I realised once again while writing this chapter how terrible I am at fight scenes. Ah, well. Enjoy!

"There," Cassandra said, handing her the binoculars. "By the rail station. Can you see it?"

It took her a moment to find the station through the smoke. Much of Witchwood was aflame – whether it was because the town had been torched or due to the residents' hasty evacuation leading to accidents, Bethany could not tell. Even the last days' heavy rains had not extinguished the fires. Near the rail station, she could make out the characteristic green glow of a rift, right on the tracks. A train had been leaving the station when it had opened, with disastrous results. "Do you think that whatever is causing the rifts is placing them to do maximum damage?"

"I doubt it," Solas said from his seat by the door. He did not seem at all perturbed by their location, which was rather too high above the ground for Bethany's comfort. She'd asked Cassandra to at least let her close the helicopter's side doors, a request that had fallen on deaf ears. She had to admit the view was good, but she suspect that wasn't why Cassandra had done it. "The locations in which they appear seem to be mostly random. Rifts in populated areas are more likely to be reported to us, and it is only a matter of time until some appear on important thoroughfares. If anyone can control the placement of rifts, they are not being strategically sound about it."

"So either our opponent is less mighty than we thought, or he's an idiot?," said Varric. "That's heartening."

"No matter. Before we do anything, we need to secure the Chantry's backing – or, at least, its toleration."

"Are you sure about that, Seeker? I snuck a glance at Ruffles' spreadsheets yesterday. The donations just keep pouring in."

"Just you wait until the Chantry denounces us as heretics, Varric. If people believe they are placing their eternal souls at risk by aiding us …"

"What, they'll just tolerate the Breach? The Inquisition is their best hope. They'll support us."

"You underestimate the people's faith. And their doubts in our cause." Cassandra sharply rapped against the dividing wall to the cockpit. "Get us down by the rail station."

The town of Witchwood had been mostly deserted even before the Breach had opened – as the Free Mages had taken control of Redcliffe, and the rebel Templars had followed them, Witchwood had become one of the war's bloodiest battlefields. As such, the station's empty parking lot had been fortified and turned into a helicopter landing area by the army. "Mother Giselle and the security detail we send her are holed up in a hospital not far from here," Cassandra informed them. "The hospital doesn't have a landing pad. This is the closest secure location we can get. The rail station is held by the Fereldan Army. A Captain Maitland is in charge here, as far as we know, and has been given orders to render us any assistance we may require."

Raising dust, the helicopter sat down inside the perimeter of sandbags. From inside the station building, the figure of a camouflaged and helmeted soldier approached them at a jog. "Are you the Inquisition?," he shouted over the roar of the helicopter's engines as Cassandra and Bethany climbed out of the vehicle.

"Yes," Cassandra shouted back. "Are you Captain Maitland?"

"Lieutenant Flint, ser, A Company, first battalion Royal Hinterlanders! Come inside, I'll explain!"

Keeping their heads down, the group hurried inside the safety of the station building. Advertisements, blank timetables and shops with closed shutters had survived as testament of the busy interchange this had once been. Now, most of the station's businesses had been burned out, and a company of the Royal Fereldan Army had set up camp inside. What remained of it, anyway – almost half of the soldiers seemed to be nursing some sort of injury. In a waiting room by the side, two rows of black plastic body bags had been laid out on the ground. "Frances – er, Captain Maitland was wounded this morning," the lieutenant explained, leading them to what might count as a command post in other circumstances. "The doc's hoping for the best, but she's yet to wake up. Damn demons. You saw that blasted green thing outside? It's been jamming our radio ever since it popped up in the night."

"How many of you are left?," Cassandra asked. Tactful.

"If we can get Perks back on her feet? 43. We've orders to hold the station until reinforcements can arrive by train, but we're stretched thin all over. Why, what do you need?"

"You know St. Gytha's Hospital, on Redcliffe Road?"

"Yeah. Some Chantry lady's been trying to help the refugees there. It's thirty minutes from here, but there's no getting through. Let me show you." He walked over to a plastic-coated map that had been rolled out on a fast food restaurant's table. "We've got the demons right here at the station. No way around it either, not without mouse-holing your way through three buildings."

Bethany nodded. "The rift won't be a problem, so long as we can clear out the demons around it. Trust me."

The lieutenant gave her an incredulous glance of the kind normally reserved for madmen and small children. "As you say, ma'am. It's still not happening. There's mage scum holed up between here and the hospital." He glanced at her and Solas' staffs. "Uh, no offense."

She blushed, but only a little. She'd been called worse in her time with the MCIS. It wasn't as if mages were doing much to engender trust these days. "Solas and I are mages, too. That should even the playing field a bit, so long as we're careful."

"Uh, right." The soldier glanced at Cassandra, as if looking for moral support from a fellow uniform-wearer against yet another idiot civ. "Look, ma'am, I don't know what you're trying to do, but I've got my orders. We've already lost too many good folks, and I'm not going to risk the rest of them on a suicide mission. Sorry."

The representatives of the Inquisition shared a gloomy look. "Well," Bethany started, "perhaps we can find another landing site with the helicopter …"

Cassandra ignored her and grabbed Lieutenant Flint by the front of his ballistic vest. "You damned coward!," she snarled at him. "Do you have any idea what's at stake here? Denerim assured us your full support."

The lieutenant struggled to get free, but the Seeker's grip was like a vice. "Fuck Denerim. I'm not sending my men to die for this," he said, resolute even so.

