A/N: Hi, Dragon Age (which doesn't belong to me) fans! Inspiration hit me painfully when I was listening to Muse's album The Resistance (neither of which I own), so I decided to apply my idea to Dragon Age instead of putting forth effort and doing something original. There will be ten chapters in all, hopefully with a high word count each, so stay tuned, cuz these'll be updated fairly quickly...for me. I'm using my Warden's name because it's her character in this story; I usually don't like doing that, but who cares. By the way, Alistair, stop appearing in my stories. He won't go away...Yeah. So expect those two, as well as a lot of made-up characters. A lot. And a few canon characters...

Please review and tell me what you think so far, as well as criticism, missed typos, etc.

In the very first Age, an elven apostate and maleficarum known as Tangen fled from his pursuing templars by freezing the ocean and running across it. It is unknown whether or not he had a plan in this, but whether or not he did, he was saved. After nearly twenty-four hours of using exhausting spells and forcing his weak feet to move, Tangen came across an island seemingly in the middle of nowhere. He was quite a distance away from the templars, but because they had his phylactery, he did not expect to remain free for long. However, a curious thing happened—as soon as Tangen threw himself onto this land, his phylactery shattered in the Knight-Commander's hand, and though they searched and searched for him, he was never seen again, and his would-be kidnappers were forced to sail home empty-handed.

It might have been believed that the elf had simply drowned if after this event, other apostates or blood mages hadn't attempted to make his same journey. Many of them—those that weren't powerful enough—were simply caught by the Chantry and executed. But the strongest mages simply seemed to vanish, their phylacteries breaking after they'd been fleeing for quite a while. The story of the island Tangen—as it had been named—was passed through the apostate network, enticing the strongest and the weakest hiding mages to travel across the ocean. And, though one way or another these brave or foolish mages were never seen again, criminal spell-casters and persecuted Dalish keepers from Antiva, Fereldan, Orlais and Rivain have been chasing after this myth for centuries.

But Tangen is not a myth. It exists, floating unmapped in some distant sea, and the mages that managed to make it there thrived.

Tangen is a perfect place for apostates, maleficarum, or just plain old mages tired of living under the Chantry's thumb. The descendants of the original Tangens all practice their magic without a glaring, faceless templar watching them do so. The island, while lacking veins of the mineral lyrium, has quarries, forests and freshwater streams enough to build a city complete with universities and libraries and homes and estates and other monuments, like the Unstable House.

The Unstable House, contrary to its name, is built like a fortress, because that is essentially what it is. It's common knowledge that, while children of mages are often born with a connection to the Fade, not all of these children are so lucky. While back in the Maker-fearing world mages are, to put it bluntly, locked up and the regular people simply go about their lives, Tangen decided that things needed to change on his island once people kept arriving and families kept springing up. Children without magical abilities were unstable, he argued. With a mage, you know how they will fight, and if you're knowledgeable, you can predict what spells they will use. But the "normal" are unpredictable, because they could pick up a sword or a few knives or a battleax or a hammer or use their fists, thus changing how you approach them in a fight entirely. He made all kinds of points like that, persuading the mages (most of whom still remembered with anger the way they were treated at the Circles) that an ungifted child must be locked away. This argument wasn't based so much in fact, obviously, but from old hurt and vengeance. But the newborn children paid, charmed at birth to see if they possessed magic, a spell of the powerful Tangen's own making.

So the Unstable House was built, a sprawling prison where the 'Unstable' were kept until they were hired as near slaves, or died. Most children found their way into one occupation or another, but there was always the doubly-cursed kid who just didn't seem to fit in anywhere. And for some reason, the parents allowed this to happen, and the Unstable accepted their lot in life, and the templars didn't bother anyone, because they couldn't reach the island.

But in the last few decades, the Unstable began to question their apathy. A rebellion formed. Escapees from the Unstable House, or those whose masters secretly supported or let free, began to wreak havoc. They freed imprisoned Unstable children from the House or from a death sentence for some petty or imagined crime; they torched the cruelest mages' large homes; they taught each other to fight. Of course, the society of magi who ruled Tangen did their best to quell this uprising by exploding their hideouts and executing suspected members faster than they blinked, but this only made the rebel's numbers grow. And the rebels were careful, too, and their leader was even more careful, whoever they might be. So by the time the Hero of Fereldan had slain the archdemon—which barely affected Tangen's inhabitants at all—the uprising had destroyed nearly half of the city's homes, either by angry mages attempting to put a stop to it, or by the uprising attempting to put a stop to it all.

