FENRIS

"Gone," I mumble, while staring down at the mansion's filthy, blood-soaked floor. "I'd hoped…"

The words cut off. Lost. Just like that hope.

"Ugh, no. It doesn't matter any longer. I assume Danarius left valuables behind. Take them if you wish. I . . . need some air." I stalk past the group of strangers, my head hung low, and make my way outside, slamming the door shut behind me.

The frigid night air nips at my lyrium branded skin, reminding me that I am still alive—that Danarius yet lives. And he is probably laughing at me, somewhere nearby.

I slam my fist against the wall beside me.

Venhedis! If only we'd gotten here sooner, he would be dead now. His heart torn from his rotten chest.

Instead, he is free to wander, to use his powers, to abuse others. And now, there's even more mages to worry about . . .

Bethany—that's what the human warrior called her. She is a mage as well. Although she attempted to be discreet about it, I saw her casting spells. The irony that I actually requested her help must've been a joke crafted by the Maker himself.

Digging my fingers roughly through my hair, I lean against the same wall and close my eyes.

Flashbacks of our earlier battle flicker through my head.

Despite the unexpected mage being thrown into the mix, Anso's hirelings far exceeded my original expectations—the young elf specifically. I assumed she was overconfident, that she would serve as one of the weaker links. But she has proven herself to be one of the strongest.

All of her movements were fluid, well-thought out, grounded. Not once did I see her pause in battle like the others. This is difficult to accomplish, even for the most experienced veteran warriors.

Moreover, the appearance of demons did not deter her action. Instead, she was the first to rush into battle . . . And enjoyed it.

If all the Dalish are like this, then the humans have underestimated them.

I too would've sought out their help long ago, had I known. If I had, then . . . perhaps . . .

Memories of the massacre in Sehron flash through my head. My fallen qunari rescuers lie before me, torn to bits.

No, I mustn't think of that. I open my eyes and put a hand to my face. Nothing can change the past. There's no point in thinking of what could have been now. Instead, I should focus on a way to prevent such dreadful acts from happening in the future. And the first step is taking out Danarius.

As I consider this, the four hirelings step out of the mansion, the blasted mage in tow. "It never ends." I look over at the group.

They all stare at me, as if I'm an idiot. As if I didn't notice.

"I escaped a land of dark magic, only to have it haunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of even more mages." I glare at the human woman.

Her lips form a thin line. "You can speak to me directly." She scowls.

I take a few steps toward the group, keeping a few feet of distance from her, to be safe. "I saw you casting spells inside," I snap. "I should have realized sooner what you really were."

I fixate my gaze on the human mercenary, Hawke.

"You harbor a viper in your midst. It will turn on you and strike when you least expect. That is in its nature."

"My sister is stronger than you think." He frowns.

"You tell him, brother!" the mage cheers, grinning from ear to ear.

"I'm not blind," I persist. "I know magic has its uses, that there are undoubtedly mages with good intentions. But even the best intentioned mage could fall prey to temptation. And then their power is a curse to inflict upon others."

The mage huffs. "No one's stopping you from moving on you know." She rolls her eyes.

I glance around at the rest of the group. All of them are glaring at me now, their eyes cold, dark. Unwelcoming.

Understanding I may have crossed a line, I take a swift step back and avert my gaze. "I . . . imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth."

"Good, because as an old friend once told me, the survival rate of ingrates is remarkably low. Or at least, so I hear," the elf flashes me an ominous smirk.

I gulp.

Her threat is not lost on me. Nor do I feel it should be ignored.

"I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt." I reach down into my pocket for my coin purse. "Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it." I pass the warrior their reward. It is all I have managed to palm off the unsuspecting city folk for the past month since my arrival. I'll have to gather some more to put more food in my stomach again. Sooner rather than later.

The warrior tucks the coins into his pockets then clears his throat. "I'm planning an expedition I might need your help with. But are you going to have a problem with my companions?" His gaze remains steady with mine, still wary.

"I will watch them carefully, if we travel together. I could promise no more." I spare a single glance at the frowning mage. "Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal."

A wide grin plasters across the warrior's face. "Good. Glad we have an accord."

"Now, while all of this is well and dandy," the dwarf steps forward, "how about we move this party elsewhere? Like somewhere with drinks? The Hanged Man for example."

"I could care for some drinks," the mage answers.

"Would you like to accompany us, Fenris?" Hawke asks.

The female mage glowers at me, over her brother's shoulder, her cold eyes reminding me of that bitch, Hadriana.

"No, I believe I will stay here. See if there are any clues Danarius may have left behind."

Distance from such reminders would be welcome right now.

"That can wait until sunrise." The Dalish crosses her thin arms. "Come. It's been a long night. Don't make us drag you there. Drinks are on me."

"My, how generous of you, Twinkle Toes. I'm touched!" The dwarf holds a exaggerative hand to his chest.

"I'm a giver," the elf laughs, and then her playful gaze falls on me. It turns penetrating, forceful, unyielding—a menacing, teal abyss, like a roaring sea caught in a storm. Any mortal would be a fool to risk angering this walking typhoon. Or that's what all the nerves in my body seem to yell at me.

"It appears I have no choice," I mutter, although I am not keen on the submission

The elf smiles. Joy emits from her like the sun's brightest rays. The contrast mindboggling. "Good. Then let us head out, before we draw even more attention to ourselves. We can deal with all the corpses and gory stuff inside later."


