The crash of steel against steel rang out from the entrance; a rhythmic and deliberate taunt. The air reverberated with the presence of new magic: the fine hairs on the back of Flora's neck rose with the residual static. She half-turned from where she knelt over Irving, straining to see past the mutated silhouette of the maleficar rooted in the centre of the chamber. The space was coloured in a kaleidoscope of shifting energy, the braziers competing with a half-dozen arcane hues. It was oddly surreal; as though a pointed wedge of the Fade had driven itself into the heart of the Circle Tower.

At last, once a mindless abomination had lumbered out of the way, Flora set eyes on her companions. The battering ram that was Alistair - six feet and three inches of steel-clad muscle - stood in the ruins of the doorway. Her brother-warden's expression was hidden by shadow, but the grim challenge of sword against shield was his. He was breathing hard, and had clearly come straight from one fight eager for the next. Flora was astonished by the raw fury on his face; so unlike the geniality that she was used to seeing across the table and on the next bedroll. She did not recognise this battle-eager warrior; eyes alight and throat open in a bellow of defiance.

But I'm usually behind him when we're in a fight. I don't see his face.

Alistair was flanked by the two mages, each of whom bore a staff with a gleaming head. Morrigan's blackthorn staff was a blaze of violet flame: the witch's eyes shone lucent as coins beneath a moneylender's lamp. Her face was also alight with triumph: invigorated by their recent victory over Sloth in the Fade. Wynne wore a focus more appropriate for a senior instructor, although her lips twisted in dismay at so many of her brethren laid low.

As Flora stared at them across the maelstrom that was once the Harrowing Chamber, they noticed her too: crouched almost unobtrusively beside a column. Her presence was made obvious by her magic, as opposed to her diminutive physical self. The barrier - strung between the hastily arranged chairs with deceptive fragility - walled off the outer perimeter of the chamber; shielding the limp bodies of the other mages. It gleamed like gilt mesh, casting a wash of pale and watery light across the tiles. Her own shield clung to her body in a shifting and iridescent sheath.

"Alistair," Flora breathed, delighted to see him returned intact from the Fade. "Morr- "

CONCENTRATE!

The sudden shriek in her ear split her focus in two: a mooring line slithering loose through the palms. In a moment of panic, Flora forgot to breathe. Her barrier sagged dangerously low between the chairs, its light dimming. Alarmed, she spent her next inhalation on renewing its vigour; watching the arcane netting blaze back to life. At the same moment her own shield flickered like a guttering candle, blown aside as her mind struggled to reform.

She saw Irving's face contort in warning and began to turn. The next moment, she felt herself thrust violently to the tiles; hard enough that her temple struck the stone and she saw flashes of white light. A second later the entire chamber shook with the force of an impact. Dust and fragments of stone fell like rain. Flora, dazed and convinced that she was about to be sick, lifted her eyes to see the entire top half of the column missing. An abomination lay sprawled amongst the wreckage, its head misshapen and skull shattered. A putrid liquid leaked slowly onto the tiles.

That would have been your skull, came the angry snarl. Except you have no brains to spill.

Flora, gathering her thoughts like dropped clams, realised that she had been knocked to the side by her own spirit. It had extended some part of itself through the Veil and thrust her away: a fraction of a second before the abomination had lunged. The column had taken the full force of the brute's blow instead.

Oooooh, she thought unhappily, the world still dancing in doubles around her. I thought I was getting better at this.

A silence and then, begrudgingly: You are. By slow inches.

"Flora!"

Flora turned, the shield blossoming around her once again. Her head throbbed where it had struck the tiles but she swallowed the discomfort like a bitter herb. Her brother-warden had set his shield aside - realising its uselessness against a wielder of magic - and had begun the charge towards Pride. He strode forward as though he had an army at his heels: eyes fixed unwavering on the enemy and face lit up with a bold, confident fury. He bore no weapon save for a lone sword; easily wielding the double-weight blade in a single hand.

