There were no windows in the apprentice bunkrooms; for the sole reason that new initiates to the tower often sought to escape. Although they were a hundred metres up from the rocky terrain, it had been known in the past for desperate captives to leap from whatever orifices they could find, in last-ditch bids for freedom.

Finally, the First Enchanter had called in stonemasons from the shore and had the windows filled in, then covered with hanging tapestries. Apprentices were awoken either by the internal workings of their bodies, or by the irritated shouts of tutors and senior initiates.

The morning after her Harrowing, Flora was roused by being jostled roughly. A hand was gripping her shoulder, a voice speaking urgently in her ear. She groaned, her body leaden and her mind clouded, then attempted to roll over and ignore the unwanted presence.

" Flora! Flora, wake up!"

Finally, she gave up the pretence of sleep and sat up in her lower bunk, dishevelled and yawning. Blinking to restore her blurred vision, she saw a dark-haired, moon-faced initiate hovering anxiously at her side. As usual, he was fiddling with the gold chain that hung around his neck, fingers rubbing compulsively over his family crest.

"Hungh," Flora mumbled, the inside of her mouth and throat raw. "Did I miss breakfast?"

Jowan and Flora had been admitted to Kinloch Hold at the same time, he a few years older than she. His parents, wealthy Orlesians distantly related to Empress Celene, had managed to evade the Templars for longer than most. An alliance of convenience had sprung up between the young aristocrat and the fisherman's daughter, both unused to confinement and the rigour of academic study.

Despite this, Flora was still somewhat surprised to see him at her bedside. For the past sixth months, Jowan had been increasingly distant, avoiding tutorials and ducking out of meals early. She had barely seen him for the past few weeks, only catching glimpses of a maroon-robed figure- he had plainly refused to wear the plain khaki initiate uniform- hurrying past her in corridors and passageways with a quick raised hand of greeting. He spent most of his time lurking around the small Tower Chantry – most believed that some divine vision had inspired this new piety.

Crueller whispers suggested that, as he approached his twenty third birthday with no sign of being ready for the Harrowing; he instead was preparing an escape route into the Chantry to avoid Tranquillisation.

"Flora," Jowan hissed, his pale face close to hers. "Did it happen last night?"

Flora pressed her thumbs into her eyes, the blankets tangled over her lap. She felt grubby and her fingertips were pink and tender to the touch.

That only happens after I've cast too much, she thought to herself, wishing she could remember the events of the previous night. Did my spirits kill the demon for me?

"Yes," she replied, surprised at the hoarseness of her voice. "I passed."

Jowan's pupils constricted; he recoiled from her as if struck. Pacing the narrow space between the bunks, he shot her an incredulous glance.

"But you weren't ready!" he said after a moment, his voice high and outraged. "I'm far more proficient than you at primal magic! You can't even light a candle!"

Flora swung her legs out of the bunk and rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. Her limbs felt sore and stiff, as if she had run the entire length of the Kingsway.

"Dunno," she yawned, wandering over to the armoire and grimacing at her dishevelled reflection. "But I ain't dead,"

"And you're four years younger than me," he added, his upper class drawl tinged with alarm. Flora shrugged, dragging her fingers through the heavy strands of dark red hair in a vain effort to flatten them.

"Flora, stop staring at yourself and look at me!" Jowan demanded, a note of imperiousness creeping into his increasingly desperate voice. Flora turned around and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I'm sure they'll call you soon," she replied, pragmatically. "Don't worry about it. Have they rung the bell for breakfast yet?"

Jowan strode across the flagstones and gripped her by the shoulders. His face, pale and padded from years of over-indulgence, hovered inches from hers.

"Flora, don't you understand? I'm to be made Tranquil, I know it!"

She fell silent, her brows drawing together as her grey eyes met his anxious dark ones. The sounds of other initiates talking in the passage filtered in distantly through the stone walls.

" I'm to be made Tranquil," he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "After everything my family has done for this Tower. Paid for the new wing to the library. Sent those rare runestones from Tevinter. Maker, the First Enchanter attended my father's investiture ceremony!"

Flora gazed stupidly up at him, not knowing the right words to say. No Mage initiate was unaware of the Tranquil. They were an ubiquitous presence within the Tower, quiet and obedient, serving without question. Initiates too scared, or too incapable, to undergo their Harrowing had their connection to the Fade severed, at the cost of their own emotions. It was yet another cost of being unwittingly born a practitioner of magic, and a penalty all initiates were familiar with.

"Sorry," Flora mumbled, wrestling ropes of hair into a loose braid. "I'm sure it'll happen soon."

"You don't understand!" Jowan retorted, his fingers digging into her shoulders. "You don't..."

