FENRIS

"Gone," I mumble, staring down at the filthy floor. "I'd hoped…" The words cut off. "Ugh, no. It doesn't matter any longer. I assume Danarius left valuables behind. Take them if you wish. I….need some air." My head low, I stalk past the group of strangers and make my way outside, slamming the door shut behind me. The cold night air nips at my branded skin, reminding me that I am still alive—that Danarius is still alive and probably laughing somewhere nearby.

I slam my fist against the closest wall of Danarius' abandoned mansion. Venhedis! If only we were sooner, he would be dead now, his heart torn from his rotten chest. Instead, he's free to wander, to use his powers to abuse others. And now there's more mages to worry about.

Bethany—that's what the human warrior called her—she is a mage as well. And although she attempted to be discreet about it, I saw her casting spells. The irony that I actually requested her help must've been a joke initiated by the Maker himself.

Digging my fingers roughly through my hair, I lean against the wall and close my eyes, flashbacks of the battle crossing my mind.

Despite the unexpected mage being thrown into the mix, Anso's hirelings exceeded my expectations—the young elf specifically. I assumed she was overconfident, that she would serve as one of the weaker links, but she has proven herself one of the strongest besides the warrior and myself. All of her movements were fluid, thought out, and grounded. Not once did I see her pause like the others. This is difficult to accomplish even for the most experienced warriors. Moreover, the appearance of demons did not deter her. Instead, she was the first to rush into battle and enjoyed it. If all Dalish are like this then the humans have underestimated them. I would've sought out their help long ago had I known. If I had, then perhaps…

Images of the massacre in Sehron flicker through my head.

I open my eyes and put my hand on my forehead.

No, I mustn't think of that. Nothing can change the past, there's no point in thinking of what could have been done now. Instead, I should focus on a way to prevent such dreadful acts in the future, and the first step is taking out Danarius.

As I consider this, the four hirelings step out of the mansion, the blasted mage in tow. "It never ends," I utter, without looking at the group. "I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it haunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of even more mages." I glare at the human woman.

Her lips form a thin line and she scowls. "You can speak to me directly," she says.

I take a few steps toward the group, but keep a few feet of distance to be safe. "I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you really were," I snarl, and then fixate my gaze on the human mercenary. "You harbor a viper in your midst. It will turn on you and strike when you least expect. That is in its nature."

"My sister is stronger than you think," he replies with a frown, his voice flat.

The mage grins. "You tell him, brother," she says.

"I'm not blind," I insist. "I know magic has its uses, that there are undoubtedly mages with good intentions. But even the best intentioned mage could fall prey to temptation. And then their power is a curse to inflict upon others."

The woman rolls her eyes. "No one's stopping you from moving on you know," she retorts.

I glance around the group. All of them are frowning, their eyes cold and dark. Understanding I may have crossed the line of forgiveness, I take a step back and avert my gaze. "I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize for nothing could be further from the truth."

"Good, because as an old friend once told me, the survival rate of ingrates is remarkably low, or at least so I hear," the elf says with an ominous smirk.

Her threat is not lost on me.

"I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt," I attempt to change the subject. "Here is all the coin I have as Anso promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it." I pass Hawke the bag of coins. It's all I have managed to palm off the unsuspecting folk I have run into over the past month.

Hawke tucks the bag into his armor then clears his throat. "I'm planning an expedition I might need your help with. But are you going to have a problem with my companions?" he asks.

"I will watch them carefully if we travel together. I could promise no more," I assert, sparing a single glance at the mage. "Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal."

A wide grin spreads across his face. "Good. Glad we have an accord."

"Now while all of this is well and dandy," the dwarf chimes in. "How about we move this party elsewhere? Like somewhere with drinks? The Hanged Man for example."

"I could care for some drinks," Bethany replies.

"Would you like to accompany us, Fenris?" Hawke questions.

Bethany glares at me. Her cold eyes remind me of the bitch, Hadriana.

"No, I believe I will stay here. See if there are any clues Danarius may have left."

"That can wait till sunrise," the elf declares and crosses her thin arms. "Come. It's been a long night. Don't make us drag you there. Drinks are on me."

"My, how generous of you, Twinkle Toes. I'm touched," the dwarf responds.

She shrugs and laughs. "I'm a giver," she says, and then her gaze shifts to me. It's penetrating, demanding, and unyielding—a dangerous teal abyss like a roaring sea in a storm. Any mortal would be a fool to risk angering this walking typhoon.

"It appears I have no choice," I reply, although I'm not thrilled by the idea.

She smiles. Joy emits from her like the sun's rays—far different compared to the malicious smile I saw from her in the midst of battle. "Good. Then let us go before someone walks out and we draw more attention to ourselves."


