The Templar's words rung hollow within the doorway, and - despite the Chantry's branding on his chest - there seemed to be an element of grief within them. He seemed a man on the verge of exhaustion, propped up by a lifetime of military training. The hair visible at the neck of his helm was shot through with the rapid blanching of trauma. He stood framed by immobile wood and stone: his weary form made weaker by the contrast.

"What do you mean: the Circle has fallen?" Alistair repeated, the disbelief raw as a wound.

Flora's first inane thought was: it hasn't fallen, it's still standing up.

Silly girl, retorted her general in scornful tones. Not literally.

Morrigan had strayed closer: the animal rustle of her feathers and beads betrayed her approach. Still wary, her curiosity had overridden her natural caution. Both Greagoir and the junior officer Carroll paused: the latter's hand crept towards the hilt of his blade. The witch bristled, hackles rising.

"She's with us," Flora said hastily, not wanting to risk the wrath of Morrigan's frightening mother. "You can't arrest her."

"I'd like to see them try-! "

"This apostate- " Greagoir, with his wealth of experience, had identified her in a heartbeat "- is a Grey Warden?"

"I certainly am not," came the scorn-laced retort. "I would not be so dammed stupid."

Alistair ground his teeth, suppressing the urge to beg the senior Templar to apprehend Morrigan immediately, and store her - preferably - in their most depressing dungeon. His attention was then snared by the carnage that lay strewn beyond Greagoir: at Alistair's lofty height, he could see what Flora could not.

"Maker's Breath," he said, astonished and horrified in equal measure. "What in the fel happened here?"

Greagoir hesitated. Even part-obscured by the helm, his face seemed to close up like a trap. Then he lurched to one side : taking several stumbling steps towards the door. From the startled - and then scandalised expression - this was not entirely of his own doing. It had felt as though a great palm had nudged him between the shoulder blades.

"Did you - did you just use your damnable magic on me, girl?" he demanded in outrage as Flora slid past him like an eel. The words echoed within his helm and tangled together: he took it off impatiently.

"Yes. I mean: noooo," said Flora unconvincingly, not listening. "I think… you just lost your balance."

The Templar's nostrils flared. Morrigan - who had seen the subtle glint of Flora's shield as it nudged the man aside - let out a cackle. Greagoir, who had always prided himself on maintaining an unassailable calm - realised that beads of sweat were breaking out across his forehead. He did not look well: though not even in the current circumstance would he admit feeling anything less than optimal.

Circumventing the indignant old Templar, Flora stepped into the vaulted sanctum that served as a reception area for new arrivals. During usual times, Templar officials would be posted within the circular foyer: seated at desks with quill in hand and sword bared in unsubtle warning. Flora remembered little of her own arrival, except that the clerk had guessed at her age and misheard her mumbled name: Flora, of Herring. Thus she entered the Circle archives as Flora O'Ferryn, estimated at fifteen, incapable. There had been a tapestry hung on the wall behind the clerk: a garden scene that depicted a halla asleep beneath a tree. The doe had been stitched in silver, standing out against a backdrop of dusty greens. Only when the Templar clerk prompted the trembling Flora to stand had she noticed the wolf lurking amidst the violet shadows.

Now the quiet, dusty foyer resembled more a hospital at the rear of a battlefield. At least a dozen injured lay between the pillars, some tended to and others not. Dark veins of blood had dried between the tiles; still-wet tributaries glistened on the stone. The wounded had been stripped of their armour and robes, so it was not obvious who was Templar and who was mage. Inadequate medical supplies were scattered, and administered by weeping apprentices with trembling hands. The only calm presence came from the Tranquil servants, who glided serenely between the dying: bearing water and bandages.

"Concentrate!" barked an old mage, prone on the ground with a raw wound exposing much of the flesh of his thigh. "Concentrate, you fool!"

Light was sparking between the fingers of the trembling young mage kneeling at his side: but it faded into nothingness before it could make contact with the wound.

"We never - we never practised this!"

"Focus, apprentice!"

"It - it won't stop bleeding."

Nearby, two Tranquil were pressing a clump of sodden bedding against the abdomen of a very still young woman, a tangle of hair covering her face. The weight did little to stop the flow of blood: she lay in a growing pool.

The unharmed mages had been corralled into a corner, ringed with white-faced and frightened Templars. Many of them had never seen such wanton carnage. Kinloch Hold, as the residence of Ferelden's First Enchanter, had a reputation for being an easy posting: it was run with exceptional smoothness, with little evidence of abuse and an unusual civility between the Templars and the senior hierarchy of mages. From the nightwear and dressing-robes hastily tied, the attack had come at night.