But while this sudden revolution didn't affect everybody at first, it would end up deciding the fates of every breathing resident of Tangen, whether below the island, above it, or on the island itself. One of the first to be changed by the rebellion and the fate that await it was an Unstable human named Leona. And she was currently sitting in one of the mage Society's prison cells, waiting to die.


Back in the arling of Amaranthine and in the master suite of Warden's Keep, Talysse Surana had paused in the packing of her trunk and was looking lovingly at a letter on her desk. She folded it up quickly as her seneschal entered with a quiet knock—the letter was of a personal nature, after all—and sighed as she looked him over.

"Don't tell me we're having a peasant revolt," she complained, running her hands through her hair. "I have neither the time nor inclination to deal with a peasant revolt!"

"It's not a peasant revolt, Commander," Varel assured her, though he looked a bit uncomfortable. Once the good news was shared, Talysse resumed packing her robes and summer clothes.

"Excellent. Then I cease to understand why you must bother me, Varel. If it's not something like that, I assume you can deal with it on your own. Now, please leave me be; I only just realized that I'm leaving tomorrow, and I still haven't—"

"It is Grey Warden business, Commander," Varel interrupted.

"Andraste's blood. I can never have a moment's peace, can I? Is it a messenger, a letter, the latest archdemon popping by to say hello?

"He calls himself The Crawling." Talysse froze.

"You're sure?" Varel nodded assent. "Andraste's blood," she swore again, storming out of her study still in her dressing gown.

Talysse had never met a man by the name of The Crawling before, but then again she doubted that any fellow so important as to require her presence immediately would sink to the level of renaming themselves something that degrading. And because the only things she'd ever met that had names more like creepy titles were darkspawn, she assumed this was another of the Architect's lackeys requesting her assistance. While Talysse held nothing against the Architect and his desires, she wasn't keen on drinking brandy with such a horrific face looking at her and rasping its demands. But it seemed she'd have to do that anyway. How grand.

She stopped her march in the courtroom, and sure enough, a darkspawn she'd never seen was standing awkwardly, waiting for her. He (it?)didn't look any different from any other "freed" darkspawn she'd seen before, and she assumed that the Architect had a message for her. She really, really hoped it wasn't news of some new deranged, Mother-like creature that had just arisen, or something equally gruesome that would delay her trip to Antiva.

"Yes? What do you need, The Crawling?" she asked him impatiently. Varel crept up behind her and silently watched the exchange. "I take it the Architect sent you?"

"The Architect told me where to find you, mortal, yes," the creature croaked. "But it is my own message that I am being carrying."

Talysse blinked, struggling to decipher his words. "You mean to say that you have something to tell me?"

"The Architect is thinking that The Crawling's message would be beneficial to the Warden."

"And what information would that be?" Talysse asked, sitting down on the throne with a sigh. She had a feeling this wouldn't be a short tale.

"I am hailing from the island of Tangen." The elf snapped to attention at the name. Having spent what seemed like most of her life dealing with apostates, maleficarum and spells, she knew the island's story as well as anyone could. "The Crawling was born and lived beneath. Many of my kind spend their time carving out tunnels deep beneath the water. The tunnels will one day meet the dwarva tunnels, and many darkspawn will go forth. There are many of us. It will be a disaster, for both your kind and my kind will die as we charge. "

Talysse stared at the darkspawn and struggled to ask him over and over, wait, Tangen is real? "How did the Architect find you" seemed like an important question, so she asked it.

"The Crawling was digging too close to the water. My tunnel broke, and the water swept me away. I was found by the Architect." She doubted she'd get any answers besides that. Considering the simplicity of each answer the hurlock gave, she figured she'd been pushing her luck.

"The Architect wants me to stop this digging, I take it?" The Crawling nodded. Talysse leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Both she and the Architect knew that more darkspawn pouring into the mainland was bad on its own, and the added numbers would ensure that the latest archdemon would be found much sooner. She also knew that the Architect held her in high regard, which would explain why he figured she'd be able to travel to an island of myth and prevent maybe an entire horde from breaking free. Now that she thought about it, if mages had managed to escape to Tangen, she'd probably have them to deal with, as well.

