Eventually the party made camp, then started a new day following the same formation with a considerable distance between Carver and the flirting girls behind him. He morosely fixed the rucksack over his shoulder, careful not to upset the raven hitching a ride on it. Even before the blight, merchants rarely frequented the current road, opting instead to cross Lake Calenhad by boat to hit the more prosperous primary destinations. Now, the party's best bet for finding horses to expedite their journey was Lothering, through which the king's army was pushing resources to resupply the front line while also fending off darkspawn. By now, the requisitions officer must have established a depot for horses.

Plink!

Carver staggered as an arrow grazed his armour, sticking into the ground behind him. The raven flew off him with an affronted squawk, drawing his eyes to the blinding sun. Pinprick shadows formed ahead of him.

"Archers!" Carver cried out, and bolted for the wooded side of the road with a shove of his helmet on.

A rain of arrows fell on the road, several of them striking Carver's armour and nearly knocking him over. He slid down a ditch for cover behind a tree with a wince, struggling to remember how to breathe. A weak tug at an arrow lodged in his breastplate eventually removed it. Luckily Carver had immediately turned sideways against the arrows to make himself a smaller target, so that the other arrows had only been glancing blows.

When the volley ended, a crowd of Howe soldiers crept out of the dawn's light, taunting. Despite their conduct, Carver had to credit their training. They had attacked with the sun behind them when they could, and softened their targets with arrows first.

"Arl Rendon learned about you, little bird," a Howe soldier called out, searching for Carver. "You were the runner who had warned Teyrn Bryce of our attack. You delivered Teyrn Fergus's crest to the Cousland servants in Denerim, regrouping Highever's forces. Our arl and the entire legion are on the run because of you!"

Carver peeked around his cover and quickly retreated his head. The Howe soldiers had noticed his helmet immediately and were now zeroing in on him with nocked arrows and drawn swords. Carver hastily checked his breastplate.

Shoot.

The arrow had pierced his armour, chainmail, and had finally stopped at his leather padding. This was exactly what a full suit of armour was designed for. However, the resultant bruising hurt. If Carver wasn't high on adrenaline, he was sure he would have also been suffering from the pain of a fractured rib. He couldn't blindly rely on his breastplate to protect him anymore.

Carver delicately removed his shortbow from its makeshift cloth sling. Despite his training, he had kept it strung in case he would need it on the fly, especially in the middle of a blight. Regardless, a sense of futility set in as he carefully nocked an arrow. He couldn't possibly take a squad of soldiers on his own. He could only hope that Leliana and Solona had been far away enough to dodge the arrows and flee for cover.

A Howe soldier sneered. "Looks like you're all alone, Postboy."

Carver grit his teeth. "Morrigan."

"I don't care what your name is—ugyaah!"

A giant spider suddenly dropped from the sky on the Howe soldiers and spewed poison at them. The formation of soldiers scattered as the spider webbed runaways and feasted on others. Carver fired arrows at those who ran a comfortable distance away from Morrigan before his modest quiver finally ran out. When it did, he left his cover for the open road and unsheathed Summer Sword.

He knew he physically couldn't swing it.

Ahead of him, the spider rose on its hind appendages straight up, then straighter, until its slender limbs and torso melted into the silhouette of a woman. She lowered outstretched arms with a grunt, then flicked two golden globes down at the quivering flesh below her with disinterest. A pale thumb wiped her lips of blood.

"I am not overly fond of the taste of pudgy old men."

Carver deadpanned. "Apologies. I will offer a fair maiden next time — like that one."

The soldier at the end of Carver's finger shrieked and fled.

—Before a cone of fire shot past Carver and Morrigan, scorching her. An arrow followed up to down the last soldier trying to escape.

Solona and Leliana caught up to them, panting. "What was that? Why would an army attack us!?"

"The Howe legion," Carver corrected, sheathing Summer Sword. "Arl Rendon has beef with the Couslands. I happened to run a few messages for them."

"We heard," Solona shared, looking at the corpses around them. "Still, they behaved no better than bandits! How can they cause problems like this while their peers are all down south fighting darkspawn?"

Carver shook his head, equally lost. Arl Rendon's son Thomas was still in Ostagar with the main Howe legion. It was difficult to imagine that the arl would sabotage his favourite son's survival by allowing his soldiers to prey on merchants travelling to Lothering.

Unless Thomas Howe had passed away on the front line.

