers, swaying gently in time with the candle flame. “See the man.”
 
Zeus leans forward, frowning. A human stares into the distance, a soft smile on his face. He has a sharp nose and blonde hair, hazel eyes that shift from green to brown to gold. Zeus can’t hear his words, but he sees his mouth make the shape of Hera’s name.
 
“Who is he?” Zeus whispers to himself. “I don’t know him.”
 
“He is the bastard prince,” Astrid says in a flat voice. “He is the hero. The Lover.”
 
Zeus’ frown deepens to a scowl, and he tosses a handful of gold onto the table as he stands. “Then he is

nothing.

”
 
***
 
“What is that, Zeus?”
 
Zeus looks down at his hand, unaware that he had drawn the card from his pocket. “The Lovers,” he says dumbly, staring at it. He hadn’t even realized one of Madam Eva’s cards had fallen into his pocket.
 
“You went to the seeress?” The Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. 
 
“Well…” Zeus shrugs and grins. “You know me, always in need of more material.”
 
The Duke chuckles and lifts his wine. “May the Powers draw back the mists and show them the truth,” he says ceremoniously. 
 
Looking down at the card, he realizes for the first time how much the woman looks like his sister. And the man looks like the one in the crystal ball. “May the Powers draw back the dark and show them the light,” he answers thoughtfully.
 
“Perhaps they can find our wayward queen.”
 
Zeus tucks the card into his breast pocket and gives his uncle a nod. “I’m not ready to give up looking, Uncle.”
 
“I know, my boy,” the Duke says gently. “But in the meantime, we have a realm to care for. Let your friends continue their search, Hera will understand that you’re needed here.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Due to the darkspawn horde moving south, Arl Eamon is forced to plot a route along the North Road. It takes time, as the arl has to send messengers out to alert the inns he intends to stop at, prepare a small ship, and ready his men for the journey. Isolde and Connor elect to stay behind, feeling safer behind Redcliffe Castle’s walls. Standing on the walls herself, Hera can’t really blame them.
 
Spring is well and truly arriving in Redcliffe. In spite of the cloudy day, the land is turning green again and boats speckle the lake’s glassy surface. In the village below the market is bustling, the villagers looking like ants as they dart one way and then another. And in the courtyard below, soldiers train, readying themselves for war.
 
Hera lifts her nose to catch the scent of flowers on the breeze and sighs.

I’m going to miss this...it’s so beautiful and different from Ravenloft.

Will I remember this, or will the curse change whatever afterlife there is for my kind?

She wonders, thinking about her bargain with the Dark Powers. As far as she knows, there is no afterlife for vampires; many believe that because they are created and not born, they have no soul to send to an afterlife. Having been born a dhampir herself, Hera isn’t quite sure where she falls on the question of a soul.

Two years, and then death by demon. A year in Ravenloft, and a year in Ferelden.

“Are you all right? You look sad.”
 
Her gaze moves from the landscape to Alistair as he appears at her side. They had all found a large enough space on the parapets to sit around playing cards and trying to rest while staying out of the way of the busy staff inside. “I was just thinking of home,” she says, taking the cup of iced fruit juice he hands her. “Did you lose again?”
 
Alistair’s nose wrinkles. “Leliana cheats, I just can’t figure out how yet. What would Ravenloft be like now?”
 
“Dark and gray,” she says with a laugh. “The days are warm- well, warm for Ravenloft, anyway- but the nights turn cold early. The mist starts to get thick and curl through the forest as soon as the sun goes down. Autumn doesn’t seem to last long for us; we bring in the harvests and tour the mines and then suddenly it’s snowing.”
 
“And what do

you

do during all that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and grinning rakishly. “If everyone is busy it doesn’t leave much for a courtesan to do, does it?”
 
Hera has to catch herself before she tells him that

she

would be the one overseeing the harvests and touring the mines.

Too late to tell him the truth now,

she thinks, not meeting his eyes. “Oh, Zeus and I stay busy,” she says instead. “Planning parties and events for the court. Our birthday is in the fall and no matter where we are, it’s always the event of the year.”

It certainly was last year.

Her coronation had been a week-long celebration of their birthday, her victory over Strahd, and the return of the true royal line. Zeus had outdone himself with the planning; the moment the clocks had struck midnight, tiny stars had fallen from the rafters, catching in their hair and clothing and leaving them glittering.
 
“That means it’s soon, right?” he asks eagerly. 
 
Hera nods, turning to lean against the rail. “Soon,” she says vaguely. “But I don’t think we’ll have time to celebrate, what with a Blight on our schedule and all.”
 
Alistair shrugs. “Maybe we can find time to do something. When is it?”

So much sooner than I want it to be…

“I’m not sure, exactly,” she lies. She knows down to the hour of her birth.

Not that I’ve kept count or anything.

“The calendars don’t match up very well. But I’ll see if I can figure it out,” she says, fully intending not to keep the promise.
 
“It would be nice to have a night when we can all just be happy,” Alistair says, his eyes on the horizon. “Just a little bit of light before we dive into battle.”
 
Hera smiles sadly and leans over, resting against his shoulder. “Hero, we’ve been in battle since the moment we met.”
 
“Hera!” Zevran calls. “You must come see the shockingly poor hand Sten just played against me! His bluff is unbreakable!”
 
Hera puts a smile on her face and goes to see what Zevran is crowing about, leaving Alistair to turn and watch the way her hips sway. “I still can’t believe how beautiful she is,” Leliana says as she slips into the space Hera left beside him. “I mean,

look

at her,” she laughs. “Like some spirit of beauty, right here in front of us. I'd hate her if she gave me the slightest reason, but she's just as beautiful inside,” she adds with a half-hearted grumble.
 
Alistair gives her a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I imagine other people find it very easy to hate her for her looks alone,” he says. “But does she seem...different lately?”
 
“So you

have

noticed,” Leliana says softly. “I was wondering if it was just me.”
 
“She’s thinner,” he says. “Pushes more food around her plate than she eats, then she feeds what’s left to Ares. I’m not quite sure when it started, but I noticed in Orzammar.”
 
“How is she sleeping?”
 
Alistair sighs, his shoulders sagging. “If I’m honest? Poorly. We both are; the darkspawn dreams are becoming relentless. I can feel them everywhere,” he adds with a shudder. “Not like they’re

here

, but…” He taps his temple, a scowl forming as he searches for the words. “The connection is getting stronger. They say it’s worse for Grey Wardens during a Blight- especially new ones.”
 
Leliana puts a hand on his arm, her concern evident. “Is there anything I can do to help? I can play while you sleep, perhaps?”
 
He shakes his head and crosses his arms. “I’m not sure that would help, but thank you. It’s just something she and I have to live with until this is over.”
 
“What will you do when it

is

over?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at him. Her voice takes on a playful tone and her eyes sparkle. “Are you going to get married and live happily ever after? Have a dozen princes and princesses and name them after the great Wardens of legend?”
 
At the thought of spending forever with Hera, Alistair brightens. “That’s the dream, isn’t it? She said...she said we’ll find a way to be together, whether she stays or comes back or whatever. I just want her near me,” he adds with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m glad she’s not someone very important in Ravenloft; once she’s seen her brother and secured the doorway back and forth, she’ll be free to stay.”
 
Leliana looks as if she might squeal and jump for joy. “When do you think you’ll propose? In Denerim? I can help you find a ring, I know someone there.”
 
Alistair laughs, waving her question away. “Not anytime soon, we have bigger things to deal with first. But,” he adds, trying not to grin too widely, “keep that bit about the ring in mind.”
 
She giggles. “You know it’s going to be a real fight- she loves Ravenloft. It’s going to be hard to convince her to live somewhere else.”
 
“Well, Leliana, she and I have been in battle since the moment we met, haven’t we?” he asks, quoting Hera from only moments ago. “I’m not afraid to fight for her.”
 
Hera is not surprised when the arl catches her eye, gesturing for her to come sit with him under the shade of an awning. Handing her cards to Morrigan, she takes her time walking over, then gracefully sits and gives him a winning smile. “What can I do for you?” she asks.
 
The arl’s easy smile doesn’t waver as he waves a hand for Isolde and Teagan to move away. It's an easy gesture from the kind of man who expects to be obeyed without question; the kind of gesture that kings make. “You know what I’d like best, my dear,” he says, sipping a cup of fruit juice. “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered my offer for a place in Orlais?” he asks, his eyes on the lake as if they were discussing the cloudy day. “I am prepared to be generous. I can introduce you to the empress herself.”
 
She has to stop herself from glancing over at Alistair, laughing and playing with Ares, and instead down at her hands. It’s too easy to envision herself draped in something silky and fashionable, sipping wine and gambling. Too easy to imagine someone else’s hands on her skin, another voice in her ear. It’s the same story she’s known all her life.

If this were less important, less dangerous, I would have walked away from him a long time ago,

she admits to herself, willing her eyes not to burn.

The moment it became love, I would have begun planning a way out.

If I’d had more time, I would have loved him, enjoyed him, and then left him to find a better match for himself.

“My lady, are you all right?” Arl Eamon asks, leaning forward and blocking anyone else’s view of her. The concern in his voice is so uncharacteristically sincere that Hera is certain if she looked up at him she would burst into tears.

But I don’t have more time,

she thinks, making fists in her lap.

So they’ll all just have to forgive me for being a little selfish in my last days. It's always easier to forgive the dead for taking what they wanted.

“I’m fine,” she says, gritting her teeth and forcing her eyes to clarity. Looking up at him, she straightens her spine and gives him a flinty look. “Yes, my lord, I have considered it,” she tells him. “And I won’t leave him. Not for you, or anyone else.”
 
Arl Eamon huffs and scowls at her, looking as if he wished there were whiskey in his cup and not juice. “Hera, you don’t seem to understand, Alistair is going to be

king

-”
 
“I understand that you’re afraid that you won’t be able to control him with me there,” she says, smiling sweetly. “You want him to have an ally as a wife- preferably Celene- and for him to be biddable. As far as you’re aware, I am not an ally, nor will I allow you to keep him under your thumb.”

The arl’s face changes suddenly, looking relaxed and amused as if she’s only just told a silly little anecdote. “My dear,” he croons, leaning back against the pillows of his chair. “I don’t think you’re quite prepared to fight me on this matter. Alistair

will

marry a noblewoman of my choosing, someone quiet and appropriate. If you were

ever

appropriate, that time has long passed. You might as well disappear into the night with your rabbit there,” he adds, nodding to Zevran. “He seems more your kind.”
 
It takes a great deal of restraint not to attack the man, but Hera manages to take a deep breath as thunder begins to roll in the distance. “You know nothing of my kind,” she says coldly. “Thank you for the scintillating conversation. You are a gem, as always, my lord.”
 
Eamon’s voice stops her in her tracks when he speaks to her back. “Oh, I’ve made certain travel arrangements ahead of time. You’ll understand that Alistair can’t be traveling with a camp whore trailing after him, sleeping in his rooms. He’ll be sleeping alone, and you can share amongst your companions.”
 
Hera turns and gives him a sharp smile. “That makes perfect sense, Arl Eamon. The future king should stand on his own two feet if he’s to gain the trust and respect of the people.”
 
“You don’t intend to argue?” he asks, almost disappointed.
 
“No,” she says with a shrug. “But somehow I don’t think it will be my problem, my lord.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Thank you so much for this, Teagan,” Hera says, clutching the sword to her chest as they walk toward the castle. Sten’s sword is nearly as long as she is tall, and rather lovely in a brutal way. “I don’t think I could have done it without your help.”
 
Teagan blushes and waves a hand to dismiss her compliments. The setting sun sparks fire into his red hair, giving him a halo of glorious flame and throwing his angular features into sharp relief. “I am only glad I was able to be of assistance, my lady,” he tells her. “When I received your message I went directly to Dwyn and offered to purchase it for you, but he said he would only take the money from your hand. I was at least able to get him to swear not to sell it to anyone else.”
 
“Sten will be so pleased it’s been found,” she says, bubbling over with excitement. “I can hardly wait to give it to him!”
 
Teagan gives her a look so tender she can practically see his heart beating in his eyes. “You are a remarkable woman, Hera. Your friends- and Alistair especially- are quite lucky to have you.”
 
Hera’s eyebrows move up and she sighs. “I’m not sure Alistair will agree with you in a few hours,” she mutters. “I have news he won’t like.”
 
“Oh? Nothing you can’t work out, I hope?”
 
She swings the sword’s baldric over her shoulder, angling it so that it won’t drag the ground. “I need to go take care of something personal for Morrigan,” she explains. “And I think the best use of our time is to send him with you and Arl Eamon to Denerim while Leliana, Zevran, and I tend to the favor I promised.”
 
“Ah, yes, Alistair won’t like that at all,” he agrees, clasping his hands behind his back.
 
“It’s just that he needs you to teach him how to win over the Landsmeet and I can’t pass up the chance to deal with this for Morrigan. If I went to Denerim with him and then all the way down to the Korcari Wilds, it would waste so much time.”
 
Teagan nods. “I agree with you, you can easily pass close to the Wilds, and it would be foolish to let the opportunity pass. Is Morrigan not to go with you? It is her favor, is it not?” 
 
“It’s complicated,” Hera says with a shrug. “Which is also why I want Alistair to go on to Denerim. He and Sten can keep an eye on Wynne and Morrigan, make sure they don’t run into any trouble with the templars in the city.”
 
Teagan chuckles, trying to cover it by rubbing his hand over his beard. “You do think of everything, don’t you?”
 
Hera shares his grin. “A good courtesan

does

think of everything, and I have always been rather good at what I do.”
 
Teagan ducks his head but is unable to hide the blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. “I imagine you are, my lady.”
 
Sten stares down at the sword in his hands, his face uncharastically full of emotion. “Strange,” he says softly, his voice trembling.
 
“What’s strange?” Hera asks, tilting her head. “That

is

your sword, isn’t it?”
 
“Yes, it is Asala, the blade made for my hand. I had almost forgotten what completion feels like,” he tells her. He finally raises his eyes to look at her, his eyebrows lifted. “Are you

sure

you are a Grey Warden? I think you must be an

ashkaari

to find a single lost blade in a country at war.”
 
Hera gives him a warm smile. “You’re welcome, Sten.”
 
His hands tighten on the scabbard until the veins in his wrist bulge. “I would thank you for this, if I knew how. And I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the arishock’s question if the Blight were ended, don’t you agree?”
 
“Absolutely, my friend.”
 
And then something happens that makes Hera’s heart drop into her belly. Sten

smiles.

Not a big, toothy smile, but the smile of a man satisfied with himself and the path he is on. She nods, watching him strap the sword over his back with the easy movements of long practice.
 