The Hanged Man—a bar that reeks of sweat, desperation, and vomit. Its sole redeeming quality is that the alcohol is cheap, although revolting.

Hawke, Varric, and the mage are gathered around the lit fireplace, conversing loudly with one another while Serena and I sit quietly at a table closer to the bar. She's slowly milking her drink, her eyes directly on me, a question clear in her bright eyes.

"You said Danarius is a magister, but little else," she starts. "Since we will be working together, please tell me a bit more about yourself."

I lean back in my chair and stare down at the table, memories of my time with Danarius briefly coming back. "In Tevinter, the magisters hold all the power—over the chantry, over the imperial court, over life itself. It is nothing for one to own a slave. Danarius has many. But none he valued so much as me."

"Then how did you get away?"

"Is it not enough that I did?" I question, but I can tell by the demanding look in her eyes that my explanation cannot end there. "I carved my path to freedom in blood. I left that life behind. Yet his bounty hunters follow me no matter where I go. I will run no longer."

She purses her lips and gulps down another part of her ale. How she does it so easily is a feat in itself. I have only dared to take two sips—that alone is miraculous enough. "I assume your old master is so persistent over one slave for a reason." Her gaze fixates on my arms. "Does it have to do with your special 'abilities' and the markings on your skin?"

"Yes. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet. And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse."

She smirks, her eyes sparkling like an untarnished gem. "Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf," she says and flashes me a dangerous, flirtatious smile.

Nervous laughter escapes my lips. I quickly clear my throat and avert my eyes, the compliment appreciated but unexpected. "The truth is I know nothing of the ritual that placed these markings on me," I explain, hoping to recover from my unanticipated reaction earlier. "It was Danarius' choice. One he now regrets. But… enough about me," I insist and bend forward in my chair. "Tell me about you. You are a Dalish, correct?"

Her eyes lose their sparkle, but her lips curl up into a smile. "Yes. Heard of us have you?"

I shrug. "Everyone has, but the stories hardly do you credit."

"Oh, how so?"

"It matters not. You have proven otherwise."

"Well, I am a bit of an exception," she replies, her eyes cast down at the table, a hint of sadness or regret coating her voice.

Curiosity fills me to the brim. "What has taken you from your clan and brought you to Kirkwall?" I ask.

She lifts her mug to her lips, her gaze now far away. "What indeed."

Before I can ask her to elaborate, Hawke's booming voice echoes throughout the tavern. "Serena," he calls from across the room. The Dalish and I look up. He walks over and leans on the table, his dark eyes fixated on the woman like a hungry wolf cornering its adamant prey. "Last man… or woman… standing. What do you say?" He motions to the bar.

Serena gives him a mischievous grin. "Ah, challenging me are you? Are you certain you wish to do this? I imagine it will be quite embarrassing—and expensive— if you lose, lethallin."

Hawke raises an eyebrow and pats her on the shoulder, a sense of playfulness on his expression. "Let's see if your money is where your mouth is," he responds.

Serena snickers and places her mug down. After a moment, she stands up. "Do not regret this, lethallin. You will not be getting your money back."

Without another word, the two leave the table and head to the bar. As the barkeep prepares their orders, I watch quietly from the distance. Serena notices and waves at me to come over. I shake my head and lift my drink, content with my current seat. She shrugs and then the barkeep hands them their mugs and they start the competition.

Mug after mug the two chug their servings, wide grins on their faces. Before long, the other bar patrons have surrounded them, cheering loudly as they finish each new portion. Never before have I met such a perplexing and powerful woman with so many unanswered questions. Her efforts of deflection earn nothing but suspicion, but this carefree side of her only makes me question her reason. If she is able to smile with such ease, it certainly cannot be too extreme. Yet, that troubled look she gave me, the sound of her voice, all of that spoke otherwise.

The debate reels on silently in my head when the dwarf sits in the chair across from me. His beady eyes are on the bar. "Ah, always the life of the party those two," he says. "But it'll be over soon."

Curious about what he meant, I stare at the bar. Serena is chugging down another serving. She shows no sign of hesitation or inebriation, but Hawke is having a hard time lifting his current ration. He hunches over the counter and puts his hand on his forehead, his cheeks redder than a freshly picked cherry. With a smirk plastered on her face, Serena leans in and whispers something to him. Hawke quickly sits upright and downs the drink. When he's finished, he slams the mug on the table, calls for more, and then unintentionally starts rocking back and forth. Before the next mug can be handed to him, Hawke spouts off some nonsense and then falls off his chair and passes out. The bar patrons burst into an ovation and pat Serena on the back. She merely grabs her next mug and spares me one triumphant glance before finishing the remaining alcohol.