He sat up in bed and covered his eyes to the first real dawn he'd awoken to in weeks. His body thrummed, exhausted and empty. A warmth lingered in Solas' shaking arms, raw and real and ruinous. She'd thought him to be desire, and he'd been far crueler than that. Lust would have consumed her quickly and granted her heart's desperate wish at the first chance. Solas had all but brutalized Chiyo, beside him—beneath him. She'd waited to be overtaken, expunged, and he'd only drawn-out her pain.

Solas could almost smell her on his clothes. Traces trapped in the old fibers that dissipated with the devastated delusion. Apricot and currant, the way the rain mingled on her skin. But there was more, blood and death and decay signaled to his acute senses as well.

The Fade was his home and particularly well-versed mastery. Centuries had been spent learning and honing his astute abilities. He'd developed and created the splitting reverberation known as the Veil almost entirely unaided. The original theory had been his and his alone. No one should have been able to open the tucked away places he'd constructed for himself, buying both peace and security of mind. Now, he was scrambling just to make sense of anything.

He thought first to blame the anchor, a power that was well known to wreak havoc upon the Veil but had been utterly untested inside the Fade. This, however, was worse. He could not think himself so lax as failing to distinguish between dream and truth. How could he not have known, not have felt the reality of her person long before? The baseness of his need, there were no excuses for the behavior. He'd lived his life through imaginings on countless occasions and always maintained control.

Finding him was a feat in and of itself. Perhaps he remained too confident in his dwindling aptitude.

Hers was a soul unlike any other, blending and breaking in tandem. Solas dared not to imagine what would become of it if forced against its essential purpose. Elves and spirits held more in common than most would prefer to admit, the Inquisitor it seemed even more akin. Before the Veil, before the fall of the Elvhen, both had walked as brothers, inseparable as the wave from the water.

He slowly dropped his hands from his eyes and met the unexpected gaze of another, gauzy green staring out against the dark tan of the boy's skin.

"Some dream, right? Never heard you talk out like that." Yawned Marlo with a growing smirk. The fractured light between the derelict boards of their shelter further bleached his honey-streaked hair in the sunny glow. "Whose name is that, the one you kept saying?"

Solas said nothing as he busied himself, rolling up the scant bedding, strapping it tightly. If only his mind could be so easily bound, the racing thoughts trussed before they devoured him.

Devour, now there was a notion that sent his nerves alight with fear. Something that could eat through aura and magic, to make another so indistinguishable from the Fade itself. That which waited for the trap to finally be sprung, an easy feast to be had of the remains. Graver still was that he'd left her to deal with the distorting creature alone.

"Chee-o…Chi-yooo." The lad tried the strange name on his own tongue, rolling the syllables as notes to an off tune. But it was the horrifying tone that bordered a teasing explicit that had Solas' face suddenly flush. "Maker, its right there on the tip of my tongue. It's northern, like, really northern. I know that name, heard it somewhere before..."

"Have you now?" The mage asked indifferently as he glanced towards the vacant corner Edolie had been occupying when they'd settled in for the night. He'd not heard her leave, but considering the tumultuous events of his reveries he could not blame himself for the dulled physical senses.

The Inquisitor was often a distraction when he needed to adhere to his staunch resolve, yet even from this distance he could not escape her sway. Perhaps there was no place on Thedas or beyond which he could elude her, some bonds were rather impossible to unknot once made.

"No, not a name, not really. A poem?" Marlo tapped his chin, lost in his own projected thoughts. "Maybe it was a song. There was this part about the rain, how it sounded as it came down every year upon the fallen pillars that once marked an old road."

Solas unfolded his sweater and pulled it over his head, donning it out of habit more than a need to combat the increasing cold. They had many preparations to attend with before setting out for the Orlesian border that evening, perhaps Edolie had taken a chance for an early start. They would wait for her return though it irked him to think she'd left unaccompanied. There was safety in numbers, but stealth is solidarity. Either choice was a gamble, this venture alone a serious risk on all parts.