"Look," Varric pined in. "I know you're in deep shit, LT. But we're on the same side here. Your guys will keep dying if we don't close the rift outside soon, and we can't do that without your help. And it's not just here. There's rifts opening up all over the country, and we're the only ones who can do shit about it. But to do that, we need to get to the hospital. It's important."

Cassandra let go of the man, and he stumbled a few steps backwards. "My people will die if I take them out here," he repeated. "At least in here we've got a chance until reinforcements come."

"But that would put thousands at risk, and I don't think you're the type who'd do that. Here, let me have a look at you, Flint. You're what, thirty? Thirty-five? You joined the army during the Blight, yes? It would've been safer to stay at home, let the Wardens deal with it. Easier, too. But you didn't. You joined, because that's the kind of guy you are, and because you wanted to protect all of Ferelden. Not just your own arse."

"I …"

The Seeker glared at him. "Do you believe in the Maker, man?"

For a brief moment, Flint managed to withstand Cassandra's withering stare. Then, he looked down. "I do, may He forgive me. Just … give me twenty minutes to get our wounded to shelter."

Twenty minutes later, the remnant of A Company had formed up on the rail tracks in marching formation. "We'll do what we can," the lieutenant told them. "But I'm not happy about it, and neither are the men."

"You'll thank me later," Cassandra told them. "You are doing the work of the Maker. Let's move."

They marched along the rails, between the platforms. Bethany was grateful for the combat boots she had been issued with before their departure; uncomfortable as they were, the thick soles were a relief.

Already, she could see the rift blocking the eastbound tracks, the derailed train toppled by its side. It was larger than the two she had closed so far, or at least it seemed that way. Demons flocked around it, as yet ignorant of their observers. Bethany could make out a multitude of shades, a rage demon and two unfamiliar, skeletal creatures with limbs as thin and wiry as knotted twigs. "Terrors," Solas explained, sensing her bemusement. Lesser servants of Fear. They feed on the burning fear that take away your ability to reason and reduces men to beasts. Their presence here is to be expected."

"Well, consider us properly terrified," Lieutenant Flint grumbled.

Cassandra strode past him, drew her sidearm and released the safety. "In the Maker's name, take heart, man. All things are ready if our minds be so!" And with these words, the Seeker walked off towards the rift, and the demons surrounding it.

"What the …" Breaking off, Varric groaned. "I'll never understand how that works out for her. Let's go." He broke into a run, followed by Bethany, Solas and the soldiers. Some orders were barked, the soldiers went for whatever cover could be found, and opened fire.

As Bethany extended her old telescopic staff and prepared her first spell, she watched Cassandra. The Seeker always seemed to know a few moments early where the next blow would land, and dodged the demons' spells with the same facility as their claws. The soldiers studiously avoided firing in her direction, but Bethany distinctly felt that they might as well have. And once she had staggered an opponent, she followed it up with a perfectly-placed shot. What was still standing after that was subjected to her finely-decorated dirk, a weapon that would have looked purely ceremonial on anyone else. And every now and then, the Seeker seemed to light up with a golden light, and then her movements would blur …

Bethany raised her staff and flung a few wafts of flame at one of the shades. How long had it been since she had been in a fight like this? That must have been in their first year in Kirkwall, ages ago. Slowly, though, it was all coming back to her. In between firing bursts of flame at the weak shades thronging the rift, she reached out and cast Winter's Graspat the rage demon. The moment the fired, it moved aside as if to dodge, and her spell only grazed its side. "Damn it …" At least the demon's stunted arm froze, but within moments the furious heat of the demon's body would free it –

She barely heard the shot, but when she looked again, the frozen arm had shattered. She looked over her shoulder to see Varric grinning at her even as he reloaded Bianca. "Keep up, Sunshine. You're out of shape."

That made her laugh. "Shut up, you … oh, bugger …" Attracted by her spellcasting, the rage demon had sunken into the muddy ground, and a trail of magma was moving toward them at great speed … Bethany spared a glance at Cassandra, who was of course wholly engaged with the pair of terrors, and gripped her staff tighter. Well, they'd have to manage on their own. "Varric, incoming rage …"

"Got it."

Rage was burning, scorching anger. Fire. Her flame staff would not hurt the beast, Bethany reasoning in a split second, but cold would. She channelled her mana into thoughts of winter, and with a sweep of her staff raised a Wall of Ice between them and the demon. Not a spell she was good at, and she distinctly felt the cost to her mana. Only when it did not seem to slow at all did Bethany realise that it was travelling underground. How far down did the spikes of ice go? Maybe if she … there was a satisfying crunch, and then a slosh. "Sounds like you hit it," Varric commented.

With a roar, the rage demon surfaced before them. Blistering heat emanated from it, and the two of them stumbled backwards away from it. Bethany barely had time to form a spell; she raised her offhand and pushed –

The force of the telekinetic gust issuing forth from her hand staggered the demon, which bought them time. Varric grabbed her hand and dragged her aside just in time to avoid its roar of flame … Bethany brought her staff around and slammed the focus end against what passed for the demon's head, causing its viscous skin to throw blisters and boils. It let out a pained scream, mixed with fury and turned to face her … "Winter's Grasp," she whispered coolly. Mid-movement the demon ground to a halt as ice bound it to the ground and encompassed its entire form.

"I'll take it from here, Sunshine." Varric stepped past her, brought Bianca level with the creature and fired. The first two bolts made cracks appear in the rage demon's frozen form. The third shattered it, leaving behind only shards of ice and gluey ectoplasm.

