Disclaimer: Neither The Wheel of Time nor Dragon Age: Inquisition belong to me, but rather to their respective creators; if you can recognize it, it ain't mine.

Aaaand we're back in business!

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades into myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Dragon Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind gathered over the Amaranthine Ocean. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Westward the wind danced over swollen waters, making landfall in Denerim, salty gusts cutting through the haze of terror and resignation that hung over the city like a cloud. The Fifth Blight hung fresh in the minds of men and elves, and the broken sky offered little hope for tomorrow. Those few who dared hope invoked the Chantry, the King, even the so-called Inquisition; it was those same hopeful, however, who prayed most fervently behind closed doors.

The wind swept west across the Bannorn, over hills and valleys dotted with late autumn frost. It curled southward toward Lake Calenhad and the ancient island tower, standing resolute but abandoned in the grey morning light. Kinloch Hold had survived madness at the hands of one of its own, emerging battered but unbroken, but now the Circles were no more; only ghosts and dust remained. Sighing, the wind continued west to break upon the jagged teeth of the Frostback Mountains.

What reached the town of Haven was little more than breeze, just enough to ruffle Desa's short-cropped hair as she gazed up at the Breach. She pulled her coat tighter; her leathers did little to stave off the cold, even padded as they were with furs. By the Ancestors, if she had to pick one thing she detested about the surface, it would be this Stone-cursed cold. And yet, here I am at the frostbitten tippy-top of the world, where you can almost kiss the sky. Or tear a nug-humping hole in it, if you've a mind.

As if on cue, a shiver of pain shot up her arm. She'd grown used to the pain, to the point where it was only a dull ache, but the mark on her left hand still flared up at times. Solas had said it wasn't killing her – not any more, now hadn't that been a lovely experience? – but it certainly wasn't doing her health any favors. At least the damn thing was useful; the mark had done wonders with the smaller rifts that kept cropping up, even if her initial attempt to seal the Breach hadn't gone as planned. Not spitting out demons was a marked improvement, but now it just hung there, gazing down at her like a baleful eye. One more reminder of how the world had gone mad, madder than a lyrium-crazed bronto.

Desa wasn't sure how long she stood there up atop Haven's barricade, lost in memories of the last month. The explosion at the Conclave had started a chain of events that catapulted her from being a simple smuggler to the Herald of Andraste. She didn't much care for being a holy woman, much less one for a religion she had no faith in, but Desa had run enough cons to know the value of a title. The work wasn't half bad either; nerve-wracking, occasionally bloody, and terrifying enough to make her want to piss herself whenever she stopped to think, but she hadn't felt this alive in years. Conning deshyrs and fast-talking Templars was all well and good, but it lacked the flair walking into a magister's stronghold and beating him at his own treacherous game. She skirted around Alexius' time magic whenever she told that story, though. Just thinking about the man's unnatural magic and his alternate future made her skin crawl.

The sound of Cullen barking orders drew Desa from her reverie. Troops were assembling in the space beyond Haven's gate – not the full column the commander had argued for the previous night, but more than enough to serve as an honor guard, especially with the Bull's Chargers as auxiliary. The mages gathered to the side, grumbling and bleary-eyed. The walk to the Temple of Sacred Ashes would wake them up, however, and the Inquisition's inner circle had all agreed it was best to make an early start; better to reach the Temple early and take time to prepare than make a leisurely start and find themselves with dwindling daylight. Several of the mages complained, of course, on the grounds that they were allied volunteers rather than conscripts. Desa had explained that if they didn't like working with the Inquisition, they were free to walk, but they would do so without the Inquisition's protection; protests had dwindled after that.

Giving the Breach one last glance, Desa descended from the barricade to find the rest of her team. Ancestors willing, the trip would prove both fruitful and uneventful, but she could not ignore the itch that had been growing between her shoulder blades. We're missing something, something important.

Something, she feared, that could spell their undoing.

0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0

The sun was well above the horizon by the time they reached the Temple. Compared to her previous ascent, they had traveled at a leisurely pace, preferring to save their strength for the task ahead. Desa had to admit the view was breathtaking, something she'd failed to appreciate when there had been demons hounding her every step. You couldn't truly appreciate the Frostbacks' majesty from the valley where Haven lay; from the peak, however, she could fully appreciate the enormity of the mountain range. You just didn't get sights like this belowground.

If the view of the rest of the range was awe-inspiring, however, the Temple proved a grim reminder of why they were here. Over the last month, little had changed – petrified bodies still issued silent screams among sourceless fires, while crystalline spurs of red lyrium thrust out of the shattered ground alongside Fade-warped stone. At the center, the massive, partially-sealed Rift pulsed unsettlingly like a beating heart.