He broke off, glanced over his shoulder at the ajar door behind him. Withdrawing, he strode to close it, then approached her. His eyes were wide and scared, like a rabbit who had just caught wind of a distant wolf, aware of danger but not yet able to see it.

"I've met a girl."

Flora gazed warily at him, edging out from where he had cornered her by the armoire. Romances between initiates were not uncommon, seeing as the majority were in late adolescence or their early twenties.

"Who?" she asked curiously, sitting on the edge of the bunk and peering up at him. "It ain't allowed, you know."

He grimaced, running thick fingers through his oiled dark hair.

"It's a girl from the Chantry," he said at last, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Lily. We're…we're in love."

Flora gaped at him, understanding enough of Chantry politics to know that this was forbidden.

"Jowan!" she hissed at him, her eyes wide. "That's breaking RULES."

He glared down at her, angry and uncertain. The air was taut between them.

"I am aware , Flora! Yet it's happened."

Flora fell silent for a moment, twisting her fingers in her lap.

"What are you going to do?"

"We're going to run away," he replied, his eyes steely. Flora stared up at him, shaking her head.

"Jowan, you can't," she breathed, feeling her heartbeat thudding against her ribcage. "They'll hunt you down like… like angry sharks."

She was referring to the Templars, who maintained order in Feralden under the authority of King Cailan himself. Any Mages who fled the protective prison of a Circle were known as apostates, and were at risk of being killed on sight.

"I have no choice,," Jowan said, his tone softening slightly. "I love Lily. She's going to flee the Chantry."

"Why are you telling me?" Flora gazed up at him, helplessly. He shook his head, glanced towards the door. Soon, senior students would be arriving to bring Flora's few possessions up to the apprentice quarters.

"I'm going tonight," he said, stiffly. "I just wanted to- let you know. In case I don't see you again."

Flora stared at him, twisting the end of her braid around her finger. They had formed an unlikely friendship, having spent a week travelling to the Calenhad tower in each other's company, escorted by unsmiling Templars.

The nineteen year old Jowan, whose parents had bribed the commander, was seated up front in the carriage. Flora, four years his junior and the unkempt child of villagers with no coin to spare, had been handcuffed in the wagon. The young noble had taken pity on her and bribed the Templars to bring her into the carriage.

Since then, they had maintained a strange but persistent connection – despite being assigned to different classes and bunkrooms. Their friendship became somewhat strained after two years, when Jowan confessed that he had fallen in love with her- which of course was untrue. It was a hasty and lust-fuelled declaration prompted by a pretty face; and their shared status as latecomers.

After she had gaped at him in bewilderment, he soon regretted his impulsive declaration and quickly assured her that a noble of his class could never be with the daughter of a fisherman.

Even with this oddness between them, Flora was still sorry to see him go. With his natural disinclination to do any academic work and her total inability to do so, they had formed an unlikely alliance.

"You won't say anything, will you?" he asked her, his eyes searching her face as he silently reminded her of their shared history. Flora stared at him, her brow furrowed.

"I don't-," she began after a moment, then startled as someone approached in the passageway. Jowan drew back as a young woman clad in the plain brown garb of a Tranquil entered.

"Flora," stated the girl, flatly. They both immediately recognised her as an initiate who had been deemed too weak to undergo the Harrowing, and had been taken for Tranquillisation several weeks prior.

"I am to bring your possessions to the upper floor. Please follow me."

As with all Tranquil, her tone was calm and even, her face devoid of any expression. Jowan shot Flora a significant look, nudging the woman roughly to one side as he left. The Tranquil showed no reaction, despite stumbling. Flora grimaced, rising to her feet.

"Thank you," she mumbled, scooping her carry bag from beneath the bunk. "I don't have much stuff."

Flora then dropped to her knees and reached beneath the bunk, retrieving several items of smuggled food and a hairbrush.

A tangle of clothing joined the pile, crumpled and nondescript. She scrambled upright and hastily shoved everything into the leather bag. The Tranquil reached for it, and Flora held up her hands to stop her.

"I don't mind carrying it!"

The Tranquil fixed her with a blank stare.

"I was instructed to bring up your possessions."

Flora stared for a moment, then acquiesced.

"Sorry," she breathed, her mind inadvertently resting on Jowan and the fate he was so sure was ordained for him. She hadn't yet decided whether she was impressed by his determination to live and love as he chose, or horrified at his defiance of the Circle and the Templars.

