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Contains extensive spoilers for The Masked Empire.

The ride to the camp at the other end of the East Road was a short one, held up only by another rift. Thankfully, this one didn't have any sort of strange time-warping magic surrounding it, and the demons were dispatched quickly and without much trouble. With the rift safely closed and the danger passed, they rode on, still alert for signs of trouble.

"Shem," Mahanon greeted Ciri as they rode into the camp in the ravine. Another scout cleared her throat loudly, and he rolled his eyes. "Your Worship. What brings you our way?"

"One of the Valo-Kas mercenaries mentioned a woman found in the ruins around here," Ciri said. "She said she was badly injured – fighting demons? We came to see what we could do for her, and to inspect the ruins."

Mahanon nodded. "Belette, get their horses. I'll show them to Mihris."

"Aye, fine," the scout who'd cleared her throat said grudgingly. "But only because that stubborn girl only relaxes around you."

Ciri dismounted, passing Zephyr's reins to Scout Belette. Triss, Solas, and Olgierd weren't far behind her as she followed Mahanon. The rest of her companions trailed after them. He led them to a tent pitched some distance from the others, with its own small campfire. Just outside the tent flap, leaning against a full burlap sack, was a battered and bandaged young elven woman, her right arm splinted and tied to her chest in a sling.

She wore the tattoos of the Dalish across her face, strong lines that swept across her forehead and down the sides of her pale, angular cheeks. Her eyes were the lightest green Ciri had ever seen, and she seemed far too young for the short gray hair she sported. Then again, my hair started to go white at sixteen.

Mihris fixed those pale eyes on Ciri. "Well met," she said, a deep well of caution in her voice. "My name is Mihris. My thanks to your scouts for assisting me. I underestimated how many demons I would face within the ruins."

"It looks like they patched you up fairly well," Triss said. She knelt by Mihris' side and extended a hand. "May I?"

Mihris nodded shortly, and Triss began a careful examination of her injuries. "This is a clean break, luckily. Did they give you anything for it?"

"Aye, elfroot. Yesterday, and this morning."

"What were you doing out in the ruins, da'len?" Solas asked.

Mihris looked askance at him, brow furrowed. "I heard tell of Elvhen artifacts that can measure the Veil. I thought if I activated it, I'd have warning of when and where rifts formed."

"We know the artifacts you speak of," Ciri said. "There was one at the cultists' fort, and another by Dennet's farm. We activated both of them."

"How did a shem and a flat-ear manage that?" Mahanon asked skeptically. "That's the People's heritage, not yours."

"Ma del," Solas said. "But you are young. By now you will have heard of Ciri's ancestor. It is her heritage as well."

Mahanon scoffed. "I heard. The human who claims an Elvhen ancestor. First they take our lands, then they take our lives, and now they try to take our legacy? I don't know what she is, but she's no elf."

I'm not Elvhen! The exclamation stayed locked behind her teeth. Behind Mahanon's anger, Ciri saw real hurt, and a dull, unsurprised resignation. This is just how it goes, his eyes said. She cursed herself for having volunteered Lara Dorren's name to begin with.

"I'm sorry," Ciri said quietly. "I don't mean to take anything from you. Ancestry and magic aside, you're right. I am more human than elven. All I want to do is help, to set things right."

"The Dalish have heard that before."

Mihris reached out with her good hand and patted Mahanon's shoulder. "Let it go, lethallan. You, Ciri, was it? How did you activate the artifacts?"

Ciri held out her marked hand to Mihris. "Something in this magic resonates with the artifacts – the same way it resonates with the rifts in the Veil."

It lent credence to her suspicion that the Veil was Elvhen. If the artifacts were created by the same people, or even the same person, then it was no wonder they echoed with Veil magic.

Triss sat back on her heels, finished with her examination. "What were you doing out there alone? Where are your people?"

Mihris hesitated. "I was – am – First of Clan Virnehn. The Keeper sent me to investigate."

