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Olgierd loitered near the tavern, eyes on his borrowed book. He'd read the same paragraph three times now, unable to focus on the words on the page, but the appearance of reading kept people away as the hour of his Harrowing drew nearer. Everyone and their mother had an opinion on his choice. He'd spoken to the people who mattered. Now all he wanted was a bit of space before the time came.

Ciri had apologized profusely in private for not being able to overrule them, even with Josephine on her side. He understood and told her no apology was necessary. There were apparently limits to her influence, even with this lot. And clever Josephine with her heart of gold – she looked so upset when Olgierd volunteered. She'd thrown herself back into her work, and had spent the past few days being uncharacteristically snappish with Cassandra and Rutherford.

The Zerrikanian woman turned out to be First Enchanter Vivienne, the woman Ciri had been so wary of after the Orlesian salon. Olgierd could see why; she was every inch a sorceress of the Continent in bearing, power, and attitude. Currently, however, she was his greatest ally. Under her direction, the chantry dungeon was scoured clean, and she personally inspected and interviewed the Inquisition's Templars for suitability to determine who would stand watch while his mind wandered the Fade.

"It cannot be Knight-Lieutenant Owain or his associates," Vivienne had explained the day before as they looked over the training field. "The three of them are most decidedly former Templars. Not to mention friends of yours. And the Commander is unacceptable. He distrusts you and might swing his blade prematurely – not consciously, but fear is a powerful thing. No, we need someone steady, capable of independent thought but also of following orders. A difficult task for a Templar."

Then there was the matter of the lyrium. Evelyn warned him that the dose at the Harrowing would hit like a sledgehammer and leave him woozy for hours after. Olgierd suspected it would be worse for him. He'd not taken lyrium before. The strongest thing he'd ever had was the potent bottle of spirits Stjepan kept behind the bar at the Alchemy in Oxenfurt. From the sound of it, the Harrowing would require a great deal of lyrium – no mean feat to find when the Templars here were already stretched thin.

He flipped the page to an illustration of the Minanter River, a long, sinuous line that coiled and curved its way along the top of the Free Marches and into Nevarra, finally trailing off in Tevinter. Josephine had been curious about his interest in Thedosian geography, and she had gladly pointed out the towns his parents were purported to come from thanks to her hard work. Hunter Fell, she'd said, and Denerim.

He told her he was interested in seeing the scope of things, in acquainting himself with the lands the Inquisition might be called upon to help. Truth, but not the whole of it. A small, impractical part of him wished to know the names of the mountains and the rivers, of the towns and the forests. The songs of the Continent were too foreign to this land. He wanted to keep a part of his old life with him, even if the names needed to be changed.

A distant voice rose beyond the gate, and he looked up from the book. Whoever it was, they sounded beyond enraged. He tucked the book beneath his arm and began walking in that direction.

The indistinct shouting grew clearer the closer he drew. He pushed open the gate to find Rona yelling at Rutherford, the Tranquil mage from Redcliffe standing placidly by her side. Cassandra, Owain, and Raúl watched by the training dummies, ready to jump between them. Evelyn peeked out of the healing tent, eyes wide. Farther up the path, he spotted a group of people walking with long staves slung across their backs – the mages from the Witchwood.

"–Up your ass sideways! Who looks at letters and thinks it's worth fucking a boy's life over for? Look at him, Commander! The Order stole Clemence!"

"I have not been stolen," Clemence said in an even voice. "Please stop shouting at the Templar, ser. I would prefer it if you did not anger him."

Rona whirled around, and Olgierd glimpsed tears in her eyes as he walked closer. "Clemence – Clemence, don't you recognize me? It's Rona – your little sister."

Clemence looked at her with impassive eyes. "I remember having a sister. Rona. You were much smaller before."

She let out a choked, wet laugh, and reached for him, jerking her hand back at the last moment. "You stopped writing," she whispered. "I joined the Templars to find you."

"I prefer not to interact with Templars," Clemence said blandly. "They are often rude and unkind."

"No, no, I left the Order! Fuck them!" Rona cried. She reached out again with a muttered, "Fuck it," and grabbed her brother in a tight hug that he didn't return, arms slack at his sides. She pulled back and cradled his face in her hands, staring into his eyes. "Who did this to you?"