Flora heard Alistair say something but his words were lost in the sound of the surf: the waves hurling themselves against the Teeth and the mournful crack of a ship tearing itself apart. Lightning lit the sky, silhouetting the pillars and vaulted ceiling. The wounded and the half-drowned lay in the shallows, shoved up onto the grit by the contemptuous sea.

Flora blinked, banishing the echo of the Ellyn Dynge. The tide retreated and the chamber remade itself: the wounded were not mangled by rock and wave, but by the corrupted arcane. She recognised the odour of maleficar magic: it smelt like flesh decaying within an iron breastplate. Blood was the carrier of life and to see it tainted and used to fuel something foul made her nauseous.

Sort them, she thought, sweeping her eye around the casualties.

You remember how?

As always, her general translated for voiceless Compassion: who had lived in an Age so distant that their language bore no familiarity to the tongue that Flora spoke.

Those who will die no matter what.

Those who will die without immediate help.

Those who might die, but not for some time.

Those who can wait.

In Flora's experience, the patients who were the loudest were the ones who could wait. To her relief, she could see none who fell into the first grouping. These were usually those who were unrecognisable: those crushed into oblivion by a falling mast or torn into pieces by the Hag's Teeth. There were few wounds that Flora could not mend: she cast out her gilded net and drew the dying back from the clutch of oblivion.

Alistair watched the veil lift from his sister-warden's face: as vagueness incised into keen and bladed focus. She turned towards the woman with the bloodied belly and made for her with an assurance that he had never seen in combat. He supposed that this was her battlefield: that Death was her opponent and the wounded woman a territory to be gained or lost. Flora was a novice with her shield - a potent weapon in the hands of a reluctant amateur - but she had been Compassion's scalpel and thread for fifteen years.

There was not the luxury of time: she acknowledged that there would be scars. A cobweb of flesh spread beneath her palms, each spongy patch expanding until it met neighbour. Torn vessels wound themselves together like knotted fishing line: then melted into a seamless whole. Tender spurts of bone sprang forth, bridging jagged gaps. The torn tapestry of the body was stitched and patched and made whole: Flora went from one patient to the next, listening to the voiceless instruction in her ear.

It took Alistair several minutes to realise that he was not the only one with eyes on his sister-warden. The mages corralled in the corner were watching her in unflattering disbelief; their eyes raw with astonishment. He remembered that Flora had mentioned once that she had been widely derided by those at the Circle for her incapability, her illiteracy, her ignorance, her stunted magical ability and general vagueness. Her looks had only fuelled the ridicule: they had branded her 'the vase' for her shapely exterior and apparent lack of substance.

"This is the one who healed that Tranquil." The old Templar, Greagoir, was speaking more to himself than Alistair: summoning a memory from the recent past. "During the maleficar's attack in Kingsway. Thought she was only capable of distracting my lieutenants."

Greagoir had been so preoccupied with Jowan himself during the assault and escape that he had barely paid attention to the mage who had shielded and then healed the Tranquil. Now he gazed at Flora in consternation: he had once believed her capable only of mending bruises and mild Frost-cough.

Alistair watched his sister-warden and the golden air spilling from her parted lips; the swift, thoughtless movements of her fingers. She was crouched over the senior instructor with the gaping wound to the thigh: his eyebrows were lodged in his hairline.

"Maker damn Uldred! You won't be able to stop the bleeding, girl," he said, in tones of doom. "It's maleficar magic. Oh, or maybe you will."

A miserable Flora wiped her bloodied mouth with her sleeve. She took no pleasure in demonstrating her capability; nor did she feel any smugness at the astonishment of her former peers. She had wanted nothing more than to arrive at the Circle, stay just long enough for them to secure the aid of the mages- and perhaps for Alistair's lunch - and then leave.

The mage stared down at his mended thigh, the flesh sealed over with fresh pink skin. He then looked hard at Flora; the wrinkles deepening across his forehead.

"What's your name? I don't remember you. Were you in my class?"

Flora looked at the mage's rich crimson robes; indicative of his senior status. In her four years at Kinloch Hold, she had never progressed beyond the most rudimentary of classes.

"No," she said, unhappily. "I was only ever an apprentice. I'm Flora."

"DORA?!"

Flora did not waste any more time responding to his incredulity. She clambered upright and went to join her brother-warden and the Templar, who had been conversing in low tones in the centre of the chamber. Morrigan was leaning against a pillar, her arms folded and dark lips pursed.

"Flora."

Alistair drew her aside, lowering his voice. There was a tautness to his face; his eyes shadowed with urgency. "Flora, the place has been overrun with maleficari. Apparently, some instructor has gone rogue and summoned a - a demon at the top of the tower. The First Enchanter is up there too."

"Uldred," said Flora, recalling the senior mage's curse: damn you, Uldred!

He looked at her. "Did you know him?"

