The prisoner was... young.
No; simply younger than he had anticipated, Solas amended, as he was escorted out of the makeshift dungeon.
His few moments with the mark - and the person attached to it, by extension - had been too brief for his liking, but nevertheless informative. The mark's host had been, of course, wholly unconscious the entire time. It was hardly fair of him to make assumptions. Perhaps he shouldn't have anticipated anything at all.
He stopped his escort just as they turned to leave, deciding to risk requesting more information. Surely they knew more of the prisoner's background? Perhaps it could prove useful in determining the probable effects of the rift, or its origins?
The agent (human, armed, a scout in appearance but more likely a spy in practice) returned momentarily with a single sheet of plain parchment, clearly a hurried copy of whatever ledgers the Nightingale (spymaster) kept for themselves. He gave its contents - a single paragraph - a glance over and politely requested the rest of the report. From beneath her helmet the woman gave him a long, measured look, then just as politely ordered him to remain in his assigned quarters until the Seeker could grant him an audience.
So that was all of it, then.
"Short-lived even in description," Solas murmured, rereading the entire five sentences that made up the known history of the prisoner with the glowing palm.
In short: Elf, Dalish, Hunter, known member of a clan in the northern Free Marches: Lavellan.
Of course it couldn't have been a human who unwittingly held the key to the Breach in the sky. No, it had to be a Dalish elf, misplaced pride and misremembered history written into the skin of their own face. The irony would only have been more cutting had they been a mage, but Solas knew to be thankful for small mercies.
So be it. Elf they were. Dalish they were. It changed little, in the end.
The elf was not likely to be awake soon, in any case; though he was relatively certain they would come to eventually. The Nightingale and the Seeker had gone so far as to hold them captive in the most defensible building they could spare. Were the situation any less dire he might have laughed: high security and a dedicated detail for their most likely suspect, a defenseless elven youth; not mage nor even cleric nor even human, who - luckily or unluckily - could not protest the arrest nor bear witness to the crime due to a damnably convenient lack of unconsciousness.
There was very little anyone here knew of the situation at all, in fact. It wasn't to his surprise that he was - not so much neglected, but rather effectivevly sequestered and forgotten once he had not proven an immediate threat. The scrambling remains of the Chantry had higher priorities than barking at a lone apostate. Between the Divine's death, the demons, and the triage, there weren't warm bodies enough to spare for asking questions.
That was fine.
He knew the Breach was not the Dalish elf's doing - or, at least, not their design, as they had the least to gain from the ensuing mayhem. He knew the nature of the magic that had caused the Breach (but not the goals of the creature harnessing it). Most importantly, he knew that the matter of sealing the Breach was not yet an impossible task. With the existence of the mark, a sliver of hope remained; though he did not know exactly how its host came to possess it. And while it posed a significant threat to its host's life, the effects could be quelled under the right circumstances; and the right circumstances would occur.
He would make sure of it. The mark could not be lost.
The spymaster's report he folded up, and slid into his sleeve. There were - a myriad of things, centuries of information lost, that would be necessary to rectify this disaster, and too much of it was completely unavailable to anyone - any shared effort these people might attempt - who might try.
Except through himself.
He briefly considered feeding its agents information from afar, and immediately discarded the idea. Influencing the direction of such a large effort at any distance would be too slow, and laborious. Time was of the essence.
Then he would have to give it to them personally. It would be an exercise; his presence would be useful, but the how and why was key; too much and he would cast suspicion upon himself, too little and he might inspire more doubt than be of use. But it would offer him an unparalleled advantage if only he played his hand well.
Fortunately, he had always excelled at the Game.
All was not lost. Not yet.
Solas sat down on the weathered cot, not bothering to set his pack aside, and closed his eyes. The path to the desired end was always present, if difficult to discern, but he was a patient man. Seeing it only demanded that he keep his eyes open. The Breach would be sealed. The tragedy would be undone.
He was one foot in the fade when the high shriek of a demon cut through his meditation.
"Quickly! Before more come through!"
He took their wrist without preamble. Under his grasp the muscle tensed at his grip, but ultimately did not fight him - nor notice the steady stream of magic he bled into their palm.
First, preservation. In the cacophony of the tether forming, he addressed the mark's degenerative effects.
He carved a command out of the errant Fade, tugging at the strands until the mass of it came to heel.
Stop.
