"Join us, brothers and sisters.

Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.

Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn.

And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.

And that one day we shall join you."

It felt wrong to be here, to stand in the hallways of his childhood friend's home and act as it belonged to him now that his father had forcefully taken it—had killed people that had welcomed them into their home, had killed people that had called him a friend—and hung their bodies like gruesome trophies along the outer walls as a silent and brutal warning to the common people of Highever.

Thomas hated it, hated the evidence of what his father had done—had become—hated the look of triumph in his father's eyes when he proclaimed Highever as theirs—it wasn't theirs, would never be theirs, Thomas wanted no part of this, and Highever's people would never stand by and allow this to go on.

Father had already begun to call himself Teyrn Howe like it was his right, like Fergus wasn't still alive, like Cait, Bran and Kenna weren't still alive—and they had to be alive, she had to be alive, because if they weren't, if she wasn't, then Father had killed them, had killed her, and oh Maker, he didn't know how he could live with that knowledge, could barely live with that he already knew that Father had done.

Axes had been taken to the circle of roots that sealed shut the main doors to the great hall and had been reluctantly been left alone when the axes had barely taken a few chunks out—to Father's displeasure.

Father's triumph had already begun to wane, especially when they finally got the vault open.

There was only a small fortune in the vault, a pittance to what should be there, and Father's howl of fury was something Thomas believed he would treasure for the rest of his life.

It was the first solid clue that they—or at least some of them—had known, had planned for Father's attack and Thomas felt painful, wrecked, hope well in his chest.

Davia Cadash had managed to trap her room before she disappeared—perhaps locked up with the rest of her kin at the compound—and Father lost the handful of soldiers he had sent to strip her room.

Another clue that they had some warning as Caitlyn's room was stripped from anything important and there were no records or anything in her study.

Several rare and expensive tomes had been taken from the library, the whole collection of Cousland journals had likewise been taken, and there was no logbooks or records in Bryce Cousland's former study.

More proof that they had some warning, that Kenna and the others had prepared themselves for the attack and leaving the castle.

It was what brought him here, to Kenna's room.

At first glance, it seemed like someone had ransacked the room in a hurry. But with another glance? With someone familiar with Kenna's room?

Kenna's rare books were gone, her favourite carvings by Bran was also gone, the small collection of her jewellery had been hidden somewhere and all her weapons were also gone.

She had known, had hidden all things she deemed important, and for the first time since he first stepped foot in Castle Cousland's bloody halls, Thomas felt like he could breathe.

There was a coldness lodged deep in Caitlyn's heart, a cold rage—a rage that was so cold that it burned—and heavy grief, and guilt lingered on her tongue and tasted like blood—her father's blood, she sometimes thought to herself.

Kenna blamed herself, felt the guilt as if it were only hers, but Kenna had been four when she started to dream, four and afraid, so afraid.

It wasn't her fault that she couldn't tell their parents, that the fear and horror stole her words and made her flinch away from the parents that should have been able to soothe her, trapping the words deep in her throat and unable the speak of the truth of their bloodstained future.

To speak of betrayal, of war and death, so much death, and blood of family, friends and foes.

Cait and Fergus had been older, they should have told their parents, should have trusted them with what Kenna was seeing every night, but they didn't—the call for the Templars, for a mage, it had spooked them, had damaged the trust they held in their parents when it came to protecting Kenna, in keeping her safe and with them.

(Cait didn't think the trust ever recovered.

Fergus and Cait closed ranks around Kenna, Kenna turned ever more to them and away from their parents, and for reasons of their own, their parents allowed it to happen.

And now it was too late for regrets, to ask questions, to get answers.

They were dead, gone, Fergus was out of reach for now, and Cait still needed to look after Kenna, still needed to keep her safe.

Because that had been the core of her since Kenna was four, crying and so afraid, and only allowed Cait to cradle her, to hold her tight and soothe her.)

If anyone should feel guilty in not saying anything, in not attempting to warn them early, it should be Cait and Fergus as they were older, they should have known better—they had known better, but they hadn't trusted them to listen, to believe, and their deaths could rest of Cait and Fergus' shoulders as much as Howe because of this.

Bran, of course, carried his own type of guilt.

He believed his uncertainty had stopped their parents from seriously considering their words, their warning, but he was also angry and like the sea, he lashed out when angry.

Lashed out at Kenna when she said too much in her emotional turmoil, lashed out at Ciarron Amell—the man that Kenna convinced he would one day love, something he was brooding terribly about whenever he lay eyes on the man—when he offered to heal, to soothe their physical pain when they were more reeling from their emotional pain than any physical wound.

