"It was an assassin." the elf declares, smiling in a manner most inappropriate for informing me of an intrigue involving my execution.

I sigh, because of course it was an assassin. I couldn't have simply walked in on an argument gone too far, or a traitor in the ranks. It had to be a killer sent specifically for me, discovered only by vague luck and chance. That makes sense.

"Sent by whom?" I ask Devehra, looking to where she sits at the foot of my cot, eyes wandering up and down my half-naked body with a tiny, mischievous smile.

"A cleric of your Chantry, like as it is not." she tells me, before running a finger along my shin with a curious hum. "One of the old grey women in a hat too tall, reaching out with paid daggers in gold and zealotry to put ending to your tale."

"A shame I've disappointed her then." I reply, swallowing back a chuckle as she pulls her finger away from my leg. There is a frown on her face now.

"No shame in being alive," Devehra tells me. "To feel so is silly and stupid and shem, and you are not to be those things. I refuse you it."

She punctuates each adjective with a poke to my knee, her voice sharper now, less sing-song, but still playful in her intonation.

"Are not all humans "shem"?" I ask her, and sharpness breaks into a bright and toothy smile while she shakes her head.

"Only shem are as shem." she explains. "Elves walking the winding stone paths call humans shem all and one, but shem can be any who are shem."

"And I am not?"

"Not yet."

She giggles at my exasperated groan, before sliding off the cot, standing over me with arms crossed. She wears the leather armour of the Inqusition's scouts, but she's dangled a net of leaves from her hood and along her back like some manner of prototypical medieval ghillie suit, and her long, slightly curved greatsword is slung across the small of her back, which I would assume to be awkward had she not proven her imposing agility to me before on the mountain. She bends over me, staring into my eyes for a long moment, then smiles again.

"But if you are as stupid as you are having been, perhaps shem is your name to be." she declares, before tapping the tip of my nose with a finger. "That is a meaning to stay here and rest. No heroism for two more daylights. Then mayhaps you come with us, kill evil things, prove heroism in absence of the girl with angry eyes."

"I…" as usual, her means of speaking leaves my mind tied in knots, so I shake my head and sigh. "Alright… who has angry eyes?"

"The shem girl called Lysette."

Oh; so Lysette is shem now. That's hardly comforting.

"And what did Lysette do to earn the title?" I ask, to which Devehra shakes her head angrily.

"She is of an anger with you for stepping between her and arrows," Devehra declares. "She calls you weak though it was of your hand marked with green from which you bled on a mountaintop and not hers. She calls you brother and still is wishing to steal you as humans do. She calls you weak and yet she is the one who is not able to stop wanting."

I rub my forehead.

"She's angry because I let a man die." I reply, and Devehra rounds on me and crosses her arms. The smile is another frown now, we've come full circle and I'm hardly pleased to see it. Aquamarine eyes narrow, glittering in the light as her lips twist and turn downwards.

"She is angry for stupid silly shem reasons." the elf declares. "And I am of a minding to lay palms upon her cheeks for lying of you."

"Please don't hit Lysette because you're angry at her." I groan, before sitting up in the bed, bracing myself with one hand. "And… she isn't wrong. I… I stood by, let Mercadora order one of our men, a man who trusted me, shot."

"She was the one whose voice was ordered still." Devehra declares. "It was by anger of hers the arrow flew. She lays upon you blame in her stead because she cannot be wrong."

"Her temper got the better of her, but it was me who-"

Devehra slaps me. It's gentle, four fingers hitting my chin with enough force to produce a startling sound and turn my head a tic, but it's hardly a whip crack blow that leaves me stinging. I'm more surprised than hurt, when she places her hands on her hips and leans in so her face is mere inches from mine.

"She lies, and you believe because you do not want her to be at fault." she says, in some of the clearest English I've ever heard her use. "And she lies of herself, so she cannot be wrong. If she is wrong, then it is she who faults, then the anger cuts in and is grinding at her pride. You cannot let her cut you."