“Kadaan, I have a request,” he says solemnly.
 
“What is it, Sten? If it’s in my power, you have it.”
 
Sten sets his jaw as if mustering his courage. “I would like to accompany you to the Korcari Wilds when you go,” he says. “I would like to see to Morrigan’s safety.”
 
Hera has to quell the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

What is it between them?

“Of course, you can come,” she tells him. “But you should know that I have no idea how this will play out with Flemeth.”

“So long as Morrigan’s safety is assured, it will not matter.”
 
Hera nods, glad to have his company on the journey she will inevitably have to take without Alistair. “So be it.”
 
“Then lead the way.”

“Absolutely not.

”
 
Hera crosses her legs, settling one knee over the other. “Alistair, Morrigan needs this,” she says simply. “You heard her story. Flemeth will possess her and-”
 
“And we have one less bitch to deal with,” he growls, pacing in front of her. “Whose idea was this to split us up? Morrigan? Zevran?”
 
“Why would they want us to part?” she asks sensibly. “Morrigan cannot be there when I confront Flemeth and you have to go to Denerim for the Landsmeet. Alistair, I’ll only be a few days behind you-”
 
“It’s madness, Hera,” he argues. “You want me to escort

Morrigan,

who I hate, to Denerim and leave you to deal with her crazy mother? Why not send Morrigan with Wynne, Sten, and Arl Eamon? Then I can go to the Wilds with you.”
 
“Because the Arl will want to show you off,” she explains, barely keeping herself from pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s touring the northern lands to make you known and see the spread of the Blight himself before you get to the Landsmeet. And you need to learn more about the Landsmeet, the laws of Ferelden. You have to be Maric’s

heir

, not his bastard, and right now only Eamon and Teagan can help you do that.”
 
“You can do that, Hera!”
 
She shakes her head and rises to put her hands on his chest. “No, I can’t. I don’t know Ferelden the way they do, Alistair. I can teach you to be

royal

, but that isn’t the same thing. The Landsmeet doesn’t need another royal, they need

you

. I swear we will be right behind you,” she says, her voice softening. “Just keep an eye on our mages, make sure the templars don’t trouble them, and I will be at your side again as soon as I can. Take Ares with you,” she suggests. “He’ll be good company, and what’s more Ferelden than a king with a mabari at his side?”
 
She can see her words ring true, even if he doesn’t like them. “You’ll take extra precautions in the Wilds?” he asks, shoulders sagging. “And you’ll take the horses the arl has for us?”
 
Hera’s heart aches at the three vertical lines between his eyebrows. They will only deepen as time passes and his cares grow heavier. Leaning forward, she presses her lips to the spot, smoothing them away. “All our gear has already been repaired, and I’ll make certain there’s a spare horse to carry supplies.”
 
Alistair’s worry doesn’t diminish. “I don’t like this, Hera,” he says seriously. “We’ve done this together, every step of the way. Not going with you feels wrong.”
 
“The last thing I want to do is leave you,” she tells him. “But this isn’t Grey Warden business. I can’t ask you to risk yourself— and Ferelden’s future— for this. Please understand that I have to finish this.”
 
He sighs and rests his forehead against hers. “Oh, I understand,” he says with a defeated laugh. “But it still means I have to travel with Sten and Morrigan all alone.”
 
“You actually get Zevran,” she laughs. “Sten is coming with me; he said he wants to be sure of Morrigan’s safety. Besides, Wynne will be there,” she laughs. 
 
“Yes, Wynne, the evil old woman who makes

really

inappropriate comments when you’re not around.” He groans. “Oh Maker, Zevran

and

Wynne are going to drive me crazy with all their dirty jokes.”
 
Hera gasps and pulls back just enough to look at him in shock. “Wynne doesn’t make dirty jokes!”
 
“She does!” It must be true because he blushes just thinking about it. “She teases me about your swaying hips and...other things.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I am told you are leaving me with Alistair and Wynne to travel to Denerim.”
 
Hera looks up from folding her clothes to see Morrigan leaning against the doorframe. “You said that you don’t feel safe going to see your mother,” she explains. “And Alistair needs to get to Denerim as quickly as possible.”
 
Morrigan’s eyebrow arches. “And your excuse for leaving Wynne behind? My mother is formidable; you might require a healer.”
 
“We’re taking plenty of health potions with us,” Hera tells her. “As for leaving Wynne...I think it’s safest not to have a mage around when we confront your mother.”
 
Morrigan pushes off the frame and comes closer, closing the door behind her. “Hera, reconsider your choices. Alistair knows Holy Smite and he could drain Flemeth of magic should there be trouble- and there will be trouble.”
 
Hera pauses her packing and studies Morrigan. There is an undercurrent of anxiety breaking through her usual confidence, showing in the way her fingers twist around a string of small bones at her waist and how her eyes dart over the possessions strewn across Hera’s bed. 
 
“Morrigan, what’s wrong?” Hera asks, shoving things aside to sit. “You can tell me, you know that.”
 
“Flemeth is quite powerful,” Morrigan says, sitting beside her. “You are not taking enough precautions, leaving a powerful mage

and

a templar behind. I do not say this because I would rather travel with the others.”
 
“I could take Wynne, I suppose,” Hera considers the option, tilting her head. “But I’m just not comfortable with that idea now that we know what Flemeth is planning. What if she attacked, we beat her, and then she possessed Wynne as an escape?” 
 
Morrigan’s lips stretch into a thin line and she rolls her eyes. “Mother wants a

young

mage’s body, not that withered husk of a woman.”
 
“I suppose any mage’s body will do if she’s dying,” Hera counters. “Sten specifically told me he wanted to come, and Leliana is worried about going into Denerim with the fanfare the arl is planning. I’ve promised her a quiet entrance into the city.”
 
Morrigan’s face softens and she taps a finger against her lip. “My Sten, always the hero,” she murmurs. “Zevran would be welcome in our party,” she agrees. “Though I would prefer Alistair went with you as well.”
 
Hera shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Morrigan, that’s not possible. He has to be there when the Arl calls the Landsmeet.”
 
Morrigan frowns, her lips twisting. “I suppose ’tis my burden to bear.”

Hera bumps her shoulder against her friend’s. “Zevran will keep you entertained, and Alistair will be so busy you’ll barely have time to argue.”
 
“Oh you

are

hopeful, aren’t you?” Morrigan says wryly. “And Wynne?”
 
Hera grins and winks at her. “Use the time to learn more healing magic from her.”
 
Alistair wants to send her off with a kiss and smile- a better man would have. Instead, all he can do is scowl as Hera tightens the last strap on their packhorse. Leliana is practically bouncing and excited to get going, already humming a new tune as she all but leaps into the saddle. Around them, Ares sniffs the horses, tail wagging as if he’s ready to go as well.
 
“Well,” Hera says, coming up to him. “We’re ready to go.”
 
“You have plenty of rations?” he asks. “Where did you put the extra bandages and healing potions?”
 
“Yes, we’re bringing extra rations, most of the bandages are spread between the three of us, we’re each carrying a dozen potions in our saddlebags, our armor has been repaired as best it can be without Mikhail-”
 
“Mikhail!” Alistair slaps his forehead. “We should have sent for him sooner!”
 
“He’s making his way to Denerim,” Hera reminds him, her hands on his arms. She gives him a maddingly serene smile, as if she wasn’t leaving on what could be a deadly mission. “He’ll be at the arl’s estate, waiting for you when you arrive.”
 
Alistair sighs and leans forward to press his forehead to hers. His stomach is in knots and he’s certain that he’s going to be sick the minute she’s out of sight. “I’m just so worried about you,” he says softly. “I don’t like this at all. Why can’t we wait until after the Landsmeet to go to the Wilds?”
 
“Because we don’t know what will happen in Denerim,” Hera reminds him. “Alistair, I wouldn’t go if I didn’t feel it was necessary, you have to know that.”
 
“I know.”
 
Hera pulls away and lifts his chin with a finger. “Kiss me like you mean it so I have something to cling to until we’re together again.”
 
Alistair does as she asks, trying to pour all his love and passion for her into a single kiss. He must do a pretty good job because when they part her eyes sparkle and her cheeks are pink.

Andraste save me, she is so beautiful.

“Who taught you to do that?” she asks breathlessly.
 
He gives her the best grin he can muster. “Some courtesan I met back at Ostagar,” he jokes. 
 
“Thank her for me,” Hera chuckles.
 
“Oh sure, next time I see her.” The teasing leaves him and he shakes her a bit, his voice becoming stern. “Be careful,” he orders, “and come back to me.”
 
Violet eyes still sparkling, she laughs. “I’ll see you soon, Alistair.”
 
“Hera,” he pauses, trying to speak past the lump in his throat. “I love you.”
 
The smile she gives him makes his heart drop into his stomach. “I love you, Alistair. And it will be fine, I promise.” She squats down, calling Ares to her so she can kiss his nose and give him instructions in a serious voice. “You keep an eye on him, Ares,” she says. “I’m leaving you in charge.” The dog watches her face intently as if he can understand every word, then sits beside Alistair with a soft huff.
 
Watching Hera ride away with Leliana and Sten terrifies him, but Alistair does his best not to show it. When Morrigan comes to his side, his clenched jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak or let his eyes move from Hera’s retreating back.
 
“We’ll see her soon, boy,” he says softly, patting Ares on the head. “She’ll be waiting in Denerim.”
 
“I tried to convince her to take you,” Morrigan tells him. Neither of them look at one another, but Alistair’s shoulders relax slightly. “I told her you would be useful to her in a fight with Flemeth.”

A fight that could have waited,

he thinks, scowling.

It could have waited!

“Don’t wait for me to thank you,” he says, his voice hard and sharp. “It clearly didn’t work.”
 
“Alistair-” Morrigan cuts herself off and Alistair finally looks at her.

She looks...anguished,

he thinks. The skin around her eyes is wrinkled and her mouth is a tight line of displeasure, as if she’d like nothing more than to turn into a hawk and follow Hera. He’s even more surprised when she bows her head, shoulders slumped.
 
“What?” he asks. It’s a little harsher than he intended, but given the fact that the love of his life just rode off to take care of something for

Morrigan

of all people, he forgives himself.
 
Morrigan’s face smooths over and she lifts her head. “It wasn’t my intention to force you to part ways,” she says flatly. “Indeed, I would have taken you. ’Twas her decision. I-” Her voice cracks uncharacteristically. “She is my friend and I would have her protected.”
 
“So you sent her to pick a fight with your all-powerful witch mother?” he scoffs. “You aren’t very good at the

friend

thing, are you?”
 
“No,” she says softly, still looking off into the distance. “I am afraid I am not.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Alistair, my friend! Come spar with me,” Zevran offers, lifting his dagger casually. “I cannot spend all day sharpening my sword.”
 
Alistair shakes his head and keeps his eyes firmly on the horizon. “Can you be seasick on a lake?” he asks, taking a slow breath.
 
“I suppose you can,” Zevran says with a shrug. “Wynne and Morrigan have not offered a concoction of some kind?”
 
“I haven’t-” Alistair cuts himself off as his gorge rises again, instinctively pressing his fist to his chest. “-Asked.”
 
“Still sick, Alistair?” Teagan asks, coming up on the other side. “Don’t worry, we’ll be docking soon. We’ll be on horseback tomorrow.”
 
“Thank the Maker,” Alistair grumbles. Being seasick was bad enough, but being seasick with Morrigan on board was worse. She had teased him all morning, saying things like

I have not turned you into a frog, Alistair, why are you so green?

It had lasted until Wynne put her foot down and sent the younger mage sulking in a corner.
 
Then it had been Arl Eamon’s chance to mentally pummel him, filling his head with lists of bannorns, arlings, and the terynirs of Ferelden. The arl could name every single noble in Ferelden— and expected him to be able to do the same.

So much to remember. I don’t know how I’m going to be ready for the Landsmeet.

How am I going to manage being a king?

“Alistair?”
 
Teagan’s voice breaks through his thoughts, his raised eyebrows telling Alistair that he’s missed a question somewhere.
 
“I’m sorry, Teagan, what did you say?” he asks, shaking his head to dispel his thoughts. 
 
“I asked what was so important Hera couldn’t travel with us?” he repeats. “I was under the impression that she intended to help you prepare for the Landsmeet.”
 
“Oh, it’s...a side note,” he says vaguely. “Something we found out in the Wilds that she thinks will help with the archdemon.”

As long as Morrigan stays helpful with the Blight, that’s not untrue,

he decides. 
 
Teagan nods, accepting the answer. “My brother tells me that you’ve been studying the Bannorn most of the morning. How has that gone?”
 
“Well enough, I guess- I mean I

suppose

,” he corrects. Hera would want him to use language that befitted a king, so he’d better start now and get in plenty of practice. “He didn’t say much about Rainesfere, though. Mostly he talked about Amaranthine and West Hill.”
 
“Well, Rainsefere isn’t as impressive as they are,” Teagan admits with amusement. “But we do have the best apples in Thedas and the distinction of being the home of the unluckiest of men.”
 
“You mean Ser Thorval?” Alistair laughs. “Half of that can’t even be true.”
 
“Oh believe me, it is,” Teagan says, leaning on the ship’s railing. “To this day, the forge is the largest for miles and miles. Thorval practically funded it himself, ordering new blades and shields. A Rainesfere sword is not something to turn your nose up at.”
 
Alistair laughs, remembering the story of Ser Thorval, who lost every blade and shield he ever went into battle with. They said that he would go into a tournament with a dozen or more swords ready, anticipating the moment one would break. It was a good thing he was nearly unbeatable, because his blacksmithing bills were more legendary than Thorval himself. 
 
“Do you think they can make something to help me be a good king?” he jokes. “We can send it to the Circle and have it enchanted.”
 
“Alistair,” Teagan says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Being king will be a challenge, no doubt. But you have a good mind and a steady heart. That, and a willingness to learn, is all you truly need.”
  
Alistair enjoyed horses; they were all like old friends to him, and riding came easily to him as they made their way along the North Road. The weather was clear and the hunting good; Ares even brought down a few rabbits on his own, proudly presenting them to Alistair in his bed one night. It would have been pleasant if not for the growing sense of dread, the darkening sky on the southern horizon, worry over Hera and her companions, and of course, Morrigan’s presence. 
 
He’s certain she’s done everything in her power to annoy him, from the way she laughs and flirts with Zevran to how often she brings up his templar training. Once, though, he got her, comparing her nose to Flemeth’s, and she was silent for most of the day.
 
That had been a good day, until they’d heard about Highever.
 