"I take it you know how to get to Tangen?"

"The Architect has been giving me coordinates."

The mage sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past hour and turned to Varel, wanting to cry. "I was going to visit my husband."

"I know, Commander," he replied, sympathy coloring his eyes.

"I haven't seen him in months."

"I know, Commander."

"Well, that seems to be that, then," she told The Crawling, leaping off her throne as she did so. "I need to write a letter to Zevran, then. Oh, and while I'm at it," she delivered this last comment to Varel, already heading back to the living quarters, "give Knight-Commander Greagoir a message that I'll be visiting, please. If I'm going to be dealing with the most dangerous mages in history and their descendants, I think a templar or two would be nice."

She departed, wringing her hands as she went. Varel uncertainly asked his darkspawn guest if he needed anything, and after sending a request to the kitchens for meat, he too left.


The cell walls were smooth and carved with runes of all manners of binding, and Leona found herself finding patterns in the shapes; amusing herself until the executioner came. Her already plain dress was smudged with all kinds of filth, her short red hair lank and greasy, and she thought miserably to herself that it was a shame that she would have to die looking like this. Her jailors had left her alone for two days or so, and the uncertainty of when her death would arrive wasn't helping her calm down enough to do something about it.

Leona didn't even really know why she was here. The Society said that she was a member of the rebellion, though there was no proof. Where the Unstable were concerned, proof wasn't very important, anyway. When a member of the Society had shown up at the House demanding to take the young woman into custody, she was handed over without question. It was a ridiculous conception, though—Leona had never made an attempt to flee the Unstable House, extremely rarely caused trouble, and always did what the House mages told her to do. But when she tried to make this point to the Society as she was carted away, "resist of arrest" was added to her list of supposed crimes. Resisting arrest might earn her some nasty, temporary hex; being part of the rebellion was instant death. She wondered if she would get punished for the lesser crime before dying. It seemed a little silly.

Then again, this whole affair was 'silly'. But no one had asked for her opinion, even if they'd secretly wanted it.

She heard a commotion coming from upstairs and tried to blink away the sudden swell of tears attacking her. Though the wait had been driving her crazy, now all she could think of was how she wished they would let her be for a while longer. Now was a great time to realize that yes, she really was going to die.

The noise continued, spells sizzling and metal clashing. It seemed that they were going to execute her in a fairly Mainland fashion, with an enchanted sword. What a way to die.

Leona heard the footsteps before she saw to whom they belonged to. She shrunk away into the dirty corner, as if that would protect her. Her executioner was a dark-haired elven man, his face ageless in that way elves' skin looks. Plain garments adorned his lithe body, faintly splattered with blood. She shuddered, realizing that he'd probably killed more than a few Unstable today. Barely looking at her, he withdrew a long, shiny sword and began hacking away at the runes sealing the cell door. Blue sparks shot off them, the elf's face drawn in concentration. Whatever odd spell he'd been working seemed to have succeeded because the door fell open and he was hastily beckoning her forth.

"We've got to get you out of here," he told her. His voice was pleasant for an executioner. "I don't know how long we can hold them off." His words clicked, stopping her pathetic plea for life before it had crawled out of her throat.

"You're not from the…" Uprising. "Oh, no," she gasped, shaking her head and trying to get farther away. "I can't be seen with you! Oh, no! Oh, no!" She was close to hyperventilating, staring at him and oh-no-ing like they were her final words. The elf, however, didn't seem like he wanted to wait for her to pull herself together enough to scream. In a business-like fashion, he stepped into the cell, pulled her up by her shoulders, and slapped her smartly on the face.

"What did you do that for?"

"Pull yourself together, woman!" He barked, sheathing his sword and getting ready to run. "We need to run!" Leona shook her hair out, feeling her cheek burn. She quickly considered her options, which weren't highly numbered. She finally decided on the intelligent, life-prolonging one, and followed the elf up the prison stairs and into the blood-spattered hall above.

What seemed like a million men and women of varying ages were doing their best to fend off what seemed like a billion furious mages. Quite a few members of the resistance lay dead already, but a more reassuring bit of décor was the even larger amount of robed and staff-wielding corpses.