Sirena Tabris, all golden eyes and feline grace, watched it all with a considering gaze, quietly noting everything that made them tick, made them lash out, as she snarked—Caitlyn refused to acknowledge the spark of gratitude and warmth that briefly surfaced when Sirena had successfully dragged Kenna into the here and now, and into a snarky joke.

Caitlyn didn't want to feel those things towards the Wardens around her, to Sirena that said nothing as her Commander emotionally blackmailed their dying father into giving his approval as he hung their safety from Howe over him without mercy, without care, and with such infuriating calm.

A calm she had yet to witness be broken as they travelled, a calm that she loathed and yet at the same time, she grudgingly admired his constant state of calm, of being untouchable by everyone around him, to keep focused on his duty even at the cost of being branded the monster, the villain of the story.

Not in the same vein as Howe would be, but Duncan would never be considered a hero to the Cousland siblings, would never have their gratitude or trust, and he seemed completely at ease with that—Cait didn't know if she found that impressive or not, perhaps she only found it disquieting.

Finally getting to Ostagar brought both relief and uncertainty, even fear, as Cait knew this was it.

Fergus was gone, would return to Highever without them knowing.

Bran was to become a Grey Warden, was going to fight the Blight as the country attempted to tear itself apart in fear and anger and blame.

Cait would have to stand before her people, scarred and dirty from travel, and announce that Highever had fallen due to betrayal, it had been taken and she was acting Teyrna until Fergus returned and could be told—though he already knew, had known from the moment he rode out that he would be returning as Teyrn.

Kenna would stand beside her, Highever's very public heir—with Oren hidden and safe in Lowever—and would stand beside Bran against the Blight.

Caitlyn almost felt like she had to swallow bile as they stepped into the ruins.

"Ho there, Duncan!" a familiar voice cut through Duncan's monologue about Ostagar, and Bran stiffened beside her.

"King Cailan," Duncan greeted back, a note of surprise in his tone. "I didn't expect—"

"A royal welcome?" Cailan interrupted wryly, a smile curling his lips and looking very golden in his magnificence golden-coloured armour. "When the scouts spotted your party, how could I resist coming to welcome your newest recruits personally?"

Cait could pinpoint the exact moment that Cailan spotted them, the moment he turned away from Duncan with a half-formed welcoming smile already pulling at his lips that froze as his grey eyes widened.

"Bran?" shocked confusion and a hint of disbelief was audible and only deepened when Cailan's gaze flickered to Cait, Kenna, Rosina, Lileas and Shadow. "Lady Caitlyn? Kenna? What are you doing here? Your father—" a ripple of pained grief must have flashed over their faces as Cailan's eyes widened even more, before narrowing and becoming shadowed. "What happened."

It was a demand, a command, a royal command at that, not a question, not a request.

Cailan's normally jovial voice had hardened, rang with regal authority and firmly reminded them all that he was a King, had been raised to be King, and no matter how gentle or kind he portrayed himself, he would always be a King with the mantle of authority hanging around him and a hardness that ruling instilled in him.

Not the pretty fool that others would paint him as, no, he was showing his colours as the man that Anora proudly called her partner, her King and husband.

"We were betrayed, Cailan," Bran spoke, familiarity still clinging to him despite the fact their relationship ended firmly five years ago. "Howe betrayed us, our parents are dead, and Howe has taken Highever for himself."

Fury blazed in grey eyes, settling hard on Cailan's face—Caitlyn wondered if his father looked like that during the rebellion.

"And the bastard believed he would get away with this?" Cailan asked in disbelief, enraged, and disgusted at the same time.

"With all of us dead, I'm sure he believed he could convince you with whatever story he had come up with to excuse his crimes," Cait told him with a disgusted twist to her lips, and Cailan sneered.

"Like I would have believed a single word he said," Cailan scoffed.

Caitlyn agreed with him, with the disgust filled disbelief in his scoff.

Cailan would never have believed whatever story Howe had come up with, whatever justification he had figured out, not when it came to Bran and especially not when it came to Bran's death.

Even if others counselled him to accept Howe's excuses, to pardon his crime against his long-time allies and friend, to let his betrayal fade into history and let him take his ill-gotten reward, Cailan would have ignored them, would have shown Howe no mercy.

Because despite being married, despite their relationship being over for five years, Cailan still loved Bran and would never have mercy on whoever killed him or arranged for his death.

He would not have accepted Howe's excuses, his story, he would have gutted him where he stood, cut his lying tongue from his head, and Cailan wouldn't have thought twice about it—much like his father hadn't thought twice about killing the nobles that arranged for his mother's death.