Bethany and Varric shared a brief grin, before returning their attention to the rest of the enemies. Cassandra had taken down one of the terrors, and seemed to be doing rather well against the other. The soldiers, meanwhile, had taken down shade after shade, and only a few remained. Bethany tried to gauge her remaining mana pool – the Wall of Icehad cost her a lot, but it felt as if she still had about 200 kT left. More than enough for what she had in mind.

"Cassandra," she shouted, "move!" After a tiny moment of hesitation, the Seeker abandoned her fight and sprinted away from the rift. Bethany raised her staff and, sketching a rough outline in the air, cast Pull of the Abyss,and only a split-second after, Firestorm.

The combined effects of the random fireballs and the soldiers' crossfire seemed to throw the demons into utter confusion. By the time the Firestorm came to an end, the few remaining demons were quickly banished. Retracting her staff, Bethany approached the rift and raised her left hand towards it. Already she felt the Fade tugging on her hand. When she reached out to join it to the rift, it opened wide before her. She reached inside, felt the power flow through her mark. Even the third time, the massive amounts of energy interacting with her body still felt like a kick in the chest, and took her breath away. Then, Bethany saw the rift collapse into a faint shimmer of Veilgleam and small, bubbling pouches of ectoplasm.

"Maker's breath …," one of the soldiers whispered. In the silence that had fallen over the battlefield, it sounded like a shout. Lieutenant Flint rose out of cover, shouldered his rifle and walked towards her like a sleepwalker, his helmet in his hands. "What did you do? Who are you people?"

Cassandra stepped to Bethany's side. "We are the Inquisition. You are in the presence of the Herald of Our Lady, sent to us by the Maker Himself for our salvation."

Flinching slightly, Bethany hissed: "Don't say that! I thought we hadn't decided on an official stance yet …" No one seemed to hear her.

The lieutenant's eyes were wide as saucers. Despite the weariness that was manifest on his grimy face, he stood almost to attention. "I believe it," he quietly said. "Maker's balls, I believe it. You just saved all our lives, you know that? Whatever you need … if we can give it, it is yours. I give you my word as an officer."

There was a brief pause. Then, Cassandra gave a curt nod. "Appreciate it." She reached for the radio affixed to her bulletproof vest. "Pilot, this is Pentaghast. The rift has been cleared, I want you to fly above us and keep us appraised of any pertinent developments. I'm turning on my tracker for you to follow. Acknowledge, over."

"Acknowledged. Will keep you updated, out."

The Seeker turned back to the lieutenant. "You know the way to the hospital, do you not? Lead the way."

"Yes, ser! Hinterlanders, form up!"

Varric and Bethany shared a look. "Well," the dwarf said, a lopsided grin on his face, "they seem eager enough now. Shall we, o noble Lady Herald?"

That made her laugh. "Come on. Let's not keep this Mother Giselle waiting and longer." They fell in line.

Marching along the rails, they made slow progress. Heavy rainfall had made the ground a soggy field of mud, and the bed of pebbles surrounding the rails gave way under every step. Soon, the civilians among them were breathing hard. Bethany felt as though the soldiers were watching her, and now and then, when the lieutenant or the Seeker had them stop to scout ahead or check with the pilot, they seemed to subtly form a guarding perimeter around her.

"I don't think anyone ever explained just why we need to go see this Mother Giselle," Varric said during one of those stops. "There's got to be something special about her if we're going through all this effort."

"She knew my name," Bethany pointed out. "There should have been no way for her to know that. Whoever she is, she must have serious connections."

"Come to think of it," said the lieutenant, who had been listening intently, "I don't think we were introduced."

"That's not all, though," Cassandra continued, ignoring him. "Mother Giselle is one of today's most important theologians, at least in Chantry circles. She used to hold the Imperialis Chair of Divinities at the University of Orlais, and for a long time was Divine Justinia's personal confessor and confidante. Giselle retired to the Fereldan countryside a few years ago to focus on her studies, and hasn't been involved in Chantry politics."

"But the fact that we're here suggests she's still got some pull, doesn't it? Are we here to get her out of retirement?"

"We assume that is why she contacted us, yes. Leliana informs me the situation in Val Royeaux is very delicate. With so many grand clerics killed at the Conclave, it will take months, if not years for a new Divine to be elected. In the meantime, the Chantry will be governed by the curia, but we need their support now. Even with the donations pouring in, we're running out of money, and we have no legal authority."

"And Giselle can get us their support?"

"She is still influential with Justinia's supporters. These are difficult times for the Chantry." Cassandra left it at that.

"Difficult for all of us," Varric grumbled, but was interrupted by Cassandra halting with a raised hand.

"Lieutenant," she called out. "According to my map, the shortest way to the hospital is along that road."

The soldier followed her gaze. "That's Greenhill Road. It's a death trap. The rebel mages and their mercs hold it. I lost three good men to mines and snipers there. We have to find another way around."

"You wouldn't happen to be carrying explosives, would you?"

"I know what you're thinking, but no. Sorry."

Bethany was still looking for the road the Seeker had seen, until she realised there was a gap in the rubble. The buildings lining the street had been devastated – walls and floors had collapsed, leaving large holes in their sides. Some houses looked like cross-cuts, with entire sides or corners disappeared into rubble. There was not a single windowpane intact. Abandoned cars lined the street, burned-out and half-buried under the debris. "The mages started this," one of the soldiers told her. "When they moved in, it didn't take long until the fireballs started flying."

"I find it hard to believe any mage doing that much damage, even using blood magic."

"Well, we had to take it back somehow, didn't we? When it turned out the enemy was too well-entrenched to crack, the brass brought in heavy artillery and had the place shelled."