Despite the chamber being her quarters since her arrival, it had only taken a few minutes to pack away all signs of her four year occupation. The last thing she picked up was her staff, the conduit through which she channelled energy. It was a standard initiate staff, plain beechwood, and with the magic dampener welded on one end. This theoretically prevented any over-ambitious and under-trained initiate from blowing themselves up, although it was rather useless in Flora's case, as she was unable to conjure even a single spark.

As she followed the Tranquil's brisk, purposeful stride down the corridor, Flora glanced into the practise rooms and study carrels that branched off the main circular corridor. Nobody came out to wish her farewell. Although Circle society was ostensibly casteless, there was an unofficial but widely understood hierarchy. Those who had come from noble families retained their sense of entitlement and desire to dominate. Flora, coming from a nondescript peasantry, was at the bottom of the pecking order. Out of the noble initiates, only Jowan had deigned to speak civilly to her.

Now these same young nobles eyed her with jealousy as they watched her being escorted to the hallowed halls of the Harrowed. She could hear them whispering, incredulous and glowering, as they lurked at doorways.

"How could she have passed? She couldn't light a candle."

"She obviously made some sort of deal with the demon. They should keep an eye on her. She could be an abomination in secret."

Flora ignored the muffled whispers, used to being the target of veiled insults and snide comments. She followed the Tranquil to the main staircase, guarded as always by two Templar. One of them was the young blond one who always blushed in her presence. She smiled at him politely, and as if on cue, he reddened and glanced down at the flagstones.

The elder Templar rolled his eyes and stood to one side, granting them access to the upper section of the Tower.

Flora, who had bypassed the fourth and fifth floors of the tower on her way to the Harrowing chamber, gazed around in awe. The mage floors were far more finely decorated than the initiate quarters; the flagstones covered with woven rugs, the individual rooms containing two beds rather than four. The libraries, from what she could see as they passed, were far larger and well-stocked.

The mages they encountered in the corridor looked straight through the Tranquil, but shot Flora curious looks. News of one initiate's unusual gift at creation had filtered upwards to their floor; they recalled that the girl that they had heard rumours about had dark red hair. They gazed at Flora, with her thick, burgundy hair caught untidily in a braid at the side of her head, and wondered.

"Your room," announced the Tranquil without ceremony, pushing open a wooden door at the end of an identical row. Flora followed her with some trepidation, into a small, stone-walled room with two parallel beds. A desk overflowing with parchment and writing supplies stood to one side.

"Who am I sharing with?" asked Flora, watching the woman carefully deposit the battered leather bag onto one of the beds. The Tranquil paused for a moment before responding.

"Arnette Amell."

"Is she nice?" asked Flora plaintively, sitting down on the edge of the bed, registering how comfortable it was compared to the apprentice bunks. The Tranquil made a note on a roll of parchment, then blinked at her.

"I do not know."

Flora nodded, gazing around the room. She saw the woman turning to leave and called after her.

"Thank you!"

Naturally, the woman made no indication that she had heard. Flora watched her go, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The upper floors are different, she thought, lying back on the bed and listening. There was a heavy, studious feel to them, a sense of ambition and intellectual elitism. Flora felt very much out of place.

These floors are filled with people who have all defeated demons, she thought to herself, somewhat apprehensively. And speaking of that, have you remembered yet exactly how you defeated the demon? Are you so sure you aren't an abomination?

Flora lay there for a few moments more, brooding over this ominous possibility. Then she heard movement in the corridor, muffled voices and some consternation.

"Grey Wardens, here!"

"What do they want?"

Flora had vaguely heard of the Grey Wardens before, but not for many years. Her parents had always lived in the tiny fishing village of Herring, and their view of the world was very small. Until Flora had been taken to the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad, she had never been far enough from the sea to lose sight of it.

She sat upright and crept over to the doorway, peering around the edge of the wooden door. Two mages stood there, both in their early thirties, one clad in the scarlet garb of an instructor. They were talking hurriedly, heads bent close beneath a painting of the Divine Beatrix III. Flora sidled closer, straining to hear.

"What if they invoke the old treaties?" asked the woman, her dark eyebrows furrowing together. "They could conscript whoever they wanted!"

"The First Enchanter would not permit them to take the unwilling," replied the man, in a tone he clearly intended to be soothing. However, this only served to aggravate her more. She paced the width of the corridor, smacked her hand impatiently against the side of a stone pedestal.

"Irving is under the thumb of Greagoir, Niall" she hissed back, her dark eyes flashing. "And he is a Templar, therefore he does not care for our wellbeing. He would willingly sacrifice a mage to the darkspawn!"

She turned and saw Flora hovering in the doorway.

"Who are you?" she demanded, while Flora froze as if struck by paralysis.

"Flora," Flora breathed, horrified at being caught blatantly eavesdropping. The woman narrowed her eyes.