"So this is where it all began, eh? The demons, and all that rubbish." Desa turned to regard Dorian, raising her eyebrow as if to ask, Are you serious? "Somehow I thought the destruction would be a bit more… dramatic. Mind you, I can't say I fancy the look of all that lyrium. The red glow helps set the mood, but it gives me the most horrible headaches." The Altus shivered. "Can we get a move on? If we stay up here much longer, I'm liable to catch a cold."

"You know, Sparkler, you'd be a lot warmer if you put a shirt on," Varric said as he joined the pair. "You've been with us nearly a week, and all I've seen you wear is leather and buckles. You do realize you're in in the Frostbacks, right?"

"I most certainly do, but I refuse to surrender my fashion sense to such barbaric weather. Someone, after all, must a beacon of civilization."

"My dear Dorian, the only beacon I see is one of novice pyromancy." Vivienne's voice was like silk on steel. "While I applaud your ingenuity, your modified barrier practically leaks mana, and by your own admission it's far from adequate. Now, if you don't mind, our rebel friends are ready to perform the ritual. Do try and keep up."

Desa shook her head, not bothering to suppress a chuckle as she joined the small army inside the temple. Cullen and Leliana's men had the temple secure, ready to respond if the ritual attracted attention from the other side in the moments between the Breach's re-opening and sealing. Meanwhile, Solas was going over the ritual with the mage cadre one last time. Desa neither knew nor was interested in the specifics, but she had been amused to know that the assembled mages – all formerly senior enchanters in their respective circles – had been mystified by the theory behind the spellwork. Being shown up by an apostate, an elf at that, was like shoving a second stick up each of their asses.

The Iron Bull was waiting for her in the central crater with his Chargers and the rest of Desa's team. Unlike the mage cadre, who could perform their role from a relatively safe distance, the mark on her hand required her to be almost on top of the rift that swirled beneath the Breach. The mercenary commander's role was to ensure her personal safety, leaving any runners to the ring of Inquisition soldiers and agents.

"All ready, Boss?"

"As ready as we'll ever be," Desa responded, rolling up her left sleeve as she approached. The mark was brimming with energy, wreathing her hand in verdant flames. She turned, looking to Solas, who nodded his readiness. It was down to her, then. Desa took a deep breath, bracing herself, feeling as though she stood the precipice before the edge of the world. If this doesn't work…

She did her best to cram that doubt into a box in the deepest recesses of her mind.

Moving with a confidence she didn't fully possess, she began closing the remaining distance between her and the rift, lifting her hand and bringing the power of the mark to bear. She didn't know how it worked, and barely knew how to control it – as a dwarf, the magic felt alien in a way she doubted a non-dwarf could fully understand. But it responded to her will, power building between her hand and the swirling energies of the Breach. There was a resistance she'd never felt with smaller rifts, and with every step a sense of soul-crushing weight descended on her.

"Mages! Focus past the Herald! Let her will draw from you!" Solas' voice rang out as the mages' ritual reached its peak. Power flowed into Desa, not like the raging chaos of the mark on her hand, but feeling instead like warm sunlight on her back after a long day. It washed away the fatigue of both her mind and body, and her labored breathing calmed. It flowed through her outstretched hand, and terrible pressure gave way. With a quiet roar, the hastily-made seal on the Breach tore open.

Desa's world narrowed as the power within her made war on the force that had torn the sky; only faintly could she hear the Chargers around her, bracing themselves for battle. Nothing, however, emerged from the Breach – no horned pride demons or even rag-wrapped shades. Nothing except –

"– I'm going to try to return –"

The rift convulsed, a sure sign that something was near to crossing over. She was so close – she could feel the massive rift unraveling in front of her. If a demon came through, however, its presence would stabilize the Breach and she'd have to start again. Desa doubted she'd be capable of a second try. With a cry, she redoubled her efforts, abandoning all thought of self-preservation; raging energy scorched her flesh as she focused everything she could draw upon into a last-ditch assault.

The world exploded in light and pain.

Alright, this took much, MUCH longer than I'd expected. I'd hoped to have this done a month back, but ended up having half a chapter that just felt unsatisfactory to release on its own. As it is, the chapter is less polished than I'd like, but I'm worried I'll end up sitting on it for another month if I don't publish.

I'm not gonna make promises as to having the next chapter out any time soon, as my graduate studies & internship need to come first, but I'm hopeful of having it out before the new year. My inspiration tends to focus on specific scenes and events rather than overarching storyline, but I've been planning the next scene for a while. Ignoring that a man just fell out of the Fade, Mah'alleinir is bound to drive a few folks crazy. Power-wrought weapons are fundamentally different than DA enchanted weapons, and even as a mundane weapon it's on the unusual side.

Addendum: I'm still having trouble coming up with Varric's nickname for Perrin, as 'Curly' is already taken by Cullen. If you've got ideas, feel free to let me know.