"Ma harel, da'len," Solas interrupted. Ciri could hazard a guess as to what he said given the way Mihris' already pale face went ashen.

"A-aye."

"Leave her be," Mahanon barked, glaring at Solas. "Can't you see she's been through enough?"

Ciri knelt in front of Mihris. She looked into those pale green eyes, doing her best to project sincerity. "Whatever drove you here alone, we can help. That's what the Inquisition is for."

Mihris stared back for a long moment, then looked away. "I want your word," she said abruptly. "As their holy person. My vengeance was stolen from me. I want your word you'll help me get it."

"Who wronged you, Mihris?" Ciri asked, voice low.

"The demon Imshael," she replied, a snarl on her lips, "And Ser Michel de Chevin."

The tale unfolded in fits and starts, Mihris' voice faltering several times as she told her story. A Keeper versed in blood magic, desperate to learn the secrets of the ancient Elvhen and their path of enchanted mirrors. A teenage First, too young and inexperienced to contradict him. A powerful demon of desire, one of the Forbidden Ones of legend, summoned and bound. And an empress, a chevalier, an elven handmaiden, and a wandering Dalish who stumbled across their clan as they fled a forest full of possessed trees.

"Keeper Thelhen ordered the empress and her champion bound," Mihris said. "Not that it did any good in the end. Celene made promises of an alliance, of helping the People if we helped her. But the promises of the Orlesians are easily broken. Her handmaiden, Briala, wanted our help for the city elves, but what did we care for the flat-ears?" She scoffed at herself. "The world is small when you never leave your clan."

Tears filled Mihris' eyes as she recounted how Ser Michel escaped his bonds and struck down the clan's best warriors to flee with Celene, and she bared her shoulder to show the scar he left when he cut her down, too.

"He broke the wards holding Imshael back," she said bitterly. "And the demon killed everyone but me. Imshael found my survival amusing. He let me live so I could chase after Ser Michel for vengeance."

Her story grew a little vague then – Ciri was unsure how Imshael stayed hidden until Felassan banished him, but she didn't press for details. She recounted how Gaspard came across her, injured and angry, with another nobleman and a mage, and how she led them into the Eluvian network after Celene and the others. How they agreed to settle things with a duel between Gaspard and Ser Michel, and she and the mage secretly sabotaged Ser Michel with magic until the mage was killed.

"In the end, Briala forced Ser Michel to forfeit," Mihris said. "She knew his secret. She knew everyone's secrets. She claimed the keystone and the Eluvians for the elves of Orlais and sent them all away, and took me with her on the promise that I help any city elves I come across. A small thing to agree to after everything."

"And what were their secrets?" Olgierd asked.

Mihris looked up at him with wary eyes. "The chevalier is a commoner with an elven mother. His noble credentials are false. And the empress faked an assassination attempt on her life to secure her throne. Briala's parents were killed in the plot."

"The empress would never do such a thing!" Blackwall protested.

Mihris shrugged, then winced as the movement jostled her broken arm. "Celene didn't deny it. She said she was young, that she had to do it."

"And have you been helping city elves, da'len?" Solas asked. His eyes were sharp with interest in her tale.

"I've been alone for a year," Mihris said. "I tried to find a clan to take me in, but most thought me cursed. City elves were kinder. I've shared with them what little I had, but always moved on. Sometimes I was able to offer my skills with healing. I don't know what to do for Briala – she wanted me to tell the Dalish to help city elves, but they turned me away."

"I could write to my clan in the Free Marches," Mahanon offered. "My cousin died in the Conclave. We need a First. And Keeper Istimaethoriel isn't superstitious like some of the others you meet at Arlathvhen."

The look of cautious hope on Mihris' face was almost too much to bear. She was so achingly young to have survived so much. Ciri knew full well the pain of such loss and trauma as a teenager. It was like looking into a mirror that opened into the past.

