SERENA

Curious, wary eyes lock onto me from all directions within Varric's dimly lit quarters.

Aveline, Isabela, and Hawke all lean against the far walls with their arms crossed, dark sparkles glinting dangerously in their cold, watchful eyes. Their inner clockworks ticking a mile a minute.

At least two of said members patience already runs thin, based off the incessant tapping of their feet. Hawke, who appears the most wary and impatient of all, shifts his gaze around the room constantly. Yet, he never leaves his post directly across from me. As if determined to engage in face off, here and now. To bring an end to this disagreement, once and for all, with no uncertain victor.

Our other five companions, who appear far less suspicious and ill-at-ease, sit at the long table between us. Only Merrill fidgets in her seat. She glances around the candlelit bedroom, twiddling her thumbs in her lap, while Varric, Fenris, Sebastian, and Anders emanate complete composure. The stiffness in their postures, however, remains hard to miss. They might as well be statues, for even underneath all of Sebastian's grand white armor, and Varric's carefree façade, the tension's still there—lurking. Nearly permeable in the heavy silence.

And here I thought I was going to be the only tense person here. Shows just how much I know.

I stand up and glance around at our waiting group, my heartbeat pounding so hard and fast, I can feel it pulsating in my ears.

"Thank you all for coming," I somehow start, forcing the words out in one breath.

Gods, it's like speaking at the Landsmeet again.

"I've . . . thought a lot about what's been said. And I have . . . reconsidered." I gulp and look over at Fenris.

He gives me a slow, encouraging nod.

Doubt tingles me all the way to my core. It swells within my throat, imprisoning my words and tongue like some enchanted chain.

But I must break through it. I must.

If I don't even give them the option, what kind of comrade am I?

A terrible one. That's what.

Clutching my fists, I swallow the nerves down, hard. "Merrill is right," I whisper, the words tasting far more bitter when said aloud, in front of an audience. And oh, how I do hate the quiet, relieved sigh she gives in response. "If you're really determined to learn what this is all about, despite the potential consequences, then . . . you deserve to know the truth. However, whether you choose to listen to my story, I leave it up to you. I'll give you this last chance to walk away. After that, well, there may be no going back. No matter how skilled our evasive maneuvers."

The whole room falls silent.

No one moves or says a word.

Their eyes remain glued on me.

Nothing else.

Taking that as their unanimous acceptance, I look up at Hawke and pace off to the side a few steps.

The words struggle to form.

Where do I start?

The beginning. That would probably be best. It's where most stories typically start. But how much information do I divulge? How much is too much? And how much will put them at too great a risk of possible harm, should the worst come to pass?

Varric really does make this look too easy.

I stop and stare at the wall in front of me, the memories of my time with the clan bubbling to the surface. Tamlen's image filters into the mix, back when we were young, when this all first started. "As I have explained before," I continue, shaking the memories and feelings away, "my father was my clan's previous Keeper. All Keepers possess powerful magical talents. It's one of the unspoken requirements in order to lead the clan. As such, magic flows through my veins . . . My . . . affinity for the art was discovered when I was still very small, but it was . . . different from others."

I stop and glimpse over at our two other gathered mages present.

"Unlike Merrill, Anders, or Bethany . . ." I point at two out of the three of them, "my mana . . . does not tire. I can continue a spell for hours without fail or onset of fatigue. But not without risk of greater subsequent cost."

To demonstrate, I light a small fireball in my hand and stare at the brilliant flame. Its tingling heat envelops my fingertips like a comforting blanket, never faltering as mana pumps continuously through my veins. It's the smallest spell I can manage without experiencing any horrible side effects. A realization that took plenty of years of 'practice' to uncover, much to the entire clan's fear and chagrin.

After allowing the others to watch the flame dance in my palm a moment, I extinguish it, and go back to my pacing. Eager to get this all out. Fast. Before I turn coward and run.

"Although this may sound rare, or absurd, or ridiculous even," I go on, determined not to look at any of their reactions, lest I succumb, "such cases have been recorded multiple times throughout the Sabrae clan's past. However, I'm the first in four generations. I bring this detail up because about eight years ago, a group from Tevinter walked into our camp."