The demon that had once been Uldred sent a leeching wave of darkness across the tiles. The void energy drew in the light around it; the tiles tugged upwards from their concrete setting. Alistair did not flinch, nor did he pause. He strode towards Pride with a grim promise of death writ across his face.

Flora reached out an arm, and this time she did not doubt her ability to shield at a distance. The dark wave of energy broke against her barrier like a tidal wall; melting away into burnt curlicues of shadow. Alistair trod them underfoot as he hunted the demon: face set hard and purposeful.

The Pride demon made a second attempt to hurl forth energy; only to find no response forthcoming. The Fade was now sealed to it: sewn shut by words that held ancient potency. The senior instructor had her sleeve rolled up and was reading a verse hastily inked along the pale skin of her forearm.

"In Adralla's name: I adjure you. In Adralla's spirit: I sever you. In Adralla's memory: I name you three times. Break! Break!"

The realisation that it was now trapped in waking world caused the demon to let out a nonsensical and maddening babel, accompanied by a crescendo of rage. Noises that made no sense began to echo between the columns: a low roll of thunder punctuated by the screams of a martyr at the stake. The sound of fire chewing through dry trees competed with the sickening chop of the headsman's ax.

Flora watched her brother-warden loudly hurl himself into combat with all the excessive height and brawn that the Maker had granted him. Alistair was not an elegant swordsman: he fought with a brutal physicality lightly framed by Templar teachings. The stances and strikes he had learnt in the monastery, but the savagery of the assault was all his own. He wielded the sword like an extension of his own fist; Pride's flank opened up like meat on a butcher's slab. One thrust of the blade almost took off the creature's forearm, a second blow severed a prominent artery.

It began to spurt gobbets of indigo-dark, congealing blood.

The words that Wynne was reading - smeared in hasty ink on her own skin - had rendered the demon vulnerable; for the first time in its immeasurable existence, it felt physical pain. It shrieked like a baby and lashed out; claws scything through the humming air. Alistair thrust forth his shield but was too slow; the bloody talons raked useless against a film of gold. He darted a swift eye towards Flora - sitting astonished by the ruins of the pillar, her hand stretched toward him - and then resumed his assault.

Bleeding from a half-dozen gouges, Pride shrieked an instruction. One of the abominations jolted as though struck, and then turned its subterranean face towards Alistair: raising its arms as it began a limping charge. It had taken no more than three steps before igniting in a column of concentrated flame: the ceiling and tiles singed in tight parallel. The flame shifted in colour as it grew more intense: from yellow, to red, and then finally a deep violet. The reflected light danced on Morrigan's face as she laughed, the head of her blackthorn staff blazing in similar hue. She called out derision to the demonic creation as it crumbled to ash, her words lost in the rush of heated air. Morrigan had grown tired of the mindless Darkspawn she encountered in the Wilds: their rotten flesh caved too easily to be a true test of her skill.

Unlike the witch, the senior instructor took no pleasure in the killing. The older woman swallowed her nausea at seeing her companions either unconscious or mutated beyond recognition. Four decades spent in the Circle would have softened one of lesser character: the silk slipper of confinement more comfortable than the leather boot. Many senior instructors now specialised wholly in the theoretical: pursuing the academic instead of the actual. Wynne, conversely, had never allowed her skills to grow idle. She had often drawn the ire of the Templars for her insistence on keeping her repertoire fresh: the launch of fire across a chamber and the use of ice to freeze a man to the ground.

Now the practice was paying dividends. The old mage repeated the verse scrawled on her forearm; her throat shaping Ancient Tevene as fluently as Kingstongue. As her lips moved in a seamless chant, the head of her staff cut a pattern through the air. One abomination froze where it stood, like a statue grotesque from Orlesian theatre. Another found itself bound by a skein of electricity that hissed and spat, sparks flying. Her use of magic was effortless as breathing; it flowed from her like water from the wellspring. Unlike her unfortunate colleagues, Wynne had devoted equal time to the practice-chamber as to the library. Greagoir, who had known her for years and still harboured the echo of a stale longing, had turned a blind eye.