"Go, go, go!" Leona's savior shouted as he dodged spells and helped up his fallen comrades. Leona tried her best to keep up. The word spread and the rebellion dispersed, save for a few bulky fellows bringing up the rear with their swords, seeming to slice spells out of the air. Outside the prison district and on the shores, the elf pushed aside a large rock on the beach and pulled her inside the pit it revealed. As she landed, Leona heard the rest of the mob running behind her, and she followed its obvious leader as quickly as she could. He'd lit up a torch by now, and she chased its orange glow. Dozens of feet pounded behind her, doing the same.

Leona didn't know how long they'd been running; adrenaline and fear kept her moving, the thought of escape wiping any other ideas about time or distance from her mind. The only notable event was when they ran to an adjoining tunnel to bypass a blocked-up section, and even that distracted her for only a second or two. But the journey came to an end, as all journeys eventually do, and her rescuer paused to push aside a rock in the ceiling and climbed out, putting a hand out to help her as well as the rest of the rebels up.

When no one else's hands reached for assistance, the elf moved the rock back into place and turned around to survey the group, most of whom were sitting down on the grass or leaning against the trees in the forest they'd fled to, catching their breath.

"We made it out before the tide came in and flooded the tunnels. Good timing, mates." His compliment was met with a chorus of tired cheers, and he smiled. It lit up his whole face, and Leona was suddenly struck with a sense of awe. Leadership just rolled off this elf in rivulets: the charisma, pragmatism and intelligence needed were almost physically there in the way he carried himself. But the smile quickly fell, and he turned to a human woman nearby with a nasty scar crossing her otherwise lovely face, asking her, "How many did we lose?"

"Around twenty, I think. It's not the worst that has ever happened, and they will be mourned, but we can't let such thoughts weaken us," she replied immediately. "We should return to the matter at hand." At that statement, it suddenly seemed to Leona that everyone's eyes were on her. They were, too, including the leader.

"Right. Well, I think introductions are in order first, before you come frolicking about the open fields with us. What's your name?"

"Leona," said Leona.

"Nice to meet you, Leona." And the way he said it, it sounded like he meant it. His voice was sincere and he was looking her straight in the face, like he wanted to memorize it. "My name is Aza'an, and I'm the current leader of the rebellion."


Talysse had spent the rest of the evening penning Zevran and repacking her trunk. She wasn't entirely sure if Tangen would have any lyrium stocks, so she'd made sure to collect all the dust and potions she could gather, as well as salves, scrolls and other magical gear that she didn't want to regret not taking. She left the Keep in her seneschal's capable hands, so the state of her arling while she was away wouldn't prey on her mind.

After dealing with these and other equally depressing tasks, Talysse spared no time in departing for the Circle directly after the message boy had. It would take three days to make the journey, but instead of wasting time and energy waking up any other Wardens and requesting their assistance, she went alone. Her friends were furious with concern once they'd found out, but by that point Talysse was already too far away for anyone to do anything about.

She was lucky, though; she'd run into no trouble on the way, as the land was still recovering from the second darkspawn swarm. So when Greagoir took his morning coffee with the news that his old charge, the Hero of Fereldan, was coming to visit on urgent business, his mug was barely cooled before Cullen announced that Talysse was already on the ferry over.

She met the Knight-Commander in his office, and Irving had shown up for the party as well. She smiled at the First Enchanter and graced a surprised Greagoir with one, too, before immediately settling down to business.

She explained The Crawling's news as carefully as she could. Obviously, the templars would be fairly doubtful about any story about Tangen, but Greagoir listened to her with good grace. He'd never been overly fond of the rather absent-minded and reckless girl when she'd been an apprentice, but he reminded himself that it was not a mage speaking to him, but rather the Grey Warden Arlessa of Amaranthine who'd saved the country from annihilation.

"I do trust this darkspawn," The Grey Warden Arlessa of Amaranthine who'd saved the country from annihilation told the two older men in front of her seriously, "despite the fact that my duty is to wipe out his kind. So if he tells me that Tangen actually exists and holds that name, it means there's going to be a blighted lot of powerful blood mages to deal with. I admit I'm skilled, but not skilled enough that I can pick them all off, kill all the darkspawn, save a thousand kitties from trees that I know I'm going to be asked to help, without assistance from the templars. I respectfully request your aid, gentlemen."