Bethany gasped. "But this is Ferelden! These are our people! We can't just destroy our own towns …"

"We're at war, ma'am. As far as I'm concerned, anyone who was still in Witchwood when we starting shelling got what was coming to them."

She found that assessment rather callous, but kept quiet. Things were only going to get worse – unless they could do something about it. She'd been there for the war's beginning, and she'd be there for its end, Maker willing. After all, she thought, the Inquisition's purpose was to restore peace and order to the world. Maybe they would fail – but Bethany did not believe that, not truly. It was as Cassandra had said: this was the Maker's work, and He looked kindly upon them. Upon her?

"Here," the lieutenant said after a while, leading them up a pile of rubble into the remains of someone's second-floor kitchen. The building still seemed to be relatively intact, except it was missing almost everything above the second story. "We can take a shortcut through the houses." He led the way to the upstairs, and with quick gestures directed his men to sweep the surrounding rooms. As the remaining soldiers brought up the rear, Bethany looked around the kitchen. The dented fridge was half open, clearly non-functional and unpleasantly odorous. A child's crayon painting had been pinned to its door. Had these people gotten away in time?

Slowly, always sweeping ahead for hostiles, mines or booby traps, they made their way through the ruined block of flats. A living room, the TV still flickering static. A bedroom, buried in debris. More often than not, they had no difficulty passing from one flat to another through the holes in the walls. Other times, the crumbling walls gave way under a strong strike with the stock of a rifle.

Eventually, there was no way to proceed. The floor had collapsed before them, and one by one they jumped down to the ground floor. "Careful," Solas said. "Watch your footing." Indeed, the pile of rubble gave way under their feet immediately. Bethany had to hold on to one of the soldiers' arms to get down safely.

"Do you smell something off?"

"Spread out. Sweep the area."

"Ser, you should see this …"

The lieutenant and Seeker Pentaghast shared a concerned look, before hurrying in the direction the soldier's voice had come from. Curiously, Bethany and Varric followed them. Now she could smell it too, an overbearing sweet odour. Her hands clasped to her mouth, her feet unsteady, Bethany made her way forward. A set of stairs led down to a cellar, lit only by the soldiers' torches. Inside …

"Ugh, what is that … oh, sweet Maker …"

"Don't look, Sunshine."

Body upon body filled the cellar, laid upon each other like sacks of dirt. Men, women, children – blood and dirt covered their clothing, and their flesh was grey and pasty. Most appeared to have been shot. Others had had their throats slit. One child's head had been kicked in, rendering its face a bloody mess of brains and bone splinters. Flies and maggots had settled on the bodies in droves. Blessed Andraste have mercy … "Thirty or forty people," one of the soldiers quietly said. "Mages, going by the clothes. No survivors."

As Bethany relieved herself of her breakfast, Cassandra said a brief prayer over the bodies, commending the fallen to the Maker's bosom. "We ought to burn them," Solas said when she had finished. "Necrophages spread epidemics."

The Seeker nodded. "They deserve a cremation. Make it so."

By the time Bethany had recovered and was handed a bottle of lukewarm water to rinse her mouth with, Solas was slowly torching the corpses with the fire from his hands. "Who did this to them?," she asked, still queasy. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Rebel Templars, most likely. I find it difficult to imagine anyone else subduing and executing such a large group of mages."

Bethany swallowed. "And they said Kirkwall was bad … the men who did this are monsters."

"So were the mages who did this. Do you think this town destroyed itself? The Templars and mages fighting each other operate on a different rationality, grounded not on facts but hate. This war brings out the worst in all of us."

"There is nothing that can justify this, Solas. Nothing."

"Of course, Herald."

"You feeling alright, Sunshine?"

"Yes … yes, I'm fine. Let's keep moving."

A minute or two later, she felt ready to join her magical fire to Solas', and together the corpses burned much faster. She had not been aware of the heat and intensity of the flame required for a proper pyre. It was … heartening, in a way, to see how much she had to strain her abilities to incinerate a person.

At last, the work was done. She took a couple of lyrium pills to regenerate her mana, then returned to the others. "Sorry for the delay, lieutenant," she quietly said. "We're ready to move."

"At your convenience, Lady Herald. If these mages were killed by Templars, we need to move carefully. They might still be here. I want you to treat this as enemy territory, everyone. Expect hostiles."

Two of the soldiers glanced at each other. "Ser," one of them then said, removing her helmet to reveal a young elven woman. "Permission to give my body armour and helmet to the Herald of Andraste?" The lieutenant gave her a surprised look, and she shrugged. "The Maker may shield her, but it can't hurt to give Him a hand."

After a brief moment of hesitation, the lieutenant nodded. "Do it, but be careful."

Despite her protests, Bethany was stripped into a stiff suit of body armour and had a helmet tied to her neck. "There'll be snipers out there," the soldier patiently told her. "We can't risk you getting shot, ma'am. My lady."

"And what about you? You'll be unprotected."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Ready to go, ser."

They moved on. "Ten more minutes to the hospital from here. Double-time it, people." It had begun to rain again – a fine mist, like a veil before their eyes. Nervously, Bethany watched the ruins of the town around them. Was that gleam over there the light reflecting on a scope? That noise, a Templar's footsteps? That scent, refined lyrium?

"Over there. That's St. Gytha's." The hospital still was mostly unscathed, though Bethany suspected that the massive concrete block in the style of the Blessed 80s would have withstood anything the army, mages or Templars could have thrown at it. "They declared it a safe zone early on during the war. The mages and Templars couldn't care less about it, but at least it was spared the shelling."