Flora's throat prickled with every inhalation: the air was laced with residual energy. She knelt beside the half-awake Irving, one palm on his chest to keep his heart steady; watching her companions in mingled awe and admiration. She realised that they were in another league entirely when it came to battle; in comparison, she felt very much an amateur. Even Alistair, only slightly her senior, had a year in the service of the Wardens - and a year spent thus was worth two decades in the Royal Army.

They're all so skilled, she thought; deflecting a bolt of bloodied hepatic air from Morrigan with the shift of a palm. Look. They fight like they were made for it.

All creatures were made to fight for their survival.

Well, I weren't.

Flora was grateful for her chair-barrier that separated the wounded at the chamber's perimeter from the chaos at its middle. The centre of the room was a maelstrom of magic and violence: it was like staring into the heart of a storm. She kept a perpetual eye on her brother-warden, who was still loudly assailing Pride. She wondered if he had been taught to fight with such brutality by Duncan; whom she had only ever seen in combat during a bandit ambush on their journey to Ostagar. He had dispatched three of them with ruthless efficiency and a single dagger, not even bothering to draw his sword.

Of course you were made for survival. You have lived thus far, haven't you?

Mm. I ain't made for THIS, though.

Flora decided against waving an encompassing palm in case it somehow altered the formation of her barrier: she was still not sure how this underused aspect of her shield actually worked.

I was made for-

She broke off her reply at its midpoint - the chaos in the chamber had fallen eerily quiet; as if the eye of the storm was passing overhead.

The reason for such stillness quickly became apparent. The lesser abominations lay slain, charred beyond recognition or frozen to purplish rigidity. Pride itself was disintegrating like a paper sculpture in the wind; its physical form damaged beyond repair. With no way of escaping back to the Fade, it let out a cry like a choir of echoes: each voice distorted beyond recognition. The terrible sound faded in seconds as the body split apart; leaving a foul stain and mangled parts on the tiles. The domed crown of a human skull and a thigh bone were visible in the demon's wreckage: all that remained of the mage Uldred.

Only then did Alistair lower his blade, breathing hard within his borrowed armour. His hair was plastered to his forehead, made dark by sweat. He looked through the ruins of the Harrowing Chamber to where Flora knelt beside Irving. Their eyes met and he took a step towards her; the adrenaline still blazing in his blood. She gazed back at him, open mouthed and transfixed.

"Irving!"

Wynne's alarm broke the silence and stillness. Alistair blinked, shaking his head as though awoken from a dream. Now free from the demonic haze, the other senior mages at the perimeter of the chamber began to stir; sitting upright and darting frightened eyes towards each other.

Flora had no desire to explain the sudden emergence of her abilities to the instructors who had dismissed her as incompetent. She recognised more of them now that they were sitting and conscious: there was the tall woman with the hawkish face who lectured Fereldan history, there was the crooked old man who taught herb lore. The elf with the nightcap was still confused; he was speaking in his native tongue to a bemused neighbour. Over the years Flora had been expelled from each of their classes, even the elementary one where children were taught to write kingstongue. She let the barrier between the chairs dissipate, deliberately looking away to distance herself from her conjuration.

To Flora's dismay, Irving was staring directly at her. Despite his prostrate state and the dishevelment of his general appearance; his clever blue eyes were as keen as a blade. His mouth began to form a question.

Keen to stop any interrogation in its tracks, Flora swiftly withdrew the sheaf of treaties from her shirt. Alistair had ordered them so that the Circle accord was first; she placed the parchment gently on Irving's battered face.

"You are recruited," she informed him, seeing no point in wasting time with formalities. "Ready yourselves and wait for my word."

We're going to save Herring.

Fereldan, corrected her general with a snarl.

The old mage exhaled against the parchment; his gaze still set appraising on her fine-boned and cold-eyed face, dispassionate as a sculpture. A slow and astonished realisation began to dawn; eyebrows rising to meet the greying hair.

Then Wynne was there between them, her mouth slack with worry.

"Irving," she said again, the word brittle. "Thank the Maker. Thank the Maker."

