"Wasn't that expensive?" Varania asked while her mother set down the small package of strawberries.

"Yes," she said, making a little bit of a face. Lura peered at the brightly coloured berries hungrily. Mieta stared at her, daring her to cross the threshold into the kitchen to try to steal one. "But it was worth it."

Her daughter frowned. "It's just food."

"Can I have one?" Shaislyn asked, already reaching for them.

Mieta batted his little hand away. "Not until after supper." He pouted. Mieta looked at Varania, who had never had a strawberry. "You won't say that after you have one."

The young mage rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

"Strawberries are delicious, sweetie," Lura told her, and glanced longingly at the basket. "But I'll wait."

Mieta smiled, satisfied, but put the basket in a cupboard out of sight while she cooked anyway. Tonight was special only in that it was the anniversary of the day they had all boarded the ship for Seheron. Last year, the day had been treated like any other, maybe a comment here and there, but Mieta felt like something more was in order. Besides, they had a little bit of extra money lately and they never spent it on anything more than what they needed. It was nice to just enjoy something now and again, and this they could all enjoy equally. And Varania had never had a strawberry besides!

So Mieta spent the evening with Varania cooking, and Lura played with Shaislyn. They sat down to a pleasant meal, and talked. It was nice, but Mieta had always felt like there was something—someone—forever missing. The meal was finished, the table cleaned up, and dishes done, and only then did Mieta allow everyone to sit down to dessert. She had made small cakes and a bit of cream to go with the strawberries. They were all divided up fairly, and consumed with all seriousness.

Mieta had a bite of her first strawberry, her toes curling in a girlish glee. The sweet scent of the fruit, its succulent skin. The rich, supple texture and juicy interior. The burst of flavour on her tongue, each time she chewed seeming to only increase the intensity of the flavour. The juices ran over her mouth, flowing over her tongue. All of that, complimented by the sweet flavour and smooth texture of the cream. Such a simple pleasure, but one she had thought, years ago, that she would never have again, and that made it all the sweeter.

"I had forgotten how good strawberries are," Lura moaned in delight.

"Eat it slower, Shaislyn," Mieta said. "You should enjoy it. You never know when we can have some again."

The two-year old slowed, with no small amount of effort. Mieta noticed one person who wasn't enjoying it as much as the others. "Varania? Is something wrong?"

The girl nudged at her plate a little bit. "Just… thinking… about Leto." Everyone else fell silent, even Shaislyn who only knew him by name. "And how it's been two years since we've seen him. And… I wonder if he's okay?"

No one had the answer for that, nor even words of comfort, for the man they knew as their friend, brother, son, uncle—was out of their reach forever, and trapped with a madman for a master. When they had left, Varania was not the only one who felt like she was abandoning Leto either.

This was going to be Hadriana's life, at the height of her career. To see it filled her with a sense of wonder and excitement. It was a glory to behold.

They had arrived in Minrathous a fortnight ago, passing between the golems—the Juggernauts-that watched over the city gate, and it had been everything she had dreamed of and more, with her elevated station.

She was dressed in a gown of flowing silks, and looked very much a proper lady as she went about the party, learning to mingle, sampling delicacies she had never heard of, and different drinks. She met other apprentices as well as magisters and other high-ranking mages—she had never known there were so many. Her master was talking with the Archon, and had been insistent that she be introduced. She had been impossibly nervous, and his two bodyguards were so huge she felt like they could crush her in one hit.

Hadriana was infinitely less nervous when she was with her fellow apprentices, and they did seem to keep more to themselves. She noticed that the Altus apprentices had a tendency to talk down to the Laetans. She understood, very quickly, that this was something she would have to deal with the rest of her life, being Laetan herself—and from a poor family to boot!

They played a less intense version of the game they would be expected to play when they were magisters and other high-ranking magi—forming alliances, learning about one another, plotting future betrayals. Anything for their own gain. And of course, getting an idea of each individual's abilities. Hadriana was careful to mention only very little about herself, as her master had warned her that anything at all she might say could, and likely would be, used against her in the future. This was not the career for making friends. It was difficult, because the others would of course ask her, in the politest ways they could manage, one of the Altus boys smiling and flirting with her as he tried to guess her heritage. But she was used to the cruel ways of other teenagers, and ignored his charming airs for what they were; a cruel way to learn of where she had come from. Her only answers to him had been "somewhere" and "you haven't heard of it". He had eventually given up.

She had also discovered that Danarius' greatest political scandal was a rumor that his Altus bloodline was failing. It was no great secret amidst the Minrathous mages that he had no children and thus no biological heir. She realized, quickly, that she needed to fill that position, and she found herself to be heartened and emboldened by this. There had been so many people he could have chosen, but Danarius had picked her. The talk of his failing bloodlines was only quieted when he came back to Minrathous with an apprentice, and soon after, his niece was found to be a mage, to the relief of his entire family, and none more so than the magister himself.

The girl Hadriana was talking to broke off to become distracted by a tray of suckling rabbits, which she confided were a "weakness" of hers. Though it repulsed Hadriana, she smiled politely and said nothing. She had never been comfortable eating something that had been alive once. It wasn't the killing of it that bothered her; it was just the eating of it. When had that ever sounded like a good idea throughout history?

Oh, look—a fluffy little bunny. Let's bash its head in and eat the muscle—that's gotta be tasty!

The idea almost made her ill. She liked fur—she just wished Tevinter could be cool enough to justify wearing it more often—and leather was useful. Those things were all very well and good, but why would anyone ever want to eat it?

One of the other Laetan boys took note of her lack of ever eating meat. "Don't you eat meat?" he inquired.

She stiffened. "Absolutely not," she replied.

"Does the idea of killing some poor, defenseless creature bother you?" a younger Enchanter inquired, a wisp of a smile on her face.

"No—" Hadriana tried to say.

"She must be squeamish," the boy went on.

"That's not—"

The Enchanter shook her head. "You won't get very far in the Imperial Circles, my dear, if you're squeamish." She laughed. "Apprenticing to a magister, and you can't even stand the idea of an animal dying!" The others nearby, who had heard, laughed. Logically speaking, she knew, in the back of her mind, that the Enchanter had to simply be jealous that Hadriana had the position and not herself.

