"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you." -Flemeth

Sahlin Lavellan is not the Inquisitor Cassandra wanted. She is hardly the Dalish Solas predicted, and she is like no mage Cullen has ever encountered. Second of the Clan Lavellan, Sahlin is not the hero Thedas expected, but she may very well be the one it needs.


A/N: Chapters will shift in perspective from character to character. POVs to include: Solas, Sahlin, Cullen, Cole, and maybe the occasional Bull.

Forewarning: Spoilers will eventually follow. Also be prepared to see a slightly more sinister and conniving Solas than you might like. This story will delve just as deeply into the Solas backstory as the Inquisitor's and, assuming I ever make it to the end, my thoughts on what exactly happened at the end of the game and how that will impact our favorite bald elf.

Final Note: I am unapologetically committed to the slow build romances. You'll see Solas/Lavellan, Cullen/Lavellan, probably even some Cullen/f!Hawke and if my favorite chapter makes the cut, a whole host of dredged up romances from my personal world state. Oh, and there will most definitely be some Bull/Dorian action later on as well. You can count on it.

But they're an angsty, baggage-ridden bunch, this lot. Their romances will take some time to build and tear down and, maaaaybe, to build back up again. If you're more of the instant gratification sort, I think I may post a few excerpted one-shots a little later on.


Probably should add that this is my first fore into fanfic.

CRITIQUE ME.

That's the whole point of this right? Getting pointers? Point taken? Too pointed? I'm stopping now...


Chapter One: The Temple Made of Ashes

"It was a wasteland of rock and dust and fire they beheld, not the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Not anymore. Now this place was just another temple made of ashes. There would be no way to discern the charred remains of the countless mages and templars who had died here from that of their beloved Andraste. No, there was nothing sacred about this place any longer."

-/-

"Solas drew back his hand, allowing the prisoner's head to fall against the crook of her arm. Whatever magic bled from this elf, it was a borrowed mistake. Of that he was now certain. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this creature, save for the one, stolen eccentricity that made her easily the most extraordinary thing he had ever encountered. Another convulsion wracked the prisoner's body.

It was that same feature that would kill her if he did not find a way to stem its progress, of this he was also certain.

And he needed that mark."

Solas

He had seen the Temple of Sacred Ashes only once before, in a dream. Even then, it had been lost to this world, the sanctuary of a magic long since forgotten in Thedas. From the vantage of his Fade-dream, he walked with the Wardens of the Fifth Blight, observing their toils to reclaim a relic of few of their time truly believed existed. Had he been Solas then? It was strange to admit, but he could no longer remember. That was the way of the Fade. Time was such a fickle concept there, such an unnecessary constraint, it was pointless to attempt to gauge his reality around its constructs. And yet he was certain he had seen the Temple before. Though looking out at it now, Solas could not suppress his disappointment at having only experienced the sanctuary through the Wardens' eyes. True, there had been another human among them, and a Qunari as well. But memories in the Fade, much like memories in this world, belong to their creators. It would have been impossible to perceive anything within the Temple that the Wardens and their companions had not seen or noticed themselves…and humans were such an imperceptive race, the Qunari even worse.

Still, dulled though their memories had been, Solas had felt the humans' sense of wonder upon witnessing the Temple for the first time; he could sense their careful reverence as they approached the dais upon which Andraste's sacred ashes were kept. He had felt more than seen the magnificence of the Temple's construction, the delicacy and intricacy of each deferential statue, the impossibility of the chamber's near-perfect preservation.

It was difficult to reconcile that image with the wreckage and rubble that stretched out before him now. Charred stone, wood, and brick lay scattered across the snow covered valley like building blocks knocked over by a child in a tantrum, never to be put back together again. Tendrils of smoke still snaked upwards from the burnt remains of the sanctuary that had stood here less than half a day earlier, and everywhere the smell of burnt flesh filled the nostrils. He had been close enough to see the Breach tear open in the sky, a massive rift sundering the tenuous Veil between this world and the Fade. He had felt the ground quake beneath his bare feet, and watched from a hilltop as the behemoth sanctuary crumbled. Receding like a wave back into the ocean, its stone gables and parapets washed back into the mountainside. He had seen it happen, yet there was a part of him that still could not believe.

"This is all that is left." The voice behind him was quiet, almost reverent.

Solas only nodded.