Eamon had tried to keep it from him at first, but the massacre was on everyone’s lips. They’d stopped at a tavern for the night, and the common room had been filled with rumors and stories of blood. Some said Arl Rendon Howe had betrayed his long friend Bryce Cousland, the Teryn of Highever, out of jealousy and spite. Some said Elissa Cousland had organized it so she could run away with one of Howe’s sons and

he

had ordered the deed.
 
There are only two things certain: except for Elissa, the Couslands were all presumed dead, and men who wore the Howe crest had left the castle in flames.
 
It’s a horrible story, no matter what version is told, and Alistair shivers every time he hears it. Eventually, he joins Ares and the horses in the stables, preferring them to the whispers of murder and treachery.
 
“Shouldn’t you be in there, ingratiating yourself to your people?”
 
Morrigan’s voice is like breaking glass, sharp and dangerous. He turns away from the horse he was brushing and glares at her. “You like bloody stories, why don’t you go listen?” he snaps.
 
“I do not want to,” Morrigan says, sitting primly on a bale of hay. “The Couslands were not my people, nor my responsibility.”
 
“Aren’t you angry, though?” he asks, throwing the brush down. Thinking it’s a game, Ares snatches it up and nudges Alistair’s hand with the brush to take it back. “Because I

am

. Arl Howe allowed his men to walk into his friend’s estate and murder everyone. There was a child there!”
 
“Yes, and the darkspawn could have struck him down in just a few weeks,” Morrigan says, shrugging. “Or a plague next summer. Perhaps the Qunari will invade and the boy would have died with a sword in his hand.”
 
“You’re such a bitch,” Alistair growls. “You don’t care about anyone, do you? Hera’s out there, risking her life for

you

, and all you can do is reason out the murder of a child!”
 
“I am not reasoning anything, Alistair,” she says hotly, bright spots on her cheeks appearing suddenly. “And I

care

! I care about Hera and Leliana and Sten! I care that my mother might turn into a dragon and eat them for breakfast!”
 
“Because then you wouldn’t have anyone to save your ass, is that it?” he spits.
 
“Because-” Morrigan stops and takes a deep breath, obviously struggling to control herself. “Because they are my

friends,

and I have so few I do not enjoy risking them.”
 
“You better hope they come back all right,” he says, jabbing a finger in her direction. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”
 
Morrigan rises, dusting hay from her clothes with a snort. “Unlike you, I have no doubt in Hera’s abilities.”
 
“I don’t-”
 
“Don’t you?” she asks, arching a brow. “Your fear says otherwise. Perhaps you should practice hardening your expression if you mean to be king. Your every thought is as plain as your nose.”
 
Alistair nearly flinches at the advice- it’s actually not useless. “I- well-

your

nose looks like your mother’s,” he grumbles.
 
Morrigan’s lips curl in a small smile and she inclines her head. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair grunts and rubs his lower back. “You’d think after all the walking we’ve done, a few days on horseback wouldn’t be so bad, right?” he asks Wynne, going to help her dismount. 
 
“At least the roads were good,” she says gratefully, nodding to the south. “The storm clouds we’ve seen look as they might bring more than just rain.”

Not long now.

Alistair’s eyes follow her nod even though he can’t see the Blight storm. The growing presence of darkspawn continues to unnerve him, and he can’t sense Hera at all.

I just hope she’s all right,

he thinks, whistling for Ares and following Eamon through the courtyard. 
 
The Arl’s estate in Denerim is probably finer than an arl should have had, but he supposes being the king’s uncle merits at least an estate as nice as a teryn’s. “Alistair, don’t forget the importance of Denerim,” Eamon was saying. “It’s the heart and soul of Ferelden, the city of King Calenhad. The birthplace of Andraste herself. She will weather the Blight and still be standing when this is all over.”
 
“Assuming we actually

do

defeat the darkspawn,” Zevran mutters behind them.
 
Eamon ignores Zevran’s words and keeps talking. “If we defeat Loghain here, the rest of the nation will follow us.”
 
“

If

, he says,” Morrigan adds, keeping pace with Zevran. “’Twould seem he is not as confident as we thought.”
 
“Would you two be quiet?” Wynne asks in a harsh whisper. “Now is not the time.”
 
“Do you really think we can do that?” Alistair asks Eamon. “Beat Loghain at his own game?”
 
Eamon chuckles as they approach the massive front doors. “Do not forget, this is my game as well,” he tells him. “By calling the Landsmeet, I’ve struck the first blow. The advantage, for the moment, is ours. Loghain will have little choice but to show himself and challenge us directly.”
 
“Is

that

a good idea?” Zevran whispers. “Loghain is a formidable man.”
 
The doors open with a loud creak, unoiled hinges protesting loudly as they cross the threshold. Blinking in the sudden dim light, he almost thinks the small group before him is a mirage. Two men and a woman are waiting patiently in the vestibule, admiring the architecture. 
 
“Loghain,” Arl Eamon says with a tight smile. “This is...an honor, that the regent would find time to greet me personally.”
 
“Who is the man with him?” Morrigan asks, leaning closer to Zevran.
 
“That is Arl Howe,” Zevran offers. “He was with Loghain when I was hired. I do not know the woman.”
 
Loghain’s face is lit with a smile so false it makes Alistair’s look genuine. “How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?”
 
“I thought you said it

wasn’t

a Blight,” Alistair snapped, glaring at him. His hatred for Loghain is suddenly so intense he feels as if it might burn him to ash just standing so close to the traitor. “At least, that’s what you told Cailan.”
 
Sensing his anger, Ares lowers his head and growls at the men.
 
Teagan puts a restraining hand on Alistair’s shoulder, but says nothing as Eamon’s smile grows tighter. “The Blight is why I’m here,” Eamon explains patiently. “With Cailan dead, Ferelden must have a king to lead it against the darkspawn.”
 
“Ferelden

has

a strong leader,” Loghain informs him haughtily. “Its queen. And I lead her armies.”
 
“Considering the disaster at Ostagar, maybe we need a better general,” Alistair says, earning a stern shake of the head from Teagan and an amused look of approval from Zevran. 
 
“Ah, Maric’s bastard,” Loghain says condescendingly. “I thought we might meet again. You have my sympathies for what happened to your order. It is unfortunate they chose to turn against Ferelden.”
 
Alistair lunges forward, ready to swing at the regent, but Zevran and Teagan both grab him as the woman at Loghain’s side begins to draw her sword. “You bastard!” Alistair growls. “If Hera were here she’d—”
 
Loghain shakes his head, barely holding back his grin and raising a hand to the woman to stop her. “Where

is

your fellow recruit, Alistair? Has she turned against you as well? You truly do have my sympathies now.”
 
Clenching his jaw so hard it hurts, Alistair shakes off the men holding him back. “I don’t accept the sympathies of deserters and regicides,” he says in a low, cold voice. “You’re no better than the murderer beside you.”
 
“You should curb your tongue,” Loghain says in a voice like acid. “This is

my

city, and no safe place to speak treason. For anyone.”
 
“And when will you be arrested, then?” Morrigan quips. To his surprise, the snickering behind him soothes Alistair; it reminds him that they’re on the same side, no matter their personal differences.
 
Loghain turns a hawkish stare at her for a moment before taking a deep breath and returning his gaze to Eamon. “There is talk your illness left you feeble, Eamon,” he says with mock compassion. “Some worry that you may no longer be fit to advise Ferelden.”
 
“Illness?” Eamon repeats, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these…” He turns a steady, cold look to Howe and the woman standing with them. “Sycophants.”
 
“Sycophants?” Loghain lets his smile stretch slowly across his face. “How long you’ve been gone from court. Don’t you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine and Teryn of Highever?”
 
“

And

Arl of Denerim,” Howe adds smugly, “after Urien’s unfortunate fate at Ostagar. Truly an embarrassment of riches.”
 
“That’s a lot of titles for one man to have,” Wynne whispers.
 
“Oh, I know all about you, Howe,” Alistair says, moving so close that he’s nose to nose with the man. “I’ve heard of how you slaughtered the Couslands, massacred their people—”
 
“Haven’t you heard?” Howe chuckles. “They also say I’ve got little Elissa Cousland locked up in my dungeon. I’ve been told that I intend to marry her off to my boy Nathaniel. Such tripe,” he laughs.
 
“Enjoy your moment,” Alistair says, his words like a knife’s edge. “It will end soon enough.”
 
The woman with them finally speaks, moving between them and putting a hand on Alistair’s chest to push him back. “You are either very bold or very stupid to threaten the teryn before witnesses,” she says hotly. 
 
Loghain makes a chopping gesture, putting an end to her words. “Enough. Cauthrien, this is not the time or place.” Turning back to Eamon, he shakes his head again. “I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon,” he explains, the very voice of reason. “Our people are frightened: our king is dead, our land is under siege. We must be united now if we are to endure this crisis. Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work destroyed? You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne.”
 
Alistair takes a deep breath before answering him. “You’re the one who divided Ferelden,” he says, trying to rein in his anger. “If you truly want to save this land, stand with us.”
 
Loghain gives him a look so cold Alistair feels the chill of it drip down his spine. “I was not talking to you,” he sneers. 
 
Eamon uncrosses his arms, lifting them helplessly. “I cannot forgive what you’ve done, Loghain,” he says, as if he truly mourns the situation they find themselves in. “Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline. Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory against the Blight.”

Oh is

that

all I have to do? Become king and lead a whole army against the Blight? No pressure…

“The Emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down,” Loghain says, reminding them all that he is, indeed, a legendary war hero from Ferelden’s history. “Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is nothing I would not do for my homeland.”
 
Before Alistair can speak, Loghain turns on his heel and stomps out in a rattle of armor and swords. Watching the three of them leave, he glances at his friends behind him. “That went well, don’t you think?”
 
“Oh yes, quite marvelous,” Morrigan croones. “You’ve threatened a teryn and called the regent a traitor. Hera will be proud.”
 
“I think she will be,” Zevran says, shrugging.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair has slept poorly ever since they went through the Deep Roads, darkspawn haunting him night and day. Without Hera’s presence to ease the strain; it gets even worse; waking beside her and hearing her soft whisper in the dark always helps. It’s almost a relief when Morrigan’s shrill voice breaks through the nightmare. “Alistair, they are here!” 
 
Tripping over Ares, Alistair throws on a shirt and follows her to the courtyard, rubbing his face briskly to wake himself up. Somewhere behind him, Zevran stumbles and curses, trying to put on pants and run at the same time.
 
The sight that greets them in the courtyard is a startling one. Ares jumps and barks at servants and stablehands, come to take horses and their packs. Among it all, guards call out to one another, confirming identities before opening the gates. His own arrival was less chaotic, and that had practically been a parade.
 
Hera, Leliana, and Sten had left Redcliffe on large, sturdy horses, a packhorse loaded down, and looking moderately well. In the flickering torchlight, Leliana leans against Hera, half asleep on a shared horse, her face bruised and her clothing bloody and tattered. Hera herself looks just as bad; she has a dark bruise around her throat, a split lip, and blood trickling down the side of her face.
 
Sten grimaces when he swings out of the saddle, clutching his side briefly before turning to catch Alistair’s arm as he hurries to help Hera dismount. “She has an injury on her back,” he says in a low voice. “She would not let us use a health potion for it, but she allowed me to bandage it.”
 
“My Sten,” Morrigan says softly, looking worried. “You are well?”
 
Sten frowns at her, as if he could be anything else, but nods anyway. “Of course. Alistair, see that she is tended.”
 
Alistair nods, his gut clenching as he wonders what could be so bad Sten would warn him before he could see it himself. He turns back to the other horse as Leliana slides off the ratty cushion tied to the back of the saddle and into Zevran’s arms. He embraces her quickly, simply glad to see her alive before she pushes him off.
 
“I can walk on my own,” she says sharply, stomping off toward the house. Even Alistair can see her trying to hide a painful limp.
 
Stunned at her tone, Zevran raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, storm off with a sprained ankle. I was only trying to help.”
 
“Forgive her, Zev,” Hera sighs, still astride her shifting horse. “She’s had a hard night.”
 
“It seems you’ve had a hard week,” he says, stepping back to let Alistair help her down. “What happened?”
 
“Marjolaine,” Hera says, sliding into Alistair’s arms. Ares is instantly at her side, sniffing and licking any part of her he can.
 
“Hera,” Alistair breathes, gently pulling her close to breathe her in. She smells of sweat, blood, horse, and general filth, but underneath is the undefinable scent of Hera that always makes him think of misty mornings and intoxicating kisses. “Are you all right?”
 
“Mostly,” she groans, leaning into him. “Ares, I missed you too. But please stop sniffing me.”
 
“

Mostly?

” Zevran echoes, taking their packs from the saddle.
 
Hera pats his arm with a tired smile. “It’s been an eventful few days,” is all she says. “I’ll tell you about it in the morning. But first, Sten and Leliana need to see Wynne, and I need a bath.”
 
“From what Sten said you need to see Wynne, too,” Alistair says, sweeping her off her feet.
 
“Bath first, please,” she sighs, letting her head fall to his shoulder.
 
Inside the arl’s house, Teagan directs maids and footmen to gather linens and bandages, begin preparing baths and clean clothing for the newcomers, and calling for someone to wake the cook so they can at least have warm porridge before retiring. When he sees Alistair carrying Hera in, however, he falls silent, rushing over.
 
“I’m fine,” she says when his mouth opens. “Just tired.”
 
“Mildred is preparing a bath for you in Alistair’s chambers,” he tells her, taking her hand. “You are uninjured, my lady?”
 
Seeing his uncle’s distress, Alistair wonders what it would be like if Hera had taken up with Teagan when they first met. Would Alistair have pined for her, never knowing what could have been between them? Would Teagan’s pale face of fear and concern have mirrored his own? Gratitude that it

was

him she fell in love with— and while the thought is comforting, pity for Teagan weaves its way into the tangle of emotions in his chest, leaving him feeling rather unsettled by the thought.
 
“I am whole, if slightly tattered,” she jokes, bringing a small smile to the bann’s face. “Thank you for your concern, my dear bann.”
 
“If you have need of anything, simply ask,” Teagan tells them, looking from Alistair to Hera.

At least he doesn’t seem to hold a grudge,

Alistair thinks as Teagan returns to ordering the house about.
 
Carrying her to their room, Alistair can hardly take his eyes off her. He’s so happy to see her he wouldn’t care if she’d invited Teagan back to watch her bathe. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he murmurs, his arms tightening. They’re simple words that don’t begin to describe how his guts suddenly unknotted with relief the moment he saw her, but he knows if he tried he’d simply feel foolish.
 
“Me too,” she whispers, eyes closed. “Alistair, I have a question.”
 
