As the fight on the other side of the chasm unfolded, Dorian's eyes remained on Hawke. There was something off about the man, about the way he moved: too precise, too perfect, and somehow not quite human. Every move he made to aid Amell in the duel seemed to almost be an echo of Amell's own moves, save that they were with daggers rather than magic, and the Tevinter in Dorian couldn't help but scream Blood magic in his mind over and over as the fight progressed. He'd seen it in Minrathous, of course, when a mage used an incaensor for distraction during a duel to gain an upper hand, and he wouldn't put it past the Architect to reduce Hawke to such a state.

But this was no mere mage they fought, this was Corypheus. And Amell surely had seen the impossibility of trying to kill the man, hadn't he?

He lost count of how many times Corypheus fell to dagger and spell, and how many times Corypheus claimed the body of the next Grey Warden, each time returning more enraged than the last. At some point, however, when Corypheus rose once more from the ashes, he heard Morrigan murmur, "And the next one shall be the last."

Dorian started, since he'd been so engrossed in the fight that he hadn't heard her approach. Recovering with a shake of his head, he glanced at her. "What is Amell doing? Surely he knows it is futile?"

Morrigan inhaled sharply, the tension in her shoulders clear as she watched the battle across the bridge begin anew. "I hate Amell to my very core, but if anyone can do the impossible, it's him." Her hands clutched oddly at her stomach as she stared ahead. "And it would explain something which has haunted me of late."

Before Dorian could ask what she meant, a sudden cessation of noise made him turn his head. He saw Amell in front of Corypheus, his staff pierced through the Magister in a direct mirror of his confrontation with the Architect in Deep Roads. Dorian watched as Amell flooded his staff with magic, pouring it into Corypheus' body towards one end: immolation. In a matter of moments, Corypheus flared with a bright light from within, then collapsed into a pile of ashes.

Just like the Architect.

An uneasy sensation roiled in the pit of Dorian's stomach, and his shoulders tensed as he waited, wondering if this was exactly what Amell had wanted—and if so, why? When the strange cloud rose from the ashes, Dorian swore under his breath, then swore louder when Amell simply smiled and spread his arms wide as if in invitation. "Is he mad? We don't need another mad Magister to possess him!"

"Amell is many things, but mad is not one of them." Dorian glanced at Morrigan, noting the grim expression set on her face. "Corypheus, I fear, has made his final mistake."

Dorian's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you—"

His question remained unfinished as Morrigan abruptly yanked Dorian back from the edge of the bridge. "Brace yourself!" she warned as she raised her arm up to shield her eyes.

Dorian barely managed to do the same before a shockwave hit him, a punch of force accompanied by a light so bright that it seared past his arm and through his eyelids. He fell to his knees with a gasp, waiting through an agonizing endless moment for his eyes to start working again. When he could make out more than vague images, he saw Amell talking to Hawke across the way, with no indication now of what had happened. When a glance behind him showed that Alistair and the others had succeeded in wrestling open the door, he shook his head and retrieved his staff. "Time to leave."

Dorian went through first, then turned and kept a wary eye on the bridge as the others followed. The itch of danger grew as the others squeezed through the opening, especially when Solas had to take extra time to maneuver his staff around one particularly stubborn rock. His fears were vindicated when he saw Hawke lofted across the gap of the broken bridge by Amell's magic, presumably to send him into the Temple. Without hesitation, Dorian reached forward and pulled Alistair through the gap of the cracked and leaning doors. "Stand back!" he roared as he brought his staff around, sending a blast of energy at the archway to trigger a cascade of stone and rubble to fill the hole. For a brief moment Dorian wondered if Hawke was, indeed, still a creature of Amell, or if he had fought free of the mage's influence as he had at Halamshiral, but in the next the thought was ruthlessly suppressed.

"Even Hawke won't be getting through those doors anytime soon," Varric said with a groan. "Sweet blessed Andraste, what happened back there? Did Corypheus really just keep coming back to life over and over again?"

"That's the nature of an Archdemon," Alistair said grimly as he worked at the set of the shield on his shortened arm. "That's why it travels with a horde of darkspawn, so that if it's struck down, it can just take over the body of a darkspawn and be reborn. Corypheus must have figured out a way to do it with Grey Wardens. Both bear the taint, after all." Alistair grimaced and shook his head. "More nightmare fuel, that."

"Well, shit," Varric groused, setting and resetting Bianca in what Dorian recognized as a nervous habit. "And Amell is a Grey Warden. So what, now Amell has a double dose of big baddies in him? He did it on purpose so he could gain the power of Corypheus?"

"No," Morrigan said quietly. "I daresay that Corypheus as we know him is no more."

That pronouncement met with stunned silence until Dorian shook himself and glanced at the battered stone doors. "Then what did we just witness?"

"The result of a ritual which my mother crafted to counter the Archdmon in the Fifth Blight," Morrigan said. "Usually the Grey Warden who kills the Archdemon perishes during the act. The nature of a Grey Warden's taint pulls the Archdemon's soul into the Warden, and keeps it there as the body dies, taking the soul of the Archdemon with it to its final rest. Before the Fifth Blight, no Warden had ever survived killing the Archdemon."

