SERENA

"Uzara's Tooth. A fitting name, don't you think?" Hawke lifts the new, silver, enchanted amulet, dangling around his neck. Again.

He admires Solivitus master handiwork like a starstruck scholar eyeing legendary treasure they've only read about, the enraptured sparkle in his coffee-brown eyes impossible to miss.

"Oh, absolutely!" Anders agrees. "But don't you think Serena should be the one wearing it? She did slay a dragon for us to create it."

"And with great pizzazz, one might mention." Varric winks back at me.

Hawke glares at the smirking dwarf and mage, and I snicker.

"It's alright, Varric, Anders! Let him enjoy the moment!" I insist. "It's not every day we slay a High Dragon, and I couldn't have done it without all your help anyways. Plus, I've got plenty of amulets at home as it is!"

Many of which of even higher quality. But there's no point in telling them that.

Hawke, Varric, and Anders continue to quibble amongst themselves over the topic while we press onward, out of the Hightown market—all of us carting baskets of food and drinks for our celebratory feast happening at the mansion later on tonight. A perfect conclusion to memorialize our success and Hawke's new sole ownership of the Bone Pit, as jinxed as the site may be.

A week has passed since our fight there. Since then, the tension between Hawke and I has essentially lifted. We're finally falling back into our old 'normal' again. Which is a welcome relief, worthy of another party itself. Albeit a confusing one.

I thought after Hawke and Zevran's confrontation at the Bone Pit, things between us would've gotten worse. But then, it's like Hawke's attitude changed overnight. He stopped dragging us out on his constant missions, giving us all plenty of time to rest. Then he started talking to me more and more on his own again, in increasing, less awkward increments. And now, a week later, it's like nothing ever happened. We're back to joking around and talking as usual, with no evident strain.

Perhaps it was all for the best, choosing to just be friends . . . I ponder as I watch Hawke laugh and joke wholeheartedly with the other two.

That's what I try to tell myself. But deep down, my heart's not all the way in it.

A part of me still regrets and doubts the decision, as well as this newfound peace developing between us.

How could I not? Hawke's a good man. One of the best I've ever known, and only one of a few people I truly feel comfortable with. But Hawke is still mortal, and although he seems to be doing much better on the surface, that doesn't necessarily translate within.

It's the sad side effect of working in politics: you learn to put up a façade. Because sometimes . . . you must.

With time, though, I'm certain this skepticism will pass. What may be false now can transform into reality. And in this case, our futures—and sanities—depend on it.

I sigh and glance back at Fenris and Zevran, two of my last current sanity woes in this whole dilemma. They're 'bickering' with one another again behind us. Or so Fenris likes to claim. His negative connotation doesn't fool me, however.

I've seen the way they've warmed up to each other over the past couple weeks. They're no longer openly hostile with one another; the original friction between the two having dissolved and been replaced with what feels likes mutual respect and understanding. Zev particularly seems to revel in their constant spars with words, similar to when he first met Wynne and Alistair. Fenris seems to also equally enjoy rising to the challenge. The slight quirk on his lips being his most revealing sign.

The transition feels similar to watching two honorable political rivals engage in casual conversation—constantly quarreling over petty subjects, while still agreeing to meet up for cards, chess, and drinks later, when no one's looking. Activities they've both partaken in quite regularly together of late, alongside at least one of the others. Perhaps to keep up the ruse.

Now if only they can both realize it's alright for them to get along, then maybe, just maybe after everything's settled, they'd dare even consider calling each other 'friends'.

I both laugh and frown at the thought. The inherent selfishness not lost on me, but a wish I still make, nonetheless. The alternatives far too bitter.

Determined to dismiss such dreary considerations before a party, I shake my head and face forward again.

The lot of us enter the chantry's exterior courtyard. Its typical pious regulars stand scattered about, chatting. But one dashes out of place.

A vaguely familiar young woman with shoulder-length black waves and a gaudy, pink and purple dress runs up to us, from the opposite side of the yard. "Serah Hawke! Warden! I must speak with you!" She halts in front of us. "You're the only ones that can help! The wardens mounted an expedition to retrace your route through the Deep Roads, to discover whatever it is you found there years ago. It's a fool's errand, and my poor brother is with them—Nathaniel Howe!"

She lowers her head into her hands in frazzled distress, her dark hair draping in front of her like a curtain.