“What is it?”
 
“Where are your pants?” she asks, a giggle escaping.
 
Alistair flushes, suddenly feeling a breeze despite his shirt hanging to his knees. “I was asleep, you see,” he explains, “and Morrigan came screeching that you were back…”
 
“So

Zevran

remembered pants, but you just went with a shirt?” she laughs, looking over at Zev. “I can hardly believe it.”
 
“It would not do to complain, Hera,” Zevran warns, giving Alistair a lecherous look. “Perhaps the Maker will send a breeze and lift the hem.”
 
“From your lips to the Maker’s ears,” Hera giggles.
 
“You can’t say I’m not excited to see you,” Alistair chuckles, kicking open the door to his room.
 
Hera wiggles in his arms, pressing her hip against his groin with a wicked grin. “I can tell.”
 
In the short time he’d been gone, the bed has been made, a small feast of warm bread, butter, cheese, fruit, and porridge with honey laid out, and the sound of water splashing can be heard from the bathing chamber. With a quick kiss on her cheek, Zevran deposits Hera’s things on the floor and hurries off.
 
“Uh...hello?” Alistair calls, putting Hera gently on her feet.
 
A small elf woman pops her head out of the bathroom, a smile on her face. “Yes, m’lord?” she says.
 
“You must be Mildred,” Hera says, smiling in return. “Bann Teagan said you were preparing a bath.”
 
“Aye, miss,” Mildred said, coming out of the chamber to bob a curtsey. “I was just finishing up. Will you need any help?”
 
“No, thank you,” Hera says. “I’m sorry to have woken you, I didn’t think our arrival would be so dramatic.”
 
Mildred shakes her head, blonde curls swinging. “No fuss, miss. I care for the Arlessa when she’s in town. Seeing to you is easy in comparison. I’ll leave you,” she adds with another curtsey. “Goodnight.”
 
“Goodnight,” Alistair says, raising his eyebrows at Hera as the maid leaves. “How much of a fuss do you think Isolde is?” he asks once the door’s closed.
 
“

A lot,

” Hera laughs. “I bet that if I stole Mildred away and took her back to Ravenloft with me, she’d think she was on a holiday.”
 
In spite of her good humor, it’s easy to see how she’d rather melt into the floor than struggle out of her clothes and the light armor she’d worn traveling. “Let me help,” he offers, almost laughing when she sighs in relief.
 
Slowly, he undresses her, making note of each new cut and bruise he discovers.

What happened?

He wonders, kicking himself for not putting his foot down and going with her. She flinches when she raises her arms so he can remove her shirt, a sharp hiss escaping her. Instead of smooth skin, there is a wide expanse of blood-soaked bandages wrapping her torso and going over her shoulders.
 
“That bad, is it?” he asks, tossing the stinking linen aside. “Sten said it was-”
 
“Dear, sweet Sten,” she says sarcastically. “He didn’t trust Leliana to wrap the bandages tight enough, I feel like I’m in a corset.”
 
Alistair clenches his jaw, gently untying the knot at her right shoulder. “Are you going to tell me how bad it is, or do I have to see it for myself?”
 
Her shoulders slump, a sure sign she’s ready to give in and let someone else handle things for a while. “Three gashes,” she says defeatedly. “Across my back from the left shoulder to the right hip. I doubt the cotton padding will- ow!” she cries, shuddering.
 
Alistair lifts his hands quickly. “I won’t pull it off,” he decides. “We’ll let it soak off in the bath, all right?”
 
The water is still steaming and smells like elfroot and flowers when he helps her lower into the water. Another sigh escapes her as she leans against the side of the tub, letting Alistair pour pitchers of water over her head. 
 
“Hmm,” she murmurs, tilting her head back. “That tingles. Must be the elfroot.”
 
“Tell me what happened,” he says, working soap into a rich lather on her scalp.
 
Hera practically purrs under his hands, her whole body slowly growing limp as she begins to relax. “Well, it started with darkspawn,” she explains, telling him about how they ran across three different bands of darkspawn on their way through the Wilds. “And then I decided to go meet Flemeth myself.”
 
“Rinsing,” he warns, pouring a few more pitchers over her head. “Alone? Why?”
 
She shrugs, wincing as the hot water sluices over her bandages and soaks through. “I thought she might not be suspicious if I went alone.” Carefully she pulls her hair over her shoulder so he can see to her back. “I was hoping to work things out with her peacefully.”
 
“You were wrong,” he says, peeling the soaked pad away. “Andraste’s flaming tits, Hera! What did she

do

to you?”
 
“I told you, three gashes,” she says, looking at him over her shoulder. “Alistair, I’m exhausted, do we really need to talk about this now?”
 
He gives her a hard look, wanting to press her for more information, lecture her about her stupid recklessness, and cuddle her close all at once. But just as he opens his mouth to start the lecture, the lamplight flickers, making the shadows under her eyes look like bruises and the  actual bruises look even worse. The trickle of blood he’d seen earlier was a small cut near her hairline that had stopped bleeding once he’d cleaned it, and the split in her lip made her pouty lips look even more so.
 
She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
 
“Fine,” he says, giving in reluctantly. “Tomorrow morning, though. And you have to eat and drink a health potion tonight. I should see if Wynne is finished with Sten and Leliana…”
 
“I’ll bide till the morning,” she says, turning in the water and leaning her head on his shoulder. “I just want you to hold me for now.”
 
“Now

that

I can do,” he says, grabbing a linen sheet and helping her to her feet. Once she’s wrapped in its soft folds he picks her up again, holding her close as he goes to sit at the small table laden with food.
 
“Drink,” he orders, handing her a health potion from amongst the food.
 
She does, a small smile on her lips as she follows his orders and leans back against him. “Gods, I don’t like these potions,” she says with a grimace. “They make me feel itchy underneath my skin.”
 
“Maybe you’re allergic,” Alistair chuckles, knowing the sensation all too well. “Now, back to what happened. You went to see Flemeth.”
 
“Oh, I really don’t want to talk about that,” she yawns. “It’s over and dealt with and I should go check on Leliana.”
 
“What’s wrong with her?”
 
In spite of having just said she should go do something, Hera curls up in his lap, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her feet on his knee. “We went to see Marjolaine,” she explains. “We were coming up the West Road a day or so ago when we were attacked again. This time the men all had Orlesian accents. We questioned one of them, got more information than the last assassin sent after Leliana.”
 
“So she really was being hunted by an old partner?”
 
Hera nods, her body slowly getting heavier as the potion does it work and mends her smaller wounds. Alistair watches the cut on her hairline close until there’s no sign of it ever having been there.

She needs to sleep,

he thinks, brushing her hair back and kissing her forehead.
 
“Marjolaine was here in Denerim, that much we knew, but this man actually knew

where

in Denerim,” she continues. “We arrived in town a few hours ago and watched her house a while before Leliana decided to just walk in. We waited until the lights went out before going in, but Marjolaine and her men were waiting for us.”
 
She goes on, yawning and telling him about the cruel things Marjolaine said to Leliana, how it had pained her to put a blade through her former lover’s heart. “And here we are,” she finishes. 
 
“So Leliana is safe now?” Alistair asks.
 
“From Marjolaine, at least,” Hera says with a shrug. “If she has any other enemies, she hasn’t told me.”
 
Alistair opens his mouth to press her about the meeting with Flemeth, but a knock at the door stops him. “Do you want to see anyone?” he asks her softly.
 
“Alistair,” Morrigan’s voice is slightly muffled by the door, but it makes him cringe anyway. “I hope you’re dressed because I’m coming in.”
 
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Hera giggles as the door swings open. “How is Sten?” she asks as her friend strides in. “I noticed you took him pretty quickly.”
 
“He will mend,” she says, pinning Alistair with her hawkish eyes. “Alistair, can I have a moment with Hera? Alone?”
 
“Go,” Hera whispers, sliding out of his lap and clutching the sheet to her chest. “Check on Leliana. I think she needs someone to talk to.”
 
He nods, kissing her temple, and turns to go. “Don’t get her riled up,” he warns, pointing at Morrigan. “She needs to rest.”
 
“Oh go bother someone who cares,” Morrigan shots back.
 
Hera laughs, watching him go.

I’m glad he didn’t go with me,

she thinks, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Tea, Morrigan? There’s far too much here for me, and I find my appetite is less voracious these days.”
 
When Morrigan doesn’t answer, Hera looks up to see her frozen in place, staring at Hera with what could only be a look of horror. “Morrigan? What is it?”
 
“Sten told me you went to see her alone,” Morrigan says softly. “And that you came back with claw marks across your back.”
 
Hera shudders, remembering her encounter. “Your mother is formidable,” she agrees, “but I got what you needed.”
 
Morrigan pales slightly. “D-Did you?”
 
Moving slowly, Hera takes a black, leather-bound book from her pack. “Your mother’s spellbook.”
 
“You were able to find it after all.” Morrigan’s hands shake as she takes it, staring at the cover with red-rimmed eyes. “I can not imagine what you went through to get this.”
 
“Don’t try,” Hera says quickly, glancing away.

No one needs to know what happened, after all.

“You have my thanks,” she says earnestly, clutching it to her chest. “I shall begin studying it immediately.”
 
“You’re welcome, Morrigan,” Hera says, laying a hand on Morrigan’s arm and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Goodnight.”
 
Halfway to the door, Morrigan stops and turns. “Hera...You cannot know what this means to me,” she says, her voice thick. “When I discovered Flemeth’s plan, you did not abandon me. And for whatever reason, you fought what must have been a terrible battle

alone

without hope of a real reward.”
 
“Morrigan, I’ve told you,” Hera says with a smile. “You’re my friend, and if I can secure your safety, I will.”
 
“That is what I do not understand. Of all the things I could have imagined when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend.” A small sniffle escapes her, and Morrigan blinks away tears. “Perhaps- Perhaps even a sister.”
 
“Morrigan…” 
 
Morrigan shakes her head, cutting her off. “I want you to know that while I may not always prove worthy of your friendship, I will

always

value it.”
 
Hera’s heart swells and tears burn her own eyes. “As will I, Morrigan. I have no sisters by birth, but you will always be a sister of my heart.”
 
With another sniffle, Morrigan straightens and gives her a haughty look. “Such emotion, Hera,” she chides, but can’t quite hide the smile hovering at the edges of her lips. “You should rest. Shall I see to your wounds, or would you prefer Wynne?”
 
“You’re here,” Hera says, turning her back to her and dropping the sheet. 
 
Morrigan’s gasp is almost inaudible, and she tosses the grimoire onto the bed as she rushes over. Hera shivers a bit as her cool, callused fingers trail over the partially-healed gashes. “My mother turned into a dragon,” she says in a small voice. “I had feared as much when Sten told me of your wound.”
 
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hera says firmly. “At all.”
 
“Hera, this-”
 
“

At all,

” she repeats. “Ever.”
 
“I see,” Morrigan murmurs, casting a healing spell quickly. The magic is hot and sends a needle-like sensation through Hera, but before she can respond Morrigan is backing away.. “There you are. I will go so that Alistair may return and put you to bed.”
 
“Morrigan,” Hera catches her at the door, both women oblivious to her nudity. “Thank you. You’re a treasure.”
 
Morrigan’s humor returns in the arch of her brow. “You are a mystery, my friend.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Alistair is awakened by a warm, wet mouth closing over his manhood. With a gasp, his hips buck up, eager for more. Her chuckle vibrates down his length and he moans, hands slipping under the sheet to bury themselves in her hair.
 
“Maker damn me,” he sighs as Hera’s tongue swirls over the tip. “I’ve missed you.”
 
She dislodges from him and reaches up to raise the sheet, giving him a wry grin. “I hope this isn’t

all

you’ve missed about me.”
 
“What? No!” he says hurriedly, raising his head and meeting her gaze. “But...yeah, I missed this. You,” he adds softly, cupping her cheek. “Us.”
 
“Alistair, it was only a week,” she laughs, stroking him slowly. 
 
The whimper that escapes him is definitely not the manly, arousing moan he’d intended. “It was torture…” With a growl, he sits up and grabs her, flipping Hera onto her back and pinning her. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss along her collarbone. 
 
“I missed you, too,” she sighs, her legs parting for him.
 
***
 
 Hera is the last to appear at breakfast, having indulged in a long bath and extra pampering after spending a rather large part of the morning in Alistair’s arms. Taking a seat at the long table beside Alistair— grinning like a cat with cream— she accepts a cup of tea handed to her by Wynne and glances around. “Is Leliana not coming?” she whispers, leaning closer to the mage.
 
“No,” Wynne says, her lips a thin line. “I saw to her wounds last night— she was in a frightful mood, wasn’t she?— and she asked to be left alone. I stopped by to see her this morning and she wouldn’t come to the door.”
 
Zevran points a slice of bacon at the women. “She told me the same thing,” he adds. “I do not suggest you bother her.”
 
Hera sighs and shakes her head. “I had hoped she’d feel better in the light of day, but it seems not.”

“What happened?” Zevran asks. “You said something about Marjolaine last night.”
 
“She is dead,” Sten says gruffly, meeting Hera’s eyes. It had been Sten who stopped Hera from tearing Marjolaine’s throat out with her bare hands; who had simply handed Leliana a dagger and nudged her gently forward. “That is all you need to know for now.”
 
“Sten, are you sure you should be up yet?” Alistair asks. “You were hurt last night, too.”
 
“Morrigan has seen to my needs,” he says, either not noticing or pretending not to care when Morrigan shoots Alistair a satisfied look.

Are they sleeping together?

Hera wonders for the thousandth time, and resolves to ask Morrigan about Sten later.
 
“Well that’s good,” Hera says, looking up when a plate of eggs, sausages, bacon, and toast appears in front of her. “Thank you,” she tells the servant, a young elf girl dressed in the same bland beige clothing that seems to serve as a uniform for the arl’s estate. “This looks lovely.”
 
The girl’s cheeks turn bright pink, as if she hadn’t expected to be noticed. “Uh...you’re welcome, ma’am. Shall you be needing anything else?”
 
“I think this is plenty,” Hera chuckles, gesturing back to the plate. 
 
“Good, you’re all here,” Arl Eamon says, striding into the dining room with his brother trailing. “We have news.” 
 
“Leliana is not here,” Morrigan says, rising. “If there is news, she should hear it as well.”
 
“Make haste, please,” Eamon says, his lips tightening into a thin line. He rocks back and forth on his heels until eyes light on Hera. “Warden,” he says, finally taking a seat at the head of the table. I trust you’ve been made comfortable?”

Comfortable would have been silk sheets and a night that didn’t begin with a beating,

she thinks, swallowing a mouthful of eggs. “Yes, Arl Eamon,” she says instead, “it’s very nice.”
 