"So Amell should have died!" Alistair exclaimed. "The Wardens in Orlais never could understand how he survived slaying the Archdemon, and Loghain refused to answer their questions on the matter."

"He spoke nothing of the ritual?" Morrigan asked, seeming a bit surprised by the fact. "Not even to you?"

"No," Alistair said, shaking his head. "Should he have?"

Morrigan looked away, staring into the surrounding forest for a moment before she answered. "He is one of the few who knows of it. He participated in it, at Amell's order, during the Fifth Blight."

With a frown, Dorian studied Morrigan's profile as he parsed through her words and found little of use. "What precisely does the ritual entail, Morrigan?" he asked softly.

For a long moment, Morrigan held her silence as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Finally she turned back to Dorian, her golden eyes intense as she met his gaze. "The ritual sends the soul of the Archdemon to a different vessel, one in which the taint has been inherited, not inflicted, but which remains unmarred by the corruption."

At the words, Solas straightened and turned from where he stood studying the Temple around them. "You speak of an unborn child," he observed, voice shaded with disapproval. "To replace the soul not yet fully set with the ancient essence of a powerful being."

"I do," Morrigan said. "For that is what my mother hoped to gain in her aid to Amell during the Blight: the soul of the Archdemon, one of the Old Gods of Tevinter. No matter what your beliefs, such a soul is powerful, and useful to one who knows what to do with it."

Something about the tone of Morrigan's voice, in the defensive set of her shoulders, tickled and wriggled in Dorian's mind until suddenly the pieces snapped together into a coherent whole. His eyes widened as the truth hit him, and he couldn't help but voice his conclusion. "Your son?"

"My son." Morrigan's face softened. "I had already decided to deny my mother her desire for more power, but now the matter is of far greater import. She will never have my son."

"So you seduced Amell before the final attack on Denerim?" Alistair asked in distaste. "Maker, I almost wish you'd never told him about the ritual and just let him die."

Morrigan's eyes grew flinty as she looked at Alistair. "I seduced no one. I simply told Amell of the ritual and let him decide who would father the child. In the end, 'twas not Amell, but Loghain who performed the act which allowed Amell to continue his life."

"So that's what the demon meant," Varric suddenly said.

Caught by surprise by the non sequitur, Dorian looked to Varric. "What's this?"

"When the Nightmare demon taunted Loghain in the Fade, he mentioned Loghain not being able to protect his children, not just his daughter." Varric coughed self-consciously as they all looked at him for a moment. "Sorry. It's just been bugging me."

"It also explains why he gave Kieran a Mabari pup," Alistair said with a weak chuckle, clearly shaken by the revelation.

"Yes, a slobbering hound of the most uncouth sort," Morrigan said, her lips pursed in distaste.

Varric snorted. "I think the lad's taken a shine to her, though. She's always at his side, whether he's reading or playing."

A faint smile came to Morrigan's face. "I admit, Kieran does seem quite taken with her. Loghain calculated his strategy well."

"But...why Loghain?" Alistair asked, brow furrowed. "I mean, Amell usually tries to be the worst bastard he can."

"Part of his reasoning was that Loghain was the newest Warden, and thus the least afflicted by the Blight. His trust in the ritual, and my mother, remained low. Yet another part of his reasoning was to establish his control over Loghain, by compelling him with a loathsome threat against those he held dear. For the sake of the life of his daughter and his best friend's son, Loghain agreed to the conditions Amell put before him, not to spare his own life."

Alistair frowned. "What? His best friend's—" Suddenly turning pale, Alistair pressed a hand to his chest. "Me?"

Morrigan nodded gravely. "Yes, Warden Alistair, though you rejected the title at the moment when you were most needed. Amell was inclined to order your execution after your little rebellion when he spared Loghain's life. 'Twas Loghain who bargained for your life, as well as that of his daughter Anora, though he knew not that Amell would later banish him from Ferelden."

"Fat lot of good it did him," Alistair grunted. "Amell controlled Anora for years, and I was exiled to Kirkwall. But then, Amell's never been above a bit of hateful betrayal, has he?"

Morrigan looked down at her hands. "I admit, I was tempted to keep knowledge of the ritual from Amell, but once he heard that whoever slays the Archdemon would perish, Amell was determined to send Loghain in for the final blow so that he might live."

"That sounds like him," Alistair said sourly. "And ten years ago, I would have said that Loghain wouldn't have deserved the chance to martyr himself. Fool that I was," he added in a murmur, then he shook his head. "I take it you reconsidered?"

"Yes, though not for the sake of Loghain. Since Amell would not perish, I chose to use his selfishness for my own protection."

"Protection from who?" Alistair asked, puzzles. "Amell?"

Morrigan shook her head. "From my mother, the very one who taught me the ritual for her own ends. Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds."

"I remember her," Varric said with a grunt. "I saw her emerge from an amulet on an altar at Sundermount and then turn into a dragon and fly away. You can't tell me that's normal."

