When Dragon Age 2 came out, I started planning a series that would link the characters and stories from both DAO and DA2. Needless to say, this will be a big project, and I hope I have the skill and patience to pull it off! I want to extend a huge thank-you to zevgirl for taking the time to beta for me. Hugs to everyone who gives me reviews! They are the lifeline that keeps me writing! I hope you enjoy the series.

At first, Alistair couldn't determine what had woken him from sleep in the large bedchamber shared with his wife, Anora. There was simply something... not right. During the Blight, he had learned to be a light sleeper, to be constantly ready to fight or flee, to trust his instincts. Old habits died hard, even after living in a castle surrounded by guards for seven years. It was Alistair who had always woken first when their son had still been an infant who cried at night. It was Alistair who woke early in the morning to practice his physical training drills before meeting with his seneschal to plan the day. Anora would usually rise later, after the delicious scents of pastries and ham wafted through the palace corridors. In the early days of their marriage, Alistair had teased her by saying that a herd of brontos could storm the courtyard while she slept right through it. She had responded with her usual lack of humor, which became more pronounced over the years.

Alistair lay perfectly still, listening for any unusual sounds or movement. The window was open slightly, letting in the cool summer breeze, and a gleam of moonlight fell upon the floor. He could hear Anora's soft breathing behind him, but otherwise the room was quiet. That uneasy sense of wrongness persisted, raising the hairs on his neck. Slowly, he started to reach for his sword, which he kept tucked under the bed mattress for easy access with only the hilt protruding. He didn't move fast enough.

There was a whoosh of air at his back and then he was rolling, honed reflexes pushing his body before his mind could even grasp a thought. Even as his bare feet reached the floor, his hand had grasped the pommel of his sword and was pulling it from beneath the mattress. He had barely a glimpse of a dark shadow leaping across the bed from the other side, Anora's side. This thought flitted through his brain and then he had the sword up, parrying a blow that came with enough force to knock him to the ground. Rolling swiftly, he kicked out as the figure lunged down with a dagger directed at his chest. The attacker tripped and fell forward hard, giving Alistair the chance he desperately needed. Without even a flicker of hesitation, he drove his sword straight though the attacker's back, holding the pommel firmly as blood spurted around his hand. For a few breaths he waited, then jerked the sword out while stumbling to his feet.

The entire attack had lasted mere seconds, only the tiniest fraction of a mortal's life span. And it changed the future of Thedas forever.

As Commander of the Palace Guard, Kylon had a fairly easy life. The days of having to break up bar fights and clearing outlaws from the back alleys of Denerim were happily behind him. Most of his time consisted of overseeing the training of new recruits and assigning duties from behind a generously-sized desk. During the occasional state affairs, he organized protection for the royal family, but these were infrequent since Anora abhorred travel. Most official gatherings were held in the Palace, making security quite easy to maintain. It was the perfect life for a seasoned veteran of the militia. Later, on that fateful day of Anora's assassination, he would reflect on the fact that perfection never lasts.

He woke to the sound of shouts and banging on the door of his bedroom in the barracks. The night watch captain looked pale as snow while he stammered out that the queen had been killed. Stunned and hoping that his men were just playing some kind of hoax on him, he hurriedly dressed and followed the captain into the palace. All hope shattered at the sight of his king kneeling on the floor of the hallway outside his son's room, holding the frightened boy with bloodied hands. When Alistair saw Kylon, he murmured soft words to his son, Duncan, named after Alistair's Warden mentor, and pushed him gently into the arms of the boy's tutor who led him away from the grisly scene. Alistair rose and turned to Kylon, and the older man gasped at the sight of his king still in his bloody nightclothes.

"My Lord! What... what has happened?" His voice shook and he fought to steady himself. Alistair gestured toward the royal couple's bedroom, across the hall from Duncan's. Dread coiled in his stomach, and Kylon entered the room and surveyed the scene in horror. Lamps had been lit and strewn around on various tables, casting wavering shadows over streaks and pools of blood. On the bed, still covered by a thin sheet, lay Anora, a circle of crimson marking the sheet directly above her breast. The assassin lay face down on the floor, blood congealed on the black leather armor he wore and still dripping to the floor beneath. A pointed ear emerged from a lock of black hair, designating the assassin as an elf.

