Rhyanon stalks the halls of the tower like a ghost. She begins to look forward to the brutal training sessions that drain her completely and leave her too exhausted to feel much of anything.

Jowan shies away from her, in the very rare times that circumstances force them together at all. It seems like their friendship is fraying without Anders there to bind them together – or maybe it's just too weird for him to talk about the thing that had happened between them.

"I don't blame you, you know?" she whispers softly, one day when she has him cornered in the hallway outside the dorms. He glares at her. "What, are we supposed to pretend it never happened?"

"Most people do," he grunts.

"Yeah, well, I'm not most people. Neither are you."

She swipes at the tears that aren't falling, and draws herself up on tiptoe, trying to bring herself to his level. She wonders how she never noticed how much taller Jowan is. "Come on," she begs softly.

He shakes his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because," he answers shakily. "Because you deserve someone better than me."

"Maybe," she concedes. "But you're all I've got."

"Don't say that," he insists. "Please, Rhyanon, don't."

She shrugs. "It's true, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer. She's not sure that she expected him to.

She watches him disappear down the tightly spiraling corridor, giving him several long seconds to change his mind and turn back. But he doesn't.

So she pushes her way into the dorms, empty now, in the middle of the afternoon. She curls up on her bed. She doesn't even care that someone might walk in and see her. Like everyone else in the tower, she gave up on the expectation of privacy long ago. She slips her hand between her legs and tries to fill the aching emptiness.

Anders can say what he wants, but she's never been jealous of him. Well, maybe the fact that he can just find people who want to have sex with him, and then walk away without it seeming to matter. She'd say it's just a guy thing – that seems to be the general consensus among the girls, when she totally-isn't-on-purpose listening to them in the bathroom. But sex matters to Jowan, obviously, because things are nothing but weird between them now. She tries, and fails, to satisfy even physical needs, which should be easy enough. Maybe she's doing it wrong. It's not like there's anybody she can ask.

She scowls, rearranging her robes and dragging out some textbooks, pretending to study. It's an easy way to be left alone. The problem is, she doesn't want to be left alone. But she's spent enough time saying that she does that people believe her now. It's a comfortable arrangement. Messing with it would just cause problems.

She hears a quiet tromping, and she can't help the sudden pickup of her heart rate. She knows what armored boots sound like, even if the templar currently passing by is trying to be oddly polite about interuppting her. She glances up, and wraps her fingers tightly around the leather-bound spine of the book in her lap. Her hair is a wild mess around her face, falling out of the tie that she'd started the day with. She doesn't have time to fix it. Not that she wants to. Why would she want to?

She clears her throat softly, trying to clear the blockage she feels, a nervous closed-up reflex that makes it too hard to breathe. She waits for the templar to walk by. But he doesn't.

He watches her instead, with those dark brown eyes, soft and... worried. Neither of them speak. He won't stop looking at her, but somehow it feels different than when the other templars stare. It's still uncomfortable, because she knows this one. Not his name, not anything about him. Except that he was there, holding her still when she wanted to fight. Refusing to let her get hurt. She scratches at the still-healing scar at her shoulder without realizing she's doing it. She stops immediately as soon as the templar speaks.

"Are you... alright?" he asks softly.

She glares at him. She can feel the tension running all through her body, It doesn't dissipate. If anything, it only grows more noticeable. She feels like she can barely keep herself from squirming. She shows nothing on the outside.

The man looks away before their eyes meet, and Rhyanon can hear his footsteps hurrying down the empty halls, echoing off the stone.

The encounter, if it can be called that – was it an unspoken conversation? Was it anything? - leaves her rattled.

She leaves her books in a messy pile on her unmade bed and goes wandering the tower's spiraling halls. She can't get away from the templars, not anywhere, not ever, but at least she doesn't have to sit alone haunted by memories and unanswerable questions.

She finds one of the training rooms, with targets set up for her to throw fire and lightning at. The place feels bigger and emptier now than it ever has when she's been down here with classmates and teachers, watching her every move. But there are other people here. Real mages, who she watches as she hovers in the doorway. They look strong and powerful. Their mana pulls at hers, she can feel the resonance inside her. And she becomes aware, almost immediately, that there is some kind of clarity to her way of seeing and feeling that they just don't have. They're trying too hard. They're doing it wrong.

Without thinking, she's stepped nearly to the middle of the room. One of the Harrowed mages clears his throat. He narrows his eyes, and studies her. "What're you doing here, kid?"