"Flora who ?"

"Just Flora."

Having established that Flora was not part of any esteemed family, the woman was now able to deride her freely.

"Well, little Flora, are you a trespasser from below? Do we need to throw you from the window to return you there?"

Flora gaped, her eyes widening as she shook her head.

"Um" she whispered, feeling a hot flush creeping over her cheeks. "I passed my Harrowing last night."

"Then why are you still in the clothes of an initiate?"

"Oh," said Flora stupidly, looking down at her brown tunic. "Dunno."

"Go and change," commanded Niall, in a slightly kinder tone. "The idiotic Templar may not be able to comprehend your excuses and drag you back down."

Hoping that the woman wasn't Arnette Amell, Flora retreated back inside the room and shut the door, grimly. As her eyes settled on a discrete armoire tucked away in one corner, she found herself missing the familiarity and bustle of the apprentice dormitory. She had not been liked by the other initiates – they scorned her lack of ambition and referred to her as the Vase : nice to look at, but vacuous inside. However they had valued her natural talent at creation magic, and treated her with a grudging respect.

Is this my home for the rest of my life?

The thought filled her with gloom and she gritted her teeth, pulling open the drawer of the armoire. Navy linen garments lay folded within, freshly laundered and utilitarian.

Still brooding, Flora changed into the tunic coat, pulling her boots back on over the leggings. The fabric felt stiff and unfamiliar; she gazed at her discarded cotton initiate garb with some regret. The midday sun filtered weakly through the blanket of cloud that always hung over Lake Calanhad like a bridal veil.

Not wanting to tarnish her reputation any further, Flora hid her smuggled food underneath the bed and made an attempt to smooth down the stray strands of hair. The mage quarters were an unknown quantity, and she did not feel as though she had made the best first impression. Feeling another wave of exhaustion roll over her, she decided to rest for a while. Lying down on the bed, tucking the brown cotton tunic beneath her head, she fell to dreaming.

There were few guests whom the First Enchanter would personally greet at the door, but a Grey Warden was one of them. First Enchanter Irving, arthritis gnawing at his knees as he followed shortly after Wynne, felt trepidation rising with every step descended. The Templars guarding each floor eyed him warily, unused to seeing the First Enchanter out of the upper quarters.

Finally, he reached the entrance hall, with its crude iron cage and spell-guarded double doors. He could see two men standing beside the fireplace, the only one in the Tower which burnt natural wood rather than primal magic. It was a concession to those guests who were uncomfortable with the whole business of the arcane.

Irving cast an appraising eye over the Wardens. Both were clad in the distinctive grey tunics of their ancient order, but the elder was more decorated, his armour covered in filigree. Appearing in his late forties, with the rich colouring of a Rivaini, his eyes were deep set and lined. Dark, silver-streaked hair was caught back into a short ponytail, and he carried himself with gravity and purpose.

"Duncan." The First Enchanter made an educated guess, and was rewarded by the elder's tight nod. "We at Kinloch Hold are honoured to welcome the Warden-Commander of Ferelden."

Duncan inclines his head fractionally once again. "Pleased to meet you, First Enchanter."

"Can we offer you anything to eat or drink? Some tea?" offered Wynne from beside him, with the distracted tone she used when her mind was working like lightning.

"Damn, if I'd known this was a social visit, I would have brought my less dirty uniform!"

Irving felt Wynne bristle beside him, and turned his gaze on the junior Warden. He appeared to be in his early twenties, with an arrogant, handsome face, clear hazel eyes and short, dirty blond hair.

"Alistair." The Warden-Commander shot a warning stare over his shoulder. The junior grinned, but fell quiet.

Irving returned his gaze to the senior Warden. "Shall we discuss this further in my office? It is a little more…discreet."

Duncan nodded his assent, and the strange party – two mages, and a pair of Grey Wardens- slowly made the climb back up the winding staircase. They were mostly silent, except for Alistair, who was bringing up the rear.

"Ah, how I'd missed climbing hundreds of Tower steps every day," he remarked, sarcastically. "Really, I don't know why I left the Templars."

"Because I conscripted you," shot back Duncan, who was climbing the stairs with ease despite his neatly trimmed beard being shot through with grey.

"Ah yes, there was that," replied the younger Warden without missing a beat. "Those at the Jainen Circle still send me fan mail."

"Hm," remarked his senior officer dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

After they reached Irving's office, they were seated in armchairs and served tea by a silent Tranquil. Several minutes later they were joined by a red-faced, sweating Greagoir, who had hurried up all six flights of steps in full armour.

"Take some tea, Greagoir," urged Irving, offering him a small cup. "And a moment to rest."