Hadriana's fists clenched, her temper rising. They hadn't even let her explain herself! "Look, I've butchered animals before—that doesn't bother me—"

The Altus boy perked at this. "You're a butcher's girl?" he said, and laughed. The others gathered, sons and daughters of merchants and magisters alike, laughing.

Hadriana's mouth opened to protest, but all she saw around her were the laughing mages, mocking her, and she didn't know what she could say to make them stop. What was something witty she could say?

"So when you found out you were a mage, you were trying to barbecue pork and couldn't get the fire going or something?"

"Please tell me you burned the shop down—I bet it smelled delicious."

Hadriana looked desperately from one person to the next, finding no one who wasn't laughing or mocking her. She could barely believe it. "I'm not a butcher's girl!" she insisted.

"Denial. You gonna try to say your parents are Soporati? I bet they were Liberati—that's why you won't talk about it," the Enchanter said scathingly.

Hadriana wanted to cry. "They were not! They were never slaves!" she cried desperately.

"Then where are they?"

"They're dead," she said quietly, the hurt of their death resurfacing, mingling with her anger.

"They get stuck in the butcher shop when you set it on fire?" the Altus boy went on, adding to their fabricated story. Hadriana was shocked and appalled that this could be happening. How callous! Worse, they had died in a fire. They could not have known how close they were to the burned truth.

This was not how she pictured this night going. "They weren't butchers or Liberati! Don't you have anything better to do?"

The Altus boy gave her a superior smirk. "Of course I do. You'll never be a magister, butcher girl, but maybe I'll hire you as servant when I am." She glared, seething, as he turned and walked away, downing the rest of her drink. She shook with rage, and stomped angrily away from them, out on to the lonely balcony. The night air helped her calm down, and she worked to hold back her tears, her body shaking with barely controlled rage. She would become a magister one day. And when she did, she would only smirk at that boy, and know she had done better.

As the night wore on, more people left, and the crowd grew thinner. She saw a group of magisters and Senior Enchanters, some of them having traveled from other Circles, around her master—and Fenris, discussing him, from the snatches she had heard.

"… What was your power source to fuel the spells, I wonder," one of them said, a knowing smile about her lips. Hadriana recognized her as the First Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle.

Hadriana glanced around the room, noting that all the non-mages—the entourage, the wealthy people who had been invited as courtesy—they were sparse and had seemed to have gone, as if by some signal. Or was this the after party, and meant for the mages alone?

"I had enough lyrium, and two other mages," Danarius said, but his eyes glittered as if it were a joke between the magisters, and everyone laughed.

"Yes, now what happened to those two mages again?" another magister goaded him. More laughter. Hadriana realized they were drunk. Where was the Archon? Had he gone when she had been out on the balcony? She sighed; he must have. She had retreated more than once away from the others, and quickly realized, with a sinking disappointment, that her new nickname in the Minrathous Circle was "butcher girl". "And all your slaves—I heard you had to replace so many of them?"

"Shall I show you?" Danarius said, then he said something to Fenris.

Hadriana watched the elf stalk away, with an expression like he would rather be anywhere else. She wondered what was going on. The elf disappeared into the servant's passage, and seemed to take his time coming back. Hadriana sipped at her cider and listened to the talk around her. The magisters were joking and laughing—all of the jokes obviously inside jokes. The apprentices had split off into groups, and it was plain which of the magisters houses were allies, and which were not, by the apprentices more than the magisters, most of which did not play the game as well as their masters. She had noticed that it was all about false smiles and pretending to be friends and friendly with everyone, keeping the others on their toes, and working a knife to hand and a blade to their back—metaphorically speaking. She was determined to best them all. She could be better than all of them; she was determined to be. More than that, now she felt, she had to be.

Fenris came back. She looked at the elf. He was in the most revealing outfit she had ever seen on a man—made to expose most of the markings. It made sense; that was one of the reasons for the party after all; everyone wanted to see the damned elf. It was all sheer silk and embroidery, and the only bit about it that covered anything halfway decently was in the front, and it didn't hide much. She noticed that the magisters all stayed a healthy distance away from Fenris at all times, like she had originally. Hadriana still flatly refused to get too close to the elf; something about those markings frightened her. Lyrium could make anyone but a Tranquil mage go insane, or even kill them. That couldn't be good to have imbued in living flesh.

She noticed something else. A small elven child—a slave-was close behind at Fenris' heels. What was going on?

It all became quite clear to her when Danarius beckoned the child closer. The magisters spread out a little, and Fenris looked positively ill. The knife flashed once, a sharp stab in the back. Mercifully, the child died very quickly. Danarius raised his hands, the magic pulsating in the air around him. He held it as the boy collapsed, dead. The body's fall seemed to echo in the room for a moment. The blood magic—that was what it was—was then fed back into the body, animating the corpse. It rose, slowly. Danarius casually removed the knife, cleaning the blade on the corpse and sheathing it again. Danarius gave it a silent order, and the corpse moved, stiffly. All the apprentices had fallen silent, and were watching now, as the corpse gently lifted a bottle of wine, and walked back, and refilled Danarius' glass.

The other magi laughed, and applauded.

Hadriana knew nothing about blood magic as yet, but an older apprentice near her commented, "It takes a lot of control to get a corpse to do movements like that."

Hadriana turned toward him. "How so?"

He shrugged. "It's easy to get a corpse to fight—any demon that possesses a corpse will do that for you. They might not do it well, but they can do it. But the corpse isn't possessed; just animated, and that makes doing movements like that… actually pretty impressive." Hadriana noticed that the older boy spoke with his hands, gesturing frequently. "Think like trying to operate a marionette, without actually touching it." Hadriana began to comment that she had never tried to play with a marionette, but he began to speak again. "It's kind of inspiring. Hey, that's your master, isn't it?"