Flora shook her head miserably, glimpsing her reflection as a crimson smear on the Templar's breastplate. She wiped her mouth once again with her sleeve, her wrists bloodied. Her belly felt as though it had been knotted and there was a painful lump wedged like a pebble in her throat. She wished for the hundredth time that Duncan had lived. It did not seem fair that her and Alistair - two recruits - had been forced into a series of such ghastly situations.

First the Tower of Ishal. Then Redcliffe. Now the Circle.

Child, her general replied, wearily. You were not granted your shield for naught.

But I just want to mend.

More is required.

Beside her, Alistair drew in a sharp breath: he had spotted folded parchment in Greagoir's gloved palm. The letter was sealed with black wax: an inverted cruciform shaped from two notched swords. The old Templar shot him a defiant look, but a tremor disturbed the rigidity of his jaw.

"I recognise that seal," Flora's brother-warden said, softly. "We learnt Templar symbology at the monastery. You're requesting permission to carry out an Annulment, aren't you?"

"Impudent - I don't need permission," came the harsh retort. "The order is writ. I need reinforcements to carry it out."

It took a brave man to confront someone with Alistair's height and the breadth of his shoulder, but Greagoir was a northerner and did not scare easily. The young Warden glanced up at the ceiling; as though he could see through the vaulted stone and beyond; to where a maleficar and his demon roamed the halls and held the First Enchanter prisoner. He thought on the treaties tucked within Flora's shirt, and an oath that he had sworn on a rainy night over a year prior. He thought on a promise he had made more recently: one sworn amidst the terrible wreckage of Ostagar and Mac Tir's betrayal.

"But why does the whole Circle need to be purged?" he asked, heavily. "There could be survivors. We've come to enlist the help of these mages - there's a Blight."

The Templar shot him an incredulous look. The edges of his eyes were stained red with exhaustion.

"Then go to Jainen," he said, naming Ferelden's secondary, less populated Circle. "Kinloch Hold is no more."

"But the First Enchanter ain't dead," interjected Flora, herself startled at such a revelation.

Usually her spirits gave nothing away, or allowed her only a narrow sliver of insight. But - for the span of a few moments - she had heard the echo of the old man's heartbeat; striking a slow but steady rhythm within the confines of his chest. It rang in her ears and then faded like a Chantry bell at the end of its pealing.

The old Templar was astonished yet again by her: his jaw went slack with surprise.

"Irving is alive?" he said, a sudden shaft of hope falling across his face. For a second he could have been a man learning favourable news of a friend. Then his expression closed up like a portcullis: guarded and drawn. "Anyway, it doesn't matter - they're as good as dead up there. The place is crawling with demons and blood magic. I won't send my men in to be slaughtered."

"A sensible idea," murmured Morrigan, drawing the fur more tightly around her shoulders. "I suggest that we depart immediately. Let these 'Templars' clean up the mess they themselves created by penning up mages like beasts."

Greagoir eyed the long blackwood staff angled across her back with misgiving. Instinct and common sense indicated that this was a mage - worse, an apostate - and in usual circumstance, he would have been calling for a mage cage and runed cuffs. But these were not usual times, and he had more urgent matters to attend to.

"The Tower is a tomb," he said, curt and with his eyes sliding to the side. "We're sealing the stairwell. I told you: try Jainen."

Compassion exhaled beside Flora; a long and thoughtful breath. She felt the rhythm of three dozen heartbeats like fingers tapping against her skin: the pulse of life, echoing from the floors above. Alistair, who always had one eye on his sister-warden, saw the hair at her ear flutter as if caught by the wind.

"It ain't a tomb," she said, turning her pale stare on the Templar. "There are people still alive up there. You can't seal them in."

Greagoir looked down at her, nostrils flared.

"You presume much to tell me what I can or cannot do, mage."

Alistair interceded then, grim faced and yet steady in voice.

"What if we went up there and - and found the First Enchanter? Would you cancel the Annulment?"

He glanced swiftly at his sister-warden, but her expression - as usual - betrayed nothing. Flora's gaze rested unblinking on Greagoir, opaque as any Orlesian mask. If she felt any reservation at venturing into a tower occupied by blood mages and demons, they did not alter the refined architecture of her face.

The Templar let out a humourless bark of laughter, his eyes hollowed.

"Are you mad?"

Probably, thought Alistair, but shook his head: fixing the old soldier with a stare.

Greagoir hesitated. The soft sobbing of the mages penned in the corner drifted towards them, amplified by the vaulted ceiling. One of them was little more than a child: he clasped a tattered book to his chest in lieu of a toy.

The Templar then looked at the three who stood before him: the young man with the height and bulk of a bear on its hind-legs, the girl who had resisted the maleficar Jowan's assault, and a terrifying woman who could only be a Witch of the Wilds. He was relatively certain that they were all going to die.

