For the second time in so many years, the Mages and Templars are at war.

War is, perhaps, an exaggerated word to use for the battle before me. It is around eighty men, battling less than sixty. But war does not need numbers; the violence alone is enough. I see a great spike of ice erupt from the earth, impaling a man in the green and orange of the Inquisition. I watch a sword take a mage's hand, and feet stomp him into the mud until he dies. I watch from the rise, and beside me my fellow templars watch with me.

"Strike there," says Otto, pointing to the nearest edge of the mage's line. "Right where the fellow with all the fire is dancing. Tear his throat out and his fellows will flee."

"Or, we rush the centre of their line." Craichlun says, voice rasping. He has only recently stopped softly weeping for Lillian, something we all pretended not to notice. "Break through, and centre the force. Bring it around and tear all their bastard throats out."

I shake my head.

"These are the brunt of their forces," I say. "But where is the master? Where is Gavriel hiding?"

I cannot see him. Nor can the rest of them. The mages are scattered throughout the field, in small packs of six or less men and women. It's a strange formation, but it seems to be working; whenever one group falls back, another steps forward into their place, ensuring the bombardment of magic never truly ceases. Velle groans, before drawing her sword and running a finger down its edge, gentle enough not to cut. She's impatient, and I empathize with that. But we are the single blade that must be artfully placed. We can win this fight, if only we strike where we absolutely must.

"There." Nathaniel points.

I follow his finger and see a group of six mages, flinging fire and ice at the Inquisition from a position of strength, a hilltop below us but above the bulk of the force, dotted with trees to use as cover. Arrows dot the ground and tree trunks, but they themselves are seemingly untouched. Were we to remove them from that place, our forces could move forward.

I nod. The rest ready themselves. It will be a long charge, down a hill and up again, and past other mages. Otto twirls his dagger, and grins a happy hunter's grin. Velle smiles too, though it is less wolfish and more icy. I draw my own sword, and force myself to breathe. This will be a hard effort. But Templars are made for hard efforts. It is why the Chantry shapes us into what we are. Only now, in times of war and true chaos, can we truly allow ourselves to be what they make us.

I raise the sword taken from a dead man's hand, and gesture our party forward. Brent goes first, because he is a large man with a large shield and there are few things better to have between you and an angry mage than that particular combination. Otto once again lowers his posture and seems to sink into shadows that are not there. I have learned not to question how he does this.

There are few mercenaries left on the field, as Mercadora promised. As great a bastard as he is, he has proven to me before that he is a man of his word. One of the mages we are charging sees us coming, cries a warning to his fellows. Heads turn and staves are raised, but we are already at the foot of the hill. My legs pump beneath me, forcing me forward into the coming tide of fire and ice. Bolts of both begin flying around me, but the element of surprise is a grand thing. Brent shrugs off a blast of flame to his shield, while Velle curses when a shard of ice nicks her shoulder.

Then, with a joined cry of the Litany of Denial, we are among them.

These are not the three foolish mages who assaulted an entire column of soldiers with a single archer for backup. These six appear to be much more experienced; right as we close with them, one of them slams the blade of his staff into the ground, and the earth under our feet pulses and shifts like a beating heart. Craichlun staggers, and Nathaniel has to drag him up from his knees with a hand. Otto dances between the waves of dirt and grass with an almost infuriating elegance. Beck gives me an advantage; coolly, I observe the rippling ground, and place my feet on the highest points of the earth right before they sink.

This sees me effectively hop-scotch across the hilltop toward the bulky mage who cast the spell to begin with. My descending blade forces him to break concentration on his spell, deflecting with his staff. He turns away from me and flicks a wrist, a stone rising from the ground to slam into my stomach. I let out a whoof of pained breath, and he nearly takes my nose off my face with his staff's blade, which I dodge by reeling back at the waist. I really need a helmet, I consider, before stepping toward him. I need to get close, inside his range.