Rhyanon snorts. There is an age gap between them – he must be at least thirty, but Rhyanon doesn't feel intimidated by adults. She never has.

"Aw, Stephen, let her try," a young woman says. Her voice sounds almost like laughter, a soft lilt. Orlesian, maybe, Rhyanon thinks. She's old too – old enough that Rhyanon doesn't know her. She was probably Harrowed already by the time Rhyanon came to the Tower.

Now that they are watching her, Rhyanon feels like this has suddenly become some sort of test. She shakes her head. "I'll just watch," she says quietly. "If that's okay."

"Wait, I know you," the man says. "You're Irving's little genius."

"I guess," Rhyanon replies. An answer that doesn't mean anything.

"Let me see what you can do," he presses.

Rhyanon is still tense, alert to everything. She analyzes the targets they've set up, she can see and feel the invisible lines that echo the power they've woven and spun in this room recently. That constant presence of magic makes the space feel warmer than it should. It's one of the few places in the tower that always feels alive. Maybe that's why she comes here.

"I don't know the rules," she points out cautiously.

He rolls his eyes, making it a challenge.

The Orlesian woman smiles. Even her smile is soft, somehow. But she must be stronger than she appears. She's here, isn't she? "Nobody's watching you," she points out. Well, they are, but Rhyanon knows what she means. No templars. They are close, they're never far away. But these two are Harrowed. There's no threat of punishment. Not for practicing wrong.

Rhyanon sighs. "Fine," she announces. She knows she sounds sullen and defensive and like a teenage girl, determined to prove herself. But that's better than not proving herself. Isn't it?

Fire comes easy to her, so she starts with that. She spins cracking flames between her hands, watching them dance and leap in ever more complex patterns. Control is easy when the product of her mana remains in contact with her body. It looks impressive, but it's functionally useless. And she knows she can do better than that.

She glances at Stephen, making sure he's clear of the path between her and the target. Then she takes a deep breath, and launches her fireball. It coalesces as it travels toward the magically-fireproofed dummy. The crackling weaves of flame are now condensed into a tight, quickly spinning sphere about the size of her closed fist. It impacts solidly, flattening against the dummy's chest, flaring out in a burst of bright light and leaving nothing behind but a darkened smear of ash.

She turns around and smirks at Stephen and the Orlesian woman.

"Not bad," the woman concedes.

Stephen rolls his eyes. "Fight her," he dares his companion.

"She is a child."

"She'll be Harrowed soon."

Rhyanon licks her lips. "Really?" Her internal walls, suspiscion and questions, flare up immediately.

"What do you think?" Stephen asks her sarcastically.

Rhyanon nods. She knows he's right. She's ready. It's something she can feel, and she can see it in the way Irving looks at her, too. Her stomach clenches in fear., but she pushes it down easily enough. It isn't overwhelming fear, just her familiar constant companion, a quick flutter of butterfly wings against her insides. After a moment, she doesn't even notice it anymore.

"What's it like?" she asks softly.

"The Harrowing?" Stephen clarifies needlessly. Rhyanon nods. "You know I can't tell you that."

The Orlesian woman trails her fingers lightly down Rhyanon's arm. "Don't worry about it," she insists, in her musical tones.

She fights much more gracefully than the brutal warmages Rhyanon normally trains with. There are no viscious attacks that will kill her if she doesn't protect herself quickly enough or retaliate with equal strength. Instead, this woman is smooth and subtle. She distracts Rhyanon with sparks of dancing light, drawing her attention away before she comes at her with a knife so sharp that Rhyanon doesn't even feel it until she becomes aware of the blood painting her stomach. She frowns. "That's not -"

The Orlesian laughs. "Are you going to ask for fairness, girl? You know better." She lashes out with her open hand and attempts to slap Rhyanon's exposed skin. Rhyanon ducks away, and the Orlesian woman grins. "Good." She stops the fight as suddenly as she'd begun it. This is a game to her, easy enough to break away from. But the abrupt end to the challenge makes Rhyanon feel dangerously unsettled. She perches on the balls of her feet and glares at the targets around her. Unspent mana coils close around her skin. Rhyanon breathes in out, in slow, practiced exhalations. "I can see why Irving likes you," the Orlesian woman purrs. "You're smart. You don't make many mistakes."

"Thanks?"

"Don't get cocky," Stephen warns.

"Because pride is a dangerous sin?" Rhyanon spits back sarcastically.

"Because you'll get killed."