"He almost succeeded in leaving Duncan without parents," said Alistair from behind Kylon. His voice had the dull monotone of shock. "I was simply lucky, I guess."

The watch captain entered the room. "Ser, the assassin killed several of our men as well. All of the men guarding the halls to this area of the palace, in fact. We are attempting to ascertain how he entered." The captain's face was pale and drawn, and his eyes looked pleadingly to Kylon as if the Commander could somehow wake them all from this terrible dream. But even dreams don't have this much blood, he thought bleakly. Stiffly, he turned and knelt on the floor before his king.

"My Lord, I have failed you and your queen. My life is yours." He stared at the floor, awaiting the blow of justice he knew he deserved.

"Get up, Kylon. I've seen enough death tonight." Alistair grabbed his shoulder and pulled Kylon to his feet. "I'm more interested in finding out how this assassin got in here than in mounting your head." The king walked over to the elf's corpse and nudged him so that he lay face up. The assassin's blade fell from his hand, and Alistair crouched down to examine it.

"Kylon, have a look at this." He beckoned for the commander, and Kylon knelt beside him. The dagger was well made, the blade of red steel and the hilt of silverite engraved with a gold symbol. Kylon drew in his breath sharply.

"My Lord, it's a crow!" The golden image shimmered in the light of the lamps.

"Yes, it is," agreed Alistair grimly. "Apparently, the infamous assassin guild of Antiva has a bone to pick with us."

Summer nights in Antiva City tended to be muggy, and those who were wise never went outside at night without wearing light linen trousers and long-sleeved tunics. Tourists inevitably learned this the hard way when they woke up the following morning covered in insect bites. Zevran sat at a small table in the back of an outdoor garden, lazily watching a group of unwary women sitting nearby. Half-drunk and laughing boisterously, the young ladies were all dressed in sleeveless, low-cut dresses in bright colors of every hue. They carried fans to ward off the heat, not that they helped much in the humid air. The garden was located in the back of his favorite café, and was usually visited only by the quiet locals since it was far from the central square of the city. Given that the women provided a rather delightful view, Zevran was inclined to forgive them for the gregarious noise. They would pay for the show of skin in the morning after the insects had their feast.

A server dressed in black approached Zevran and placed a goblet of red wine on the table. Bowing deeply, he disappeared as silently as he had arrived. Zevran twirled the stem absently, while watching one of the women lean over to grab her napkin from the ground. Such a nice bosom and still young and firm, he thought appreciatively. The woman happened to meet Zevran's gaze as she sat up and smiled coyly while tracing one finger enticingly along the neckline of her dress. Returning the smile, Zevran raised his glass in salute and drank deeply of the wine. The woman raised her own glass to him and giggling, returned her attention to her friends.

From their accent, he guessed that they were from Orlais. Most likely, they were noblewomen enjoying their youth before their parents married them off to the highest bidder. Such women were often terribly easy to entice into his bed. As he toyed with the idea of approaching the group, their voices floated across the air and he heard a few words that gave him serious pause.

"... death of Queen Anora in Ferelden?"

"Why, yes! I heard that it was a Crow assassin from right here in Antiva!" As if suddenly aware that it would not be suitable to speak in such a way of the Guild in their own land, the offending lady lowered her voice, forcing Zevran to listen more closely.

"I guess that leaves poor King Alistair all alone with his young son who is only five!" The women all assumed the appropriate looks of pity.

"I wonder if there's any chance the king might be willing to remarry a woman from Orlais," mused another of the ladies. "Can you imagine? A chance to become a queen?" The women giggled and waved their fans in excitement.

Zevran stood abruptly and drained his wine in one long gulp. Leaving the fare along with a generous tip on the table, he passed by the women on his way out of the garden. The promiscuous woman who had saluted him earlier looked up hopefully as he neared, but the elf was too lost in his thoughts to notice.