"Surely the first two problems you could handle, but I do think the third is too much." Irving laughed hoarsely before continuing in a more somber tone. "I will not speak for Greagoir, of course, but I think you may have to save those kittens without templar assistance."

"If this is about putting the men in danger…" Talysse piped up, but Irving's hand raised silenced her.

"Patience, young one. I mean to say that the Circle of Magi have not let Tangen's existence go on unchecked. In all the accounts of the mages who managed to escape the templars' grasp, their phylacteries—if they had any—all broke after a certain point, and when that happened, they seemed to vanish. The templars would search the entire ocean for months, and they would never discover any clue of the apostate's whereabouts."

"What Irving is saying," Greagoir hastily put in at seeing Talysse's irritated I-know-the-stories face, "is that the scholars suspect that a templar—a full-fledged templar, mind you—cannot reach Tangen. Perhaps it is due to enchantments on the island, or some natural force that erases connections to the rest of the world…Such things have been known to occur, after all, but we're not sure."

"Ahem, yes, I was getting to that," Irving snapped. Talysse ignored the quick bickering that ensued.

"I won't take any fresh-faced initiate of yours that's never fought in a battle," she sighed, "and I don't think you'll let me. But I don't know what else—oh, no," she moaned suddenly, sitting up straight in her chair. "I can't take Alistair with me!"

"Pardon?" Talysse wasn't sure who'd asked, but she answered anyway.

"Alistair. Sorry, His Royal Majesty. He'd trained as a templar, but he'd never taken his vows...Dammit!" Both men were staring at her openly by now, but her thoughts were racing so fast that again she didn't notice.

"In the first place, I don't think the Court would let him. In the second, Anora definitely won't—no; she might actually enjoy the opportunity to openly rule the country. Not to mention Alistair would probably be elated to get out of the palace. And he's an excellent warrior, knows what he's up against…yes," she spoke aloud, standing up from her chair with a lost-in-her-thoughts expression, "it's actually not a completely stupid idea. Well, there's only one way to find out, right?" She delivered the last comment to Irving and Greagoir with another smile, already on her way out the door. "Thank you so much for your time, gentlemen!"

Irving met the Knight-Commander's eyes with a slight chuckle. "Well, she certainly hasn't changed much, has she?"

"That's not funny at all, Irving."


It was another three-day trip to Denerim, and though she ran into some extremely foolish bandits on the way, it was almost as uneventful as the first journey. Before leaving the Circle, Talysse had sent one message to Varel to let her know of her whereabouts, and another to the palace requesting a meeting with the royal couple as quickly as possible. She doubted that Alistair or his bride would let her message pass without thought, so it was with confidence that she strolled into the palace district.

Sure enough, when the elf entered the courtroom, the royal guard informed her that she had been expected, and that Their Royal Majesties were waiting in their study with dinner. She followed his directions and passed gaudy door after gaudy door until she heard an exuberant "Talysse!" accompanied by a respectful "Good evening, Warden" coming from an open door to her left.

The owner of the name and title followed the voices, bowing to Alistair and Anora as she entered. Alistair looked, as always, out of place in his fancy threads; Anora looked, as always, the model of queenliness. Both were seated in a comfy, if a little too grand, room wallpapered with bookshelves. They each sat in fancy armchairs around a coffee table laden with fancy food, a large desk with sheets of vellum overflowing it sitting in the background behind them. Alistair waved to her excitedly with his teacup as she rose from her bow, and Anora gently pulled his arm back down.

Talysse smiled at the two as she was offered a seat in front of them. She hadn't seen the two in quite a few weeks, and while the last time they'd met, Alistair and Anora had seemed quite comfortable with each other, this meeting they both seemed a bit happier. Talysse couldn't help but applaud her decision, proud that the best political move hadn't ended horribly for either member of the arranged marriage.

"Maker's breath, woman!" Alistair grinned at her. "It's been ages! Before we get to all the dreary royal business that I know you'll have for us, allow me a moment to say that you look fantastic. I mean, you've always looked great, of course, but—"

"It's a pleasure to see you, Warden," Anora cut her husband's attempt at polite greeting smoothly. "How is your husband faring? If you have graced us with your presence, I am to assume that you have already returned from your trip to Antiva?" Talysse had to give the queen credit for not inflecting the word husband with any slight disdain for the man's profession. This was Anora's element, so she really wasn't too surprised, though.