"Creepy," Alistair muttered under his breath.

Solas raised an eloquent eyebrow. "She sounds like a woman of great power. To take the form of a dragon is a feat few can accomplish, in this age or any other."

"My mother knows arts long forgotten by any who walk the waking world," Morrigan noted. "She has lived beyond her time using such arts, and I was to be her next victim. Since Amell refused to aid me against her, I needed a way to defend myself from her. So I used the power of the ritual for myself."

"But…" Dorian frowned, working through the facts at hand. "How does that explain Amell and Corypheus? I fail to see a connection to the current situation."

Morrigan gave an eloquent shrug. "He used the same ritual as I did," she murmured. "After all, he had a Warden in his grasp for a time. Long enough to weave the spell of the ritual tightly around him."

Dorian's eyes widened and shifted to look at Alistair as the words sank into him. "You mean—" he began, but Alistair's ashen face showed that he , at least, understood what Morrigan meant.

"No," Alistair whispered, then suddenly fell to his knees. "N-no, it's impossible. I've been a Warden for ten years, how can—"

"Though there is a limit to the ritual's ability to restore fertility, Amell was able to revive yours," Morrigan told him. "Or Leliana would not be sucking on ginger root every morning."

"You mean he let me escape?" Alistair asked in a dull tone. "He intended for me to—and to—with Leliana?"

Morrigan bowed her head. "You know he is more than capable of such things," she murmured, then inhaled sharply and looked up, her moment of weakness quickly passed. "So yes. I do think Corypheus is dead, or at least no longer a threat to us. Of more immediate concern is what Amell will do now that Corypheus is gone."

"The Orb," Solas said. "If his goal is power, he will seek out the Orb, just as he sought to gain the Anchor at Halamshiral."

"What about Hawke?" Varric asked.

The question clinched the whirling of Dorian's mind, locking it into place so that he could finally focus on the present. "Amell knew of what Corypheus intended for Calpernia. It's likely he sent Hawke into the Temple for the same purpose." Suddenly he swore as their mission slammed to the forefront of his mind. "Calpernia!"

"Maferath's balls," Varric swore. "For a moment there, things got so exciting I almost forgot about her."

"I suggest we seek out the Well of Sorrows, and quickly," Solas interjected. "The time for discussion has passed."

"Ah, true." Dorian straightened. "And Calpernia is already ahead of us, unaware of the fate which met her Master." He paused before giving the order to head out, looking at Alistair with sympathy as the obviously shaken man tried to gather himself.

Varric stepped forward and put a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Hey. You all right?"

Alistair rubbed his face vigorously. "I'm not sure, but it's not like I have a choice. I just…really need to talk with Leliana when this is over."

"You will, Warden Puppy, you will." Varric patted his shoulder again. "Now come on. We've got a few other things to take care of first."

As they made their way through beautiful but quiet ruins of the Temple, Varric moved up to walk at Dorian's side. "Do you really think Amell sent Hawke to find the Well of Sorrows?"

"It's not a comforting thought, I know." Dorian sighed, frustrated about how little they knew about the Well. "If so, and if Hawke reaches the Well, then he'll suffer the same fate Erasthenes feared would meet Calpernia, wouldn't he?"

"That would be the logical assumption, Inquisitor," Solas interjected. "Regardless, it is a victory we cannot afford to give to Amell."

With a grim nod, Dorian increased his pace. After all, Calpernia had quite the head start, and who knew where Hawke was now?

As they advanced through the Temple, the sound of a loud explosion had them all automatically reaching for their weapons. As the shouts and cries ahead grew in earnest, they raced towards the commotion with little idea of what they'd find.

The Temple opened up into a large courtyard, on the opposite side of which were several smoldering piles of rubble—clearly the source of the explosion. In the middle of the courtyard, a raucous battle played out, though at first Dorian could only see Venatori and no opponent. It wasn't until Varric hissed and pointed that Dorian realized that the figure clad in black leather and chain armor who darted amongst the ranks of the Venatori was, in fact, Hawke.

And, as before, Hawke fought like a man possessed—literally. No care for himself, but moving with such inhuman speed and precision that he seemed untouchable. The Venatori fell before him with regularity, only to be replaced by more Venatori pouring in from above. Dorian forced himself to look away from Hawke when he heard a woman's voice shout, "Don't let them pass!"

Calpernia.

As he stared at Calpernia, their eyes locked, and even at this distance she could feel her disdain, though he wasn't sure if it was for the Inquisitor or the Altus. Regardless, she turned and ran towards a crevice in the ground along with some of her Venatori, leaving the bulk of them behind.

"Inquisitor!" Solas snapped, drawing Dorian's attention back to the fight itself.

He quickly saw why, since several of the Venatori were pulling away from the fight with Hawke to launch themselves at Dorian and his companions. For a breathless span of unknowable time, the world narrowed down to the rhythm of battle, since Calpernia had apparently brought a more elite force with her to the Temple. Blood racing, heart pounding, and magic filling his vision with green and purple and white, Dorian lost himself to the pulse of violence.