And their talk turned to another subject, and he, fortunately, was not one of the ones who had been mocking her earlier. When the magic had dissipated, the corpse collapsed again, thankfully after it had put the bottle back on the tray—but she heard bones crunch when it collapsed again, making her impulsively flinch. Danarius called for his slaves to clean up the body, and the blood, and the magi moved elsewhere while they did it.

Fenris felt numb. What's more, he was fairly convinced that his master was mad. Why would someone…?

It was just a child…

He could barely finish his thoughts, and how he had kept himself even mostly composed throughout the remainder of the night, he had no idea. At least… it was over.

It shouldn't have been over for that child. It had been so senseless… To impress his party guests? How…? Why…? And that child's mother, who must surely be weeping now…

He had been bidden to go collect a child from the kitchens. Under ten summers, he had been told. There had been three children in the kitchen of that description. How could he have chosen one to die over the others? How? But he had. He had been a party to the magister's depravity, unwilling or no. And he had selected the most sickly of the three. It hadn't been random; he had calculated it. That was one of the worst parts. He had condemned a child to death—to amuse a handful of people!

Fenris felt like he should be sick, but he curiously wasn't. At the time, he had felt bile rise in his throat. He felt like he should cry for the child, but he didn't do that either. He just felt numb. A child had died, and all those people had laughed…?

It wasn't even that it was an elven child, and they were human: Some of the Circle were elves—not all of them, certainly, but there were a couple, and a small number in their apprentices too. Yet even then, they laughed and applauded.

Just go to sleep. Sleep, and forget about it. He didn't think he would ever forget about it. He was more likely to forget the way Danarius' cock felt down his throat.

His fingers touched his lips, and his hand clamped over his mouth as he swallowed. It had happened, and he was sure of it. And lately he worried that his master would make him do it again. Or worse.

It was that thin, scanty outfit that he made him wear that got him thinking about that, coupled with some of the looks Danarius gave him. Like he wants to eat me.

Fenris hoped, fervently, that he never had to again. But he would sooner do it every day, for the rest of his life, than witness another child murdered to amuse and impress a crowd of onlookers.

I hate being alive… The sun was blinding. The headache pounded on the inside of his skull like a war drum; it even pulsated with a tempo. I hate everything in the world…

Danarius had his appointments for the day canceled, and had Hadriana get to work on running the household. He made sure that a servant informed Fenris of what Danarius wanted him to do—train with his sword or whatever weapon he pleased primarily—and immediately crawled back into bed, the heavy drapes pulled to block out the sunlight. But still the damned light prevailed, leaking around the edges… mocking his futile efforts.

His late uncle had once told him that the best cure for a hangover was hair of the dog. Well, that was idiotic at its best.

A tray laden with food sat untouched at a small table, but he drank some of the mulled cider. He hadn't had a hangover in years. Too much wine perhaps.

He never would have killed that slave boy if he hadn't been drinking. Hell, what had been the purpose of that? That was an expensive party trick. Wasteful, and stupid to boot.

His morning was just full of regrets, wasn't it?

I do stupid, regrettable things when I drink, he thought in the back of his mind. I do a lot of stupid things when I'm drinking. His teenage years could attest to the truth of that.

Sitting in a prison cell, angry that someone had dared imprison a son of a magister, but there it was. His father walking down the hall, stopping at his cell, arms crossed, glaring menacingly down at him. Cillian Danarius had looked up at him, and smiled weakly. "Good morning," he had said to his father, who was staring at him with such a look of intense disapproval that half of him wanted to crawl under the nearest rock and stay there. The two had stared at each other for a long time, and the young Cillian straightened, as if he were sitting in a plush, elegantly carved chair instead of a stone bench. "If this is about my bail, I don't need you, Father."

"You and your friends were stealing people's lawn ornaments," he repeated, likely right from the report.

"Mostly small statuary, but I think we defaced a couple of gardens too," he added. The look on his father's face made him flinch. "We were… playing… guards and robbers," he said lamely.

"Literally. Were you drunk?"

"Not… drunk, no, I don't think."

Cillian had gotten caught when he had stopped to help a cute girl over the fence, and ended up caught himself trying to scale it before the guards came; he hadn't made it. He should have just left her. After his father drug him out of the cell and all the way home, hit him twice, and forbade him to leave the manor grounds for the rest of the year, he made him go find his stash of collected ornaments and give them back to their owners, in person, and apologize.

Just thinking about it made him cringe inwardly.

At least Hadriana was well, and this was a good time for her to start practicing her future status anyway. Some good could come of his horrid hangover.

The hangover stayed with him all day like an obnoxious little sister you don't really want around but cannot convince to leave.

It was a shame that magic didn't fix hangovers. It wasn't an illness, after all. There were some potions he could drink for it, to help with it, but he was determined to suffer the consequences of his own actions like a man. Roschelle would have poured it down his throat and called him a stubborn jackass.

Maybe I should remarry. Maybe…

He dismissed the notion as soon as he had it. Maybe I should take a fucking nap. That seemed more likely.

Shaislyn came into his magic early—far earlier than was normal. But Varania hardly batted an eye. She had been half-expecting it, after all, with both his parents being mages.

She brought him to the Circle, and held him still while they bled him for his phylactery. He cried, and whined, but they healed him afterwards, and the mage there gave him a cookie, and he fell silent. The old mage had smiled, nearly toothless in her old age. "I've had three children, and they all have children," she explained.

Only in the Imperium, Varania thought, with satisfaction. Everywhere else in the world, if a mage had a child, it was plucked from its mother's arms at infancy, and given to the Chantry. Only in Tevinter did that not happen. Only in Tevinter did the Circle rule the country and have influence over the Chantry.

For that… For that, Varania was happy to have been a slave in the Imperium, rather than free elsewhere. Besides, freedom for mages outside the Imperium was laughable; they were imprisoned or killed.

So for that, she was grateful, and her son would be too one day.

One thing that she disliked, though, was that the Circle in other countries meant food, clothes, a bed, and an education of sorts. Here, it was not guaranteed. True, mages were revered and much more respected than she had heard they were in other places, but she supposed that only went so far—especially for an elf with no support or contacts, who was Liberati on top of that! She supposed, you gain some, you lose some.