“Good, good,” he says, leaning back as a plate is set before him. “It’s likely to be your last rest for a while,” he adds as Morrigan returns with a scowling Leliana. “Ladies, please take a seat, we have a problem— well, three problems. Teagan, where is she?”
 
“I’ll fetch her,” Teagan says, inclining his head before hurrying out of the room.
 
“The first is what happened in Highever,” Eamon begins.
 
There’s a rumble around the table from Zevran, Wynne, and Alistair. The ripples of discontent make Leliana’s scowl fade away as she senses a story of some kind. “What happened?” she asks.
 
“The entire Cousland family has been murdered,” Eamon says, digging into his breakfast. “There’s a few different versions of the story, but the most likely one is that Rendon Howe ordered the massacre at the behest of Loghain. Teryn Bryce Cousland would have fought like a demon to keep Loghain from assuming control; after all, the Couslands are

actual

nobility and Loghain was given his title for his deeds in the war against Orlais.”
 
“There were children in the castle,” Wynne says softly, setting her fork down. “The teryn’s son and his family were there.”
 
“So Loghain had them all killed so he could easily become regent,” Hera says softly. “One more strike against him.”
 
“What we know for sure is that the body of the youngest Cousland, Elissa, was never found,” Alistair adds, the lines in his face deep crags. “It’s possible she got out, but…”
 
“This is an outrage!” Leliana cries, slamming her hands on the table and jumping to her feet. “We can’t stand for this, Hera!”
 
“I agree, but what can we do just yet?” Hera asks. “It’s not as if Howe or Loghain will admit to the deed. Let’s hear the rest and then we can decide what to do, Leliana.”
 
Eamon smiles slyly and winks at them. “That is where Erlina comes in,” he says as the door opens and Teagan returns with a small woman following. “It’s a bit of a tale, so be patient and let her tell it.”
 
She’s an elf, with dark hair pulled back into a bun nearly as severe and tight as Wynne’s, her face tearstained and swollen. 
 
“This is Erlina,” Eamon says, waving a hand toward her, “she’s—”
 
“I am Queen Anora’s handmaiden,” she says in a surprisingly strong and lyrical voice. Laying down her fork, Hera watches as Erlina straightens her shoulders and takes a deep breath to steady herself. “She sent me here to ask for your help.”

She is definitely not Ferelden,

Hera thinks,

not with that accent. She just made a request for help sound like it’s a favor to us.

“Or perhaps the lady prefers to speak for herself,” Eamon chuckles.
 
“Why would Anora ask for our help?” Wynne asks.
 
“Especially since her father is a traitor,” Alistair growls, glaring at the maid. “How did you get the job, anyway? You’re Orlesian and he

hates

Orlais.”
 
“Queen Anora is my employer, not Teryn Loghain,” she says snippily. “And the queen is in a difficult position.”
 
“All right, tell us what happened,” Hera says, sipping her tea and glancing around the table. Wynne looks angry, Morrigan continues to eat with her typical ambivalence, and Zevran just looks intrigued.
 
Alistair, on the other hand, is so angry she can feel the spikes of it brushing against her whenever he shifts in his chair.
 
Erlina’s confidence wavers as tears fill her eyes. “She loved her husband, no?” she says softly. “And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think?”
 
Alistair’s cup clatters onto its saucer. “She thinks

Loghain

is responsible for Calin’s death?” he asks. 
 
“Easy Alistair,” Hera whispers, praying for him to read her mind just this once.

Please don’t give away our hand to this woman. She could still be a spy.

“She worries,” Erlina admits. “But when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer. He tells her not to trouble herself. My queen suspects she cannot trust her father. And Loghain, he is very subtle no? But Rendon Howe, he is privy to all his secrets…”
 
“And not so subtle?” Wynne finishes.
 
Erlina nods. “So Queen Anora goes to Howe, a visit from the queen to the new arl is only a matter of courtesy, and demands answers.”

That’s a pretty good plan,

Hera muses, toying with a bit of toast.

I did something similar when I was looking for the traitors who allowed Strahd to walk into Ravenloft and take over.

“I guess that didn’t go well,” Zevran mutters.
 
“He calls her every sort of name,

traitor

being the kindest, and locks her in a guest room!” Erlina cries, her distress growing as the story goes on. 
 
“Wait,” Alistair says, sitting back and studying the woman. “Loghain would allow that?

Loghain,

defender of Ferelden and wrapped around his little girl’s finger, would actually allow Rendon Howe to take her prisoner?
 
“It does seem unusual,” Leliana says, raising her teacup to her lips. “Not at all what I’ve heard about Anora and Loghain.”
 
“What have you heard?” Hera asks.
 
“Just like Alistair said— she’s always had him wrapped around her little finger. Anora was born to be queen. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’d made a deal with a demon to ensure a girl for Maric’s son.”
 
Alistair shakes his head in disbelief. “Erlina, what has all this to do with us? You said you needed us- to do what? Save her from her own father?”
 
Tears streak Erlina’s face as she nods quickly. “I think her life is in danger,” she says softly. “I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive.” Her dark, red-rimmed eyes rest on the arl. “Especially if the death could be blamed on Arl Eamon.”
 
The table falls silent, all eyes on the arl, who suddenly looks a bit pale. “Well,” he says, glancing up at Teagan. “It seems we have no choice but to trust Anora. The queen is well-loved, after all; if Loghain had succeeded in pinning her death on me… I’m not sure that’s a risk we can afford to take.”
 
“It doesn’t sound like a trap,” Hera says, looking around the table. “But I’m not sure that it’s necessarily

our

problem.”
 
“It is not, Kadan,” Sten says with a firm shake of his head. “Our problem is the archdemon.”
 
“But Anora’s support in the Landsmeet can turn the tide against Loghain,” Wynne adds thoughtfully. “And she’s a young woman trapped in a terrible situation. I’m sure she will be grateful.”
 
“’Tis not her

gratitude

we need,” Morrigan says. “Should you continue this madness of placing Alistair on the throne, it may be that you need more than her help.”
 
“What’s

that

supposed to mean?” Alistair snaps.
 
“Nothing,” Hera says, leaning forward to look at the arl and bann. “What do you propose we do?”
 
Eamon shrugs. “As I said, it is not a risk we can afford to take. You will have to rescue her.”
 
“I have some uniforms,” Erlina offers eagerly. “Arl Howe hires so many new guards every day, a few more will not cause much stir. I will show you the servant’s entrance. We must slip in and out with my queen before anyone is the wiser.”
 
“We’ll need some time to prepare…” Leliana says, her forehead wrinkling in thought.
 
Erlina nods. “I will go ahead to Howe’s estate. Meet me there as soon as you can.” She turns to go, but pauses at the door, turning back slowly. “But...without him,” she says, pointing at Sten.
 
“Without Sten?” Wynne asks. “Why?”
 
“The uniform will not fit; he is too big. Arl Howe does not care for non-humans,” she explains to Sten. “There are no...whatever you are, there.”
 
Sten’s face folds into an expression of mild irritation- more than enough emotion for anyone who knows him to understand the true depth of that feeling. “It is as well,” he says. 
 
“Do not make my queen wait long,” Erlina says, her wild array of emotions settling into a squirrel-like nervousness as she slips out of the room.
 
“Well, there you have it,” Eamon says.
 
“It’s a trap,” Hera, Leliana, and Zevran say in unison.
 
“Of course ’tis a trap,” Morrigan chuckles. “How else would Loghain know what Arl Eamon plans?”
 
“Perhaps Anora has orders to assassinate Alistair?” Zevran suggests, gripping his table knife. “We cannot allow that.”
 
“I have no intention of being assassinated, Zevran,” Alistair assures him boredly. “After all,

you

failed, I doubt a spoiled, pampered woman like Anora could manage.”
 
“All the same, I don’t think you should be involved in this,” Hera says, wincing inwardly when he turns a stunned look on her. 
 
“You can’t-”
 
“It’s true,” Wynne argues. “If we mean to go into Howe’s estate— into enemy territory— we have to be certain that you aren’t captured.”
 
“The mage is correct,” Sten says with a firm nod. “Alistair will stay with me.”
 
“This is crazy,” Alistair mutters. “What am I supposed to do here?”
 
“Prepare for the Landsmeet,” Leliana says curtly. “You have to get the bannorn to be on your side; you’ll need to be able to answer any doubt they have about you.”
 
“I can help with that,” Teagan says, stepping forward. “We can continue our lessons.”
 
Hera nods. “Anyone else want to stay?”
 
“I believe I will,” Wynne says with a little sigh. “I am neither stealthy nor believable as a soldier. If they discover I am a mage, things will be worse than they already are.”
 
“That settles it, then,” Leliana says, jumping to her feet. “Let’s gather our things and be on our way.”
 
Hera and Alistair wait until everyone has filed out of the dining room before speaking again. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. 
 
“I understand,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair. 
 
Hera’s stomach knots looking at him. The golden boy she’d been so enchanted with in the beginning has turned to a man exhausted by the burdens he carries. Add those burdens to the draining power of the Blight and the nightmares that plague him, Alistair seems to be aging before her eyes.

I can’t imagine I look much better…

she thinks, looking down at her hands. They’re bony and paler than ever before and she knows that the bruise-like shadows beneath Alistair’s eyes mirror her own. Glancing up at him, she can’t help but notice how much sharper the angles of his face are now.
 
“We’ll be back soon,” she promises.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Leliana looks up from the map of Denerim in her hands. “Turn here,” she suggests, pointing to the opening of an alley. “We can cut through there.”
 
“I do love a shortcut,” Zevran says, practically skipping into the alley. It’s quiet, sunlight dancing on the cobbles and a well to one side. Even a few birds have made themselves at home, bobbing around excitedly and squawking as they hunt for bugs. “Leliana, why don’t you tell us…” He stops, freezing in place and putting a hand up for silence. “No,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else.
 
“Zevran?” Hera asks, giving Morrigan a questioning look, who only gives an equally confused shrug in reply. 
 
“The Crows,” he whispers, pressing himself against the closest wall and waving them to follow. “They’ve found me.”
 
“Here?” Morrigan whispers back.
 
“Hush!” Zevran presses Hera’s hand, gesturing to the birds. “Crows.”
 
Hera releases the breath she’s holding and listens, allowing her dhampir hearing to go past the sound of the birds. Leather squeaking. The hiss of a blade leaving its scabbard. The slight protest of a bowstring.

He’s right. They’re here.

It takes a moment to unravel the heartbeats of the birds and those of the assassins— using crows to cover the sounds of movement and men is a brilliant move on their part— but she manages to count at least six.
 
“Is there a plan?” Leliana asks softly, slipping her bow off her shoulder. 
 
Zevran shakes his head. “We will simply have to meet them. They will have cleared out the area and surrounded us.” His face and voice are both flat and devoid of emotion; the emptiness of it makes Hera more nervous than the assassins waiting for them.
 
“So they know we are already here,” Morrigan says in a casual tone, not bothering to whisper. “Let us engage.”
 
“I agree,” Hera says, pushing off the wall and leading them further into the alley. It bends, opening up into a small courtyard surrounded with the backsides of shops and homes. It’s easy to see that there is only one way out, a set of stairs leading to an open-air walkway, with a man standing at the head of them.
 
He’s obviously been waiting for them and opens his arms wide in greeting. “And here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last,” he says cheerfully. “The Crows send their greetings once again.”
 
Zevran spits on the cobblestones. “So they sent you, Taliesen? Or did you volunteer for the job?”
 
Taliesen— handsome, with short brown hair and a strong jaw darkened with stubble— gives Zevran a charming smile. “I volunteered, of course,” he says, almost laughing. “When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”
 
“Is that so?” Zevran flirts, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet and hand straying for his sword. “Well, here I am, in the flesh.”
 
The charm leaves Taliesen’s face and he grows serious. “You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”
 
To Hera’s surprise, Taliesen sounds sincere— and a little heartbroken. Looking to Zevran, she sees the same pain mirrored in her friend's eyes, as well. Slipping a hand into his, she smiles warmly at him. “I don’t think Zevran needs the Crows any longer,” she tells Taliesen.
 
The Crow flinches at the words. “Oh?” he snarls, tenderness leaving him. “Does Zevran need to

live

?”
 
With a quick squeeze of Hera’s hand before releasing it, Zevran smiles up at him. “I suspect that I will manage, Taliesen. I’m sorry, my old friend, but the answer is no. I’m not coming back...and you should have stayed in Antiva.”
 
There’s no signal, but assassins leap from their hiding places as if on cue. Morrigan, bless her, doesn’t hesitate to send out a blast of ice to coat those behind them. Before Hera can even draw her own weapons traps are thrown out, surrounding her and Zevran. 
 
“Taliesen is mine!” Zevran snarls, leaping over the sharp teeth of the traps and running for the stairs.
 
The battle is a hurricane of arrows, magic, and blades, and finishes only moments after it’s begun. Leliana and Morrigan fire off assaults as quick as humanly possible while Hera slips between their attacks to finish off the assassins. When the three women are surrounded by a growing pool of blood, they can finally hear swords clashing.
 
Zevran and Taliesen duel at the top of the stairs, the early morning sun lighting up their steel so that it looks like they’re fighting with shards of sunlight. Gasping for breath, Hera watches, enthralled, as Zevran leaps and spins in and out of Taliesen’s reach, shrugging off what few blows land on him before peppering his former friend with his own strikes.
 
“Do you think he can win?” Leliana whispers, her eyes dark. 
 
Hera nods, not taking her eyes off them. Only a few hours before, Leliana and Marjolaine had been locked in a similar duel to the death. “He can, don’t worry,” she says softly.
 
“He had better,” Morrigan mutters, leaning on her staff. 
 
Finally, it ends in a tumble down the stairs, the men knotted together and still struggling for dominance. The women ready themselves to finish off Taliesen, but when they roll to a stop, Zevran is the only one who groans.
 
“Zevran!” Leliana cries, rushing over to help him up as Morrigan kneels beside Taliesen.
 
“He is dead,” she announces unceremoniously, gesturing lazily to the angle of his broken neck.
 
Hera catches Zevran in a tight embrace, grateful for the heaving breath in her ear. “And you’re safe,” she whispers.
 
Pulling away, Zevran turns and looks around at the dead Crows. “And so it ends,” he says, his voice tinged with sadness and regret. “Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows.”
 
“What now?” Leliana asks.
 
He shrugs, eyes locked on Taliesen’s lifeless body. “They will assume I am dead with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”
 
“That is a good thing, is it not?” Morrigan asks, rising to her full height.
 