When the last lightning bolt had sizzled and Bianca's last bolt had thudded into her final target, an eerie quiet settled over the battlefield. Feeling eyes on him, Dorian turned to find Hawke, standing alone in the midst of a rather imposing pile of bodies, staring at him with a fixed gaze. His eyes glowed a bright red, and around his body glimmered a sheath of white magic which Dorian didn't recognize. Before he realized he intended to speak, Dorian heard a word slip past his own lips. "Hawke."

In a flicker of light and movement, Hawke flourished his daggers and blurred across the distance between them. Dorian steeled himself, half-expecting to feel one of the daggers pierce him as had happened at Halamshiral, but instead Hawke continued past him, racing up the wall of the ruins using the ivy which grew throughout them. Within moments he had disappeared from sight, and Dorian released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I'm not going to lie, Sparkler. If he'd tried to kill you, I'm not sure I could have shot him in time," Varric said as he folded up Bianca and settled her on his back. "I've never seen him move that fast, and I fought at his side for years. What did Amell do to him?"

"I don't know, but I fear we have no time to speculate upon the matter," Dorian said grimly. Granted, his heart still raced at the thought of what might have happened, but with both Calpernia and Hawke now ahead of them once more in the race to the Well, Dorian tried his best to push that aside. "We'd best be our way. If we are fortunate, we will find a shorter path than the ones they have selected."

The others fell in behind him silently as he rushed forward, hoping they weren't too late.

Their attempts to pick the best way through the Temple brought them to a large open hall, a room which made the hackles on Dorian's neck rise as soon as they crossed the threshold. As they entered, Morrigan murmured, "'Tis not what I expected. What was this chamber used for… Hmm."

As the large entry doors closed behind them, Dorian felt eyes upon them, and looked up the stairs at the far end to see one of the guardian elves standing there, arms crossed as he stared at Dorian and his companions. Even as Dorian took in the stranger's measure, he felt the trickle of magic behind him, and a half-turn of his head showed that a cadre of elves had appeared behind them with bows fully drawn and arrows trained on the backs of Dorian and his companions. Charming. Turning back to the elf on the platform ahead, he held up his hand to bring the others to a halt.

"Venavis," the elf said with a gesture. "You…are unlike the other invaders. You stumble down our paths at the side of one of our own." Dorian gave a quick glance to Solas, but the elf's face remained impassive. His attention was drawn back to the first elf when he said, "You bear the mark of magic which is…familiar."

As if the words were a trigger, Dorian felt the green light of the anchor flare into life in his left hand. Suppressing a wince as he flexed it a few times, he wondered whether or not to speak, and opted in the end to remain silent.

"How has this come to pass?" the elf demanded. "What is your connection to those who first disrupted our slumber?"

"Extremely unfriendly," Dorian called up. "I'm afraid I had to kill a few of them on the way here. I hope that was not too much of an imposition."

The elf considered him for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "I am called Abelas. We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion."

Dorian had a suspicion that this particular invasion had cost them dear, given just how many Venatori Corypheus had had at his disposal, but he said nothing as Abelas continued to pace and speak.

"I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the vir'abelasan."

Morrigan straightened to full attention before whispering to Dorian. "The Place of the Way of Sorrows. He speaks of the Well!"

Abelas' expression grew stern. "It is not for you. It is not for any of you," he declared.

Dorian frowned as a slow suspicion grew, alongside a nascent sense of guilt. "You said that the Venatori disrupted your slumber. How long have you slept? Since the fall of Arlathan to the Imperium?"

Shaking his head, Abelas said, "The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan. We elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the times the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over."

The words echoed in Dorian's head, particularly the first sentence. The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan. He shook his own head, forgetting diplomacy for a moment as he said, "Wait, that's not right. What are you saying?"

"You would not know this," Abelas told him, sounding more than a little condescending. "Shemlen history is as short as the pool of your years."

Still working through a sense of fundamental shock, Dorian persisted. "What did the Imperium do, then? Are you saying it wasn't a war?"

"The 'war' of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes," Abelas said impatiently, then dismissed the subject. "We awaken only when called, and each time find the world more foreign than before. It is meaningless. We endure. The vir'abelasan must be preserved for its true purpose."

Momentarily caught in a loss for words, Dorian nevertheless found something to say to give himself time to recover. "What is this vir'abelasan, then? We know only that our mutual enemies seek it to increase their own power."

"It is not power. Not such as you—or they—could use it, even if I permitted it. It is a path, one walked only by those who toiled in Mythal's favor."

"He speaks of priests, perhaps?" Morrigan mused.

Abelas' eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but his only response was to say, "More than that, you need not know."

Growing frustrated, Dorian glanced towards Solas. "I hate to ask, my friend, but…"

Solas shrugged. "What shall I say, Inquisitor? Shall I sway him from a millennia of service by virtue of our shared blood? He clings to all that remains of his world, because he lacks the power to restore it."