Then she kisses me on the cheek, and smiles, because apparently kissing me and liking it is a popular pastime for all these weird women who occupy every facet of my life now.

"Besides, she is not of a good enough being for you." Devehra declares. "Too short, young, no brains but for bashing."

"Not of good enough… what?" I ask, shaking my head.

"You are turning red again." Devehra declares, rubbing the cheek she just slapped, then kissed. "It is a fun thing."

She smiles again, and walks away, and I do not miss the sashay in her hips as she does so. I watch her for a while, before catching myself and shaking my head.

"Oh Maker's Breath…" I mutter, rubbing the back of my head. "Is this… did I do something? Is it magic? Am I cursed?"

"No." Ellendra replies playfully, from somewhere behind me where she's cleaning bandages. "Just cute."

"I…"

I don't know what to say to that, so I lay back on my cot and throw my hands in the air above me for a moment. "I'll take your word for it."

"You have hair short enough to be fuzzy, a light smattering of freckles along your nose and cheeks, a warm smile, eyes of that particular shade of blue that sparkles in any light, a small but steadily growing collection of scars, an earnest personality, a magical hand…" Ellendra closes off the list with a huff, before chuckling. "Markus, I believe you'll be fending them off with a stick for quite some time now."

I groan, covering my face with my hands, and she laughs fully at my exasperation.

"Don't worry, Markus, you're safe from me." she says as she walks by with a clean basket of linens ready to be hung up for drying. "I've already got what I need."

"Thank the Maker for that," I say, and I hear her displeased huff even from halfway across the tent. "So far there's an elf with no shoes and a human with no moral compunction about punching me in the face, I don't know if I could handle a mage."

"You can't honestly expect me to believe a strapping young Templar like you never stole some mage girl's heart?" Ellendra smirks, and I shake my head.

"Maybe, but if I did, it wasn't done knowingly." I say. "I… women are complicated."

"We are." Ellendra agrees. "That's why we're so fascinating, Markus. You men can't help but try and unravel the enigma."

I think of Lysette and Lavellan, and my head hurts just trying. I think Devehra is easier to figure out; she thinks I'm cute, and she seems rather plain with her affection. Lysette probably still hates me though, and it's hardly difficult to figure out why. If she still calls me a coward…

So be it. Let her do so. Maybe Devehra is right. Maybe I'm letting her blame me because I blame myself. It's hardly my fault she chose to speak before Mercadora left. Hell, I tried to stop her from doing it, for all the good it accomplished.

I'll have to talk to Lysette later, I decide. Try and figure this out. Hopefully she can't stay angry at me forever, otherwise we're both screwed to an early grave. I need somebody I can rely on, and so far neither Blackwall or Varric are at that stage yet. Varric sees me as "kid", this heroic and maybe a little dumb charge of his. Blackwall only knows me as the weirdo who intervened in his skirmish out of curiosity. Neither are what I would call friends yet.

I still need a mage. I'd hoped Ellendra might fill that particular gap but she's rather too busy doing what she's best at to come and wander the wilderness with the Herald and whichever swordsman he's accidentally dragged along with him today. I wouldn't dare derive the camp of its best healer, let alone drag her into danger behind me. No, I'll need someone else. Solas is still out of the question as far as I'm aware, and both Vivienne and Dorian are a long ways off. I'll need to improvise.

Improvisation. I'm getting better at that trick at least. Snatching up Blackwall early, bringing Lysette on board… for all the good that's done me of late. Maybe I'm not as good at this as I thought.

With such thoughts racing through my mind, two days pass quickly enough, and soon Ellendra is letting me stand and walk of my own accord, my entire body stiff from spending so much time in that cot. But I'm moving, my leg is all but painless, and Ellendra let's me put my pants back on and step out into the wider world.

Immediately I am ambushed by a runner, the same elf whose life I saved three days previous, holding a small pile of notes and papers from the rookery.