"You're welcome to stay with the Inquisition while we wait for a reply to Mahanon's letter," she said. "You needn't join if you don't want to, but the invitation stands. I'd be happy to have you with us."

"Your Templars won't try to lock me up?" Mihris asked. "I've heard tales of mage Circles. Templars are no better than chevaliers when it comes to the Dalish."

Ciri didn't bother to check to see what expression Cassandra was making at the thought of inviting another apostate into the organization. "Everyone is welcome," she said firmly. "Mages are a valuable part of the Inquisition, as are elves."

"It would be nice if you stayed a while," Mahanon told Mihris. "I haven't seen another of the People since Ellana died. It's just suspicious shems and flat-ears – the scouts aren't so bad, though."

"City elves," Mihris corrected him quietly. "Not flat-ears."

He snorted. "You sound like my cousin."

"I'll stay," Mihris said, meeting Ciri's eyes. "Just until we hear from Mahanon's clan. Thank you – Lady Hand."

"Please don't call me that."

Ciri stood and turned back to her companions. Solas had an odd look in his eyes. When Mihris had first named Imshael, he'd cut a swift glance at Olgierd, and as the story progressed, he watched him closely, as if expecting some sort of reaction out of him. When none came, he looked to Ciri, the strange expression vanishing as if it had never been there.

"We should go to the ruins and locate the artifact, da'len," he said.

Mahanon scoffed. "She's a human, even if she does call one of the Elvhen her ancestor. Not that you'd know any better."

"Ah," Solas said, deeply sarcastic. "I'd forgotten that the Dalish were the arbiters of all knowledge. She is my kin, even if you will not claim her."

"Pfft. You're both frigging stupid," Sera scoffed. "Ciri's people-people, not the People, or whatever that's about."

"It's always a pleasure to be argued over," Ciri sighed. "The ruins?"

Mihris pushed herself to her feet, biting off a gasp of pain. "Your word, Your Worship – Ciri," she reminded Ciri. "I deserve my vengeance."

Her Keeper had been an idiot to bind such a powerful demon. And had her clan not been so insular and antagonistic toward humans, Ser Michel might not have lifted his blade in the first place. But Mihris was right. Both of them had wronged her, stolen lives that could never be returned.

"If our paths ever cross, I'll bring them to justice," Ciri promised. "You have my word."

"Ma serannas."

As they left the camp, Ciri wondered at Solas' strange antipathy toward Mahanon and Mihris – an antipathy he didn't seem to have for her. A mystery for another day. Perhaps he'll teach me Elven, and I'll figure out some mysteries myself.

The being with Avallac'h's face greeted her that night from within a sprawling labyrinth of silver mirrors, all of them tall enough and broad enough for one of the Aen Elle to see himself in from head to foot.

"They are Elvhen in design," Avallac'h said, gesturing to the mirrors. "A grand empire needed no roads when one could step through an Eluvian in the Tirashan and exit in the Arbor Wilds."

So these were Eluvians. Had the magic faded or been forgotten for them to fall so thoroughly out of use? "Is this one of the wonders you showed them?" she asked.

He smiled and began walking the path, forcing Ciri to either catch up or be left behind. She hurried to follow him.

"The Elvhen learned many things from spirits, and spirits from the Elvhen," Avallac'h said. "Tell me, what do you make of Imshael?"

"He's nothing like the demons we've been fighting," Ciri said. "He sounds powerful, vindictive." Mihris' tale gave her an uneasy feeling, like she'd heard it before. Over two bottles of wine in Corvo Bianco, with Geralt as the storyteller.

"Once, spirits were the only inhabitants of this world," Avallac'h told her. "Few remember such a time. Only the very old, and the very powerful. They made room for the Elvhen before they claimed that name. Some of their brethren wished to remind them who showed them such wonders to begin with when they grew too proud. The Forbidden Ones, they called them. The Forgotten Ones."