Talysse smiled sadly. "The pleasure is mine, Your Majesties. Forgive me for correcting you, my queen, but my trip to Antiva has been…postponed. The last I spoke with Zevran he was getting on fine despite my absence, however." She could see Alistair about to question this, but she shot him a look and he fell silent. "As for you, Alistair," she continued, knowing how to address each noble despite the winces Alistair caused Anora, "I hope that my 'dreary royal business' might hold some interest for you, in particular. Though I should be well on my way to Antiva by now, some events have recently been called to my attention…"

She launched into her story. Though she was very fond of both the humans present (ignoring their respective bodyguards, whom she didn't know), she felt weary as she explained everything, feeling like she'd dictated the dilemma a thousand times before. She finally told them about the supposed no-real-templar rule and started digging into her dinner in an unladylike fashion while she waited for them to absorb all the information she'd shoved their faces in.

"Oh, right!" She exclaimed after swallowing a bite of heavily stewed duck. She'd given up all pretenses of formality at this point, tired of having to think before speaking. "Alistair, I assume you've figured this out by now, but I was wondering—well, asking, really—if you would come with me." When he continued to stare at her, she uncertainly added, "You know, because you can fight darkspawn and because you're not a complete—"

"I get it, Talysse," he interrupted her, finding his voice. "Just…wait a second. No, wait a few seconds. I need to…I need to think!"

"Warden, you are asking a great deal of us," Anora said, allowing a trace of shock to color her tone. "Not only are you insisting that the isle of apostates from myths is indeed real, but that a talking darkspawn urged you to travel there. If that does not sound astonishing enough to you, there is also the fact that you wish to take our nation's king chasing after this myth. There are the matters of cost for the ship, a crew…Maker's breath, Talysse; you want to take away my husband."

Well, that last comment was something interesting, Talysse mused; especially since Alistair didn't seem put off by it. "Your Majesty, I am Arlessa of a port city. I think I should be able to conjure up at least a rowboat," Talysse said dryly, balancing the dryness with a sip of wine. "Second: as you are well aware from the events from two months ago, talking darkspawn do exist. Where Tangen is concerned, well, I trust this creature's story. And let's be frank, Anora," she sighed, wiping her mouth with a million thread-count napkin, "you wouldn't mind so much if Alistair let you publicly rule the country for a while. I know you two are fond of each other as well as can be expected, but you can't expect me to believe that you'll really be mourning each other's' absences."

Anora and Alistair gave the other a look. The mage recognized it as one that she and Alistair used to shoot each other—forming thoughts silently and sharing them with their eyes. She was impressed that after only a year or so, the royal couple had already mastered. It was sort of cute.

The look was going on a bit too long, though. "I feel out of the loop," she announced. "If there's something you're not sharing with me, please be so kind as to at least tell me that it's not my place to be interfering in royal affairs."

"It's not your place to be interfering in royal affairs, Talysse," Alistair echoed, completely lacking any authority in his tone. He smiled self-consciously at Talysse's raised eyebrow before turning back to Anora. "My queen, I think it would be best if I accompanied the Hero of Fereldan to her mage-hunting, darkspawn-thrashing journey. I trust the kingdom will be in your good hands while I am away." To Talysse's amused surprise, he caressed the aforementioned good hands quickly, and even more jolting was the fact that Anora didn't pull her hands away.

Talysse fought the urge to coo at them. Instead, she clapped her hands joyfully and began filling Alistair in on packing details. Eventually, they decided that Alistair's guard should not come with on the voyage itself, but that they would accompany him to the port of Amaranthine. Yet another message boy was sent to the Keep (Varel could probably start a little choir by now) informing the seneschal of the plan, along with a request for an able ship. Talysse agreed to stay the night (who would turn down an invitation to sleep in such fancy quarters?), and they would be off to Amaranthine the next day.


It had been nearly a week since Leona had agreed to join the rebellion, and she was exhausted. After admitting to Aza'an that she sort of, kind of, not really knew how to properly handle a sword, she'd been subjected to rigorous exercises and drills. The conversation unfolded in the following fashion:

Aza'an: I know you lived in the Unstable House your entire life so don't think you should be embarrassed, but are you knowledgeable in any style of fighting?