"Fine," he said, the word brittle. "Bring Irving down here - alive - and we'll make a plan."

As the Knight-Commander went to speak with his lieutenants, Alistair turned to Flora. She lifted her face to his and he glimpsed a flicker of apprehension within the grey eyes: so subtle that he thought he might have imagined it.

"I'm sorry," he said, impulsive. "I didn't mean to volunteer you, Flora. You ought to stay down here with the injured. Morrigan can come and earn her keep instead."

"Excuse me," came the pointed retort. "Morrigan comes and goes where she pleases. As it happens, there is something I seek within this blasted tower. I am not afraid of a few mages gone rogue."

"I'm coming," said Flora, her brow creasing. "I need more practice with my shield."

We don't part, her eyes added; sweeping a swift glance across his face. This isn't the first tower of monsters we've climbed.

He caught her meaning and half-smiled, a melancholy nod to their shared past. They had entered the ground floor of Ishal as acquaintances: hesitant and uncertain of one another, but they had emerged from its ruins as something else, forged fast together.

Alistair had not brought his armour across the water - he had been expecting brunch, not a battle - and there was a short delay while they tried to find garb to fit. Morrigan watched in amusement as various breastplates were tried and discarded: set against his height and broad shoulder, they looked more suited for a child.

"I suggest a diet," she commented, evilly. "Or a reduction programme. Perhaps you're part Qunari? Or some grotesque dwarf-Qunari hybrid?"

Alistair, well aware that there was not an ounce of spare fat across his torso, ground his teeth and wondered if there was a spare mage cage available. He discarded another mail shirt that barely skimmed his abdomen, letting it slither to the tiles in a rustle of steel.

"Try this one. Shame the Wardens got their hands on you before you could finish your training, lad."

Greagoir had guessed at Alistair's Templar training from the way he detached his sword-belt and removed the weapon for inspection: a series of swift and orderly motions. Alistair decided that it would be best not to comment, lest he confess that Duncan's arrival at the monastery had been one of the best days of his life. He responded instead with a noncommittal grunt - like a northerner, he glanced at Flora - and slithered the mail over his head. It did not fit perfectly, but it would serve.

"You could have been posted here. That sword-arm might've encouraged my recruits to the drill-yard."

Despite the direness of the situation Alistair almost laughed, reaching down to lift the only breastplate that fit. Yet again he looked at his sister-warden, who until recently had also been a resident of Kinloch Hold. Flora was squatting like a frog between a pair of superficially wounded apprentices: making best use of time by placing a palm on each. Sensing his attention, she lifted her face to meet his stare. The corner of her mouth curved upwards in an instinctive response.

"Ha," Alistair said, not taking his eyes from her. "I don't think that would have been a good idea, somehow."

Still, the young man entertained the notion for a few moments as he adjusted the breastplate; imagining himself patrolling the curving corridors of Kinloch Hold as a junior Templar. He was relatively certain that he and Flora would have ended up in a great deal of trouble: there was no shortage of shadowed corners and unsupervised corridors.

While her brother-warden found a shield heavy enough to sit comfortably on his arm, Flora finished mending the last of her patients. Several of them had recognised her from her time at the Circle; she ignored their incredulous interrogation. The questions stung like the barbs of an urchin: why didn't you tell us that you could heal? Why hide it?

Flora had not intentionally hidden her abilities. Until Jowan's ill-fated escape attempt, she had encountered no injury serious enough to warrant using her magic. She had happily avoided attention during her four years at the Circle: eschewing friendships for the company of her spirits. Now, with the confused and accusatory eyes of her former peers resting on her: she wished fervently that she could return to anonymity.

"Flora?"

Her relief to be excused from the attention of others was swiftly tempered by the realisation that they were about to depart. Alistair, steely-bright and silvered in his borrowed Templar garb, stood waiting. At the far end of the foyer, a half-dozen Chantry soldiers guarded the stairwell: their blades unsheathed and pointed towards the steps.

"Into the maw of the demon we go," announced Morrigan, a fraction too lightly. Restless fingers touched her staff: checking that it still hung at her neck. "What a fine morning 'tis turning out to be!"


AN: I really enjoy bringing up the flashbacks of the Ellyn Dynge shipwreck in Flora's mind - how the spirits influence her reality with these memories to help her cope. The shipwreck was a defining moment in her life and its so interesting to see how it impacts her later on.

Poor Alistair, no brunch for you! To be fair I would be gutted if I was expecting a meal and got mad mages instead, lol

The system Flora is using to categorise her patients is of course the triage system used by first responders - I went down a real rabbit hole on Wikipedia reading about all the different triage standards across the world haha.

Haaaaa imagine Alistair and Flora trapped in the same Circle together! That definitely would not end up well