"All addressed to you, Ser!" he reports, handing me my mail then darting away back to his silo before I can so much as thank him.

I search around for a bit and end up finding a decent tree to sit under while I read, back against the trunk and head bowed. There's four notes in total, and I take them one at a time.

The first is from Lady Nightingale, cementing only what I Devehra ensured I already knew; the woman in the silo was an assassin, dispatched by one of the higher-ranked Chantry mothers to put an early end to the "so-called Herald of Andraste" before I could affect the Chantry itself too much. Pain in the ass, but hardly unexpected. It makes sense for them to try and nip their new problem in the bud, before I can become too influential and protected to dare attack.

The second letter comes from Lady Josephine, cordially but firmly requesting I return to Haven "as soon as it suits me" so we might prepare for my address to the Chantry. I'm uncertain of what exactly that will entail, but perhaps going back sooner rather than later is a good idea. Once the Templars and Mages are dealt with, I decide, I will return. I've done enough in the interim to merit the next step being taken.

The third letter is another dispatch from Lady Josephine, warning me ahead of my return that a guest of particular standing and interest arrived in Haven yesterday, and is awaiting my arrival. She offers no detail on this individual, only that they are a person of potentially great influence in Orlais.

My mind races with possibilities. Vivienne is the first to come to mind, but I doubt she'd come to Haven herself. She'll want to test me at the salon, see if I'm truly worthy of her time and interest. A Chantry mother perhaps, but we already have Giselle with us. Who does that leave? A chevalier of some sort?

I have no idea. And I'm quite interested in seeing.

The last bit of mail is a letter forwarded to me from Haven. Seeing my name on the front has my chest ache in a peculiar way, because I know that penmanship well. I open the letter, and sigh wistfully.

(Ser and all that pompous nonsense) Markus,

I understand you've survived the Conclave. Good on you for that, my boy. I also understand you've earned quite the new title. Herald of Andraste. I'd bet that will have a few of the Chantry's rankers quite displeased. Good. Maybe it'll convince them to get off their cushioned chairs and step back into the real world.

I've missed you, lad. We all have. Little Elise asks for you every day, and both Jacque and Cordeau have been raring to come join you in this Inquisition we've been hearing about. I've held them here so far, because I need to know what you think of it.

Chanson is quiet, but there's still an air of threat around us. The people aren't happy we're keeping the mages here, they're worried rebellion is inevitable. We've had a few protests outside the tower, but nothing serious yet. But I'm still of a mind to get our people away from here.

Tell us your Inquisition is safe, Markus. Tell us they can help us if we come to them. If they can't, if they won't… Well, don't be too worried. I'll figure something else out.

In the Light, Knight-Captain Vendrick "Venerable" Sarker

Oh, Maker. I'd forgotten. Forgotten about Chanson. I've mentioned it, but I let it slip from my mind. The tower in which I made my home for most of my life, the people who raised and trained me, my brothers and sisters in arms, the charges I swore to protect with my life, and I had forgotten about them.

Vendrick Sarker. I think about the man for a few moments; born an Ostwicker who came south to Orlais in service of the Chantry, raised to a Knight of the Templar Order, embracing his holy mission with all the dignity and quiet dutifulness that would earn him the rank of Knight-Captain and stewardship over the Chanson Circle. The man is, for all intents and purposes, the nearest thing Markus has to a father, due to his real father…

No. Can't think about that now. I need to focus on the present. The past and all its pains can wait.

The others as well. The Circle in Chanson was not a large one; I know the names of just about every mage and Templar there. Knights Jacque and Cordeau, my fellow initiates when I first joined, now full brothers of the Order same as I. Senior-Enchanter Caldwin, who died at the Conclave along with Knight Hughes. Other mages; Enchanter Gelaine, with her scars and stories of battles during the Antivan Incursion. Little Elise, the youngest mage in Chanson, barely five years old and already making snowflakes with her fingertips. Hallis, old and stalwart, one eyed and unable to forget the horrors of Ostaghar.

