LifeandFire25 - Thanks for your first review! This is my first serious Dragon Age novel, so I'm still feeling my way through. I originally intended Fenris to be Hawke's lover, and even had a few scenes written already, but decided that Fenris had another role in the story. So I had to do some subbing.

Ygrain33 - As I'm not married, it was hard to imagine what they'd be like. I'm glad you like it; at least that means I'm doing something right. I didn't want the Warden to be pulling Alistair around by the nose, so the power balance is difficult. The Wardens will be going to a lot of places, hopefully before DA3 comes out, so I won't be making stuff up to be proven wrong later.

Sorry for a very long chapter; this is being written as a normal novel, not for ffn, so I can't break the chapters up. If you have suggestions, let me know!


Opalia came and went. The city of Val Royeaux celebrated the harvest festival with much grandeur, and the Wardens were not immune to its merriment. Casks of wine were opened, and the tables were laden with food in the Mess Hall, and the Wardens, generally grim people with doom hanging over their heads most of the time, shed their grim fate for a week and basked in the joy of drinking and tomfoolery.

The Commander of the Grey of Orlais was generally invited over to some parties with her husband, and was therefore generally away during these events. The Wardens got generous donations from the nobles after they had heard how this slight elven woman had quelled the Blight and had saved Thedas from destruction. Much to Amarina's dismay, this meant donations - which she more than welcomed - but also required attendance to whatever festivities they saw fit to hold. And Opalia was no exception.

"Two Fereldans at Celene's party," she mumbled as she pulled on a stiff surcoat of the Wardens over her dress. "Loghain would have had an apoplectic fit."

Alistair, who was pulling on a grey hose, looked up. "I wonder how my brother was going to pull off divorcing Anora and marrying Celene, you know."

Amarina stopped her hand. Not once had Alistair referred to Cailan as "brother". But it had been years since the Battle of Ostagar; perhaps his wounds were beginning to heal. She also had a distinct feeling that this was perhaps because he had a family now, namely, herself and his friends. He had told her once that he had always felt a gaping hole made by the fact that he was an orphan with no family to call his, and that she had mended it when they had gotten married. Over the years she had learned that while Alistair looked a simpleton, he was just as complicated as Zevran was. But that, Leliana had said, was just who the men were.

"Ugh." She shifted her shoulders slightly. "I hate breast girdles." The Orlesian fashion was much more advanced than Fereldan, and there were many parts to the female dress that made absolutely no sense. For the Warden-Commander who was usually dressed in brown trousers and a linen shirt, things like breast girdle and snood just seemed excessive and unnecessary. It wasn't like Amarina could wear the bejewelled crespine, anyway. Her hair was too short.

Alistair watched his wife as he dressed himself. She looked very good in the Warden blue; the kirtle was grey with trains to honour the formal occasion, and the surcoat was made of deep blue velvet, lined with silvery grey silk that bore her heraldry, a griffon with a single white rose in its beak. Her dark hair was as usual, shorn just above the shoulders. A brown belt cinched the surcoat at her waist, the buckle adorned with a silver griffon.

"What are you looking at?" his wife asked curiously as she finished buckling her belt. He tore his eyes away from her and resumed his task. He pulled on the grey cotehardie, then the blue houppelande. The outer garment was made of the same blue velvet as Amarina's surcoat, and was lined with the similar fabric, but his rose was red, not white. He picked up a similar belt to his wife's, although made from a bit wider leather, and began wrapping it around his hip. Amarina was putting on the baldric; as the Warden-Commander of Orlais she was allowed to come into the Empress' presence armed with a blade. The blade, however, was more ornamental than anything else for her. Her Spellweaver and Vigilance were in their stands beside her desk in her office. Magically imbued with untold powers, they were magnificent weapons that had slain more than one could count.

In half an hour, they were dressed and ready. Swords were sheathed in their baldrics, the surcoat and houppelande worn and cinched. They blew out the candles and left the suite. Alistair heard the commotion in the Mess Hall and turned his head, a forlorn expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," said the elven mage. "I don't want to go either, but we have to appease the nobility. They are our patrons, after all."

"I know." He resumed walking again. "It's just that…"

"Hm?"

"Well, I'd rather spend the evening with you alone." The tone of his voice hinted that if he had his way, they won't be sleeping very much that evening.

The Commander of the Grey blushed.

Gaspard de Soliere joined them at the door; as the son of a powerful duke, he knew almost everyone who was coming to the party. He was dressed similarly to the Fereldans, his blond hair swept behind his ears and tied with a blue ribbon at the nape of his neck. He wore a longsword today, one of the Warden issues, with a golden griffon engraved on the hilt. "Ah, here's the famous couple," he said with a smile that transformed his otherwise cold face into something that was affable. "Looking forward to the party?"

Alistair laughed. "Sure, why not. It's not like I refused the throne to avoid this."

"But the made-up women! The men clad in silks! The cheeses!"

"Of course. That's all there is to life."

They were carried by a waiting carriage to the palace, the wheels clattering along the cobbled streets through Val Royeaux. People were still awake and walked the streets, but made way for the carriage bearing the mark of the Empress, flanked by silver-armoured chevaliers. There were nobles going to the red light district, merchants closing shops or making last minute deals, messengers doing last minute errands. The Waking Sea lapped against the shores sleepily, the moon singing a soft lullaby. Amarina could see the White Spire in the distance like a ghostly finger of a bone pointing an accusing finger at the sky… or the Maker. She was not sure which.

The Wardens were shown into the palace when they arrived into the courtyard. The sentries frowned at their long blades on their backs, but a quick bark from the butler sent them away; although the Grey Wardens were under each nation's sovereign jurisdiction, the monarchs also understood the importance in their presence, especially after the fiasco in Ferelden in which the regent had successfully wiped out almost all Grey Wardens and placed a bounty on the two surviving members of the Order. After the news spread, they were terrified that without the Wardens, their nation may be overrun a century or two from now. And so, they were freed from many shackles each sovereign placed upon the citizens.

Despite Alistair's repeated claim that he had abdicated all rights to the throne of Ferelden, the Orlesians still evidently saw him as the bastard son of Maric and some did not bother to hide their hostilities against the "bastard dog prince of Ferelden" - that is, until his slender wife came near them. Then they were all oily smiles. Some assumed that the bastard had married the Commander of the Grey to seek her protection, but nobody said it out loud. Alistair ignored them; he was not particularly concerned with the Orlesian nobility, and for better or for worse, the Theodosians owed him and his wife their lives. And he thought that Rabbit was far nobler than some of the Orlesians that deigned to call him names.