And it was taking too long; things were collapsing far too rapidly if any of his suspicions were correct. He'd tried to buy so much time by destabilizing the Veil—to of course be mended in turn— but his efforts were coming up terribly short. If he didn't reach Chiyo soon… time would wait for no man.

He'd been thoroughly warned. She'd undo everything in one blow if left to fate.

"Yeah," Marlo began to hum as he flopped back down onto his mat, lazily lounging while his master was too far away to reprimand him. "The markers stood for centuries, but each rain, with this noise that goes—che-chi-o che-chi-o—takes just a little more away. Everyone knows what they were for, but the water has worn off all the letters."

"You are very well read, for your upbringing. I would rather much like to see this writing, I've not heard of it." This was not the first piece of literature the boy had referred to, peppering their travels with not quite complete or accurate quotations that annoyed Edolie into snappishness.

"Part of the training when my parents sold me. Literate slaves bring more money, ones with some mage blood in their pedigrees even more. I liked the words…" He trailed off, staring lazily at the dusty rafters of the abandoned warehouse. "I miss my books in Tevinter. There were hundreds that I couldn't take with me."

A deep breath preceded his response as the terrified state finally loosened its hold, though the acid in his stomach remained, twisting his innards deeply. Panic would do Solas no good, not until he learned more in a few hours' time. "They let you escape. Books and dreams are not all that different."

Few tomes, however, did not leave the pulsing life in his veins cold or the heart in his chest shuddering when it was time to close the pages and return the text to the shelf.

He had many questions for Chiyo, the least being of how she'd nearly allowed a demon to take her and in such a way. Yet there were grimmer things he knew to walk the Fade, and most of them had such unassuming faces. A friend at first, ally even for a stretch, but they would take everything from the unwary unless a strong disposition took control first. If his hunch proved in any way exact, she would need more than his added will to help bolster her own.

Solas had done it, once, when he was young and full of vigor—or enough pride to not know the difference. He reached for the blackened bone about his neck and ran a thumb over the protruding teeth. A trophy, a reminder, the conquest of that which was more ancient than the Fade itself. Existing somewhere in between. He'd met those red eyes and fangs that circled a castaway elf thrust into the Void. Solas had clashed with them and stole from those devastating jaws the power that would make him undeniably feared amongst not only his enemies but the people as well.

In the shadows, the creature stayed when the battle was won and its collected potency as prize. Tamed and diminished, but the ancient name of nightmares followed Solas out of the darkness. Once touched, tainted, never to be the same.

Fen'Harel, insult and title, a designation he had claimed in blood. He'd risen out of necessity; Chiyo would have to do it just to survive.

Would she emerge anywhere near as cleanly as he?

"Do you get to meet pretty girls in dreams?" Marlo interrupted the elf's brooding thoughts. He rubbed his lean, grumbling belly, but their bags were empty of supplies. There was to be no breakfast that morning unless the missing mage brought something back from her unannounced excursion.

"Not always." Solas stopped his fidgeting and sought to center himself. He needed a clear head before he saw her again that night. It would be far too easy to lose control for a second time. "I seek knowledge in the Fade, but I find companionship there as well on occasion."

"Did you meet her last night, this Chiyo?" The Tevinter youth pawed for his canteen, a bit of water might quiet his hunger for a moment or two. He took a swig, but while the liquid slipped down his throat he caught the subtle shaking in the mage's hands when Solas failed to answer. "So… the Inquisitor, Andraste's Herald. You never talk about her except that she'll be willing to help. I heard that she's scary sometimes, that she takes down whole armies like nothing and that her prisons are empty because she takes none there. What's she really like?"

"Have you ever seen sand that has been struck by lightning?" Solas asked, the dream's better beginning played again across his mind. For as wrong and brutal as the entanglement had been, knowing himself to be the crux of her deepest desire did serve to soften part of the blow. Even now, he knew that she still loved him and needed him. Selfishly he clung to that idea though she deserved far better and that he could not submit her to the unkindness of his returned love again. Once was more than enough, exactly why he'd kept her so distant all these harrowing months. Dreams had been what had led them to their amorous affairs in the first place; they'd only serve to steal both their focuses. Love did not diminish duty though Solas had almost walked away from his own because of sentiments held for another lost and lonely soul.