When Zevran had returned to Antiva seven years ago, he had searched hard for exactly the kind of home he wanted. When he had lived there before the Blight, he had been a guild assassin of no rank, forced to share a cramped apartment with Taliesin. When he returned, he had money given to him by the royal court of Denerim as payment for his service to the Wardens. It had by no means left him rich, but it did give him the option of bidding on a beautiful studio loft situated on the upper floor of a home by the harbor. The loft was small, but the view of Rialto Bay made it well worth the money. The studio also boasted a balcony with a small circular stairway that led to the roof, a pleasant place for spending a summer evening gazing at the stars.

Tonight, however, enjoying the stars and the lights from the boats on the water gave Zevran no peace. When he closed his eyes, he was no longer standing on a roof overlooking Rialto Bay, but on the roof of Fort Drakon, surrounded by the screams of dying men and women fighting a battle with a deadly dragon. Ferelden... Denerim... Alistair. Why should I care about a country not my own, or a man I no longer fight beside? And yet, he could not deny the twinge in his chest when he had heard the women speaking of Alistair alone. Where was the Hero of Ferelden? Where was Rielle Surana?

The name sent a shiver through him, and unconsciously, he clenched his fists. Even now, seven years later, his memory of her still affected him so strongly. But she had turned from him and chose Alistair, who she then placed on the throne. She had sealed her own fate; Ferelden was not ready for an elven queen. Perhaps she had hoped that Alistair would continue to tryst with her, even after his marriage to Anora. A foolish wish that would have been as chivalrous and moral as Alistair was. Whatever it was that she had hoped for, Alistair had reluctantly turned from her and accepted the marriage to Anora, leaving Rielle to flee to Amaranthine. Belatedly, she had asked Zevran to accompany her, but he refused; one heartbreak was enough.

And so, he had returned home in secret, determined to win his freedom from the Crows who hunted him. It had taken three years and three dead guild masters, but he had won at last. They left him alone now, deeming that it was more wasteful to lose masters than to kill one renegade. They tried instead to ruin him financially, threatening anyone who wished to hire him. But Zevran's reputation was too solid to destroy. He took difficult contracts, ones that most Crow masters decided were too risky to accept. More importantly, he always managed to fulfill these contracts, no matter how difficult they were. He was the best assassin in the city and the most expensive to hire. There were always offers to consider, and he fared well enough to live as he wished.

It was disturbing to learn that a Crow had attacked the Queen of Ferelden. Political attacks of such high risk were usually refused by the Guild. He could only wonder at the motive and the identity of the client. And Alistair was now left to rule alone. He mused sardonically that such a situation probably pleased Eamon, Alistair's advisor. Eamon had never liked the daughter of Loghain; she had too much of a mind of her own. No doubt Eamon would enjoy having sole influence over Alistair.

Such things were no longer his concern. He had left them all behind: Ferelden, Alistair, and Rielle. It would be best to leave the past be, and he knew this. So why was he staring at the stars and remembering more pleasant times spent with the companions of Rielle and Alistair? He almost smiled at the memory of teasing Alistair with Morrigan, and remembered fondly the drinking contests with Oghren. And Leliana, lovely Leliana, who enchanted everyone with her voice. Shale, who always tried to squash birds when Rielle wasn't looking. Sten, whom Zevran had seen smile only once, when he had discovered the wonder of a cookie. Even Wynne... well okay, he didn't really miss Wynne and her lectures. But she had been fun to tease and flirt with.

Enough. The past was the past, and Alistair could handle his own problems. Shaking his head, Zevran started to walk toward the stairs to his balcony, but a sudden wind whipped his golden hair across his face. Brushing it back, he saw a crow, a very large crow, sitting on the roof directly in front of him. The crow cocked its head and stared at him with bright, beady eyes. Not many things gave Zevran pause, but this crow was exceedingly strange and he shivered minutely. Then, the crow seemed to shimmer, like sunlight on the ripples of a pool, and suddenly before Zevran stood a tall, fierce-looking woman with white hair fashioned into the shape of horns. Her eyes were a deep gold, and she wore a silver headdress and silver earrings. Feeling as if he was moving far too slow, Zevran drew his daggers, and the woman laughed.