Chanson should be safe for them. But if I bring them to Haven, where Corypheus will come and attack… no. They must stay at Chanson. At least until… but mages. Templars. Warriors who can fight. Can I really deny a fledgling Inquisition the people it needs right when it needs them most? There aren't enough of either to seal the Breach, that will take much more manpower and strength than Chanson can muster, but still… it's a start. A start we need.

I can prevent Haven. I don't know how yet, but I know it's coming. I can evacuate ahead of time, stay back to bait Corypheus, bury countless soldiers of his in an avalanche. I can win. I can beat him. I just have to be clever and exploit what I know. Unless…

Unless that sequence breaks too.

Things are changing. I barely even know who the hell Mercadora is, but Marcus knows even less of him because he wasn't there originally. Now he is. The same goes for that leader of the Apostates, what was the name they gave him? Gavriel? He wasn't real either. Now he exists. Who's to say Corypheus' plan won't change? That the world isn't shifting around me?

I need to focus. Figure out my options. I need to get things moving again. If the Inquisition builds the momentum it needs, recruits all the right people, if we make ourselves ready… we can win this, sequence breaking or no. I can win this.

Just have to save the damn world. How hard can it be?

"Your worship?"

The voice is hesitant, thick with a Fereldan accent, and entirely welcome when I turn to see its owner. Connor, my unlikely sparring partner from a few days ago, stands behind me, raising a hesitant hand in greeting. Beside him are three more soldiers, all of whom I recognize from that same morning. None look entirely confident bar one, a young woman with short red hair who I recognize as the only one who truly mastered the simple feint I taught them.

"Good day," I greet them, nodding. "What is it? Does Ser Fallon request my presence again?"

"Er… no, your worship." Connor seems unsure of how to say what he wants, rubbing the back of his head slowly. "We were… well, we had hoped you could… I mean…"

"Connor wants to spar again, your worship, and the rest of us want to give it a try too." the redhead interjects, pushing past her taller compatriot. "Figure at least one of us can take you."

"And she's certain that "one of us" is her." a third man with long brown hair and a dry, humourless, very Fereldan voice adds. "Carbry's certain she has your number, Ser."

"I never said that!" Carbry retorts, flushing bright red and turning to face the tall, lanky man who spoke. "Hush your bloody mouth, Loghain, 'fore you catch a horsefly!"

"With my luck, it'll be a hornet." Loghain replies.

"It would sting all the same," breathily adds the fourth man, who has the most delightfully well-groomed moustache I've seen since I fell through out of the Fade, and a thick Orlesian accent to match. "But such a sweet sting it would be."

"The hornet wasn't a metaphangly-thing, Argent," Connor helpfully informs his fellow, patting him on the shoulder. "She meant that if he doesn't close his mouth, a bug might fly inside."

"You take the fun out of most everything, dear Connor," Argent sighs. "But I shall endeavour to remain as whimsical as I must."

I blink twice. This is certainly a pack of fellows before me. Then I shrug, because what the hell? It's not as though I have much else to do. I can compose my response to Knight-Captain Sarker this evening after supper.

"Very well," I tell them. "Show me what you can do."

They lead me excitedly to the same sparring ring in which I showed Connor how best to apply himself nearly a week ago. The first to step up is Carbry, who tosses me a blunted practice blade with an eager grin, before grabbing one for herself. The weapon is unfamiliar in my hand, a little shorter than my longsword, but there's room enough to wield it with two hands. She also grabs a shield, which I forgo when Connor offers me one. I know how I fight.

Then Loghain, such a curious name, counts us in with his blank voice, intoning "begin" with all the flair of a damp sock.

Carbry charges me, shield up, and I focus. My foot slides back, sword rising, making it look like I plan to dodge to the right while slashing around her. But when she enters that narrow, staggered sphere around me Massache calls the threat radius, I instead step into her charge and ram her with my shoulder.