"The Grey Wardens, Alistair and Amarina Theirin!" The herald boomed into the hall when the Wardens and the butler walked up to the gilt and heavily jewelled double doors. The two put on a rather tense smile that "felt more like a facial exercise". The nobles would be crowding around them in a minute, just so that they could later casually say, "oh, I was talking to the Commander of the Grey the other day…". It amazed her every time when she realised that people saw different entities in others just because of the titles; the Orlesians evidently saw three or four different people in Alistair, for example, from "the bastard son of the usurper" to "the Commander of the Grey's husband" to "the Grey Warden", but very few seemed to see that at the end of the day, he was just Alistair. Sure enough, some noble lady - minor, from the look of his robe - sidled up to the blond Warden with a smile on her face that seemed a bit too wide for her jaw to be natural. Alistair cast a helpless look at his wife as she drifted away, accosted by some nobleman who was dressed rather opulently in orange and green. She heard Gaspard being announced - not as a Warden, but as the son of a Duke - and turned to face her first opponent.

Amarina was not very pleased to see the nobleman. She had met him before, and he annoyed her to no end. He seemed to chatter incessantly, his flow peppered with hiccuppy shrieks of laughter that evidently grated on everyone's nerves but his. He chattered about everything from cabbage to kings, unaware that the Warden-Commander's attention had drifted away. Amarina's attention had managed to wander during her own wedding, and it certainly was wandering off now. For some reason, his breath smelled of garlic, and she wondered what in the name of the Maker he had eaten before coming to the party. Most Orlesian foods were not so heavily seasoned. She was about to wrinkle her nose in distaste before she managed to stop herself.

By some dumb luck, she heard her name being called in the distance, and realised that she must pay her respects to the Orlesian empress. "Excuse me," she said as politely as she could, "I must pay my respects to her majesty."

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed the obnoxious man as she hurried away. Patchouli, vervaine and garlic did not go well together, Amarina decided. She wasn't used to men being perfumed, either. Her husband smelled of soap when washed, but mostly leather with a slight tang of metal, and quite often, darkspawn blood.

She went on to found her husband being flagged down by a woman who was as thin as a reed, and almost taller than he. He seemed a bit flustered as the lady chatted away. A wave of sweet-smelling fragrance hit her nose as she approached, and she absently wondered why she couldn't be like one of them; she wasn't grizzled like the women chevaliers, she didn't have that aloofness or the female mages (or did she? She wasn't sure), and she didn't fawn and smile like the female nobles. It couldn't be just because she was Fereldan. She felt out of place amongst men because she was a woman, and amongst women because she wasn't quite a woman either.

"But surely," the young lady was purring, "your highness can spare a few moments alone?"

"Um, no," Alistair replied with a panicked look on his face. "And please don't call me your highness. I'm just a Grey Warden."

"But I have heard the tales, how the prince, denied of his throne, still yet dedicated his life to save the country he so loved…" the woman went on. Alistair's eyes showed relief when he saw his wife approaching. And a plea for rescue. Amarina nodded from behind the noblewoman, a slight smile on her face.

"Excuse me," she said, "but may I have my husband back? We are called to pay our respects to the Empress."

The woman became befuddled at once, realising that the woman who stood before her was the Commander of the Grey and the wife of the man she was trying to seduce. With a very long sword on her back. "I, I beg your pardon, my lady!" She mumbled. "My humblest apologies…" when she looked up, the two blue-clad figures were already disappearing into the crowd, the hilts serving as standards to announce their rank and their membership to the Order so old that it predated the Chantry itself.

"Thanks," Alistair whispered, relieved, as he waded through the crowd of people. Amarina's slender hand found its way into his, and he felt her squeeze. He was aware of the political power his wife could wield, and just why these Orlesians wanted her attention. Even the Empress listened to her when she made her demands, which had happened exactly once before: when she had asked to enter the Great Library of the University of Orlais in search for an ancient tome. Alistair had no doubt that if she wished, his wife'd be granted a grand duchy in her name and all sorts of wealth. But what was wealth when you had Calling further down the road in a decade or two? And she seemed to almost squirm away from such things. Good food, gentle breeze, a good night's sleep and a soft bed made her happy. Not a grand duchy.

"What did she want to talk about?" Amarina asked innocently, knowing that it would fluster her husband even more.

"Um, er, she er…"

"Alistair, you can tell me. I won't bite your head off… I think."

"She er, wanted to talk about.. Um." He mumbled. "She wanted to talk?"

Amarina laughed. "And?"

"And what?"

"Why do you think she wanted to talk?"

Alistair looked at her blankly, then blushed furiously. Amarina laughed even more.

"You knew it!" he accused.

"Of course I did," she replied with some cheer.

"And you still asked?" he shook his head. "You're turning into Wynne. Are all women this evil?"

"I was satisfying my pride, Alistair. It's nice to know that your spouse is so handsome he's desirable to others after so many years of marriage." She continued to laugh as they made their way through the throng.

They walked up to the chair where Celene sat. A long rosewood table sat before her, loaded with foods from around the world: sugared grapes, exotic dishes, cheeses to name a few. A red velvet carpet, so thick that one could almost bounce on it, extended from where she sat down the steps and a few yards beyond, fringed and embroidered with gold. The stained-glass windows sparkled like huge jewels.

"The Grey Wardens!" The herald thundered. Celene nodded languidly, her blond hair held in a silvery net. A delicate crown was perched atop her head, and her gown was of the deepest purple silk, with narrow waist, full sleeves, and an even fuller skirt. She raised a white, slender hand, not with the paleness of the Warden-Commander that spoke on hours spent in darkness, but rather from lack of being outdoors. She was not a young woman, but age had been incredibly kind to her, and the features that would have been striking in youth had matured into a commanding presence. Her blonde hair was held up in a crespine that sparkled with what must be priceless gemstones. Her eyes were arresting, with a hint of overripeness that promised dark pleasures.