In the space between one breath and the next, the spread of magic that would have led its host to a slow death withdrew, curling into itself. He shut it back behind a compound demand - contain, slow - and sealed its exit behind. A temporary solution - the mark would truly only ever answer to none other but what put it there, and he was too weak to fully convince it otherwise - but it would suffice, for now.
Next, direction. The host was... cut off entirely from the Fade. (Unfortunate.) That would have to be accounted for. He pressed his spell further. The rift flexed, constricting, coursing to the command of the key; he felt when the younger elf began to grasp it, ragged edges of the mark re-tailored for their very non-mage lack of senses to master. Once he was sure they could feel the tear in the veil - translated to the scent of ozone, a prickle of unease at the back of their neck, a static itch in the skin of their fingers, as obvious and exaggerated as he could make it - he withdrew.
There was a horrible, anxious moment as they fumbled. Slender thread from palm to fade thinning rapidly and warped so far as if to disappear altogether, and the rift contracting rapidly in preparation to tear even further. Then, they reached -
- and the rift imploded neatly, lesser demons withering instantaneously without the fade to anchor them.
His breath escaped him in a rush, condensing in the frigid air as a puff of cold relief. The first hurdle, cleared.
Wordlessly, he released the other elf's slender wrist.
They retracted the appendage immediately. The far-off Breach pulsed; visibly their hand glowed just as brightly, but the mark no longer spat violent arcs of energy. Their eyes narrowed. They had noticed. "What did you do?" they demanded.
"I did nothing," he replied, lightly, gesturing. "The credit is yours."
Some of the sharpness in their visage bled away at that, replaced for an instant by confusion. And then for longer, by a grimace. "You mean this," the elf, Lavellan, said. Their distaste for the mark was difficult to miss, even under their consternation.
Yes, that. He suppressed the urge to sigh. "Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky," he explained, patiently, opting to inform rather than contest their sentiment, "also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake..."
Rifts. In the plural. All of which demanded closing, not least of all the Breach - and only one mark capable of doing it, on their hand. As the implication of his words began to sink in, several emotions flickered rapidly past their eyes.
Anger. Fear. A trace of despair. Resignation?
"...And it seems I was correct," he finished.
Their jaw clenched.
Settling on anger, then.
"Meaning it could also close the Breach itself," The Seeker stepped in, half a question meant for him and half a statement of fact for Lavellan. She shot a meaningful look at him, and then at her (former? Were prisoners allowed personal arms?) prisoner.
Under the taller woman's scrutiny Lavellan's expression shuttered, smoothing imperfectly into a carefully polite skepticism rather than a thinly concealed tempest. No doubt that behind the facade, their thoughts were churning. The more they learned of the situation the more trapped they became. If they weren't already convinced they needed to start running in the opposite direction as fast as physically possible they were obviously nearing it.
He felt a wisp of sympathy for them. Their confusion and pain was a consequence of his miscalculation. A wholly unnecessary suffering.
"Possibly," Solas replied, wanting to be kind - but not unrealistic. Breach would respond to the mark, but to what extent had yet to be seen. Unfounded optimism had its own wealth of potential harms. Loath to sound too discouraging, however, he made himself smile. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation."
Lavellan said nothing, and only raked their eyes over him another time.
Their shoulders betrayed it. They were too relaxed to be anything but forcibly held that way. But the strain in their neck and white-knuckled hands betrayed their mounting discomfort; the Seeker especially they were wary of, and second to her, Solas himself. Where they had practically thrown themselves into the fray only moments before, thinking nothing of fighting alongside unknown allies, all the subtle signs had returned afterward - hinting at their mounting distress.
But, well. They were a hunter. Skirmishes and blades were probably a singular comfort to them in the storm of magic and politicking that sought to buffet them now.
Not conspicuously, but - in a way - Lavellan shrank from the world, as if they felt themself vulnerable from all directions. As if they were still half-convinced any passing templar wouldn't simply run them through at the sight of their fade-touched hand, or undecided whether the sky could be trusted to stay over their head anymore.
Tethras - ever with his finger on the state of affairs - turned the elf's attention to himself, before they could withdraw fully into their inner turmoil. A good call. A reserved character was not a terrible thing, but not at the cost of internalizing so much ire.