"Our forward scouts have taken control of the hospital," Cassandra said. "They've orders to maintain radio silence, but we haven't heard a distress call, either. They're holding."

She was interrupted by her radio crackling to life. "Ser, this is Lapidus. Be advised, you've got a significant enemy force making their way in your directions. Templars, I think. Please confirm, over."

Cassandra paused before replying. "Incoming Templars, got it. Numbers? ETA?"

"Difficult to say from up here. They're advancing under cover of the ruins. I recommend you make haste, over."

Lieutenant Flint agreed. "We need to get to the hospital, now. We can dig in there and wait for …"

There was a single gunshot, deep and echoing. "Get down!," someone shouted, "Sniper!"

"Medic! Shaeril is down!"

"Perks, take out that shooter!"

"Already on it!"

The representatives of the Inquisition had slid into cover behind the shell of a burnt-out van. Lying alone few metres to their right, Bethany could see the elf soldier who had given her helmet to her. Blood was seeping from her chest, black on her fatigues. She did not stir. "Hold on," Bethany told Cassandra, and then, hastily throwing up a Heroic Aura to at least take some of the force of a bullet's impact, darted out of cover to the shot woman's side. There was no time to check her life signs, let alone cast a healing spell, so Bethany simply slung an arm around the woman's side and started dragging – another shot rang out, and something hit her in the shoulder like a sledgehammer. She screamed out, a pair of rough hands yanked her back into cover, still dragging the soldier Shaeril with her.

"What in the Void were you thinking?," Cassandra shouted at her over the noise of the covering fire.

"She's still alive!," Bethany shouted back at her. "We've got to do something …"

"The private was aware of the risks. Your security is of paramount importance." She paused. "Do what you can for her, but stay. In. Cover."

Hesitantly, she nodded. It felt wrong that trying to save another should be called a mistake. When she checked the elf's pulse, however, it turned out that her efforts had been in vain. The woman was already dead, and had likely died the instant the bullet had bored into her head. "Damn it …" How many more would die for her sake today? How many tomorrow, or next week? They had to end this.

All around them, the soldiers were providing covering fire, lying in ditches and behind rubble and burnt-out cars, still looking for the gunman. "Any competent sniper would've moved after the first shot," Varric commented, sighting down Bianca's scope. "And maybe …"

A third shot cracked out, deep and sonorous. This time, Varric saw the muzzle flash, and so did some of the soldiers. Someone lobbed a grenade, and together with the sudden staccato of half a dozen assault rifles and one crossbow unloading their magazines into a dark window, that put an end to the sniper.

"Quickly now, he won't be on his own! We need to get to the hospital before his friends …" Lieutenant Flint was interrupted by a shot that tore into his side and threw him to the ground. There was a scream – mere moments later, even as the soldiers were returning fire at the unseen assailants, Bethany was by the officer's side, helping to drag him into the cover of an overturned car. "Herald, stay back!"

She ignored his protest, focusing instead on maintaining the flow of energy from her hands to the wound. She'd never been good at healing spells – never had acquired the in-depth knowledge of anatomy that distinguished a good healer from a passable one. And- a friend had taught her a few things, back when there had scarcely been a night when one of their friends wasn't wounded in some way. She had never quite taken to it. Fire and ice, destruction, came more naturally to her than healing.

"Cheers," Flint grunted out between his feet as the wound closed, at least superficially. "Herald, we've got good cover here, but we're pinned down. It's – argh – it's just two hundred metres to the hospital. My men will cover you, you people make a run for it and make contact with your scouts …"

"We can't just leave you here! You need medical attention …"

Cassandra laid a hand on her shoulder, heavy as iron. "He's right. Lieutenant, have your people cover us. Solas, Varric, get ready."

"On it."

"But Cassandra …"

"That was an order! Move it!"

Biting her lip, Bethany tried to move the lieutenant into a more stable position before joining Cassandra, Solas and Varric in the cover of the van. From here, they could see the hospital clearly, even decipher the brass sign by the driveway. "Stay safe," she told the soldiers who had helped them so far, but she doubted anyone heard her over the roar of the guns. Glancing at Cassandra, she took a deep breath.

It seemed to take a small eternity until the Seeker jumped to her feet and broke into a run, followed by the rest of them. The soldiers behind them redoubled their effort, laying down covering fire to keep the Templars down. For a moment it seemed to work –

Bethany could not remember ever running like this. Almost immediately, she was out of breath, but her legs kept moving as if by themselves. Behind them – she dared not look back, kept her gaze fixed on the hospital, its shattered doors, its shelter – she stumbled. A sharp, jagged pain flashed through her right ankle, and for a moment her vision turned bright with pain. "Sunshine!" Before her knees met the ground, Solas and Varric were by her side, dragging her along. Before them, the Seeker had stopped, drawn her gun and was firing at something or someone to their right, one hand glowing golden with a power that was not quite magical. Suddenly, Bethany could see blood further darkening her Seeker's uniform –

"Get inside. I'll handle this."

And her world exploded.

Someone must have thrown a grenade, part of Bethany's mind managed to reason, as the explosion blinded her. She had expected thunderous noise, but all she heard was a light, overbearing ringing in her ears. By the time her vision cleared, she only caught a glance of muzzle fire, mirrored on a brushed steel plate, before she was ushered into the hospital's lobby.

"—after the wounded. Ellana, Edric, can you cover them?"