Maker, it made sense. Rendon Howe was upset at learning of Thomas's death at Ostagar. The arl hadn't taken the blight seriously, and had taken advantage of it to grab power while most of Ferelden's important figures had been away. Now the arl was too far deep in his grief to stop the wheel of violence he had started. Carver needed to hurry his plans in the northern coast of Ferelden.

"Anyway," Solona's gaze strayed, "we meet again, Morrigan."

Carver glanced at the witch, who stood with crossed arms. Right, the two ladies had met in Solona's first mission as a warden recruit.

"This is Morrigan," Solona introduced to the party, "a witch of the wilds. Though…you already seem to know that, Carver."

Luckily, he was already resting his dominant hand on his sword hilt. "Heard about her from Warden Alistair. I grew suspicious when a bird started following us out of Ostagar."

"This is unexpectedly good fortune," Solona decided as she moved to loot the dead of useful items. "Now we have a larger party. Bandits will know better than to attack us."

Leliana, more suspicious of humans than Solona, frowned. "For what reason would this woman follow us around?"

Morrigan scoffed. "This woman is right here, bard."

"I'm curious myself," Solona added.

Morrigan pointedly didn't help the party clear the road. "'Tis a pain, but Mother insists I supervise the wardens hunting the archdemon. Do not ask why." The last statement wasn't from ignorance, but because Morrigan knew the reason and didn't wish to share.

Solona blinked. "We're not hunting the archdemon."

Morrigan jut her chin to Carver. "No, but he is, and he is far more tolerable company than most of the rest."

Carver winced as he moved, ignoring the comment to focus on Solona's words. "A party of four isn't exactly a step up from three."

Leliana noticed. "Sit down, Carver."

It spoke to his pain that he obliged and slumped on the side of the road. The party drew close as Leliana helped him out of his gauntlets, vambrace, pauldron, rerebrace, couter, cuirass, then finally plackart. The damaged chainmail came off, and lastly the leather armour. A gentle hand lifted Carver's tunic to reveal a bruise the size of a fist on his ribs.

"Fractured," Leliana confirmed.

The warden's entire squad had actually been lucky to not suffer any injuries up until Elissa's broken arm. They were testing the balance of probability by not expecting any more.

Solona kneeled down to apply healing magic, and suddenly the pain vanished with the bruise. Carver experimentally twisted his torso, and Solona looked up at him. "Where else were you hit?"

Carver gestured, bewildered. "You healed the bone. Even Senior Enchanter Wynne can't do that."

"She's probably not a spirit healer," Solona shared, healing bruises under even armour. Contact was apparently not necessary. "And if she is, the benevolent spirit in her body is probably focused on maintaining her strength, considering her age."

Carver twitched. "Explain spirit healing, exactly."

Solona stood up, finished. "I discovered how to do it underground. To perform spirit healing, I allow a benevolent spirit from the Fade to enter my body and coexist with me. Once I'm done healing, I dismiss the spirit."

"You seek vengeance against darkspawn."

Solona blinked at Carver's non sequitur. "And?"

Carver forcibly subdued his panic. "That desire might end up tainting the spirit, turning it into a demon. For your sake, I pray you consider moving past that desire."

Solona's steel blue eyes narrowed. "You sound like a Templar."

Carver stood up placatingly. "I'm just worried about you. I've seen it before."

"Where?" Solona demanded, temper rising. "With who?"

Carver bit his lip.

"I can't believe this!" Solona's voice cracked. "You're Ser Cauthrien's favourite — you're my family! How can you turn against me and speak as if I'd turn into an abomination!?"

She pivoted away, and Carver called out after her. "Solona, I'm sorry I made you feel that way!"

It was probably a bad time to ask if she still had a spirit inside of her. Hopefully her anger wouldn't affect the entity.

Carver slumped back down on the road, rubbing his eyes. "I'm good, Leliana — go check on her, please. She shouldn't travel alone."

The redhead hesitantly nodded and ran after Solona. Morrigan watched Carver put his armour back on himself. "You know little of mages," she commented.

Carver couldn't find a response to that. Even when surrounded by them, he apparently didn't know how to act.

"Ser," Basket greeted.

Carver waved, permitting Basket to relax from a salute. "It's late, Sergeant. My party and I are just here for tonight, then we're departing for Ostagar come dawn."

Basket and the few soldiers up at this hour glanced past him to see three examples of beauty, then looked back at him. With his helmet damaged from the ambush, Carver was forced to display his face.

Carver deadpanned. "We're with her." He pointed at Morrigan.