"Nathaniel?" Anders balks. "Well, put me in a dress and call me a templar! How is the old boy doing?" He beams at her.

The woman scowls up at him. "He's missing, serah. Haven't you been listening?" she snaps, the unmistakable family 'glare' uncanny, reminding me of when I first met Delilah, I think her name was, back in Amaranthine.

"Missing?" I repeat, still caught between our past and present encounters.

Delilah nods, her hazel eyes identical to Nathaniel's.

My heart sinks.

Her words and their possible reality hitting me.

I glance over at Anders.

"I'm not worried about Nathaniel." He shrugs. "He's crawled out of worse places alive."

"That's . . . perhaps an understatement," I grumble. But not without a bit of guilt or regret.

Hawke raises an eyebrow at the two of us. "I take it you two and Nathaniel have some history?"

"Certainly!" Anders smirks. "We were in the wardens together in Amaranthine. Hordes of darkspawn, psychotic broodmothers—usual warden business. I wonder if Nathaniel ever found a sense of humor?"

I elbow Anders playfully in the side. Successfully suppressing a laugh, but failing to stop myself from smiling.

"Ow!" he yelps, rubbing at the spot, grinning like a mischievous da'len. Just like when the two first started this verbal back and forth of theirs.

Hawke returns his focus back onto Delilah, the air around him now radiating with the poise of the Champion. "Why were wardens interested in our expedition?" he asks with a slight tilt of his head, dismissing me and Anders.

"Maker help me, I have no idea. My brother never tells me these things," Delilah says.

"For good reason, I reckon," I mutter.

That earns another scowl from her.

Great.

I'm clearly not earning any brownie points here. Unlike last time.

But you win some, you lose some.

"Wardens range into the Deep Roads all the time," Hawke intervenes for me, intentional or not.

"But he's been gone far too long! Something terrible has happened!" Delilah steps closer. "I'd tell the other wardens, but by the time I reach Vigil's keep . . . My poor brother."

She hangs her head, her eyes watering, slowly. Looking absolutely hopeless. Miserable.

A slight pang twinges in my chest at the sight.

This is what I've always feared since I conscripted more wardens. All of us know we'll never live to see full happy endings. Some swifter than others. It comes with the job.

But for Nathaniel's story-end to possibly come this soon . . . on a path we opened . . . I . . .

Hawke sighs and stares at Delilah with evident sympathy, perhaps coming to the same conclusion, as said former leader of the expedition. "Do you know any other details?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I know almost nothing," Delilah says. "Nathaniel never speaks about the wardens. It was only happenstance that I heard both your names mentioned. Please, go back to the Deep Roads! Find my brother! You must!"


FENRIS

It has been one week since we entered the Deep Roads.

The tunnel walls bear down on our group in the ever-present shadows. Our sole sources of light stemming from our pitiful campfire and the blue-lyrium vines entangled in the thaig's cracked, ancient walls.

Returning here has proven to be most unnerving again. Serena, however, remains the most agitated of us all. Compared to the last time we were here, she hardly rests. Instead, she invests most of her free-time on watch or practicing small spells with the abomination. An experiment of theirs to try to help her gain more control over her magic these days.

This night, however, it seems she has at last reached her limit. She now lies passed out with her head propped on the Crow's lap. Soft snores escape her parted lips, not an ounce of tension remaining in her outstretched limbs. It's doubtful even a darkspawn horde could wake her now. Not without a great deal of poking or prodding, anyways.

"You know, I'm suddenly reminded of the last time I entered the Deep Roads," Zevran speaks up, disrupting the thaig's heavy silence.

The two of us are the only ones left awake now—Hawke, Sebastian, Varric, and Anders having drifted off long ago.

"Has she ever told you of our adventures in Orzammar, during the blight?" He raises his eyebrows at me.

"No, she does not often speak of her past." I shift focus from Serena onto the flames. Their sporadic crackling echoing between us.

"Hmm. True enough," he hums. "Well, it was perhaps five months before the Battle of Denerim! We'd ventured far into the lost dwarven thaigs, on a personal quest for the prince, who would become King Bhelen—the last leader of the Grey Warden's conscripted allies. Our dear Warden here shouldered many troubles and responsibilities at the time. More so than even she let on. It'd gotten to the point where the poor woman hardly slept! Not solely due to myself, mind you." He smirks and places a smug hand to his chest. " . . . However," he sighs, continuing, deflating, "the Deep Roads . . . is when that proud 'Hero' mask she likes to don finally fell."