"The Arl has always overestimated himself," Caitlyn informed the King, lips curling up on one side and settling into what she hoped was an icy smile.

"He'll die for this," Cailan promised them, promised Bran, eyes hard and focused solely on Bran. "As soon as we are finished here, I'll turn the full force of the army north and regain Highever for you, I'll have Howe hang for this."

"Can we have that in writing? A royal warrant for Howe's death?" Kenna asked and Bran's head snapped towards their younger sister, lips curling up in a snarl and blue eyes turning stormy.

"Of course," Cailan replied, the fury banked, a grim considering look on his face as he stared at Kenna that made Caitlyn pull her little sister into her side and made Shadow step closer with a hard look on his bronzed features. "I'll get to it after I have finished with Loghain."

Kenna bowed her head in thanks, sliding back half-a-step and further into the protective arch of Shadow's body.

"I'm sure you wish to speak to Fergus, to let him know," Cailan cleared his throat when his breath caught over his words. "But I'm afraid he's been sent out on a scouting mission, he's not due back till after the coming battle."

"We expected as much," Caitlyn informed him softly, "but we need to tell the Highever forces, they have to know."

"Of course," Cailan nodded sharply in understanding, turning, and gesturing to one of his guards. "Inform the Chantry Mothers that Acting-Teyrn Cousland—"

"Teyrna," Bran interrupted and Cailan glanced at him sharply, questioningly. "I've promised to join the Grey Wardens, Caitlyn will be servicing as Teyrna until Fergus returns."

"Acting-Teyrna Cousland would like to borrow their platform to address their forces," Cailan spoke smoothly, acting like Bran hadn't interrupted and only a frown of deepening confusion and worry to show that he had heard and didn't understand Bran's decision.

She very much doubted that Bran would inform Cailan of the real reason behind his Joining, would never break Cailan of his idealism of Duncan and the Grey Wardens.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Caitlyn bowed slightly as the guard saluted and almost rushed away, Cailan's other guards closing ranks slightly to cover the missing member.

"I would like to stay and talk more, express my sympathy more, but unfortunately Loghain is no doubt waiting impatiently for me to go over strategy again," Cailan grimaced after a glance towards the sky and a judge the position of the sun. "We will have to speak later."

"Of course," the three Couslands bowed towards their King.

Ostagar was teeming with people—human soldiers from all over, mabari hounds locked in kennels, mages and Templars, elven servants scurrying around and some dwarves—and the valley where most of the army was camped was a mass of colours and heraldries snapping in the breeze.

Duncan was the only Warden that had a tent in the main area of Ostagar, near the King's much larger tent, and it was there that he took Arian to so he could gather his strength—Sirena slunk off to find someone named Durinn, Ciarron was told to track down the other two recruits with detailed descriptions and Bran had been sent off to find a Warden named Alistair that niggled at Kenna in a way that said he was important and that she knew him.

The Revered Mother on the platform prolonged her pray and sermon long enough for them to quickly clean off the dirt of travel and re-do their hair—Kenna in her braid-crown, not so pinned down as she wasn't going to be wearing a helmet anytime soon, and Cait's in a rather simple braided bun—before the Mother stepped down with rigid and offended dignity.

Kenna almost sneered at the woman, all puffed up with self-importance and clinging to the supposed desires of an absent god, but she resisted the urge as she followed closely behind Cait up the wooden stairs and held the conch-shell horn close to her chest.

(Giles must have had the foresight to pack in her bag as Kenna did not remember packing it and Lileas had been as surprised as she was when she had pulled the gleaming shell from her pack.)

Her family's sword felt heavy on her waist as she went up the wooden stairs under the curious gaze of some of the surrounding soldiers as she and Cait took their place at the front of the platform and the others spread out behind—Shadow, Lileas and then Rosina.

Kenna glanced at her sister, watching Cait take a steadying breath as she straightened her shoulders and pulled down her veil of calm and control before she glanced back to Kenna and nodded, her scabbed-up lips curling in a small smile.

Kenna took a deep breath as she raised the horn to her lips and then she blew hard, a mournful sound left the conch-shell and echoed through the ruins and down into the valley.

It was prolonged and mournful sound that made her lungs ache when she dropped the horn from her lips, a mostly tuneless song of mourning and grief, a song that everyone that hailed from Highever should know and something no one wanted to hear.

There was a long beat of silence, muttering from the soldiers, and then another horn—another conch-shell—echoed the mournful song back.

Cait stood rigidly, regally, as she waited for the soldiers of Highever to march through the gates to the valley and stand before her.

Any sign of her grief, of her anger, had been tucked away, hidden underneath her mask of cool calm.