Shaislyn was really just like any other two-year old, though, for his blindness and magic. Lura had acquired a set of building blocks, the paint faded almost completely away. Not that colours meant anything to Shai. He was playing with them now, and Varania thought it nothing short of a wonder.

He felt each of them carefully, and seemed to have to think about it before he placed one somewhere, gingerly touching where each of them were. She wondered how that could even be fun for a child who couldn't see what they were making.

Varania looked back to the book in her lap. Two years ago, she thought she would never learn how to read. And yet, here she was; reading. Leto would be proud of her. He had told her to learn to read, and she had.

She missed him so much that it hurt. She had quietly confessed as much to Lura, who had looked away, and said not a word, but hugged her for her hurt.

The mage looked to her son, and watched him construct his tower. That was what it seemed to be, anyway—a tower.

When she was finished with it, he seemed to appraise it with the tips of his fingers. "It's as big as you are," Varania praised him. She wondered how it would be for Shaislyn growing up. He was blind, noticeably half-elven, and a mage, but his family were Liberati, and he only wasn't by a very thin margin. Was he even considered a full citizen, given his bloodline? She didn't think so. But his bloodlines—ha! Half Altus, the highest, purest class in the Imperium, and half Liberati, the lowest social class in the Imperium. Maybe… Maybe one day he could make something of himself.

He looked toward her, which was unsettling, considering that he couldn't see. "Is not!" To prove it, he stood up. It came up to his shoulder. She frowned at him, wondering how he could possibly know that when he had been sitting just before. He placed a fingertip on top of his tower, to demonstrate.

She chuckled, because he couldn't see her smile. "All right—I was wrong, Shai."

He seemed pleased with himself. A knock at the door made him fall silent. His head turned toward the sound.

Who could that be? Varania rose from her chair, and went to the door. She peered out, and smiled, opening it wider. "Come in," she said to Vellus.

He returned the smile, and stepped in, wiping his feet on the matt. "My mum sent me," he said, blushing. He was handsome—even Lura said so. A year ago, he had been gangly and awkward, but he was sixteen now, and something had changed over the year.

And Varania was beginning to get more confident as she developed into her womanly figure. Lura teased her sometimes, playfully. "Oh?" she asked him.

"Oh!" he said, as if he had forgotten that he was holding it. It almost made her giggle when he brought the bundle forward. "She worries that you have no time to cook." He flushed, presenting her with a neatly wrapped meat pie.

Varania was delighted. "Oh, that's so nice of your mum," she said, relieving him of his package, and walking into the small kitchen. She set the pie down. Vellus followed her in. "I'm certainly no good at cooking."

He smiled shyly. "My mum also says that if you want cooking lessons, she'd be happy to give them."

"Did she now?" Varania asked him. He had the cutest dimple she had ever seen when he smiled. And his eyes were the deep sea-blue of the surf. "Oh, but what would I do with Shai?"

Shai stood at the corner of the kitchen, and jumped when he had been noticed. Varania giggled, but he ran toward her, his fingers latching onto her skirt. She lifted him into her arms, balancing him on her hip. "I can stay by myself," he insisted.

"My sister is a few years older than he is—I don't think she'd mind looking after him," Vellus suggested.

"I'll have to do that then," Varania decided. Vellus seemed pleased. "Why don't you stay for dinner?"

He blinked those pretty blue eyes of his. "I… Well…"

"I'm sure your mum won't mind," the mage went on.

He flushed, glancing away. "Well, that is…"

Shai reached toward him. "Please? I'm stuck with girls all the time!" he cried.

"Oh, the horror," Varania agreed with him.

Vellus laughed, and took Shai from her. "Is that so, mage?" he asked the child, who only laughed in turn as he tossed him into the air. Varania held her breath, all the while worried that he would drop him. He never did. All the harm that looked to befall Shai had happened in the womb, when she had asked Leto to hit her. It was her fault Shai was blind, she felt. Though, to be fair, Leto was not the only one to have struck her while Shaislyn was growing in her belly. Maybe she should just be grateful that he was only blind, and not further handicapped.

Vellus agreed to stay, and when Mieta got home, she teased him and tousled his unruly mop of blonde hair as if he were family.

Vellus was just another elf in the alienage. The others had eventually warmed up to the family. Varania was still treated with some suspicion throughout the alienage, being a mage, but she healed people for naught but coppers, often as not, so they accepted her, and when she got older and more shapely, she noticed that the boys started to look at her. But so far, Vellus was her favourite, even with his shyness and his blushing. Especially with his shyness and his blushing.

Lura would not be home until late tonight, so they left a slice of pie out for her, and Mieta sent Varania to walk with Vellus home.

"Normally, it's the opposite, you know," he commented as they walked to his house.

Varania smiled. "Normally, the girl isn't a mage," she countered. His lips curved into a small smile. They arrived at his doorstep. He started to go to the door, and turned back to her. He moved forward, his lips brushing hers in the most chaste of kisses, leaving her stunned and, when she had the sense, blushing red as a rose. He was blushing too, and nervous. He smiled, easing some of the tension, and stole into his house. She walked back home as if in a dream. Vellus had kissed her.

He knew she was a mage, and used to be slave, and a mother, and still he had kissed her. He must be the makings of a saint. And he was so handsome… She was still blushing when she came home, and her mother only smiled knowingly.

Hadriana walked through the slave market, inspecting the wares, keeping a close eye on the people around her. Trust no one.

Anyone could be a cutpurse. And her purse was plenty heavy enough. She kept one hand on it at all times. It had sufficient sums for Hadriana to buy a couple of slaves-among a few other things she had been sent to market for. It wasn't that her master was treating her like a servant. Rather, he wanted to see how she handled herself, and, more importantly, learn how to haggle, and about pricing. There was only so much she could learn from books and a ledger, after all.

She had a guard with her, and a servant for errands, but was otherwise alone. The city was a busy place, and Danarius had sent her during the busiest time of the day. The slave merchants called out to her and anyone else who looked to be buying. The last time she had been here, it had been as a beggar, lost. She still had the silver coin she had found, for luck. It had been lucky to her anyway.