"I'm fine," glowered back the grey-haired man, clearly ill at ease. There was an ancient enmity between the Templars and the Grey Wardens. The Templars were resentful that the Wardens had the legal right to pluck the best candidates from their ranks; while the Wardens resented the Templars' reluctance to offer assistance in times of crisis.

"I don't know how much you know," began Duncan, placing his barely-touched tea to one side and leaning forward. "But there is a Blight. The Darkspawn are surging from the tunnels once more."

"They've always come out from the Deep Roads," interrupted Greagoir irritably, scratching the side of his head and eyeing the phylactery shelf with mistrust. "Why's this time any different?"

"Well, possibly because this time there's an Archdemon commanding them," interjected Alistair, wryly. Wynne let out a half-gasp of surprise and dismay, her gaze flickering to Irving.

Duncan nodded, his coal-dark eyes boring into the First Enchanter's own.

"It is true, though I wish it were not so," he said, quietly. "Our forces are with King Cailan at Ostagar. We have already repelled two offensives this month, and I fear we will not be able to hold the fortress if they make a third. Not without help."

"The King is there?" asked Greagoir, his bristled eyebrows rising in surprise. "Is that wise?"

"The King is more of a fool than me, and that's saying something," remarked Alistair with a shrug. Duncan sighed and nodded in confirmation.

"It is true. The King…wishes for personal glory, in addition to defending his realm."

"He is a fool," commented Wynne with a small frown, nudging the embers with her staff to coax the arcane flames higher.

Greagoir watched her do this with a small grimace.

"He has not yet got an heir upon Anora and he wishes to throw his life away? He will leave the kingdom in chaos before the Darkspawn even get the chance!"

Alistair grimaced, glancing into the artificial flames and shifting slightly in his chair. Duncan inclined his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Regardless, we need to recruit. And a good mage is worth thirty men."

Irving sighed heavily, glancing at Wynne. The Grey Wardens had the legal right to conscript, recognised over Thedas; they could not resist the Commander's request.

"Let us discuss our possibilities," he said, spreading his gnarled fingers over the walnut tabletop.

When Flora woke up from her nap, her stomach was rumbling. It was fortunate that her body burnt up food rapidly, since she loved to eat and engaged in active consumption more than she probably ought to. Clambering to her feet, she headed to the door, wondering at the whereabouts of the still absent Arnette.

Wandering down the passage, which was far quieter than its lower counterpart, she decided to try and find some dinner. Occasionally young mages, clustering around their instructors, moved past but paid her no heed. In the Circle, intellect and ability were prized far above looks.

The libraries here seemed far larger, the shelving taller and the books older. Even the passageway itself seemed longer, even though logic dictated it should follow the same geometric circle as the floor below.

Finally arriving at the central circular chamber, she almost collided with a tall, balding man in his middle years.

"Oh!" she squawked, stepping back hastily. "I'm sorry."

"It is fine." The man spoke with the placid neutrality that indicated he was also Tranquil. He was standing in front of a partitioned off section of the chamber, guarded by an iron grille. Through the bars, floor-to-ceiling shelving strained under the weight of boxes and phials.

"What's here?" asked Flora, somewhat plaintively, peering past the tall man into the guarded room. "Is this the kitchen?"

The man shook his head, neutral smile persisting.

"This is the stockroom, where you may obtain supplies and make orders. I am Owain, the provisioner."

"I'm Flora," Flora replied, her shoulders slumping. "I was looking for dinner."

"I see," commented Owain, polite and incapable of interest. She glanced up at him, guardedly.

"Do you have any food?"

"The pantry is that way." He raised a finger, face blank.

"Oh! Oooh."

In the First Enchanter's office, negotiations had stalled. Irving had suggested three candidates, Wynne had argued against two of them and Duncan had not wanted an untrained apprentice. Greagoir, unable to contribute but not willing to leave the discussion, sat glowering in one corner.

Duncan and Irving were bent over the thick ledger that contained details of all current mages, along with meticulous notes on their skills and aptitude. Alistair was inspecting the contents of a shelf, his eyebrows occasionally rising to his hairline.

"First Enchanter!" A young woman dressed in the robes of a Chantry sister flung herself over the threshold of the office. Greagoir rose to his feet, drawing his sword reflexively. Irving also stood, alongside Wynne and Duncan.

"What's wrong, Sister Marguerite?" Wynne stared at the woman, feeling cold fingers of alarm creep around her throat. The woman was wild-eyed, her face pallid.

"One of our Chantry priestesses is with a mage initiate! They're trying to escape the Tower together."

Greagoir shot a glance at Irving, who groaned and raised a hand to his head.