He pauses.

His golden eyes grow dark. Hazy. Distant. More so than I've ever seen before.

Catching my interest.

"It brought something out in her," he lowers his voice into a serious whisper. "A fear, we'd never seen from her before. At first, I thought it must be because of all the darkspawn mucking about. Or her nightmares. Or it being her first time journeying so deep underground. Choose whichever theory you like. But then . . . then we received our first look at the archdemon, and the darkspawn horde, marching to its beck and call in the depths . . . To call it a nightmare feels insufficient. An impossibility we, for some reason, agreed to challenge. But the nightmare . . . didn't end there."

He stops and looks up at me again, all seriousness. Not a hint of his usual blitheness remaining.

"Deeper into the trenches, beyond the distracted darkspawn horde, we learned the true methods the darkspawn use to create their broodmothers. And we witnessed one such pitiful creature—a former dwarven woman, originally from House Branka. Serena proved to be the most disturbed by the revelation . . . From that point forward, her nightmares escalated. She couldn't truly relax or rest without me by her side. But even then, her nightmares didn't fully relent."

He strokes one hand across her forehead, pushing some stray fringe behind one ear.

"I believe it may have become one of her greatest fears back then, I think. Turning into one of them, I mean." He gazes down at her tenderly, sympathetically. "I assume it must touch on a more personal level, what with her being a Grey Warden, possessing the taint. And yet, despite all this, she continued to push herself forward and defeat the blight. And now, she's ventured underground, once again. In an effort to save others . . . Her persistence always continues to surprise me."

He smiles and shakes his head at the comment.

A sentiment I can agree with.

"But, I had a point to all this." He fixates on me again. "What I am trying to say is: I can see her relaxing with you as well, my friend—if you were to only reach out. Why is it you have not tried speaking to her plainly about such desires yet?"

I tense up, gulp, and look away. The topic shift not what I had been expecting.

"It is not my place," I mutter, clenching my fists. The answer truthful, however, bitter.

"But it could be, if you only took the chance. Remember: I have already offered you a deal, of sorts. You need only speak with her, to see if she would accept."

I glare over at Zevran, my markings flaring bright blue. The lyirum thrumming. Burning within my brands. My final warning before I grow tired of his little mind games, once and for all, and rip out that incessantly wagging tongue of his.

"Fine! Fine! Suit yourself then," he relents, leaning his head back, against the wall.

I huff and scowl down at our burning campfire again.

What he speaks of is nonsense. He knows this. I know this. It is a pointless taunt. Nothing more.

But I will not fall for it.

I know better. I know my place.

No matter how much I may be unsatisfied with it.


HAWKE

The sound of battle, intermingled with unmistakable darkspawn screeches, echoes up ahead. Our group rushes out into the larger tunnel chamber they're coming from.

A swarm of six hurlocks surround a tall, dark-haired, human archer. His resemblance to Delilah: undeniable. He shoots out at his opponents with practiced ease, seeming accustomed to the hostile, thaig dwellers.

The lot of us hurry to join his efforts, while ever more darkspawn pour out of the connecting tunnels.

As I slash through the chest of my third hurlock, I glimpse back at the stranger. He lands a head-shot on the last of our enemies, forcing the creature's corpse to tumble to the ground with a short, inglorious thud.

"Nathaniel Howe?" I ask, slowly approaching him from behind.

Nathaniel stands up tall and turns to face me. If it weren't for his rather impressive amount of stubble and more rugged facial features, I dare say, I could be convinced he's Delilah's twin. "You're the Champion of Kirkwall, aren't you?" he asks, stepping closer.

He scrutinizes the rest of our gathering group, congregating by my sides.

"And . . . Anders? Commander?" His voice and eyebrows rise at the end.

Serena runs up and hugs him around the neck, which he returns hesitantly, as if disbelieving it at first.

"Making friends as always, I see," Anders greets him with a teasing smirk.

Nathaniel smiles back at both of them and shakes his head. "There's no escaping you two, it seems."

"We're special that way." Anders shrugs.

"That is one way to put it."

Serena stares up at the blood-splattered warden, her joyful expression soon dissipating in favor of a concentrated frown. "Nathaniel, what are you doing here? Why are you following this old expedition's route?" she asks.