"Already on it …"

"Come on, let's get you down to the basement …" A Templar uniform. She tried to struggle, but her ankle gave way under her. Only thanks to her companions did she stay upright.

"Where … what …"

"Knight-Corporal Maxwell Trevelyan, ma'am, we've met before? Captain Harding, the Herald has arrived."

A dwarf in dark green camouflage fatigues hurried to meet them. Only now Bethany noticed that both her and the Templar were wearing black armbands with the logo of the Inquisition on it. "I'll take it from here, go assist the Warden and the others."

"Ser."

"Your Worship, it's good to – you're wounded. Quick, follow me."

They were led out of the lobby and downstairs into the basement. Once, this might have been the hospital's morgue. Now, it was being used as a sickroom. Most of the patients must already have been evacuated, Bethany thought. Only a dozen or so remained, including two wounded Inquisition scouts and a woman in what seemed to be a Templar uniform, convalescing on what had been autopsy slabs. They were being tended to by a solitary doctor in grimy scrubs and a slightly pudgy, middle-aged black lady in the robes of a Chantry sister, likely one of Mother Giselle's attendants. "Here, on that slab." With the assistance of Solas and Varric, she was sat down on one of the tables.

The Chantry sister came over her. "Welcome," she said in a heavy Orlesian accent. "Let me look at your ankle. Doctor, if you would see to Seeker Pentaghast's wounds? There should be another free slab in room 4." The sister knelt by her side, carefully removed Bethany's shredded boot and laid a finger on her wound. It made her shiver, but she bit her teeth and bore the pain. "Does it hurt?"

Bethany thought: Of COURSE it hurts you fucking BITCH I've just been shot in the foot take your FUCKING finger away from there oh for FUCK's sake sweet Andraste make it stop!

Bethany said: "I'm … I'm fine. What about Cassandra? And the soldiers upstairs?"

"They are in good hands. Now, let's have a look at you, shall we?" The sister closely inspected her wound, then gave her a reassuring smile. It was possessed of an almost supernatural confidence, Bethany found, or maybe wanted to find. She'd seen a smile like this before, recently, on the face of Her Perfection. "It's not that bad. It's not hit the bone or sinews. We'll remove the bullet and clean your wound. You'll be able to walk without difficulty in a few weeks. Sooner, if you use magical healing."

She frowned at that. What kind of Chantry sister would suggest magical healing, in this day and age? Mages had shown they could not be trusted over and over again. A suspicion dawned on her. "I'm sorry, I did not get your name …"

The sister's smile widened. "I am Mother Giselle, of the Couvent des Trois-Saintes de Val Chevin."

Bethany flushed red. Damn it, she should have realised. "Then … you're who we're looking for. I, er, I represent an organisation that …"

"… calls itself the Inquisition, and intends to restore order to the world. I know who you are, Ms Hawke."

"How? My name was not released to the public."

Giselle gave a wry smile. "I'd like to claim the Maker revealed it to me in a vision, but I fear the truth is rather more mundane than that. I saw your photos of you on the Internet, and recognised your face from my time with the First Kirkwall Inquiry."

Well, maybe they should have expected that. It wasn't as if Haven was a closed military installation – there were hundreds of people in the village, all with a keen interest in the Inquisition and her person, and all with camera phones and Internet connections. It had been only a matter of time until someone recognised her. "I … see. So why did you want to meet me?"

"All in good time. First, we need to get that bullet out of your foot. How about you tell me the story of how you became the Herald of Andraste?"

Oh, not this again. It was a story she had grown tired of telling over the past few days, and judging by the Inquisition's growing numbers and profile, it was one she'd have to tell many more times. "I'm sure that's not very …" Mother Giselle reached for a rather vicious-looking tool that might be described, with a lot of goodwill, as a pair of tweezers. Bethany was not in the mood for goodwill.

"I'm asking because we ran out of narcotics a week ago, and this might hurt."

For a brief moment, Bethany stared at the priestess with stunned disbelief. Surely she couldn't mean … oh, of course she did. What a great day it was turning out to be. "Well, let's get to it then, shall we?" How to start, how to start … how long was this going to take, exactly? Better start at the beginning. Just to be safe. Alright, now concentrate. "Um. To start with, I was at the Conclave as part of the mage delegation from Redcliffe – I'd spent a few months there."

"You took part in the negotiations, then?"

"Not as such, no. I think they mostly sent me to make a statement. The Grand Enchanter clearly thought it would help our case to have a Hawke attending the conference."

Mother Giselle chuckled. Bethany tried not to look at her doing whatever she was doing to her ankle. She still hadn't got used to the sight of blood, certainly not her own. "And here you are. Sounds like that worked out well enough. A mage, the Herald of Our Lady."

"Heh. I still don't know how in the Void that happened."

"What do you remember, then? Hold still."

She closed her eyes. Bethany had gone over those few critical hours before the attack time and time again, trying to find where it had all gone wrong. She had overcome her fears and sought an audience with the Divine, made a lengthy and emotional confession of her sins. And – this was the part with which she still struggled – had received absolution. At the time, it had seemed like a revelation. But then, a mere hour after Bethany had left the Divine's chambers … She was not so conceited to think the explosion and the Breach had been punishment for her sins, but what had happened did not suggest … no, she mustn't think like that. Though they had only met once, Divine Justinia's presence had entered her life with the force of a hurricane. For the first time in so many years, she had been confident in her choices and at peace with herself. What she was, whom she loved: through Justinia's mouth, the Maker had forgiven her. All of this she told Giselle, if in condensed form. Certain secrets she would not, could not share.