He contemplated his position. Shame that his own person seemed to inspire such a powerful wariness in Lavellan. Whatever opinion they had of him, and any probable dislike, was probably magnified by the lack of vallaslin on his face. He had witnessed enough of the Dalish clans' misplaced pride firsthand to make an estimation. But there was no use in making a distasteful acquaintance of himself. Besides, he was not only not Dalish, but a clearly capable apostate. An unknown entity to all. That reasons alone might be reason enough for them to cling to caution.
Or prejudice. As it were.
He shook himself out of his thoughts just in time to see the Seeker make a face, undoubtedly at one of the dwarf's offhand jests. Lavellan glanced furtively between the two, now - forgetting some of their anger as they read between the lines. Good. Better that, than dwelling on -
"Are you with the Chantry?" they asked, suddenly. The question was for Tethras. The dwarf gave them an odd look, and the elf frowned, gauging his reaction. "Or...?"
Solas chuckled, half-startled by the query. There was a definite enmity between the Seeker and Tethras, but it was a well-worn path; it was obvious they knew each other better than either liked. Lavellan had reached an incorrect - and ironically, optimistic - conclusion of that familiarity, however. The Chantry was not so inclusive. And Tethras had as many reasons to eschew it as Lavellan themselves. "Was that a serious question?"
The look on Lavellan's face was fully unappreciative, but the effect was neatly ruined by their shivering. Their jaw clacked together - but only once, before they resolutely locked their jaw to prevent the noise.
Angry, and stubborn.
Tethras smiled, all pearly whites and barely concealed antagonism. "Technically, I'm a prisoner. Like you," he drawled, magnanimously, and made a show of adjusting his gloves - just long enough for it to border on insulting. Out of the corner of his eye Solas saw the Seeker's lips thin. The glower she leveled at him in return for it was practiced; contempt held almost entirely in the eyes.
Remarkable, how easy it was for himself to be looked over in present company. It suited him. Being seen as un-noteworthy was entirely amiable to his goals. He was already a lone mage amongst templars; one the most coincidentally applicable and yet obscure field of expertise necessary to be allowed to walk (relatively) free, despite the obvious sin of being an apostate.
As long as enough individuals decided that his help was more valuable than his persecution, his plans could proceed.
The Seeker made a noise of disgust, and walked off, leaving Tethras to savor getting his way.
"My name is Solas, if there are to be any introductions," he said, taking the opportunity. Then he joked, because he found it funny, "I am pleased to see you still live."
Obviously. The world would have been doomed twice over if they had not.
"He means," Tethras piped up helpfully, still grinning, "'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'"
Ah, humor. The language of the weary.
Lavellan considered him more carefully this time. Their gaze flickered — between a human, a dwarf, and a bare-faced elf. Desperate company for desperate times, he thought, guessing that they were thinking the same. Privately, he agreed.
The blatant wall of distrust lowered by a fraction - just enough to let the smallest glint of amusement slide past.
"Then I owe you my thanks," Lavellan decided. Their head bobbed into a shallow bow, indicating gratitude. Not quite polite.
Solas inclined his head. It was acceptable.
The snow was thick, but packed over old ice. The four of them trekked quickly, and efficiently, trailing the Seeker's lead - following the river when the path was lost to damage, finding it again in hard stone steps carved into the slopes. The Breach continued to spit all manner of things down, heedless of the destruction it rained down the mountainside; every fallen soldier darkened the shadow upon the Seeker's brow.
Snow gathered on his shoulders, clinging to the coarse fur that lined the collar of his vest. He brushed the flakes aside and chased the chill from his fingers with his breath.
"Cold?" Tethras asked.
"Yes," Solas admitted. "But nothing I haven't survived before."
"Magic helps, doesn't it?" Tethras observed, following Lavellan's light steps with his own. The dwarf was more agile than he let on. "If you weren't a mage, I'd imagine all the heat would escape through the top of your head."
"It does," he informed them, because the others were listening even if they did not look back, and allowed himself a smile.
"What, the magic, or your head?"
He chuckled. "More the toes, actually."
Tethras knew he was being cryptic. The archer only sighed, however, and allowed it. "What is it with elves and bare toes?" he shook his head. "At least one of you has sense."
Lavellan paused almost imperceptibly on the next step, then huffed. And kept moving.
The telltale glow of wraiths caught his eye just as they found the river again. "Demons ahead!" Solas warned, raising his staff at the same moment Tethras reached for his peculiar crossbow.