It was a wasteland of rock and dust and fire they beheld, not the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Not anymore. Now this place was just another temple made of ashes. There would be no way to discern the charred remains of the countless mages and templars who had died here from that of their beloved Andraste. No, there was nothing sacred about this place any longer.

"Guards found her here," his guide said, moving ahead of him, a wisp of red hair peeking out from beneath her drawn hood. Her, he knew exactly who the guide meant, the mortal, the sole survivor of all … this.

Solas could not deny the twinge of jealousy that pierced him at the thought of a mortal having experienced the Fade in physical form. But he forced his thoughts away from the undignified sentiment, instead focusing on his guide picking her way through the rock and rubble. He had known the red-haired woman long before she introduced herself. He had walked with her as she walked with the Wardens. When she fell to the ground before the Urn of Sacred Ashes for the first time, abasing herself before her god and his bride, Solas had fallen to his knees with her; he had felt her humility, her unworthiness, her total surrender to the Maker, as if the sentiments had been his own. While there were those among this place who called her Sister Nightingale, Solas knew her to be Leliana, the lay sister and Orlesian bard made Left Hand of the now late Divine Justinia V. But the woman he trailed now hardly seemed the same girl he had encountered in the Fade-dream with the Wardens. This woman was hard and cold, a pale reflection of the ruined landscape before them. The curiosity in him ran rampant imagining what the past decade had held for her that could tarnish such a purity of spirit. Though he could not doubt the destruction of the Temple and the loss of the Divine had played a part, Solas was certain that hers was a darkness given life long before the events of this morning.

In front of him, Leliana stopped, looking down at a crop of red-stained snow. There was nothing at all discerning this particular ground from the rest of the wasteland. Nothing, save the fact that this was where they had found her, the mortal who had walked physically out of the Fade.

"Some of the men swear they saw a woman behind her," Leliana continued. "But when they searched the grounds, the prisoner was the only one left alive. To think that anyone could survive something like this…"

To think, indeed. The Divine's Left Hand could hardly begin to comprehend how inconceivable such a feat truly was. To walk physically out of the Fade, a mortal no less. Solas knelt down where Leliana indicated, but there was nothing to be seen here. The Veil was thin, true; he could feel the Fade tingling against his flesh. But that was no longer an uncommon sensation. With the Veil torn open by the Breach, the entirety of Haven was like a village seeped in the Fade and wrung out poorly to dry. The magic from the other side still dripped heavily from all that its magic had touched.

"Do you really believe you can help?"Leliana's question pulled him from his contemplations and Solas stood, knocking snow from his breeches. There was nothing more to see here.

"Nothing is certain," he replied. "But I do intend to try." And he meant it.

The Left Hand seemed to consider his words, eyeing him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she nodded. "Then I will take you to the prisoner."

When Leliana turned toward Haven, Solas made to follow but the Orlesian woman rounded on him after only a few steps. Her hard eyes found his and held him there, considering yet again, weighing her distrust against her need.

"Your help is welcome, Solas." She spoke slowly, allowing the weight of her words to sink in. "But if you give me any reason to doubt you, I will kill you myself." With that, the Left Hand of the Divine turned on her heel. She did not look back again.

Always such pleasant company, the quick children.


It was not an uneventful trek back to Haven. The Breach had weakened the barrier between this world and the Fade and the Veil strained under the burden, unable to prevent smaller rifts from cropping up across the mountainside. With each new tear, more spirits spewed forth like blood from a wound. And like blood from a wound, they turned, corrupted by the very air they breathed, discolored and disfigured, twisted into something angry and volatile and wrong. How could he have been so careless? Solas spent his mana on the rifts; he exhausted himself again and again attempting to repair even a single sundering. But it was not enough. So much strength, lost. In the end, he and Leliana had been forced to cut their way through the Fade-creatures; it was over an hour later before they finally managed to reach the Chantry prison, battle-worn and bloodied.

Solas chose not to ponder why a Chantry required a dungeon. He had accompanied the Wardens to Haven in the Fade, after all, and he recalled with almost perfect clarity the fanatics and cultists they had encountered in the village. A human memory might abandon the most beautiful nuances, but it would recall with infallible lucidity the threat of an assailant. Perhaps the dungeon should not have been that much of a surprise.

