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EarthBorn93, here's your dragon battle, as promised.


The weary army seemed to regain its vigor as Griffon Wing Keep came into view. Owain looked over at Ciri from atop his sturdy bay gelding and grinned. "Baths tonight. Beds, even."

"Oh, that sounds marvelous," Ciri sighed. "Will you camp with the soldiers, or will I see you in the keep?"

He gently directed his gelding closer to Zephyr and lowered his voice. "You'll see me in your rooms, if you like."

"I would like that," she said softly.

They hadn't had time alone together since they'd left Skyhold. An army camp had little to offer in the way of privacy, and in the immediate aftermath of her fall into the Fade, she hadn't been in much of a mood for intimacy. Now, though, with the promise of a bath and a real bed ahead of her, the thought appealed greatly.

His reply to her was lost as they both caught sight of a rapidly approaching dust cloud. Owain straightened in his saddle and shaded his eyes to peer out at it.

"It looks like the mercenaries took delivery of the nuggalopes," he said with a laugh.

Sure enough, the dust parted to reveal a massive blue-gray nuggalope barreling towards them, an equally large rider astride its back. Cries of alarm turned to shouts of greeting as the front ranks of the army reined in their mounts to await the rider.

Herah Adaar came to a thundering halt in front of Ciri. "Inquisitor."

"Is there something amiss at the keep?" Ciri asked.

"What? No, everything's fine. Sata-Kas spotted you coming. We're getting everything ready for your arrival." Her eyes roved over the army in front of her. "There's room in the keep for you and three others, seven others if you double up on the rooms. Our food won't be much better than whatever travel rations you've been eating, but there's fresh water."

Herah was the Valo-Kas mercenaries' logistics officer, Ciri suddenly remembered. She gave her a firm nod. "We'll work out who will stay in the keep later. Would you like us to follow you back so you can show our officers where the tents should be set up?"

"I think you'd better," Herah said.

Owain and Ciri separated to ride on either side of Herah's enormous nuggalope as the army slowly got underway again. Matter-of-factly, the mercenary began to fill them in on all that had happened since Ciri had left the Western Approach for Skyhold nearly a month and a half back. The White Claw raiders had been driven utterly from the region, she reported, and not only had they thoroughly eradicated the Venatori's presence, but they'd freed six more slaves and sent them on their way. Darkspawn were still present near the old Tevinter prison, but they were far less of a problem than before.

"The nuggalopes help," Herah said, patting her mount between its long, twitching ears. "We can cover ten times the area in the same amount of time. Shokrakar's giving your Inquisition a discount on our services until we've paid back the cost of the mounts we're buying from you."

That would help recoup expenses somewhat. "And how are you liking them?"

Herah smirked a little. "He's gray, I'm gray. Horns, hands. Big. We're practically family. Bulwark and I get along great."

"Better not say that where an Orlesian can hear you," Owain said half-jokingly. "That's the same logic Duke Gaspard used to have academics at the University of Orlais write papers relating elves to rabbits to justify hunting them."

"Are any of the contenders to the throne even halfway decent people?" Ciri asked in dismay.

"Halfway? Probably not," Herah said. "There's only the least bad person for the job."

"Who do you think that is?" Owain asked her.

"You'd have to pay me extra to get involved in politics. I'm not stupid enough to stick my nose in that shitshow."

"Fair enough," Owain said. He looked past Herah to Ciri and added in amusement, "Maybe we should do away with the lot of them and put Delphine on the throne."

Ciri stifled laughter. "She could hardly be worse."

"Speaking of shitshows," Herah said.

"Oh, wonderful segue," Ciri interrupted. She knew something had to be amiss.

Herah flashed her a brief smile. "The little professor, Frederic, showed up at the keep this morning. Said we can toss the bait. The high dragon dug out a nest overnight. It looks like she's getting ready to start breeding. He said if his observations hold true, we should start hearing her mating calls this afternoon. No need for bait because she's stationary, but –"

"But she'll draw in drakes, and then have dragonlings," Owain finished.

"She wasn't much of a nuisance on her own," Herah said. "But a nesting high dragon with a mate and offspring will make it a lot harder to hold this position."

"Are high dragons covered by your contract?" Ciri asked.

"Shokrakar will send us up against just about anything," Herah said with a shrug. "Demons, darkspawn, giants, bandits, other merc bands. But we took a vote after the last high dragon we tangled with killed Ataash and sent Kost into early retirement. No dragons without triple the pay. Too dangerous."