Looking up, the Seeker spotted the danger as well. A glance back as she acknowledged their positions, then she was advancing with her weapons drawn. Tethras lingered near him, loading ammunition on higher ground, and Solas began to ready a buffer of mana. Lavellan drew arms last - daggers sliding free slowly as they watched the rest of them choose their places, before drifting just behind the Seeker's defense.
No rift nearby. But plenty of demons barring the way, and enough that it would take some doing to get through. He threw a barrier over the Seeker just as she entered their opponents' line of sight.
At the last moment - so quickly it couldn't have been anything but instinct - Lavellan stepped inside the radius, picking up a barrier of their own from the same cast.
Like moths to a flame, the movement of magic attracted the closest of their adversaries.
The group fell fast into a system. Tethras and he in the back, debilitating at long range, while the two with blades cut down the affected. The wraiths in particular gave them trouble; he grimaced as Lavellan suffered a gash to the shoulder for hesitating, thrown by the lack of resistance their daggers met on the adversary.
When the wraith threw them to the ground with a bolt of magic, one of their weapons went clattering across the river's surface.
He stretched out his hand and the bright blue glyph of a barrier lit around them. Another turn of his wrist and the offending demon was frozen through, shards stuck thick through its form. It let out a shriek, twisting in its cage - the magic, not so much the physical ice - and Solas watched as Lavellan rolled to their knees, bracing for injury as it began to pull free.
The Seeker appeared immediately at their side. With her jaw in a hard line she plunged her blade into the approximate location of the wraith's chest, burying it up to the hilt.
In one smooth movement the sword cut away. The wraith fragmented around the steel, breaking with the ice as it shattered. Lavellan slumped minutely, in relief - and roughly let themselves be dragged to their feet by the Seeker's hard grip on their forearm. The warrior made a motion with her shield, ushering the elf behind her as a demon of rage bore down; and as more wisps began to congregate to them Lavellan stood near, turning to cover the Seeker's back with the remaining dagger in their good hand.
He cast another barrier - redundant, but for security's sake. As the pattern fell again, centered over them, the rogue turned their head just so - and stepped back to include the Seeker within it, blanketing the both of them in the spell.
Solas furrowed his brow, and busied himself with entombing the rest of their adversaries in ice.
Eventually, the field was clear. The Seeker helped Lavellan to the riverbank, where the elf slid down into an exhausted heap.
"Varric," she called, authoritatively. Tethras did not move, but looked at her from where he stood. She pinned him with a flat sternness, turned the look at Lavellan long enough to make her point, then moved on to survey the battlefield.
Tethras sighed, eventually, and ambled down from his high ground. Solas trailed a short distance behind him and bent, to retrieve the dagger that had fallen aside in the skirmish.
Solas considered the weapon. Solid, but nothing of quality, and unevenly weighted; probably picked up on the field out of necessity. It was barely a pair with the one in Lavellan's hand. There was nothing magical about it in the least.
Then how...?
"Here, kid." Tethras produced a vial from a belt pouch, and nudged it into Lavellan's hand. Jerkily, the hand that had been clamped over their shoulder released its hold and took the potion from him; the elf got that far before stalling again, staring blankly as Tethras mimed drinking out of it with a patience born of experience.
Shock, he determined of their sluggishness, watching their torn shoulder pull and weep blood as they moved. He had had the impression that they would be hardier than this. Well; the stress of their situation likely compounded on their injuries.
Lavellan gagged.
"I know, tastes like shit," Tethras sympathized, clapping a hand over their back. They cringed, and he did not do it again. "The aftertaste is definitely the worst part, personally speaking. You've never had potions before?"
"I've had potions," the elf refuted, coughing. They regarded the vial with some horror. "What the hell is this?"
"A potion," said Solas. Lavellan gave him a watered-down version of an incredibly black look before he went on, "Laced with far more lyrium than necessary, I suspect. Chantry supply?"
Tethras made a vaguely affirmative noise.
Lavellan put their nose to the potion, and recoiled. "Ugh," they observed, eloquently. "It's sharp. Like lightning - that's lyrium?" They scowled down at the potion, and consequently the mark on the hand closed around it.
Ah. Sensitivity to magic. A result of his doing, no doubt.
That might explain it.
The dwarf reached out and swiped a finger on the rim of the vial, then dabbed it delicately on his tongue. "Well, I don't know about liquid lightning," said Tethras, raising an eyebrow, "but it is a little strong."
