HAWKE

"Are you certain . . . this is . . . the right way, Varric?" I ask between pants.

Varric, Bethany, and I are currently on our way up to Sundermount to track down the mercenaries for the Sebastian Vael case. Finally.

The overwhelming scent of pine and fresh green grass surrounds us, filling our lungs. An equal mix of joy and displeasure, what with the hot sun bearing down on our backs and the lack of Lowtown's trademark stench of piss and garbage burning our nostrils.

"There's been no sign of . . . anyone. Let alone . . . these mercenaries . . . for the past few . . . hours," I groan.

And that's starting to feel like an understatement. At this point, even my old sweat has sweat, and I didn't even think that was possible.

Varric chuckles but doesn't look back at me, still trudging onward, up ahead, leading our group. "Hawke, when have I ever . . . steered you wrong?" he asks, panting just as hard, if not harder.

He doesn't want me to answer that.

Not really.

And as his friend, I decide to grant him that honor.

The three of us enter a rocky clearing that flattens out further uphill. A few noticeable stone ruins lie scattered about its borders—the last remnants of some forgotten civilization, no doubt. Which, though, I have no idea. History and architecture remain Mother's and Bethany's forte. I prefer to live in the present.

"The hideout should be just up ahead, right around this . . . corner," Varric's pace slows, and his voice drops an octave.

He comes to an abrupt halt, and I stop to look beyond him.

There's not much that can stop Varric's chatter. But this . . . this I can understand.

Before us resides a massacre. About twenty men lie in puddles of their own blood, their throats and chestplates torn open, revealing their gruesome innards within. Serena stands at the center of the scene, her back pivoted slightly away from us, her familiar scythe dripping with crimson lifeblood.

She flinches and turns to glare at us immediately. The ferocity of which chills me more than a blizzard ever could.

I can't move, much less speak. It's like looking into the eyes of an enraged demon, ready to lunge and rip all your insides out. Literally.

After scanning over the lot of us, the small elf's posture relaxes. Her scowl fades.

"Oh, it's just you two." She sighs with a shake of her head. "I did not expect to see you both so soon. What's brought you to Sundermount?"

My eyes shift to the dead men sprawled out across the ground, encircling her. My words still lost, unable to escape my gaping mouth.

Her gaze narrows. I notice her hand clench tightly onto her oversized weapon. "Was it for these shemlen?" she snarls, her voice souring, turning malicious again.

I only manage a nod. As scared as I am to do so.

Serena pauses and takes in a long, deep breath. "I see . . ." she whispers. "I apologize, but they wandered too close to the clan here and refused to leave. They were the lowlife sort. I assumed they wouldn't be missed."

"Did you . . . take out all of these men yourself?" I ask, at last breaking through the immediate shock.

The emotion on her face evaporates, as though an invisible wall just got erected between us. "Perhaps. But what does it matter? What's done is done."

Varric scoffs. "You say that as if it's nothing, but this—" He waves at all the corpses. "This was surely no easy scuffle."

"You give these seth'lin too much credit." Serena frowns. Her tone final. Unyielding.

Bethany abruptly gasps. She lifts one hand to cover her mouth with wide, panicked eyes. "You're bleeding!" She points at Serena's torso.

Varric and I both take a closer look, and sure enough, a line of blood drips down Serena's right flank. It seems to stem from somewhere underneath her leather chestplate, right above the gap at her waist.

"It's nothing." Serena grasps at the hidden wound, then quickly glances away.

"Nonsense!" Bethany snaps, identical to a mother hen. She charges forward until she's standing directly in front of Serena. Then, without any hesitation, lifts up the questionable piece of armor, exposing a seeping slice wound underneath. More blood trickles out of the awful injury, running down Serena's right side, before dripping off her armor, to stain the already blood-splattered ground below. "Unless you get this treated immediately, you'll only continue to bleed out!"

Serena pulls away and covers the cut with her palm again. "It is nothing. I am fine," she hisses.

"No, you are not." Bethany stands her ground.

Spinning on her heels, Bethany turns to face me again.

Her gaze reflects an unwavering determination now. A look I haven't seen from her since the day she insisted on joining the Red Iron with me, despite our whole family's original objections.

Under that determination though lies a question, an uncertain plea that could thrust our entire family into hiding again. With nowhere else to go.

I should say no. I know it. Maker's breath, the decision should be easy.

But understanding her silent wishes, I ponder the thought for a moment. It's either she does this, here and now, and we potentially gain another friend or ally, that owes us a favor. Or . . . Serena might end up dead. Along with all of hope of her ever joining us. If she'd ever join us.

It's a risky bargain. One with potentially dangerous consequences.

But no. I shouldn't be worrying about any of that right now.

We're talking about life and death here! The answer to that is simple.

I gesture Bethany to continue, with my permission, as worrying as it all still may be. But it's better than us regretting it later, without it.

The corners of Bethany's lips curl up into a faint, thankful smile, and she shifts back to Serena, a sense of purpose lighting up her soft expression. "Let me help, "she says, head held high. "I . . . can heal you."