Ciri shivered. "Do I need to worry about them coming after me?"

"They would not seek you out deliberately," Avallac'h said. "But tread lightly. Some may desire more from you than for you to stay in Thedas."

Her marked hand twinged at his words. "I don't want to stay."

"Then you shouldn't tether yourself, Zireael."

His words made no sense. How had she tethered herself? She glared at the back of his head. For someone who talked so much, he could be annoyingly reticent when it came to information she actually needed. Not that I'd remember it if he told me.

"Why did I think of a fishing net when I touched the artifact today?" she asked, changing the subject. The image had flashed through her mind as the device lit up beneath her hand.

Avallac'h looked amused. "You will remember when the time is right."

"But not yet."

"No." He brushed a hand against one of the tall mirrors, and its surface shone and rippled. "Not yet."

She blinked, and she stood in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, a wooden sword in her hand. Coën faced her, similarly armed, a look of patience in his bloodshot yellow-green eyes. She smiled up at him and brought her sword to the guard position. One more round.

It took no time at all to finish their business in the Hinterlands. The rifts were but a half a day's work, and the solitary grave of the wife of the Redcliffe widower was easy to find. Ciri laid a spray of flowers before the marker and made a promise to herself that she'd return to the widower to tell him his wife was at peace. She'd found an odd feather in a long-abandoned camp nearby, long and grayish-white with a prickly, barbed shaft. Blackwall's eyes had lit up when he'd seen it, and he thanked her gruffly when she gave it to him. A griffon feather, he called it. It hardly looked like the plumage of the griffons she was familiar with, but he seemed pleased with the gift.

They'd originally intended to head to the Storm Coast to meet the Iron Bull after they were done in the Hinterlands. Taking a month to go there and back after learning about the time magic and the Venatori seemed impractical at best, however. A messenger had been dispatched instead, and their group rode back to Haven with all haste.

Cassandra swept Ciri along in her wake the moment they dismounted at the Haven stables, barking at Cullen to follow them as they passed. He motioned for Owain to take over and fell into step with them, greeting them both courteously. Leliana joined them as they neared the chantry.

Chancellor Roderick awaited them inside, along with Mother Giselle. He sighed when he caught sight of Ciri.

"It was good of Cassandra to send word ahead about the Witchwood mages," he said. "We sent a raven to the Grand Cathedral to keep them apprised, and they're not pleased."

"I thought you said they wouldn't interfere," Ciri said.

Mother Giselle raised a placating hand. "And perhaps they would have kept to that course had you chosen to work with the mages of Redcliffe alone. But the mages of the Witchwood are another matter. 'Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him.' These are the mages who turned their gifts to violence."

"To protect themselves from Templars!" Ciri protested.

"So you say," Cullen said dubiously. "But the Chantry wants assurance that the Inquisition has not strayed too far from its teachings, and that these mages won't be a danger."

"We should discuss this in the War Room," Cassandra interjected. "Leliana, fetch Josephine."

Leliana nodded and left on silent feet.

"First Enchanter Vivienne arrived three days ago," Chancellor Roderick said. "She may have insight into the matter at hand."

Vivienne wouldn't be Ciri's first choice for adding another mage's voice to the mix, but even one more would be an improvement. "I'd welcome her thoughts," she said.

"I'll speak with her," Cullen said.

Ciri followed Cassandra and the two clerics to the back of the chantry and into the War Room. The map carried a handful of new markers: a raven along the Storm Coast and in the Ferelden mountains, a key in Val Royeaux and Markham. The door opened behind her and she turned to see Cullen holding it open for Vivienne. Ciri had been right to think her beautiful when she saw her at the salon. Unmasked, she was utterly gorgeous. She had the barest hint of black stubble on her head and wore a simpler outfit than she'd had on when she saw her last, but her commanding presence made it seem as if she were dressed in Duchess Anna Henrietta's finest gown and tiara.