Then he punches me in the jaw, and the word flashes white for a half second as I stagger. That bulk, it turns out, is not fat. He raises his staff again, stones magically torn from the ground rising around its crystal end to form a crude mace. He's strong, and he's good with his chosen element. But his stance tells me he isn't used to fighting with a weapon; he brings the hammer down, and I kill him.

It's painfully simple. I step forward, and swing my sword in a lateral motion that cleaves him across the base of the ribs. It's almost dismissive, which is half the point; I don't have the time to reel up a big swing. He didn't either. Better to kill me in two quick strikes than one long one. But mages showboat, making a big deal out of their power. And as he staggers backward, bleeding and leaking guts from the gash in his gut, I think he realizes his mistake.

A fire mage raises her own staff, a scowl on her lips and lividity in her eyes as she readies to burn me to ash. But her neck opens up in a line of red before a bloody blade bursts from her clavicle, and Otto stands behind her crumpled form and grins at me a moment later. Then he ducks an icicle, and I rush the cryomancer that threw it. She's smart; she vanishes in an arctic mist, a burst of glacial wind surging past me as she fade-steps through me.

A bone deep chill settles in my chest, and Beck hums valiantly to return some sensation to my body. But my dear little friend is not a furnace, and so I am too slow to avoid the sudden pain in my back as she flash-freezes some of my chainmail. It burns, in a chilling way, and I nearly fall. She beckons a gale of winter wind, and Otto and I both stagger as the cold grows thicker around us. He falls to the ground beside me, flash-frozen up to his ankles in ice. The ice mage closes the gap between us, smirking.

Our Litany dies on trembling lips turning blue as he meets my eyes. I see Craichlun past him, singed and locked in a dance with another fire mage, dodging gouts of flame from her staff. Nathaniel is down, though I cannot say for certain if he is dead. Velle kills a man with wild grey hair, but when she sees us down she is distracted by a new mage coming up the hill, throwing a ball of electricity at her. Brent blocks a wash of flame and cries out as his armour heats up, edges of his plate glowing a dull orange.

My sword clatters from numb fingers, falling to the icy grass. An icy patina is building on the blade, and I can feel the ache in my eyes as the corners begin to freeze as well. The mage who did this to us doesn't seem to mind the cold, content to watch us freeze.

"Herald," Otto groans, teeth chattering. "Here."

He pours out something on my plated shoulder, a bottle of something that reeks of alcohol. Then he raises the red-hot crystal pilfered from the fire mage's staff, grinning weakly. My eyes go wide, as he presses it to the liquor, and my arm bursts into flame.

It is short lived, snuffed in quick time by the wind around us. But in that instant, my arm is warm enough to move. My fingers close around the handle of my fallen sword, and I force my frozen body to move forward. The ice mage scowls, raises her hand, but my one free arm is quicker. I drive the end of my sword into her breast, and she chokes on whatever words she was trying to form. She sways, left, then right, and falls off my sword and into the frost she made. The icy wind dies, and Otto gasps as the air becomes warm enough to breathe.

Brent cries out, and Otto snarls as he slowly rises to his feet. I am quicker than him, having an arm that works to help, and flakes of frost fall from my body as I rise. I see Brent's vast form stagger backward, smoking at the chest. The fire mage he brawled with raises his staff, pointing it at the falling man. I am too slow, staggering with numbed legs. But something glitters as it flies through the air, and the fire mage gasps when a dagger plants itself in his chest. His spell dies, and I push past Brent and smash my sword into his face.

The blade rips open one cheek, hacking the nose in two, and the tip rips an eye free. He screams in agony, falling away from me, staff forgotten as his hands grab at his face. I reverse the cut, and drive my sword into his side. He dies gurgling and hideous, choking on his own lips and tongue. I fall to one knee over his body, my body alight with pain from that strange cramp you get when cold muscles are forced into motion. I have no doubts it would be worse if Beck weren't working overtime on soothing it.