And they couldn't afford that, not after buying the nuggalope bait in Val Royeaux.

"We'll put together a hunting party when we get to the keep," Ciri said. "Though I'm not sure who'll want to go off to fight a dragon when there's food and rest to be had."

"If you're looking for volunteers, I'll go with you," Owain told her.

"Unless Cullen decides otherwise," Ciri reminded him. "You're still his subordinate."

"I wouldn't be too worried." Owain glanced down the column several riders away to where a tired-looking Cullen rode astride his charger. "We're good at staying out of each other's way."

She hadn't asked Owain's opinion on the recent poor turn Cullen's relationship had taken with Evelyn, though she could guess how he felt quite easily. And as much as she would like it if everyone in the Inquisition would simply get along, she knew better than to expect it. Some people just weren't destined to be friends.

"It's too bad Hawke left," Ciri said instead. "She enjoyed fighting that dragon in Crestwood."

"There's always the Iron Bull," Owain suggested. Sympathy filled his eyes, and he added, "And I suspect Olgierd will want the distraction."

"I'll ask him," Ciri said quietly.

He was likely right. Each morning, the sunrise brought with it a slightly sadder, slightly grimmer Olgierd, nearly as melancholy as the night she'd met him. To her intense shame, he didn't blame her at all for Vlodimir's loss, though the spirit would still live had she just left Olgierd behind for once.

"And then where would you be, hm?" Olgierd had asked her the morning after the siege. "Hush, and stop apologizing. He saved your life. Don't take that from him."

Another lost to save her. She wouldn't denigrate the sacrifice. But she bitterly regretted the cost.

Herah cleared her throat. "The Iron Bull? Is it true he's Qunari?"

"Where did you hear that?" Ciri asked.

"Shit," Herah muttered. "Guess it's true. Look, Inquisitor, it's your keep. But we're Vashoth. Some of us are Tal-Vashoth. You bring a Qunari into our midst, and there's going to be trouble."

"I'll tell him to mind himself," Ciri told her.

"Him minding himself isn't all of it," Herah said. "Our Tal-Vashoth members will pick a fight with him. Especially Taarlok and Hissra. Shokrakar's got more self-control than that, I think, but on the other hand, she might deck him if he shows his face. Just – you want things peaceful? Keep him out of Griffon Wing Keep. Your Worship."

Ciri blinked at her. Taarlok? He was the most level-headed member of the mercenary company they had. If he'd pick a fight with the Iron Bull, she'd better take Herah's words to heart.

"Understood," she said. "Thank you for the warning."

Herah nodded and flicked Bulwark's reins. "Hurry up, Inquisitor. You'll want to deal with the dragon before it starts its mating cries. The professor says it can be heard for miles."

Ciri held in a groan and nudged Zephyr's sides, spurring her into a trot. "Something to look forward to, then."

Dragon hunting. Again. And she'd been so certain she'd managed to avoid it this time.


The tents were still being erected when the hunting party assembled outside Griffon Wing Keep's gates. Ciri looked over her volunteers and felt her worry recede slightly. She'd taken on the dragon in Crestwood with only five others, though that had been a grueling fight. Including Owain, she had five volunteers again: the Iron Bull, who wore an eager, almost bloodthirsty grin; Sera, who exuded a manic cheerfulness as she bounced from foot to foot; Vivienne, who appeared as calm and regal as ever; and Olgierd, who'd agreed swiftly, the circles beneath his eyes still dark and bruise-purple.

Ciri gave Olgierd a questioning look, and he shook his head silently. Still no sign of Vlodimir in his dreams.

Damn it all.

She pushed down the feeling of guilt as it rose once again and addressed her companions and Owain. "Professor Frederic de Serault says the high dragon's nest is south of here and a bit west, dug into some old pre-Blight ruins. We won't be able to miss it, apparently."

"He have any intelligence to offer on it?" the Iron Bull asked. "Vulnerabilities? Tactics?"

"The professor's out here studying its food preferences and flight patterns," Ciri said dryly. "It likes gurn, if you're interested. He doesn't have any tactical advice to offer, other than a request that we take notes on its behavior while we fight it. He did mention that it's unlike the dragon in Crestwood in that it breathes fire, not lightning."

"Vulnerable to cold, then," Owain said with a nod. "Enchanter Vivienne, would you mind enchanting our weapons?"