Celene observed the slender elf in front of her. Ferelden women were notorious shrews, and she had met Anora, the Queen of Ferelden before; initially she had expected a very similar woman, but the woman in front of her was far from it. She seemed too old to be a girl, too naive to be a woman. There was a sense of innocence about her, as if she believed the world of treachery, chicanery and lies to be something far apart from her. She sensed something similar in the elf's husband; a trusting nature, perhaps, or the refusal to know that the world was an evil place, a place that needed to be manipulated. But surely they were aware that the world was not a bed of roses; they were Grey Wardens, the bastion of defence against the prime evil that plagued Thedas. The woman, especially, had outmaneuvered Loghain Mac Tir, the late Teyrn of Gwaren who had single-handedly defeated a legion of chevaliers at the Battle of River Dane, and had built an army from nothing but a piece of paper. All in all, they were a pair of enigmas.

Alistair knelt while Amarina curtsied, heads bent in an air of obeisance.

"Welcome," Celene said, her voice commanding power, yet smooth and sultry. "We thank you for coming, Grey Wardens. We are honoured by your presence."

"Your majesty is too kind," the Warden-Commander murmured; in contrast to the Empress, her voice was clear, even sharp. "We are delighted to attend." A lie, but none in presence was crude enough to point it out. Alistair glanced at his wife, who was still curtsying, and it was only the Maker's providence that he caught some movement from the corner of his eyes.

In one, fluid motion his hand grasped the hilt of the sword, freeing it from the scabbard. The blade sprang to life in a blue fire as he parried away a dagger that had very nearly lodged itself into the elven mage's back. There was a piercing scream as a loud clang was heard and a twang as an arrow was released from a bow somewhere in the room. The dagger fell onto the floor. Surprised and shocked, the Warden-Commander got to her feet swiftly, turning around to see who had tried to kill her; but the crowd was already pressing in, and the assassin, if he had still tarried, was now hidden behind the throng.

Alistair picked up the blade, now notched on one side from the impact of the parry. He showed it to his wife. "Antivan," he said.

She nodded in agreement, not paying attention to the reigning monarch of Orlais or her subjects. "Crows," she said, tracing the flying bird on the hilt of the blade. "Did anyone see who did it?"

"I did," said a man's voice. "I killed him."

The two turned to see a man, a bit older than they, walking up toward the throne with a dead body dragging behind him. Several women screamed at the body with the arrow protruding from its forehead. The man was dressed in a white armour and had a longbow on his back; he was tanned but had vividly blue eyes that almost seemed green depending on the light. His hair was chestnut brown and he had a serious countenance, as if he had known both sides of the road.

"Ah, Sebastian," said the Empress, looking at the man. The Wardens looked at each other. Who was this man? The Warden-Commander, through various connections, knew most of the nobility by face, if not by name, but she had never seen this man before. And his accent was most definitely not Orlesian. She guessed somewhere in the Free Marches, for he sounded slightly similar to Nathaniel, but that was all she could learn from the first glance.

"Sebastian Vael, Chantry brother and the prince of Starkhaven," explained the butler, who had walked up to them amidst the commotion. "Your highness, may I present the Commander of the Grey?"

Sebastian looked at the woman. So she was the Blight-queller. Her large grey eyes were alert, angry, and her mouth was drawn in a strict line; her surcoat was blue, and he could see the griffon rearing on her belt buckle. Her husband, the rumoured prince of Ferelden, stood by her side, his stance protective. His blond hair was cropped short, and his face, which seemed that it usually wore a smile, was grim. These two had stopped the Blight, had defeated the high dragon that had sat atop the ancient temple of Andraste for centuries, uncovered her ashes. The Warden-Commander alone had defeated a powerful, sentient Darkspawn, while her husband had been in Orlais, the instrumental figure in driving almost all darkspawn underground again. These two had worked tirelessly against the menace, and were formidable opponents… or formidable allies.

Alistair bent down and looked at the assassin. "Crow," he murmured.

"Who hired him? Any clues?"

Alistair kicked the man over. "No idea."

"You seem calm, Warden-Commander," Sebastian commented. The elf had a wry smile on her face.

"Two of my best friends tried to kill me when we first met, your highness." She gestured to the body. "Can we have someone carry that to the compound, please? I'd like to see what information we can glean from him."

The Wardens left right after that, parting the sea of silks with their blues. Their faces were controlled, but something told the prince that the warrior, at least, would hunt the assassin's employer down. His arm was around her shoulder as he escorted his wife out of the hall, their long blades still on their backs. Their equipment were no less than their masters; Sebastian had seen the blade flare in blue fire, almost as if it was made of sapphires. The Warden-Commander's blade seemed ornamental, but the warrior's was not.

Grey Wardens, it seemed, still lived up to their name.

The Wardens returned to the compound as soon as they could. Exhaustion overtook the mage as she pulled the surcoat off. She lay down on the bed, still in her kirtle, and hugged the pillow. "Mm."

"Tired?" Alistair was stripped from waist up; muscles visibly moved under the skin as he pulled off the shirt. He came onto the bed as well, and kissed her cheek. She cast a sharp glance at him, and inwardly groaned. Alistair's face told her that he wanted her and he wanted her right now. She wondered if she just didn't have much stamina or he just had too much of it. Probably both. She also supposed it stemmed from insecurity about her safety; he was always like this when she had a close brush with death. It was almost as if he ascertained to himself that she was alive by doing this.

"Alistair, not now. I'm tired."

He smiled. She inwardly groaned again. "But I've been very sinful as a Templar," he whispered. "I keep having these dreams about this woman. She looks all innocent, but I don't think she is. She might be a desire demon."

"Alistair…"

"My thoughts have been dirty, my soul sullied." He nuzzled her neck, knowing that she was extremely vulnerable to this kind of attack.

"What kind of thoughts?" She asked, then regretted it. Curiosity got the best of her, and someday it was going to get her killed.

"I keep smelling the soft wisterias in my dreams, and have these visions about her dark hair brushing my skin as she moves her face down my body, her hands on my chest…" Amarina narrowed her eyes. He was very eloquent when he wanted to be. So what was up with the "witch-thief!" and all those bumbling phrases that he had a habit of saying? Was it just a pretence?

Or maybe he just really had a dirty, filthy mind that had remained suppressed by the Chantry until she released it. On hindsight, maybe she should have listened to Zevran.

"I keep wanting to do things to her," he was saying.

"Do what?" Oops. She could almost hear the trap snapping and ensnaring her.

"I don't think I can explain it with words," was the devious answer. She felt his hands burrow under her skirt, gently caress the soft skin on her inner thigh. "May I show you?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She noticed his hands unbuttoning and unlacing her dress, his mouth on her skin. She mentally prepared herself for a very sore morning as he kissed his way down from her neck to her collarbone and then beyond.