"Excuse me, Knight-Commander," he said, reaching for his staff as he made his way towards the exit. "One does have to handle this type of incident occasionally."

"Ah, young love," commented Alistair, folding his arms and glancing over at Duncan. The Knight-Commander frowned, then gestured for them to follow the old mage out of the office.

The First Enchanter, urgency lending him haste, led the group down the winding staircase. As misfortune would have it, many of the Templar guards were in the external courtyard overseeing a gaggle of new recruits. Greagoir was close at the older man's heels, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the thought of a possible fugitive. Another apostate to be hunted down.

There was shouting from the floor below, the noise drifted up to them even as they hurried down the winding stone staircase. It was the voice of a young man, noble born, angry and desperate. A woman was crying, nearly hysterical with fear.

The Templar standing on guard at the fourth floor- Irving recognised him as Greagoir's young lieutenant- shoved open the door for them, his own sword drawn. The scene in the circular lobby could have been drawn straight from an Orlesian play.

A young apprentice, maroon robes stretched over a well-fed stomach, was panting hard beside the stockroom entrance. Beside him, a Chantry sister dressed in a long travel cape was sobbing, her hands over her face. The man's face was reddened and furious, although he wielded no staff. Hovering in the entrance to the stockroom was the Tranquil quartermaster, his face impassive.

" I will not become Tranquil! I love her!" the young man shouted, spittle flying from his lips, in Irving's direction. Wynne held out her hands placatingly.

"Let's all calm down and discuss this civilly," she called across the circular hall, aware of Greagoir's eager fingers twitching on his pommel beside her.

"Jowan, it's too late! We have to give up," called the girl, sinking to her knees in supplication. "I'm so sorry!"

" No, Lily! " hissed the mage apprentice, an ugly snarl transforming his face into pure malevolence. "They can't keep me here anymore!"

Duncan glanced at Alistair; the two Wardens stepped forward to flank Irving. The mage's head spun back and forth between them, his pupils dilating in panic. He reached inside his robes and Greagoir let out a shout of warning.

Time seemed to stop still for a moment. Then events jumbled together, cascading into one another so that afterwards, no one could say if anything could have been done to prevent it.

The mage initiate withdrew a dagger from his robes, the metal flashing like sunlight off the lake water. He brought it down, fast as a sweeping bird, and sliced off the ear of the Chantry priestess. She shrieked and clapped a hand to the side of her head, blood surging from between her fingers.

" MALEFICAR!" roared Greagoir, drawing his sword.

"What have you done?" breathed Wynne in shock and horror, raising her own staff alongside Irving.

The young mage made a desperate gesture. Immediately, all organic compounds in the room fractured into splinters. Both Enchanters felt their staves disintegrate beneath their fingers, the two wooden doors shattered like ice. The shelves in the stockroom split in two, their contents crashing to the stone floor. Irving let out a cry of pain; Greagoir found himself rooted to the stone floor. He roared in futile rage, straining against the magical paralysis. Wynne had hurried to the injured priestess, helping the wailing woman away.

Simultaneously, someone who had clearly been leaning against the now-non-existent door fell into the room. It was a slender girl with an untidy mass of dark red hair, sprawling onto her back with a half-eaten loaf of bread in her hand.

Alistair started forwards but Duncan thrust an arm forward, stopping him.

"Hold," he muttered, dark eyes focused on the desperate mage. One hand rested on the handle of a silver-etched blade, hidden within his armour.

The dazed Flora blinked up at the ceiling, clutching the loaf of bread to her chest like a bridal bouquet. Tilting her head back, she caught sight of the desperate mage; quivering in the centre of the chamber.

" Jowan?"

She gaped at him as he turned desperate eyes on her, the whites a blazing scarlet. Her heart hammering against her ribs; Flora clambered awkwardly to her feet.

"What are you doing ?!" she breathed in horror, taking in the destruction and the impotent rage of the Templar commander. She barely registered the two other men in the room, focused wholly on her panting friend.

But Jowan was beyond entreaty; drawing from the school of forbidden magic to ward off any counterspell attempt. The air in the chamber now carried an iron-edged, metallic tang. Irving glanced around, his eyes focusing on the Tranquil.

"Owain! Stop him!"

"Irving, he's defenceless! " began Wynne, but it was too late. Bound to obey without question, Owain moved to intercept the mage's desperate flight. Jowan raised the dagger, the Tranquil stepped forward with arms raised; the blade plunged into the Tranquil's chest with gruesome smoothness. Owain collapsed back, eyes bulging, face contorted in silent agony.