His mission, his people, they had to come first. Yet if he could help this one elf then perhaps he could aid more.

"Ehh, maybe once or twice. Kinda rare, ain't it? Gets all contorted and hard like glass." Marlo grumbled, scratching his head as he pondered. But his eyes gleamed as he listened to Solas, sifting for clues hidden beneath the words. His lanky fingers ran through his messy hair before he began to pull the strands back into a sloppy knot at the top of his neck. Pieces were missed that remained about his face; a few wispy twists stuck to the first hairs that sprouted from his chin. "Looks like creepy roots."

"She is like combing the desert and finding such a piece, so natural and bizarre. The deeper you dig the more unexpected spirals surface. From blinding violence and darkness emerges something breath-taking, and difficult to break." The last part Solas said for his own comfort though the reminder alone would not stem the immense tension brewing inside his skull. She had to be strong; Chiyo had never once succumbed, albeit he'd never seen her so close to shattering either. But she hadn't, that he would not deny.

Could she fight, lost as she was on a path that held no guiding lines? He feared Chiyo now walked head on into a danger not even he could save her from.

Marlo snorted, nearly spilling the water he was handing over to the stressed elf with the lurch of his body. "That's… weirdly poetic. Can't you just say she's cute and nice like everyone else says about their sweethearts?" A knowing smile bloomed as he finally fit the puzzle pieces together.

The mage shook his head, he'd been found out indeed. He drew the folded, rough map from his pack for a refreshing study of the area. He looked at the loosely sketched borders, a quick copy made from the more detailed one on the War Table. Those lines and mountains reminded him of the miles yet to cross. Just a bit longer, if she could wait a mere hurried week or two, Solas would stop the dark magic before it ate her alive.

Soon, vhenan, soon.

Solas held no fondness for tavern life, not for the seediness in the air and the stench of too many warm bodies sloshed with the crude, fermented grain that dribbled its way to the floor. His mostly bare feet crunched against the more freshly spread rushes that kept the mess manageable. A sudden texture change from dry to soggy sent shivers of disgust rocketing up the insulted leg. The randy, drunken crowd churned about the room, men and women sidling up to the bar before staggering off with renewed drinks in hand. More than one had bumped his cloak covered back without many apologies. A hood concealed his ears, doubtful that they would have let an elf waltz in without sour looks cast... or a fist. He wanted no attention drawn and would have preferred to settle such a stressful matter away from the public eye. But it had not been left to him to decide. For now, he would play by rules beyond his own making, the passage worth the risk and rush.

Again his dreams had grown plagued when he allowed himself to drift. Only that night before, he'd sought reprieve when he could bear the replication no more.

The same vision returned without prodding. A distant, warning shriek across a murky blackened marsh. Each time Solas was drawn in, he waded through the mists with a bright, burning light growing ever dim inside his palms. The fire's eventual death left him lost in the endless dark, grasping at smoky wisps that dissolved in his ever beseeching fingers. There whenever he closed his eyes, the wavering glow urged him to reach the other side of the quagmire before it was extinguished, forever. Enduring the apparition no more, he'd sought kinder refuge.

His own tongue longed for a draught of wine, to drown out the bleak dreams, to ease the weight of both his mind and increasingly worried heart. He had not the coin to spare to purchase the cheap, watery drink. The mage couldn't fathom drinking the bitter tasting spirits resided in the many bottles that lined the back of the barkeep's wall. Popular drink to suit the common palate of the folk living in Ghislain, a town that had grown fat on the heavy levies it demanded for the easiest, surest border crossing to Orlais. Not that much of the money trickled far down. No one present looked much like they could afford the rare vintages Solas had grown fond of, borrowed from the cool cellars of Skyhold. It would have been rude not to sample them, to experience the heady blends crafted during exceptional years missed throughout his expansive sleep.

