HAWKE

"How do you want to handle this, Hawke?" Varric leans against the dock wall beside me.

King Alistair and I both peer around the street corner at the hulking ship we believe to be holding Serena captive. It cost five sovereigns just to weasel the lead out of the greedy dock-master. Five sovereigns well-spent in my opinion, if it gets us one step closer to finding Serena.

But now, we're here. At the place in question. And doubt lingers in the back of my mind.

The boat looks inconspicuous enough to an unscrupulous eye. You'd never guess it belonged to a wealthy, Tevinter magister, what with the lack of color and pointless frivolities they're often known for. A deception you'd expect from someone visiting under false pretenses. However, the men patrolling the ship also come off far too wary. Too well equipped. Especially for a self-proclaimed trading vessel from Nevarra.

Such convenient factors could only mean one thing: they've got something important onboard.

But do these conclusions alone mean that they have Serena? I can't be sure. But my gut tells me they must. And until Teagan returns with Aveline and the city guards, there's no way for us to check all the other ships simultaneously.

However, we're also very much out of time with this ship.

I examine two of the guards standing by the ship's notched on-boarding ramp. Three others pace about on deck, carting the last of a horde of barrels and sacks deeper into the hull. At least a month's worth of supplies, if not longer.

"There's no easy way in with those guards posted there. We need a distraction." I focus back on the others.

Isabela sashays past me with a wink. "All you had to do was ask," she purrs.

She makes her way around the corner, over to the ramp.

"Isabela!" I whisper after her.

But it's too late.

She's gone too far out, and I'm in no position to stop her from pursuing such a potentially beneficial wager.

The rest of us watch with bated breath as she approaches the first two guards. The stiff goons regard her with nothing but suspicion and contempt at first, their eyes squinting while scrutinizing her up and down for any weapons.

But then, their aloofness lessens.

The tension in their postures vanishes. One even dares to crack a lewd smile, as Isabela strokes a flirtatious hand across both men's shoulders. Her lithe fingers continue tracing upward, disappearing into their hair, in a seemingly earnest caress, the three of them lost in each other's gazes. She then grips at the strands, and bangs their foreheads together with brutish force.

The two guards stagger and grasp at the core impact zones. However, before they can so much as groan or recover their wobbling stances, Isabela draws her daggers and stabs them both in the throat. They fall back, choking, coughing up their own blood.

Isabela merely stands back, watching, then glances over at us with a cocky tilt of her head, signaling for us to push forward.

"Go!" I order the others, and we rush to join her side.

We board the ship in a rushed assault. Isabela quickly leaps into action ahead of us, ambushing one of the men on her own, jumping on his back and slicing his throat. Varric shoots a bolt into the head of another not far from her kill, leaving only one left to worry about. Fenris lunges forward at the man in a blue blur and phases one hand deep into his chest, his lyrium markings glowing and green eyes glittering with rage.

"Where. Is. She?" he snarls, glaring down at him.

The man gawks at Fenris, eyes wide, gasping. "The stores. You can't . . . miss it."

Fenris crushes his heart in an instant, dropping the fool's lifeless body with a bloody, inglorious thump. And for once, I don't even comment on such violent methods. Instead, I merely turn toward the ship's central staircase, leading below deck, and slink my way deeper into the ship's hull, prepared to kill however many slavers possible to liberate Serena from her horrid past.


FENRIS

The descent to the stores require little stealth.

Only three crewmen ever cross our path, quickly dispatched by a well-placed dagger or arrow here or there. Complimentary of Varric or Isabela. The benefit of accompanying two experienced rogues, while maneuvering in such close quarters.

Upon tip-toeing down our third flight of stairs, we reach what I can only assume to be the storeroom.

However, instead of being packed to the brim with barrels or sacks, or other such expected travel supplies, the first portion of the wet, squalid room stands empty, save for a single iron cage constructed into the eastern wall.

A woman lies chained within it, both hands dangling over her head. Hanging limp.

My heart stops.

I don't think. I just run down the stairs, to the front of the locked cage, alongside the others.

"Serena!" Hawke shouts as soon as we reach its gate.

Serena doesn't respond.

My stomach twists hard enough it feels like it rips.

She's passed out, sweating, with blood dripping from a wide gash across her right temple. They've chained her up like a bound Saarebas, complete with a qunari inspired anti-magic collar, secured around her neck.

"Maker's breath. They collared her?" King Alistair gasps under his breath.

Varric quickly hurries to the front of our group and starts picking the cell's lock.

But it is not fast enough.

I need him to work faster. To open this door faster.

I need to be closer to her. To ensure that she is safe. That she is breathing. That she is alive.

The door creaks open, and we all sprint up to her.

Her ears twitch. She snaps awake with a visible jolt, coiling into an immediate defensive sitting position, while glaring up at the lot of us—hatred and viciousness gleaming in her fierce, teal eyes. Every ounce of her seething with promissory violence.

Her ferocity dissipates into a confused scowl upon truly looking at us. "Oh. Hawke . . . Alistair," she whispers. Her head falls forward again, as though it takes too much energy for her to even keep sitting up.

"Hurry. Get these things off her!" Hawke orders Varric and Isabela.