Vivienne aimed a gracious smile at him. "Not at all, Knight-Lieutenant. It's good of you to think of it."

Ciri hid her own smile at the strange blend of frustration and amusement that washed over Owain's face at Vivienne's words.

"I'm not a Templar anymore, Enchanter Vivienne," he said politely.

"A pity," Vivienne said. "You were clearly one of the competent ones."

Sera groaned theatrically and rolled her eyes. "Mage stuff. Templar stuff. Boring. Can we go fight the dragon now?"

"I suppose we could at that," Olgierd said, smiling a little at her antics.

Ciri took one more look around. "Does everyone have their potions?" Hands went to belt pouches, and heads nodded. "Good. Then let's go."

They mounted up and headed back out onto the endless sands, all of them on horseback save the Iron Bull, who rode his new nuggalope. He saw Ciri looking and grinned at her.

"I named her Taashath," he said. "Means 'calm.'"

"And is she?" Ciri asked.

As if in response, Taashath snorted, and the Iron Bull laughed. "Yeah, she's pretty steady. Thanks, Boss. Sorry about the price tag. If I'd known, I'd have kept my mouth shut."

"We're recovering some of that by selling them to the Valo-Kas mercenaries," Ciri said. "It will work out." She was just pleased to know it hadn't been a deliberate attempt to harm the Inquisition.

"Hm." The Iron Bull grunted. "I wasn't imagining that reception I got from them, was I?"

"No," she said simply.

"Word was going to get out about me being a spy sooner or later once I joined up with the Inquisition," the Iron Bull said. He sounded vaguely regretful.

"If you've been outed as a spy, won't your superiors relocate you once the Inquisition finishes its work?" Ciri asked him. "You probably won't even be a mercenary in a year or two."

The Iron Bull grimaced. "I'd been trying not to think about that."

"Isn't that part of being Ben-Hassrath? Having a cover, digging up secrets, going where you're told?" she asked. "From the way you spoke in the Fallow Mire, I'd have thought you'd be more enthusiastic about doing as the Qun commanded."

"Yeah, that's the life of a spy," the Iron Bull said. "But…look. I've been left pretty much to my own devices for years. I'm used to the Qun being over there, you know? Sure, I could cut ties and start over, but I don't want to. I like what I have going on now."

Ciri nodded in understanding and didn't voice her suspicions. The Iron Bull had far more in common with Shokrakar and Taarlok than he did with the people back in Qunandar – and on some level, he likely knew it.

Zephyr balked and whinnied as an unearthly, ululating cry echoed across the sands, plaintive and demanding. Ciri winced and rubbed her mare's neck.

"And there's the mating call. We'd best get a move on."

They picked up the pace, adjusting their course as they headed in the direction the strident call was coming from. It would rise and fall, then drop off for several seconds before picking up again, louder and more insistent than before.

At last, the broken pillars from the ruins came into view, and they dismounted warily. The Iron Bull pulled a long rope and a set of stakes from Taashath's saddlebags and quickly knocked a picket line into place in the ground.

"They'll be safe enough if we're quick," he said. "No animals will come near a dragon's nest, and I doubt she'll go for them with us keeping her attention."

Ciri sincerely hoped so. They tied their mounts' leads to the picket line and did a final check of their armor and weapons while the dragon wailed within. Vivienne beckoned to them, and they presented her with their swords, greataxe, and arrows for her to sweep an imperious hand over. A crackling sheen of frost followed in her hand's wake, and Vivienne smiled in satisfaction.

"I believe we're ready, Lady Ciri."

They left the horses behind and walked toward the ululating cry coming from within the ruins. As they rounded a pillar, a wall of rust-red scaly hide met their eyes, and Sera yelped in excitement.

"That's – that's – wow!" She cackled.

"Ataashi," the Iron Bull said reverently. He threw back his head and laughed.

Vivienne swung her staff wide, and a cool barrier settled over them. Ciri adjusted her grip on Gynvael's hilt and nodded to the others. "Now!"

The mating call turned to a screech of rage as their weapons sank into its hind leg. The dragon clambered to all fours and craned its heavy, horned head around to stare balefully at them. Almost disdainfully, it kicked out. Ciri sprang away. From the sound of the cursing, the Iron Bull had been caught by the blow.

The dragon's tail lashed across the sandy ground, nearly hitting the Iron Bull again. He whooped and struck out with his greataxe, a wild look of joy on his craggy face.