The cold-faced woman wasn't even paying the soldiers any attention, boredly staring instead at Lothering's tavern turned subsidiary of the king's army. Next to her was the ethereal Solona, and further over was the rosy-cheeked Leliana.

The soldiers nodded in understanding.

As they showed the girls to a room for the night, Carver pulled Basket aside. "Has Ser Rhiannon asked you for anything?"

Basket shrugged. "We run letters to Ser Nigel for her. If she has needed anything else from Lothering, she hasn't written to me personally yet. Should I expect something, ser?"

"Remnants of the Howe legion have turned into highwaymen," Carver shared. "They're hunting around Lothering, but I can't be sure they're only in that area. Strengthen patrols around here and see if you can capture some of them. It may prove fruitful in narrowing down Arl Rendon's location."

"I heard about that," Basket confessed. "Nasty timing for a conflict between great names. We all should have seen it coming, though, given what they say about Arl Rendon. His son, may Lord Thomas rest in peace, was unfortunately a clone of his father. At least he was the youngest of Arl Rendon's children. Never stood a chance inheriting Amaranthine."

"Arl Rendon is crueller than his public image," Carver corrected. "He would have found a way to pass his arling off to Lord Thomas."

Basket choked. "Maker, he hates his other children that much?"

"They resemble his late wife greatly," Carver shared.

"Lady Eliane…?" Basket murmured to himself, pondering.

Carver left the sergeant with the piece of gossip and climbed the tavern's stairs for a room. If more people grew aware of Nathaniel and Delilah Howe's truly innocent natures, the better it would be for Amaranthine in the long run. Carver washed himself and eventually found his party's room, a cramped space with two bunk beds flushed against the walls. Carver claimed the last vacant spot and nearly fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He was distantly aware of the quiet chatter in the room silencing upon his arrival, then picking up again as he settled.

"So he never trained to be a Templar?" Solona's voice faintly travelled through the room.

Leliana hummed a confirmation. "Although he picked up some abilities from Alistair. Apparently, he's a fast learner."

"Why not?" Solona grumbled. "He's motivated for promotion. Might as well be a little genius while he's at it."

"He speaks counter to the way of Templars," Morrigan whispered. "I would know. I have killed many a holy knight."

Solona sharply exhaled. "You heard him back there."

"Indeed," Morrigan confirmed, "and further back still, when you were yet a stranger among the Dalish. The boy expresses a deeper awareness of the Fade than you have with your books and unsuspicious instinct."

"You speak of Soldier's Peak," Leliana caught on.

"And more." Morrigan shifted in her bunk. "I'll not pretend I understand the meaning of all this…touching…people of society engage in. However, Carver's body language speaks well enough to other animals. Particularly cornered ones."

Solona's voice tensed. "I'm not an abomination."

"He has always been cornered," Morrigan dismissed. "By what, I cannot say. He is at least unsurprised by your quick rejection of him. Frankly, you exercise a great risk of turning the spirits you contact into demons. Your careless conduct is far removed from the necessary mindset to stand at the top of the food chain."

Solona's voice broke. "Why…?"

"Your cousin said so, did he not?" Morrigan huffed. "You allow vengeance to become you. Even within yourself, you are not the master. Such creatures live brightly then quickly snuff out like a beautiful flame."

To her credit, Solona took the hits. "…Teach me."

"Pardon?"

"I want to be at the top of the food chain," Solona decided. "You are headstrong and ungentle, Morrigan. Unlike the teachers in the Circle, you haven't dissuaded me from strong feelings such as vengeance. You know a way to become the master of oneself. I refuse to bow to external forces ever again."

Morrigan hummed. "You have eyes, Solona, and a flattering tongue. Very well, I may impart the wisdom of the wilds to you, should you be open-minded…."

The four of them rode into an Ostagar more solemn yet faster-paced than the last that Carver had been there. A squire accepted their horses into a stable built into Ostagar's northern face, while an elven servant escorted them to the newly-positioned war table hidden in a ruined alcove. Oiled animal skins shielded the table from the elements and prying eyes. Since the last great clash in Ostagar, the king's army had apparently learned to set up camp in the surface-level bones of Ostagar's fortress to beware underground and airborne intruders. Based on the numerous soldiers clad in tarp and armour napping around the camp, a night shift had also been established for patrol.

It was a far cry from the hastily-pitched camp where Carver had had to search for the commanding officers he had needed.

In the new war tent, Carver and his party found Duncan tending to his splinted ankle. He perked up at the sight of them.

"Ser Carver," Duncan nodded in accordance with rank, before his eyes softened. "Solona."