"The Order forbids us to speak of the Rite of Tranquility."

"Damn the Order! Who hurt you?"

"I am unharmed, Rona."

"That's a fucking lie, but it's not your fault." She turned back to Rutherford, tears streaming down her face, and snarled, "If I ever find out who did this to my brother, they're dead."

"Any Templar who wielded the brand was only following orders as laid out by Chantry law," Rutherford replied, but it was clear his heart wasn't in the argument. He seemed pained as he looked at the siblings, so alike in appearance, so drastically different in temperament.

If Clemence hadn't been made Tranquil, would he be as sarcastic and foul-mouthed as his sister? What had he been like before his mind had been sundered?

"Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?" Rona shot back. "Chantry law is wrong. Were you just sleepwalking through Kirkwall, or did Meredith keep you up at night with –"

Rutherford paled, two red spots of anger high on his cheeks. He opened his mouth to reply, and an Orlesian voice cut them both off.

"My, what a fascinating welcome. Monsieur Olgierd, it's a pleasure to see you again."

Rutherfod and Rona broke off from their argument, looking first to Letia at the head of her small delegation, and then to Olgierd as soon as they heard his name. Rutherfod looked away as he caught sight of Olgierd, something akin to shame crossing his face. A part of him was viciously pleased to see it. He may have volunteered, but he'd been backed into it – and he knew Rutherford and Cassandra had argued for it.

Olgierd stepped forward. "Well met. You've caught us at an inconvenient time, but you're welcome nonetheless. I'm sure a scout can give you a tour of Haven if you've ten minutes to spare, and the quartermaster can set you up with tents."

Rutherford cleared his throat. "I can give you that tour. You're Senior Enchanter Letia, correct? First Enchanter Vivienne spoke highly of you. And these must be your fellow mages from the Witchwood."

"Vivienne is here?" Letia smiled. "I haven't had a proper debate in ages."

"Follow me, please," Rutherford said, and he led the mages off, pointing to the healing tent and the training field as they went.

Rona eyed Olgierd for a moment. "Who sent my brother here? Who found him?"

"Triss found him," Olgierd told her. "Ciri told him to come."

Rona nodded. "I'll have to thank them both."

She had no idea what a narrow escape Clemence had. If she'd seen the shed with the skulls, if she'd read the letter, she might march to Redcliffe to tear the Venatori from the castle with her bare hands.

"They'll be glad to know you've reunited," he said.

Rona gripped her brother's sleeve, as if afraid he might disappear on her. "It's not what I wanted. But it's what I have. No one's taking him away from me again."

"Olgierd," Vivienne called out from behind him, and he turned to see her standing by the gate with an Inquisition soldier, hands folded in front of her. "It's time."

He nodded. "Be right there."

"Hey," Rona said. "Good luck." Beneath her lingering anger and the sheen of tears, he saw genuine concern.

"My thanks."

Owain called his name from where he stood by the training dummies. Olgierd looked over, and he and Raúl both thumped their right fists over their hearts. Cassandra hesitated but nodded shortly.

"Are you prepared?" Vivienne asked once he joined her. "There's no shame in needing a moment to collect yourself."

Olgierd shook his head, shoving down his unease. "I doubt I'll be any more prepared should we dither. Best we get to it."

"I suspected you were a man of action," she said approvingly. "Good. Hold on to that. Find what motivates you and let it propel you through to the other side."

"She's not technically supposed to give you advice, but it's vague enough that I don't see a problem," the soldier said. He had a strong accent that reminded Olgierd of the dwarves of the Continent, and unusual tattoos – thick, slightly curved black lines that ran down his chin and the side of his nose.

"Meet Knight-Captain Rylen," Vivienne said as they began to walk back to the chantry. She gestured to the Templar with a graceful flip of her hand. "He'll be providing the necessary Templar presence for your Harrowing."

"Bit of a shit show, this, but when the Chantry barks, we jump to obey," Knight-Captain Rylen opined. "I hear it's your first time using lyrium?"

Olgierd patted the hilt of his saber. "I've no need for it when I have my blade at hand."