The prison was uninhabited save for a two-guard contingent flanking one of the nearer cell doors. Leliana gestured for the men to unbar it, leaving Solas with a moment to reflect on the information he had managed to scrape together thus far. When he had first made his way into the camp at Haven, even he had to admit that he could not have predicted what he would find here. But a Dalish elf condemned for the explosion that tore open the world would have easily ranked among the last of his guesses. In truth, when Leliana had told him that was who they were holding prisoner, Solas nearly laughed aloud. It was beyond ridiculous to think any mortal would be capable of creating the Breach that ravaged the sky over the temple, least of all a Dalish. A Tevinter magister he might have at least considered. But the magic of the Dalish had been failing for centuries, their ignorance now rivaling that of the Circle mages. Yet, the elf had been found alive among the wreckage, according the Orlesian. That alone was something worth investigating.

There's something else as well, Leliana had told him as they picked their way across the rocky pilgrim's path, a mark on her hand. It looks like one of the rifts. Solas could not have said which was more disturbing: the possibility that what Leliana told him might be true, or the tone of resigned indifference with which she had delivered this information. It was a testament, he thought, to how profoundly the world had broken that even this detail no longer warranted surprise.

One of the guards dropped the bar from the cell door and let it swing heavily from its cradle, smacking into the wall with a loud thunk that brought Solas back into the present. The other guard pushed open the door and stepped inside. Leliana followed him and Solas moved to do the same when a wave of raw mana slammed into him. The force of it nearly knocked the breath from his chest and left him staggered, gaping at the door.

Elgar'nan himself could not have forced him into the room at that moment. It was not fear that stayed his feet so much as ache, an ache that welled in his chest and spread through his body, stretching into his furthest extremities, filling him, hurting, reminding. He knew that magic, had felt that magic before, and he wanted to soak himself in it as desperately as he wanted to turn and flee this place, not ready to face what it could mean. He was vaguely aware of Leliana's eyes on him, staring, no doubt tying to discern some meaning in his hesitation. But Solas failed to care. He wallowed in the magic that seeped into his very pores, remembering what it meant to be himself again, to feel complete. In the Fade, even the most vibrant sensations are muted, mere echoes of what they once were. The vitality that surged through him now left his ears ringing and gave him a feeling of near-deliriousness. It was the magic of the Fade, pure, untempered by the Veil. Solas closed his eyes, breathing in, inhaling as himself for the first time in ages.

But the sound of metal boots scraping against stone brought him back. Solas sighed, opening his eyes to the perplexed looks of Leliana and her guards.

"Forgive me," he breathed, all the air still not fully returned to his chest. "The magic in that room, it is so old. I was not prepared for such a sensation."

Leliana's eyes narrowed onto his. "You can feel it from there?" She did not bother to hide her incredulity, and Solas could not fault her for her doubts. He barely believed it, himself.

"I can," he said simply, not caring to offer an explanation. To assuage the look of concern still plain on her face he added, "But I have steadied myself now. Come, let us see your prisoner."

With a slow breath, Solas collected himself and nodded to Leliana to lead the way into the cell. The Orlesian lingered only a moment longer and then turned, allowing him to follow her in. Solas had just barely crossed the threshold when the great door was pulled shut behind him.

"A precaution," Leliana explained.

"And I take it these men are also a … precaution?" Solas took in the scene before him. Four guards stood at the ready, each one with a hand on the hilt of his blade. Their eyes did not so much as waver when he and Leliana entered. Each guard was fixed on what looked to Solas to be little more than a heap of robes in the center of the chamber.

"Yes," Leliana answered. "We cannot afford to be careless. If this elf is the one who caused the explosion…" her voice trailed off. If she was, then what? Solas guessed even the Chantry forces, for all their apparent readiness, would not know what to do if the lifeless heap of robes he took to be their elf prisoner became animated.

"A fair point," he replied in a tone he felt sure was amicable enough. "Shall I take a closer look then?"

Leliana was not given an opportunity to answer before an earsplitting cry reverberated through the room, emanating from the prisoner. The elf's agony ricocheted off the stone walls and the room that only seconds before had been ill-lit by the dim glow of a single torch on each wall was bathed in a vibrant, expanding green. The color of Veil fire. Solas stared down at the figure writhing before him, disbelieving. What had seemed to be little more than a mound of scorched material had suddenly come to life. Manacled hands and feet stretched out, straining against the shackles that restrained them. But his eyes never left the prisoner's right hand. The palm of it reached out, split open like a tear in the Veil, bleeding a sickly green light that washed over everything in its wake. Another scream, and the mark widened, wild verdant sparks jumping out from it like lightning from the clouds. The elf prisoner thrashed against her shackles, indifferent to the metal tearing across her already raw and bloodied skin. Then as quickly as the light had come, it evaporated, sucked out of the room as if nothing had ever happened. The prisoner collapsed, writhing, her face planted against the wet stone floor. Her wracked breath and the metal-on-metal of four sheathing swords were the only sounds left in the room. The entire spectacle had lasted only a few seconds, but Solas's head was left reeling.