Alistair woke up that night to get a drink of water. He had to get up and walk to the table where the pitcher sat; he appreciated Amarina's habit to throw limes into drinking water at times like these. To avoid water going bad, she said, but he knew the reason. As a girl who grew up in the Tower, she was not used to brackish, tepid water that was sometimes the norm in this part of Orlais. Lime took care of the taste, and made the warm temperature tolerable.

Finishing the cup, he went back to bed, smiling fondly at his sleeping wife. Her hair spread out onto the pillow in an arc, and her shoulders and her arms were peeking from the duvet. She was a delicate thing, he thought; oftentimes people got awed by her titles as the Warden-Commander, the Blight-queller, the dragonslayer, but at the end of the day she was still an elf, and a very thin one at that. He kept forgetting too, and hence the light pink bruises on her arm, where he had grasped onto her without a thought. It'd turn a light purple by tomorrow morning, and then Amarina would be slightly annoyed with him, as usual.

But how could he explain that these outbursts were stemming from his fear of losing her? When he had seen that dagger flying… instinct kicked in and hence nothing drastic had happened, but it nearly froze his brain when he saw it. He had almost asked her to leave the Order once before so that he knew she was safe, but one never left the Wardens; once a Warden, always a Warden, as the saying went. And her expression when he had hinted it was so flinty that he was amazed she didn't catch on fire.

"Alistair," she said in a quiet voice, "you do realise that if I leave, then I'd never see you?" Wardens' wives very rarely got to see their husbands. A Warden, with constant moving and combat, didn't make very good husbands or wives in general. Or parents.

He had not thought of that. "Oh."

"Unless you want to spend your time with a ravishing Orlesian lady…" her voice went up an octave. Uh oh. He raised his hands pleadingly, but Amarina had continued on for a good five minutes before he had managed to calm her down.

"Mm," said the sleeping mage.

"Hm?" He responded, thinking that she might have woken up, but all she did was turn toward him. Her face told him she was still asleep.

"Mmm." She clung onto his arm like a small infant. "Mm."

And she remained that way for the rest of the night. Eventually he fell asleep again, her in his arms as always; a vestige of their adventures during the Blight, he had a habit of wrapping his arms around her as he slept, from the time when a darkspawn attack had ruined half their gear.

But he had to wonder, so he asked the next morning, over breakfast.

"What?" she said, stopping her hand that was buttering a slice of bread. "What did you just ask me?"

"What were you dreaming about last night?" Her expression told him that it was probably something very naughty. She closed her mouth with purpose.

"Well?"

"Not. Telling."

He started to laugh over his cup of coffee. "Your face told me enough." He continued to laugh as she glared at him over a bowl of strawberries. He reached over and picked one from the bowl, then plopped it into his mouth.

"Hey!" came the indignant cry. "Get your own strawberries!"

"Mmhmm." Well, at least it wasn't some nightmare again. Despite her years as being a Warden, she still hadn't quite gotten the hang of shutting out the nightmares and keeping the meaningful ones. He'd much rather have his wife have naughty dreams that, from her expression, involved him as well, than have her dream of her own deaths and monsters that lurked in the shadows and spread darkness. Those days were the glum ones, when she'd be silent, her eyes dark with apprehension.

But not today. Today she was as he had imagined she would have been, had she not been taken away to the Tower. A young woman, joy and laughter in her face. Her steps had little bounces as if she was walking in air. She smelled of wisterias, that sweet, gentle smell tracing her path through the room. She always smelled of plants, that hint of wet earth, the fresh cut green, perhaps because she worked with plants in her free time; some mages disdained from working with plants, but she wasn't one of them. She knew how important it was to know how to brew potions and salves, and she had done her share of them during her travels. Over the years she had also learned how to distill fragrances from various plants, which she wore to hide the stench and the acrid odour that darkspawn always had.

The two got together with Arturo, the former Crow, who was now the liaison between one of the guilds and the resident rogue master. The body had been carried in overnight and now lay quietly in one of the laboratories, where mages conducted their experiments in trying to tap the darkspawn Taint.

With just one glance the Antivan affirmed their suspicions: "Crow," he said.

"What guild?" The warrior asked. Arturo gently thumbed the tattoo that marked the man's forehead, a curling arabesque that snaked down to his jaw. "It's one of the more powerful ones," he replied.

Amarina pursed her lips. "It's not Zevran Arainai's, is it?"

The Dalish elf had left the Warden's company soon after she had gotten married, but the two had kept regular correspondence. Many knew of his wistful affections for the elven woman but she and her husband; growing up in seclusion had kept them blissfully ignorant of the dealings of men and women except for blunt words of love, the dance steps crude and straightforward. The couple had gotten better with the dance, but only to each others' steps. And so practically all of Antiva knew of Zevran's affections for the famed Warden, except herself.

Arturo knew, of course, but kept his mouth shut. The Antivan owed the elf his life, after Zevran had paid off the severance. "Serve her well," he had said. And indeed he had. As he was doing now.

"No," he replied. "It's not his guild." Zevran would never send her an assassin; if he saw the need to kill her, he'd come himself.

"We should contact him anyway," Alistair said. "He'd probably know who hired this man." A prod with his knife. His wife nodded, unaware of the immense pain that this would cause the guildmaster. It was funny, really; Zevran Arainai, who had bedded both men and women in his days as one of the most promising Crows, had forsworn such things after he had returned from the south, with only one woman in his heart, the woman who had saved his life when he had attempted on hers.

"I'd been cursed," he had smiled with some self-derision on his beautiful face, the night Arturo had left for Orlais. "To fall in love with a prey is not a wise idea."

The candlelight in the laboratory faltered as Arturo turned the man over. Amarina replenished the flame with a gesture, then bent over to see the man's lower back. It was criss-crossed with tattoos, just as Zevran's had been. She remembered the man's back, from the time she had accidentally trespassed on him bathing. That was a very humiliating incident, when he had smiled that sultry smile of his and asked, "Care to join me, Warden?" in a voice that dripped honey. She had fled.