"Makes sense. Then I won't assume the worst has happened if you take longer than usual."

"I told you I'd find an intelligent one," Vivienne said. "Not to worry, darling. I have everything in hand."

Rylen laughed under his breath and shot Olgierd a rueful look. "Forgive me if I don't get too friendly before it's over."

"Easily done," Olgierd said.

He understood the Templar's reluctance. The man would be holding a blade over him in a few minutes, waiting to see if he came back possessed. He didn't blame Rylen for wanting to spare himself the heartache of having to kill someone he liked if this went wrong.

Ciri almost ran him over as he entered the chantry, so caught up in her anxious pacing she hardly noticed the door open.

"Olgierd!" She stopped abruptly, eyes wide and anxious. He could see her struggling to find the right words, her lips parting slightly and then pressing together, her marked hand clenched at her side.

He tipped her chin up with a finger, looking down into her vivid green eyes. "Stop blaming yourself for this. I made my choice, and that's on me, and me alone."

"Ugh, why couldn't you have been awful like I expected?" She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes and glared at him. "Come back alive, do you hear me?"

"Who am I to deny a friend a request?" He handed her Josephine's book, then reached for his belt and untied the knots holding his scabbard in place, handing his saber over as well. "For safekeeping. I'll be back for these."

He staggered as she threw herself into his arms, the hilt of his sword and the spine of the book digging into his back. His mind went blank for a moment, then he remembered what his arms were supposed to do and he folded them around her carefully.

"I'll be right here, holding onto them. I'll be the first thing you see when you come back," she said fiercely.

Vivienne spoke up, projecting calm and reassurance. "Lady Ciri, I have personally overseen dozens of Harrowings as First Enchanter. No apprentice has ever failed under my watch. I will not let this be the first."

Ciri drew back and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Enchanter Vivienne. I appreciate all you've done for us."

"Not to rush this, but time is wasting," Rylen said quietly.

Olgierd reached out and tapped the hilt of his saber. "I'll be back, Ciri. Never you fear."

He had to remind himself not to look back at Ciri as he followed Rylen farther into the chantry. The clerics were conspicuous in the pains they took not to stare, but they seemed unaware that their whispers carried in a building like this. Josephine stuck her head around the door of her office, worry written across her lovely face.

"I'll be fine," he assured her. "Perhaps you might see fit to keep Ciri company while she waits?"

"It would be better than staring at my paperwork and fretting," Josephine said. She came closer and pressed something soft into his hand. "For luck."

He looked down as she walked away. Tucked into his rough hand was a square of finely woven white silk edged in deep blue. In the corner, embroidered in gold thread, three initials shone up at him: JCM. His heart gave a complicated twist he wasn't prepared to think too closely on, and he gently folded it into a smaller square to tuck up his sleeve.

"Chevaliers of Orlais rarely venture into battle without a token or a favor from a sweetheart tied beneath their armor," Vivienne told him.

"I'm no chevalier, Enchanter."

"Yet the ambassador has armed you for battle nonetheless."

The air grew cold as they descended the steps to the dungeon. The hanging lanterns threw dark shadows along the stone hallway. Olgierd rubbed his hands together briskly as the chill began to set in. No one awaited them down here, no guards, no prisoners, no Templars. The three of them were the only witnesses to the obscene Chantry ritual he was about to embark upon.

Vivienne led him to a stone bowl in the center of the dungeon placed carefully on two stacked crates. He leaned over to see a shining blue liquid the color of the summer sky within, filling it to almost two-thirds capacity.

"Ordinarily there's a font inscribed with runes to facilitate the transfer," Vivienne said. "We had to make do."

"Where did all this come from?" he asked. He'd thought the Templars were stretched thin.

"I'm quitting after today. That freed up some of the inventory." Rylen shook his head. "If I'm forgetting people from my own Circle, then I don't have long before there's no fixing it."

Oh, Merigold, what did you do?

"My condolences, Knight-Captain," Vivienne said. "A Templar's sacrifice does not go unappreciated." Rylen stepped back, and she turned her attention to Olgierd.