"Wynne," replied Ferelden's First Enchanter. "For the love of Andraste."

No more needed to be said: the two old mages gazed at each other wordlessly.

How could this happen in our Circle?

How could this happen under our noses?

Flora took advantage of their distraction to clamber to her feet, leaving the accord now clutched in Irving's hand. She wondered how the floor had become lopsided - surely the demon had not altered the structure of the Tower - and then realised that it was she who was off-balance. The knock to Flora's head had rattled her brains thoroughly within her skull. The right side of her face felt taut; blood had dried on the skin.

"Flora."

It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she had last heard her name emerge from Alistair's lips. The relief was dizzying: though perhaps this was also the aftermath of the lump on her temple.

Flora turned to see him striding towards her, sword shoved hastily back into his belt. The Pride demon's ichor - black and viscous - smeared his breastplate: testimony to the force and number of blows that had struck home. She went to meet him halfway but Alistair had crossed more swiftly; almost colliding with her near the broken column. He grasped Flora far more roughly than he would have done in usual circumstance; his armour crushing her in steely embrace. Flora was so relieved to be reunited with her brother-warden in the same sphere of existence that she did not mind the compression. Her palms followed the hard planes of his armour in place of his flesh; she felt the unsteady exhalation of his relief against her hair.

"Flora," he said, and then repeated her name. "Flora."

He touched her hair with his glove, almost reverently. Flora gazed fixedly up at his face as though he might disappear if she blinked. She wished that there was not such a disparity in their heights.

Can I stretch my own bones?

Her spirits did not bother responding. Flora raised herself on the toes of her boots, hooking a possessive arm around the steel that protected Alistair's neck. He bowed his head to meet her; eyes squeezed shut as he voiced a silent gratitude.

"Alistair," she breathed, hoping that he had not been too traumatised by his experience within the Fade.

"Are you alright?" Alistair demanded, leaning back only far enough to sweep an appraising eye along her. His gaze stopped on her blooded face and he flinched, inhaling in shock. "Shit, Flo- "

"It's already mended," Flora said hastily, extracting an arm to brush her hair aside and show him her undamaged temple. "Heads bleed a lot."

Alistair exhaled slowly - she calls this an anchoring breath - and let her go; reluctant but also relieved. Only then was he aware of his own soreness; the weary muscular ache of exertion, the mark of chainmail bruised into the skin. The armour suddenly seemed to weigh leaden on his shoulders, as though he were being hauled down to the tile by invisible ropes. He unfastened the clasps and let the pauldrons drop; regretting the decision as several trembling mages winced at the clatter.

"Alistair," she whispered, feeling the soreness of his body as a dull throb.

Alistair could not take his eyes from her: convinced that if he looked away she would vanish as she had done in the Fade. The streaks of demonic ichor that he had left on Flora's cheek and her palms had purified into clear water; thin rivulets descending. He wanted to ask her about Duncan, and about what had happened in the Fade; if her vision of their late commander had been a reflection of true desire or just a demon's cheap trick: a fantasy spun from the wistful remnants of past longing.

"Flora- " he began, and then a mocking voice cut across the tentative root of his question.

"'Flora!' 'Alistair!' 'Flora!' 'Alistair!'" simpered Morrigan, with a roll of her yellow eye. "'Tis possible I may RETCH. Look about you: the situation needs handling."


AN: Ooh this is a super unoriginal chapter title but that's what you get on a Friday after a working week (2.5 days but still, the other 2.5 days I'm minding a toddler !) also I'm posting this from my phone.

I wanted to show Flora's gradual increase in confidence in combat - but that she still makes amateur mistakes. Plus she still doesn't have a great deal of self belief in her shielding ability. And this is a chapter of unanswered questions -Irving about to ask Flora who she is and what she can do, Alistair about to ask Flora if she's still hung up on Duncan (the lines between life and death are blurred when you're a mage and the Fade exists!)

My favourite moments of this chapter are Flora putting the treaty on Irving's battered face and straight up telling him: you're recruited! And Morrigan taking the absolute piss out of Flora and Alistair at the end :)