But the man's tattoos were not the graceful spirals that had adorned the elf's back. They were crude mockeries of the tendrils that had marked Zevran's golden skin. The pigment was not as vibrant, either; Zevran's tattoos had been emerald green, sapphire, the colours of precious gems. This man's was faded, not from the years but from poor quality. Another testament to this man's background, that whatever rank he had held before his death, he had won it the hard way. He was no thoroughbred as Zevran had been, no; this man was no assassin bought for three gold pieces at the age of seven, trained in the deadly arts as a boy.

"Well, I think we're done here," said the elf finally. With a flick of her wrist she set the body on fire as the two men jumped back in slight panic.

"You could have warned," said the warrior. It was customary to burn the bodies to prevent demons from possessing, and the last thing the Wardens wanted was an errant animated corpse running around underground in their laboratory. His wife cast him an apologetic look.

"Sorry."

They trunged back upstairs, their slippered feet making soft noises on the carpeted floor. Arturo had to some fast talking, but in the end Amarina agreed, wearily, to let Arturo contact his former guildmaster instead. The letters, written on thick paper, smelling of violets that were used to pigment the Warden-Commander's ink, would only hold sweet pain for the elf. Amarina didn't seem to care to know why Arturo had insisted; she had just walked down the hallway, leaving him rooted on the spot, trailing the faint smell of wisterias.

Arturo returned to his room, seated himself at the desk, and picked up a quill. He didn't know how to start, so he started off bluntly. Zevran might be anywhere in Thedas, but the Crows had connections. He informed the guildmaster that an assassination attempt had been made on the Warden-Commander, and she had made it out alive and unscathed. That the assassin was a Crow. And that the Wardens were searching for the employer.

Arturo imagined Zevran's fury when he read the letter. He'd tear Antiva apart to find the answer to her questions. The Commander of the Grey had formidable allies. Interestingly enough, none had been bought; they had become her friends through blood, tears, and her offerings of life.

Her life.

He vaguely wondered what the Warden-Commander was doing right then. Perhaps in the loving embrace of her husband, or in her office, or perhaps sparring. Either way, he needed to get the message out by sunset. He wrote in a period at the end of the sentence, and then sprinkled sand onto the ink, wondering what would have happened if his former guildmaster had been chosen instead.


Across the compound, in a room outfitted to receive wealthy donors and guests, the said Warden-Commander was absently touching the silver rim of a porcelain cup as she sat across the table, facing the Starkhaven Prince. Sebastian, his name was, Sebastian Vael, and he had the countenance of a man who had seen both darkness and light. But his harrowing had not been as grim as hers had been, or Cullen's, or any of her companions'; she knew when she saw the scar the darkness left behind, and she saw it everywhere, in her husband's golden eyes, in Gaspard's sky blue, in Zevran's brown, in Morrigan's amber. It left scars of varying shades and degrees, but Sebastian's turquoise eyes weren't as dark as her husband's, or Zevran's. No, this man had not been tested as they had been; yet who were, but the Wardens?

"I seek an alliance," he had said, as she offered hot cup of tisane. Honeybush, rosebuds, and pieces of orange peel floated in the hot water as she poured the beverage through a strainer into a cup. "I must reclaim my city-state."

"Why come to us, your highness?" She asked as she pushed the saucer forward, cup perched on it like some bird. "We are no sovereigns, and I certainly hold no jurisdiction or any power to help you to your throne. I am just a Warden."

Sebastian shook his head. "Not just a Warden, no, my lady. You are The Warden."

Amarina nearly sighed. That name had haunted her like a bad stench, as if no other Grey Wardens existed in Thedas. But so many men and women carried forth their duties that could not be forsworn, had sacrificed, trusting that they would not be in vain and that their work, their legacy shall be carried forth. It was like a torch, their mission; when one fell, another would pick up, and walk on. But people behaved as if there was no other Warden in Thedas, as if all the deeds had been hers.

Ridiculous.

"Still, I do not speak for my Order. The First Warden does." The First Warden, who was too embroiled in Anderfels politics. Where was Alistair when she needed him? She knew of the whispers that Alistair was actually the one controlling the Orlesian branch of the order, that he had traded the Fereldan throne for the Warden one, that she, Amarina, was weak, not suited for the role. She did not care. Alistair was her beacon, the chink in her armour that made her invincible. And if they wanted to talk, well, what harm would that do? He didn't give a damn about reputation - one learned not to care about such things as a royal bastard - and neither did she. She would have gladly stepped down if someone had offered her that luxury. Unfortunately, no one did.

Well, except for her husband. He had always said that she could step down, live as a normal woman, which always made her reexamine her just how much she could carry. On the eve before the Battle of Denerim he had offered her to "run away to Orlais, eat pastries and live in sin", and now that they had done that, he had said to her that they could run off to Antiva or wherever she wished when things seemed almost hopeless. And because of that, she could smile, believe that she could walk a bit further.

"But would I have your support? You, personally?" asked the prince. She thought of her punishment for meddling in politics. That had not been pleasant. She thought about how to frame the answer.

"I can give you my personal support, but as a Warden-Commander, I'm afraid I cannot," she replied. She realised much to her chagrin that Alistair had not found all the powdered sugar that had managed to make its way to the nook and cranny of her body as he had claimed; there had been a terrible fiasco when they had made their way out through the kitchen, when one of the cooks, startled by two armed people storming into the territory, had accidentally knocked over a canister of powdered sugar as Amarina was running through. Alistair had found some creative ways to get the sugar off that had made its way down the kirtle her body, but evidently he hadn't been thorough enough. She felt the grit of it on her back.

"That would suffice," nodded the man. How, she had no idea. People respected her as the "Warden-Commander", not as herself. It was her capability as a Warden that people saw, as a mage. He stood up. "Thank you for your time, Commander of the Grey."

She nodded. There was no smile on her face. She had other things to consider, other things that needed her attention. Like this next visitor.

Amarina usually put aside a few hours, twice a week, to see people who came to speak to her. Some needed help, some demanded adjustment; there were empress's messengers, peasants, merchants, all sorts of people from all walks of lives. Being notorious did have its merits, but it also attracted unwanted attention. Like this man.

Sorely wishing again that Alistair was here - he had all but disappeared, telling her that he needed to go oversee a training session - and sighing, she faced her new adversary. This man was almost a gibbering idiot. This man was also her "admirer", as Levian had called him with distaste. Amarina had to agree. There wasn't any other term to describe the man.