The Hanged Man—a bar that reeks of desperation, vomit, and sweat. Its sole redeeming quality: the ale. Which although flows cheap, tastes revolting. But I suppose it's better than nothing.

Hawke, the dwarf, and the mage stand gathered around the lit fireplace across the room, conversing loudly with one another, while Serena and I sit quietly at a table closer to the bar. The Dalish is slowly milking her drink, her eyes directed on me, a question clear in her bright, teal depths.

"You said Danarius is a magister, but little else," she starts, seeming ready to pounce, to lay her curiosity bare. "Since we will be working together, please tell me a bit more about yourself."

I lean back in my chair and stare down at the table, memories of my time with Danarius briefly returning in horrid glimpses. "In Tevinter, the magisters hold all the power—over the chantry, over the imperial court, over life itself . . . It is nothing for one to own a slave. Danarius has many. But none he valued so much as me."

"Then, how did you get away?"

"Is it not enough that I did?"

The demanding look in her eyes tells me it's not. Unfortunately.

"I carved my path to freedom in blood. I left that life behind. Yet, his bounty hunters follow me no matter where I go. I will run no longer."

Serena purses her lips and takes another big gulp of her pint. How she does it so easily is a feat in and of itself. "I assume your old master is so persistent over one slave for a reason." Her gaze drifts down to my arms, her body language speaking more than her words. "Does it have to do with your special 'abilities' and the markings on your skin?"

"Yes. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet. And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse."

Serena smirks. "Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf." She flashes me a dangerous, flirtatious grin.

Nervous laughter escapes my lips. I quickly clear my throat and avert my gaze, the compliment appreciated but unanticipated. "The truth is . . . I know nothing of the ritual that placed these markings on me. It was Danarius' choice. One he now regrets." And glad I am of that. "But . . . enough about me." I bend forward in my chair. "Tell me about you. You are Dalish, correct?"

Her eyes lose their lighthearted sparkle. "Yes. Heard of us up north, have you?" she asks.

I shrug, confused by the shift. "Everyone has, but the stories hardly do you credit."

"Oh, how so?"

"It matters not. You have proven otherwise."

"Well, I am a bit of an exception," she whispers, a hint of sadness now weighing on her slim shoulders.

Curiosity fills me to the brim. "What has taken you from your clan and brought you to Kirkwall?" I ask, the nosiness killing me.

She lifts her mug to her lips, her gaze now absent, far away. "What indeed."

The conversation cuts off. Shut out. Denied with a hard slam of an invisible door.

"Serena!" Hawke's voice echoes off the tavern walls, breaking the tense silence. The Dalish and I both look up. He walks over to us from the other side of the room, pressing one hand flat down on our table. His dark eyes glitter as he fixates on the small woman before him, as if cornering his favorite prey. "Last man… or woman… standing. What do you say?" He tilts his head in the direction of the bar.

Serena chuckles. "Ah, challenging me, are you?" she straightens up, the heaviness around her partly lifting. "Are you certain you wish to do this? I imagine it will be quite embarrassing—and expensive—if you should lose, lethallin."

Hawke raises an adamant eyebrow at her and clasps her shoulder. "Let's see if your money is where your mouth is." He gives her a mutually playful smile.

Serena snickers, places her mug down between us, and stands up.

"Do not regret this, lethallin. You will not be getting your money back," she says.

Without another word, the two leave for the bar.

I watch quietly from my seat as the barkeep prepares their first orders. Serena notices and waves at me to come over, but I shake my head and lift my ale, content to watch from a distance. The less people near me the better.

Serena shrugs, and the barkeep hands them their mugs.

Tankard after tankard, the two chug their servings, wide grins plastered on both their faces. Before long, the other bar patrons surround them, cheering loudly as they finish each new portion.

Never before have I met such a perplexing woman. Her efforts of deflection and passing off fake smiles rouse nothing but suspicion. However, this new carefree side to her only makes me question her reason.

After all, if she is able to laugh, and drink, and make merry with others with such ease, certainly her past cannot be too extreme?

Yet, that troubled look she gave me earlier. The pained tremor to her voice. All of that spoke otherwise.

So, which is it?

The debate reels on silently in my head, the answer never becoming any clearer, based off our short conversation. The dwarf suddenly sits down in the chair across from mine, interrupting the argument. His beady dark eyes latch onto the two at the bar, like an entranced spectator, unable to look away.

"Always the life of the party, those two," he mutters. "But it'll be over soon enough."

Curious by what he means, I look over at them. Serena's still chugging down her most recent serving, showing no sign of hesitance or inebriation. Hawke on the other hand appears to be straining to lift his current ration. He hunches over the counter and puts one hand to his bowed forehead, his cheeks redder than a ripely picked raspberry. With a broad smirk, Serena leans in close and whispers something into his ear. Hawke immediately stands upright again and downs the drink, slamming it hard back on the wooden counter with a yell for more. The barkeep hurries to fill their next round.

Before it can even be handed off to him, however, Hawke spouts more inaudible nonsense to Serena. His body wavers, slumps. And then he stumbles sideways, falling flat across the tavern floor. The bar patrons surrounding them burst into a laughing ovation. Many of whom praise and pat Serena on the back, seeming more caught up in congratulating her than helping the groaning man at their feet.

Serena merely grabs their next mugs with a triumphant glance at us. Her observant gaze flickers with unspoken understanding, confidence. But more than anything: forbidding resolution, daring anyone to test her limits.