PROLOGUE

Ser Austin followed the path down south, the forest becoming denser and denser the further he walked, his footsteps becoming louder and louder beneath the twigs and roots he tripped over. The sun had completely disappeared behind the grey clouds that covered the grey sky, the grey fog making it difficult to navigate through the giant, spindly trees and the fallen tree trunks.

His armour clanked, the birds that were once singing in the trees above flew away as soon as he drew near; he could easily give himself away to bandits and thieves. His brother told him to wear an outfit of thick hide instead, an outfit perfect for stealthily exploring southern woods — he hadn't listened. His Templar armour glistened whenever the watery yellow sun peeked through parted clouds and reminded him why he was doing this in the first place and gave him a reason to be proud of who he was.

"Are you okay, Captain?" Knight Donovan asked, his stride changing as he matched Austin's pace. "You seem to be lost in your own thoughts today."

Austin barked out a laugh, his eyes remaining ahead of him, barely avoiding walking into trees that only made an appearance when they were at arms length. "Better than being lost in these Maker forsaken forests," he said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. A joke, though what he said was true, at least for him.

"Don't be so sure, Ser. The mind can be a dangerous place for some."

"Yes, Donovan, and we call those people 'mages' and lock them up because of it…" Austin glanced toward his soldier, shaking his head. "Join the others, young knight. We are still a few hours from our destination, especially at our current speed."

Donovan looked as if he wanted to object, though bowed briefly before returning to the other knights who were just recently put under Captain Austin's command. Austin eyed Donovan wearily, whose back was now turned. Austin's shoulders felt heavy and not just from the armour that had been weighing him down for days.

The sun was due to set soon, Austin knew that unless they picked up their place, they wouldn't make it there until tomorrow.

"Come on, lads! Adjust the straps of your rucksacks and start jogging!" he called, signalling to the south, the direction in which they were headed. "This way, we'll make it before midnight."

He heard grumbles coming from behind but chose to ignore them. Instead, he focused on the path ahead, making sure not to run into any tree trunks, trip over fallen branches or scrape his wrists and face on brambles, though he knew his own old joints would ache the next morning, too.

But if what we seek is where we are searching, young Donovan may never see the light again.

/ / /

Rowanne froze, breathing calm and steady. Her hood flapped in the breeze, her cape billowing behind her.

"Who goes there?" the man shouted again from across the field. She counted four men, all Templars and all stiff from the cold air and all wanting to find a nice warm bed to fall into. Rowanne knew this, staring at them from a field away where they were no larger than the size of her thumb. She knew this because she felt the same, and she'd been tracking them since Redcliffe village; they'd been walking longer than she had.

They'd sleep soon, though. Rowanne would make sure of that.

Rowanne didn't answer, she simply waited, watched and anticipated their next move. She saw them huddle, formulate a plan and then, within the minute, start striding assertively towards her, their hands on the hilt of their swords, ready to attack if necessary.

It would be necessary. Rowanne ran a fingertip down the blade of her freshly sharpened knife. She had been waiting to use it on at least one of them since she had first heard them talking. Now she had the chance; some place remote and quiet, eerie, spooky, perfect.

Lothering — a village abandoned long ago when the darkspawn of the fifth blight flocked from the Korcari Wilds up to the north. The towns folk had fled, seeking asylum in a place far away. Many had died. The thick bones of a Qunari lay to rest inside a cage just to the left, a squeaking gate to the old tavern a little further behind that. So many corpses. It should make her stomach turn, but it doesn't.

"I said—" A dagger thumped into the chest of the first knight and, judging from the fancy breastplate and intricate shield art, he seemed to be the captain of the small squad. Rowanne watched him fall to the ground, her hand still held out in front of her from the force of her throw.

The other three exchanged frightened glances, wondering whether it would be wise to scatter or to stand their ground. Fight or flight.

The corner's of Rowanne's mouth curved into a grim smile, her hand slowly falling to her side where another throwing knife rested against her thigh. She said nothing, not even when one of the knights began to shriek at her, telling her to back off. They were Templars, after all — big-headed, too proud, obnoxious… Rowanne would be happy to rid the world of a few more of them.

A wave of energy surged through her as the three came running towards her, their swords raised high above their heads and the angry call of their battle cry which was soon lost to the wind. Rowanne stood her ground, simply waiting for them to approach her themselves; and they did, running straight into the hands of death itself.

/ / /

The prince raised his sword, his green eyes scanning the room carefully. Two opponents, both armed with training swords, the blades blunt from years of use and little maintenance. They were rarely used but, when they were, always with valour. Here, you either lost or died, where your blood could stain the marble floor to remind others of what was at stake. To survive meant winning against the prince; winning meant risking angering the prince, his pride was on the line, after all. To win meant serving the Royal Guard, to live to serve and protect the prince. But, at the same time, you also made an enemy out of him.

Prince Julien, however, had yet to lose his temper because of a defeat. He'd never lost a duel before. Tactics; he'd always been told that tactics were the key to winning a fight, that pure strength alone would never be enough to walk away from a fight alive. Anyway, Julien thought himself a calm man despite what everyone else seemed to believe. And he definitely wasn't a sore loser.

But now he was against two people, two trained warriors by the looks of things. One hailed from the Free Marches, Starkhaven, a noble of the city with much power and responsibility, though obviously seeking more of the first, less of the latter. The other came from Orlais. Julien could instantly tell from the accent, his posture, aura, the way he held his head a little higher.

Julien could see his father out of the corner of his eye, the King's cold glare freezing Julien's own heart. Two skilled warriors against the young Prince of Ferelden — how this had been allowed, Julien had no idea. To fail meant public embarrassment with half the Royal Palace watching. It meant letting his father down. That was not something he wished to do.

He rolled his shoulders backwards and, trying to ignore his father's piercing gaze, raised a taunting eyebrow at the two men.

To kill the prince would be a crime most foul — a life's sentence in the Keep's dungeons at least, or a visit to the headman's axe.

Julien tried to keep this in mind as he surged forward with as much force as he could muster, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as his sword clashed against the armour of the Orlesian.

It was over before he knew it.