"A pleasure to see you again, Lady Hand," Vivienne said warmly. "I understand my expertise is needed on a matter of some concern?"

"Yes, welcome, First Enchanter," Chancellor Roderick said. "Lady Ciri reached out to some controversial people, and to say it's upset the Chantry is something of an understatement."

"The Hand recruited the mages fighting the Templars in the Hinterlands," Cassandra said bluntly as the door opened again to allow Josephine and Leliana in.

Vivienne shook her head in dismay. "Oh, darling, you didn't."

"Of course I did," Ciri retorted, crossing her arms defensively. "They were nowhere to be seen when we returned to the Hinterlands. Once the Templars were gone, they stopped fighting. The mages weren't the problem. They were invited to Ferelden, remember? They were promised safety. I can hardly blame them for defending themselves."

"But the Crossroads –" Cassandra started to argue, picking up where they'd left off days before.

"Letia didn't deny that some of the mages had a disregard for bystanders," Ciri allowed. "She and the dozen or so remaining were the cautious ones."

"Letia?" Vivienne asked. "Senior Enchanter Letia of the Ghislain Circle?"

"She's their unofficial leader, as far as I was able to tell," Ciri said.

"Letia is a colleague of mine, and an old friend," Vivienne said. "We disagree about almost everything, but I respect her greatly. What on earth was she doing fighting Templars in the Hinterlands? I thought she was with the rebellion in Redcliffe."

"Apparently the rebellion leadership voted to expel any mages whose magic was too frightening to the general public," Ciri said. "They needed a pretty face to put on their magic if they wanted to convince people they deserved freedom."

Vivienne looked scornful. "I see things are proceeding about as well as I expected. It's not enough for them to turn on their Circles. They have to turn on their own people."

"Do you believe Grand Enchanter Fiona to be behind this move?" Cassandra asked Vivienne.

"Not at all," she said with a shake of her head. "Fiona is an idealist. She'd never sacrifice her people for the sake of appearance. I suspect she was overruled by frightened enchanters who came along and found the process of rebelling too slow and uncomfortable for their tastes."

"If you can vouch for Senior Enchanter Letia, First Enchanter Vivienne, that may go a ways toward smoothing the Chantry's ruffled feathers," Josephine said. "As it is, they replied to our news with a demand."

"A sensible one," Cullen said. "Un-Harrowed mages are a danger to themselves and others."

Ciri froze. A sour feeling rose in her stomach. They couldn't possibly mean… "You're not saying..."

"They demand that all apostates and un-Harrowed apprentices be put through the Harrowing if they wish to stay with the Inquisition," Chancellor Roderick said.

Imshael. The pride demon. The terror demons.

Gaunter O'Dimm.

"I refuse."

"They specifically mentioned that you did not need Harrowing," Leliana assured her. "You are the Hand of the Maker. The Chantry has deemed your magic safe, and not in need of human oversight. The Maker Himself watches you."

That sounded ridiculous and made no sense, but she wasn't about to argue against it. Still, the demand for Harrowing made her stomach churn.

"You want to pit Triss against a demon in its own territory? Olgierd? Solas?" she demanded. "I thought you said an exception could be made for them."

"I also said that any more and the Chantry would take notice," Chancellor Roderick reminded her. "Now they have, and that protection is being withdrawn."

"Beyond the fact that this is a betrayal of those who have helped us since the beginning, it sets an uneasy precedent if we allow the Chantry to dictate how we proceed," Josephine said. Her knuckles were white around the edges of her clipboard. "Should we anger them further, what else will they demand we do?"

"A betrayal?" Cullen echoed. "That's taking it a little far, Ambassador."

"Not far enough!" Josephine said hotly. "Messere Olgierd and Solas have been with the Inquisition since the very first day. They have eaten, slept, and bled side by side with Cassandra and Lady Ciri. Triss Merigold is a newcomer, but an old and dear friend of the Hand. And the Chantry would have us repay their staunch service by demanding they undergo a Harrowing?"

