My little wolf,

I knew you would come for me. Even in my absence, I know you better than anyone.

Why do you continue to run from me? Not that I do not enjoy the chase, of course. But when the final result is already predetermined, why postpone the inevitable with such tedious delays?

You will return to me. You know this, and I know this. I entertain no such delusions that my men will ever succeed in capturing you. Think of them as a reminder – of your master and your old life, which you have forsaken. Think of them also as a chance for redemption. I can be merciful; reconciliation is not impossible.

Regardless, I am the only option you have. Do not delude yourself into thinking you can carve out a new identity. Who will you go to? The insular elven clans, who will shun you as an abomination? The Free Marchers, who loathe foreigners almost as much as they loathe elves? Will you squat in the Alienage with the rest of the vermin? Even Kirkwall will eventually spit you out, leaving you alone once more.

Return to me, my little wolf. Remember your loyalty. Recall that incident on Seheron. You can no more masquerade as a freeman than a Qunari can impersonate an elf. Your past is in the Imperium, as is your future.

Enjoy the mansion. It is rightfully yours, just as you are rightfully mine.

You know where to find me,

Master

Fenris crushed the scroll in his hands before tossing it away.

It landed close to the fireplace. A stray ember shot out and caught an edge of the scroll, setting it alight. For a moment, Fenris willed the fire to spread across the floor and ignite the whole house. But the flames dwindled and died, as did his hopes.

Foolish.

That was what he had been. To think that he had struck a great victory against Danarius. To assume that the loss of his mansion meant anything more to Danarius than the loss of his men. Fenris had thought that slaughtering his slavers would have put paid to his efforts. Now, Danarius had him right where he wanted him, and he could do nothing but wait for him to make the next move.

Slowly, Fenris stood up from the couch. Empty bottles scattered in his wake as he walked across the room. Initially, he had been reluctant to plunder Danarius' wine reserves. What if his men came for him during the night, and he was too intoxicated to defend himself? If Danarius knew he was coming, what if he had poisoned the supply? But after he discovered the letter, Fenris was desperate for any cheap victory against his master. The collection was impressive, especially for a foreign home – Orlesian brands, mainly, and some as old as the Exalted Age. Fenris had downed them as if they were cheap tavern ales.

For days, this had been his routine. He experienced a sort of permanent drunkenness, which left him lying in a stupor for hours on end. He waited patiently for Danarius to return. But no one came to the house. The sole exception was a guard, who had interrupted his daze by knocking on the door. Upon answering it, she had assumed – to his lasting disgust – that Fenris was his master's concubine; a misconception that he entertained, since it meant otherwise losing his home. She had seemed satisfied with his explanation for his master's absence. But lately, Fenris had seen her observing the house from afar. He knew that time was growing short.

Danarius' power was that only he could make the first move. This left Fenris only able to respond, and never to instigate. It infuriated him to think that, even now, his former master dictated his actions. As long as he was still at the whim of Danarius, Fenris could never truly be free. He was still a slave.

No longer.

As long as he remained in the mansion, Fenris was at a disadvantage. Even now, he was probably under surveillance from his master's spies. Danarius would know exactly where to find him; he could attack him at any moment. Remaining stationary was considered by many to be the mark of freedom. But in order to remain free, Fenris had to keep moving. He would leave Kirkwall. Let Danarius react to his actions for a change.

But he needed money. For the first time since his arrival, Fenris left the confines of the mansion and emerged into Hightown. He had contemplated borrowing a robe, but then decided against it. As such, the gentry of Hightown stared with open contempt or disbelief at the audacious elf and his vulgar tattoos. Fenris put this down to simple snobbery. But as he descended to the lower levels, he noticed that even here, he was treated with fear or disdain. Wherever he went, the stains on his skin marked him out.

Your past is in the Imperium, as is your future.