She saw a couple of Circle mages, and cringed inwardly, her stomach tightening. She pretended not to notice them, but she heard them when they said "butcher girl" to one another and laughed. Her cheeks burned in fury, but what could she do? She could do what she came for, that's what.

Her master had need to replace the boy he had killed, and his mother who had thrown herself from a tower in her grief.

So Hadriana looked for one likely, inspecting the assortment of wares. Her master had been explicit: He wanted elves. She had questioned the wisdom of this, initially, but when he explained it to her, it made sense.

He kept elves in his household because they were easier to manipulate. Centuries of slavery had beaten most of them down, and if one ran away, they were easier to find than a human: All a human had to do was keep their mouth shut and their head down; there were more humans in the world than elves. To prove his point, he told her that one of his slaves in a brothel had run away, and, while they had been found, it had not been for over a month later; that slave had been human.

He had an assortment of human slaves, too—just not at the manor. He didn't want them mixing. Something about keeping each of them in their proper place. His gladiators were an assortment of elves and humans—but the humans he kept off the manor grounds.

He liked the games. She wanted to find him something exotic. Something…

Hadriana stopped at a cage, and smiled.

Hadriana had insisted that Danarius come to the next gladiatorial match. When he said that he may be too busy to attend, she had hurried to help him in all his duties, and simply had none of it; he was going.

Bemused, he consented to this. It had been a long time anyway, and he'd like to watch the slaves bleed a little.

Hadriana went too. She was more interested in the games than her predecessor was, even if she were female and of humbler birth. She sat with a straight back at rapt attention, watching the fighting eagerly below.

Fenris stood at attendance, a blank look on his face. Since that night Danarius had killed that child, his pet had been practicing keeping his expressions blank. So far, he wasn't particularly good at it, but Danarius approved of the effort.

One game ended, and another began. Hadriana grinned, practically bouncing in her seat with her delight. He wondered what she could be…

"From the far-away jungles of Par Vallen…" the announcer drawled in a booming voice, his words echoed around the stadium.

"There!" she cried, pointing.

"… Across the Boeric Ocean…"

The gladiator walked onto the sands of the pit, to the raucous cries of the crowd. Some of the Imperials threw garbage at him. Hadriana laughed with glee. "I bought him for you, Master." Her eyes sparkled. "So you may watch him die."

"Captured in brutal combat against our own brave soldiers in the fields of Seheron…"

Danarius looked on with interest as the Qunari walked to the middle of the sands. The Proving Grounds were big enough that few now had the arm to hit him there with their missiles. They threw them anyway, but their accuracy was failing. "He must have been costly."

"Caged and shackled—they could barely contain this giant!"

She laughed. "What else am I to do with all the gold you give me?" she inquired, her eyebrows arching. "You attend to my every desire."

"The giant sailed the Ventosus Straights, across the waves of Nocen Sea, and arrived in our fair city after killing not one but three of his captors!" The crowd booed and hissed.

He nodded. "As I well should." A master should always care for what was his. "And you deserve it, fair one."

"He has come all the way from Par Vallen, from the land of torture and death!" More loud noises of complaint from the crowd. "And now he will die here, for your amusement, crushed by the might of the Imperium!" The crowd roared their approval.

She laughed. "Ah, look." Danarius glanced back at Fenris, who was watching the sands now, but his green eyes still flicked about the platform every few seconds. He had become a good guard. He had been a little uneasy about bringing Fenris here, worried about the buried memories, but he had been all around the manor, and nothing had triggered them. By all rights, Fenris should be firmly… "Fenris" by now, and "Leto" and those memories should be sufficiently buried. "It's starting!"

The Qunari stood alone. He was a big specimen, obviously the fighting sort, from his stance, and the way he hefted the long iron sword. No doubt, he had been captured at war. Ordinarily, his sort were tortured and killed, but apparently the slavers had gotten to him first, which did happen from time to time. Mayhap a deserter, then, or a scout—Tal-Vashoth? It made no difference; the end result was the same.

Other slaves entered then, the opposing team, owned by the arena and not any one magister. It would be insulting if that were so. They rode out on fine horses, and wore the gleaming armor of the Imperium. One of them even had a banner.

"Very good," he told Hadriana. "Was this your idea?"

She beamed. "Yes," she admitted.

It was a good idea. Not only was he enjoying the show so far, it was a good play for the commons too. They would do well to remember their gallant soldiers fighting and dying for them. It would hearten them to see the display. A speaker announced that this display was funded by Danarius—another good ploy. Keep the commons happy, keep them complacent—and above all, entertained. Give them something to talk about and enjoy. Even from a personal political standpoint, it was a good idea. He believed that his lowborn apprentice would soar to great heights in her career.

The soldier-slaves turned the horses about and galloped around the arena to the cheers of the onlookers. They threw favors and flowers. Wanton women screamed out obscenities to them—more appropriately, what they would do to them, and for them. Men cheered them on. The Qunari, though, had not moved. He stared straight forward, transfixed. Qunari were giants, but even giants could not climb the walls to the crowd. The walls were simply too high, and there were spikes on the walls of all sizes besides. And if not that, then the crowd themselves, so crazy for blood that they would do all in their power to see the slave beaten back down into the pit to die. No slave or captive bothered trying to escape the pit into the crowd in ages; it couldn't be done.

The slave-soldiers' galloping circle moved in ever-closer to the Qunari, who stood like a stone sentinel. He did not seem to see the flashing hooves or the steel that came ever closer to him. The slave-soldiers broke off, and one tossed the heraldry to the crowd with a mighty throw. The crowd seized upon the flag, and hoisted it up high, chanting: "Tevinter! Tevinter!"

One of the slave-soldiers lowered a lance, and moved his white charger forward. The horse tossed its head, and seemed to know what was going to happen. The animal was chomping at the bit for it. The lance lowered. Still the Qunari did not move. He had not even turned to face his opponents. So the lancer trotted his horse to face him. He kicked the animal into a run. It was an armored horse—heavy with enough force to destroy a man. The Qunari was almost naked and savage, armed with only the longsword. And still when the animal charged, the Qunari did not move. Danarius felt disappointed. The ox-man would be simply run down—all that pretty fanfare for a quick end. It wouldn't do.

