1. Power and peril

Castor had been fascinated by demons.

It had, Fenris supposed, a lot to do with the old attack on his house: the ice and the allure and the strangeness of being rescued by an enslaved ten-year-old. Whatever the reason, his former master had taught him to read with detailed accounts of Pride and Sloth and Rage. He had warned Fenris—rather hopefully—of the perils the Fade could—no, would offer him.

"Most Dreamers die," he'd said. "Even here. Anything might come to you. Be on your guard."

And so Fenris had learned of magisters who had desired Archons, who found themselves frozen and helpless while demons moved into their bodies and split their skin. He read about whispering that drove people mad, and so had not been surprised he heard someone else's laughter, or furious advice, when he felt strong emotions of his own.

Working with Denarius always drew a fascinated, invisible audience, who seemed to bicker amongst themselves about which magister wanted to kill the other more. There were other spirits, too—vague impressions of hope, or kindness, or bright curiosity—but they rarely whispered, and never when others were there. They were in the warmth he felt seeing Anders teach Varania how to light the household lamps with a thought; the urgency and surprise he felt whenever another magister came to him and asked his advice on how to free parts of their household; the satisfaction of an untangled nightmare.

When Denarius approached Fenris in the weeks since his sister and Hadriana were caught seen kissing in the Minrathous training yards (and three libraries; and the sennight market; and the fountain at the public square) Fade spirits lent no grace to his thoughts. The other man's smile made him want to slough off his own skin.

Or divest Denarius of his. That would be adequate. He tasted phantom sulfur in his mouth and felt dark approval somewhere about his edges. Eyes closed, he imagined Rage demons spitting in anticipation.

They probably were. Fenris opened his eyes. Denarius still smiled.

"It is excellent how members of our households have decided to be friends," Denarius said, seeming to laugh at his own coyness. "Hadriana is very dear to me. Love suits her."

"Do not talk to me."

Denarius's smile did not falter. He kept in step with Fenris, close enough that the smaller man felt a crackle of weight and nearness at his back. "I hope you are being kind to your sister," he said, poisonous.

Use me, and he will never speak again. Burn his eyes. Let him feel every muscle in his throat close and burn away. With me, you can keep him concious. With meyou can—!

"Something the matter, Fenris."

Jaw clenched, Fenris banished the whispers and tried not to look away from the magister's face. "There usually is," he said, managing a smile that had Denarius take a step backward. "I am giving your apprentice the benefit of very considerable doubt. Do not speak of my sister again."

He walked away.

2. Cracks in the mirror

Varania had just closed the front door behind her as Fenris approached the house. She was smiling, hair bright with jeweled pins that he vaguely remembered from an old tribute case: agate and lapis and silverite. Her fingers and toes, he saw, her painted to match, the effect turned sweet and more than a little strange when you remembered the sword calluses, the two crooked fingers from a break that had taken longer than usual to heal.

She isn't safe. She can't be. Fenris shook his head, trying to clear it, unsure—in this one thing—what thoughts were entirely his. That woman is Denarius's creature. Whispers and something sharp stuck in his throat. Varania knows this. She—

"—Fenris! Are you well?"

Varania had crossed the street to meet him, hands falling to his arms. "You look…"

She endangers us.

"I'm well," Fenris managed, brusquely. "Well enough. Are you—"

"—yes." Varania smiled again, though it was tinged with nervousness now, eyes shifting from his. "She has a few hours."

Are you angry with her because of a demon, or because you are unfair and jealous and paranoid?

The thought was insidious and entirely Fenris's own, though rather unfairly coloured, he decided, by Anders's voice. He sighed. Varania looked terribly happy.

"Such luxury," he said.

Varania wrinkled her nose. "You're awful."

"I know."

This made them both smile. "I am careful," she said, slowly. "This is Minrathous. I will kiss anyone I want whereI want—" she laughed as Fenris blushed, and he wondered why he had never noticed that his sister could be brave.

"But she isn't Denarius," she continued. "And I've.." She swallowed. "Fenris, I've never felt less like a slave."

Fenris stepped back, nodding. "Go on," he said. "If you only have scant hours, you should use them. Love—"

"Fenris?"

"Love suits you."

Her smile almost changed the words into something beautiful. Fenris took his headache inside.

3. A time of chaos and change

"You look—"

"—there is no need to say it."

"You look like shit."

Anders was staring at him, looking pale and drawn and forgetting, in his confusion, to be unnerved.

Fenris had made it to his room, but the door had taken too long to move. He had let himself sit by the doorway, keeping quiet and still.

"I will be fine," he managed.

The healer shook his head. "You are so wide open to the Fade that I could feel it from the other end of the house."

This made him smile. "My former master never had that sensitivity. He would be jealous, and fascinated."

"Your former—"

"Castor Aubericus. He became my—what is the word you Fereldan use? My mentor, after we were freed. He was always very interested when demons decided they wanted to keep us company."

"You're joking?"

"On which part?"

"…all of it?" Anders shook his head. "No. Sorry. The demons."