"Zevran Arainai. You have already helped to kill me once. Do you seek to do it again?" She raised one eyebrow in amusement while Zevran assumed a defensive stance. "Come now, assassin. Surely this time we can talk like adults?"

"My dear lady, I am quite certain I have not encountered you before." Zevran gripped his daggers tighter. "If I had, I am sure I would remember such an astonishing transformation."

The woman threw her head back and laughed. "I can be many things and many beings, Zevran Arainai. But perhaps you might remember me better in this form?" As she spoke, her body shrunk and shriveled, and her hair turned gray. Her eyes darkened to brown and she looked no fiercer than an aged grandmother. Zevran slowly lowered his blades in shock.

"You are Flemeth? But I am certain that we killed you, did we not?" This was definitely turning out to be a rather interesting evening full of visitations from the past.

The woman lifted a corner of her lips. "Oh, you most certainly did. At least, you and your friends managed to kill one part of me. But I have lived long enough to have more than one life in me, young man." She walked up to him and touched his cheek with one long bony finger. Zevran tried to move away but found that he was paralyzed. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Ah, you do not trust me, but in truth, you shouldn't. Have you ever trusted anyone, Zevran?" She waved her hand towards the heart of Antiva City. "Not here, I am sure. But in Ferelden, perhaps?"

Zevran found that he could still speak at least. "Ferelden is past, witch. And one does not need to trust to live."

"True. But one does need to trust to love. And what is life without love? Or so they say." She moved away to stand at the edge of the roof and stared out over the harbor. "The world is changing, Zevran Arainai, and you will change with it. If you do not, you will blow away like dust in the wind. Is that the kind of fate you wish for?"

"I can be as flexible as I need to be, my lady."

"Indeed?" Flemeth turned to face him. "Then face your destiny, Arainai. Do not run from what you must do. We all have a purpose in this world, even an old woman such as myself." She smiled slowly, her eyes narrowing.

"And what would your purpose be, I wonder?"

"Ah, if I could answer that question fully and completely, I would be as the Maker Himself." Turning her back to Zevran, she walked to the very edge of the rooftop. "If you trust no one, trust yourself. Face the shadows in your heart and make your choice, Zevran Arainai. Make it a wise one." Once again, her form shimmered and became that of a large crow. Looking back at Zevran, the crow winked one black eye, spread its wings, and was gone.

Taking in a sharp breath, Zevran found that he could move again. Lost in thought, he walked to the same spot Flemeth had just left and stared out into the night.

The breezes over the waters of Lake Calenhad tended to keep the Circle Tower cool during the summer months. From her office on the second floor, a small narrow window allowed the First Enchanter to look out over the water to the Docks. Although the window could be opened to let in the cool air, heavy steel bars crisscrossed the opening preventing any attempt to escape should any mage be foolhardy enough to try. The First Enchanter sighed, remembering her younger days when she had actually considered this option. Even though she accepted her place here, had actually consented to return to this tower, it still felt like the cage it was.

In older days, the tower had been called Kinloch Hold and was built by the Avvars, the ancient ancestors of the Fereldens. For years, it had stood unconquered until the Tevinters finally breached its walls and killed everyone within. For many years, the tower lay empty, and the people who lived on the banks of the lake claimed that it was haunted by the defeated Avvars. The magi dispelled these rumors and took the tower as their home, and the templars followed as their guardians. Now, both orders coexisted side by side, living together in increasing disharmony.

After the battle with Uldred and his followers, things had steadily deteriorated in the Circle. Despite the efforts of Irving and Greagoir, the templars grew less tolerant and more aggressive toward the remaining magi. The uprising had fulfilled every templar's worst nightmare: blood mages turning against their guardians. Irving labored to reestablish the magi's reputation but little was accomplished before his death four years after the Blight. That was when Greagoir had come to her, to ask that she take the position of First Enchanter. His hope, he explained, was that her reputation would ease the tensions between the magi and the templars. She almost refused.

"I am finally free of that place, Knight-Commander. Why would I wish to return? Here, I have freedom. The Tower is nothing more than a fancy prison, and you know this."