At the last possible moment, the Qunari stepped aside, nimbly out of the way of the lance. The mounted slave wheeled the horse about, and got the Qunari back in his sights. He charged again, and the Qunari did the same trick. A third charge, and Danarius expected another dodge. But—finally—the Qunari struck.

The sword swung round, striking hard into the horse's unarmored leg. The big charger stumbled and fell, bearing its rider down with it. The crowd seemed to lean forward, and watch anxiously. Even from Danarius' high seat, he heard the bones crunching, heard the slave cry out in agony. His leg was crushed. The horse screamed, drowning out the man's voice. There is no sound worse than a horse in pain. Both rider and mount had broken legs, Danarius did not doubt.

The Qunari only glanced at them, and stepped away. Either he was giving the slave-soldiers' brothers in arms leave to take him away, or else he did not care to end it. The crowd screamed for blood. They may have cheered on their country, but now one was hurt. There was no saving that leg, and the horse's cries were harrowing. And besides, had not the slave-soldier shamed his country?

Death was a suiting end for those.

But the Qunari only walked by, and did not end it.

The crowd booed their displeasure and still the Qunari only returned to his place in the center of the arena, as if deaf to their cries and to that of the slave and the horse's. The other four slaves were whispering to each other, Danarius noticed, trying to decide what to do without their master there to tell them. Stupid creatures.

The slaves decided to continue the fight, and ignore their fallen comrade. It was no less than he would have done for them, Danarius had no doubt. Another came now—another lance. Two dodges this time, and the Qunari practically plucked the slave from the saddle, throwing him into the sands. The slave tumbled, losing his lance. The armored man reached for his sword, but the giant was upon him. The Qunari's sword found a chink in the armor. The slave bled to death in the sand in seconds, missing two arms at the elbow. The Qunari kicked an arm aside, and stood again at the middle. The horse seemed suddenly lost. One of the mounted slaves caught the creature, and led it to a gate. The gate slid up enough for another slave to dart quickly out, take the horse, and hurry back through it. The Qunari did not even turn to look.

The remaining three were nervous now, and spoke amongst themselves. The crowd screamed ideas to them. He could not hear them individually, but he imagined they ranged from brash to ludicrous.

One of the remaining slaves tossed his lance to the side, and drew his sword, spurring his mount toward the Qunari. But the Qunari were giants, and the horse, which would have given the slave the upper hand to a normal opponent, did not mean as much to the brute. Perhaps if at least two of them had come at him at once…

They clashed, and dueled, and the Qunari killed that horse too, but this man was faster than the other, and was out of the saddle in time. He rolled to his feet, and fended the attack, dodging, weaving. The clash of swords was loud, and the cheering of the crowd louder still. Another mounted slave joined the melee, and together they attacked. The last one looked on. Everything looked to be well in hand now. A good show—enough tension and drama to satisfy, and make the ending all the sweeter.

But when everything looked well in hand, the unhorsed slave tripped over the severed limb of one of the dead. The Qunari killed him—simple butchery, and turned on the other. It was as much about the skill of the horse as the horseman, and the horse was no stranger to battle. Its teeth gnashed, its hooves danced, and kicked, and lashed out at the giant, and still the giant gave no ground.

The other rider charged, in that moment, with lance down. The giant did not turn to meet it, did not even seem to notice it. Now the ending would be only more dramatic. The crowd held its collective breath as the slave-soldier charged.

The Qunari spun with all the smooth grace of a dancer, his momentum bringing the greatsword to meet the horse. The animal managed to get away with only a knick to the neck, but startled, it reared, and the slave, unbalanced, fell from the saddle. The other slave was quick to protect his temporarily vulnerable brethren, and charged his own horse toward the giant. The Qunari dodged, and feinted to one side, but struck from the other. The blow glanced off the slave's armor, but it dented it. It would leave bruises, to be sure.

The other slave, by now, was on his feet, and had his horse's bit. He was moving back into the saddle. The swords clashed again, the rider driving the Qunari back—back toward the spiked walls. The giant was getting tired. A trapdoor sprang open suddenly, making the crowd gasp in surprise. The creature lunged from the opening-at first glance a wolf, but then Danarius saw its mutilated, maddened form and knew it for a Blightwolf. It was half-starved and completely mad in its hunger and bloodlust. Its dripping fangs lunged for the Qunari, but its quick movement frightened the horse more than the giant. The horse screamed, rearing back in fright. Its rider stayed in the seat, but the horse got the bit in its teeth and dashed away from the animal. The Qunari danced away from it nimbly, and the beast's hidden handlers yanked on its chain, bringing it back into its pit. The door closed again.

There were other such surprises littered about the arena.

While the rider struggled with his frightened horse, the other slave rode down upon the Qunari, swinging his sword down. The giant met it with a clash of steel. Unnoticed to all but a few unseen, the Blightwolf snarled and lunged against the trap door, mad for meat and blood. Its handlers struggled against the creature.

The slave and captive clashed, their steel striking against the other. The slave seemed to have the upper hand, and the other slave was riding close now, his horse again under his control. Then the trap door all but broke open and the wolf leaped forward against its chain. Its jaw sank into the horse's flanks. The animal cried out in pain, all else forgotten in its mad rush to dislodge the wolf. Its handlers yanked on the chain, and it grew taught. Between the handlers and the slave, the wolf was pulled from the horse. In the confusion, the Qunari struck, knocking the slave from the saddle. The wolf lunged toward the fallen slave, its jaws clamping around his struggling arm. The crowd was screaming for more, even when the handlers yanked the wolf back… and it drug the struggling slave down after it. The trap door banged shut ominously. The crowd screamed, a mixture of shock and approval.

There was but one slave left, and no longer looked quite so confidant with the sound of the other slave's screams echoing above.