It is a fierce impact, and an unorthodox retort. So much so that her sword descends as she planned, but I catch it on my own blade thrust upwards, letting it scrape down to the crossguard. Then I twist my wrist and flick both to the side, nearly disarming her in a single neat motion.

Then she kicks me in the stomach and I realize that this will be fun after all.

I huff, drawing a deep breath to steady myself, but this gives her time to back up. Her charge having failed, she squares up behind her shield, sword braced low. I could attack, and let her stab me. Instead I smile, and slowly begin to circle her, my own blade held up and pointed forward, pommel by my ear as I rest the blade on my left forearm, gripping it with my right hand.

She doesn't seem certain what to do, which I decide will cost her. I take a half step forward, and bait a thrust, but it's too long a distance and she neatly overextends. My sword flicks down, cracking her across the wrist. If it held an edge, I'd have cut her deeply. As it stands, she wincsb and pulls back, giving me the opportunity to lever my shoulder into her shield with a wordless roar.

She isn't expecting it, caught flat-footed, and when she staggers I seize the initiative. I go around her, stepping to her immediate left. My sword in my right hand, I grab her collar with my left and hook my left leg behind her right foot, before pushing. She topples with a surprised cry, and I thank Knight-Templar Vellan for showing me that particular trick when I was first learning how to fight with a longsword.

I twist again, left foot sliding back so I can press the point of my blunted sword to her throat, smiling softly.

"Yield." I command, voice low.

She flushes red, before yielding in a quiet, humbled voice. I give her a hand up, pulling her to her feet, and smile as she steps back.

"Match goes to Ser Venier," Loghain drones. "I suppose I'm next."

Carbry tosses him her sword and shield, and he manages to catch both in the air, though he has to fumble with his shield for a moment before all the straps line up right and it stays on his arm. He rolls his shoulders and sighs deeply, before lining up across from me with the shield already up.

Connor counts us in this time, much more exuberantly. When the call to begin is given, I watch Loghain for any signs of movement. The man simply waits, shield up, expression blank, his stance low and defensive.

And I wait for a few moments more before realizing that I will not be charged, and he in fact is waiting for me to go on the offensive. Entirely understandable. I walk toward him, slowly and carefully advancing with my sword in both hands in front of me. He watches my advance, his own sword down at his side.

Then I step in, flicking my blade toward the exposed top of his helmet. The shield comes up and blocks, before he steps in and slashes with his own blade from my left. I didn't put much into my first swing, so it's easy enough to bring my sword down and around, deflecting his stroke upward. Instead of letting me step in, however, he dodges away, and the shield comes up again.

"Not particularly offensive, are you?" I ask him, as I take a step back myself, dropping down into a proper stance.

"Only the name," he grunts, before tapping the edge of his shield with his sword. "Got a shield. Figure I should use it."

I move in and deliver two quick strikes, one to each side of him. The shield shifts and blocks each in turn, before I step in and ram him with the shoulder, which has proven a useful trick. He's got better footing than Carbry, actually pushing back against me, but I use that to slip around him again.

My sword flicks for his exposed back, but he manages to turn and block with the shield, his sword coming up in a quick jab. I bat it aside with my left hand, metal clanging on metal when it hits my bracer, before stepping in and rather summarily punching him in the face. He staggers, as so many do, before I bring the sword around one handed and deliver a perfect Chevalier's Thrust right into his chest, leaving the point of my sword there where it would have punched through the mail and pierced his heart.

"Round goes to the Herald!" Connor declares excitedly, and I realize we've collected a bit of a crowd around us. A neat dozen or so soldiers, scouts and other such Inquisition troops are watching, as are a fistful of refugees with little better to do.

I give the new audience a quick wave, before patting Loghain on the back as he trudges to the fence around the ring. He tossed his sword and shield to Connor, who picks them both up off the ground and equips himself for what will be a rematch.