My eyebrows scrunch together as I recall the horrid encounter.

My people's screams.

The ravaging flames.

Tamlen's and Ashalle's trembling touch, while embracing me in hiding.

"A magister had heard of my abilities from a knife-ear that stayed with us briefly," I shove the memories back down deep; the seething hatred remains. "He apparently sold the information about my abilities to this mage, and at a rather high price, I might add . . . The magister wanted to take me to Tevinter to study my abilities himself, to see if he could unlock its secret. Naturally, the Keeper refused. A battle ensued. The enemy was swiftly turned into a fleshy pincushion. As they should be. But the trouble didn't end there. The traitor sold the information to several other magisters before finally being cut down. By one of his own potential clients I hear, no less."

I sigh and shake my head at the thought.

"Bless Elgarnan's vengeance, I never liked the beady-eyed bastard," I mutter, clenching my fists. "Always treated the kids in the clan like pests . . . Since this incident, however, the clan has taken out many who believed the knife-ear's tale. But a few remain that have been wise enough to keep their distance. One such magister must be the one who sent those men after me at the Wounded Coast. And well . . . as for the woman from Haven they mentioned, this is news to me as well."

"Where is this Haven?" Hawke asks and pushes himself off from against the wall, looking far more relaxed than before. "I swear I've heard of it somewhere before, but I can't rightly remember where."

"It's the place where the Urn of Sacred Ashes is located. Before it was the mecca of pilgrimage that it is today, it was a town full of raving lunatics, who worshiped a high dragon they believed to be the reincarnation of Andraste. As far as I am aware of, though, all of the cultists were killed. There should have been no survivors."

"Why, then, would she be after you?" Fenris squints at me.

Curses. Sometimes he's too perceptive for his own good.

"I'd like a definitive answer for that myself," I respond in my best matter-of-fact manner. "Although . . . it'd be a lie to say I didn't have a hunch. But I won't go into that detail now. It's unimportant, for the moment."

Hawke and the others all raise their eyebrows at me. The skepticism in their stares speaking louder than words.

"Anyways," I cough and clear my throat. "This is the situation. In short: these people are out to capture me in hopes of studying me for my magic. That's all I really know."

"Is there a way to track down these hunters?" Sebastian asks, surprisingly taking this all in stride, despite the weird mage-apostate parts thrown in.

"Nothing short of visiting Tevinter itself, which I have no intention of doing."

Creators, I don't know anyone who would. Let alone a wanted, Dalish apostate and rogue Grey Warden. But they don't even know that bit.

Hawke rests his hands flat on the table between us. "How long until you think they'll strike again?" he asks, entering full problem-solving mode. "All of their men were killed. They won't be receiving an update anytime soon. Not unless they've got another spy hiding somewhere here in Kirkwall."

"Well, that depends." I shrug. "If they're feeling patient and they don't have another informant? Perhaps a year. If not? A few months. It would take at least that long for their men to travel overseas."

"Then we have some time to think this all over and come up with a plan." Hawke straightens himself up again. "Varric, you keep your eyes and ears out for any leads. If any of you notice anyone suspicious lurking about, I want to be the first to know."

"You got it, Hawke," Varric salutes him with his drink.

Hawke shifts focus back onto me. "Serena, why don't you come and live at the estate for a while? At least until we can confirm that this last batch has been fully taken out? Alone in the alienage, you're an open target. I trust that Aveline and the rest of the city guard can keep a better eye on you there when the others and I are not around."

"So long as it doesn't involve using too much of my men, I'd be happy to help," Aveline clarifies, offering a soft smile.

I rub one arm uncomfortably.

To be truthful, the idea sounds less desirable than rolling around in fresh Halla dung. And that's putting it mildly.

"As . . . tempting as that might be, Hawke, I must decline. Your estate is far too . . . extravagant than I am accustomed to. Not to mention the way your mother always tries to fit me into a gown every time we meet . . . " I cringe as I recall many such incidents in our past and exchange glances with the others, hoping they'll agree or understand.