Nathaniel shifts his weight onto one foot and crosses his arms, looking a tad nervous under his superior's unrelenting stare. "Your group went further into the Deep Roads than anyone believed possible. The First Warden himself ordered this investigation. I was offered a generous share of the salvage, plus extra coin up front to discourage any . . . curiosity."

"It looks like you met heavy resistance." I glance around at all the Hurlock corpses, scattered about. A new record, I think, in terms of unplanned ambushes here go.

Nathaniel nods. "After the Commander killed the Architect, we thought it would be decades before the Deep Roads would be infested again."

He pauses to approach his most recent kill and glares down at it.

"The Warden's allies assured us these tunnels would still be mostly clear. But it seems they were wrong."

"They seem to know a great deal about darkspawn," I note. "Are these allies dwarves?"

"No, not dwarves." Nathaniel puts a hand to his forehead, as if he's got a headache just thinking about them. "It's . . . complicated. Let's just say we live in strange times."

That earns a curious look from Serena. One ripe with suspicion too, I'd gather, if history can serve as a reference.

"Who is 'the Architect'?" I try to change subjects, to lessen the already tensing atmosphere.

"The Architect was the first speaking and thinking darkspawn we encountered at Amaranthine. The equivalent to Corypheus. Very. Dangerous," Serena emphasizes both words carefully.

"He spread his 'gift' to other darkspawn—the Disciples," Nathaniel adds. "Fortunately, however, their numbers are few."

I frown.

So there really are more of them. Just the kind of news I wanted to hear. As if coming here wasn't bad enough.

"I don't remember drawing anyone a map to the thaig," I press forward, determined to keep focused on our present problems, for the moment. "Who told you about it?"

"An unfortunate dwarf named Bartrand." Nathaniel lowers his head. "We weren't sure his information was reliable, but contacting you or Varric was deemed risky."

He side-eyes the two of us, and Varric huffs. "You trusted my turncoat of a brother but thought talking to us was risky? That's idiotic!"

Nathaniel bows his head further, his strained expression perhaps reflecting a quiet understanding. "We feared you might return if you learned of our interest in the thaig." He flashes Varric and I an apologetic look.

"That's fair," I interrupt, before Varric can release more quips. "But to be honest, I would've preferred to never visit here again."

Nathaniel smiles at that. "That is fair as well."

The two of us grin at each other. The mood somewhat lightening.

Serena glimpses back and forth between the two of us, a slight smile upturning the corners of her lips. "Well, regardless, I'm glad you're safe and sound, Nathaniel." She pats him hard on the shoulder. "But as much as I enjoy catching up, is there anything keeping us in these darkspawn-infested tunnels? Your sister is anxiously awaiting news of your return."

Serena turns to leave, back the way we came, and I start to follow. Just as eager as she is to finally get out of here.

"I cannot leave now, Commander." Nathaniel's voice stops us.

We turn to face him again.

Shame and grief now fills his eyes, as if he can't even bear to look at us. "When . . . we were attacked, I was separated from the rest of my expedition," he explains. "Some of them may yet live."

He walks further into the tunnel, toward an open overlook, peering over a sloped, rocky path below. Serena and I step forward to stand beside him.

"We must go deeper into the tunnels to rescue them," he insists, his determined tone ringing strong with purpose.

"Who else could be alive?" I ask, stunned he thinks it's even possible, given the state we found him in.

Nathaniel looks over his shoulder at me, doubt descending upon him like a cloud. "Some Wardens survived the initial ambush. I think the dwarf we brought from Vigil's Keep survived. But who still lives? Only the Makers knows."

I take a skeptical look at Serena.

She can't honestly be onboard with this. Out of everyone here, her complaints about the darkspawn and the Deep Roads have been the loudest. Knowing her past now, compared to before, that's for good reason.

But in contrast to my imaginings, Serena's gaze seems . . . steady . . . Focused.

On the path ahead.

"We have survivors to find," she says, walking forward. "Let's go."

Nathaniel quickly falls into pace beside her, not another word or glance exchanged between us.

Sebastian struts past me. "Crawling through blight-infested tunnels, rescuing Wardens in peril! This is what I signed on for," he says, following the other two.

I glimpse at him, then back our other companions, dumbfounded.