Dorian winced, since that was all too easily an argument he could make about Erimond's slavish obedience to the will of Corypheus, and focused once more on Abelas. "Regardless of what the Well of Sorrows is, our foes seek to claim it. Unless you've defeated them already, in which case I would give you my most heartfelt gratitude."

Abelas paused for a moment, but it was enough to tell Dorian the truth before he spoke. "We have not."

"Then let us aid you in this fight," Dorian told him urgently, "for we have no desire for those fools to succeed in their aim. We did not come here to fight you, only them, and we have no wish to steal from your people."

The words hung between them for a long moment before Abelas finally nodded. "I believe you. Trespassers you are, but you have followed the rites of petition. You have shown respect to Mythal."

Is that what all those bloody glowing tiles were about? Dorian thought grumpily to himself, though he managed to keep the sentiment off his face as Abelas continued.

"If these other enemies are yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart…and never return."

Solas leaned forward, voice urgent as he said, "This is our goal, is it not? There is no reason to fight the Sentinels."

Before Dorian could reply, Morrigan said in a low tone, "Consider carefully. You must stop Calpernia and Amell, yes, but you may also need the Well for your own."

Dorian's face grew stern. "I am not that sort of Tevinter, Morrigan. I will not scavenge when it is not necessary. The idea of fighting the last of their kind does not thrill me. Besides, Mailani would rise from her grave and come for my mustache if I tried to do that." Looking up at Abelas, he opened his mouth to respond, then paused. Another elf had run up to Abelas and was holding an urgent whispered conversation with him in a language Dorian could not follow. Elvish, he mused. It must be. He sent a querying look to Solas, and saw the elf staring in concentration up at the two elves as they conversed.

When Abelas turned to them, Dorian bowed. "I accept your offer."

"Good," Abelas said, then spoke quickly to the Sentinel next to him for a moment before looking at Dorian again. "You will be guided to those you seek. As for the vir'abelasan, it shall not be despoiled, even if I must destroy it myself. Only those who she has summoned or who have walked her path may use it." With that, Abelas turned and walked from the room.

"No!" Morrigan suddenly cried. In an abrupt motion, she ran forward, transforming into a raven with a flash of magic, and followed Abelas from the hall.

"Morrigan!" Dorian cried, running after her with hand extended. As she disappeared from sight, he cursed under his breath.

The other elf moved to shut the door behind them, shaking their head as they leapt down to the floor. They didn't seem overly concerned about Morrigan's departure, only gesturing at Dorian to follow them through some double doors on the left side of the room.

"And you must be the guide, then," Dorian mused.

"Mythal'enaste," the guide replied.

"Ah. Yes. Good." Dorian sighed and fell into step behind the guide. "Especially since we appear to have lost a comrade."

"She seeks to protect the Well of Sorrows," Solas mused.

Does she? Dorian wondered distractedly, his thoughts returning once more to the ground-shaking revelation Abelas had delivered in such an off-handed fashion. He said the elves destroyed themselves, before we came along. Could that be true? I can hardly believe it.

Yet, apparently, believe it he must. Believe it, and reshape his entire understanding of the Imperium's history while he was at it. Scavengers, and not conquerors; looting savages and not triumphant warmongers. As much as he'd never liked the idea of the Imperium crushing an entire nation of elves under its feet, the knowledge that they had, in fact, only scraped together bits of what was left of a fallen civilization…

It was uncomfortable, and profound, and vital, and he cursed the circumstances that dictated he wouldn't have time to consider it until later.

With a sigh, he forced himself to push it away and lock it into a corner of his mind. They had a few things to attend to first, after all.

Like fighting. A lot of fighting.

As they progressed through the Temple in the wake of their guide, it became clear why Abelas had been willing to consider an alliance, even a temporary one, with them. Venatori had overrun the Temple, and if Dorian and his companions had not come to their aid, more precious lives would have been lost. Dorian wasn't sure how many guardians there were, but suspected that they had no way to replace those who fell. It lit a fire in him, a fire first laid and tended by Mailani, a fire which refused to stand by as the elves were murdered in their own home.

Especially not to the hands of his erstwhile countrymen.

Eventually they found the end of both Venatori and Temple, emerging onto a balcony overlooking another large courtyard. He glanced back to their guide, who nodded and pointed as they said, "Vir'abelasan," before returning to the inside of the Temple, leaving them alone.

"The Well of Sorrows," Dorian mused, overlooking the decadent landscape. The cries of exotic birds—not so terribly exotic, he mused, since they actually belonged here, unlike their visitors—echoed in the open space around them, and the air was heavy with moisture in a way only found in the most lush of jungles.

And behind him, he heard Solas murmur in an almost reverent tone, "So Mythal endures." Given Solas' earlier seeming indifference to the guardian elves and their task, it seemed oddly out of place, but Dorian elected not to pursue the matter.

As they advanced down the stairs to the courtyard, Dorian heard Calpernia's voice issuing a crisp command: "I want them dead before the Master arrives!" followed by the grunts and groans of dying men. Mouth settling into a grim line, he drew his staff and broke into a run, hoping he might be able to save at least some of the Sentinels from their fate at the hands of the Venatori.