He hands Rhyanon a canteen full of water. She drinks greedily. She tries to work the tension out of her muscles. It doesn't help much. The exhaustion of draining mana in a session like this one doesn't have much of a physical source, but that doesn't make it any less of a problem. More of one, actually. "Thanks," she says aloud. For the water. And for the fight. "Most people tend to... ignore me, I guess," she points out. She hadn't expected anyone to pull her away from her lurking in the shadows. But she feels better now that someone has.

"Don't mention it," Stephen replies.

Rhyanon nods, and sips more slowly this time. She watches these two adults, who seem like they're on a level she'll never reach, and wonders what their secrets are.

She remembers old conversations with Wynne, and curiosity flickers inside her. She does feel better. Calmer, now that she's worked out some of her agression, and given an outlet to some of the tension inside of her.

"Have you guys ever left the Tower?" she asks eagerly.

Stephen looks away, enough to make Rhyanon guarded. She's afraid of his answer even before he gives it. "Yeah," he answers gruffly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he tells her flatly. It's obvious that, as far as he's concerned, the conversation is closed. She won't push him. It would be extremely hypocritical, wouldn't it? She knows about secrets.

She nods, and gets to her feet. "Do you think I could train with you again?" she finally asks cautiously. She wonders why she hadn't thought of it before. It's another unspoken rule of the tower, an invisible barrier, enforced by tradition if not law: apprentices just don't mix with Harrowed mages. They don't have anything in common. The Harrowing is a one-way line, you don't go backwards from it. But she's already broken that rule with Anders, even if it feels different with him because he breaks every other rule.

Stephen nods. "I think I'd like that."

He walks her to the apprentice dorms, smiling the whole while. Rhyanon wonders why she feels guilty when she catches Jowan watching them. She's allowed to have friends. Just because she doesn't, that doesn't mean she's not allowed to. She's supposed to have friends. Normal people do, even in the Tower.

Rhyanon slips off her bed after a few moments, looking to catch up with Jowan, but he's already gone. Which she figures is just as well because she knows she'd be tempted to apologize to him and she didn't even do anything wrong. She feels good about her newfound confidence and her friend-making ability for about as long as it takes her to wake up in the middle of the night and notice that Jowan's bunk is still empty. She can't fall back to sleep. There's a sense of something-wrong, a foreboding that squeezes against every muscle in her body.

She manages – barely – to stay in bed until the gray predawn light starts creeping in the the faraway, too high windows of the apprentice dorms. That light doesn't quite reach her bed, which is still shrouded in shadow, but it's enough to gauge the time. She can justify her inability to sit still now. She can get up without arousing suspicion.

Her twitchy need to get away combines awkwardly with the weight of her worry, slowing down her steps as she heads for Irving's office. That uncertainty keeps her from barging in, and it's the reason she's standing there stupidly in front of the door when Jowan throws it open. He doesn't even acknowledge her, just walks past her like she's not even there.

Rhyanon frowns at him, stranded halfway in and halfway out of the room, for what feels like a long time, before Irving tells her to shut the door.

"What was that about?" she asks carefully. It's too early. Most days Jowan's still asleep at this hour. She should be too. Even in something as pointless as this, she can't help but be constantly aware of what she's supposed to do or not do.

"I can't tell you," Irving replies simply.

Rhyanon crosses her arms over her chest. "You tell me everything."

"Do you really think that?" Irving asks, as he raises an eyebrow.

"No," Rhyanon admits. "But it's Jowan."

Irving frowns, and puts his hand on her shoulder. She almost pulls it away. She's not a little kid anymore, easily comforted. "What's wrong?" she asks forcefully. It's obvious that something is wrong. But something is always wrong. What else is new?

Her stomach hurts when she recognizes his hesitation. There's a continuum of wrong in the Tower, running from 'always-every day' to 'really, dangerously wrong.' And she can tell from the look in Irving's eyes, from the way he won't let go of her, that this is the latter.

"Tell me," she insists.

"I can't."

Her heart starts thundering beneath her ribcage, beating so quickly that she can feel it hurting inside, squeezing. Rhyanon wraps her arms tightly around herself to prevent her body from breaking. She trembles, fighting the intensity of her own fear. "Is it Anders?" she whispers. "Did something happen?"

Irving holds her gaze for a long moment that only makes her fear grow more intense. The First Enchanter finally shakes his head. "Jowan has asked for the Rite of Tranquility," he says. His voice shakes just a little.