It was something that Kenna could not do herself.

Cait was arctic seas, so cold in her anger and vengeance that it burned, seeming calm but still deadly to the unwary.

Kenna was stormy seas, restless and merciless in her anger, destructive and violent.

It was why Cait was the Lady and Kenna was the warrior, because Cait was able to be calm and cool in her rage and plotting while Kenna was all rage and force.

(It was why she depended on Giles to lead the Little Birds because he could be cold and calculating when all Kenna wanted to do was rage, to rip and tear, and bloody her swords.

Lileas would be right beside her and Shadow would be right behind her, Asaaranda would patch them up while bitching them out and it would be up to Giles to make sure they did not kill themselves because of Kenna's rage.)

Kenna poured in all her rage, all her grief, in each loud blast of the horn, each note that informed people that Highever had fallen and the Teyrn was dead.

The flap of the tent was pulled back as the guard announced them.

"Lady Cousland, your Majesty," the guard said, and Kenna ducked her head as she entered the tent with Shadow and Lileas behind her.

"Excellent," Calian looked up from his small desk with a smile. "Please, leave us."

"Your Majesty," the guard protested making Calian just wave a hand.

"Leave us," Calian repeated firmly before glancing back at Shadow and Lileas. "Your companions too, please."

Shadow shifted and Lileas glanced at Kenna with raised eyebrows in question.

"It'll be fine," Kenna told them, Lileas nodded while Shadow's lips thinned. "Wait outside alright?"

"Of course, my Lady," Lileas bowed her head slightly as she placed a hand on Shadow's arm.

Kenna and Calian waited for a moment as the guards, Lileas and Shadow left the tent and the flap shut behind them.

"Take a seat," Calian smiled as he gestured to the lone seat before his desk and Kenna took it almost gingerly, unsure of just why Calian had requested her presence.

Of course, Bran wasn't there, still out in the Wilds and hunting down darkspawn and old records, and Cait had always been more Anora's friend than his.

Calian leaned back in his seat with a relieved sigh.

"It feels like years since I've been left alone," he mused as he poured them each a mug of what looked like ale.

"Well, you are the King," she reminded him, partly amused, partly grimacing as she took the mug—she had never really taken to wine or ale of any kind.

"Trust me, I can never forget that," Calian gave a rueful look to the paper filled desk before him. "You know the one thing they never really mention about ruling a kingdom? How much paperwork is involved in it all."

"That's why I'm glad that Cait is the Lady and I'm not," Kenna told him as she wrapped both hands around the metal mug.

"I think you would be a good leader," Calian informed her, staring at her thoughtfully. "You made an inspiring sight earlier."

"I thought you had a meeting with Teyrn Loghain?" she questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"We were both curious to witness the gathering of Highever," Calian shrugged almost idly. "It was inspiring—you and Cait both played to your strengths."

"My strength is fighting and killing people," Kenna informed him, firmly pushing down the memories that threatened to raise as just where she had proved herself so able a killing people. "Perhaps I'm good at inspiring people as you said, but Cait's the one that knows how to properly lead people, how to deal with politics and planning and all that."

"I think you give yourself too little credit," he informed her in return as he sipped at his ale. "I think you'll be a good leader one day."

"Perhaps when the world is ending around us," she snorted in dark amusement.

"Perhaps," Calian allowed with a curl of amusement to his lips before he plucked up a piece of folded parchment. "And speaking of paperwork, this is for you."

"Thank you," Kenna opened it, glancing over it.

A Royal warrant for Rendon Howe's death, signed by King Calian Therein of Ferelden and sealed by his personal sigil.

Some of the tension leaked out of her shoulders as she tucked in into the inner pocket of her jacket, but the tension came flooding back when she looked up and saw Calian's grey eyes focused on her, thoughtful and pondering, and as sharp as a knife to the heart.

"Most people," Calian said slowly, thoughtfully, "just accept my word when it comes to such actions, but you wanted proof in writing."

"Perhaps I'm just paranoid," she offered with a twist of her mouth, eyes flat and hard as she stared down her King. "Perhaps it makes me feel better to see it in writing."

She gave a light shrug, hoping it seemed idle.

"Perhaps," Calian agreed easily enough, but the sharpness in his gaze didn't lessen. "Perhaps I could believe that if I didn't know Bran."

Well, shit.

(Part of her winced as if such a thought would summon Nan upon her and with a bar of soap or something in hand for daring to think so filth.)

"Bran and I did talk, you know," Calian continued almost idly. "Sometimes our talk turned to our family."