Ciri darted back in to slash at the dragon's scaled belly. In her peripheral vision, she saw Vivienne pass by, a conjured sword of pure light in one hand and her staff in the other. The dragon screeched again as blood poured from the wound Ciri had opened.

Fire flooded the dragon's nest, and Ciri ducked farther beneath its belly as it breathed flames at Owain and Olgierd. Vivienne rushed over, her staff upraised, and thrust it forward directly into the dragon's open mouth. It choked and screeched, its fire abruptly cut off by a mouthful of ice.

"Everyone alright?" Ciri called.

"A little hot," Owain called back.

"Well enough," Olgierd said, his voice tight.

She redoubled her efforts on the wound on the dragon's belly. In the near distance, she could hear Sera laughing and counting as she loosed arrows. A front leg buckled unexpectedly, and the dragon cried out in pain.

"Ha-ha!" the Iron Bull laughed. "Taarsidath-an halsaam!"

Half-plate and silk robes in the corner of her eye. Owain and Olgierd again, attacking the back leg on the same side as the crippled front limb. A shadow crossed the sands, and the dragon's wings snapped out to beat the air heavily, whipping up sand and wind to drag them closer with brutal strength. Olgierd swiftly got out of range with a burst of black and red smoke.

The buffeting winds knocked Owain to one knee, and as he made to stand, the dragon kicked him square in the back. He went sprawling, cursing loudly, while his greatsword flew in the opposite direction.

"Shit, move!" the Iron Bull called.

"Owain!" Ciri shrieked as the dragon's foot smashed down on his back, grinding him into the sand.

Ciri stabbed her sword up into the dragon's belly, and it screeched and recoiled, hopping off him and limping several feet away. Olgierd teleported to Owain's side in another burst of smoke and knelt beside him.

"Can you speak?"

Owain answered with a string of curses.

"Good man," Olgierd said. He pressed lightly on Owain's back and shoulders through his armor. "Tell me what hurts."

Ciri had to stop paying attention to them then as the dragon tramped and stomped over her head, the bleeding belly wound dripping down above her. The Iron Bull and Vivienne attacked its limbs while Sera loosed what seemed like an endless supply of icy arrows.

The other front leg collapsed, and she ducked out from beneath as it crumpled to the sand. Owain retrieved his greatsword with a wince and slipped an empty potion bottle into his belt pouch.

"Heavy girl," he muttered. He struck out at its last good hind leg, staying clear of its lashing tail and fierce jaws.

Ciri slipped around its buckled front limbs and swung a heavy overhand strike at its thick neck, right where the scales thinned on the throat. The hide split, the edges of the cut lined with ice, and the dragon wailed.

Again she struck. A third time. Blood flew through the air, spattering her face and armor.

Finally, the dragon fell with a tremendous thud and a final cry of pain and went still. Ciri turned from it at once and rushed back to the others.

"Is everyone alright?" she demanded.

"A mite singed," Olgierd admitted. He held up a hand to stave off her worry. "I already took a potion, never fear."

"Bruised, but I'll live," the Iron Bull said.

"Owain?" Ciri asked anxiously.

He rested his broad hand on his ribs and winced again. "The sand was fairly giving, though my back will be blue by nightfall. No bones broken, I don't think."

Ciri felt her stomach unclench, and she relaxed a hair. Seeing him ground into the sand beneath the dragon's foot had been terrible. She hadn't realized he'd become so important to her.

"You should see the healers when we get back to the keep," she told him. She itched to reach out and reassure herself he was fine.

"I'll go see Evie," he promised.

Sera started to laugh, her eyes wide and excited.

"Are you quite alright, my dear?" Vivienne asked.

"Stuff it, Vivvy," Sera retorted. "I'm – yeah! I'm just – alive, yeah? Really, really alive!"

The Iron Bull laughed as well as he looked down at Ciri. "Boss. You're the best."

"I do try," Ciri said, smiling back. "Back to the keep, everyone. We'll tell the scouts they have work to do."

She glanced down at the blood splattered across her armor and wrinkled her nose. Now she really needed that bath.


Ciri let herself into her room long after supper had ended. She'd dined in the camp outside the keep at the Iron Bull's invitation. Everyone who'd fought the dragon had come to share in a large bottle of highly potent alcohol and travel rations. The toasting went on for a while, growing progressively more outrageous as the level in the bottle had dropped.