Behind me, Brent groans, and I force myself up to my feet. Otto has a waterskin in his hands, and he pours it onto the smoking ruin of the big man's breastplate. His shield is warped and deformed by the heat, laying on the grass beside him. I'm amazed he's still conscious, as he fights to pull off his greathelm. I help him with it, and he gasps when it comes off. Brent has blunt, square features, a heavy jaw and nose, thick eyebrows over perpetually squinting brown eyes. He looks at me, and nods.

"Bastard's dead?" he asks, and I clap him on the shoulder lightly.

"Very." I tell him, and he grunts with something like satisfaction.

I look over the rest the hilltop. Craichlun is nursing a burn wound on his cheek, scowling angrily. Velle has dispatched her storm mage on the hill, and wipes her thin blade clean as he climbs back up to the rest of us. Nathaniel is on one knee, breathing heavily with his helmet on the ground before him, the side dented. Blood trickles down his temple, and I wince.

"Nathaniel," I call, and he looks at me with unfocused eyes. "Rest. Can we leave Brent with you?"

"Aye," he manages, though the word comes from an uncertain mouth. "I'm… fuck, there's two of you."

Concussion. Damn. Nobody died, at least. Not this time. Otto gives Brent a firm smack on the shoulder, smiling weakly and calling him a stubborn druffalo. Craichlun approaches us with Velle, who teases him about the new scar. I had seven Templars, and now I'm down to three. Far from ideal, if I'm honest. But below us, the Inquisition is making good headway in their advance, pushing back the mages and what few mercenaries remain to them. I see no black cloaks among their number.

"It's nearly ended," I say to my fellows, as Otto rises and sheathes his blades. I turn to face them. "And now we have but one thing left to do."

"Let's kill us a fucking mage." Craichlun snarls, his claymore braced on one shoulder.

The four of us set down the hill. Across the open field before us I can see the cave, its entrance flanked by two blocky statues of ancient origin. A few mages ready to make a stand there, water lapping at their feet. I had forgotten about the pond, in all honesty. But there it is.

"First to kill the fucker gets ten gold." Otto grins as he makes the bet. "Care to take it?"

"I'll stand to that," says Velle, twirling her sword at her side in a blademaster's flourish as she walks. "It's more than the Inquisition pays."

"I'm in." Craichlun nods, before he looks at me. "You, Herald?"

"Yes," I nod, surprising myself. "I'll enter the runnings."

"Forty gold to the man of the day," Otto mutters, his smile positively wolfish. "Excellent."

We come across a mage, injured in the leg and sitting at the base of a tree. Before I can say a word, Craichlun's sword descends and lops her head from her shoulders, before she can so much as finish looking up at us. The Fereldan doesn't even break stride, letting her blood drip from the edge of his sword as he shoulders it once again. Velle spares him a worried look. I don't bother protesting. This is war. People will die.

Thanks again, Markus.

Then, we stand at the edge of the pond, staring across it toward the mages opposite us. Twenty-odd Inquisition soldiers stand with us, and I raise a hand. The meagre host halts, and the mages stare as I step forward, water lapping at the toes of my boots.

"This needn't end in bloodshed," I call out to them. "Your choices are few, but they remain. Sword, rope, or the Inquisition."

"Freedom was our choice before, dog." one of them, a tall and narrow man with a shock of grey hair about the crown of his head, shouts back. "You would take that from us."

I shake my head. Evidently, this will go nowhere. They've made their bed, and if it is where they have chosen to lie… let them cling to their freedom. It's hardly as if that's what they're being punished for. The burning field to our west and the corpses strewn along the road to this land testify to their crimes. I am no arbitrator. I am a judge, and I deem them guilty.

"Sword it is," I sigh, before drawing my sword. "Litany of Refusal. Don't let their casting reach the ranks."

"Who'll form the foundation?" Otto asks, before Velle nods.

