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The little band of refugees came to a halt in the shelter of two large rocks.

"We can't keep going like this. Mother's exhausted."

"I know." Mina Hawke took a deep breath, but it was hardly cleansing—the air was filled with smoke from the fires and smelled like … death. Worse than Ostagar, and that was saying something. "But if we stop, it won't matter how tired we are—we'll be in for a much longer rest than any of us is looking for."

"She's right. We have to keep going." Aveline's voice was blunt. Like the rest of her—Mina remembered meeting her briefly at Ostagar. That red hair was hard to forget. As was the straightforward manner.

Aveline had lost her husband in their flight from Lothering, and Mina and her mother and sister had lost Carver, their brother. Strong, stalwart Carver. Never blessed with too many brains, but he made up for it in bravery. Now, worn out by grief and exhausted, none of them were at their best … but the darkspawn didn't care about that. And they were coming.

"Come on, Mother." Mina bent to help her mother Leandra to her feet.

"No. No, just another minute. Then we'll go back for him."

"Mother, Carver's gone. There's—there's no one to go back for." She didn't want to consider what the darkspawn would have done to his body by now.

"Hawke."

She stood, looking in the direction Aveline was pointing. Her heart sank. It was too late. There were too many of them. Maybe she could outrun them, maybe Aveline could, but her mother and Bethany? Not a chance. And even with Bethany's magic, three women couldn't hold back this horde.

Mina remembered fleeing the battlefield at Ostagar, not daring to look back over her shoulder, her hair whipping around her face and getting into her eyes, stumbling blindly, running … anywhere. At last, by the merest accident, she had tripped and rolled into a hollow created by two dead and rotting trees, and somehow the darkspawn had missed her. Miraculous, her mother called it. Craven, she would have said. And now for nothing. She might as well have stayed and fought, died with the rest of her squadron, rather than die here knowing she had failed to protect her family.

She and Aveline exchanged a look of determination. Whatever Aveline had done to escape Ostagar, she was putting it behind her as Mina was putting her headlong flight from the field behind her. They would stand together until they fell, this time.

But before the horde reached them, it was stopped by a wall of flame, as a dragon flew out of the smoke, wheeling above them, and began attacking the darkspawn.

"Mina. Are you seeing this?"

She nodded, putting her arm around Bethany as they watched the dragon finish off the horde with brutal efficiency.

When the darkspawn were dead, the dragon landed in front of them. Pushing Bethany behind her, Hawke stepped forward. For some reason, she wasn't afraid for her own safety. She met the eyes of the dragon boldly. "What do you want?"

And then, where the dragon had been, a woman stood. An old woman, to judge by the white hair, but still in peak condition, dressed in armor the color of the dragon's scales. And she was laughing. "A very good question. Right to the point. From the air, I spotted a most curious sight—a mighty ogre, vanquished. Who could have performed such a feat?"

Mina winced. She barely remembered taking down the ogre, she had been so wild with anger after it killed Carver. Behind her, she dimly registered the gasps and cries of her mother and sister; she felt Aveline's strong shoulder at her side. None of them mattered. Somehow right now all that mattered was her and this woman who had been a dragon.

The old woman nodded, as though she understood, and continued, "But now my curiosity is sated, and you are safe … for the moment. What will you do now?"

"You could teach me how to turn into a dragon. That looked useful," Mina suggested.

Bethany stepped forward to her other side, looking at her as though she had lost her mind. It was a common enough reaction; Mina's sense of humor often seemed inappropriate to others. "We need to get to Kirkwall, in the Free Marches."

The old woman was laughing, her eyes on Mina as though Bethany hadn't spoken. "If only a clever tongue was all one needed. Tell me, clever child: How do you intend to outrun the Blight? Kirkwall is quite the voyage. So far, simply to flee the darkspawn."

"Any better suggestions?" Mina snapped. "I hear the Deep Roads are vacant now."

Bethany tugged on Mina's arm, begging her in a whisper not to piss off the dragon lady. But the old woman was roaring with laughter, throwing back her head in delight. "Oh, you I like!" Her laughter eased, and she looked at Mina, really looked at her. "Hurtled into the chaos, you fight … and the world will shake before you."

Mina shivered, feeling the woman's words like a blessing—or a curse—settle into her.

There was a moment of silence, then the old woman said, almost to herself, "Is it fate? Or chance? I can never decide." Then she nodded sharply. "It appears fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you."

"We would appreciate anything you could do for us."

"I know you will, child."

"Should we even trust her? We don't even know what she is!" Bethany said.

"She's a dragon. She can fly. What more do we need to know?"

"I know what she is," Aveline spoke up. "She's the Witch of the Wilds."

"Some call me that, yes. Also Flemeth; Asha'Bellanar; an 'old hag who talks too much'. Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a simple delivery to a place not far from Kirkwall. Would you do that for a 'Witch of the Wilds'?"

"If it meant getting my mother and sister out of here safely, I would do that for the Archdemon."

Flemeth/Asha'Bellanar laughed again, but kindly. "You should know that from here, it gets no easier. Your struggles have only just begun."

Mina squared her shoulders. Life had never been easy; she didn't expect it to become so now. "I'll take my chances."

"Then … hop on. And good luck." And where the old woman had been, the dragon stood again.


Varric Tethras looked up from his paperwork and sighed. Maker, was he bored. Why couldn't Bartrand write his own reports? He never thought Varric's were thorough enough anyway. What he wouldn't give for something to happen, something … unusual. Something he could put in a report that would actually be interesting.

He was good at embellishing things, adding details, making a story come to life. That was half the reason they let him live at the Hanged Man, even in those times when coin was short for Tethras Brothers, Ltd.—he entertained people. What if he could write some of those stories down? But you needed a structure, a frame. Some way to hang a bunch of stories together, and Kirkwall just didn't offer anything like that.

One of the other regulars, a smuggler who went by the name of Shroom, hovered over his table, the fumes from his breath practically giving Varric a contact high. "Hey, Tethras, you ever move from that spot?"

"Not so's you could notice. Anything new going on?"

"No, nothing ever happens here. Athenril hired some new muscle. Pair of sisters." He made a gesture in front of his chest indicating what pairs he had been looking at. "Won't last, though."

"They never do. Why this time?"

"Oh, the lead one, she's got a mouth on her. Someone's going to shut it for her, permanently. Name's Hawke, if it matters."

"Probably doesn't." As Shroom staggered toward the door, Varric returned to his reports, forgetting almost immediately about the Hawke sisters. New members of the merc and smuggler factions were a dime a dozen. He doubted he'd ever hear of these two again.