“I should hope so,” Hera says, wiping blood from an oozing cut on her arm. Not wanting to attract much attention, they had decided not to wear much armor, and now she regretted it. “Otherwise we’ve all been bloodied for nothing.”
 
Zevran grins. “A

very

good thing,” he says with a chuckle. “It is, in fact, what I have hoped for ever since you decided not to kill me.”
 
“A decision she regrets every day, I imagine,” Morrigan sniffs.
 
Zevran’s good humor falters, and he meets Hera’s gaze. “A moment of privacy, if you will, ladies,” he says, and waits until they’ve moved out of earshot to continue. “I have enjoyed our company,” he says, taking Hera’s hand, “but I am wondering if it is not time for me to leave. That would be the practical thing to do, no?”
 
Hera’s heart falls into her stomach at the thought of losing her friend. “Is-Is that what you want?” she asks softly.
 
Zevran tilts his head, thinking. “There is a freedom awaiting me that I have never known,” he admits. “But I made a promise, and I suppose the decision is yours. Will you let me go?”
 
Heart breaking, Hera bites her lip and fights tears.

Not you,

she thinks sadly.

Don’t make me lose you. Someday I will have to walk away from Alistair, but you… Powers above, no.

“I have never held you against your will,” she whispers, looking down. “I’ve told you that you’re free to leave any time you wish, Zevran.”
 
“Hera.” Zevran’s voice is firm, and he waits until she raises her eyes to his. “Will you let me go?”
 
A tear streaks down her cheek. “You’ve always been free,” she tells him again. “But...But I wish you would stay. I don’t know if I can keep doing this without you.”
 
He smiles and puts a hand on her cheek, his thumb wiping away the tear. “Somehow I think you will manage.”
 
“Zevran, I need you,” she says, squeezing his hand. “You’re my closest friend, and there is plenty of treasure to be had. Can I convince you to stay?”
 
Surprise flickers in his amber eyes and he laughs. “Oh you need me?” he teases. “I will have to tell Alistair about this later.”
 
“Does that mean you’ll stay?”
 
“I suppose there are worse things I could do with my time than save the world…”
 
“As a friend, not because of a promise,” Hera says firmly. “I will accept no argument.”
 
He tosses his head back, laughing heartily. “Who could resist such a beautiful woman with tears in her eyes? Very well, I will not abandon you.” 
 
With a small cry of delight, Hera throws herself at him, hugging him so tightly he has to gasp for breath. “You won’t regret this,” she promises, kissing his cheek.
 
“We shall see,” he wheezes, clutching a bloody gash on his side. “Morrigan, can you help me with this? I believe our fearless and beautiful leader will kill me if I allow her to embrace me again— and I

definitely

want those arms around me again.”
 
By the time they reach Rendon Howe’s estate, Erlina is trying not to panic and dancing from one foot to the other in worry while hiding behind a wagon near the front. Just a few yards away, near the large front door, is a loud crowd of people dressed in homespun and carrying tools. A richly dressed man with a ledger in his hands tries to appease them, but the men and women grow louder as Hera and her friends approach.
 
“No!” A man shouts. “The Carpenter’s Crafthall has had enough of Howe’s conveniently busy schedule! We will not be put off again!”
 
“It seems the new Arl is having a cash flow problem,” Leliana says.
 
“Hurry! Over here!” Erlina hisses. “Stay away from the crowd!”
 
“What is that about?” Hera asks, ducking behind the wagon with her. 
 
“Not our concern,” Erlina says, looking around carefully. “The servant’s entrance is on the other side of the house; we must slip past this crowd to reach it. And we must be very careful, Arl Howe is inside.”

“Is he? Good,” Leliana says. 
 
“You said you have disguises?” Hera asks. 
 
Erlina nods. “I hid them in the garden. Let’s go before someone sees us.”
 
They follow her around the house, ducking into a small, overgrown alcove to retrieve the uniforms. They’re made of decent steel and the helmets cover their faces well enough. Helping one another, they change quickly as Erlina goes to distract the guards at the door.
 
“I still think it’s a trap,” Zevran says, fidgeting in his armor. “And this chainmail pinches.”
 
“Trap or not, we have to get Anora out,” Hera whispers back.
 
“And find out if he’s hiding the Cousland girl,” Leliana adds.
 
Morrigan makes a disgusted sound. “What heroes we all are,” she mutters. “Mother will be thrilled to know I left her to run about becoming a saint.”
 
“Morrigan, you will

never

be anything near a saint,” Leliana snorts. 
 
Hera doesn’t listen, but Erlina’s obvious distress lures the guards at the door away, allowing them to get inside the estate. They wait in a small mudroom, filled with dusty cloaks and dirt-covered shoes, until Erlina reappears.
 
“You must be careful now,” she says softly. “The servants will not look closely at anyone in a uniform, all guards are alike to the cook, no? But you should not draw attention to yourselves.”
 
Hera nods. “Anything else?”
 
“Most of the guards are new,” Erlina continues. “They will not know you for a stranger at a glance. It is best you keep your distance from all over them and try to blend in.”
 
“Where’s Anora?”
 
Erlina reaches into a pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. “This is the house,” she explains, drawing her finger along a rough sketch. “This door leads to the kitchen, and the guards’ dining room. Follow this hallway and you will come through the main hall and see the guest rooms. She is there.”
 
“And where will you be?” Zevran asks shrewdly. 
 
“I will carry a tray for her lunch,” Erlina says. “I cannot be seen leading you, but I will meet you and my lady there.”
 
“Good enough.” Leliana settles her bow on her back. “A quick in and out.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They pass through the house easily enough, tossing a few rude comments and jokes out to their false comrades as they go.

This would never work in Ravenloft,

Hera thinks as they casually walk across the main hall.

My staff is far too vigilant.

The specters, at least, would notice something, if the living guards did not.

But when they meet with Erlina, fidgeting near the entrance to the hall, Hera’s heart sinks into her stomach.

This can’t be good.

The lunch tray sets on a table near the door, which shimmers in the dim light. “What’s going on?” Hera asks, pulling off her helmet.
 
Erlina ignores her and goes to the door, tapping softly. “The Grey Warden is here, my lady.”
 
“Thank the Maker!” a light voice chirps, slightly muffled by the door. “I would greet you properly, but I’m afraid we’ve had a setback.”
 
Reaching for the door, Hera encounters a wall of solid air. Though there’s nothing there, it feels as solid as a stone wall. “So it seems.”
 
“How do we know you are really Queen Anora?” Zevran asks. “We cannot know you by your voice alone.”
 
“How am I supposed to answer that?” the woman on the other side counters sarcastically. “Shall I try to shove my crown under the door? Or perhaps the royal family has a secret knock? Would you know it if we did?” Hera swallows a laugh when the door rattles under a fearsome kick. “My

host

was not content with leaving me under heavy guard. He’s had the door sealed by magic.”
 
Zevran shrugs. “I suppose that alone is a good enough answer.”
 
“How do we open it?” Hera asks.
 
“I shall try to dispel it,” Morrigan says, nudging Zevran and Leliana aside. 
 
Hera steps back, letting Morrigan examine the barrier.

It doesn’t feel like any magic I know,

she thinks, her senses teasing the edges of it. Breaking barriers was never her speciality, but she could construct one easily enough.

Even against my magic it feels...rather solid, really. Like the wall behind it. I don’t think I could break it if I tried.

Morrigan ushers Hera back to give herself room, waving her arms and speaking in a strange, lyrical language. “I thought Wynne said the language of magic was ancient Tevene,” Hera whispers to Leliana. “But that doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard from them before.”
 
Leliana tilts her head thoughtfully. “I think it’s Dalish,” she whispers back. “Perhaps Flemeth picked up some in her time in the swamps. The elves are more likely to trade with a hermit like Flemeth than a human villager.”
 
Morrigan flings her hands toward the door, and Hera feels the push of air and magic move through the space. The barrier shimmers for a moment and looks as if it would dissipate, but as soon as Hera draws in her next breath it reforms and becomes solid once more.
 
“

Shit

,” Morrigan mutters, shaking her hands as if the action hurt them. “That was the best I can do.”
 
“What now?” Zevran asks. 
 
Anora’s voice comes through the door. “Find the mage who cast the spell,” she advises. “He’ll most likely be at Howe’s side.”
 
“Forgive me, lady, but I thought we wanted to sneak you out,” Zevran points out. “Asking Howe’s pet mage to dispel your door will make us quite noticeable.”
 
“So much for secrecy,” Hera sighs.
 
Leliana doesn’t seem upset by the idea, however. “Good. We can confront Howe for his crimes and free Anora at the same time.”
 
“You want to confront him

now?

” Morrigan asks. “Leliana, that will likely lead to a battle— and need I remind you we just fought off a dozen assassins? Even you said this was a trap! I say we let Anora handle this on her own.”
 
“It wasn’t a dozen,” Leliana argues. “And yes,

now.

We might as well, if we’re going to get the queen out.”
 
“Secrecy may not be an option any longer,” Anora says testily. “But the longer you stand there arguing the more likely you are to be caught.”
 
Hera pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. “Fine. We’ll find the mage,” she decides. “Just wait for us.”
 
“And where exactly shall I go, Warden?” Anora snaps.
 
“Oh she is

saucy

,” Zevran chuckles as they put their helmets back on. “I like her!”
 
“She has a pulse, of course you like her,” Morrigan quips. 
 
“So where will we find Howe?” Hera asks Erlina.

“Teryn Howe will probably be in his rooms,” she says, pointing down the corridor. “They’re at the end of the hall on the left.”
 
Hera nods. “We’ll be back.”
 
“Thank you, Warden,” Anora says, her voice softer this time. “My prayers go with you.”
 
“Everyone act as if you know where we’re going,” Leliana whispers as they walk. 
 
“I

do

know,” Morrigan laughs. “We are walking right into a trap.”
 
“You know what I mean!”

Keep up the jokes,

Hera thinks, nodding to a passing guard coming out of what must be a library.

It looks normal, and I have a sinking feeling that this isn’t going to go well

.
 
Amazingly, no one stops or questions them as they pass an armory and through a dining hall that’s larger than one family needs but smaller than the mess hall off the kitchen.

Where the Teryn can hold his own little court,

Hera thinks, wondering just how many members of the gentry the Arl keeps in his household. The house is larger than Arl Eamon’s by at least half, with far more guest rooms branching from the dining hall.

Could it be that Arl Eamon is angling for his own status to be raised? Teagan has told me that there are only two terynirs

—

Highever and Gwaren

—

and six arlings. I can’t imagine Eamon will be happy with his smaller arling if there is a terynir for the taking.

At the end of the hall there are two doors, one plain wooden and the other made of metal and locked. “Now that’s interesting,” Hera murmurs. “Shall we see what’s behind it?”
 
“Hurry,” Zevran says, leaning against the wall and shielding her from view.
 
Hera makes quick work of the lock and swings the door open. She stifles a laugh and grabs Leliana’s arm, pulling her in behind her. “It’s a treasure room!” she whispers, unable to believe her eyes. Bags and coffers of gold run over, proving that while the arl

could

pay his debts, his greed makes it unlikely.
 
“We should take it,” Leliana suggests, dipping her hand into a bag. “We can’t carry all of it, but we could easily outfit ourselves with some new equipment before facing down the horde! And new shoes!”
 
Hera nods. “Put it in one of your quivers,” she suggests.

Leliana turns and lets Hera combine her arrows into one, leaving the other quiver to hold the money. “Ugh, it’s heavy,” she complains, shifting under the new weight. 
 
“Think of the shoes,” Hera whispers encouringly. “Suede with pretty sapphire buckles.”
 
Back in the hallway, Hera carefully trips the lock back into place and follows the others into the arl’s chambers. It’s empty, but a door at the far end stands open, leading down a steep walkway. “All right,” Hera says, locking the bedroom door behind her. “Let’s search the room first, then see where that door leads. I want to take anything that looks as if we can use it against Howe and Loghain in the Landsmeet.”
 
No one speaks for several minutes as they rustle through books, paperwork, chests, and his desk. Hera comes across a book on Antiva, specifically referencing the Crows, and calls Zevran over. “He seems to have done his research,” she says, handing it to him.
 
“Ah, yes,” Zevran says, tossing the book on the bed behind him. “Rendon Howe was the contact to the Crows when I was assigned to kill you.”
 
“And you said nothing?” Morrigan asks, lifting her head from the armoir she’s digging through. 
 
Zevran shrugs. “Howe was a contact only, Loghain was the one who actually hired the Crows. I remember I did not like the look of this man,” he muses. “Although in his younger days he must have been quite a catch— he has a rather interestingly sexy voice.”
 
“I’ve seen Howe,” Leliana mutters, “I find that hard to believe.”
 Hera shuffles through some papers before coming across a letter. It’s addressed to My Father and signed by someone named Nathaniel. Scanning over it, Hera sees that it condemns Howe’s actions against Highever, calling it a vile betrayal by one who had been a friend. 
“Well, it seems that Howe’s son didn’t know about the Highever attack,” Hera tells them, pocketing the letter. “He’s quite vocal about it.”
 
“Hera, look here!” Leliana waves a sheaf of papers in her hands, eyes wide with excitement. “It has the Grey Warden seal on it!”
 
“Zevran, find a document case or something, will you?” Hera asks over her shoulder. “Whatever this is, I want to take it with us.”
 
For a moment Hera thinks it’s written in another language and waits patiently for the words to unscramble into something she can read.

I certainly paid more than enough for those language spells,

she thinks, recalling the curmudgeonly old wizard who had charged her over one hundred thousand gold pieces to permanently cast

comprehend languages

and

tongues

on her. It had been a good investment, but one that had left her and Zeus penniless and in a great deal of debt at the time.
 
But the words stay a mess of gibberish, stubbornly refusing to translate. “It must be in code,” she says, shaking her head. “I have no idea what it says.”
 
“But that

is

the Grey Warden seal, is it not?” Morrigan asks. “Surely they would have given you a key or codex to read their own documents.”
 
Hera rolls her eyes. “Morrigan, you met me the same day I became a Warden. Do you think there was time for an encryption lesson at Ostagar?”
 
“Pardon

me

, Your Grace,” Morrigan chuckles. “Had I known you were going to be so high and mighty today I might have let Wynne come along.”
 
“Why would Howe have these, anyway?” Hera says, mostly to herself. “Zev, hold on to these, will you?” she adds, handing them to him. 
 
“Perhaps we can find answers through there,” Leliana says, dropping the lid to the chest where she found the papers. “From the looks of that door, it can’t lead to the bathing room.”
 
Surprisingly, the heavy wooden door, banded with iron, doesn’t look to have been part of the original house. The wood forming the frame is so fresh it’s sticky with sap, and the walkway leading down smells of dust and mortar.