She starts us low, and we join each at a time. It forms a quartet sound, each voice layering into the next. The mages ready themselves, and as we rise to a crescendo I raise my sword in harmony. The Inquisition howls, out of tune and very rough, but we advance as one irregardless. The water of the pond barely reaches our ankles at the centre, letting us charge through relatively unhindered.

Then a mage steps out from among the rest, his robes thrown open to expose a naked chest beneath, his staff spinning in his hands. There is a wicked and terrible grin on his face as he summons up a gale of icy winds, eyes glowing a pale blue. Otto shouts a warning and I barely heed it before he brings the staff down, and a creeping layer of ice overtakes the pond from where he stands.

The advance is frozen in place, as men are usually unable to wade through ankle-deep ice as easily as water. Velle curses as she is trapped in place, Otto managing to keep one leg free. Craichlun is trapped with the end of his sword in the ice as well as his feet, swearing up a storm in his thick Fereldan brogue.

I, however, jumped. I come down on the ice, a mirror smooth surface, and realize there's only one way forward for me. So I let my momentum carry, and slide on both feet toward the end of the pond. Mages ready their staves to cast, and it is only when I am upon them they learn one of the most important lessons of natural science; velocity and momentum make for one hell of a combination when friction is removed from the equation.

I stop myself by leaping off the grassy bank of the pond, driving my shoulder into one mage's chest and throwing him off his feet, barely managing to land on my feet without falling forward. My sword whips back around, and another man screams when I neatly part his staff and several fingers from his hand. The Litany of Refusal comes easily to my lips, another mage's fireball fizzling out on her fingertips before I drive the end of my sword into her chest. I kick the man behind me in the leg, knocking his balance off, and when I rip my blade from the mage's torso I slam the pommel into his face, smashing his nose into pulp.

The Litany of Refusal is a thunderous song, all hard syllables and rumbling carried notes. Another woman tries to stab me with the blade of her staff, and I slap it away before slashing her across the face in retort. There are seven left, I think. I'm surprised I've lasted this long, ducking a magically propelled stone before stepping toward the caster and punching him in the face. It's cathartic, if less deadly than the one-handed slash across the neck I give him immediately afterward.

Behind me, there's a rising sound of electric charge, that strange ozone taste filling the air. On instinct, I dive away from the incoming lightning bolt before it can turn me to ash. As it stand, I still get enough of a jolt to make my back ache. Another mage flings fire and I roll along the ground away from that, before rising to my feet and rushing him. He goes to spit a gout of fire from his staff, and I grab the end and turn his aim to the side, igniting another apostate before driving my sword into his belly. He curses me as he begins to bleed out, falling back into the grass. The apostate I set alight dances and screams as they die.

That's four. I think. Counting is hard when you're killing on instinct. The storm mage readies to blow me away with another blast of lightning, and I brace to dodge again. Before she can cast, however, a ball of fire sets her alight from behind. She twists around, just in time for Shartan to bury his sword in her breast, shouting in elvish. Reinforcements, then. A welcome sight. Hugo flings another ball of fire that bounces off the ice mage's barriers, before the two begin a proper magical duel.

Shartan and I set to tidying up the rest of the mages, slashing and singing through the mob. The elf falls in behind me, covering my rear and finishing off those foes I leave behind in my wake. This is different from prior battles; I feel freshly awakened, eyes wide open and body in perfect form. Beck provides that edge of impartiality, peerless calm that lets me read each foe before they can act. I see fingers curl in a familiar form of fire and storm both, and step aside to let the resultant stream of flame wash harmlessly past me. Then I step toward the caster, and open his throat. It feels good. I am better than him. Stronger. Faster. And I don't rely on a quirk of birth to best my foes.

Hugo shouts in Orlesian, moments before a thunderous explosion sounds behind me. Excellent. That's the ice-mage dealt with, then. I turn to congratulate him, in time to see him die.