The blood mage raised the dagger once more, the vicious tip aiming for the Tranquil's throat. Suddenly, the redheaded girl had somehow interjected herself between them, holding up her hands, wide-eyed. The two figures could not have been more contrasting: him, towering and broad as the Circle tower, her as delicate and leggy as a russet-coloured fawn.

"Stooop!" Flora bleated, her eyes the size of saucers.

Abruptly Jowan withdrew the dagger, staring at her.

"Fiona, get back! !" hissed Wynne, noticing that the girl had no staff. Irving groaned and shook his head.

"Foolish girl!"

Flora gaped stupidly at Jowan, who was panting before her, almost unrecognisable. The soft, doughy curves of his face had sharpened, his eyes were a tainted scarlet. His fingers tightened on the hilt of the dagger.

"Don't do this," she pleaded, recalling a young man who had once bribed a Templar into letting her out of a cage. "Please."

"Get out of my way, Flora," Jowan murmured, a strange, high tone to his voice. "I need to make a blood sacrifice to escape. It's the only way."

Flora shook her head desperately, clutching the loaf of bread.

"But… but!"

"He's just a Tranquil," Jowan replied, his lip curling. "Now get out of my way or I swear by the Maker, Flora, I will take you instead."

He raised the dagger once more, aiming the pointed tip towards her breast.

Duncan glanced sideways at the impatiently shifting Alistair and nodded; the two men prepared to move forward.

" Get back, Fiona!" hissed Wynne, as Flora held out her hands pleadingly.

"Jowan- "

Before she could finish, the desperate man, gritting his teeth, thrust the dagger forwards. Wynne inhaled in horror, the two Wardens unsheathed their swords with a singing of metal- and then Jowan spat out a curse, the disbelief raw.

His dagger had been turned aside, violently enough to jar his wrist. A gleaming sheath had sprung up between himself and his former friend; a shifting, white-gold barrier that seemed as thin and fragile as gossamer. Yet it had deflected his dagger with a greater, more fluid ease than the bulkiest of dragonsteel shields.

From behind the shield, Flora scowled at him; her pale skin and irises loaned artificial warmth by the light. She had not moved a muscle, the bread roll was still clutched in her hands. As he watched, mesmerised, she went to take a bite from it.

"Stoppit," she intoned in her flat, peasant's cadence; as disapproving as a Chantry Mother in a brothel. "You're breaking the rules."

Jowan, beyond reason, tossed the dagger aside with a curse. His hands contorted; a crimson-laced surge of entropic energy raced through the air towards Flora. The deadly spell hit the barrier and dissipated like the spores of a blown dandelion, barely causing a ripple on the gilded, shifting surface. Flora gnawed on her mouthful of bread, vacant as a cow chewing cud; she had not flinched.

The air hummed with residual energy. Wynne and Irving shared a single, open-mouthed glance of astonishment.

Jowan made a last desperate attempt to penetrate the barrier, thrusting his weight against it with a snarl. Flora, listening to the soft, reassuring whispers of her spirits, ignored him; her attention on the wounded Tranquil. The newly created maleficar gave a ragged cry of despair, recoiled from her and raised the dagger once more. Seeing Duncan moving towards him with surprising speed for a man in plate, he sunk the dagger straight through his own hand with a howl of pain. There was a surge of blackened blood from the wound and then Jowan had vanished, leaving only the stained dagger behind on the flagstones. Immediately the enchantments he had cast broke; as soon as Greagoir was able to move, he burst from the room, yelling for his subordinates.

Duncan came to a halt inches from the golden shield, his unblinking stare fixed on the girl standing behind the shimmering veil. She gazed back at him, fascinated - she had not seen many Rivaini during the narrow course of her life- the shield melting away in a cascade of heartless sparks. The Warden-Commander caught the briefest glimpse of a pale, fine boned face, dominated by grave, grey eyes and a full, curving mouth. A heartbeat later she turned away, her head tilted as though listening to a whisper in her ear.

Irving, cursing under his breath, went to Lily's side and began to launch questions at her. Wynne attempted to deflect them, still staunching the blood flow with what had been the supply order for that week.

Ignoring everyone else Flora went to kneel beside Owain, who was clutching at his chest, pale as raw milk. The upper part of his robe was saturated with blood. More spectators were gathering in the shattered doorways, huddled together in whispering groups. The significance of the puddles of blackened blood was not lost on anyone.

"I've got some poultices," started the junior Warden, his tone uncharacteristically sombre as he reached for a pouch on his belt. "Poor sod."

He approached the injured Tranquil, avoiding the unpleasant stains on the floor. Duncan, without hesitation, shook his head and held out a hand: stop. His eyes, hawklike in their dark intensity, were still fixated on the girl. Alistair frowned at his commander, the poultice already in his hand.