"I require permission to fight on the front lines," Solona surged forward, faltering before Duncan's kindness. "Since we saw each other last, Warden-Commander, I have…experienced much."

"I shall hear of it," Duncan gently encouraged.

At the same time, the legion commanders in the war tent straightened up at Carver's name. One in particular shoved his way to the war tent's flaps. "Postboy!" Nails breathed.

Carver parted from Solona and Duncan to allow them a semblance of privacy. Morrigan and Leliana hung aside from the flaps, avoiding foot traffic. The effort was unnecessary as Nails locked his arm around Carver's neck and dragged him over to the royal legion's corner of the tent. Carver already missed owning a proper helmet.

"Ser Rhiannon is asking me for directions," Nails hissed. He shot a glare over his shoulder, and the war tent resumed its bustle of activity. He released Carver enough to allow a face-to-face interaction, but it was obvious to anyone with two brain cells that Nails was embracing Carver to keep him in one place. "Basket, as well, and other top brass. Why is everyone coming to me for instruction?"

Carver was relieved to note that no one was watching the two of them. He preferred hiding in someone's shadow. "Well, you're in charge."

"You put me in charge!" Nails hissed. "Or did you not liberally interpret Teyrn Loghain's orders before the great clash?"

"You were the obvious choice," Carver returned. "Speaking of, Ser Cauthrien…."

Nails gripped Carver's arm before he could fully unsheathe Summer Sword. "Stop. I'll hear of it after the blight. How many other figures in Ferelden have their power because of you? Honestly, you…." The captain of the royal legion paled and ran a hand through his hair. "You're frustratingly dense, you know that? Volunteering to hunt down the archdemon! What are you on?"

It didn't matter that Carver hadn't volunteered. He had accepted Loghain's orders regardless.

"Maker's breath, Postboy," Nails exhaled sharply. "Do you have anything else in your head? We soldiers joke about you and the mail, but you must have some sense of caution."

Carver peered at his captain, lost on the man's point. "The king requires archdemon blood. Of course I'll follow Teyrn Loghain's command."

Nails swallowed thickly, and Carver slowly realised that more than irritation coloured his captain's voice. "You were there," Nails quieted. "In the clash. The archdemon had felled the tower over the mages' vanguard, right where you had been. Bride of the Maker, you don't get it. No one sane seeks out an archdemon after experiencing that. Carver…are you alright?"

Compartmentalization. It was someone else's first instinct. "I'm fine."

Nails scanned Carver's face for a moment before reluctantly sighing. "I actually believe you, and I know you're lying to my face. Ha. Someone showed you your tells."

Carver loosened his grip of Summer Sword.

"You're here for Teyrn Loghain," Nails deduced, jerking his head towards the alcove side of the tent. "Our commander's lucky. There's a line for you."

When Nails released Carver and stepped aside, Carver hesitantly picked his way across the tent for Loghain and the king. He was waylaid yet again before he could reach his intended target.

"Carver," Theron caught.

Carver blinked, slowing to a halt. "Warden Theron."

"You're busy," Theron realised, flustered. "Of course you are. I saw you and…."

Carver waited for more, but the elf continued to silently struggle with something. Carver patted him on the shoulder. "You have survived much, from the taint to the clashes up to now, and for that take heart. Few possess the same determination."

"Aye," a passing noble readily shared. "The Champion of Ostagar is even healing the king, long may he live!"

The declaration rippled out of the tent, easily repeated. The nobles in the war tent moved around Theron without pause at his ears or vallaslin. One of the passing commanders patted Theron on the back, and the quiet elf accepted the gesture with confident ease.

Carver's brows rose. "Champion?"

Theron's confidence suddenly evaporated. "If you were on the front lines too, I'm sure…! And I…I tried to explain to the dragon king that you weren't a warden…!"

"Peace," Carver placated. "I prefer not drawing attention, and I never expect you to concern yourself otherwise. This is merely a pleasant surprise." A hero wasn't defined by capital letters, or even the exact term "hero." "I'm happy for you."

Theron struggled for words again. "While I swim afloat of the world's changes, I see that you remain the same."

Theron spoke the last phrase with a Dalish intonation that reminded Carver of the weight behind "seeing" others. A result of his accent? Honestly, there was little to see in Carver beyond an unsociable rock.

Carver scratched his head awkwardly. "You're a fast learner."

"Again, I misstep," Theron commented, reaching beyond his own comfort zone. "The Ash Warriors say I speak too quickly, like one who rarely communicates with one's tongue."

"You were a halla breeder," Carver offered.

