They'd been walking back for about half an hour when Finley felt his gaze lingering on her. Prior to that, he'd been mostly concerned his footing—she'd looked back a few times to check. The ground had evened out, and the brush was growing scarce as they neared Haven. The way back was going much faster, with the Breach as a constant direction marker. One just needed to glance up for a few minutes until its eerie funnel became visible through the branches to know one was headed in the right direction.

Commander Rutherford was following after her a few paces behind, but she didn't see why he was bothering. He'd caught her. Granted, he'd been concerned about protecting her at the time, but still.

He'd caught her. He'd had a very firm grip on her arm that she doubted she would have been able to twist out of.

While it hadn't been enough to hurt her, it had hurt her pride as a Wilds' apostate.

Blaming the cold or a fear of demons or anything else wouldn't change that fact.

Part of her tried to piece it together, anyway. She was weak from all the nonsense with being in the Fade and then trying to seal the Breach. In the last two weeks, she'd slept over half of it.

Plus, her shoes were uncomfortable, and she was cold and stiff, and he had to be the commander for a reason. And she always froze up around demons. She hated them.

They reminded her of lonely nights and pulled hair and crying song birds.

They were wrong.

And now they were everywhere, and she was the one who was going to have to send them back.

How many other places would she have to go to find twisted victims, dead littering fields and roads, everything?

For a moment, she thought she could hear a woman calling her, telling her to run. The smell of ash and burned flesh blossomed up, making her want to gag. Someone was crying, screaming, in the distance. It was cut off by a giant crack, and she was being chased by something. Wrong things.

Demons.

There were so many corpses.

There had been a mage couple from when she'd first entered the building, whispering to one another in a corner. They hadn't trusted the Conclave, and the man had been on the verge of a breakdown, but the woman had kept holding him, whispering that things would be okay as she ran her dark, slender fingers over his hair. The meetings would go well, and they'd have their freedom. They'd get married in the grand cathedral and write his parents a scathing letter for the years they'd pretended he wasn't theirs.

Bodies were half melded together, the heat of the explosion leaving it impossible to tell where one ended and another began.

Had that happened to the mage couple?

Were their faces left in permanent screams, their dreams chased from their minds in the last seconds of their lives? Had whatever gods were out there been merciful enough to let them not see that horrid fate coming? To let them dream until the end?

There were too many dead.

"Herald?"

His voice was in her ear, and she jumped, feeling the pull of ash and magic and wrongness as it tried to drag her down into the void with it.

She blinked a few times. They were still in the woods, with snow beginning to fall in fluffy, fat clumps. The tree branches were scraggly and forlorn looking, wiry hands trying to catch the snowflakes only to have them slip easily through their fingers and to the ground below.

Commander Rutherford was standing beside her, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding one of hers, steadying her.

Had she almost fallen?

Looking down, she saw one of her boots tangled in some withered brambles.

"If you're tired, I could carry you." His offer was sincere enough, but a dry bark of a laugh escaped her before she could stop herself.

She pulled her hand free from him, coughing slightly as she looked ahead. She could see Haven's lights whispering through the skinny tree trunks, beckoning them forward with promises of warm fires.

And people.

Oh, how she hadn't let herself enjoy these past few hours without them everywhere.

Granted, she had had company, and the demons had hardly made this a leisurely stroll. Still, the thought of being back in a place where someone was everywhere brought a slouch to her shoulders.

"Commander Rutherford, you seem to be a good man, and I do not say that lightly," she said, slipping out from under his hand, "and please don't take this wrong, but the Maker will make a personal appearance in Thedas before a templar carries me anywhere."

"Very well, though I will point out that I'm not a templar any longer." His hand hovered near her arm until she'd untangled herself from the brush and begun walking again. He fell into stride at her side, not bothering with the distance. It wasn't like it made a difference.

He'd caught her again.

She felt like smacking her head against the next tree she passed. This whole mess had made her careless and lost to her own memories. As she glanced at him, however, she paused. He was watching her from the corner of his eye, as though trying to sneak a glance would somehow slip her notice.

She might be rattled, but she wasn't that rattled.

But she was too tired to make any offhanded comments or try to shake his calm. He could have a victory tonight. She'd think of some way to get him back for his unknowing involvement in breaking her streak of…how many years had it been since a templar had actually managed to get close enough to lay a hand on her?

Though…if he was saying he wasn't one…

She could feel that same presence that all templars had coiled deep inside of him. Wasn't a templar her ass.

"So why a bow?"

She frowned. "What's wrong with a bow?"

He shrugged, holding a branch up so that the two of them could walk under it. "I've never heard of a mage using one before."

"Now you have."

"Now I've seen," he corrected, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth and tugging on the small scar on his lip when she gave him an irritated eye roll. "You could have told us you don't use a staff in Haven. We'd have accommodated you."

She was too tired to spin her words in circles, and the thought of sleep was almost as horrifying as just going back to the demons and hugging one. Her dreams were not particularly pleasant of late.

If she closed her eyes too long, she saw the people who had died, saw the charred bodies that Seeker Pentaghast had led her past on their trek to the Breach. She felt like she saw them die, though when she woke up, she only ever had a vague sense of dread and knots in her stomach.

When she realized his brow had furrowed, she rolled her eyes again and shrugged. "I picked it up when I was little. Nothing screams 'mage' like a staff, and it's easier to hunt with a bow."

"Were fireballs too cliché for your liking?"

Finley focused her attention on the ground ahead of them, making certain she wouldn't slip and fall into his arms. If word ever made it back home, she'd never live that down. "Too many people use magic to hurt others. I don't want to be like that." She glanced away, not wanting to catch a glimpse of his face as she spoke. "Magic is beautiful, but it's not something that's likely to be appreciated if it looks like lightning flying toward your face."

His laugh was a little awkward, but kind. "As someone who's had lightning flung at my face, I can agree with that."

For what felt like the first time in forever, her memories slipped back further than the Conclave, past nights curled up beside a weak fire, or sneaking quietly through heavy woods. Sturdy walls that kept the cold as a distant whisper loomed around her and someone held her tiny hand, their smile framed by a short, well-trimmed beard.

A deep, kind laugh escaped those ghostly lips, and a pang of pain trilled through her.

A whisper of cold kissed her cheek, and she realized that the snow was coming down harder. She was still walking, but her stride had slowed dramatically. Commander Rutherford was ahead of her, turned so that he could see her, one hand resting on his pommel, as always. The other was slightly outstretched, as though he might offer it when she met his gaze. A few snowflakes glistened in his curly hair, like little wisps peeking out of the Fade at her.

He nodded his head toward Haven.

"Coming?"

Anger flickered in her gut.

Finley angled a little around him, keeping her ten paces distance. "If I were going to run, I would have done it when the demons were about, to make sure you couldn't follow me."

"That's not…what I meant." The commander sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. However, he waited until she was parallel to him before matching her pace, keeping just far enough away that she could run, if she wanted to.