Cullen sighed. "The Harrowing isn't a punishment. It's meant to teach a mage how to stand against the Fade's temptations. A mage learns to be on guard in the Harrowing, and that there are consequences to magic. There's a reason it marks the passage from apprenticeship to full mage status."

"And if they fail?" Ciri asked, swallowing her anger.

"They die," Leliana said, her voice even. She watched Cullen intently from beneath her cowl. "Isn't that right, Commander?"

"Abominations are too dangerous to allow the risk of one escaping," Cullen replied. "A Templar must be swift to act."

"There are ways to safely undo a possession," Leliana countered. "The Kinloch Circle mages performed such a ritual on Arl Eamon's son during the Blight."

"Templars are taught to act, not to stop and consider all possibilities before choosing the wisest course of action," Vivienne said. "They're a singular tool for a specific job. Effective, but limited."

Cullen looked displeased by Vivienne's rather incisive assessment, but he didn't contradict her.

"And if they refuse?" Ciri asked. "If Triss and the others refuse to be Harrowed, what will you do?"

She couldn't imagine Triss agreeing to it. Her friend would never allow another Church of the Eternal Fire to have such power over her. And Olgierd had already expressed his distaste for the Harrowing. When she thought of Solas it seemed beneath him, like a trifling matter that wasn't worth his time or consideration.

"There is traditionally only one remedy for a mage who refuses the Harrowing," Cullen said reluctantly. "An apprentice who doesn't believe they'll succeed is put through the Rite of Tranquility."

"No." Her voice cracked through the room like a whip. "You will not."

She'd met one of the Tranquil. The thought of her friends becoming like Clemence was abhorrent. That Cullen would even suggest such a thing sickened her.

Leliana threw a sharp look at Cullen. "Even if the Chantry wanted us to, it would be impossible," she said. "We have no means of conducting the Rite."

Josephine's clipboard made a distressed creak beneath her white-knuckled grip. "And if we had the means, we would not," she added. "This is the Inquisition, not the Templar Order. Such cruelty is beneath us."

Ciri wondered if Josephine pictured the same vile image she did. Olgierd, sunburst brand stark on his forehead, blue-green eyes blank and dull instead of laughing or sad or intent. No more wry observations. No more gentle encouragement. No more music.

"Touch them," she said, voice shaking with rage, "And I will leave you to deal with the Breach yourselves. You'll never see me again."

Cullen took a half step back before he caught himself. Chancellor Roderick exchanged a swift look with Mother Giselle, who spoke up soothingly.

"Your protectiveness is admirable, Your Worship. You are fierce in your devotion to your companions, much like Andraste herself. Be at ease. The Rite of Tranquility would be out of place in such a situation, I believe. We might instead simply ask them to leave the Inquisition."

Force them out? Leave her here, bereft of the two people she knew from the Continent, and of her new tutor in magic? The thought sent a pang of loneliness shooting through her.

"They wouldn't face the Harrowing alone," Vivienne said, eyeing the advisors coolly. "It is the right of an apprentice's First Enchanter to be present as their mentor and advocate. As the only First Enchanter in Haven, any new mage to be Harrowed will become a member of the Montsimmard Circle, with all afforded rights and protections."

"That's –"

Leliana interrupted Cullen. "That is acceptable, so long as you agree that they may wish to stay independent."

"Then they will have my protection for the duration of the Harrowing," Vivienne said.

Cullen shot Leliana a mild glare. "As I was saying, that's fine with me."

"Wait," Ciri interrupted. "You keep speaking as if we've already agreed to go forward with this." She appreciated having Vivienne's formidable personality on her side, but nothing about this was a done deal.