Once they emerged into the courtyard proper, however, he saw that they were too late for that. Several lifeless bodies in golden armor lay scattered about, already forgotten by Calpernia as she paced back and forth at the bottom of a cliff, her gaze intent upon whatever lay at the top of it.

"So close," she said, frustration edging her voice. "The Well knows its Vessel." As Dorian raised his hand for him and his companions to halt, she half-turned her head. "And those who would despoil it." With a sigh, she smoothly pivoted to face them fully. "Stand aside, Inquisitor. Or should I say Altus? Which title brings you more honor?" Dismissing any potential response he might have made to the question, she said, "The trials you have set me, I have overcome. As a courtesy—leave now, or not at all."

Dorian considered her for a moment, particularly the question to which he had not yet replied, and finally took a deep breath and nodded. Slowly, deliberately, he put his staff on his back and took a step forward.

"Sparkler?" he heard Varric whisper incredulously.

"Just...trust me," Dorian muttered, putting a hopefully harmless smile on his face as he advanced towards Calpernia with his hands held up.

For a moment, he wondered just how foolhardy he was as one of the Venatori raised his book and pointed a staff in his direction, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in anticipation of a magic attack. Then, as he'd hoped, Calpernia's voice cut across the space, ordering the man to hold his attack, and Dorian puffed air into his cheeks as he moved forward until only a few feet separated them.

"No, Calpernia," he said quietly in what he hoped was a voice of authority. "We need to talk."

She crossed her arms over her chest, chin lifting in determination. "You serve your people—you have one last chance to save them: leave."

Dorian noted the use of the word serve, and the clear value Calpernia had assigned to the idea of a leader serving their people. Interesting—and hopeful. "I'm not leaving without a discussion."

"Tell me,then," she said, folding her arms as she stared at him, "why are you working against the Master? You are of the Imperium, and could one day even be of significance within its highest ranks. Surely you can see the power he will restore to us." She pointed behind her. "The Well of Sorrows overflows with knowledge, power abandoned by those the elves worshipped as gods. To walk the Fade without the Anchor— that is what the Well of Sorrows will give Corypheus."

"While that is preferable to using the blood of thousands of innocents, I rather mistrust his ultimate goal and what it will actually gain you, or the Imperium," Dorian shot back. "Particularly given his history. Thousands of slaves killed just to make powerful men even more powerful in an attempt to contact those we worshipped as gods? Forgetting the past, how many Venatori have died here, their blood soaking foreign soil? How many slaves died in support of this operation, toiling away in silent obedience to whatever orders they were given?"

She flinched, a small but significant shift in her expression, and Dorian knew his words had made an impression. "Their deaths are necessary to restore glory to the Imperium, to bring change to it."

"Necessary? Since when is wholesale slaughter necessary?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or are you trying to sound like a Magister? If so, you're quite good at it already."

"I am no Magister, Altus," she growled, her hands clenching into fists.

"Inquisitor," he corrected her. "In charge of an organization whose task is to defend the world against one who would take it by force. And you are helping him."

"For the good of—" she began, but he interrupted her.

"You're trying to change the Imperium, because it needs change," he said. "How many people such as yourself are overlooked and underappreciated? A mage of your calibre should be allowed to compete for the highest offices in the Circles of the Imperium, but instead they allow brats such as myself to study, even though I was clearly not interested in being there. I can see why you want to effect change in the Imperium, and honestly, that is a worthy cause. I love my homeland—our homeland—but it leaves much to be desired when it comes to those who are, well, less than desirable by the current standards."

Her eyes narrowed. "This is a trick," she said. "No one from a House in the Magisterium would wish to give up power."

"Is that why you ally yourself with Corypheus? To force them to do it?" Dorian guessed. "You are confident he will keep to his side of the bargain?"

Again, that shift in expression which told him so much about her doubts and fears. "He has given me his promise."

"I'm sure he's given many people promises over his extended life," Dorian murmured. "But do not forget: he is also a Magister. If you do not trust me, are you sure you can trust him?"

Calpernia drew herself up proudly. "If he breaks his promise, then I will do it myself. I have gained power under him, and after I have killed you, I will gain even more."

Dorian took a half-step closer, his tone gaining urgency. "As the Vessel, to be used and discarded?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Magister Erasthenes is a very talkative fellow," Dorian said, not going into the details of how he had heard Erasthenes talking about it. "He seemed quite concerned for you before his untimely death."

For the first time, she looked taken aback. "Death? What— No, you are trying to trick me."

"Am I?" Dorian crossed his arms across his chest, tilting his head slightly as he held her gaze. "Then why did I see Magister Erasthenes imprisoned in an ancient circle of binding, a dome of magic keeping him locked within, in the Shrine of Dumat?"

"The—" She frowned. "He was imprisoned there?"

"Oh, yes. Long enough to make him feeble and desperate for freedom—alive or dead, he seemed not to care."

"Did you kill him?" she asked with a scowl.