This is so new,

Hera thinks, running a hand over the stone.

Why would he want access to a basement directly from his personal chambers?

“Does anyone else still think this is a trap?” Zevran asks as they head down the steep walkway.
 
“Yes,” all three women say.
 
“Good, I am not alone, then.”
 
The door at the bottom is also unlocked and swings open on well-oiled hinges. Hera hesitates, realizing that this is no basement, when a voice cuts through the torch-lit darkness.
 
“What? Who goes there?” a guard asks, dropping a bucket and turning to the door.
 
Hera opens her mouth, preparing a lie that dies on her tongue. An arm snakes out of the darkness, wrapping around the guard’s neck and pinning him to what must be a cell door. They watch, dumbstruck, as the short struggle ends with an abrupt

snap

and the guard falls to the floor.
 
“H- Hello?” Hera says softly.

Oh gods what have we just found?

she wonders, imagining all kinds of horrific monsters a man like Howe could attract.
 
The door opens and the guard’s body is dragged in slowly. Stepping back, Hera reaches for her weapons, anxiety rising. “Be prepared to kill whatever that is,” she whispers.
 
“I am pleased to say that will not be necessary,” a man says, pulling on the guard’s trousers and coming out of the cell. “Though I thank you for the distraction, stranger. I have been waiting days for that opportunity.”
 
“Who are you?” Leliana asks, her voice pitching higher. “You’re Orlesian.”
 
The man bows, his dark hair hanging in matted clumps. “I am Riordan, senior Warden of Jader,” he explains, straightening. “But born and bred in Highever, and glad to be home.”
 
“You’re a Grey Warden?” Hera asks, stepping closer. “So am I! I am Hera of Ravenloft.”
 
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Riordan says, bowing his head again. “Your name seems familiar, but I am afraid I do not know you.”
 
“I’m...new,” she says. “Do you know Alistair? He’s in Denerim with the Arl of Redcliffe.”
 
“Alistair? Yes, I was at his Joining! It is good to know he is alive.”
 
“What are you doing here?” Hera asks.
 
He gives her a roguish smile. “For the moment, attempting to hold my tongue. I was sent when we received no word from King Cailan as to the outcome of Ostagar. The king had invited all the Wardens of Orlais and their support troops to join him, then…” He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
 
“How did you get here? Did Arl Howe capture you?” Leliana asks.
 
“Yes, with an offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice,” he explains, scowling. “I was fool enough to think Loghain didn’t yet know who I was. We had two hundred Wardens with us when we were turned back at the border and learned of Loghain’s edict. That was when the rumor reached us that the Wardens were being blamed for the massacre at Ostagar. We finally decided it was safest to send someone alone, to learn how best to fight the Blight and this regime simultaneously. I was on my way back to the Wardens at the border when Howe conveniently met me on the road.”
 
“Two hundred Wardens...That means Alistair and I won’t have to fight the archdemon alone!” Hera says. “Riordan, have you seen how far the Blight has progressed? It’s consumed half of Ferelden already! When will the others arrive?”
 
Riordan shakes his head sadly. “I am afraid, my lady, that the other Wardens won’t risk their strength fighting in Ferelden’s civil war. If they spend themselves against Loghain there is truly no hope.”
 
“But...Ferelden…”
 
“Is only a small country,” he says, swallowing hard. “And is almost consumed, as you say. If Ferelden is too foolish to save itself, we will be ready when the archdemon leads its forces onward.” 
 
“Have no fear, my friend,” Morrigan whispers, squeezing Hera’s arm. “You have done a great deal to build an army of your own.”
 
“Have you?” Riordan asks, raising his eyebrows. “Then perhaps the edict can be lifted. I will send a message as soon as we are gone from this place.”
 
“And I assume these are yours?” Zevran asks, sliding the documents from the case he carries.
 
Riordan’s eyes light up. “Yes! These are my records. The names of the dead I could recognize at Ostagar, Duncan’s recruitment records.” He shuffles through them, energy rising. “Copies of the Joining ritual I found at the vault in Denerim. They should never be seen by outside eyes,” he says, pinning Zevran in his gaze, “but I trust their encryption.”
 
“We have had no time to crack it,” Zevran says with a casual shrug.
 
“It’s just as well,” Hera says quickly, nudging Zevran to silence. “We’re staying with the Arl of Redcliffe here in Denerim, near the market square. Alistair is there. If you need a place to stay, I am sure you would be made welcome.”
 
Riordan nods. “At Arl Eamon’s estate then.” He offers a hand to Hera and clasps hers warmly. “Good luck, Sister.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Before they part, Hera makes sure that Riordan has her share of the health potions and directions on how to get out of the estate. In return, he tells her that he’s seen several men and women dragged down into the dungeon, pointing to a twisted staircase leading even deeper into the earth. 
 
The staircase is cold and damp, their boots slipping on the well-worn stone as they descend. A chill permeates the air and the few torches lighting the way do little to add warmth. Zevran goes ahead, slipping in and out of the shadows like a ghost to be sure there are no guards ahead of them. They encounter no one, making Hera wonder if Howe even

has

guards down here.

Surely there’s another way down here,

she thinks as the stairs come to an end at a heavy door.

There has to be, the passage from Howe’s bed chambers to the first level was new; this stone is clearly not.

“Wait,” she whispers, putting a hand on the door. “There’s someone standing there.”
 
“How do you know?” Morrigan asks, leaning closer.
 
“I can hear him breathing,” Hera says, tapping her earlobe. “Grey Warden, remember?”

Or close enough. No one needs to know just where the Grey Warden senses end and my own begin.

“Perhaps it is Howe,” Liliana says.
 
With a deep breath, Hera pulls her shoulders back and nods for Zevran to open the door and steps through. The guard there looks surprised, his armor rattling as he comes to attention for the briefest of moments before suspicion filters in.
 
“Who goes?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
 
Hera laughs and turns a shoulder toward him. “Oh, don’t kid around,” she flirts, swinging her hips as she steps closer to slide a hand over his chestplate. “You

know

me.”
 
For the span of a breath, Hera thinks it will work as his jaw goes a bit slack at her proximity. But too quickly he shakes himself and steps back. “Anybody tries to come in here without Howe’s say so, we get to do what we like with ’em,” he says as a sly look snakes across his features. Grabbing her wrist in a painfully tight grip, he calls over his shoulders. “I think we finally got some entertainment here, lads!”
 
“Bloody hell,” Leliana mutters.
 
In another world
— one where she had no need to hide her magic— Hera would have turned his bones to jelly or summoned shadows to fill his lungs until they burst. Lacking that option, she goes with the first line of a courtesan’s defense and brings her knee up into his groin as hard and fast as she can. The guard curses, releasing her and doubling over as his companions run toward them in a clatter of steel.
 
“Kill them?” Zevran asks with a bloodthirsty grin.
 
“Kill them,” Hera agrees, and draws her sword.
 
It is a quick, bloody battle, and they leave the corpses where they fall.
 
“Let’s be as thorough and quick as we can,” Hera says, testing the nearest door to see if it’s locked. “If Howe

does

have the Cousland girl, I want to get her out as well as Anora.”
 
Their path through the dungeon leads to more guards, most caught off guard and quickly dispatched, but in one room they find a young noble on a rack. Morrigan casts a small healing spell on him so that he can at least sit up, but as soon as he’s able, he begins ranting about his father and having been taught a lesson.
 
“What?” Hera asks, frowning. “Unless your father is Arl Eamon, nobody sent me. Who are you?”
 
The young man stops talking and stares at her for a moment. “Arl Eamon… I am Oswyn, son of Bann Sighard of the Dragon’s Peak Bannorn. If you aren’t one of my father’s soldiers, who should I be thanking for my release?”
 
“I am Hera, here for the rightful king Alistair. We’ve been sent to rescue Anora.”
 
“Rescue...? The bastard boy Eamon’s supporting sent you to rescue the queen?” Oswyn rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “Most interesting. Listen, I can’t offer much in the way of a reward, but I

can

convince my father to speak against Loghain in the Landsmeet, if I haven’t missed it. Will that suffice?”
 
“You haven’t, but it is very soon,” Hera says. “I hope your father will listen.”
 
“Oh, he will,” Oswyn assures her.
 
“Have you seen any of the Couslands here?” Leliana asks.
 
“Cousland? I’ve heard the name, I think, but not much more,” he says, sliding off the rack and testing the sturdiness of his legs. He stumbles and gestures for Hera to hand him a spear from the assortment of weapons on the wall. “I must go and find my father, but I will make sure he knows that my capture was Howe’s doing, and my release yours.”
 
“Do you need any help?” Hera asks.
 
“No,” Oswyn assures her. “I simply want to get out. I… I cannot see the last of this place fast enough.”
 
“We should probably send a message to Bann Sighard to be sure he arrived safely,” Zevran suggests as they watch him hobble out, clutching the spear.
 
“We’ll see to it,” Hera murmurs. “If Howe is abducting nobles...I wonder how many more are here? Zev, did you hear of any other missing people when you arrived?”
 
Zevran shakes his head. “No, we did not venture into the city, but I

did

hear Wynne mention a missing templar after she returned from a Chantry service. They were asking if anyone had information to report to a sister.”
 
“Interesting…”
 
“Should we not move on?” Morrigan asks, uncorking a vial of lyrium and taking a few sips. “I do not think we are far into this dungeon.”
 
“Eager to get out, or add to your list of good deeds?” Leliana teases. 
 
Morrigan rolls her eyes. “My mother must be laughing in the Fade, seeing me working with such an assortment of heroes.”
 
“Don’t be upset, Morrigan. You’re so pretty when you do good works,” Zevran adds, throwing a smacking kiss to her. “The goodness gives you a glow.”
 
“Shall I make

you

glow, Zevran? ‘Twould only take a spark.” With a disgusted noise, Morrigan turns and leads them back into the corridor. “If I had known we were going to be charitable Chantry sisters, I would have let Alistair come,” she quips.
 
“I’m sure he’ll be disappointed,” Hera chuckles.
 
“Oh

good.

I do like when he’s disappointed.”
 
They continue to sneak through the dungeon, catching two patrols of guards by surprise by bursting through a door with magic and arrows flying. The farther they go, the fewer guards they encounter, until a sharp turn in the path ends at a collapsed tunnel and two prisoners locked in cells. The air is stale and filled with the scents of blood and human waste, but Hera stops short when she smells something that reminds her of the Deep Roads.

Darkspawn? I can’t feel them...but I can smell it.

“Andraste have mercy,” Leliana whispers, her eyes moving from one prisoner to the other. “How long have they been here?”
 
One is a human, naked and huddled against the door, chattering to himself in a thin, reedy voice. The other is an elf, leaning against the door of his cell humming a soothing tune to the man. The chattering man gets softer, but begins to tap his head against the bars.
 
“No, Rexel,” the elf says gently. “Don’t do that.”
 
“Can I help?” Leliana asks, moving to squat before the man. “Rexel,” she says gently, taking his hand. “That’s your name, right?”
 
“They said to retreat,” Rexel whimpers, rocking back and forth. “The horn sounded and then we turned and then the screams… We rode and they screamed and screamed and-” He breaks off with a sob, covering his face with his hands.
 
“Now you’ve done it,” the elf sighs, his own head thudding against the bars. “Once he starts crying he won’t stop.”
 
“That sounds like Ostagar,” Hera says softly, her eyes wide as the memory of that awful night rushes back in full clarity.
 
“Mother?” Rexel asks, lifting his head and looking at Hera. “Can you smell the blood? They said it was only darkspawn, but we ate them, too. They died and we left them in the swamp. The witch! The witch!”
 
“He’s mad,” the elf says, lifting his head. “He talks about the battle and the swamp but nothing makes sense.”
 
“It does to me,” Hera says, her voice hoarse. “Do you know who he is?”
 
He shakes his head, frowning. “Just that he calls himself Rexel. I’m Soris.”
 
“Zev, get the door open.” Hera fights down the panic rising in her throat and takes a deep breath, trying to banish the memory of darkspawn fangs dripping with blood. Morrigan places a hand on her shoulder as they watch Zevran spring the lock and Leliana pulls Rexel to his feet.
 
“Are you all right?” Morrigan says in a low voice. 
 
“I...I don’t know,” Hera answers honestly.
 
Leliana is busy pulling a ratty blanket around Rexel’s shoulders, murmuring softly. “You’re free now,” Leliana tells him in a gentle voice. “You should go somewhere safe.”
 
Horror clenches at Hera’s gut.

He’s eaten darkspawn,

she thinks, feeling sick.

The taint is so thick in him I can smell it.

“There’s nowhere safe for him,” she whispers, eyes wide with horror. “He’s been eating darkspawn, he’s gone mad with it.”
 
“Like the boy in the Deep Roads you told us about?” Leliana asks, the blood draining from her face. “Are… Are you certain?”
 
Hera nods, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. “Leave him here, Leliana,” she says. “Get him to lie down again. Perhaps the arl can send someone for him later.”
 
“What will he do for food?” Soris asks.”You might as well lock him back in, he’ll wander the dungeon and starve to death.”

A kinder death than what awaits him,

Hera thinks, backing away from Rexel. “That’s a good idea. We’ll be back,” she promises Leliana when she opens her mouth to argue. “We’ll send someone for him. But we can’t just let him loose down here. He’ll get hurt or killed.”
 
Leliana looks as if she might cry, but gently pushes a babbling Rexel back into his cell. “You’re safe here,” she coaxes. “We’ll be back. That’s it, lie down.”
 
“What about me?” Soris asks from his cell.
 
“You can walk out of here on your own,” Zevran says, coming to kneel before his door. “Tell me, do you live here in Denerim?”
 
He nods. “I do. I was imprisoned here because the arl’s son Vaughan abducted my cousins and my bride on my wedding day. They...they took all the girls,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Kallian’s betrothed joined me-”
 
The lockpick in Zevran’s hand snaps and he looks up in shock. “

Kallian?

” he asks. “Small woman, blonde hair? Eyes like the depths of a sailor’s soul?”
 
“Yes! That’s Kalli! She ran away after she killed Vaughan to save our cousin Shianni. Have you seen her?”
 
“She was with the Dalish not long ago!” Zevran says, his excitement building. “But she was leaving them— have you heard from her?”
 
Soris’ surprise and openness is instantly gone, Hera notes. Instead the elf shakes his head and clamps his lips into a thin line.

He’s lying.

It’s almost comical how unbelievably bad a liar the young elf is.

I wouldn’t be surprised to find Kallian Tabris hiding in his pantry.

“No,” Soris lies.
 