Josephine straightened her shoulders and nodded to Ciri reassuringly. "Precisely. We cannot allow the Chantry to dictate how we proceed. The Inquisition is meant to operate with minimal interference and oversight. If the Chantry contradicts every action Lady Ciri takes that they dislike, they'll cripple us before we've begun."

"They need us as much or more than we need them," Leliana agreed. "Perhaps a reminder is in order."

"No. No assassinations, Leliana," Josephine said sharply. "We will sort this out with reason and diplomacy. Grand Cleric Oudine is not a difficult woman. Perhaps if we gave her a token of what the Chantry demands, she will be satisfied."

"There is still the matter of the Templars," Chancellor Roderick suggested. "I know you have reservations, Lady Ciri, but recruiting them instead of the rebel mages in Redcliffe might appease the Chantry enough to get them to forget about this Harrowing business."

"It's no longer a matter of reservations," Ciri said. "The mages in Redcliffe are in terrible danger."

Swiftly, and without embellishments, she laid out the situation as they'd found it. The strange time-bending rifts, and the Tevinter magister behind them. The ousting of the Arl of Redcliffe, and the murder of dozens of Tranquil mages. The conscription of hundreds of rebel mages into servitude to Tevinter. The mysterious Venatori cult.

Ciri looked to Cassandra, who nodded in agreement. "We can't allow this to stand."

Roderick sighed. "Perhaps a delegation could be sent to the Redoubt, and you could investigate Redcliffe further. Either way, it's clear that the mages need to be the priority."

"What madness is this?" Cullen demanded. "I thought the rebel mages wanted freedom. Now they've sold themselves to a magister who's ripping time apart? What was the Grand Enchanter thinking?"

"I doubt it was entirely voluntary," Ciri said. "I suspect Magister Alexius used his time magic to confuse Fiona, to make it seem like she had no other choice."

"Death would be preferable to slavery to Tevinter," Cullen said darkly.

"And if she were the only one, she might agree," Josephine said. "The Grand Enchanter cannot decide that death is the better option for all of her people. Where there is life, there is hope, Commander. And we are that hope."

Leliana lightly tapped the edge of the table. "I suspect that simply reaching out to the Templars will not be enough to appease the Chantry. Not if we bring the rebel mages into the fold first."

"That brings us back to the Harrowing," Cassandra said. "I admit that I don't see why Olgierd and Solas, and Triss Merigold, cannot simply agree to submit to it. But Josephine's point is sound. We cannot allow the Chantry to determine how the Inquisition proceeds."

"Agreed," Cullen said, "Though I would feel better if von Everec was Harrowed. His abilities make me uneasy, despite what he's said about them."

"Messere Olgierd is a perfect gentleman," Josephine protested. "He's kind and intelligent, very well-spoken."

"He also appears and disappears in a cloud of black and red smoke, and he's covered head to toe in scars of injuries that should have killed him," Cassandra told her. "He had a close encounter with a demon years ago that left a permanent mark on his magic."

"It hasn't stopped him from being a good person!" Josephine snapped. She took a deep breath, cheeks flushed an angry red. "I apologize. It's simply – these are not just apostates, Commander. These are our friends and allies."

"No one is denying that," Chancellor Roderick said. "We're all looking for a solution, Ambassador. With luck, it will be one that will keep the Chantry out of our hair going forward until a new Divine is called."

Ciri looked around the room. "Well," she said. "Let's figure this out, shall we?" Preferably something that doesn't leave me feeling as though I've betrayed my friends.

A runner came for Olgierd as he ate in the tavern, Josephine's borrowed book on the lands of Thedas in front of him. He shoved his plate over to Sera, who'd been eyeing it hungrily, already done with her meal.

"Enjoy," he said. "Don't get into too much trouble."

"Pfft."

'Come to the War Room,' the messenger had said, and nothing more. He left the tavern, the book tucked under his arm, and he ducked his head against the frigid wind as he made his way toward the chantry. Solas fell into step beside him, and he raised an eyebrow at the elf.