"It coincides with the Breach," Leliana explained after a moment, in that same tone of disturbing nonchalance. "When the Breach grows, so does the mark. Each time, it takes her longer to recover from the trauma. But she never wakes up."

Solas only nodded. So many questions were hurtling through his mind, it was difficult to even hear the Orlesian properly.

"We are at a loss, as you can see," Leliana continued. "So do what you can. I must return to the forward camp now. I have lingered here for too long. I will return in a few hours."

Solas nearly stopped her. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. But what were they? Where was he even to begin? So instead he offered Leliana an absent nod and ventured a step nearer to the prisoner. He heard the Orlesian woman knock on the door and the familiar scraping of wood on metal that told him the guards must have heard her knock as well.

"The elf does not leave this cell," she told the guards. There was a moment's pause and then the Divine's Left Hand added, "Either of them."

Solas could not help an inward grimace, but he kept his attention focused on the prisoner.

When the door behind him shut again, he knelt down against the stone floor, ignoring the guards though he was sure his presence was now included in their unwavering vigil. For the most part, their prisoner seemed like a pile of semi-burnt robes. But bare arms were still stretched out, limp against the floor where they had fallen after the mark's assault. Her pale skin was bruised and purpling if it was not already broken open and bleeding from her struggle against the restraints. Every so often, a convulsion would wrack her figure, the only overt indication she was even still alive. Hair the color of dried-out straw flopped like a mop over her face. Solas reached out a hand then paused, steeling himself for disappointment.

It is not possible, he chastised himself. Whatever the explanation, it is not the one you hope.

He took a breath and then continued, turning the prisoner toward him. It was easy enough, she had the lithe form that was so characteristic of her people. Facing him now, the prisoner looked no less dead than before. Her bloodied arms were still sprawled askance like a doll's and her head was still dropped down so that her nose was smushed against the stone floor. Solas pressed a finger beneath the elf's chin, turning her face toward his.

Her ears jutted out expectedly from beneath the choppy straw-colored locks, their unmistakable point marking her for what she was. The prisoner's features were those of the People and the blood writing that scarred her visage was a dull brown benediction to Mythal. The familiar emblem stretched out across the elf's forehead and wound itself in sinewy tendrils just beneath her closed eyes. An aberration of the original mark. Dalish. Solas let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He had been foolish to allow himself to hope.

Solas drew back his hand, allowing the prisoner's head to fall against the crook of her arm. Whatever magic bled from this elf, it was a borrowed mistake. Of that he was now certain. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this creature, save for the one, stolen eccentricity that made her easily the most extraordinary thing he had ever encountered. Another convulsion wracked the prisoner's body.

It was that same feature that would kill her if he did not find a way to stem its progress, of this he was also certain.

And he needed that mark.


Two days later, Solas found himself pressing an irritated finger to his temple as the voices around him lashed out at one another from across the table. The wind that morning cut through his fur-lined coat and left a chill aching in his bones. It did not aid matters that he had not slept properly in days. The prisoner's condition left her life hanging precariously in the balance throughout the entirety of his first day at camp. He spent his magic upon her, easing what pain he could in an attempt to stave off death a little longer. The camp's potions master, Adan was his name, poured so many concoctions down the prisoner's throat that it hardly seemed necessary to force any soup down after. Both he and the alchemist labored over countless poultices to lather upon the mark. Nothing slowed its spread. Nothing improved their patient's condition.

Solas was forced to resort to packing snow against the elf's forehead and in the creases of her arms to bring down the fever that heightened with each new attack from the mark. Even that seemed to provide her with little respite. When he despaired of his attempts, or when the potions master demanded a try, Solas would slink back to the cot they had provided him and search the Fade. But the Breach had already frightened away many of the spirits whose counsel he would seek. He knew those journeys into the Fade had been more a formality than anything, a mirthless attempt to convince himself he could do something.