It's a stunning thing, really. He charges through the afterglow and smoke of his own immolation field, spirit blade alight with orange, striking down toward the head of his enemy. But the ice mage has a surprise of his own; another spirit blade flashes into being, for just a few moments, long enough to sweep across Hugo's neck and part his head from his shoulders. The newly decapitated Orlesian falls to the ground with a quiet thud, his head landing a few feet behind his killer after flying over his shoulder.

The ice mage turns away with a scoff.

"Poor Hugo…" he says, voice softer than I expected. "Always picking the wrong side. First a traitor, now a lost cause…"

The man's spirit blade slides back onto his belt, held there by a thin bolt of white silk. He faces me, hands folded neatly behind his back. He is young, with black hair slicked back over his scalp and a categorically handsome face. His features are sharp, almost aristocratic. He turns his attention toward me, scanning me with dark green eyes, and smiles.

"Are you ready to die, Templar?" he asks me, cocking his head to one side as if genuinely curious.

I tighten my hand around my sword, before shaking my head once. The man smiles, then raises his staff, levelling the crystal toward me. His other hand touches his spirit blade, and he smiles. I don't know what's worse; the decapitated head at his feet, staring up at me with shock, or the fact that his smile looks as genuine as they come.

"Have at thee, then," he says. "And know Gavriel of Tesserana was your slayer."

Then I charge him, and he lets me come. No spell flies out to stop me from charging, no winter wind or instant snowdrift. I am ready to dodge a spike of ice, and instead he just… waits. Patiently. I don't hesitate, though; that would be foolish to an extreme. Once I am within range, he takes one step back, and his staff twirls in his hand. The resultant icicle is almost impossible to dodge. Almost. But thanks to Beck's stabilizing influence, the moment his wrist twitches I am flowing to one side, away from the incoming projectile. It cuts a neat line along my side, but it isn't enough to slow me down, and there's a hint of surprise in his expression when he has to sway to one side to dodge my diagonal slash.

Then he laughs, a single musical sound, and swings his staff toward me. I block the blade, and he quickly slides the spirit blade free, forcing me to twist away from the sword's sweeping blade of white light. He backsteps my return slash, before thrusting the icy head of his staff at my face. It nearly takes my nose off, but I pull away, before stepping forward and smashing through his guard, nearly knocking his staff from his hands. He kicks me in the chest, forcing me back before my second swing can take his head off.

Then he twirls his staff in his hands, a wind whipping up around him. I push through it, swinging for his head again, and he grins before blocking with the flat of his spirit blade. Metal meets magic with a painful screaming crash, stinging my ears. Then he flicks his wrist in a manner that doesn't seem natural to me, and my sword is torn from my grip and tumbles down into the grass. The staff smacks into my jaw, knocking me to the side, and he swings for my neck.

I have no interest in suffering the same demise as Hugo, so I throw myself toward him. He nimbly steps away from my tackle, dodging to one side and swinging at my back. The sword's end cuts across my shoulder blades and I cry out, before turning around to see him looking at a charging Shartan. The elf cries out my title, sword in hand, and lunges with a mighty blow that ought to take the mage's head from his shoulders.

He doesn't stand a chance. He swings high, and Gavriel goes low, ducking down and pressing the end of his spirit blade against Shartan's torso. The spirit blade flashes into existence for just a moment, and Shartan coughs as it pierces his stomach. Then he drops to his knees, blinking slowly. The ice mage shakes his head, letting Shartan die at his feet. When the elf falls forward in one last, desperate slash, the blade lights on a barrier, skidding off. Then he turns his attention back to me, slowly turning to face me.

My hands close around the hilt of a sword behind me. My sword, I believe. The mage smirks when he sees me, stepping forward over me and raising his staff. The bladed end glints in the summer sun. I tighten my grip around the sword.

"A valiant effort, ser," he says. "But this is my victory."

Three things happen then.