Varric gives a slow nod. "She has a point," he whispers, and everyone looks at him. "If she were to move in with you and your mother, Hawke, Twinkle Toes might become Leandra's new fashion experiment. I don't expect there will be two survivors."

Hawke frowns, then stares up at me again. "I can see your point . . ." he says. "But . . . "

He sighs.

Silence fills the room once more.

Everyone's gaze shifts downward. Our plans back at a crossroads.

"Then, perhaps she could move in with Fenris?" Isabela points at my lanky fellow elf. She walks over to me and wraps one loose arm around my shoulders. "No one else occupies his mansion. And it's far from being considered extravagant. No offense, handsome." She winks at him, but he merely shrugs it off like it's nothing. "It also has plenty of rooms, and it's fairly close to the estate. She can feel right at home in Hightown. No Leandra included."

"That would also make things easier for the guard," Aveline hums. "Donnic visits the mansion often, or so I hear."

She smirks at Fenris, who merely looks away. He's probably hesitant to divulge any more details regarding their secret 'man time', or so Hawke likes to put it. And if they're up to what I think they are, I don't blame them.

Our group fixates on the taciturn elf.

He looks up and raises his hands slightly from the table. "I do not have a problem with it if she doesn't," he concedes.

My mouth runs drier than a desert in summer.

By all that's holy, is this really happening? After last night?

Personally, I'd prefer to stay at home in the alienage. I'm fully capable of defending myself. I've already done so for how many years now. But the others won't stand for it. I know that. Not after revealing my current circumstances. Or at least, most of them. I doubt even confessing that I'm the Warden of legend would change their mind. If anything, it might make them even more protective, claiming 'the Hero' is an even bigger target. But they don't need to know about that part yet anyway, as that's a whole other story with even more problems to worry about.

Problems I'm not ready to discuss or confront quite yet.

My gut twists and turns from the growing stress.

A million reasons warn me that this isn't a good idea. That I should object. That I should put my foot down at any cost. But for some reason, all I can do is nod, relenting to the heavy peer pressure and stares bearing down on me, after putting everyone through so much trouble to begin with.

"Very well. If-If that is what everyone deems best," I whisper, caving-in; but in all honesty, it takes everything I have to choke it out.

Isabela claps her hands together in front of her. "Splendid!" she says with a bright, scheming smile. She grabs me by the wrist and drags me toward the exit. "Come along, sweet thing. I'll help you pack!"

And just like that, the pirate leads me down the Hanged Man's steps, leaving a quiet crowd behind in our wake. And I've never felt so tugged along on strings in my entire life.


"Settled in?" a deep voice speaks up behind me.

I flinch and glance back at my new bedroom door.

The white-haired elf leans against the open archway, his muscular arms crossed loosely in front of his armored chest, his observant gaze directed only on me.

"As much as I can," I answer and step back from my bed. A majority of my bag's meager contents lie scattered across its surface, organized in no particular fashion. At least, not yet. But that will change with time. Time the others didn't seem too keen on granting me earlier, after our group's big discussion.

While Isabela 'helped' me fast-pack in the alienage—if packing and inspecting only my wine and undergarments even counts—Fenris helped tidy up the room next to his in the mansion to try to make it as livable as possible. And by livable, I mean that there's still dust coating much of the floor and windows. But the bed at least has a clean set of sheets, and all the trash has been removed. So, there's that.

Considering the work he must've put into the quick, few-hours turnaround, however, I can't help but look down and feel . . . awkward.

I've always hated being perceived as a burden to others. A trait that's followed me ever since I first discovered my powers. And here I am now, doing just that. Again. To somebody who's already not a huge fan of magic and I'm pretty certain isn't the cleaning or hosting type.

"My apologies that I've dragged you into this," I whisper, unable to shake the spiking guilt.

The corners of Fenris's lips perk up into a warm half-smile. "I am happy to help," he says.

His wording catches me off guard.

I can't help but stare at him, wide-eyed, then laugh. "Never did I think such words would ever come out of your mouth!" I giggle.