Perhaps he had grown too spoiled inside those once well-known halls though they'd been repeatedly built over in the centuries since the keep had last held the Dread Wolf. There had been many comforts found in those both ancient and recent walls, of food, of friendship, of knowledge, of hope, and rarest of all, love. In the same place where he'd held the sky back, the very birthplace of the artificially constructed Veil, where he'd broken the world against his proud knee Solas had been gifted more than he would ever merit.

A hand slipped deep inside his snug sleeve out of a new habit, fishing for a carefully tucked away token. He should have given it back, that had been the promise. Had it not? That it be returned to complete the amorous exchange. Yet even the thought of removing the snarled twist of leather or the worn fang left him feeling low. It was the only piece of her he'd kept, to remind him that what short time they'd shared had been real. And the unspoken promise, the reason for his leaving in the first place.

He would bend fate for this woman and undo all that had been set into motion even before she'd been born.

The dour mage had never seen a dawn so beautiful as it had streamed through lead latticed windows and caught in a still sleeping elf's tousled hair. He'd stroked it carefully away from the peaceful face resting but inches from his own and gazed upon drowsily parted lips though he dared not kiss them for fear of waking her. Instead, Solas had left a carved figure in his place after forcing himself from the shared comforts of Chiyo's warm bed. In silence, he'd offered her all that he was, all that he had been, and still knew it would never be enough.

Maybe that promise was still worth something. If he succeeded, if he survived, if she would have him, perhaps there would be time enough to steal one last shred of happiness for them both before he had to complete another of his world-altering plans.

But first he had to lower himself to this.

He snagged a crack in the enameled tooth with the tip of his thumbnail as he made his way over to the inattentive man behind the congested counter. The heavily bearded human seemed more interested in taking stock, shaking a bottle to hear the slosh of its contents, than he did in the hooded figure leaning across the bar between the bodies of other inebriated patrons.

"I heard a tempting rumor in Orlais." He kept his voice low, knowing he was heard by the dull glance that was given in return, "That one might purchase a most peculiar local tonic here. My friends have been waiting all night for a taste, we've traveled quite far."

Solas paused, fighting the urge to bite his own lip. He'd memorized the prepared lines from the source they'd encountered the night before. He knew the passwords that would open the lines of bartering, and still his heart hammered at the probable chance that somehow he'd mess this up too, like everything else in his life. No one should be born beneath such unlucky stars as he'd wandered under all his terribly long yet almost wholly unlived existence.

"I might." Answered the gruff man, and from below the counter top he pulled out a dark amber bottle, the neck thick with dipped black wax, and a single metal cup that might have been mistaken for a large thimble instead of a proper drinking vessel. "But it's not for men light in the pocket, and I don't do tastings neither. Only the old guards here can pay for this stuff, perks of a salary."

"Ah, then it should be shared with those who know it well to fully appreciate. Enough for three? The bottle looks half full." Solas cocked his head towards the table nearest to the fireplace, seated only by the senior city soldiers. "Certainly those men deserve another round for all their efforts in safeguarding this town during such trying times."

"Three eh?" Another rifling around produced two more tiny cups of cast pewter. With a squeak, he pulled the hefty cork free and ran the plug beneath his pronounced nose. "I've been told Andraste herself would shed a hundred tears and sing a new chant were she to know of this."

A hundred silvers. Each. He'd never heard of a passage arrangement so steep. The shifty fellow at the gate had said eighty at most, and even then they'd nearly taken their odds with sneaking through the heavily protected border. Orlais and Nevarra had not been on friendly terms in generations, no one crossed into either without expense. Being a group of illegal mages only made the matter more complex and costly.

How would they afford supplies if every coin they'd scrimped from a winter's worth of dyes and fattened goats was spent here? The slim stash hidden in the bottom of his bag would only last so many miles between the three of them.