He had sighed and rubbed his face with a battle-calloused hand. "I know that the magi feel that way. But after what happened with Uldred, can you see why templars are necessary? We need you, my Lady. The tower needs you. No one else has the strength of character to defend the magi and rebuild what they have lost. If the delicate balance between mage and templar is lost, what will happen then?" His eyes had pleaded for her understanding. Even so, it took three days to reach her decision. She had already lost so much; did her freedom truly matter in the greater scheme of things? Reluctantly, she had returned with him to her former home, her former prison.

Three years now she had worked here, spending as much time as possible with each mage in the Tower. She spent equal time with the templars, even going as far as to wander the halls, exchanging pleasantries with the guards. Slowly, she gained their respect, and most seemed to like her. The recent memory of the uprising still tainted the Tower, but steadily, she was managing to restore the balance once again. Until now.

The events in Kirkwall had filtered down to Ferelden, and taverns across the country were buzzing with the news of the viscount's death, the battle with the Qunari, and the subsequent takeover by Knight-Commander Meredith. The magi in Ferelden had long been aware that the treatment of their northern brethren was much harsher than their own. With the templar commander now in charge, it did not bode well for the Circle in Kirkwall. She couldn't even walk through the Circle library anymore without overhearing the hushed whispers of Kirkwall's situation among her magi. She had begun to fear that all her work would come to nothing if the templars decided to enact the same moves here.

Then, only a few weeks prior, had come the news of the Queen's assassination. Her first instinct was to race to Denerim, to offer Alistair what comfort she could. But that relationship no longer existed, and she found herself reluctant to reopen old wounds. There was little doubt that Eamon would be there to support the king and others as well. She had given up her claim to Alistair long ago.

A soft knock sounded at the door of her office. "Enter!" she called.

A young man, lanky and tall, with rakish red hair tentatively entered the room. He gave a short bow when she smiled at him.

"Enough of the formalities, Connor. What can I help you with?" The years had been kind to this man, once a boy possessed by a demon. Even after seven years, he retained no memory of the fateful events that had brought him here from his home in Redcliffe. How she wished her own memory of that day could be erased! She still could not look upon his face without seeing Isolde suspended in mid-air, blood exploding from her chest.

"A letter has arrived for you, my Lady." He extended a small envelope sealed with red wax. "Enchanter Petra asked that I bring it to you immediately." As she took the letter, her eyes glanced over the wax seal, and her heart sank a little.

"Many thanks, Connor. You may be excused to return to your lessons." The man gave another brief bow and retreated quietly, closing the door behind him.

She moved over to the open window while carefully breaking the seal of the Circle of Kirkwall and opened the letter. A gentle waft of air cooled her face as she rapidly scanned the contents.

My fellow Enchanter,

It grieves me to send you this message, but I can no longer hesitate to send warning to the Circles of Thedas. By now, you have heard the grave news from my city of Kirkwall. I am afraid it is true; the city is now under the control of the templars, headed by Knight-Commander Meredith. In order to protect my people, I have been cautious in the past, but that time is coming to an end. I can no longer stand by while mages are being wrongfully persecuted. What the future holds for Kirkwall, I cannot be certain. But I have come to my own decision to fight for our rights. This will undoubtedly affect the Circles throughout Thedas, and for this, I apologize. I would ask that you stand in support of the Circle of Kirkwall if at all possible.

I will be seeking what help I can find from those who may be sympathetic to our cause. The Champion of Kirkwall is herself a mage, and I hope to obtain her support in this. I would advise that you also look for whatever aid may be available to you. The coming days will be dark, indeed, and I pray to the Maker, that His mercy may prevail.

With all sincerity,

Orsino

For a long time, she stood at the window, staring down at the blue ripples of the lake. Ferelden had seen enough war already; could this country handle yet another conflict so soon after the Blight? Her hands gripped the windowsill and she bowed her head in contemplation. It seemed that they would have no choice. Fate had already decided, and events were in motion. She, First Enchanter Rielle Surana, Hero of Ferelden, would face the future with whatever strength she could find.