"Generally, adding lyrium to potions would strengthen its effects... up to a point," Solas observed, "though beyond that it is more likely to cause a headache. Perhaps the quality of the potion is to blame," he concluded, breezily. No need to complicate the matter further.
Instead of replying, Lavellan tipped the rest of the potion back. "Never mind," they muttered after, valiantly managing not to gag again. "It's just weird." They looked at their shoulder. Nearly healed, now, from being attacked by a demon. "All of this shit is weird."
"Kid," said Tethras, pocketing the empty vial and handing them another one, "You're telling me. Hold on to that for next time." Lavellan watched his back recede as he wandered off to salvage bolts, with a slightly scrutinizing expression.
Solas took a half-dozens steps in the opposite direction, and might have forgotten entirely about the dagger if he did not pause to shift his staff to his other hand, and found that he could not. He remembered the weapon, then, and stopped. Then he turned around again.
"...completely. Demons on fire. Potions making my gums itch..." Lavellan was muttering, under their breath to themselves, gaze distant, before realizing he was standing there. Their eyes flickered up to his, wide - then caught on the dagger, and narrowed.
"Yours?" he offered.
Lavellan looked balefully at the thing. They said, succinctly, "Yes," while looking as if they wanted to say something entirely different. Another short glance at him, and the dagger was lifted from his hand.
With some effort, it was returned to its sheath.
"Why does he call me that?" the elf said, breaking a short-lived silence. Solas paused. Lavellan was not looking at him, but solidly in Tethras's direction, where the archer was pulling a bolt free of the frozen river. "'Kid.' Do I come off as so incompetent?"
"It is a nickname," he replied, offhandedly. "You are young."
"Not that young," Lavellan muttered.
"Younger," he amended.
They scoffed. "I'm not a child. He can't be that much older. None of you are," they asserted.
Solas attempted to catch the laugh before it could escape, and failed. Lavellan stared openly as he chuckled; so did the Seeker, looking up from a demon's remains at the sound.
"My apologies," he said eventually, noting the drawn line of their lips. "I did not mean to offend you."
They regarded him with a deep skepticism. "You can't be that old."
He smiled.
"If we're ready," the Seeker interrupted, walking up - apparently deciding that, if they had time to share jokes, it was time to move on. There was something in her hands. "Here."
She offered a mass of cloth to Lavellan, which revealed itself to be a hooded coat. A souvenir from the fallen. The elf immediately put it on and drew the fabric over their head, grateful to spare their shoulders and ears from the biting cold. Concern for the prisoner?
Or for their only hope of putting things right?
Tethras joined them moments later, with a fistful of salvaged crossbow ammunition. "Oh, that's new," he remarked, appraising Lavellan's new apparel. "Looking comfortable. And desperate, but I think that's inevitable once you start picking stuff up off of dead people. Trust me." The tone of his voice took a wry turn. "I would know. You don't spend thirty years in Kirkwall without learning a few things."
Lavellan smiled neutrally, eyes half-hidden behind the fold of their hood. "Really."
Cassandra rolled her eyes and took point.
The Temple of Sacred Ashes.
"What's left of it," Tethras muttered, in an undertone.
Lavellan stared.
Solas watched them take it all in: the scorched earth, devoid even of snow to soften the scene. The figures caught mid-terror, immolated into grotesque standing sculptures. Enormous crags rose from the blackened ground, pulsing with the same brilliant, crackling green as the mark. Above it all, the Breach loomed.
The destruction was total. Overwhelming.
The veil grew thinner as they drew closer to the site of the explosion. By the time they reached a tunnel that would bypass the last of the crags - once a hall, but with no Temple and no walls, it was no longer - the very atmosphere was heavy with the suggestion of the Fade. Spirits pressed in throngs against or else fled from the paper-thin divide, frantically mirroring the destruction, the fear, and every individual recollection of death that lingered in the ground, remembering forever -
A ringing clang broke the silence, startling them all.
As a group, they looked down; at Lavellan's feet lay the remains of a templar. A full set of plate armor - hollow of its owner, but for ashes and scorch marks. The elf stepped back with a jerk, throat bobbing, and the ruined helm clattered on the stones with another metallic tinny.
"Well, that's ominous," the dwarf said, in a close enough approximation of cheerfulness.
Lavellan's jaw unclenched. "Sorry," they managed.
The Seeker made to say something, then thought better of it. "This way," she said, sidestepping the armor.