Theron shook his head. "You have not changed, Carver. Still you are pleasant company."

As in, a silent person?

No, Morrigan spoke of animals, and Theron was….

Theron was….

Carver's grip on his mental boxes slipped. Where was his posture faulty? In what way was he not keeping to himself, out of the way, speaking up only where faceless help was needed? Had he brushed his hair improperly this morning, dulled his armour too little, met others' gazes too frequently? He didn't want to be memorable, he just didn't want the people around him to suffer or die. He was merely one impetus of many towards a certain conclusion.

Theron placed a hand on Carver's shoulder, practised yet awkward upon a human target. "Seeing you alive gladdens my heart, Carver. I pray you feel as I do."

He turned to address a cluster of commanders that had gathered nearby, fully-armoured and attentive. It was time for Theron to lead another skirmish against darkspawn. Carver patted the hand on his shoulder in mutual farewell before continuing on his path for Loghain.

Only a few minutes back in Ostagar, and Carver was already overwhelmed. Then again, he rarely returned to a place where he had participated in a major event - though he had only been one of many soldiers present….

"Teyrn Loghain," Carver finally reached, only to be cut off.

"Ah, Carver," Loghain straightened from over the war table. Next to him, a pale Cailan leaned off the table as if on cue and gestured for Duncan. "Finally. This shouldn't suffer further delay."

Carver found himself swept up with Loghain, Cailan, and Duncan leaving the tent for the western portcullis of Ostagar's fortress. His bewilderment grew as an escort of soldiers wordlessly fell in line behind them and rose the portcullis, allowing them passage through the fortress's walls. Beyond the gate were countless rows of brilliantly armoured figures and steeds blanketing Ferelden's wild landscape. Cailan led his retinue to a mounted individual with as much distance between himself and his army, as the distance that grew between Cailan and the escort of soldiers who stood back at attention.

The significant stranger dismounted and removed his feathered helmet, greeting Cailan with a raised chin. "So quick to receive the Wardens into your Line," the man drawled, "yet not so a proper military."

"Your Majesty," Loghain tacked on pointedly.

The stranger chuckled. "Your Grace will do."

Cailan relaxed his posture, likely in no small part due to his ongoing affliction. "The southern line began with a proper military," he helpfully shared. "Coordinating the Wardens, both Ferelden and Orlais, with it is merely a matter of course in a blight. Right, Duncan?"

Next to him, Duncan nodded. Though he stood with a crutch, the weathered griffon across his chest was unmistakable. "Warden-Commander Alisse has accepted my lead while the blight is restricted to Ferelden."

The stranger cocked his brow. "You mean to say that Ferelden doesn't need help against a global threat?"

Duncan didn't deny it, but Loghain quickly huffed. "Expected help, certainly."

"I am the Head-Commander of Orlais' chevaliers," the man intoned, revealing himself to Carver as Gaspard de Chalons. "It is no surprise that my cousin sent me with her army."

Loghain looked over his shoulder to the lone individual directly behind him, Cailan, and Duncan. Carver minutely shook his head.

Loghain's passionate tone cooled. "Indeed," he turned and held out a hand, "a good soldier respects the written command of their superiors. Well?"

Gaspard, having reached for his hand to shake it, floundered. "Written command?" he parroted.

"A slip of parchment," Loghain explained, "marked with ink, and sealed with wax."

"I am familiar with paperwork," Gaspard tensed. "I am Orlesian."

"I am well aware," Loghain drawled. "Commander Gaspard, don't tell me you have misplaced your superior's orders?"

Gaspard bit the inside of his cheek. His proper title was Grand Duke or Head-Commander, and he was being reduced to a common soldier. "I have said no such thing."

"Then you'll have to speak simply for us dog lords to understand."

Gaspard's eyes turned flinty. "The empress implicitly trusts me in many matters as her cousin and Head-Commander."

Cailan chimed in. "I don't see how that matters here. I am not the empress."

Duncan calmly interceded, raising his hands between both sides. "Perhaps you should return with the empress's seal, Grand Duke."

Gaspard stared hard at the three of them. The chevalier eventually inclined his head, pivoted, and stalked back to his men.

"Nique ta race," the Orlesian muttered.

"Le vôtre d'abord," Loghain returned.

Gaspard whirled around.

Loghain cocked a brow. "It is the nature of servants to learn their master's tongue. Unfortunate, that the Usurper never deigned to notice to the end."

Cailan led his retinue and soldiers back into the fortress, not waiting to watch Orlais' chevaliers ripple with reversed movement. Loghain flicked two fingers, and Carver caught up to walk in line with them.