The words don't register at first, but as she processes the sounds into sentence and meaning, the cold shock of it feels physical. Every part of her body protests violently against the idea. Her skin feels too tight. Her insides feel too heavy. She tries to force this to make sense, and can't. The idea slips away from her grasp, it won't settle. She won't let it settle. She won't let it happen!

"You can't do this!" Rhyanon screams desperately. "You can't."

"He asked," Irving tells her gently.

"Liar! It's your fault!" She flails against him, helplessly, trusting that he'll let her. She doesn't really hurt him, she's not thinking enough for that. "You don't think he's good enough, you never have." She glares at the First Enchanter. "He's better than you think," she demands. "He won't fail."

"It's not my decision to make."

"I hate you!"

Irving doesn't look at her. He doesn't chastise her for screaming at him. He doesn't say anything at all. It makes Rhyanon feel even worse. If he would argue with her, she might feel like she had even a small chance of changing things. Like it wasn't already a lost cause.

She doesn't know when it happens. They never know. She remembers the girl in the library her first weeks here. She's probably still there, but Rhyanon finds she can't remember anymore. She doesn't look for the Tranquil. They fade into the background. She doesn't want Jowan to fade into the background, but he will, because that's what being Tranquil means, and she hates him for making that choice and she hates herself because she's making his choice about her and how she'll feel.

She feels impossibly guilty. Why couldn't she change his mind? Why didn't he tell her?

She can't even ask him, because she's alone and she doesn't want to be alone. It scares her more than anything, but she can't even tell anyone how she really feels. The only people she might tell have already proven that they can't help her.

She survives the day, somehow, moving on muscle memory. That night, when she goes to the dorms, it's without any hope of anything getting better.

She tucks herself into the shadowed corner where Anders' bunk meets the wall. She glances up, through the gaps of light created by the temporary removal of Jowan's mattress from the bed above her. There are other apprentices in the dorms, but their chatter doesn't touch her. Her fingers scrape the deep, splintered grooves in the wood where Anders had hacked with a pocket knife when he was bored.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears footsteps; too close and too quiet. Her heart catches in her throat when she realizes that it's Jowan. He looks the same, except... calmer. Steady. More confident somehow. She swallows hard, and stares at him. She knows she probably shouldn't, but she can't help herself. His eyes hold hers – that never used to happen. She already misses his nervous stammer, and his gentle awkwardness.

"You promised," she demands. The words come out soft, despite their force.

It doesn't matter that no one can hear them, all their old promises have been broken anyway.

He had promised – all three of them had, one night when they were drinking down in the kitchens. They'd agreed that Tranquility was no kind of life, that they'd rather die if it ever came to that. But even then, there'd been a certain hesitation. As if none of them were sure. Anders wouldn't meet her eyes. Jowan didn't drink. And Rhyanon's stomach hurt because she wasn't sure what she was supposed to say. It felt like her best friends were fighting even though they weren't. It felt like she was losing something she couldn't get back. Even though she hadn't yet.

"It is an acceptable outcome," Jowan tells her. She punches him, hard, in the arm, and the pain registers on his features, but he says nothing. She can almost read the thoughts sorting themselves through his brain, coming to the logical conclusion that saying something wouldn't change the pain he feels. She punches him again.

"Please stop," he says emotionlessly. She stops.

She feels guilty. Jowan doesn't. Jowan doesn't feel anything.

Rhyanon falls asleep, and her dreams tangle up in a twisted landscape that haunts her even though she can't remember any of it when she wakes up.

She goes back to the training room, following a path of least resistance. She's not looking for Stephen. She's not looking for anyone. But he's there.

She remembers his promise to practice with her, to help her get ready for her Harrowing. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. But he wouldn't know that. How could he?

"Were you waiting for me?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head, letting his messy curls fall into his eyes. "No. But I'm not sorry you're here."

She nods. It feels so awkward, standing in front of him. Like he can see everything that's wrong with her, without her even saying a word.

It's only the two of them. It's early, before dawn, before the Chantry service. She didn't even know you could come down here at this time of day. But who'll stop them? She hates this time of morning, but she's always up anyway. Too many years of being forced into it. And now, when he might be left alone, as she is when she skips class or wanders the tower's mostly empty halls, there are too many bad dreams. She gets only restless snatches of sleep and wakes up far sooner than she wants or needs to.