For a moment, Solas almost considered walking away, but even that move might end in trouble by the underhanded business now being known. With solemnity, he fetched the purse from around his neck and discreetly shook out a handful of silver coins that he counted twice in his palm. Putting one back, he slid the pouch across the slippery counter and watched it disappear, the weight judged sufficient with a quick estimation.

"Let me get these in order for you." Was all the bartender said, his hand tucking into his waistband. A few sharp snaps of his fingers had an attending tavern-wench at his side holding a tray. Three minuscule splashes and the expensive bottle was put away. The cups were whisked off before the bartender had a chance to steal into the backroom while the prompt serving girl made herself useful.

From the corner of his eye, he watched as the drinks were carefully borne to the right table and words exchanged once the booze was taken up. Solas turned—least they could spot his face, but not before seeing the woman sent off with a rude smack to the seat of her skirts, eliciting a shrill giggle that could be heard over the surrounding ruckus.

As he kept watch for the barman to return, the undercover mage jumped when his arm became suddenly wet when a returning platter loaded with partially empty pitcher jarred him. Beer saturated his cloak and sleeve, but the waitress immediately began to apologize, pulling several kerchiefs from the side of a deep gap in her blouse to mop him up with. His scowl only deepened when the stranger touched him coquettishly, running her fingers across his tense forearm and giggled with little decorum.

"So sorry, Ser! How clumsy of me, here, take these for all the trouble! I'm sure they'll be of use again." The falsely apologetic woman said over her pouty leer and winked when she readjusted the sagging neckline of her dress, not that it helped to cover the excessive display that likely got a few extra coppers left on her tables. Into his hand, she placed the wadded, damp cloths, painstakingly embroidered around the hems. She glanced up through her lashes into his hood and shimmied at the sight of a striking face, her gaze lingering on his full lips and dented chin. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"No, you've done more than enough." He answered shortly, his business there was done. She was sure to get her cut of the coins he'd just handed over. He owed her no further attentions. Lacking a continued need to stay, Solas pushed through the crowded pub without another word to the flirtatious woman.

Between his fingers, he held out a square of the delicate textiles as he walked, three in all, flimsy handkerchiefs with scalloped edges and initials hidden in the designs. To be presented at the border crossing and the guards would look the other way before returning to claim their share of the fees. The informant had briefly mentioned the unknowable rotation of items. Some weeks it was wooden spoons, others had been certain knots made into leather jewelry, and when the season was right, a specific bunching of flowers was carried. Only the guards involved, all getting a hefty sum of the money, knew which inconspicuous items were to be next.

He'd traded a fine horse for little more than rags. He would deserve every sharp bite and toe crushed under hoof if this foolishness failed. Solas held his disbelief tightly as he escaped the tavern, grateful for the cool night air that didn't reek of grainy ale.

"We can't turn back. The only way is forward now." Solas verified under his breath to no one but the distant stars. The late night streets were dotted with people who would never notice his presence in the slightest.

This had to work, though, there weren't exactly many options left available for people such as they were. The desperate paid steeply for their insecurity, and as expected no exception was made for mages. He hid the passes away in his pocket while he set out to find his acquaintances and locate a bite to eat while he had the chance. Daybreak was hours off still, they'd hidden most of the evening on the outskirts to avoid attracting unwanted notice. A few bits spent at a hawker's stall would be enough to fill three bellies for the night. Marlo was gangly enough as it was, perhaps something with fat and meat would tide him over. Pine-needle tea, mushrooms, and tough bread did little to sate the lad's needs, the speed of their travels left little time to forage for more.

He had other contacts in the south, a handful of men and women who would help him through, but Solas had to reach them first. Small as his faction was, he'd spent a careful year building up spies of his own throughout the Inquisition and its territories. Informants dotted the countryside and infiltrated almost every known network, he had but to contact them and whatever he needed would be done were it in their ability to give.