But Fenris found his opportunity. An expedition to the Deep Roads, which would soon be leaving. He would be free from Kirkwall – and his master's spies – for a week. If the expedition was successful, he would make more than enough coin to move elsewhere – perhaps to Orlais, where Danarius could not reach him. And if the expedition went awry, Danarius would be permanently deprived of his favourite slave; not even he could retrieve a body once the darkspawn were through with it. He was in charge of his fate, now. His erstwhile master could only watch and wait.

Now, Fenris would make the first move. If Danarius was following him, then let him follow him into the Deep Roads. If he was waiting when he returned, he would be ready for him.

"So I've been thinking about the expedition…"

Arin, having just caught his breath, turned aside and gave his lover a dismal glance.

"You know, Lilley," he said, "most women don't tend to use pillow talk for business."

"I'm not most women," she replied. How right you are, he thought sardonically.

Slowly, Arin sat up in the bed and threw his legs over the side. Having stretched his back, he stood up and grabbed his trousers off from the floor. Pulling them on, he walked over to the desk at the side of the room. Lilley shifted to lie on her side.

"So how long have you been thinking about it?" he asked, fixing himself a cup of wine from a pewter jug on the desk.

"Oh, just the past hour or so," she said dryly. Arin rolled his eyes. It was dangerous to make jibes at a Coterie spymaster – even one you were bedding. But Lilley's candid speech was just something that Arin found endearing about her, even if it strained her relations with others in the organisation.

"Just, why me?" she asked, "Why do I have to go traipsing around the Deep Roads for a week, getting savaged by darkspawn for some fool noble? Couldn't you send someone else, like Brekker?"

"Brekker!" said Arin incredulously, "That fool? If I wanted to ensure the expedition's failure, maybe…" Although he was sure that Lilley would have no objections to seeing Drekker butchered by a darkspawn attack.

"Why is the Coterie even keeping tabs on this expedition," she asked, "when it's bound to be a failure?"

"Don't be impertinent," he replied. Lilley shot him a withering look, which made him smile. She would go far in the Coterie, he thought, if she lives that long.

"Because, Lil," he said, "there is that small, small chance that it may actually uncover something valuable. Priceless, even. And if it does, we need to get our hands on it." Lilley lay back on the bed.

"Am I supposed to single-handedly plunder the Deep Roads?" she muttered.

"Don't be silly," he said, shooting her a disapproving look. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Rolling his eyes, he picked up the jug and moved over to the bed. Slowly, he sat down on the side.

"This is just an expedition, Lilley," he said, "If they do discover a treasure cache, they will mark it and either come back for it later with more men or sell the location to an interested party." Arin filled himself another cup.

"If we obtain the location, however," he said, "we can get in there before they've even organised a follow-up. We'll be able to seize the valuables without having to share our profits or organise a preliminary expedition in the first place." Lilley sat up in the bed, looking over at him.

"We get all the benefits without any of the cost," she said. Arin smiled.

"Smart girl," he said. Lilley pondered it for awhile, rubbing her chin in thought. Arin poured out the last of the wine. Suddenly, she dropped her hand and sighed.

"Alright," she said, "I'll do it."

"That's my girl," said Arin, smiling. He lay back on the bed. Lilley sidled over to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Arin stroked his fingers along her auburn hair. For a few moments, they stared up at the ceiling in silence.

"And you must end your feud with Brekker," said Arin, abruptly breaking the serenity, "It doesn't do to have infighting in the Coterie. There's already enough mutual distrust."

"I can think of one way to end it," said Lilley, her meaning clear.

"I know you don't like him," said Arin, carefully, "I don't like him either. The man's a fool and a halfwit. But he's our fool. If you keep sniping at each other, one of you is going to end up dead, and then the Coterie will be duty-bound to kill the other." He gave Lilley a stern look. If she did have Drekker killed, he would probably be the one who had to avenge him, and their relationship would not have caused a single moment of hesitation before he plunged the knife in.

"So patch up with Dekker," he said, "and do try to be nice to the people on this expedition." Lilley feigned a pout, which looked odd on her, since Arin was so accustomed to her severe expression.

"Aren't I always?" she said. Arin downed the last of the wine.