The man, by the name of Jedediah, had first set his dark eyes on her when she had been at one of the functions as the Commander of the Grey. Almost everyone in Thedas had heard of her, but she kept most at bay, hiding in shadows whenever she could and keeping an impassive face when she could not. As the result, the Warden-Commander was known as "unreadable", if not "downright cold". Some sashayed up to her to be able to tell others that they had talked to her and were close to her, but both parties knew that it was not for her company per se, but rather for the prestige. As the result, she had been blissfully left alone with her friends and companions.

Jedediah, however, seemed to know no personal space. He asked after her, even made his way into the compound once, before one of the rogue initiates found him and chased him away. And intentionally or not, this man was obtuse if nothing else. No biting remark set him off, and no refusal ever got through his thick skull. Crass and clearly uneducated, his language seemed to obey no known syntax, and that drove Amarina mad. He called himself a warrior, but had no sinews or the iron-hard look Alistair had, and he said he had wooed women but there was nothing to be seen that may have swayed even the most depraved of women. All in all, the man was like a very loud mosquito, and Amarina had a few occasions in which she just wanted to slap the man hard across the face. She did not; she had a feeling he might think it an honour.

"Commander of the Grey," the man wheezed.

Amarina stifled another sigh. She almost wished she was back in Ferelden as a nameless Warden mage. The Blight had ended years ago, the last rabbles of darkspawn vanquished and chased back into the Deep Roads, but there were many, many things that required her full attention. The Wardens' presence in Ferelden was beginning to be accepted, but the trust was still tenuous at best, and the current Warden-Commander of Ferelden much relied on her to cement the fragile trust. There were a few entrances to the Deep Roads, one just in the outskirts of Val Royeaux, that had to be constantly patrolled and guarded. New Wardens had to be sought out and trained, and then there were the elder Wardens who left for their Calling. The Wardens' stronghold always had a bustle of activity, and for some reason, she always seemed to be right in the centre of it.

The following fifteen minutes were the most painful in the day, and as the man tottered out, her husband came in, a frown on his face. "Why do you talk to that man?" he asked a little gruffly.

"I don't."

"If you don't pay attention to him, he'll go away." Alistair sat down in the chair. "He stalks you. Ignore him."

Amarina raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I'm a child? Be honest."

"No. What makes you say that?"

"Well, because it seems like you think me a child speaking against her betters. I use that term because of the set phrase, not because I do or do not think you are better."

But her explanation evidently did not get through to him. "I do not think I'm your better, and neither should you," he said defensively.

"No? Because 'Ignore him' is something a parent may say to a child. 'You should ignore him' is something that one might say to an equal."

Things went rapidly downhill after that. In anger, Amarina flounced off, retorting that she was in no state to argue with him right then and it'd be better if she'd just leave.

"No, don't bother," he said, "I'll leave." But Amarina had already beaten him to it; she was marching out the door, her face tense and her hands jammed in her pockets like a small boy, smell of wisterias trailing behind her like a faint reminder. With a slam of a door and the pat of the heel of her slippers, she was gone.


That evening, Alistair lay in bed, but Amarina did not come. He sighed. She was the love of his life, and he'd willingly lay down his life for her any minute of the day, but at times she could be obstinate. Sometimes apologising came difficultly for her. She needed time to calm down, to logic herself, for she refused any other to do it for her. If there was one thing she hated, it was someone showing the logic - and her err of it - to her before she could reconcile it herself.

He got out of bed, wincing at the cold air that attacked his skin, shrugged on a robe, and left the room, candle in his hand. He knew exactly where she was, and he figured she'd have calmed down by now. It was likely that she just needed a little encouragement to apologise. She often simulated many situations in her head, but when it came to apology those simulations stood in her way. He had asked about it once, and she had replied that most simulations were about her being rejected after making an apology.

He left the suite, crossed the compound, and into the Mages' Tower. It was not as tall as the White Spire, but it was airier, perhaps because there were no Templars about with their gleaming blades and stern eyes. Although all rooms could be sealed by a Warden mage, he found his way unbarred by the doors. He continued climbing up the spiralling stairs that ran through the centre of the tower. The tower itself was constructed with the spiralling staircase going down the centre, and rooms were sequestered by walls that made each room in a shape not unlike a pie with the middle cut out. The top floor was the observatory, from where one could get onto the roof, if one so wished. He guessed Amarina was going to be there, looking at the stars, as she always did when she needed time for herself or to think.

He walked through the observatory and up the ladders that led up to the trapdoor to the roof. He blew out the candle and left it on the floor, but the sky was clear and the moon was a huge disk in the sea of dark blue, the stars twinkling and shedding their light onto the city below. Amarina was sitting a little away from the exit, hugging her knees and looking up. She looked toward him when he walked toward her. The roof itself had a slant, but it was not steep enough to warrant any particular care.

She said nothing as he sat next to her. They continued to watch the stars for a few minutes in uncomfortable silence, until Alistair heard a mumbled "sorry". She looked vulnerable as she said it, her pale face looking more pale - and wan - under the moonlight. She was tired, Alistair realised. Not the satisfying kind that sank through the muscles after a long day, but a more lasting kind, coming from years of fraying nerves and work. And she had been working for the past six years nonstop, keeping the darkspawn at bay, taking care that no disciples would cause havoc. Most reports had been false, but there were far too many that were true, and Amarina had to take care of them all. The only time she had been free from her Warden duties was right after the Blight. Freed from obligations, the two had enjoyed the six months doing nothing productive. The nights together, the whispers at dawn, time shared with friends… it had given then the glimpse of the time they had traded to service the homeland. They had lived as any other lovers might have, joy in each other's company, sighs of pleasure in each other's arms. That had been the happiest time of his life.

But her hair was still dark with no touch of frost on them. Alistair thought vaguely that she might not have any when they went to the Calling. He himself had a few strands of silver hair now, almost invisible with his cropped hair and blond besides, but he was well aware that their times were short, like a burst of a flame. That was the fate dealt out for this choice. Old age will not claim them.

He gathered her into his arms to show that he accepted her apology. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her breaths quiet and steady. He smelled the tang of lyrium about her, that slightly acrid, mineral smell hitting his nose with her own fragrance. She had used magic, not something minor but something that required a potion or dust. Vigilance lay naked beside her. What had she been doing?

"What have you been doing?" he asked.

"There was a genlock sorcerer who was possessed by a demon," she replied. "I had to go stop it."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I'm sorry," she said again, and she truly looked apologetic. "It was in the Mage Tower."

"What? Here?"