"Ready, your worship?" he asks, before Argent can count us in, and I crack my neck before dropping down into stance again.

"Ready." I declare.

Connor lifts his shield, bracing his sword on his shoulder in a curious stance, before Argent calls for us to begin in that dense Orlesian accent and both of us move forward.

He's gotten better. It's barely been a week, but there's a little more caution in his step now, and he keeps his eyes firmly on me, flicking between my sword and my feet. Clever, if pointless. I watch his hips, as I've been taught, and the moment he leans forward I step in and deflect his first stroke with my sword, before he tries to punch me with the iron boss of his shield. I take it on the shoulder, wincing, before he brings the sword around.

For a moment, I am reminded of Lysette, her aggression and style. I take his blow on the edge of my sword, twisting it away from me. He tries to punch again, but the same trick is easily countered by stepping with the punch, making him go wide.

Then I confuse all present when I raise my sword high, held in both hands. He flinches and brings his shield up, expecting a crushing blow, bracing his shield with his sword hand. Then I grab the blade halfway down its length with my free hand, and step under his shield. I see confusion flash across his expression, his sword coming down in a sloppy swing, before I bat it aside with the half-sword grip and drive the pommel into his forehead.

He staggers backward, his bell thoroughly rung, and I bat his loosely held shield aside with that same grip before thrusting forward with it, pressing the point of my sword to his stomach. He pauses, eyes still hazy, before nodding slowly.

"Wow…" he murmurs; rubbing his eyes with his forearm. "That was… you're good, Herald… really good…"

"Well trained." I reply, smiling, as a little humility can never hurt. "From age seven. I've had a decade to hone these techniques, and I'd still hardly name myself a master."

"He's being modest!" a voice calls, and I look up to see a few familiar faces on the edge of the ring, all clad in Templar armour, though most of the iconography has been replaced or modified to better fit the Inquisition.

Knight-Captain Rylen stands in the centre, tattooed face grinning wide as he lowers his hand, raised in greeting. I wave back, before looking to Argent, who leans against the fence with his head cocked to one side.

"I cannot say I am eager to be bested so publicly…" he says, before Connor shoves the shield into his chest with a grin.

"Come on, Argie, you'll love it!" the feckless Feraldan declares, grinning. "He's really bloody good!"

"That is far from my concern…" the Orlesian sighs, before taking the sword from his friend and laying down his shield. "Ah well. Let it be as it must, Herald. Shall you do me the honour of this dance?"

There's an energy in the air I can't deny, as I bow my head toward him, twirling my sword in a simple salute before stepping into a fighting stance, sword by my hips and body turned sidelong toward him. Argent lets out a low sigh, before twirling his own blade and entering a position better suited to fencing than to brawling with blades.

Oh. How fun this will be.

The crowd watches in anticipation as Rylen himself counts us in, Starkhaven accent flourishing proud as he lifts a hand, before letting it fall with a cry of "Begin!"

Argent begins circling me, and I him. We match each other step for step, and I see a discipline in how he moves. Not a chevalier, I don't think, but he's had some formal training beyond Cullen's drills. The way the tip of his sword slowly circles with tiny motions of his wrist warns me he'll be much, much tougher to best than his fellows.

He proves it with the first strike. A simple hop forward and a thrust, aimed right for my neck. I bat it aside only to have to step away as he simply slashes across my eyes, narrowly avoiding a solid blow to the skull. He lunges again, and I deflect the blow once again. He takes two steps back, raising the sword higher. I narrow my eyes. Tougher indeed. And far quicker.

Two more advances and deflects, two more steps back, and this time he levels his sword vertically with himself and waits. He's tested my defences. I realize now what he is. The swordplay is loosely Orlesian, but so many unfamiliar gestures. There's some Marcher in his training, perhaps Antivan.