He stabs down at me, smiling in victory. I push myself up off the ground and swing my sword, realizing a moment too late that a sword is not meant to be quite so light. I am holding Hugo's spirit blade hilt, that topaz gem gleaming merrily. Beck wraps around my wrist, and there is a flash of blue light. A spirit blade bursts out of the hilt, opening my opponent's stomach in a single clean slash. The man blinks, confused. I freeze where I am, sword to one side, propped up on my other arm, staring at him as he staggers back a single step. My breath comes hard and fast. His doesn't come at all.

"Oh." he says, because there isn't much else to be said.

Then he falls to the ground, dead.

The spirit blade winks out of existence, Beck freeing itself from the gemstone and returning to my wrist. I blink, staring at the spirit blade hilt. The Inquisition cheers for me, raising swords in celebration of my victory. I climb to my feet, still staring at my looted weapon that should not work, and will it to activate again. The blade ignites, four feet of blue light in the shape of a longsword. I nearly drop it in surprise, before staring at the blade. The gem in the crossguard glows with the same blue as the blade; the blue of Beck when the spirit first emerged from the Fade.

"What the fuck?" I ask, quietly.

Beck has no answer for me, because I am not dreaming. I am, somehow, awake. And apparently capable of using a spirit blade, which I had wrongly assumed to be the sole domain of mages. Did Beck enable this all by itself? That's… an interesting thought. Changes a few things. More than a few things. If I break any more sequencing, I'm concerned the whole world will begin to collapse in on itself.

I bid the blade cease being a blade, and it turns back off. So Beck can power a spirit blade. That's a menacing thought for sure, though I'm more concerned by the questions it will raise. I'd rather not be interviewed by every mage with questions. So I clutch the hilt in my left hand, before retrieving and sheathing my other sword with my right. Then the cheers sound off again, and I remember I had something of a captive audience present with me.

The soldiers trapped in the lake have begun to break themselves free, a few men staggering out of the thawing water with grunts and gasps of effort. Craichlun struggles valiantly to free his claymore from the ground, while Velle just lays on the grass, breathing heavily. It is Otto who approaches me, his weapons still sheathed. He looks at Shartan's body for a long moment, before shaking his head.

"Well fought, Herald," he says, remorseful. "A shame about the mage. Shartan died well, at least."

"He did." I agree, nodding. "The mage… Gavriel… Maker, he was powerful. He almost ignored the Litany entirely."

"Battlemage," Otto replies, nudging the dead mage's shoulder with his boot. "Armoured on the arms and legs. Younger than I thought. That blade you got him with…"

He looks at me expectantly, and I hold up the spirit blade hilt. I bid it ignite once more, and it obeys my command. Otto whistles, impressed.

"How in Her name did you get it to work?" he asks. "Those're mage weapons, last I checked."

"It just… worked." I reply, shrugging. "Maybe the mark interacted with it? I've got a pretty impressive magical scar on my hand, after all."

He rubs his chin with finger and thumb, frowning. The idea is new to him, as it is to me. I'm a warrior, I think, no magical talents to speak. This is another breaking of the rules I had hoped would exist. We're introducing new concepts, new ideas… and change begets more change. That's a rule I'm becoming increasingly familiar with.

"Whatever the case, you're lucky it happened how it did." Otto says, patting me on the shoulder. "Come on. We should sweep that grotto, make sure there aren't any stragglers taking cover inside."

"Just the two of us?" I ask.

He nods.

"We can get it done in five," he replies. "Besides, you've got a magic sword now. Those are always a game changer."

I silence the spirit blade, sliding the hilt into my belt next to my longsword. I'll have to find a proper scabbard or something for it later. For now, though, I follow Otto as we enter the grotto. He doesn't slink as he usually does, simply walking in without any attempt at stealth. The cave is nearly empty, but for a scattering of smoldering fire pits and lean-tos empty of any occupants. There are crates and barrels, almost all of which appear to have been stolen from local hamlets and villages. We check everything.