"This part will be simple enough," she said. "You'll place your hand in the bowl, and I will cast a sleep spell on you. The magic will draw the lyrium into your skin. You need not worry about falling. Knight-Captain Rylen will catch you."

"And once I'm asleep?" he asked. His heart began to beat faster. He'd never been in the demonic plane before. His dreams here had been pleasant, but the demons the rifts spat out were monstrous.

And Mihris' story of Imshael bore ugly parallels to his own idiotic choices.

"Then you must trust your own mind, and nothing else," she said. "Are you ready?"

He plunged his hand into the slick blue liquid. A strange lassitude washed over him, and before his tired eyes, the blue crawled up his wrist and sank beneath his skin.

His heart jumped. His skin prickled. His head pounded. He fell backward, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

He opened them in the overgrown courtyard of his estate, a hairy black spider the size of a hound bearing down on him on skittering legs. He reached for his sword and swore as his hand grasped air.

Ciri had rarely felt so useless as she did watching Olgierd walk away while clutching his book in one hand and his saber in the other. All that talk about her being their "Hand of the Maker" and in the end, it was good for precisely nothing. She couldn't even protect her own friends from the Chantry's meddling when they decided to throw their weight around – and it was her bull-headed choice to ignore the Chantry's warnings that got them into this situation in the first place.

He stopped to exchange brief words with Josephine as she looked on, and she squinted, trying to make out what the ambassador had given him. Whatever it was, it seemed to affect him. Then he was gone, down the steps to the dungeon.

Josephine came to her side and offered her a gentle smile, her eyes filled with concern. "Messere Olgierd suggested that I wait with you, but I was hoping you might keep me company as well. I keep trying to focus on my work, but –" She shrugged helplessly.

"I hadn't realized you were so close," Ciri said.

"I wouldn't say we're close," Josephine started to deny, then sighed. "He is a friend. I admit I found his appearance intimidating when we first met, but he has been nothing but kind and thoughtful, and a true pleasure to speak with. After a time, I just saw...him."

Josephine was better than Ciri, then. She couldn't help noticing the scars, though they didn't bother her.

"What did you give him?" she asked. "I saw you pass him something."

A faint blush rose on Josephine's cheeks. "Nothing. Just a small token to see him through his trial."

Oh. "You know that –"

"He still mourns. I know," Josephine said. She gave Ciri a brave little smile and changed the subject. "May I ask – the story you told of your parents turned out to be real. The rumors of Olgierd, are any of them true? Would he mind if you told me?"

"I don't believe he'd mind, though I'll avoid details," Ciri said. "He comes from a noble family. They were –" raiders. "– eccentrics. He truly is the last of his line."

Josephine nodded and fell silent, and they both turned their attention to the darkened stairwell leading to the dungeon. Not a sound emerged. Nothing stirred within.

"It's only been a few minutes," Ciri said, half to Josephine, half as a reminder to herself.

"It will be fine." Josephine took a steadying breath. "Everything will be fine."

A chill breeze blew through the chantry, and Ciri turned to see who'd opened the door. Triss and Evelyn waved and walked over.

"So this is our big plan for the day?" Triss said with forced cheer. "Stand around and stare at the stairs?"

Ciri shrugged. "Do you have a better plan?"

"No." Triss sobered a little. "I would have left if he hadn't…. I owe him. I couldn't have stayed, even for you."

"You would have been welcome at my parents' estate," Evelyn said. "But Triss, it's not as bad as you fear. The Templars who abused their power aren't anywhere near Haven, and the Harrowing isn't a punishment."

Triss gave her a long, measured look. "I'm sure you believe that. But I'll never let the Ch – the Chantry get their hands on me. I know better than to trust a religion that blames mages for the world's problems."

"That's fair," Evelyn admitted. "My own experiences in the Ostwick Circle were far better than most."

"And I'm happy for you," Triss said. "It's never easy to learn what evils men are capable of."

"If ever I can do anything to help you feel more at ease within the Inquisition, Serah Merigold, do let me know," Josephine interjected. "Please don't hesitate to tell me if one of the Templars poses a problem."

"I'll keep it in mind," Triss said. "And you can call me Triss, Ambassador."