On the second day, the girl's fever broke and the convulsions lessened. There was considerable debate as to whether or not that should be taken as a good sign. Adan remained ardently optimistic his ward would wake soon. Solas was not so hopeful. That day had given over into night without any real change in their patient's condition.

When he awoke this morning, it was to a summons from Leliana to join her at the forward camp. It was becoming a habit among the humans at the Haven camp, sending for him. As if he existed to serve their whims, to answer their mindless inquiries. Nevertheless, these among the quick children were trying, which was more than he could say for the rest of their race, and even if their questions were poorly-conceived and misdirected, they were intelligent enough to ask, at least. It was a hallmark of progress for the humans, if nothing else. So Solas allowed himself to be summoned here and there, and this morning that meant donning his heaviest cloak and making the pilgrimage to the forward camp. It was hardly an arduous walk, but in the wake of the Breach, even the coldest of winds felt colder and the warmest of cloaks seemed to provide disturbingly little insulation against the winter's harsh assaults.

As Solas climbed the last of the stone steps, he could already hear the angry voices lashing out at one another. It was a smallish group that had gathered at the forward camp and as he ventured closer, their arguments became more coherent, if no less belligerent:

"—would not even be possible if you would just send the prisoner to Val Royeaux!"

"She is our best hope at understanding what has happened, at closing the Breach." Even Leliana sounded strained. Her Orlesian accent left no doubt in his mind that the words had belonged to the Left Hand.

"Is that what your apostate has told you? Lies! We are in this mess because the mages reacted like animals, taking advantage of the Conclave to stage their massacre! And now you take counsel from one of them?"

"Chancellor Roderick is wrong about many things, Leliana, but this may not be one of them." He recognized the Seeker's Nevarran accent as well. Cassandra Pentaghast was a figure who, unlike Leliana, was entirely unknown to him before he had arrived at the camp. Her kind were easy enough to understand, though. Proudly brandishing the eye of her Order emblazoned across her breastplate, he had recognized the Nevarran immediately for what she was: a Seeker, a glorified kennel master trained to lord over her Templar-dogs. Cassandra had not attempted to hide her distrust of him or his staff since he had arrived. She had even gone so far as to demand he relinquish the weapon once more when she had learned of Leliana returning it to him. Solas had expected no less.

"How do we know Solas was not her accomplice?" the Seeker continued. "His arrival here was so unlikely—"

"Maybe it's just me," another voice interrupted, this one unrecognizable to him, "but if I just killed the Divine and tore a Blighted hole in the sky, this is the last place I'd be right about now. Accomplice or not, people who do that kind of shit don't stick around to check in on each other."

As he mounted the last of the stairs separating him from their little gathering, Solas found the dwarf whose voice this wisdom, however indelicately put, belonged to. The man was as short as he was broad with nearly as much hair on his half-bared chest as he had on his head. Solas inclined his own head in thanks as he took up a place at the makeshift war table beside the dwarf, but before he could give voice to his gratitude the Seeker was already attacking again.

"Nobody asked you, dwarf," the Seeker sneered back. "You shouldn't even be at this meeting!" She did not bother to acknowledge Solas's arrival.

"Seeing that my presence was requested, Seeker," Solas cut in—it was not in his nature to remain silent against the clamor of the ignorant—, "I for one would like to second the dwarf's logic."

"Then perhaps you are not protecting your accomplice, elf," the Seeker spat back, turning her full attention to him now. "Perhaps you are poisoning her, thwarting Master Adan's attempts to revive the prisoner so that she cannot wake up and be made to undo all…this!" The Nevarran threw her hands up, gesturing generally at the desperate scene spread out before them.

It was enough. Chaos broke out across the table, a dozen voices clamoring to speak at once, to make their arguments heard. Some agreed with the Seeker. They threw fingers and glares at Solas and spit flew from their mouths as they yelled. Others defended him just as adamantly. What difference did it make if he was an apostate? they argued. All mages were apostates now. They needed all the help they could get. What other choice did they have? Argument on top of argument on top of argument bellowed out across the mountainside.

"ENOUGH!" the commander's voice roared over every other, and slowly the din of voices around the table fell silent as each man and woman turned their attention to the hunched-over warlord glaring at them from the head of the table. Commander Cullen lead what ragtag forces resided at Haven and, from what Solas had gathered, refugees and soldiers, Chantry forces and Circle mages alike, all gave the man their respect. Witnessing him now for the first time, Solas could see what the others had seen in him.