She nodded. "In the basement." The laboratories. The mage Wardens began to conduct experiments after Amarina had lent her copies of Avernus' research - or part of it - to the mages. Amarina personally did not do any of them, as she did not have the time and she said she didn't have enough analytical mind or patience to repeat the same steps over and over again.

"They locked the genlock in the laboratory," she explained. "I had to go in, and I had to kill it." She made it sound like getting rid of vermin, but the strong tang of lyrium told him otherwise; she had duelled the thing, duelled it with spells and her sword. It had not been deadly - she did not bear much injury - but it had sapped her of her strength. Lyrium potions always gave her bursts of power but she always used it when she was severely pressed. All who had dealt with mages had seen the aftereffects of lyrium addiction. To say it was unpleasant was like saying darkspawn were dangerous. She must have been drained of mana before she could kill the sorcerer.

But why was such a powerful genlock in the basement?

"You're wondering how the genlock ended up in the laboratory," Amarina said absently, twirling her hair. Alistair looked at her again, startled. He nodded.

"He was captured," she said simply with a shrug. "Blindfolded and bound mages don't do much."

Well, that solved the mystery.

"It's odd, though," she continued, which pulled him away from his reverie. "There are more raids in a week than there used to be in a month. Something's Calling them… but what?"

"Another Blight?" Alistair sincerely hoped not.

"Have you had dreams?"

He shook his head. "Just the usual. Nothing profound."

"Neither have I," she replied. "I don't think it's another Blight." What she meant was that she hoped it wasn't. They both knew that they were just lucky when they had stopped the Blight; but nothing guaranteed them that they'd be lucky again. With the increasingly tense situation between the mages and the Templars in Kirkwall, Ferelden still trying to hold Orlais at bay while trying to recuperate, Thedas was in no state to face another large-scale attack. She picked her sword up, doubt on her face, balancing it on her knees. Alistair looked at it. The blade was magnificent, with golden hilt shaped like a dragon and a silver gleaming blade. The flowing script running down the blade gleamed in the moonlight.

"I am Vigilance, and I keep the vigil eternal," the inscription said. On the back of the blade, "Dragon's life had forged me, and the Commander of the Grey wields me".

The increasing raids, the genlock sorcerer freeing itself, the assassination attack… they all pointed to trouble. This only meant one thing. The two better get on the road, and quickly, to find out what exactly was so important that Weisshaupt felt the need to summon the Commander of the Grey to relay the missive personally, not via a written message. The two looked at each other; they knew exactly what they were thinking.

"When can we leave?" Alistair asked.

"I don't know yet. There had been cases like this, and I've sent letters to the Fereldan Circle, The Vigil and Minrathous branch to look for anything that might have something to do with this… problem. Minrathous and The Vigil hasn't found anything, but Irving hasn't responded yet."

"Will he respond soon?" Alistair enquired about the man who was, for all intents and purposes, his wife's father. First Enchanter Irving had been present at their wedding, and had given away his beloved apprentice to the Templar-turned-Warden with his blessing. Much of her logical thinking and her control had come from him. Amarina's own father was dead long before Alistair had met her; widowed, her mother had raised three children in poverty, working late hours to feed the three elven children. Amarina had, in part, gone to the Circle to relieve her mother of the burden. Arith Surana had been a gentle father, Amarina had said, but she barely remembered him.

"That depends." She recalled the tall, vaulted library of the Tower, rebuilt after it had turned into a mess with Uldred's debacle. "I'm taking the delay as a sign that he must have found something." Or one of the apprentices. She knew most of the grunt work had always fallen to the students; she had done her share in her youth.

The letter indeed arrive a week later, written on fine parchment and stamped with Irving's signet. Amarina was in the library trying to locate a spell when one of the junior Warden mages came in, holding the letter. She thanked the mage then sent her on her way, then hurried to her office. She needed peace and quiet and familiarity to read his letter. The seal was in silver, the motif of Kinloch Hold engraved into the wax. She gently touched the wax, remembering the signet on her master's finger. She then broke it, and began to read.

"Warden-Commander," the letter began. "It relieves me to find you well, my child, for it has been years since I last beheld you. No doubt your duties behold you now, but it seems to me that it was only yesterday when Duncan had taken you away.

I have enclosed the copies of the documents that we have found in our library. I'm afraid we cannot provide more help.

May the Maker watch over you, child."

Amarina sighed as she picked up the handwritten papers. They weren't much; she berated herself for expecting more. She began to read the snippets, the memorandum that had been written centuries before, trying to decipher the meanings. Most of them were incoherent or parts of correspondence that clearly needed context for it to have any significance, but she read on, quill in hand.

She read through them thrice, making notes, thinking. If these were true, they made sense. She knew where to go to learn more. The problem wasn't the knowledge. It was the location.

She had never expected to return there. That place was forever sealed within her memory, cursed and twice cursed. She had returned there once to fulfil an obligation, and had sworn never to return. It retained too many memories and too many dead.

Could she? Could she return there? Could she control her rage, her grief, all the emotions in between, standing on the soil that had sucked up all the blood? The place was probably cursed, the Veil thin. It had been a glorious day that day, the air clear and crisp, the pennants dancing in the wind, the sky cloudless and blue. The soldiers had been sure of the battle and the victory.

She had been young then, untested and unwary. She had not questioned the outcome of the battle, nor had she witnessed any betrayal on that scale. She had never felt the cold, stark fear sit in her stomach. Untested, young and ignorant, she had wished to join the battle. To 'do her part'. It was only the wisdom of the elders that she had survived that nightmare. And even then, just barely.

"What's troubling you?" said Alistair, who had been watching his wife from the doorway from some time now. Her expression was troubled, and for the past fifteen minutes she had sighed, scratched her head, groaned, covered her face with her hands, scrunched her eyes shut. Her face was generally impassive, but when she thought no one was looking, her expression changed like a mountain weather. He had no idea what was going on, but evidently it was not good.

She nearly jumped and fell out of the chair in surprise. "A, Alistair! Don't do that!"

"Do what?"

"Can't you knock?"

"I suppose I can." His impish grin told her that he won't. He'll just take her by surprise again. "You have a guest, by the way."

"Who?"

"Zevran."

"He got the message already?" She exclaimed, puzzled. Arturo had sent that yesterday. How come he was here already? Then it struck her that maybe he was here without any message, that perhaps he just happened to be in Orlais and remembered that he had friends here. Zevran travelled a lot; that would not be impossible. "Where is he?"