Leona: I can use a sword…

Aza'an: Warrior style, or rogue style?

Leona: I'm not very fast.

Aza'an: So, warrior style. Longsword, shortsword, greatsword, daggers…?

Leona: What about a sword-sword?

Aza'an: We'll get back to that later. How well can you handle it?

Leona: I can hold it and swish it.

Aza'an: Show me.

He'd been so rapid and professional in the way he'd asked all the questions that it left Leona's mind spinning. He had handed her a sword with a blade of about three feet in length and watched her clumsily grasp the hilt and experimentally wave it about a few times. He'd caught her sword arm after only a few seconds of this and extricated the weapon from her grip, saying that he'd want her to learn the basics before she got into any bad habits and poked someone's eyes out. He'd been smiling when he'd said it, so she hadn't felt too bad about herself, though she couldn't help mumbling an apology.

Aza'an had waved her apologies off and had turned to call Lara (the girl with the scar, Leona now know) over, but Leona had piped up, asking "When I get better, will you teach me to dispel curses the way you do?"

The elf had seemed startled, his beckon catching in his throat, before he laughed a bit. "I think we'll have to wait a bit for that! But if you're really interested, I want you to focus everything you have into learning the basics of swordplay. I don't mean the enthusiasm and ability I know you'll display—though that's also something I'm looking forward to seeing—but the discipline. Block out all other thoughts in your mind when you practice. If I notice that you've developed that type of mental resistance I'm looking for, I'll start teaching you right away. Deal?"

She'd shaken his hand, and when his naturally mischievous features were focused on hers so earnestly, she knew she'd do everything she could to make him teach her. Aza'an was just the type of person you just didn't want to let down and have his face looking at you in disappointment. It made Leona feel odd—she'd never met an elf with that kind of natural leadership before. Racism still existed on Tangen, of course, and most elves in the Unstable House walked around slouched over, like they were disappointed in their very existence.

Leona still craved Aza'an's respect, but the effort of doing so was nearly killing her (so she thought). Lara was a great teacher—patient, intelligent, and unexpectedly hilarious—and often watched her student with amusement as Leona practiced slice after slice after slice for hours, stopping only for water breaks. Sometimes Aza'an would stop by and check on Leona's and the other new members' progress and Leona prided herself on the fact that Aza'an would sometimes compliment her on her dedication. But he'd never once given any sign that she was ready to begin training with him, so Leona had always put more and more effort into her lessons.

"I don't know what I expected after only six days," Leona wheezed to herself, leaning against a tree as she finished up her self-inflicted extra practice sessions.

"I certainly hope you didn't expect perfection," an amused voice said behind her. Aza'an had managed to materialize a few trees away, and his footsteps were swallowed up in the shadows.

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Leona's hand fled to her already racing heart. "How didn't I notice you were there?"

"I'm a rogue," he shrugged modestly as he sat by her. "But that aside, it's just a survival thing, especially if I'm the one who plans raids."

Leona thought about that for a bit. She wouldn't have expected the rebels' leader to be one of those kinds of people who fought in the shadows without thought, but she supposed it made a lot of sense. "That reminds me," she told him. "Why did you just suddenly decide to get the group up and running to rescue me when you did?"

"Oh, you mean last week?" Aza'an asked her, waiting for her to nod before continuing. "We were camping in a different location from here when one of our informants told us of an Unstable girl about to be wrongfully executed. Usually, we don't interfere because we've either heard that the prisoners deserve it or, more often, we just don't get the news. We always try to rescue innocent Unstable when we can."

"You have informants?"

"Of course," he laughed softly. "We don't get by on luck! We have mages and relatively free Unstable who risk a blighted lot to tell us what they know."

"Like who?"

"I can't be telling all our secrets to a new rebel," he laughed again as he stood up. Before she had time to properly feel hurt, he continued speaking. "I really just came by to see how you were doing with your technique. Lara told me you've been hard at work every day, practicing extra every chance you could get; I wanted to see how you were coming along."

Before melting into the trees, he added, "And I must say, Leona, I'm really impressed with everything you've been doing. Especially your discipline."

Leona watched the patch of darkness where he'd departed for a long time, pride and adrenaline nearly beating her heart to death. If it was possible for her to be even more inspired…

After a brief rest, she went back to work. She would be victorious.