The Qunari only moved back to the center, and waited.

The crowd urged the gladiator on, and the slave had no choice but to make the attack. He rode forward, the horse tired. An armored horse was a fine weapon—they were big animals, strong, and could do substantial damage on the battlefield. However, the animal was tired after the fight; all that armor was heavy even for a destrier. The horse charged forward anyway, ears back. The animal fought as much as the slave riding it as they bore down on the giant. It bit, and kicked, stomping its steel-shod hooves. Plumes of dust rose around it. The Qunari moved back, away from the flashing hooves and the steel sword. The horse lifted its front hooves, as if in warning before it sprang forward, over 2000 pounds of animal, man, and armor came charging toward the giant.

The ox dove to the side. The horse spun, kicking up its hooves. It had done this before, and knew what it meant when the opponent was down; it was the time spring, to stomp and crush. It moved toward it. The captive scrambled to his feet, bringing the sword between himself and the animal. At the flash of the steel, the horse reared, lifting its neck away from what would have otherwise been a fatal blow to the animal. Its hooves struck forward, one of them hitting the captive hard in the wrist. The Qunari dropped the sword, stumbling back. The animal's hooves hit the ground solidly, and it moved forward again. The Qunari moved away, dodged another onslaught, and dove back to his sword. The horse came toward him, its rider ready. The swords clashed, and the horse rounded around the Qunari, kicking up sand, teeth snapping as they ran around the creature. The animal kicked and sprang, the rider matching his own movements to the horse.

The Qunari wove to the side, and slashed. The blow had not been meant to kill or disable; he slashed the reigns in two. The horse shook its head. The dropped the tattered reign, wheeling the animal to the side with the remaining half. It was something new, something the crowd had never seen a captive try to do, and they all leaned forward, cheering and eager. The horse and rider wheeled back to face the Qunari, charging again. The ox dodged, and rolled to the side. The armored horse wheeled back toward him, breathing hard. The captive reached forward, bent low to the ground. As the horse came at him again, he threw a handful of sand into the animal's eyes. It stopped, snorting, tossing its head. It wheeled. The rider, unable to get the animal under control with the loss of half the reigns, kicked it into a gallop, away from the Qunari. The animal stopped quickly, tossing its head. The Qunari ran forward. The rider blocked his sword expertly, and the horse kicked violently. The Qunari was struck by a hoof, and tumbled back.

The slave got the horse back under control, and wheeled toward the Qunari. The captive hesitated only once, and threw the severed limb of the slave's comrade toward the man. The horse, startled, whinnied and shied away. The crowd booed the foul play and distaste. The horse and rider charged again. The Qunari wove away from the flashing hooves and biting teeth, blocked a harsh blow from the sword, and with one strong arm ripped the slave from the saddle, throwing him down into the sands. The slave was up in moments, sword in hand. They fought, giving ground, gaining ground. The Qunari kicked the slave's legs out from under him, and the slave fell into the sand.

It was over in moments, and the slave was impaled on the Qunari's sword. The Qunari resumed his stance, and waited.

The crowd booed their displeasure at the Qunari's persistence. Five armored horse had not been enough. Perhaps they had been too bold.

"Do the magisters here today have a team they wish to test against the captive?" roared the master of the arena—with the voice of his slave.

The crowd cheered to encourage their magisters. But the magisters were silent. They did not look at each other, on their raised, shaded pavilion. If their own teams should fall to this giant, it would be shameful.

Danarius felt he had nothing to prove either; Hadriana had bought the Qunari for a spectacle, and he was proving to be just that.

"No champions?" the slave bellowed.

Hadriana's eyes flicked to Fenris, once. Danarius frowned in thought. "Fenris." The elf looked to him. "Can you kill the Qunari?"

Fenris didn't even think about it. "Yes, Master, if that is your wish."

Danarius nodded. "It is." He rose. "I have a champion!"

And Hadriana laughed, and applauded the idea. Fenris was taken by two slaves, down to the bowels of the arena. He was not dressed for combat, so they found suitable leathers and armor, and a sword that he approved of, and they sent the elf into the sands.

He waited for the gate to raise, and felt a sense of nostalgia that he couldn't place. The crowd cheered him, the sun beat high overhead. It had been cool under the silk shade by his master, but the sand made it even hotter. It was hot under his bare feet, reminding him to be quick and not linger.

The Qunari was waiting, and stood facing him. All the world narrowed down to this. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but it was meaningless, just white noise in the background of his world. Nothing but his own breathing. He judged the angle of the sun, and stepped, and circled until it was at his back. He paid the trap doors no heed, just like the blood. Slaves had caught the horses. The carcasses would have to wait for later, though, just like the wounded slave and horse that still lay bleeding in the sand. The sooner this was over, the sooner they could both be given peace.

It was his master's wish that he destroy this Qunari, so he would. There was no option except to succeed. Failure would be to disappoint his master, more than it meant that he would die.

The Qunari watched him, weary, spattered with blood, but, he noticed, not without his own wounds. It would make him slow, and he was tired, and the sun beat down on both of them—a warm day in winter. A breeze whispered over the sands, carrying the scent of the sea that cradled Minrathous. It was the first day of the Wintersend Tourneys.

Fenris walked toward him, then began to lope. He let his momentum carry the sword forward. The Qunari blocked it, almost effortlessly. How had he ever been captured?

The pair exchanged a flurry of blows—the Qunari, largest of the races, and an elf, known for being lithest. It would have been comical, and he had no doubt that some were laughing at his master's presumptuousness and foolhardiness.

But it wasn't size that won a battle; it was skill. He has a better reach than me, Fenris thought. And maybe eighty pounds heavier—maybe more. Their swords rang and echoed, and they danced across the sand. Fenris stepped in blood and gore half a dozen times and paid it no heed. Nothing mattered but the dance of swords.

Down at his core, he felt like this was what he had been born to do. And he never felt happier than when he had a sword in hand. The feeling was beautiful but fleeting, like a flower, for he would always have to put the sword down eventually. But for the moment, he felt complete. He was invincible, and he was doing what he was born to do.