"I? No. I respect scholars of all types, and if I could have saved him, I would have. But there was a battle, and in that battle, the spell was breached, and he…" Dorian made an arcane gesture. "Became light and dust."

"Impossible. I don't know of a spell that can do that," she said flatly.

Dorian inclined his head. "Indeed. No modern mage would."

The words made her frown in thought. When a Venatori came closer, she impatiently held up a hand to stop him in his tracks. "What else did my former Master have to say?"

"He told me that Corypheus meant you to be the Vessel, and that you would no longer be yourself once you became it," Dorian said quietly. "Furthermore, he said that the spell which bound him was but a prototype, and that the one for whom Corypheus truly intended it…was you."

She swallowed harshly. "I—"

When her voice trailed away, words unspoken, he said, "You've seen enough to think it true of Corypheus to plan for this, haven't you? The way he's discarded people as soon as they weren't useful, like the cliche evil Magister of legend. You were sent to kill some of them yourself, after all."

"They failed," she said with a shrug. "I won't fail him."

"Ah, and now we come to the crux of the matter," he said softly. "Because he has most certainly failed you."

She scowled at him. "I told you, I will be the judge of his promise to me myself."

"I do not refer to the veracity of his promise this time, rather—" He paused, knowing it would be difficult to convince her of the truth of his words for what came next. "I am well aware that this is going to be difficult to believe, but…" Dorian pointed back the way they had all come. "Corypheus has been defeated."

Her scowl deepened. "Do you really expect me to believe that if you had killed him, you would have come this far? This is a transparent ploy, Inquisitor, especially for one trained to the ways of the Magisterium."

"Ah. But he didn't fall to my hand, but to another," Dorian told her. "Surely you have suspected that even the Inquisition hasn't been the only hand at play all these months." He had no clue whether or not Calpernia had noticed Amell's hand in anything, so the statement was a gamble, and quite a large one.

And, judging from her expression, also accurate. "There have been…irregularities," she mused. "Some oddities at the Winter Palace. Strange messages left for Corypheus which left him in a rage. Notes left for me with suggestions which could not come from you or the Inquisition. But they could have simply been distractions."

"Could have, yes. An important word," Dorian pointed out. "As a student of Erasthenes, you would be familiar with the members of the Magisters Sidereal, yes? The truth is that the Conductor was not the only one to emerge from the Fade following their rather spectacular failure to invade the Golden City. The Architect also managed to find his way to the waking world, though he lost memory of his true self until Corypheus gained freedom from his Grey Warden captors."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The Master told me that all but he perished."

"It would be easier to work in the dark than the light, hmm?" He took another half-step forward. "If I were trying to convince you using lies, wouldn't I come up with a more believable lie than that?" He let the question hang in the air for a moment, then added, "Surely you have a way to contact him or his entourage during such an important mission. We Vints are awfully clever, after all. Some sort of device, perhaps?" Again, it was a shot in the dark, but perhaps his luck would stay strong…

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "If this is a trick," she warned as she reached into the pouch at her waist and withdrew a familiar looking device, one that he'd seen often used for communication in the Imperium.

"It is a trick all too easy to disprove, I think." Dorian's eyes watched every movement as she tapped the device to awaken it and spoke into it. After a few seconds ticked by, she turned away and repeated the gesture, a line of worry between her brow.

Finally she shoved the device into her pouch and glared at Dorian. "This doesn't mean I believe you."

"But if it is true, why devote yourself to a lost cause?" Dorian said.

"What else am I to do? I have promised—" She stopped and took a deep breath, obviously not wanting to give too much away, but Dorian already suspected he knew the remainder of the sentence: she had promised freedom.

He nodded, then held out his hands again in a parley gesture. "A deal, then. You go seek your Master, or at least learn the truth of his fate, and for now, the fighting between our forces ends. Besides, who would you rather work with to achieve the end of the worst institutions in the Imperium: a Magister of old, with all that ancient blood on his hands, or someone who wants not glory or greatness for the Imperium, but happiness for her citizens?"

"You speak pretty words, Altus," Calpernia murmured, chewing at her lower lip. "They could all be a lie."

"Or they could all be the truth, and in killing me, you would doom yourself to failure."

It was hard to tell at first whether or not his words found the intended mark, as she simply glared at him for a long moment. Finally she blew her breath out in one loud exhalation. "Damn you," she snarled. "I refuse to take the chance. Know this, Inquisitor: if you have lied, I will kill you, no matter how long it may take."

He gave her a Tevinter smile, one full of secrets and designed to remind her of their shared heritage. "I would expect nothing less. In all honesty, you're skilled enough I might be left in a pile of dust—which I would deserve, were I lying. But I know I am not."

"The Architect. What does he look like?"

"He exists in a strained relationship with a mage by the name of Jorath Amell," Dorian said, but before he could continue, Calpernia's eyes widened.

"Amell?" she whispered, just before her face transformed with an expression of hatred. "I have met a man who called himself Amell in my dreams. He—He tried to—" Her hands clenched into fists. "I shut him out, but I thought him a demon of—A demon."