"Ser?"

Duncan made no response, fascinated.

"Don't worry," Flora was saying to the Tranquil in her soft, slightly hoarse northern cadence. "One time, back in Herring, I fixed a sailor who had a shard of driftwood THIS BIG in his chest."

She flung out her hands, before suddenly wincing - as though receiving a reprimand. Chastened, she carefully peeled away the torn shoulder of Owain's robe. The wound was ragged and deep, pulsing out blood in great gouts. She probed it with her fingertips, then lowered her face to it. It smelt of metal and meat, yet she did not recoil from the ugly rawness.

"I'll mend the bone too," Flora informed her patient, who let out an incoherent moan. "It's a bit broke . First, though- "

She closed her eyes and lowered her lips directly to the bloody tear, exhaling. Near invisible particles, shimmering gold where they caught the light, tangled together and formed a gleaming mesh over the torn flesh. Moments later, the ragged muscle knitted itself together, strands of fibrous tissue curling like tendrils of steam. Owain let out a hiss and she put a blind hand on his shoulder, still face down in his wound.

"I know, I know, it stings," she mumbled. "I dunno why it sti- "

Concentrate! snarled her spirits, unamused.

Sorry! she thought back, hastily returning her attention to the weaving of the flesh.

Less than a minute later Flora withdrew and sat back on her heels, surveying her work with a critical eye. The ragged wound had knotted itself together, leaving a pink swathe of scar tissue.

"Hm, it ain't very neat," she said through bloodied lips, a line creasing itself across her smooth, pale brow. "But I've not had much practice in healing big wounds for ages. No one gets hurt here."

The Tranquil stared calmly up at her, incapable of either feeling or expressing gratitude.

Meanwhile, Wynne and Irving were conversing in urgent tones; their agitation palpable in the air.

"Did you know she could do that? For the love of the Maker!"

"No! The girl has never shown an inkling of any talent. She's always been a lazy little creature in class."

"Well, we certainly don't teach our apprentices to heal like that."

Flora, who wasn't listening, reached up to wipe her bloodied mouth. Then, suddenly, the breath caught in her throat. A man, clad in patterned armour wholly unlike what the other Templars wore, was crouching before her. Although he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and greatsword-wielding arms, he was resting on his heels with the balanced agility of a cat. There was something feline, almost predatory, about his stare too; unblinking and utterly transfixed. As she gaped dumbly back at him, he reached up to wipe the blood from her mouth in an oddly intimate gesture. Clinging to his finger were stray gold particles harvested from her lip; the Rivaini stared at them, fascinated.

"You're a clever girl," he said softly, in a voice edged with admiration and something not entirely Fereldan. "Gifted indeed."

Flora, enchanted by the novel juxtaposition of herself with the word clever, took an overlarge bite of bread and almost choked.

Duncan rose to his feet and turned, ignoring the whispers of the other mages to catch the eye of his junior officer. The younger Warden knew his commander well enough to decipher the nuances of his gaze.

"She's very young ," warned the leonine youth, hoping that his jovial tone concealed how disconcerted he was. Alistair did not know what unsettled him more: the striking delicacy of her features, or the strange, primal nature of her magic.

Duncan stifled a smile, returning his stare once again to the fox-haired girl. She had clambered upright, bloodied and totally unbothered; flashing neat, scarlet-stained teeth as she demolished nearly an entire loaf of bread.

"Only a few summers younger than you, Alistair, from the look of her."

More mages were arriving now, along with sisters from the Chantry. They bore a sobbing Lily to the infirmary; but Owain was released after a quick inspection established that his wound was fully healed. Irving and Wynne were deep in urgent conservation, darting the occasional swift glance towards the Warden-Commander.

It was getting busier in the chamber now, and Flora - who grew nervous in crowds - decided to take her leave. Stuffing the remainder of the bread into her cheeks like a squirrel storing nuts for winter, she turned towards the doorway that she had so ignominiously fallen through earlier.

"Wait."


AN: OOC Author Note: I didn't realise how long this chapter was going to be! I did think about breaking it up into two parts, but it all seemed to belong together. My Jowan is a padded, spoilt aristocratic who always got his way even in the Tower - but didn't count on meeting someone he actually cared about. It's actually quite tragic when you think about it... I tried to make him as sympathetic as possible, even when he ended up turning on Flora. Speaking of Flora, that's probably the least graceful way to introduce yourself to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden ever - literally falling into the room at his feet.

Lol parts of this are so bad as I read back on them! Hopefully the bits I've added now in 2019 don't clash too much with the old stuff haha