By the time she had finished, so had Giselle. She'd barely noticed the older woman removing the bullet from her ankle, but there it was, staining a tissue with her blood. "You blame yourself, but out of all those thousands and thousands of people at the Conclave, you alone survived. The Chant tells us that there are no coincidences, there is the Maker. All things that happen, happen according to His plan. Your survival, your mark, are as much part of His will as the sun rising in the morning. You are part of that plan, do not doubt that. But whether you will be our destruction or our deliverance is yours alone to decide. Tell me – do you believe you are what they call you, the Herald of Andraste?"

Bethany bit her lip, tried to hold still as Giselle bandaged her ankle. "I am a mage," she said after a while. There was more to it than that, she realised, but this was the core of it. "Andraste fought against mages."

"She fought against the ancient Imperium, whose magisters then controlled most of the world with evil magics. Even then, she never called for all mages to be put to the death. She believed in peaceful coexistence, and that mages are no less worthy of the Maker's grace than anyone else."

"And yet they lock us up in Circles, whether we want to or not. And when we resist …" Her nausea returned the moment she recalled the mass grave they had found on the way. Maybe it was true that the mages buried there had been Maleficars and psychopaths, but she could not help but serve her memory for familiar faces. Had that man not been a fellow teacher in Redcliffe? Had that woman not been an administrator up at the castle, that child not one of her apprentices? She shivered.

"The Templars have long been an anachronism, and over the past few years many of them have strayed from the Maker's path. But you did not answer my question, Ms Hawke. Do you believe you are the Herald of Andraste?"

The bandage was done. Scrutinising, Bethany drew the leg towards her chest, turned her ankle. It still hurt, but it'd heal. "I cannot believe the Maker would choose someone … someone like me for this task. But the things that happened over the past few days … the power I have been granted … and then, when I closed the first rift to halt the growth of the Breach …" She halted. She wasn't sure what had happened then. "Nevermind. But it's … making me think. It's a bit frightening, to be honest."

Giselle smiled at her and took her hand. "There is much to fear, I will not deny it.. But if you place your trust in the Maker …"

The priestess was interrupted by the earth shaking. Bethany swung her legs down from the autopsy slab, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through her leg when she did so. "What's going on? Are we being shelled?"

Laughter from the stairs seemed to prove her wrong, and mere moments later Lavellan walked into the room, her battered old bolt-action hunting rifle slung over her shoulder, talking to someone behind her. "… but no, he jumps forward, and … attention!" Her poise straightened up. Behind her, Trevelyan, Adaar and Cadash did the same, quietly filing into the morgue.

"Your Worship," Trevelyan addressed her, "beg to report that all enemy forces have been neutralised as of 1645 hours. Captain Harding has taken the surviving Hinterlanders to clear and hold an LZ a hundred metres down the road."

Bethany was too baffled to answer, but Cassandra's appearance, leaning on the doorframe, saved her from having to answer. "Good work, knight-corporal. Casualties?"

"Ser, two of the Hinterlanders including Lieutenant Flint moderately wounded, one KIA. They're being cared for on the upper level until we can evacuate."

That broke Bethany's stun. "How in the world did you manage to take down all those Templars? There must have been dozens of them out there!"

"Well, er …"

The ground shook again. This time, it was accompanied by an odd, metallic stamping noise approaching down the stairs. And then, a massive steel golem emerged – no, a man in a suit of armour that covered every inch of his body in metal. Here and there, at the joints, one could espy glimpses of heavy deep blue textile between the plates. A large white double-headed griffon holding a chalice in its talons was stencilled on the chest plate. She'd seen armour like this before, during the Blight. He also had a massive weapon strapped to his back that only loosely fit Bethany's definition of a 'gun', with eight separate rotating barrels and a large ammunition backpack. Yelp.

The man removed his helmet with the hiss of an airtight seal releasing, and revealed a large, stern red face and a very impressive dark beard. "The LZ is ready, and RFA General HQ are sending choppers to evacuate us." He turned to Bethany and nodded with a faint smile. "You must be the one they call the Herald of Andraste. Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall, at your pleasure. You'll forgive me for not shaking hands."

Bethany glanced at his gloved fist. It looked like it could crush a small car with no great difficulty. "Ha- Bethany," she introduced herself. "If I may ask, what exactly is a Grey Warden doing here?"

"Warden Blackwall was in the area when the rebel mages took control of the city," Mother Giselle explained. "He joined us quite early on. It's thanks to him that we've not been attacked by either mages or Templars."

Cassandra gave him a stern nod. "Then you have the Inquisition's gratitude for that. Now, Mother Giselle, while we wait for the evac to arrive, what did you call us here for?"

The priestess rose to her feet, folding her hands over the sash of her rope. "I still have friends in Val Royeaux, and they inform me the situation is dire. With most of the curia dead, the Chantry is in disarray. Some of the grand clerics are now struggling to hold the curia together and administrate the Chantry's secure zones in Orlais and Ferelden. Others are already playing the Game, with the Sunburst Throne at stake. And others again are simply terrified, and looking for guidance. Grand Cleric Hevara of Val Firmin now heads the Secretariat of Laws and has been appointed to represent the Chantry on the Imperial Council of State. That is very troubling."

"I am not familiar with this Mother Hevara," Cassandra said. "I assume she doesn't look too kindly on our activities."

"That is one way of putting it. I know her well, we attended university together, though we were never close. She is a brilliant theologian, but as far as politics are concerned, she is a hawk. Like many on the Council of State, she believes that the Conclave was attacked with a thaumic weapon, and that Tevinter is behind the Breach. The Inquisition, they believe, is nothing but a Tevene plot to destabilise southern Thedas and the one true faith. They would have Orlais retaliate with all its might."