And now, her head spinning slightly and her body pleasantly warm, she shut the door behind her and kicked her boots off with a sigh of relief. Her trousers and shirt joined the boots on the floor, and she sat on the edge of the bed in her underclothes and kicked her heels back and forth idly in the dim candlelight.

The door creaked open. Owain slipped inside, still moving somewhat stiffly. He fixed the latch in place and turned toward the bed, and frank appreciation filled his eyes.

"I should get injured more often if this is how I get greeted in private," he said.

Ciri felt too good to snap at him, but she still frowned. "Don't even joke about it. It looked awful, seeing you under its foot."

"I am only joking," he assured her. "And Evie says I'll be fine in a few days."

With a wince and a grimace, he carefully pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it beside Ciri's. She watched the muscles draw across the broad planes of his back as he bent to remove his boots, and she frowned again at the deep blue bruising that covered his skin.

"It looks worse than it is," Owain said over his shoulder. "Evie sped up the healing by a few days. My back would be red otherwise."

"I know."

Owain's trousers hit the floor, and he joined her on the bed, pressing a tender kiss to her lips. "Don't think I'm up to much," he admitted. "How does cuddling sound to you?"

"It suits me very well."

He laid down gingerly on his side and reached out to draw her down into his arms. She went gladly, stretching out against the expanse of warm, bare skin with a sigh.

"Just cuddling?" she murmured against his lips.

"Hm. Kisses?"

Owain was as good as his word, and Ciri melted into his kiss. She returned it with a depth of feeling she hadn't known she held, relief and passion and something that felt uncomfortably like love all tangled up within her.

Her tipsiness was wearing off, but the headiness of simple kisses on the bed, skin to skin, turned time into honey, thick and golden. Her hands began to wander, tentative at first, then bolder, exploring his chest and arms and shoulders. His hand fell from her waist and journeyed up, touching her gently, lovingly.

She felt his hand trail back down to her hip, then to her thigh, and he paused.

"Interesting tattoo."

Ciri shifted back a few inches to look at his face, then his hand, the hazy glow dropping away instantly. He didn't look judgmental, just mildly curious, his finger tracing the stem and leaves of the rose along her inner thigh.

"I got that when I wasn't quite fifteen years old," she said.

"It's amazing the colors have held up so well." He fell silent a moment. "Not quite fifteen. Your bandit days?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Is there a story behind it?" he asked gently.

"I got it to match Mistle's," she told him, her eyes on his finger as it traced the tattoo. "My first lover."

"That's young to have a lover."

"…I know."

Her memory of getting the tattoo was sharp-edged and bright in the way that most of her fisstech-tainted memories were. Hotspurn, deliberately goading the Rats to face Bonhart. Learning of the false Ciri for the first time and seething with jealousy. Flirting and hanging on to Mistle to discomfit Hotspurn. The captive Master Almavera bent over each of the Rats with his inks and needles.

Half the reason Ciri had chosen a rose to match Mistle's was to put Hotspurn's nose out of joint, to make him make that face like he was trying not to pretend their closeness didn't appall him. Had he not been there –

Had he not been there, she'd still be a bandit. Or Bonhart would have sought them out instead, and she still would have been captured. There was no point wondering about what-ifs.

"How did you end up with bandits in the first place?" Owain asked.

"There was a fight at Aretuza, the sorceresses' school," Ciri began. "A coup. Lady Yennefer helped me escape through a portal in Tor Lara, but it dropped me in the middle of the Frying Pan – the Korath Desert."

Softly, she recounted her struggle to survive in that unforgiving environment. She told him of Little Horse, and of how she summoned rain from fire against Yennefer's explicit warnings and lost control almost immediately. How she had to cut herself off from Chaos entirely. How she made it to the edge of the desert, weary and half-dead, only to be captured by men looking to take her to Nilfgaard for a reward.

"They took me with them to an inn," she said. "Another group was there with their own captive. Kayleigh, one of the Rats, though I didn't know it yet. He was set to hang. A couple of the men started talking of having their fun with me before turning me in. I got myself free, then freed Kayleigh, and we fought our way out – though he scorned me for not harming anyone. The Rats had ridden to his rescue, and as thanks for helping Kayleigh, they took me with them."

She paused. "I was all alone, separated from Geralt and Yennefer. I was tired, hungry, and scared. They'd rescued me, given me clothing, called me one of them. I stayed the night."

Owain said nothing, his eyes kind and free of judgment.

"That first night, Kayleigh tried to…" Ciri trailed off. "Mistle stopped him."