"Behind me," said her husband with a wide grin. Years had erased the initial doubt and animosity the warrior had against the assassin; Zevran had proven his loyalty time and time again, enough times that he could easily leave the man with his wife and not worry about it. He stepped aside to let the elf in.

Zevran had not changed much. His hair was slightly darker, indicating that he had not been near Antiva for a while; but his face was still beautiful, his eyes still mischievous. He wore a finely crafted elven armour, and it was clear that he had taken care of it well all this time. Twin blades were on his back. "I see you haven't changed," she said with a smile.

"Oh, I have. Not in ways you can see though, my dear Warden." He still called her that, much to Alistair's chagrin. "What message?"

"I'd rather not talk about it here. We'll go get Arturo, then head out to our suite. Alistair, where is he?"

The man stared at her. "How would I know?"

"You're right. My mistake for asking." She stood up, stretching. "Come on. Let's go find him."

Arturo was in the courtyard; he was facing away from the approaching party, but he immediately stood up as soon as they were within earshot. "Warden-Commander," he said politely, as always, but with just a hint of impetuousness; then his eyes widened at the guest. "Guildmaster."

"Don't call me that," Zevran replied in good humour. "I am no guildmaster."

Alistair snorted. "That's not what I hear."

Zevran ignored his jibes. "The Warden-Commander won't tell me her big secret without you there," he explained to the baffled Antivan. "So help me sate my curiosity."

Arturo's expression darked a little; the Wardens noticed it right away, but if Zevran did, he did not show it. "And where would you like to talk, Warden-Commander?"

"Somewhere with… privacy," she said. "It won't do if people knew that an Antivan Crow made an attempt on my life."

Zevran's smile disappeared faster than anyone could say ah. "The Crows did what?"

Amarina gave him a steady look. "Not here." The four began to walk toward the Warden-Commander's suite, given to her not because she was in command of the Wardens but because she was married. Alistair and Amarina had initially tried to live in a single room together, and quickly discovered that their patience quickly frayed when they were cramped into a single room all the time.

The suite was simply furnished, but Zevran saw a woman's touch here and there: a vase full of flowers, white curtains on the windows. The white casablanca lilies lent a sweet perfume in the air. The tea was foreign to him; Antivans mostly drank strong coffee, but the tea made from dried fruits tasted rather good.

It had been almost four years since they had last met, but neither Warden had changed, Zevran noted. The last time had been in Denerim, celebrating their wedding; he had been Alistair's best man, and had calmed the nervous Warden as he swore an oath to "love and protect" the slender elf. Amarina had looked the same then, dressed in a white gown and a veil, throat decorated with white jasper and sapphire; jasper for gentleness, sapphire for faith. Alistair had been in his Warden armour, stowed away when they had been bounty heads and taken out after the Battle of Denerim. The necklace had belonged to Leliana's mother, and the redheaded bard had happily lent it to her friend on her happy day: "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, with six-bit in your shoe," as the rhyme went, and the necklace had taken care of old, borrowed and blue. It had been a happy event for everyone as Irving had given away his beloved apprentice in front of the Grand Cleric.

But now the couple looked grim. "We went up to the palace for Opalia," Alistair broke the silence. "Someone tried to assassinate her."

Zevran looked at the elf in question, who was calmly sipping tea. "And?"

She pulled out a dagger from her belt, golden crow flying on the crossguard, along with a jade ring. "Does this look familiar?"

Zevran picked the blade up from the table; he tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind his ear. "It's a Crow dagger," he said. "I can probably identify the guild if there was a body, but…"

"I have a sketch," Arturo offered. "I'll go get it." Without waiting for response, the Antivan left in a hurry.

"So," said the Warden-Commander. "How have you been?"

"Fine." A volume of messages were exchanged between the three, wordless, so much meant in a glance. The three knew each other well enough to converse somewhat with just eye contact; they had survived through many battles like that.

Alistair looked at the man who may just have been his wife's husband, if something had taken a different path. If he had said a different word at different time. Zevran's eyes were unusually dark and troubled as he gazed upon the Warden-Commander, who was vaguely staring into the teacup. He knew something, Alistair thought. He knew something about her that he did not.

"You didn't come here to visit, did you?" Alistair broke the heavy silence. Amarina looked up, startled, but Zevran showed no sign of being caught unawares. He nodded.

"The situation between the mages and the Templars in Kirkwall finally broke," he said.

"Broke? What do you mean, broke?"

"The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall finally decided that all mages were maleficar," Zevran explained. "The apostate, Anders…"

"Wait, Anders?" Amarina interrupted. "Anders? Blond? Tall? Sort of looks like Alistair about the nose? Obsessed with cats?"

"I… don't know about the cat thing, but yes, that seems to be the one."

Amarina and Alistair looked at each other. They both knew Anders quite well; he had been Amarina's subordinate and a trusted friend during her time in Amaranthine when she had served as a Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and had actually come to their wedding in Denerim. He had been a wry but an easy-going mage then, certainly with grudges against the Chantry and the Templars but not to the extent to do anything drastic. So what was going on?

"Anders blew up the Kirkwall Chantry."

"Wait, WHAT?" Alistair yelped. "Zevran, if that was meant as a joke, it's not funny."

"I did not mean it as a joke, my friend." He looked at the two horror-stricken faces. "The Circle retaliated."

Amarina groaned. She knew just how much power the mages wielded, and how much force the Templars could use. Alistair looked shocked. They had stood on the opposing sides once, as a mage apprentice and a Templar-in-training; they knew exactly what would happen if the fragile balance between the mages and the Templars crashed.

"… And?" Amarina asked fearfully.

"The Champion of Kirkwall - Hawke, I think his name was - sided with the mages. The Knight-Commander was defeated, but…" Zevran looked at the Warden-Commander. "Kirkwall Circle's gone."

She paled. "Starkhaven, then Kirkwall…" she whispered. "We need to…"

The door opened, and Arturo came back in, clutching a sheaf of parchment. "I kept a copy of the sketch," he explained as he sat back down. "It's not as good as the one I sent you, master, but it should suffice."

Zevran's attention immediately went to the sketch, which signalled the Fereldan Wardens that the discussion regarding the Kirkwall circle was definitely over. Alistair glanced at his wife; her brows were furrowed and she looked worried, her eyes dark. He wondered what was going on in her mind, but decided not to ask. She would need time.

If they had time.