The two jump forward to work on the contraptions confining her. The chains on her wrists come off slowly. Painfully slowly. And the moment the collar around her neck at last clicks opens, and she is finally free, my breathing catches.

Burn marks and blisters circle all around her neck, where the collar lay.

This thing . . . it burned her? They burned her?

My blood boils. The lyrium in my markings flare bright blue.

Shaking, I bury my armored fingertips into my palms, clenching my fists and jaw in silent rage.

Blood slips through my fingertips and drips onto the floor.

This is my fault. I should have accompanied her home last night to the mansion. We have known about this risk for years, and yet . . .

"I hate being rescued like this," Serena mutters, as Hawke and King Alistair both lift her arms over their shoulders.

"Yes, yes. We know," King Alistair says with an unconcealed roll of his eyes. However, his teasing tone comes off far more forced than usual. As does his normal accompanying smile.

Serena chuckles.

She glimpses up at me, her expression strained, pale.

My body goes rigid. The exploding rage: fading. Along with the glow from my markings.

I want to reach out. To touch her. To feel her warmth. To help her.

But I can't.

Guilt swallows me whole. Like a mouse caught by a snake.

"Let's go." Hawke nods to everyone. "We need to get out of here, before it's too late."

Our group hurries out of the cell.

We quickly make our way back through the ship's hull. Serena consistently wobbles in Hawke and King Alistair's grasps throughout the ascending trek, struggling not to pass in and out of consciousness, much to her continued vocal chagrin. Whether her ravaged state is due to a concussion, drugs, blood magic, or something else entirely, none of us know for certain. But it is pointless pondering such things here. Right now, getting her back home to safety comes as our first priority.

When we finally get up top to the deck again, we are greeted with an unexpected sight: six armed guards standing behind an expressionless, robed human, wielding a golden staff in the shape of a spiraling dragon.

"I thought I heard a rat poking around my ship," the human sneers, his cold, blue eyes narrowing in on Hawke and King Alistair with Serena. "To think, it would be the mighty Champion of Kirkwall and noble king of Ferelden. My, what an honor." He smirks and bows his head. The motion oozing with practiced elegance and overconfidence. However, despite his 'respectful' address, an unspoken, conniving, maliciousness dwells within his sarcastic intonations. A true viper not even trying to conceal its bared fangs. "As pleased as I am to make your acquaintances, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you all to leave my ship—without my ward. Lest this unfortunate affront escalate further."

"She is not your ward," Hawke snaps, with more fury than I have ever heard from him before.

The magister quirks an expectant eyebrow at him. "Would you prefer her to be the circle's then? Or perhaps the Grey Wardens? Certainly with her identity now known at court, one of which will soon undoubtedly come to claim her. At least under my possession, she wouldn't risk execution outright."

"No, instead you'd experiment her until her heart goes out. Isn't that what you wish?" Alistair sneers.

The magister glares at the both of them, his toxic aura a mirror image to Danarius's. "I am no savage." He curls his lip. "I only wish to help her hone her skills, which she continues to waste! It's a rare enough gift to find a living Dreamer nowadays. But a Dreamer with such a strong affinity toward spirits? And the Fade? Why, such a thing hasn't been heard of since the first rumors of Andraste!"

"First rumors of Andraste?" Alistair squints at him. "What do you mean by that?"

The magister sighs, as if irritated our obliviousness. "The lore suggests Andraste may have been a powerful Dreamer, and a blessed one at that," he says. "One with a similar attraction toward spirits and the Fade as our dear girl here." He waves a flippant hand at Serena, who merely glares up at him in return.

"Is that why you teamed up with that woman from Haven? And the Divine?" Hawke scowls at him.

"Ah, those were but a rouse. As if I would be foolish enough to allow a bunch of southern heathens to squander such magic for vengeance or religious purposes." The magister chuckles at the suggestion, and then his eyes grow dark, fixating intensely again on Serena. "No, there are much greater purposes in life than that."

His paired wording and gaze makes my brands burn. Reminding me of their origin, and Danarius's similar ideology that birthed them.

Serena retracts one arm from around Hawke to touch her head. "What are you . . . saying? Dreamer? Spirits?" She quivers. "You're wrong. I'm not—"

"There's no point arguing here, dear. Your little elf friend told me everything years ago. He saw you summon them, multiple times, including one he insisted resembled Andraste. And oh, how the Divine ate that last little detail up."

Serena tries to stand up straighter on her own, stepping closer to the magister. "You're wrong! I-I—" She winces and collapses back into Hawke's and King Alistair's support again. The two quickly catching her.

"Fenris, get her out of here." Hawke glances over at me.

I gulp and step forward, being careful as I lift her panting form into my arms. She doesn't even try to fight back, simply falling motionless against my chest. Her eyes closed as she passes out again.

"Hm. So, you still refuse to comply?" the magister jeers at us.

I struggle to fight every urge of mine to set Serena down right then, to tear out every bone and ligament of his myself. To make him pay for the years he made her suffer, both before and after our meetings.

But I resist.

For nothing matters more than keeping her safe now.

Hawke entrusted her safety to me, and I refuse to fail either of them again. Regardless of how tempting slaying the vile beast may seem.

"Very well." The magister nods, accepting our continued silence as consent. "Let's see how the Champion of Kirkwall stands against the age of progress, shall we?"