Fine then. Let's play his game. I advance, swinging twice, and each blow is elegantly parried away with a fine twist of the sword and a step into the stroke. A third stroke from below, quickly reversing the prior diagonal. He lets that come close before bouncing the blade off his, and thrusting in a riposte that comes close to taking me in the chest. I lean away, before going for the wrist.

The cheeky bastard actually twirls his hand around the edge of my sword, before stabbing again. I have to catch his blade on my crossguard to deflect properly, pushing his sword up and away nearer to head height. This manages to take away some of his poise, as he pulls his weapon back, before I step into him. He's quick, darting away, but not before my shoulder thumps against his chest, giving him a momentary break in his carefully measured breathing.

Break his pattern. Force him to play my game now. He slashes, and as delicate a blow as it is I duck instead of blocking it. I know a murder-stroke when I see it, all the power in his arm, shoulder and waist thrown behind the blow. He is off balance now, and I seize that opportunity by stepping twice forward and swinging for his back.

He ducks. He steals my move and he ducks, before I feel that blunted blade slap against my knee with enough force to send pins and needles down my shin and into my ankle and foot. Ow. Now he has me at a disadvantage, and I realize I've been played as the tourney blade presses against neck.

"Yield, Ser?" he asks.

I nod.

He pulls the sword away and the crowd cheers, even my fellow Templars betraying me to applaud my opponent. I am hardly offended; it was a good duel, well fought, and I deserved to lose as much as he deserved to win. I offer him a hand to shake, and he takes it with a neat little bow.

"Your performance was magnifique, Ser." he tells me, smiling. "I do hope to cross blades with you again someday."

"So long as there's no more aiming for the knee." I reply, grinning. "Thank you, Argent. I think I needed a bit of humbling."

"Should you wish to be humbled again, do ask." he replies, before bowing deeply at the waist and departing.

I can't stop grinning. That was… it was fun. Exhilarating, but without the anticipation and dread of actual life-and-death combat. A much cleaner, more comfortable adrenaline high. I place the tourney sword back in its rack at the side of the ring, before walking toward Rylen and the party of Templars. We salute each other, and he smiles.

"Good to see you again, Markus." he says. "And without any clucking hens about, which is even better."

"Only Mother Giselle," I say, chuckling. "And I believe she's busy tending to the sick."

He beckons for the other Templars to join us. There's nine of them in total, ten with Rylen, eleven with myself. Add Lysette to that count, and it's twelve. That's a good number to take against a pack of Apostates; our combined Litany will deaden all but the most potent of magic. The Templars themselves are a mixed bag; men and women, young and old, there's even a couple of elves mixed in among the humans. All look excited to see me, however, something I'm slowly growing used to.

"It's good to see so many able brothers and sisters," I say, looking at each of them in turn, doing my best to meet their eyes one at a time. "Now that we stand together, the Apostates will crumble at our coming."

"We'll drive them from their holes, brother." a tall woman with long blonde hair tied back in a braid agrees, clapping her fist to her chest. "Then the Renegades."

"Not quite." She looks upset by my words, so I clarify. "The attacks will be simultaneous. If we destroy one without also cutting down the other, the resultant vacuum could result in the survivor becoming more powerful. We must remove both at once."

"Who will assault the Renegades, brother?" one of the elves asks, a bushy eyebrow cocking upwards.

"Inquisition soldiers," I reply. "Assisted by a few local hunters who will provide a flanking assault from… well, I'm sure Ser Fallon has maps and the like to assist in explaining all this. Shall we find him?"

"Fallon's here?" Rylen asks, before smirking. "Grand. Now I can collect those ten sovereigns he owes me, and there's nowhere left to run…"

I lead them to the Captain's command pavilion, where Ser Fallon holds his motley court among a few of the new arrivals and a couple familiar faces. Devehra is there, arms crossed as she frowns at the map. I see the mustachioed Chevalier from our arrival as well, his hands on his hips and his face lit up with a massive smile. There's also a man in mage's robes, who I take a few moments to recognize, before blinking.