Well, I guess there's an exception for every situation. Let's hope this one doesn't result in a tale that gets the 'heroes' all killed.


SERENA

"Master Howe, you live!" a blue-eyed dwarf with a glorious, thick beard calls out to us from atop a nearby staircase. The dwarf's dressed in a red, white, and gold tunic, looking oddly unscathed and put together considering all the hurlocks we've fought until now to reach him.

"Temmerin! Good man!" Nathaniel beams at the dwarf. He hurries up the stairs to close the distance, with the rest of us following suit. "Are there any other survivors?"

"Hopefully up ahead." Temmerin points over his shoulder. "Well met are strangers in the belly of the earth." he looks at the rest of us, before redirecting his attention further onward. "I hope Ser Fenley won't mind, but I set up the explosives here . . . and there." He points at a pair of barrels, further down the corridor, surrounded by rubble. "Figured I'd blow up as many of the 'spawn as I could before I embraced the stone."

"How did you manage to get Qunari explosives?" Hawke's pitch rises with noticeable alarm, but also hints he's a tad impressed.

"These aren't Qunari explosives. They're dwarven made, and don't you forget it!" Temmerin snaps.

Nathaniel smiles and looks over at me and Hawke. "Temmerin's cousin, Dworkin, made the explosives back in Vigil's Keep."

"Dworkin? You're his cousin?" I gasp, staring at him in a whole new light.

"Aye. You know him, stranger?" Temmerin squints at me.

"I did, before the Qunari forced him into hiding. Crazy, lovable bastard."

The two of us exchange mutual grins. The camaraderie between us already instant.

"What were you doing with these explosives?" Hawke asks, still seeming hung up on the subject. Understandably so. We are currently underground. A cave-in is the last thing we need to be worrying about.

"We were prepared to do extensive excavations around the thaig you found," Nathaniel explains.

"A few well placed 'booms' prove most efficacious at clearing rubble," Temmerin adds, clasping his hands.

Yep. Definitely Dworkin's cousin. 'Boom' verbiage and all.

Hawke spreads his arms out wide with a quiet, nervous chuckle. "Corridors lined with explosives and darkspawn galore? It's not even my birthday!"

I raise an eyebrow at him

Seems the sarcasm's stronger than usual in him today. Either that or the Deep Roads are finally breaking him.

"Temmerin, the way behind us is clear," Nathaniel informs the dwarf, perhaps considering the same idea I am. "Send word to the wardens in case we don't make it."

"Aye." Temmerin nods. "I've set explosives all along the tunnels. Blow up as many of the sodding 'spawn as you can. Luck to you both."

With that, Temmerin bows his head to us, then sprints down the staircase from whence we came. Leaving us alone with the unknown amount of exploding barrels and the oh-so-tempting levers hooked up to them.


We continue our way deeper into the thaig, using Temmerin's explosives whenever we can, amongst the constant influx of darkspawn forces. Most go off without a hitch—the occasional flying darkspawn guts or shattered rock excluded. The others well . . . they're quite literally a hit or miss.

As we proceed down an adjacent staircase after one such eruptive battle, Nathaniel kneels beside a small group of bloodied bodies, huddled close together on the floor. Our fellow wardens, I presume, based off their armor. What's left of them.

"I fear we have come all this way for nothing." Nathaniel lowers his head at the remains. He then scowls and fixates to his left, where I sense even more darkspawn coming from. "But my fallen comrades will be avenged." He stands up, drawing his bow. "The darkspawn are here!"

And oh, how I wish they weren't.

A cluster of hurlocks emerge from the nearby corridor up ahead. Behind them: an ogre. A large one at that.

"Oh, fantastic," I groan, readying my tense stance. Its nearing footsteps already shaking the floor.

Zevran laughs and twirls his daggers. "Just like old times! Isn't it, my dear warden?" He glimpses at me.

"Let's hope not! I'm getting too old for this!" I huff.

And with that, we dash forward, slicing at the first few advancing hurlocks.

More darkspawn approach from the opposite end of the chamber, back where we first found Temmerin. Including a second ogre. Another! What are the chances?

Glancing around our surroundings with a racing heart, as both ogres near, I notice three levers on the side of the room. Three more of Temmerin's barrels border the paths of the encroaching foes.

"Everyone! With me!" I shout, retreating back behind the levers, accompanied by the others.