"…What did Satin tell you?" Carver burst, quickly adding, "Teyrn."

"You told him yourself," Loghain pointed out. "The entities in Jader would be no issue."

"And they weren't," Cailan easily continued.

"Surprisingly," Duncan evenly stated. "I am familiar with the Grey Warden order, but not the intricacies of the chevalier cavalry. Your tone, Your Majesty, might have forever discouraged Orlesian support."

"They'll be back." Cailan turned as they entered the war tent. "Right, ser knight?"

"…Give it ten years," Carver relented.

Cailan laughed, stumbling with sudden faintness. "That's why Loghain wanted to wait for your arrival, I see."

Loghain swiftly helped Cailan into a cot obviously parked there for the tainted king. "Sit now, Cailan. Carver, report."

Carver glanced back at Duncan returning to his own chair where Solona awaited, healing passing commanders' wounds with Morrigan and Leliana's help. Solona straightened at Duncan's arrival and found a private space to continue her briefing. Carver exhaled and followed Loghain to the least crowded corner of the war tent.

"I have received your monthly reports," Loghain lowered his voice. "You spoke of imparting sensitive information to me in person last you wrote. That was a week ago."

Carver winced. "And the chevaliers…?"

"Had waited a week," Loghain confirmed. "Surely what transpired a moment ago could have been performed by Satin. Unless you had meant to do more than stand and shake your head."

Carver internally spluttered. Loghain had expected Carver to speak to Gaspard himself? No — Carver had somehow implied he would!?

He hadn't expected that the chevaliers would be allowed past Ferelden's borders all the way to Ostagar, and it was a massive coincidence their arrival had coincided with Carver's last letter. What could Carver say beyond that he had gotten lost in the Brecilian Forest? He might as well turn in his resignation letter and lose the abilities he had been earning to steer history towards a less dark direction. Like Alistair, Loghain was leaping to conclusions about Carver based on circumstance.

So, like a liar, Carver fibbed.

"With approval from Warden-Commander Duncan, Warden Solona's assistance with the Line will prove more useful than chevaliers," Carver murmured. "However, I couldn't ascertain the Warden-Commander's inclination without witnessing him interact with Warden Solona in Ostagar. If he had behaved counter to my expectations upon Solona's arrival, then regardless of past history, King Cailan would have had to admit Head-Commander Gaspard into our military."

Loghain dryly glanced at Solona, and then at Leliana and Morrigan past her. "More useful, you say."

"By your word, a healer is worth a hundred warriors," Carver pointed out. Or in this case, thousands of chevaliers. "Furthermore, the taint can evidently be countered by magical cures. Incorporate Warden Solona with Warden Theron and the Ash Warriors, and perhaps we may gain a deeper understanding of the blight as a whole."

While the Mabari Madness tonic obviously applied to those with a magical ancestry, it was possible that a weaker effect could be found in those with a current touch of the Fade, like living mages. Given that mothers and sisters of the Chantry had been kidnapped by the darkspawn, and that Wynne hadn't been the only loyal mage to chase the darkspawn to Lothering, the king's army would greatly benefit from keeping the healers they had left. Since the taint was a terminal illness, it was easy to imagine that there would be volunteers for testing the tonic.

On the other hand, the idea was a stretch born from Carver's improvisation.

"Regardless," Carver continued, "history has proven that war engenders scientific advancement. Any insight that Warden Solona's talents may reveal in the general field of medicine can only help Ferelden in the long run."

Loghain's gaze was unreadable. "You trust the warden this greatly?"

"Her abilities," Carver allowed, "and her devotion against the blight." He couldn't say what Solona might resort to if she thought humanity's efforts were inadequate. Carver didn't want to imagine the wilds going up in literal flames.

Loghain frowned. "You said the same of the other wardens I sent you with."

Clearly, they were absent.

"Your last letter mentioned the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Loghain prompted.

Carver meekly nodded. "For the sake of healing Arl Eamon, Wardens Elissa and Alistair have sought out Haven. I will follow them shortly."

Loghain hummed. "Do you believe in the ashes' abilities as you do the wardens'?"

Carver froze.

"So it's real," Loghain murmured, his gaze cutting through Carver like a sword. "I see. Then you know no other command than the one I've already given you."

Carver recognised the same tone he often employed. "Teyrn…?"

Loghain's voice dropped to a thin whisper, and Carver leaned in.

"Reserve a pinch of ashes for the king and queen."