Just a few weeks more, if they traveled swiftly from here, and they'd be in Ferelden. Hopefully near enough beneath the Inquisition's widespread protection to do what must be done. He only need wait a little longer, and then he could finally bring help to his vhenan. If she didn't oust him first for leaving, or worse…

"Edolie… you really think he's not gonna to help us?" Marlo twiddled nervously behind his master, following close to her heels. He tugged anxiously at the buckle of his belt, striking his thumb against the metal tong with a repetitious click. She'd already taken his knife away for fiddling with it, using it to trim loose threads from his clothes and gouge holes in the walls of the forgotten old building they'd been hiding in.

Marlo didn't want to be scolded further for his behavior, but he was just as worried as the mature mages, only shoddier at hiding it. His summers were too few in number, but he knew still that he didn't want to die making a desperate grab for freedom.

The older woman swatted at him for the annoying fixation, the sound grating against her crimped ears. If his hands needed something to do then he should carry her pack, she pitched her bag at Marlo. "Do you see him here now? He's been gone too long, we're on our own. His blood is sick with betrayal and deceit and death. We can protect ourselves and I am rather tired of his opinions."

"We should go back, what if the Inquisition won't take us without Solas?" The boy's worry squeaked into his words as he shouldered her possessions. This was the only time the tall elf had gone far from their side; he'd been both their protector and shepherd through unknown territories. Edolie's own recent excursion hadn't unsettled him in the slightest. He was used to her leaving when she was required elsewhere. But she always came back, she always fetched that which was hers. He was valuable, the boy knew what she thought of his worth, Marlo only hoped that it would be enough to keep him safe. "You said so yourself. Wouldn't have made it this far without help."

She spun around hard, stopping her march so abruptly that the nervous lad almost crashed into her. He stumbled backward, but his whole body froze when she snatched him by the arm. She gave it a hard twist. The rough fabric of his attire scrapped his narrow wrist. "If you think that much of him then go find that stubborn fraud yourself. Foolish child, there was never going to be an Inquisition for us!"

"I thought… but, you lied to him... and me." Marlo stammered, but he dared not try to wrench himself free even when her fingers began to dig into his skin. That would only make her angry… Edolie had only hit him once since they'd left the Imperium. His mouth was always getting him into trouble, Solas' own rebuttals had added to its recent looseness. And it had been Solas who'd shown concern when the bruise had darkened his cheek. They'd talked awhile once Edolie had gone to sleep, and for the first time in all his memory, Marlo had been asked what he would do if he were free. It was a curious question…

No one stood up to his master like the strange mage did, no one had ever even considered his choice. Again and again he was defended, even after he acted out as rude. Marlo wanted to believe Solas had honorable intentions.

Yet something still whispered to him, a warning in the back of his mind. What if he were wrong? Others had used him time and time again, only Edolie had bothered to keep him, had given him a chance. Magic was worth something in Tevinter. Maybe it could still be valuable elsewhere. "But what about that girl, really sounds like she needs your skills. The Inquisitor wants to free mages. Maybe she'll free us too."

"Plans change boy, and I for one am not going to wait around for that damned elf to decide if I'm worth the trouble. I have looked into his blood and found only treachery. I cannot even count the offenses, they run so thick in his veins. He will use us and then continue with a terrible plan, leaving all others to be crushed underfoot by his schemes." He looked into her deep-set eyes and saw nothing but resentment. Edolie had never been afraid. Not when they fled Minrathous in the middle of the night, not when they'd seen their descriptions posted in the first town the pair had dare enter. She hadn't flinched when she'd been forced to kill a lone Templar who found them camping inside a cave. Nor had the mage worried when they settled for the winter in a desolate farmhouse with little but thin walls to shield them.

But Edolie always put herself first, Marlo knew this. Had things been different it would have been another of her slaves on this same journey. However, she was all he had.

"Where are we going?" He finally asked when she released him, only when she turned her back did he massage his sore arm. His obedient feet had followed without question till then, but curiosity couldn't be abated long.

"To get out of this forsaken country, he's going to help us alright. I will not play into his game." Edolie tugged at the scarf looped around her neck and pulled it high over the crown on her head, the cloth squished down the sides of her voluminous hair.