"Is it so hard to fathom?" He raises an eyebrow at me, then takes a few steps closer.

My body tenses. "Yes," I mutter, quickly looking away.

Fenris stops and takes a rushed step back. "You do not need to put your guard up around me," he says, a serious tone returning to his expression. "Although we are now living together, I will respect your wishes. I am not one to ambush cornered prey."

My body lightens a tad at the assurance, however unnecessary. "My, to think I'm rooming with such a gentleman," I tease with a wide smirk. "I am honored."

Fenris chuckles. His laughter swiftly quieted, as he covers his lips with a balled up fist and clears his throat.

A heavy silence settles between us again.

Fenris shifts awkwardly in his spot. "I believe . . . that I should apologize," he says, daring to break the quiet. "In the past, I made assumptions that you and the others did not understand many things. I was . . . wrong."

I smile at him. "I told you we were more similar than you think."

"Yes. I know that… now." His piercing gaze shoots right through me again. The uncomfortable feeling in my stomach from yesterday night returns. Twisting. Winding. Lifting.

I quickly reach for my scythe off my bed, my cheeks and ears burning up of their own volition. "I . . . have to go meet up with Varric," I lie and make my way over toward the door. "I promised him a game of Wicked Grace tonight. And a story."

Fenris tilts his head to the side. "Do you need an escort?"

"No, I'll be fine," I pass him. Perhaps too quickly.

Damn it, I'm just not good at this. At any of it.

I pause in the bedroom doorway, a part of me feeling awful for acting this way, but I can't seem to help it either.

"Goodnight," I whisper, glancing back at him. "I will see you tomorrow morning."

And with those same odd, forbidden feelings still influencing my senses, I exit the mansion in a rush for the Hanged Man—my determination and reasoning for keeping everyone at distance wavering like it never has before.


HAWKE

I stand alone at the Hanged Man's bar, the taste of flat, bitter ale still dancing across my tongue.

"Another," I shout and slam my empty mug on the counter in front of me.

The bartender glances over at me, nods, then rushes to fill my next order. It's my sixth one this past hour, so I can understand the judgmental look. But I need the distraction. The idea of two wanted elves living together, who are also both being pursued by Tevinter magisters—it's bothering me more than Maker knows it should.

Andraste's great, flaming ass-cheeks, it's asking for an ambush!

But what do I know? I only protected my family on the run for how many years before Kirkwall.

Moreover, the only acceptable option I offered was shot down faster than a flightless quail, caught in an open dirt field. And there's no changing that stubborn woman's mind now, not after she's made her decision.

Still though . . . Why must this all be so complicated? Why do I feel so . . . anxious?

I bury my face in my hands.

The bartender slides me my next drink. I grab onto it and quickly bring it to my lips, determined to drink the conflicting feelings away, along with the incessant coiling sensation, weighing in my stomach.

"What's wrong, handsome?" a familiar, sultry voice purrs behind me. Isabela leans against the counter to my left, her brown eyes watching me with an obvious hunger. And not the food kind. "This isn't like you."

"It's nothing. You wouldn't understand," I insist.

"Wouldn't I?" She smirks. Her index finger trails down the front of my chest in a slow, seductive motion. "Don't be so certain."

She scoots in closer until her bare arms and legs touch mine, her warmth permeating through the dividing clothing.

"Why don't you let me cheer you up, Hawke? On the house," she hums and strokes my lower side.

I snatch her wandering hand before it ventures too far downward. "Isabela, not now." I push it away. "Why must you always do this?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Why not?" She smiles. "What's wrong with mixing a little business with . . . pleasure?"

Her hand returns to my thigh, her face inching closer and closer to mine.

The Hanged Man's front door creaks open behind us. Footsteps enter, but almost immediately rush back outside, slamming the door behind them.

The unexpected sound snaps me out of it. I look back over at the door. But no one's there. Whoever it was, they're already gone, with no guarantee of return.

Isabela looks over, too. "What?" she pouts.

I purse my lips and face the bar again. "Nothing. Must've been my imagination . . ."