"Oh, then please feel free to call me Josephine."

Evelyn looked around the chantry, her eyes lingering on the small clusters of clerics pretending not to be paying attention to them, and declared, "We'll be here a while. There's no sense in standing. Triss, will you lend me a hand?"

"Of course."

Evelyn led her off to one of the alcoves, and they returned dragging a long, heavy bench. All eyes turned in their direction as it scraped loudly against the stone floor. Triss gave it a final screeching shove and sat on the end.

"Come on," she said, patting the bench. "You're not doing yourself any favors standing around worrying."

Ciri sat heavily beside her, resting Olgierd's saber across her knees. Josephine took the seat next to her, folding her hands in her lap and crossing her legs at the ankles, the picture of elegance. Evelyn sat last, laying her satchel of medicine in her lap.

"Have patience," Evelyn said calmly. "Harrowings take time."

She didn't want to have patience. She wanted to shake Cullen and Cassandra until their teeth rattled, shout at Chancellor Roderick and Mother Giselle until she ran out of breath, tear down the Grand Cathedral to its foundation, take Leliana up on her suggestion of assassination. She wanted to step back in time to that night in the Witchwood and tell the mages to go anywhere but the Inquisition.

She wanted to be selfish.

The door to the chantry opened again and Cullen entered, leading a gaggle of familiar mages. He froze when he spotted the four of them sitting there, averting his eyes swiftly with a look of discomfort on his face. Letia walked around him and smiled.

"Ah, our apostate friends," she said, greeting Ciri and Triss. "And friends of our friends. I am Letia, former senior enchanter of the Ghislain Circle. These are my fellow mages." She waved to the people behind her and introduced them. They all raised a hand or nodded as their name was called.

"Monsieur Olgierd mentioned that we came at an awkward time – I hope we aren't causing too much of an imposition," she continued. "Where is he?"

"In the dungeon," Ciri said shortly. It wasn't the Witchwood mages' fault, but she couldn't help her anger. Had Ciri not recruited them, none of this would have happened. "Being Harrowed."

Melora, the angry elf who'd protested leaving Levyn behind, scoffed. "We're never good enough for them, are we?"

"Peace, Melora," Letia said. She scrutinized Ciri and nodded to herself. "I see. They couldn't let it pass without consequence. I apologize for causing you trouble."

"It's not your fault the Chantry is full of overbearing, fearful bigots," Triss said. "They probably think they were doing us a favor."

"Some favor," Melora muttered.

Letia looked at the bench, then at the shadowed steps down to the dungeon. "You're waiting on his return? We shall join you. Osanna, Symon, find another bench, will you?"

Two of the mages nodded and split from the group. Letia sat at the far end of the bench, smoothing the skirts of her robe over her lap. "I assume Vivienne is overseeing things below?"

Ciri opened her mouth to reply, and a screech of wood across stone interrupted her. Then it cut off, and she turned to see Cullen motioning for Osanna to help Symon at one end, and he lifted the other, helping them to carry it over.

"Yes," Ciri said, tensing as Cullen came closer. The bench dropped with a quiet clatter, and Cullen walked over.

"Lady Ciri," he began. His hesitant expression made her anger surge.

"I have nothing to say to you until I see that my friend is safe," she said coldly.

"I did as I thought was best," he said in a low voice. "It's the duty of a Templar to protect against unknown and dangerous magic. Sometimes that means we must make difficult decisions."

Evelyn looked up at him. "I thought you left the Templars."

In the face of her earnestness, he faltered. "I did. But some things aren't so easily left behind."

"My brother believes it's a Templar's duty to protect mages," Evelyn told him. "Perhaps you might find that easier to live with."

"Perhaps," Cullen echoed.

Evelyn dug into her satchel and brought out a little stoppered bottle. She held it out to him with a small smile. He looked at it for a long moment, then took it, shoulders sagging. "Thank you," he said softly.

Evelyn's smile was radiant.

"There are others who might want to be here, Commander," Josephine said. "The Trevelyan brothers and the former Markham Templars, Messeres Tethras and Solas. Possibly Cassandra."

Cullen took the hint. "I'll let them know."