Solas forced himself to straighten as they descended the steps. There was a wrongness, a stain on this side, like he had not felt in some time. His unease only grew when they entered the ruins proper. With so many spirits crowding the area, it was no wonder they poured out of the rifts in such numbers. They were funneled through by force, pushed through by the shifting masses, or expelled by the pulses that emanated from the Breach, only to be thrown out of other rifts further away.
The mark on Lavellan's hand began to crackle before anything came into view, and they looked at it with displeasure. But by now they all knew what that display meant. Sure enough, an enormous rift, larger than all the ones they'd faced combined, sat directly below the Breach.
A single look told him that it was as volatile as it appeared. It fed on the energy that cascaded from above, and fluctuated - as had been observed previously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lavellan turn away from the mark as it spat out another blinding shower of sparks.
He craned his neck and tried to see past the rift, the shifting lights, and into the yawning maw of the tear; but there was so much of the ambient Fade filtering through that it was impossible to gauge just what part it opened into. Or what it would take to close the opening.
The veil was less than cobwebs here. At present there were no demons - but that was no relief.
If no lesser demons were coming through a rift that large, it could only mean there was something even larger in the way.
The Nightingale and her reinforcements arrived behind them. A sinking weight settled in his gut as her agents began to file in; dozens of soldiers, armed to the teeth. The troops took places around the perimeter, weapons gleaming, but in his eyes they appeared as little more than mottled pebbles, bled of color and significance against the immensity of the Breach.
Moving bodies, no better than bait.
"I'm assuming you have a plan to get me up there," he heard Lavellan say, uncertainly. The glow of the rift cast their complexion in a disturbing pallor.
Cassandra's lips thinned, betraying her determination to make a move - and every option she entertained, he knew, would be indescribably unwise. It would get them all killed. Or worse, it would do nothing.
A deadly calm bubbled up from the recesses of his mind.
"No," he decided, and was glad when they stopped to listen. He desperately hoped that things would be simpler than he feared, not worse. Better informed lies than tragedy brought about by ignorance. When he turned, the Seeker's gaze was both a question and a challenge; he met it, unflinching. "This rift was the first, and it is the key; seal it, and perhaps we seal the breach."
Please.
He needed them to believe him.
They did. To her credit, the Seeker gathered herself immediately. "Then let's find a way down."
A short wave of relief overcame him, then passed. He would find time to be sorry for abusing their trust in him later.
Much, much later.
As he expected, he was the only one unsurprised when the Pride demon appeared.
In the ensuing mayhem his barriers bloomed like quickened flowers. One after the other, chasing moving targets. Fire and ice enveloped the lesser demons that followed in the greater's wake whenever there was time to cast something else. It was easy to shape magic here, thin as the veil was, but for all the speed he gained for it it was still not fast enough -
He was still so weak. One day he might look back on this moment, and laugh.
So long as they succeeded.
"The rift-" he said, spying fatigue in the demons' assault. Lavellan was nowhere to be seen; but the eye of the Seekers was easier to spot. He cast a barrier over her contingent, a group of shield-bearers that were taking the brunt of its physical blows, keeping its attention from the archers. "Seeker! The rift!" he shouted, and her head snapped around.
Cassandra threw off the demon's next attack and Pride faltered, fell to its knees. Agents rushed in to press the advantage. She sucked in a breath. "Now! Seal the rift!"
A blast of energy emanated from the Breach, deafening. Solas tore his eyes from the sky and searched for a spark of emerald in the chaos around him. Where was the mark? Where was -
Finally the elf appeared, rolling to a skidding stop behind him with a cry - barrier expired, daggers low, braced on their fists against the rubbled ground. Solas whipped around, staff already wreathed in frost, and threw searing cold in a wide arc. The shades froze solid mid-lunge.
"Go!" he yelled, and called fire to his hands. "Go!"
Lavellan gasped once, breath tremulous with adrenaline and fear - then staggered to their feet and ran, leaving him and the creatures behind. Presently, he heard the whip-crack of a tether forming, and the low whine of rift magic. He made ashes of the remaining demons, and looked.
There was no change in the Breach.
His face fell as he stared into the depths of the rapidly closing rift. He should have known better than to hope; the mark was yet unmastered, the breach too great, the remaining rifts too numerous. There were still too many unknown variables. Still, he thought; still, he had led them to an acceptable start. Better than nothing.
This was only the beginning.
The rift imploded.