The ogres and few of their tag-along hurlocks close in on the barrels, their gazes focused solely on us.

"Now!" I shout, tugging on one lever, while Hawke and Fenris pull on the others.

Three booms resound at the distant edges of the battlefield. Smoke, fire, and the occasional darkspawn screech fill the air. From their depths, survivors rush forth with renewed vigor. I dart forward and cleave through one hurlock to our right, while Hawke takes on one to our left.

Another arrives just as mine's slain, forcing me to quickly parry, before slicing its pale, filthy chest open. Its putrid blood, coating my blade.

I scan our the room once it falls. The first ogre's body parts lie strewn next to Hawke, blasted to scorched smithereens, beside the still smoking splinters of one barrel.

The other's . . . missing.

I can't see it.

Where is it? Where did it go?

A massive silhouette charges straight through the furthest wall of smoke. Straight toward me. Its horned head bowed low.

"Fenedhis lasa!" I curse, and dodge roll off to the side, taking care that no one's left behind me.

The ogre skids to a halt right past me, then whirls back around, letting out an infuriated bellow, sending streams of white spittle flying everywhere.

Fenris leaps out in blue blur and strikes down another hurlock, coming from behind me. I nod my thanks to him, the same second Zevran joins my other side.

"You two take care of the remaining hurlocks! This one's mine." I glare at the remaining ogre, who's prepping to charge at me once again. The sneaky bastard.

Fenris and Zevran don't say a word and take off. And for a second, all I can feel is unprecedented joy, knowing they've got my back. Even in these less than ideal circumstances.

"Anders! Nathaniel!" I call, lifting up my scythe.

Nathaniel and Anders shoot the ogre in its back at that instant, recognizing our signal, utilizing a mix of fireballs and arrows in rapid succession.

The ogre staggers and pivots toward the two of them. But the second it does, I sprint forward and slash a deep wound along the back of its knees.

Its legs go out beneath it, the underlying tendons there severed beyond salvation. I then leap up onto its back and stab it straight through the heart. Its body tenses under my grasp, its black blood spewing out and drenching my armor, until it at last falls face first onto the floor.

I hop off its back once it stills.

Panting. Sweating. Heart and nerves still pounding.

It's been a long while since I took down an ogre like this.

The Dragonbone Wastes . . . was that the last? I can't remember. But it feels good, nonetheless.

I smile over at Anders and Nathaniel, who grin back at me, perhaps enjoying the same aftereffects from our past favorite strategy as well.

The remainder of the battlefield grows silent—Hawke, Varric, and Sebastian finally taking out the last of the hurlocks on their side of the room, while Fenris and Zevran finish off theirs. I stand there at the center of it all, just trying to breathe, admiring our hard work, while we slowly start to gather again. Every one of us a black, bloody mess, but not with so much as a scratch on any of us.

For the most part.

I glimpse down at my only wound from the past few battles. A small nick I got from a flying piece of rubble, that's already dried over, and no longer hurts.

I'll have to ask Anders to heal it later, after he's seen to the others and had time to rest.

Zevran walks up to me and grasps said injured arm. "Does it pain you?" he asks, pulling it up closer for inspection.

My pulse flutters from the unexpected touch. "I-I'm fine." I pull away. "It's just a scratch."

Zevran stares at me for a moment then smiles. An amused sparkle, twinkling in his golden eyes, as if I've just told a joke.

The softness of his gaze makes my cheeks heat up, and for a moment, it feels like we're back in Ferelden again. Back when our adventures first began. Flirting, amid a bloody field of battle. Surrounded by a throng of darkspawn corpses. And yet, I'm merely lost in his spellbinding eyes. Succumb to their bizarre, inexplicable pull.

"For the first time since I've been down here, I don't sense a single darkspawn," Nathaniel's voice snaps me out of the daze.

I jolt and turn toward him. The reverie and memory lost.

He's glancing around at the battlefield in awe.

"We've won," he says, stopping to focus on Hawke. The seriousness of his demeanor embarrassing me for my own 'private' moment. "The route to the surface should be safe now." He slings his bow back over his shoulder.

"Then there's not a moment to waste," Hawke asserts. "Let's get out of here."

The others nod, and we all start to follow them out of the chamber. The conflicting emotions, memories, and sensations still reeling through my head. Refusing to yield, even throughout our wanderings in the subsequent corridors.