"Enchanter Demaret," I greet him, when we come to the tent proper. "Good day. I hadn't thought to see you on the field."

"So few do, Ser Venier," the bald man replies, smiling jovially. "But I happened to mention to a little bird that I served a few years as a battlemage for dear Orlais, and so I was asked to join you and your fellows in this magnificent little engagement."

"Magnificent indeed!" the Chevalier declares, raising a hand. "Good Ser Venier, it pleases me to introduce you to Knight-Enchanter Hugo Demaret, one of the finest Circle Magi I've had the privilege of serving our Emperor alongside."

Knight-Enchanter? Now that is something entirely different from what I expected of the humble, nervous mage I first met at Varric's campfire. Indeed, with a shirt of chainmail rattling under his robes and a pair of metallic pauldrons on his shoulders, he certainly looks the part. I look to his belt, and indeed; there, strapped just above his right hip, is the hilt without a blade, a flawless stone of topaz sparkling right at the heart of the crossguard. His Spirit Blade, I assume. He holds his staff in his hand, that twisted length of wood with a larger, clear crystal entangled by knotted wood at its tip and a gleaming silverite blade braced against the ground.

"Yes, we're all very impressed," Ser Fallon mutters, failing to even look at Hugo before he turns his attention to me instead. "Herald, I see Ser Rylen found you. We were just discussing the plan of attack for tomorrow."

I step up to the table, Rylen at my side, and look down at the map. It's time, I think, to exploit a little of that meta-knowledge outside of my usual vague foreshadowing and forward thinking. I point to a cave near the North edge of the Witchwood, loosely marked on the map.

"They are here." I declare, nodding slowly. "A pool of water before the maw, the place they cower when they cannot kill. I…"

I shake my head slowly, blinking.

"I have seen it…" I mutter, throwing on a bit of deliberate surprise to my own voice. "Or I was shown it…"

"A vision, Ser Venier?" Hugo asks, sounding hardly surprised. "I suppose Andraste's Herald would be beneficiary of some of Her husband's omniscience."

"You're certain, Herald?" Ser Fallon asks, and I nod again before tapping the clearing and cave more firmly.

"They are here." I declare. "That is from where the heart of their evil beats. If we go there, we can tear it out."

"Just have to reach it first," Rylen notes from beside me, tracing a path through the woods with a finger. "Could go in here, from the west, up near that gully… or southeast there, along the road."

"The path between stones is a place where the men of black and silver go," Devehra interjects, shaking her head. "Roadside is safer for an assail and entry."

"I trust a rat like Mercadora about as far as I can toss the cunt, but his offer seemed genuine." Fallon says. "Perhaps a pincer assault? Half the Templars around that back way, past the gully, and the other half backed by the soldiery up the road?"

"The gully connects to the valley by this pass here." I note. "The same valley our soldiers will have to march through to reach the Templar camp. Perhaps the Templars might join that march, then break off to flank at the opportune moment? That way any observers the Apostates have watching our movements won't be able to spot the maneuver until we're practically on top of them."

"Aye, could indeed work." Rylen agrees. "I'll lead the flank, if it pleases the rest of you. Lady Lavellan could guide us along the pass."

"Rift in the way," Fallon notes, touching the metal pin topped with that swirling warning sign. "Scouts saw it. You'll have to go around."

"No." My interjection sees the rest of the cohort look at me, and I shake my head. "Captain Rylen, you should lead the frontal assault. You are more experienced a leader than me."

"Then…" Even as Rylen ponders that, Fallon looks at me, already nodding slowly. He trusts me. He believes in me.

"It's risky, lad," Rylen warns, and Devehra too looks at me, concerned. Hugo just smiles, along with the Chevalier. "You might not make it all the way.

"I know." I clap my fist to my chest. "But I am familiar with the valley, and I am the only one able to close rifts. By your leave, Ser Fallon; I will lead the flank."