Curious. What sort of demon did she think him to be? "No. A somniari mage, actually, and a Grey Warden."

"Ah. Therefore weak to one like Corypheus," she mused. "Just as the mage Grey Wardens were in Adamant. A point in your favor, if your words are not lies."

Dorian blinked. "Ah. I honestly never made that connection myself."

She shook her head, an amused expression on her face for the first time. "Regardless, your naming of him gives your other words a ring of truth. You are many things by rumor and action, Inquisitor Pavus, but one thing I do know is that you are no blood mage." She raised a hand and called off the others. "We go. Pray that we find what you say is there for our seeking."

Without another word, she strode into the forest. The Venatori exchanged uneasy glances with each other, but when Dorian and his companions made no threatening moves, they shrugged and followed.

Varric let loose a breath so loudly, Dorian wondered just how long he'd been holding it. "That, ah… That was quite the risk, Sparkler."

"Yes," Dorian said softly. "Let us pray it works, hmm?"

Even as the last of the Venatori vanished into the forest, however, Dorian heard a crow's caw overhead. Head whipping around, he saw Abelas rush to ascend a set of stairs which seemed to magically appear before him and set in to chase after. At the top of the stairs, Morrigan ran out of patience and swooped down to stop him, changing her form as she did so to halt his progress forward.

As the elf slowed, Morrigan looked at Dorian as she gestured to Abelas. "You heard his parting words, Inquisitor. The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows!"

Abelas glanced anxiously past her, to where a circular pool of calm water glinted in the sunlight. "You understand nothing, shemlen, least of all my intent. I seek to keep the Sanctum pure!"

"And to do that, you would have destroyed the Well yourself, given the chance," Morrigan shot back.

"To keep it from your grasping fingers!" Abelas growled. "Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving!"

Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest as she shook her head. "Fool! You'd let your people's legacy rot in the shadows!"

Dorian quickly moved to stand next to Morrigan, hoping to calm the situation. "I did pledge that I would not seek to steal from your people, Abelas," he told the elf, "and I remain firm in that. However, there is another who does seek it to further his Master's power, and we must defend the Well from him. I implore you, accept our assistance to ensure he does not succeed."

Abelas' brows drew together, golden gaze moving to rest on the still water of the Well. "As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on through the Well. It represents all that we were, all that we know. If it must be passed on, it should be passed on to the one she has summoned."

"She?" Morrigan asked scornfully. "You mean Mythal? A goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?"

Maker. Before Morrigan could say something even worse, Dorian asked, "Summoned? What do you mean, summoned?"

Abelas smiled ever so faintly. "We are not the only ones who still serve Mythal in the world, and we recognize those who do. When they are called to the Well, we do not question it, knowing it to be her purpose."

Dorian blinked in surprise. "You speak as if she is still a force in the world."

"Anything is possible," Abelas noted.

"Elvhen legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen'Harel and banished to the Beyond," Morrigan interjected.

Turning to her, Abelas said, "Elvhen legend is wrong. The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder."

Clearly surprised, Morrigan said, "Murder? I said nothing of—"

"She was slain, if a god truly can be," Abelas said, interrupting her impatiently. "Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple. Yet the vir'abelasan remains. As do we. That is something. In truth, it is everything." He glanced at the Well once more, taking a restless step towards it. "And here we shall remain until our task is complete."

"And when will that be?" Dorian asked with a frown.

"Until the Well is gone," Abelas said softly, eyes still intent on the Well, and abruptly Dorian realized that he was waiting .

But for what?

Dorian and Morrigan exchanged an uneasy glance. "Perhaps you should—"

A sudden rustle in the undergrowth on the other side of the Well precipitated a sudden scramble for weapons as everyone braced themselves for whatever emerged this time. In that fraction of an instant, Dorian noted that Abelas, for all his talk of protecting the Well, was alone in not reaching for his weapons, instead electing to stare at the bushes with one hand wrapped tightly around the other.

In the next moment, a man leapt from the bushes and hit the ground running towards the Well. Instant recognition seared through Dorian as he registered the almost sinfully tight black leather armor and masterfully wrought daggers born by the man. The joy at seeing Hawke alive quickly faded before a more pressing concern when Dorian perceived the jagged lattice of violet light which surrounded and permeated Hawke, accompanied by an almost violent purple glow in his eyes.

The sight sent a chill down Dorian's back. Acting on instinct, he raised his hand and called out, his voice holding more than a hint of desperation.

"Hawke!"

But it was too late, he knew. There was no time to do anything. Hawke had already crossed the distance to the Well, already leapt into the air with a lethal grace all his own, already passed the point of no return. For a moment, a tiny eternity wrapped in the fraction of an instant, he looked up and met Dorian's gaze, and in that moment Dorian could feel Hawke as intimately as if their hands were joined as one.

In the next moment, however, Hawke was gone, vanished into the Well of Sorrows with barely a ripple.

A shocked silence hung over the glade for a moment before Varric gave voice to what everyone was thinking. "Well, shit."