Ciri didn't watch him leave. Her eyes were on the stairwell, looking for any hint of movement, any clue that it was over.

Nothing.

Triss wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Josephine took her hand.

"Everything will be fine," Josephine said again.

Right. Everything will be fine.

Olgierd limped down the carpeted hall of his memories, one hand clutching a fireplace poker and the other alight with flame. The dog-sized spiders had been aggressive but simple-minded, and he burned them to ash on the front step with little trouble. But with each room he wandered through, his heart grew heavier.

Paintings on the wall, done by a hand he'd never see again. Books he'd read until his eyes ached. A table set for two. A bed, half-made, and a deep violet rose on the bedside table.

He'd thought himself prepared. Nothing could have readied him for this. Solas had understated things when he said the Fade reflected memories. He kept seeing movement in the corner of his eye, kept turning and desperately hoping, heart rising in his chest –

No. She was never there.

The Fade hadn't been cruel enough to recreate his father-in-law's corpse in the cellar, though the spectral hounds that mauled his leg were a nice, violent touch. Oh, Iris, it was an accident, I was too forceful. I pray you forgave me by the end. He extinguished the fire in his hand and reached for the door of the sitting room at the end of the hall.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

Olgierd shut his eyes. No.

"Vlod."

"In the flesh, brother!" the hauntingly familiar voice said cheerfully. "Now turn around and greet me properly."

Slowly, reluctantly, Olgierd turned from the door, hope and dread warring in his chest. What manner of spirit had stolen his brother's voice? What demon waited behind him?

Vlodimir's roguish grin lit up the hallway. "My damned dearest brother!" he cried, throwing open his arms. "Come here!"

The spirit looked just as Vlodimir had the last day they'd ridden out together, young and sturdy and blessedly whole, saber at his side and lank thatch of brown hair falling across his brow.

"Are you a spirit or a demon?" Olgierd asked hoarsely. He gripped the poker tightly.

The spirit's arms dropped, and he – it – frowned. "Well now, that's a difficult question to answer."

"Try."

"Picture it," the spirit said. "There I was, a humble desire demon, not a care in the world save beautifying the nights of the dreamers of Ostwick, when out of nowhere, you come along. All those memories of places and people I'd never seen anywhere in the Fade – I couldn't help coming in for a look. And someone needed to play the part of your brother in your dreams. Can I help that I liked the role?"

"A demon, then," Olgierd concluded. It would hurt to see even this false image of Vlodimir die, but he'd do it if he had to.

"Nay, not at all," the demon denied. "I was a desire demon. All those beautiful, terrible memories made me something else, something more. Something...adventurous. Every memory you possess of old Vlodimir is packed in here." It pointed at its stolen head. "Every dream you've had of your brother since coming here, that's been me." It gave Olgierd an expectant look. "You have enjoyed your dreams, haven't you?"

Olgierd swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. "More than you can possibly know."

The demon, the spirit, beamed. "Ah, that's good. Dour doesn't suit you. I've seen your memories. I know there's a man in there who laughs and dances and revels with the best of them."

From behind the sitting room door, a voice roared in anger. It struck him as familiar, but he wasn't sure quite how.

"Ignore it," the spirit said.

Olgierd couldn't help looking past the spirit down the darkened hallway. It would be too much to hope to see her again, and even as he had the thought he hated himself for it. This cold, grim manor was no place for Iris, not even for a pale imitation of her.

"She's not coming," the spirit said as if reading his mind. "A Harrowing is too hard for a spirit of creativity. And she's just a spirit, Olgierd. She's not Iris. You must let her go."

He looked away, unwilling to face the sympathy in the spirit's borrowed eyes. His hand drifted unbidden to his sleeve, where a square of silk lay tucked beneath in the physical world.

"Did she know?" he asked. His quiet question was almost drowned out by the roar of the being behind the door. "Did she know I loved her?"

"You know the answer to that, brother."

Olgierd nodded tightly and turned back to the sitting room door. "I take it this is my exit."

"Yes and no," the spirit said. "There's a rage demon behind that door. A mage summoned him here to fight you, offered him the same chance any demon gets at a Harrowing. But there's also an element of chicanery. A helpful spirit, meant to lure and trick a prospective mage."