Bethany gasped. So did most everyone else. It was obvious what this meant. "That would mean full-scale thaumic war with Tevinter! Surely the Orlesians realise that would be their own destruction as much as the Imperium's?"

"Not just Orlais and Tevinter," Blackwall grimly added. "This could be the destruction of all the surface nations of Thedas. Maybe the world."

"Indeed. So you see, it would be a crime to make the Maker weep for His children. Thankfully, the hardliners do not yet have a majority on the Council of State. For now, Grand Chancellor Roderick and Empress Celene are reining them in, but for how long? The Inquisition must prove that there is another way, and that you are truly an army of the faithful. Go to Val Royeaux, Herald. Talk to Hevara, and the other grand clerics. Convince them that you are not an enemy to be feared, that you are their best hope. And end this war before it can begin."

Before Bethany could reply, Cassandra's radio crackled to life. "This is 664 Squadron AAC actual; Seeker Pentaghast, come in, over."

The Seeker reached for her radio. "Pentaghast. I read you, 664. Over."

"Ser, we are approaching your LZ, ETA five minutes. Be prepared to evacuate, acknowledge."

"Acknowledged. You heard him. Doctor, Mother Giselle, can your patients be moved?"

"All of them are stable, yes. Ser Warden, would you help me?"

By the combined efforts of the Inquisition soldiers, the Hinterlanders and Warden Blackwall, they managed to get their sick and wounded to the landing zone just in time for the arrival of the Royal Ferelden Army's No. 664 Squadron (Army Air Corps). The three transport helicopters had been joined by the same old police helicopter the Inquisition had requisitioned at Haven, and between them they managed to get their entire group airborne. It was only when they were rising about the smouldering ruins of Witchwood that Bethany realised she was right across from Lieutenant Flint, whose wound had been bandaged and cleaned. At least they hadn't lost everyone today. "Lieutenant," she greeted him. "Are you alright?"

He chuckled. "I'm fine. Maker knows I'm fine. I just got word from the people we left behind at the train station, all of them made it. They're being flown out as we speak. I'm just sorry Frances didn't live to see this. This was her unit."

It took her a moment to remember. "Your captain?"

"My … yeah. She'll be … missed. Excuse me." He deeply sighed and leaned back against the helicopter's bare wall. "Look, ma'am, my people and I have been talking. We're proud Fereldans, all of us, and that's why we're in the army. But it's clear that with all that's going on right now – Templars, mages, demons … Ferelden can't do shit about that, pardon my Orlesian. So … ma'am, we'd like to join up. Join your Inquisition. If you'll have us."

Further down the helicopter, Warden Blackwall concurred. "You might just be our best, last hope. And, who knows, maybe you could use a Grey Warden at some point."

Bethany felt light. So this was what it was like to be a leader, was it? People looked to you to make the decisions, thought you had all the answers. Was this how Marian had always felt? No wonder she'd found peace at the bottom of a bottle. Today, Bethany was spared the need to answer by every radio on the helicopter crackling to life at once.

"To all units – this is RFA General Headquarters West actual. Commence Operation Final Threshold, now. For king and country! May the Maker judge us justly. GHQ out."

"What does that mean?," Bethany asked when the transmission had ended.

In the distance, far below them, there was a thunderstrike, then another, and another. Artillery commenced firing, and the first shells detonated on Witchwood. Almost at once, Bethany felt the disturbance in the Veil as whatever flora and fauna had remained in the city ruins shrivelled and died.

"It means," said Lieutenant Flint darkly, "that we have crossed the final threshold to total war. They're scorching Fereldan earth down there. There's no turning back now. We're at war."

Bethany looked out at the town again. A new firestorm had broken out, and somehow seemed to consume the very air. She suspected magic was at work. "We've been at war for a long time," she said, very quietly. "We just didn't realise it. May the Maker judge us justly …"

1) Yes, Blackwall is wearing power armour. Think Fallout meets Mass Effect. Though surface armies have long abandoned armour and plate, the tactics employed by the Darkspawn still necessitate some kind of body protection. Based on an inner layer of padded fabric armour with chainmail-inlay, non-flexible areas are further reinforced with steel plating. Trials with lighter ceramic plating, standard in surface armies and for firearm protection, proved unable to resist the melee weapons employed by the Darkspawn horde. An onboard computer system monitors the Warden's lifesigns, and important combat data is projected on a HUD inside the helmet. The heavy armour is highly versatile and compatible with Warden issue shields and a variety of light and heavy weaponry ranging from swords to flamethrowers. Their weight, however, significantly encumbers the wearer and the environmental controls and support systems require special training to operate in combat. In addition, all these features make heavy armour prohibitively expensive. Since its introduction in 9:28, fewer than 1000 full suits have been issued, and 93 were lost at the Battle of Ostagar. In future, these armours may become cheaper to mass-produce, but until then, suits are passed down from Warden warrior to warrior.

2) I tried to follow real-world radio etiquette fairly closely, but I may have made some mistakes. Feel free to correct me. The same goes for any blatant disregards of standard military procedures I may have committed. I'm not particularly keen on writing or reading military fiction and have no military experience myself.

3) I realise Revered Mother Hevara is not a grand cleric in the games, but I felt it would be unrealistic to have a mere revered mother have so much pull in the Chantry even after the Conclave. There is no way at all to believe all grand clerics would attend the Conclave at once.

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