“It is a shame,” Zevran says, shaking his head. “I have something special to give her.”
 
“What is it?” Soris asks, raising his eyebrows as Zevran goes back to work on the lock of his door.
 
“My heart,” Zevran tells him, his voice low and serious. “She should have just taken it with her in the forest.”
 
The door swings open and Soris steps out, lifting his head and taking a deep breath. “Thank you,” he says to them. “Please, tell me your names. If there is anything I can do in the alienage for you, I will.”
 
“My name is Hera, and this is Leliana and Morrigan,” Hera explains, pointing to the women. “As for Zevran…” Hera gives her friend a small smile. “If you see Kallian Tabris, tell her that someone is looking for her.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hera sucks in a deep breath and throws an arm out to stop Leliana. “No,” she hisses. “They’re in there.”
 
Quickly, the four go around the last corner they turned and get some distance between them. “Could you hear them?” Leliana asks.
 
Hera nods, closing her eyes and listening carefully to figure out how many men are in the room beside them. “At least four,” she says. “Here’s the plan: I’m going to throw open the door, Morrigan and Leliana, you both start raining magic and arrows on them. After the first volley, Zevran and I will go in.”
 
“Try not to hit us,” he says wryly.
 
“If I do, it shall not be an accident,” Morrigan tells him sarcastically. 
 
“Why do we not simply kick in the door and let Morrigan take her new spells for a spin?” Zevran asks, waving his arms around the same way Morrigan had been practicing on the journey from Redcliffe to Denerim.
 
“Because I have not mastered it yet,” she sneers. “It could fill the entire room with lightning!”
 
“Zevran I could kiss you,” Hera says. 
 
“You should,” he says, puckering his lips. “I am ready.”
 
Hera ignores him, turning to Morrigan excitedly. “Morrigan, do

exactly

that!” she says.
 
Morrigan’s eyes shoot up in surprise. “You want me to cast a complicated, mostly untried spell into a room you intend to run into?”
 
“Yes,” Hera says decisively.
 
“That’s madness!” Leliana argues.
 
“It is brilliant,” Zevran chuckles. “What a surprise.”
 
“I am afraid Alistair will be broken-hearted when he hears of your death,” Morrigan says with a sigh. “I do hope I am there to see it when someone tells him.”
 
“It’ll be fine,” Hera says, drawing her weapons and heading back for the door around the corner. “Just be—”
 
Before she can finish, the door swings open with a loud creak. A man with his arms crossed looks very pleased with himself and waves her closer. “Come in, come in,” he says, his voice deep and melodious in spite of his rat-like appearance. “It’s rude to lurk in doorways. One might think you were brought up with no manners.”
 
“That is Arl Howe,” Zevran whispers.
 
“And you are the Grey Warden I’ve heard so much about,” Howe says with a sharp look at Zevran. “The one I hired

you

to assassinate, if I remember correctly.”
 
“I am afraid you are wrong,” Zevran says casually. “You hired the

Crows.

”
 
“I must say I am surprised Eamon would condone you invading my castle and murdering my men,” Howe continues, raising his eyebrows at Hera. Is he losing faith in the persuasive powers of his Landsmeet?”
 
“I’m here for Anora,” Hera says. 
 
Howe laughs, throwing his head back. “The traitorous bitch has you under her thumb! Anora does love games, but I’m surprised she’d play with the likes of

you

. Everyone knows you go around like a cat in heat and call yourself a courtesan. Filthy Orlesian whore, more like.”
 
“I’ll kill you for that,” Hera says calmly, twirling her dagger in her hand.
 
His humor drains away, leaving a hard face carved with deep, craggy lines set into a scowl. “You should have left when you had the chance,” he growls. “You should have slunk off to the Anderfels to hide with the rest of your kind. This Landsmeet is a farce! Loghain will triumph— and you will die!”
 
“Now Morrigan!” Hera shouts, throwing herself at Howe.
 
The room erupts in sound as Morrigan and two mages behind Howe begin shouting their spells, Leliana’s arrows punch through the air, and Zevran dives into the room, rolling up neatly to his feet and stabbing a surprised mage in the throat.
 
His mages and guards might not be ready for Zevran’s quick attacks, but Howe is ready for Hera’s. He beats her back with sure, easy strokes of his blade that rattle Hera down to her bones. His guard is impenetrable, his armor or sword blocking her every time she attempts to get close.
 
“Did you think I was some weak old man?” he laughs, his next swing forcing Hera to roll out of the way. “That this would be

easy

?”
 
On her feet, Hera’s sword meets his with a spray of sparks. “Literally nothing in this world has been easy,” she says between gritted teeth.
 
“Good,” he chuckles, kicking out. His heavy boot connects with her knee, and Hera falls back with a cry of pain.
 
“The Couslands died on their knees,” he says, towering over her. “Everything they had is mine.” 
 “Why?” Hera croaks, struggling to get her feet under her. Her knee protests, failing each time she puts weight on it. He’s strong, she thinks, noticing how his weapons are simply extensions of himself, and smart in a fight. This is a man who’s been to war.

Well, so have I.

“Why?” he scoffs. “The Couslands were traitors— trips to Orlais, gifts from the enemy. They squandered the glory that was rightfully mine.”
 
“Rightfully yours?” she taunts, glancing at Leliana and Morrigan giving cover to Zevran so he can duck behind a barrel and drain a potion bottle. “I know men like you,” she adds with a haughty sniff. “The kind of men who mistake cruelty for strength. No one loves you, and none will mourn you when you’re dead.”
 
Howe laughs. “Is this the part where I lament my sins and beg forgiveness? From

you?

”

Keep talking,

she thinks, pressing a hand to her knee. There’s no way she can cast a healing spell on it, but if she puts just enough pressure in just the right place, she might be able to stand. “I’m the last person to hear them if you want to confess,” she says. “I’m going to bathe in your blood.”
 
Howe chuckles and lifts his sword over his head. “If you want to play the monster it’s your own doing. I had no hand in making you.”
 
His sword comes down, quick and heavy, but Hera is faster, shifting at the last second so that his blade misses her head, but the weight of it breaks through her armor and sinks into her shoulder. It’s a painful sacrifice, but not without reward: her sword blade slides almost effortlessly into his middle. With a grimace, she forces herself to her feet, putting all her inhuman strength behind her sword to push through his gut.
 
“You might not have made me,” she hisses as his eyes grow wide with shock. “But I am, indeed, a monster, my lord.”
 
Blood bubbles to his lips as he gasps, his mouth moving silently before he’s able to form words. “M...Maker spit on y-you,” he gurgles. 
 
The sounds of battle fade away as Hera and Howe sink to the floor as one, still connected to one another by their blades. Hera doesn’t say anything, only stares into his hard gaze as he struggles to breathe through the pain.
 
“I d-deserved…

more.

”
 
With her gaze locked on his, Hera can’t help but believe him. Who would Rendon Howe had been were it not for the insatiable need for

more

? Was he so different than the courtesan who’d sauntered in Ravenloft believing she deserved more for herself? “Did you?” she asks softly. “Or was that the lie that comforted you at night?”
 
Life leaves his eyes, and Rendon Howe falls backward, sliding off her sword as nerveless fingers release the hilt of his own. It falls with a clatter, breaking the sudden silence and making Hera flinch.
 
“Is...Is everyone all right?” she asks softly, blinking and raising her head. 
 
Zevran is covered in blood, but Hera can tell by the smell that it’s not his— mostly, anyway. Morrigan and Leliana stand behind a stack of barrels, having found good cover once the fight began.
 
All over the room lie dead men.

I am sick of death and blood.

It wasn’t something a child of the undead would normally think— especially not one whose rise to a throne was steeped in the most ancient of vampire blood— but in this moment Hera wishes she were nothing more than human.

Humans can forget the smell of dead men,

she thinks.

The memory will fade and become mist-wreathed with time. But there will never be a day I won’t be able to call up this moment and remember it in perfect detail.

It’s a curse for the immortal.

“Hera?”
 
Hera’s eyes jerk back to Leliana offering her a hand. “I can’t,” she says. “My knee.”
 
“You have a great deal to heal,” Morrigan says with a nod. “Zevran, help Leliana get her up onto this barrel and I will examine her.”
 
“I am afraid this will hurt,

amora,

” Zevran says apologetically.
 
“Then let’s make it quick,” she hisses, raising her bloody arm as high as she can.
 
Zevran and Leliana get Hera up, making certain she puts no weight on her injured leg, and lift her to the barrel. “Go check that door,” Hera says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. “Make sure there’s no one back there that can walk in on us.”
 
“I imagine if they could, they would have done so by now,” Leliana says, crouching beside Howe to rifle through the pouches hanging on his belt. “Unless they’re locked in,” she adds, lifting a key. “Come on, Zevran, let’s see if he has any more nobles hidden away.”
 
With their chatter moving down the corridor beyond, Hera closes her eyes and slumps, letting Morrigan poke and prod at her shoulder in silence.
 
“You are not a monster,” Morrigan says in a low voice, her eyes on Hera’s shoulder and not her face. “I dare say you are as far from a monster as a person can get.”
 
Brittle laughter leaps out of Hera before she can stop it. “You have

no

idea,” she says. “If you knew me better, you’d think the only thing I’m missing are fangs.”
 
“Oh

yes

,” Morrigan teases. “A more heroic monster I have never seen. You save abducted nobles and make kings of men and save little kittens from high places. A monster indeed.”
 
Hera looks up at her as Morrigan’s magic surrounds her arm, knitting the flesh together and easing some of the pain. “Do you ever get tired of it, Morrigan?” she asks softly.
 
“Of teasing you? No. I believe it is just retaliation for having to listen to your

constant

nightly exploits with Alistair for so long.”
 
Hera tries to smile, but the pain and sudden exhaustion weighing on her spirit make it fade quickly. “I mean the killing.”
 
Morrigan’s hands pause for just a moment before she kneels in front of Hera to look at her knee. “Yes,” she says finally. “But a part of me is quite aware that without it, we would not have become friends. And

that

I will not tire of, even when you have flown back to your home.”
 
Hera’s knee pops loudly and she cries out as Morrigan’s magic floods her leg in an attempt to stem the pain. “You could come with me,” she offers.
 
Morrigan chuckles. “Perhaps one day I will find your Ravenloft. But my work is not yet done here.”
 
Hera opens her mouth to respond, but the sound of uncontrollable sobbing cuts her off. “By the Powers?” she says instead. “What’s going on?”
 
“Do not move,” Morrigan says. “Your knee will not support you yet. I shall see what is amiss.”
 
Hera waits impatiently, reminding herself that a cure wounds spell would not go unnoticed. A moment later, Zevran and Leliana appear, a dark haired, weeping girl in his arms. “Is that…?” She says, looking to Leliana.
 
“Elissa Cousland,” Leliana says with a nod. “And she’s not the only one. There’s a Templar back there with Morrigan.”
 
“Tell her not to kill him!” Hera says quickly, hopping down onto her good leg. “Morrigan!”
 
The witch appears, Templar in tow. “Fear not, O Hero of Ferelden,” Morrigan drawls, a smile growing on her lip. “I was merely giving him a vial of my lyrium to get him on his feet.”
 
The man looks dazed, but is at least able to walk on his own in spite of his gaunt frame and shaking limbs. “Praise the Maker,” he says reverently.

“Are you all right? Can you find your way out?” Hera asks. “I’m afraid we can’t afford to take on more than we already have.”
 
The man nods, blinking. “I am...well enough. Don’t worry, fair lady, I will find my own way out.”
 
“There is certainly enough armor here to disguise yourself,” she says, gesturing to the dead bodies. “I’d suggest you take the advantage.”
 
“And what of the Lady Cousland?” he asks, putting a hand on the girl’s head in blessing. “What will you do with her?”
 
“Calm her first,” Hera says with a smile. “And then we’ll get her out with Queen Anora. Don’t worry, ser.”
 
The templar sets his jaw, nodding once more, and begins to strip one of the guards. Testing her knee and finding it mostly sound, Hera hobbles over to Zevran and lifts the girl’s hair from her face.  “You’re safe now,” she tells her gently. “My name is Hera, and you’ve already met the others, right?”
 
Elissa Cousland’s face is more like a skeleton than a pampered noble girl, but Hera can see past it to a pretty girl with bold eyebrows and eyes like twilight. Starved and tear-stained, she looks like some of the orphans hanging around Sigil’s famous Soup Kitchen, hoping for an extra helping. 
 
Elissa blinks slowly, staring at Hera before her lip trembles. She bites her bottom lip and takes a deep breath before nodding. “Y-Yes,” she whispers.
 
“Good,” Hera says with a smile. “Can you walk, Elissa?”
 
“We gave her a healing potion a few minutes ago, it should be working now,” Leliana explains. “There’s been…”
 
Hera raises a hand to stop her. She doesn’t need to be told that Elissa has been beaten more than once. Half-healed bruises shaped like fingers peek out from her tattered shirt, and her bare legs are not only bruised, but have odd-looking burns and cuts on them.

The elfroot hasn’t had enough time to heal her fully,

she thinks, frowning.

How are we going to get her out of here like this?

What if…

she thinks, eyebrows raising. “Leliana, if I give her my uniform, do you think she’ll pass for a soldier?”
 
“Yes,” Leliana says slowly. “But what about you?”
 
Hera is already unbuckling straps. “Morrigan help me, please.”
 
Morrigan shakes her head, arms crossed over her chest. “Not until you tell me what fool plan you have now.”
 
“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Hera laughs. “But if she’s disguised the same as you, you can all walk out of here with Anora.”
 
“And you?” Zevran asks, frowning at her. “Alistair will have our heads if we return without you.”
 
“I’m going to walk out right behind you,” Hera promises. “At least I will if someone will help me out of this.”
 
“Hera, this is madness,” Morrigan mutters, but starts unbuckling the greaves on her legs.
 
“It’s not,” Hera insists. “But we can’t put a helmet on her like that and expect no one to notice her.

I,

on the other hand, can be invisible when I want to be.”
 
Zevran scoffs, easing Elissa onto a crate. “And has

that

ever happened successfully?”
 
Hera ignores him, reaching out to lift Elissa’s chin and look into her eyes. “

Be calm,

” she says, her voice heavy with suggestive power. “

Be quiet. Stay with Leliana.”

Elissa stops trembling and she nods, pressing her lips together. 
 
“You can do that?” Hera asks gently, tucking a matted lock of hair behind the girl’s ear.
 
“Stay with Leliana,” Elissa repeats. “Yes.”
 
“Good girl.” Hera gives her a sad smile and drops her hand. “We’ll talk back at the arl’s estate. But first we have to get you out.”