Serena's eyebrows rise. Her expression deviates from shock to distrust, distrust to interest, then interest to pensive understanding. As soon as she reaches the latter, she glimpses over at me, her stare holding with mine. And then, with a reluctant huff, she rubs one hand across the bridge of her nose and pulls up the edge of her leather armor to expose her ghastly wound once more.

Bethany beams and kneels beside Serena, her delicate hands hovering slightly over the gash. Her magic quickly emanates a bright-blue, healing light, that delves deep beneath Serena's skin. Serena winces from the touch at first, but soon relaxes the moment her wound starts to close.

When it's finally gone, Bethany pulls away. The blue light fades.

Serena tugs her armor back down with an almost urgent haste. "Ma serannas," she whispers, her voice quieter than the wind. Whether it's out of embarrassment or distaste, though, it's impossible to tell, and that makes me all the more uneasy.

Maker, I hope we didn't just make an irreversible mistake.

We can't afford another.

Bethany bows her head. "How does it feel? Better?" she asks, naïve to my own internal and external tenseness.

"Yes," Serena answers. And despite us waiting for more elaboration, not another word passes her lips.

Varric crosses his arms and smirks. "You're really something, Twinkle Toes. How long were you planning to walk around with a wound like that?"

"As long as necessary. Believe it or not, I've dealt with far worse."

"Oh, I believe it," I agree, happy for the change in subject as a distraction. "But why would you face all those mercenaries on your own? That's asking for a death wish."

Serena shrugs. "I . . . have a duty to help protect the clan that's here. Besides, a small group like this is usually nothing. But I've been distracted. I've had too much on my mind. And today, I paid the price for that."

I frown, sensing her frustrated tone. "I hope it has nothing to do with what we asked you the other day."

Serena jolts. "Oh, no. Not at all!" She shakes her head, and I'm almost surprised by how quick she does it, as if she's worried she offended. "There's simply . . . a lot more going on than the three of you are aware of. You will know in time, however. Of that, I'm certain."

Serena's mood swiftly grows downcast, her shoulders slumping lower by the minute.

It's like I stepped on a hidden land mine somehow. One that might as well have just taken off her leg.

Serena rubs at the back of her neck and re-dons her emotionless mask from earlier. "As for today though," she paces off to the side, both her legs very much still in tact, "I am now in your debt. I . . . will go with you into the Deep Roads, as repayment for your help. That is, if you don't mind an elf amidst your companions."

I stiffen at the offer, my previous anxiety dispelled in an instant. "No! By all means, welcome aboard!" I insist, suddenly giddy to point where I might as well be full of bubbles.

I guess her sudden change in behavior was a good sign. For our group and our secret mage included.

Serena's mesmerizing smile returns to her lips.

The loveliness of it abruptly frightens me, knowing it can be so beautiful and calm one second, yet so vicious and feral the next. It's as if she's the very embodiment of nature—a physical host to its undeniable magnificence and wrath. As well as a walking death trap for all who dare oppose it. The dead men lying around her a prime example.

Is such a trait common amongst the Dalish? Or did she just adopt it?

I can't be sure. But either way, I wouldn't be surprised. It would explain their legendary aloof attitudes I've heard so much about, though not to this level.

She's hiding something.

What, however, remains to be seen.

"As thrilled as I am to hear that you're joining up with us, and believe me, I am," Varric cuts in. "I think it's about time we start heading back to Hightown. I'm sure Choir Boy's anxiously waiting to hear about our results at the Chantry."

"Right," I second. "... Do you want to come with us? We can walk you back to the alienage."

"No need. I don't live in the alienage," Serena answers.

I scrunch my face up at her in confusion. "I thought you said you did?"

"No, I said you could find me there. I wouldn't live in one of those rotting buildings to save my life. It's . . . uh . . . a Dalish thing." She grins.

Varric groans. "You sound like the dwarves, who refuse to leave Orzammar."

"So long as I don't look like them, I have no problem with that," she teases, a mischievous glimmer flickering in her bright teal eyes. Which are almost too bright, too vivid to be real.

"Hey, not all dwarves look like they've just crawled out of a hole. I'm the prime example." Varric stands up tall, tapping his puffed up, hairy chest.

"If you say so, dwarf," Serena snickers, giving a quick a shrug of her shoulders.

"Alright. Enough." I stand between the two, stopping them from proceeding any further. "Do not start this 'rivalry' match here. Not after we just agreed to work together."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Serena grouses. "It goes against all of our ancestors traditions!"

"So does the notion of a dwarf being on the surface, and a Dalish elf being away from her clan. But that doesn't appear to be stopping either of us." Varric chuckles. "In all seriousness, I have a feeling this is about to be the start of a glorious adventure, Twinkle Toes. Try not to disappoint. Hawke's left me with high expectations of sorts."

"Perish the thought!" Serena lets out a good-natured laugh. The first honest one I think I've ever heard from her.

She then struts past the three of us and heads down Sundermount's trail towards Kirkwall. An enigma right from the very start, wielding a peculiar, bloody weapon and an intimidating presence to match.