"This is not helping," the commander's voice rang out again. As he spoke, his glare fell indiscriminately across each and every person present. "More demons are pouring out of the Breach daily and our scouts have confirmed at least two more rifts that appeared yesterday alone." Around the table, faces burned red and hung in embarrassed shame.

Leliana seized that moment of silence to pick up the commander's cadence. "Cullen is right," she lobbied. "We must seal the Breach. That is our first priority. Solas," her hard gaze found his from across the table, "you believe the mark on the prisoner's hand could be used to do this, no?"

"I have theorized as much," he answered, shrugging. "but my beliefs are only that: a theory. At any rate, your prisoner would need to be conscious to even attempt it."

Leliana nodded, unfazed, and her attention left him for the potions master who stood just to the right of Chancellor Roderick. "Master Adan," she continued, "you believe the prisoner's condition is improving? What is the likelihood that she will wake up?"

"Pretty good, I'd say. Give it a day more perhaps."

Solas glared at the alchemist. There was no way for him to make such a prediction. It was a hope-ridden guess at best, and devising a plan around such a timetable would be folly.

"We may not have that kind of time, Adan. What we need to consider—" Cullen stopped mid-sentence as a shout rang out from the path to Haven.

"Commander! Commander! Seeker! Lady Nightingale!" The entire table turned to watch the interloping guard hurtle himself across the camp, jumping over crates and knocking into people as he raced towards them.

"What in the Maker's name?" Cullen set off to meet his man, followed closely by Cassandra and Leliana.

"Prisoner—she's…she's…" the man panted between breaths, doubled over and heaving hot air into the frosty morning.

"She's awake," Leliana completed his sentence. She didn't even pause to confirm that her deduction was correct. The Orlesian took off towards the gates at once, Cassandra matching her pace stride-for-stride.

"No…Seeker…rift," the guard still heaved out his words, looking ready to reproduce his breakfast there and then.

"Spit it out, man," the commander demanded, "is the prisoner awake or not?"

The guard swallowed another gulp of cold air and, still bracing himself against his knees, made an effort to deliver his message in its entirety: "Yes, yes sir. But there's a-another rift. Just tore open. Right at the gate. Six men dead. Erik, he told me about the prisoner before he-he died. Demon just jumped out of the ground, sliced him down the side before I got to him. Can't go that way, sir."

Leliana and Cassandra had halted their advance long enough to hear the gist of the guard's message. One of them must have said something then because both women turned in unison in the direction of the ridge pass. It was the longer route, but it would lead them to their destination soon enough.

Before anyone could say or do anything else, yet another warning sounded from the gate to their backs.

"Commander!" it was a different guard, this one no less exasperated than the last. "Another rift on the bridge!" the man cried out, not even waiting for Cullen's eyes to find him. "We'll lose the path to the Breach!"

To his credit, Cullen paused for but a fraction of a moment before he made towards the bridge. "Mobilize the men," the commander shouted, already halfway to the gate himself. "I want every abled hand at that rift in ten minutes' time!"

The camp broke out in a frenzy as men and women grabbed for swords, axes, bows, anything they could get their hands on.

Solas was about to make for the ridge pass himself, to follow Leliana and the Seeker to the newly-awakened prisoner, when the voice at his side stayed him.

"Guess that leaves the other one for us, baldy," the dwarf remarked. From the man's tone, Solas had expected to see a cocky grin split across his face. But when he looked down, he could see the dwarf's grim eyes set on the gate directly ahead of them. Not wasting another moment, the dwarf pulled an oversized crossbow from the sling that held it against his back and made for the gate. "Come on," he shouted behind him, "Cassandra's prisoner's going to have to test that mark out somewhere. Let's make sure she survives long enough to try it."

For the briefest of seconds, Solas stared at the scene stretched out before him, at the scouts and soldiers and refugees scrambling for weapons, all of them racing for the rift on the bridge. They broke around the dwarf like the sea against a rock, all of them running in the opposite direction. The dwarf did not pause, his course did not waver. Massive crossbow in hand, he made for the rift the others intended to abandon. In that moment, Solas saw an image of the durgen'len of Old walking steadfast into battle, spurred on only by their resolute sense of honor. And for the second time in two days, his heart ached for the shadows of a world forgotten.

But his leather-bound feet did not dare hesitate any longer. Solas set off to follow the child of the stone. His hands found a long oak staff jutting from one of the supply crates in his path. The elf grasped hold of its hilt mid-stride and made his way to the gate.