Marlo repeated the additional layer of secrecy as they'd done time again while fleeing as unwelcome refugees. He kept his questions to himself as they stole through the far side of the town and approached a graciously built chantry.

He nearly thought his master mad, she'd brought them both unarmed to the religious center, the place where southern peoples were taught to fear mages and magic above almost all else. In Tevinter they had respect and political power, but in Orlais and further down… Marlo had heard many tales from travelers about infants being drowned in chantry founts and older children with signs of magic buried alive beneath the floor and pews.

"Aren't… there are Templars here…" He whined softly, a whimper caught in his rapidly drying throat. They were walking straight into the hands of their enemy, the last place any of them wanted to be.

"Shut your mouth before I stitch it closed." She hissed back as they mounted the shallow steps. The massive door creaked when she pushed it open, they both slipped inside the softly lit vestibule. Edolie paused long enough to straighten Marlo's clothes, checking compulsively that none of his scars were visible. "Wait here. Don't move."

His lips trembled when the dark mage walked off, leaving him to stand in the entryway alone. He pressed his back hard into the corner, trying to force his gangly features into the wedge and shadow. 'Don't look at me, don't look at me…' The mantra rang in his mind when an idle Sister passed, her head lost and bent towards a book. He didn't breathe again until the long hem of her robes disappeared around the next corner.

The chantry was so hushed, the walls thickly built to muffle any external sound. He heard only the release of air through his nose. Marlo figured most of the devout occupants to be in bed at this hour. They would soon rise with the dawn and begin their daily exaltations, offering up songs to the Maker in hopes of calling him back to them.

This world was wretched enough to drive away its creator, Marlo didn't believe for a moment that mumbled music would do anything to turn his gaze back to his children.

Time stretched on, and slowly Marlo felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Drawn by the dwindling candlelight, his too-big feet crept cautiously towards the empty altar. At the far end of the main hall stood a motionless figure carved from wood, Andraste in her stately armor. A pointed crown upon her head. She bore a sword in one hand, raised at the ready.

"You were small once too…" He whispered, peering up at the shadowy face. Here was the Maker's bride, a woman who had almost conquered the country of his birth with her might. It seemed Thedas was a world of women who shook the very grounds they walked upon. Divines, Queens, Empresses, Heralds, he was glad the work was in their hands and not his. Marlo didn't want strength and power and fame, his only desire was to be safe and to live in a world that reflected such. "And now you are everywhere, a name spoken on almost every tongue.

"I was looking forward to meeting the Herald, I guess this will be close enough." His fingers had slipped from his side, brushing the skillfully carved feet worn to a polished gleam from the frequent touch of pilgrims.

A raised pair of voices from deep inside the chantry's halls had the boy scrambling. One of them had sounded like Edolie. Sweat immediately began to form on his neck and under his arms. Why hadn't he listened? Why did he never listen? All he had to do was stay put and still he'd disobeyed.

In a mad dash, he lurched for the nearest shelter, storing every lanky inch of himself in a small alcove beneath the central table. He pulled his knees to his chest and the words grew louder and angrier. The magic in the air grew tight like wires around his throat. Edolie was reaching for his help, the flesh of his wrists burned anew beyond the recent bruising.

"Where is her assistant?"

Marlo reached for a knife that wasn't there. Edolie had it on her belt because he'd been playing with it like a child. "Maker help me. Maker, Maker!" The words were mouthed but not made. His Creator could not hear him or save him from the soldiers who'd sworn their lives to the Chantry's service. The men whose heavy boots now boomed across the solid floor.

Blood, blood, he needed his blood. Marlo raked his nails hard against the scarred skin beneath his sleeve, desperately trying to draw enough to perform a spell.

They were coming for him.

Maybe he could bite his hand, a kit with a paw caught in a trap. His teeth weren't sharp, adding to the marks without much result.

Marlo saw the metal of a broad toe flash in the candlelight. It turned sharply in his direction.

They were coming.