What his master wanted him to do.

And the lyrium was glowing blue and bright, and the crowd watched in fascination. The Qunari's blade broke against his, and Fenris struck. The broken blade half-defended it, and it was not a mortal blow, but still the Qunari staggered. The blade had been stuck on the bone in his shoulder for an instant, but had done no further damage. Fenris swung again. The giant dodged, and started looking for the fallen slaves—for their weapons. The elf knew to keep him away from them.

They stepped, and Fenris attacked, and the Qunari dodged, and the two worked around the other, always trying to herd the other one in one direction or another. Fenris heard a chain creak, and broke his attack to roll suddenly to the side, narrowly avoiding the lion as it lunged toward him—all teeth and claws. It came toward the Qunari, but the giant eased away. The beast between them, the Qunari finally had the opening to make a break for the fallen slave's weapon. Fenris struggled back to his feet, and gave chase.

He heard a creaking noise, and froze, teetering in place, scarcely breathing. The pit opened suddenly. His eyes wide, heart pounding, he stood on the edge of it, the sand between his toes falling into the pit. He could smell the corpse of the last slave who had fallen into the pit. Just deep enough to break a leg, but just shallow enough to live and wish for death. One more step and he would have fallen down below. It snapped shut again, and the Qunari had reached the weapon. The Qunari spun back toward Fenris, and waited, catching his breath. Fenris stood panting, but knew—by some instinct—that if they waited too long… Well, there were other surprises in the arena. He charged forward.

The Qunari blocked, and their swords rang and echoed, the sound all but drowned by the roars of the crowd. Fenris dove to the side again, back away from the Qunari. That time, the giant was not quick enough, and the door opened, the Blighted Bear charging forward, held by chains as thick as Fenris' wrists. It snarled as it charged, its powerful claws swiping the Qunari's thick legs. The giant fell, and gave a cry of alarm as he turned to face the maw of the creature. Fenris breathed hard, and watched as the Qunari fended it off for a few precious seconds, always keeping his blade between the corrupted bear and his person. Then the heavy chains grew taught, and the creature gasped, and choked, and struggled against its chain as it was pulled back. It seemed to stop struggling for an instant. The chain went slack, then it lunged forward. The Qunari barely brought the blade up in time. Its teeth locked around the blade. The sharpened steel bit into its mouth. Blood dribbled around it. Powerful teeth bit into the metal, and it only dropped it when it was yanked back inside. The blade was ruined, though—but better than nothing.

Fenris dashed forward. The Qunari rushed to his feet to meet the attack. Fenris re-angled his attack at the last moment to counter how the Qunari had moved.

The blade whistled through the air. He imagined the blade cutting through bone, bits of blood and brain flying through the air. Instead, the Qunari ducked, and the blade bit through one long horn, then the other, and the blade caught awkwardly on it. Fenris struggled with it for a moment, and the Qunari seemed just as eager as he was to get it out. It would have been funny, really, if it weren't so critical. He heard some in the crowd laughing.

Frustrated, he let the sword alone, and came toward the Qunari with his bare hands, glowing bright with the lyrium. He reached forward. He had done it before. He had practiced with pig corpses and later cadavers, and he knew where the heart was.

His hand plunged into the Qunari's chest as if it were pudding. His fist clenched around a pumping muscle, and he yanked his hand backwards. The Qunari did not have time to scream. Fenris crushed his heart in his hand, blood rushing over his palm, between his fingers. The giant dropped, and Fenris stepped away, dropping the bloodied thing in his hand. The crowd was cheering, but Fenris looked up to the magisters, to his master. Danarius was smiling, well pleased. That was all that mattered.

He heard the wounded slave, trapped under his horse and still whimpering, but another was already coming to give the gift of mercy. Fenris walked away from the carnage and hot sands to the tune of over a thousand cheers.

Hadriana wanted to be happy and pleased with herself, but somehow she was just annoyed. This had gone from a lovely death match to her master gloating over his favorite pet—again.

A high-ranking mage commented to Danarius that he "should have paid him the six hundred when I had the opportunity." Whatever that meant, it made her master laugh. And people were even more afraid to get too close to Fenris, she noticed. She supposed that that was… good, in a bodyguard. He wasn't intimidating by himself. He was tall for an elf, and wielded those big two-handed weapons, but that by itself wasn't that intimidating—the markings were.

What he could do with them was definitely intimidating. If Hadriana didn't know that Fenris was a perfectly… domesticated and obedient pet, she might even be concerned. As it was, she was simply annoyed.

She would not have cheered had Fenris fallen in the battle; that would be unbecoming. …But she would not have mourned. Even if the elf had simply lost an arm, it would serve; he would be useless. Magic could do many things, but even magic had some limits. He would be reduced to nothing, save perhaps as an ornament of sorts. And for that, he might as well kill him, and skin him. Tan the hide and hang it in the hall, if he wished, but he would be worthless to him. She had heard that it was possible to reattach or even regrow a severed limb, but she did wonder what that would do to all the markings. If each one had meaning, and part of the "writing" on him was gone… It would be like a book with a page missing, maybe a whole chapter. It made her painfully curious sometimes. What would happen if a piece of him were cut off…?

And she hated Fenris for making her jealous of him. It was all the worse that he did not do it on purpose, nor did he even seem to notice. She felt like he must notice, and his ignorance had to be feigned. How could it not be?

Danarius hosted a small party that evening—a more intimate gathering than before, with just a few high-ranking Circle mages in attendance. They left their apprentices, and so Hadriana was instructed to make herself scarce. But Fenris was made to pour the wine, in an elegantly brocaded silk draping she could hardly call clothing.

Her master dressed the elf in silks, expensive leathers, and angora wool when applicable. His hair was gleaming, his skin oiled, and he smelled like perfume. She tried to tell herself that the elf was an object, but all she ever seemed to see was how much Danarius fawned over said object.

Like a child who sees their parent care for a priceless vase over themselves, she longed to break him. If only it were so simple as pushing him off a table and watching him shatter.

It means nothing, she told herself. One day, I will be a magister. And that's all that matters.