"I am, as you say, open to the Fade. It tends to draw creatures just the way your Chantry fears. They can be…loud."

"Loud," Anders repeated, crouching down to Fenris's level against the door.

"Extremely. And I have been ill-disciplined, of late. My—" he sighed. "My response to Varania's entanglement has been—"

"—irrational?" Anders, Fenris saw with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment, had bitten his lip to keep from smiling.

"And vivid," Fenris agreed. "Rage demons are drawn to vivid."

Anders shuddered. "You do realise that you're talking about demons and abominations as if they're pesky children?"

"I've found children to be considerably more annoying."

Anders sat, careful not to touch Fenris, resting his head against the door. "I can do something about the headache, if you want," he said. "I'm afraid voices in the head aren't my speciality."

Fenris closed his eyes. "I would be grateful," he said.

4. A helping hand

The migraine came from a mess of tight blood vessels and knotted muscle at the base of the skull. Anders felt it churn through him as he worked, but it was only a mild annoyance. He wondered if Fenris could feel how much energy he drew—whether it showed in some strange, synaesthesic way known only to somniari or madmen.

"I believe that most protective big brothers just yell a lot and make general asses of themselves," he said, not liking the silence of his own head. "Summoning Rage demons seems excessive."

Fenris's eyes opened a crack. "Varania was my elder by a few minutes, or so I've been told. Thank you, mage."

Mage. Anders resisted the urge to groan. "You're one yourself, you know."

"Not the way you are." Fenris was still pale, his eyes still darted too quickly beneath the closed lids, but his jaw seemed looser, the mess of pain gone. "I cannot heal like you can, or summon fire or earth energy."

"No," Anders said, trying to dispel a bizarre image of Fenris training at Kinloch Hold. "You'd be an icer."

"I'm sorry?"

"Nevermind." Anders flushed.

"Regardless, none of the things I can do are really in the purview of a normal mage, and nothing you do is in mine."

Anders let his hand fall from Fenris's wrist. "But you can undo what you did, with the blood magic."

"Yes." Fenris opened his eyes. "Yes, and I will. It might even be safe to attempt it after Funalis."

Anders's breath caught.

"A time of chaos and change," Fenris said, and he had started to smile, pained and slow. "I am no expert, but that seems the right time for an escape, when you want to stay that way."

"Less than three months," Anders breathed, watching in fascination as Fenris flinched at something only he could hear.

"Yes, mage. Dream up your plans, and distract me with them. Sleep can be dangerous at times like this. I would prefer to avoid it."

His smile broadened, sudden and bright, before he hid it behind a hand. "Don't tell me you haven't already worked out how you would sneak from this house, at least."

5. Memories and dust

Varania had been pliant in her arms, sweet and lithe and every touch a little awed, a little stunned—as if she had expected one or both of them to disappear.

The longer they hadn't, the fiercer she was. It was always like that. Always a little longer and a little fiercer, something twisting sharp and sure, deep inside, whenever the elvhen girl managed to leave.

Walking home in the dark, lips swollen and skin feeling as if it might be sparking against the night air, Hadriana smiled.

"I hope you know what you're doing, my girl."

Needles at her scalp. Her throat and her wrists and beneath her nails. Needles up her spine and behind her knees. She whimpered.

"I have left you to your own devices in this," Denarius said. "They have been charming, diverting devices. They have made the little wolf howl and bite at himself, and all of this has been very amusing."

His hands were on her shoulders. She should have known he would come up from behind. It was his favourite tack. She gasped as the pain shifted, sliding beneath her skin like a hot knife. He had never flayed her. Hadriana had never doubted that he could.

"But amusements end," he said. His tone was soft, ruminative. She doubled over. "The girl is trash and belongs to my enemy, dear girl. Speak."

"M-master, she is—she was—"

She was kind. She is beautiful and she is kind.

"You wanted her as a gift, Hadriana." His hand was at her throat. His real, cool, large hand, long fingered and heavy with rings. "That is it, of course. You wanted her as a gift for me."

Hadriana tried to let herself fall limp. The magic tightened and burned.

"The little fox girl," Denarius breathed. "With her sad eyes and flickering magic." He shook her. "But she doesn't trust me, and you know I don't deal well with weaklings—"

"—I-I-I-she is ready for you, Master. I got her ready for you." Hadriana closed her eyes and let the tears fall, let them choke her voice. "She trustsme," she whispered. "And she is strong, now. In body more than magic. She would make a perfect vessel. My gift. To you."

Denarius stilled.

Handriana was prepared for the fall. She took it bonelessly, gasping as her cheek struck the stone. The magic withdrew from her body like a thousand tiny splinters.

"A vessel." Denarius smiled. "From the sister of a man who needs no lyrium. Clever, Hadriana."

She rolled over, staring up at the man who had promised to see her into the ranks of the magisterium. The Archon's cousin, who could use lightning like no mage she had ever met. He met her eyes, and smiled.

"If you're good, Hadriana," he told her, stepping back so she might climb to her feet, "You can give her some new memories of your own."