"They called for you as well?"

"They did, though they offered no explanation."

A flash of dark red hair up ahead caught his eye. Triss spotted them and held the chantry door open for them, shivering as she did. "Were you –"

"It seems they have a desire for our company," Olgierd said.

At the far end of the chantry, he spied the quiet elven woman, Minaeve, who did her research in Josephine's study. She lingered outside the door of the War Room, wringing her hands together nervously.

Olgierd inclined his head in her direction. "Appears we're not the only ones who were summoned."

"Yes," Triss said slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. "But not Evelyn or the other mages."

They made their way to the end of the Chantry, and Triss greeted Minaeve warmly. Olgierd nodded to her – she was a standoffish young thing who preferred research to other people, and she seemed to find him intimidating when he tried to speak with her. Solas looked at her but didn't otherwise acknowledge her presence.

"Hello," Minaeve said quietly. "Do you know what this is about? It's very sudden."

"No, but I have a suspicion," Triss replied.

The door to the War Room swung open, and Josephine stood in the entrance. Her eyes went straight to Olgierd's.

"Ciri and I tried," she murmured. "This is the best we could do. I'm sorry, Messere Olgierd."

Olgierd entered with the others to find a packed room. Ciri and Cassandra were there, as were the Inquisition's advisors, the revered mother from the Crossroads, and a strikingly beautiful woman who looked almost Zerrikanian to his eyes. She, Leliana, and the two clerics were the only ones who seemed at all satisfied. Ciri, in particular, looked incredibly angry, lips a hard line and hands clenched at her sides.

Leliana stepped forward. "Due to certain events that took place recently, the Chantry has made demands. We will most certainly not be fulfilling all of them, but a token gesture must be made to show that we are still good and faithful Andrastians. To that end, it's been decided that one of our un-Harrowed mages must go through the Harrowing, or leave the Inquisition, as a way to thin out the apostates in our ranks."

Minaeve, already pale, went chalk-white. Triss froze at his side, and he could feel her trembling. Likely equal parts rage and fear. And for a brief moment, an expression of pure scorn crossed Solas' face.

"I told them if they touched you I'd leave," Ciri said fiercely. "Say the word, Triss, and we'll go. I know you want to stay, Olgierd, but they're asking too much –"

He held up a hand, and she fell silent, eyes still ablaze with protective fury. A strange calm fell over him, and he gazed about the room. Leliana met his eyes impassively. Rutherford and Cassandra looked back with caution and suspicion. Josephine's hazel eyes were full of sympathy and frustration. The Zerrikanian woman seemed calm and supportive. The revered mother looked hopeful, and Chancellor Roderick resigned.

Little Minaeve couldn't do it. She wasn't brave enough, wasn't magical enough. A lack of confidence would get her killed or possessed. And Triss would die before she handed herself over to the Templars. She'd leave instead, and then Ciri would be down a dear friend.

Solas could do it easily. He knew the Fade like non-mages knew the backs of their hands. But he wouldn't, not with that look of scorn. His stories of friendly Fade spirits told a tale of a man who prized the company of spirits above the company of his flesh and blood counterparts. The last thing he would want to do would be to fight a demon when he didn't have to.

And Olgierd? Olgierd knew demons. He'd summoned many, bound some. He'd walked away from that, though, left that part of his life behind. Facing Thedas' demons in combat was as far as he wished to go these days. But he didn't want to return to the Continent, or worse, abandon Ciri. He'd found joy in this strange cause, and in helping Geralt's daughter. He had friends here, a purpose. He had neither of those in his own world.

Rutherford and Cassandra wouldn't be satisfied if Minaeve or Triss or Solas agreed. He was the one they mistrusted, the one they feared in the back of their minds. Nothing, save this Harrowing, would put them at ease.

So as Minaeve drew a shaky breath and began to raise her hand, he cut across her, speaking out in the still room.

"I'll do it."