"Is that why you became lovers?" he asked. "A dashing lady bandit riding to your rescue?"

A strained laugh escaped her. "She stopped him to take his place." She felt a strange, unhappy smile twist her lips. "And in the morning, all I could think was, 'At least I'm not alone anymore.'"

His finger fell away from her tattoo and his arm came around her to pull her in for a hug. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't mean I can't care."

She leaned into him and just breathed, trying to ignore the unexpected stinging behind her eyelids.

The world had been cruel to the Rats, and they'd been cruel in return. Ciri, in turn, had become cruel in their company. And yet, there'd been laughter and dancing and camaraderie, and she had loved Mistle in the end. She had.

"You called them your friends before," he said after she'd collected herself.

"I suspect I always will." She leaned back again to look him in the eyes. "I have to remember them fondly. There's no one else on the Continent who'd care to."

"You have a kind heart," he said softly.

"I can't condemn them without condemning myself," she whispered. "We were bandits, Owain. We weren't good people. We robbed nobles and merchants, stole and looted, and indulged in all manner of vices."

"Mm." He pulled her in close again. "You're one of the kindest, bravest, most caring people I've had the privilege to meet. Whatever you did, whoever you were – I don't judge you for it. You were barely more than a child. Your past doesn't define you, and it doesn't change anything for me."

Ciri leaned in to kiss him, swift and firm, her heart painfully full with a dozen things she couldn't find the words to say.

"You're wonderful," she said simply.

Owain smiled at her, his dark blue eyes warm in the flickering candlelight. "You bring it out in me."

He kissed her back gently and gave her a light nudge to the hip, encouraging her to roll over onto her other side. With her back to his chest and his arm draped across her waist, he dropped another kiss on the top of her head.

"Get some rest. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."

"Good night."

He fell asleep within minutes, his breath steady and even against the back of her head. But rest eluded Ciri, and she stared into the dimly lit room as the candle slowly burned down, warm and cozy and lost in thought.

She had loved Mistle. But then, why did this feel so different?


Avallac'h greeted her on Adamant's battlements. The fort was empty around them, the blood and wreckage nowhere to be seen.

"You ventured into the Fade in body," he said.

"And where were you?" she asked him sharply. "Vlodimir was there. If you'd been there, maybe –"

"I'm not Adventure, Zireael," he rebuked her. "I have other ways to find you in the Fade than following you across Thedas. And you should have realized by now that I'm no spirit. Adventure could find a way into Nightmare's domain far easier than I."

"He died for us."

"Perhaps," Avallac'h said. "Spirits do not die in the same sense that mortals do. A version of him may return someday."

Ciri shook her head. "It wouldn't be the same. Not to Olgierd."

"No. No, it wouldn't."

Ciri pressed down her guilt again and changed the subject. "What does harellan mean?"

His eyes sharpened with interest. "Now why would you ask that, after all this time?"

"The Nightmare demon called S – my tutor that," she said. Reluctantly, she added, "And he answered to it."

"Ah," Avallac'h said. He smiled, a small, satisfied expression. "It meant 'trickster' originally, as derived from the old Elvhen name of Fen'Harel. The literal translation of that is 'Wolf Who Deceives.' The Dalish, however, use harellan to mean 'traitor to one's kin.'"

Given Solas' disdain for the Dalish and the way he spoke of the Elvhen, both he and the Nightmare most likely had the first definition in mind.

"You said that the harellan intended to take down the Veil, that he'd doom Thedas and the Fade in his 'quest for atonement.' What does he need to atone for?"

"I also said the winds were shifting," Avallac'h reminded her. "I said he may yet have a change of heart."

"That's not an answer."

"It isn't," Avallac'h agreed. "Some things aren't meant to be discussed in the Fade."

She should have known better than to expect a straight answer out of him. "You speak of him as though you know him well," she said, studying his face closely. "But how can you, if you've been trapped in the Fade for thousands of years?"

His small, satisfied smile widened. "How indeed. Time for you to wake up, Zireael. That's enough questions for tonight."

"But –"

She opened her eyes to Owain's sleepy, smiling face.

"Good morning," he murmured.

"Morning."

Solas, a trickster? Out to destroy the Veil?

On a quest for atonement?

There was something she was missing. It just didn't make sense. Without that knowledge, all she could do was try to ensure that the winds kept shifting in her favor. And in the meantime, she'd ask Leliana to make some discreet inquiries.