Kenna stiffened, could feel her spine being replaced by steel and iron, and her eyes shuttered, flat and hard and emotionless as she could make them as she stared at the man across her.

Her gaze wasn't cold, no. Chilly gazes filled with ice was Cait's thing, not Kenna's.

Kenna's eyes may have gone hard and flat, but they still burned, burned with repressed emotions.

They weren't eyes she should turn on her King, turn on Bran's once lover.

They were the eyes she turned on enemies, of men that had tried something against those she claimed.

And Calian just smiled, easy and light, almost idly as he watched her like a cat cornering a mouse and was now just waiting to see what it would do.

Every rumour, every joke, that she ever heard about Lady Anora—Queen Anora—ruling Ferelden through her husband was crushed to dust under that smile.

Calian was a man that had been raised to be King, a man that may joke and act the fool, but one that would be King until his death, and Kenna could not—would not—forget that again.

"And what did Bran say that convinced you otherwise?" she asked, her tone low and hard, a slight tremble of suppressed emotion.

"Enough," Calian's smile widened just so, and Kenna glowered, could feel her face turning into a scowl, and the King's smile went just a bit wider as if he were amused then he went straight for her heart, for her throat. "He told me about your dreams."

Being hit in the chest felt a lot like this, Kenna thought almost dazedly as she leaned back in her chair and breathed deeply, could almost feel it rattle in her lungs.

Betrayal cut like a hot knife, fury stole her words.

How dare he, she seethed inwardly.

(It felt so much easier to feel the rage part of the betrayal, to focus on that, and not on the hurt, the pain.

To not feel the point of a dagger digging between her ribs, the way her stomach dropped, and her lungs seized as her heart tried to beat itself out of her chest.)

She could feel her jaw working, works trying to come out but stolen by betrayed fury, and Calian watched her with patient and victorious grey eyes.

"And just what did you think about that?" she asked, almost spitting out the words like venom.

"I believed he believed you," Calian shrugged, and Kenna glared.

"How diplomatic," she almost sneered, "and what do you think now?"

"Now I'm more inclined to believe," Calian calmly informed her, looking almost untouched by the unpleasant emotions she was directing his way with all the force in her body.

Finally, the copper dropped, she now knew just why Calian had chosen her.

Why he had called for her and not Cait.

Why he did it now when Bran was hours from returning.

Because he wanted something and Cait couldn't give it to him.

Because it kept Bran out of reach from Kenna's justified betrayed fury—hurt—and stop her lashing out.

"What do you want," she bit out, feeling like she was almost moments away from biting her tongue.

"Is this truly a Blight?" he asked, the words almost bursting out of him. "Do we win?"

"Yes," Kenna hissed out spitefully. "Yes, this is a Blight, and yes we do win, but not here," and she barely paused, didn't let any fond feelings soften her next words—she wasn't capable of anything like soft or kind at the moment. "And not by you."

Her last words linger in the air as Calian leaned back with a sharp exhale like he had been stabbed, and his hands trembled as he reached out for his mug and downed it in one large swallow.

"I see," Calian didn't look at her, kept his gaze on the mug as he placed it on his desk, and Kenna waited, resentful that she couldn't just leave, that she had to wait for him to dismiss her.

He nodded, almost to himself, and pulled out a bundle of parchment—letters—bound by a golden ribbon and held it out for her.

"I had thought, I had hoped I wouldn't need these," he confessed as Kenna took the bundle with ill grace. "But I suppose it's a good thing I already have written them, huh?"

Calian's wry smile fell flat as Kenna glanced at the first name written on top—Arl Eamon—and a flash of insight allowed her to realise what she held.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you what they are about," Calian commented wryly.

"He looks like you," Kenna told him without looking directly at him, tucking the bundle in another inner pocket—pockets were great—and Calian's curve of lips almost looked sad.

"Yes," Calian agreed softly, almost wistfully, "yes, he does."

"You should speak to him," Kenna informed him, both of hearing the unspoken 'before it's too late'.

"I had hoped to have one last night with Bran," he mused, and Kenna scoffed.

"He won't sleep with a married man," she informed him scornfully, and Calian nodded without much surprise. "Can I go now?"

"Yes," Calian said, and Kenna almost threw the chair back in her haste. "Kenna?"

She halted, just inches away from the flap, and grudgingly looked over her shoulder at Calian.

There was a look of regret, maybe even remorse, on his handsome face.

"I am sorry," he told her softly, and she nodded jerkily.

"I'm sorry too," she told him, and then she left without a second look back.

Author's Note: Sorry! I thought I had posted this, but apparently I hadn't. Chapter Thirty is being a pain about writing, but I'm hopeful that I will post it sometime this month.