There is food here. Great deals of it. And blankets as well. Enough for the entire Crossroads, I should think. Wordlessly, Otto and I nod. This will need retrieval. We also find weapons; swords, shields, spears and axes. Few bows, and no arrows; Mercadora's mercenaries must have picked those stocks clean before leaving. Unfortunate, but the blades are more than enough.

And we find magical supplies. A great many books and scrolls, everything from treatises on magical theory to ancient lore of Orlais, Fereldan and even Tevinter. Otto holds up a copy of a book that purports itself to be a genealogy of the Anders and Orthic peoples. Intriguing. This could prove quite the valuable supply, if delivered to the right hands. Like, say, the last Enchantress of the Circle of Magi, former advisor to the Imperial Court?

Opportunity. By now soldiers have followed us inside, and I take a man aside.

"Send word to Lady Nightingale," I advise him. "Tell her to send teams to pick all this up. There is a treasure trove of knowledge in this place. We would be fools to waste it."

He salutes me, for I am the Herald and worthy of obedience in his eyes, and sets off at a sprint. Craichlun approaches me from the side, grabbing my arm. Silently, he pulls me toward Velle and Otto, who are all staring at a wooden table under a small awning against the far wall of the cave.

"Look at this, Herald," Otto says, tapping a finger against the map laid out. "Supply caches. The mages have been hiding food, blankets, survival equipment all across the Hinterlands. Lady Nightingale could make use of this."

"And this." Velle notes, holding up a small collection of formerly sealed letters, evidently opened with the dagger before her on the table. "Correspondence with other apostate groups in Orlais, Fereldan, even the Free Marches. And this here…"

She tosses another letter across the table, and I slide the contents free of the envelope. The broken seal is oddly familiar, but it takes a moment for me to recognize it. When I do, I gasp.

"This is from Tevinter." I read the letter itself, and shake my head. "They've made contact with a Magister. They're looking for safe passage… bidding captives taken here as slaves in exchange for positions within the government."

Suddenly, many things make much more sense.

"They weren't randomly assaulting the local populace." I say, voice low. "And they weren't just raiding for fun. They were taking prisoners to trade to Tevinter."

"This one mentions an assault on Redcliffe itself," says Otto, holding up another letter. "They wanted to knock down the gates and take the whole township as stock for Tevinter."

"But where are the captives already taken?" Velle asks.

Craichlun jabs a finger at the map.

"There!" he declares. "Look, this mansion in the southwest. It's been specially marked."

"And this here…" I point to the marked cave just south of Lake Luthias. "A dwarven outpost… Valammar. It's marked as well."

"Damn it." Otto groans, before looking between the rest of us. "I suppose we'll have to investigate it then."

"That seems prudent," I agree. "If those captives have been taken to Valammar and the mansion, we must find them. And quickly."

Otto sighs, leaning against the table. Craichlun glowers at him, while Velle just rubs her head, clearly deep in thought. The plot has thickened once again. I still have a week or two before I need to head back to Haven… though Josephine requested I return at my earliest convenience, to meet with the mysterious guest.

"I need to return to Haven." I decide. "I've been requested by two different parties now. But I have faith that I can leave this mystery in your capable hands?"

Otto groans again, but Craichlun meets my eye and nods once, resolute. Velle just bows her head.

"Once Nathaniel is back on his feet, he will doubtless want to lead this." she says. "I will ensure he survives such an effort. Is that all, Herald?"

"It is more than enough." I smile, before offering her a hand. She takes it and shakes it, bowing her head again when we finish.

Then I turn toward the cave entrance. I have to get back to the Crossroads, find my companions, return to Haven. Then I can carry on with my mission. My time in the Hinterlands, I think, is at an end.

For now.

AN: And we're just about done with the Hinterlands! Thanks to hanging on, everyone, and I'll see you next time when I break away from canon even more and probably upset at least half of you.