Olgierd raised an eyebrow at the spirit, who grinned. "Not very tricky of you, telling me this."

"I may have taken another's place," the spirit confessed. "So here's my part in it: care to let me possess you? We'd make a brilliant team, you and I, for the two seconds before yon Templar kills us."

"Not a chance," Olgierd told him, startled into laughter.

"Sod it. Ah well. Go, be brave, face your demon. Do the von Everec name proud." The spirit held out his saber. "And for fuck's sake, brother, learn to conjure a sword in your dreams. That poker is just pathetic."

Olgierd laughed again and took the saber. He hesitated, then gripped the spirit by the shoulder. "My apologies," he said to Vlodimir. "I was a fool. Forgive me?"

The spirit clasped the hand gripping his shoulder. "He would have forgiven you anything," he said sincerely.

Olgierd nodded and whirled around, pushing open the door and striding through.

Another roar shook the room, and a figure lurched from the shadows on unsteady feet, dripping ichor and embers. Olgierd stared, then raised his borrowed saber as a warped vision of himself came into view. He smiled grimly.

How many men have the privilege of killing their own worst enemy?

The demon lunged for him with clawed hands. He parried the blow, flinching as sparks of flame flew off the sword and into his face. The demon struck again as Olgierd staggered back. The claws scored deep into his arm, five points of searing hot pain.

He regained his footing and lashed out, carving into the demon's side. It roared in agony with his voice, reaching for him once more. Not this time. He pressed the advantage, saber flicking out again and again. The demon bled ichor and fire in equal measure, turning the carpet black and green beneath their feet.

It collapsed to its knees, spent and bleeding. Olgierd raised the saber a final time and let the blade fly, sending the demon's unnervingly familiar head toppling to the ruined carpet.

Was this what Iris saw in me in the end? He knew it was merely a demon, but all of this – the battle, the manor, Vlodimir's mimic – felt like the Fade was holding up a mirror to his own darkness.

Let it die. Let me be a better man.

The strange lassitude washed over him again. The spirit's saber dropped from his hand as his eyes slipped closed and he was tugged back to the waking world.

Two hands, one large and callused, the other slender and smooth, gripped his own and hauled him from the floor. He swayed on his feet, head a muddled, pounding mess. Knight-Captain Rylen peered into his eyes and nodded briskly.

"Aye, you're fine. Well done."

"Congratulations, Olgierd," Vivienne said warmly. "Allow me to be the first to welcome you to our ranks."

"Forgive me for not showing the proper enthusiasm," he muttered. "I'm in sore need of honest sleep."

"A sentiment most new mages express after a Harrowing," Vivienne said. "Come, let's get you upstairs. I believe we're quite done here. Knight-Captain?"

"No arguments here."

Olgierd took a wobbly step and began to teeter dangerously. Rylen caught him and slung one of Olgierd's arms over his shoulders.

"Easy there, ser," Rylen said. "Follow the First Enchanter. Nice and slow."

With Rylen's assistance, he followed Vivienne, leaving the dungeon and stumbling up the stairs. Cries of relief greeted him as he crested the final step.

"Olgierd!"

Ciri tucked herself under his other arm, taking his weight easily. "Was it very difficult?" she asked anxiously. "Evelyn said it wasn't that bad, but we couldn't be sure."

He gave her a tired smile. "Didn't I tell you that you needn't fuss?"

"Didn't I say I'd fuss if I like?"

He looked up, exhaustion making the room swim. It seemed crowded, far more so than he'd expect for a typical chantry service. And not the usual chantrygoers, either. Familiar faces, all, from Triss to the Trevelyans to the Witchwood mages. Even Solas, Varric, and Cassandra were there.

"They came for you," a soft voice said. He looked down to see a blurry Josephine standing at his elbow. "Oh, Messere Olgierd, you look exhausted."

He blinked at her. Had there been two of Josephine before? "Don't worry, dove," he assured both of her. "I'm very hard to kill."

Ciri's voice was muffled as if she were speaking underwater. "Put him on my bed. Let him sleep, the poor man. He deserves it."

He closed his eyes, and the world disappeared.