She pushes past the tiredness and forces herself to focus. The room seems almost silent. Rhyanon can hear little more than their breathing and the occasional crackle of lightning as she lets the sparks play between her fingers. She doesn't wait for Stephen's permission this time. She almost dares him to throw something at her. She can feel the equal-and-opposite tension of both of their mana, wrapped around them, pushing off each other and filling the space of the room.

Stephen puts up a shield first, a magical wall that she has no hope of breaking through. She doesn't try to. Instead, She throws pure, unshaped mana at his feet, telekinetic force that sends him crashing to the ground. He scrambles back up quickly, but she's bought herself time. He's stronger than she is, physically, but she's better with magic. It takes her less time to cast, she doesn't have to think about it nearly as much. Things just flow, before she's even aware of what she wants. Lightning flows into fire, and she launches it at the targets painting the wall, dodging easily as Stephen attempts to distract her. She sticks her tongue out at him, and he takes advantage of her momentary loss of focus, wrapping his fingers in a tight lock around her wrist. A surge of electricity jolts through her nerves – not enough to damage her, just enough to feel.

"Ow!" she snaps. "What in the Void is wrong with you?!"

Stephen only laughs, and that gives her permission to hurt him back. She doesn't worry about defense, or shielding herself. She just attacks. It feels so damned good to just let go of everything.

He holds his own. He's strong enough not to let her hurt him. He defends himself with magic more than physically, most of them do. He's cocky, and he lets her be cocky too. He stretches her abilities far more than her usual trainers, who force her to do what they say, with the templars constantly right on top of her, threatening punishment at even a hint of a mistake.

"Come on, Amell, hit me!" Stephen yells.

She shakes her head. She has to wait until he's not ready, until he doesn't expect it. She can feel the pressure of his mana, coiled potential waiting to be unleashed. She holds her breath, and tries to calculate. She can't predict what he might do, but she also can't stop herself from trying to predict him.

He watches her too. She can feel his eyes tracking every subtle shift of movement that might telegraph her intentions. She knows he expects her to go at him with magic. She thinks about it, and she doesn't think about it. The power flowing through her veins wants to be unleashed. But she controls it, and she throws herself at Stephen instead, with her whole body.

She pins him to the ground, clawing and kicking, raging not so much against him as against everything wrong that she can't fight against.

Stephen grabs her wrists and locks them above her head, but he lets her win. He lets go of her suddenly, and tells her that he forfeits. He laughs as he does so, making it a game despite the reality of the deadly forces they've both been playing with. Their fire may be conjured, but it still burns. That's the point.

Rhyanon rolls away of him and takes a few moments to catch her breath. Stephen gets up first. He walks across the room, and takes a couple of towels from a nearby bench before throwing one at her. She stands up to, towel in hand, and walks over to him.

"Not bad, kid," he concedes.

"I'm not a kid," she demands.

Stephen wipes the worst of the sweat from his face and sits down, keeping his limbs loose and relaxed, looking almost meditative. He nods. "No," he agrees calmly. "You're not."

Rhyanon, relaxes too, although in reality it's more like letting exhaustion overtake her. She shivers as her sweat dries slowly against her skin. Stephen wraps his arm around her, and she lets him. She clings to his warmth and his solidity. He's so close to her that it feels like he's breathing with her lungs. She can feel the puffs of air against the back of her neck as he exhales. He kisses her softly. Rhyanon tenses up, for just a few heartbeats, a hiccup in their tandem breathing. If Stephen notices, he shows no sign.

"I thought you had a thing for the Orlesian," Rhyanon mumbles, as he plays with her hair. She wants to sound suspicious, but it comes out slurred and sleepy.

"Marie?" He laughs and shakes his head. "No way. Absolutely not."

"But she's... better for you."

"Why? Because she's older than you?"

Rhyanon nods. "How old are you?" she asks. Her voice sounds soft and strained.

"Twenty-eight," he tells her. His callused fingers trace up her bare skin, playing with the hem of her robes, gathering in loose pools of fabric at her elbow.

"That's not that old."

"It's ancient," he teases.

Rhyanon slaps his hand lightly. Stephen ignores her, or seems to. But Rhyanon suddenly realizes that the gentle patter of his fingers on her skin has suddenly disappeared. Though his warm skin still rests on hers, he doesn't push. "I can stop, if you want to," he says softly. "I can... we can pretend this never happened." He makes sure she's looking him in the eye.

Rhyanon shakes her head. The way he says it makes it clear that he's done it before. But Rhyanon still wants to believe that she's special. Or else, she's just beyond caring. She so desperately wants to be beyond caring.

She pushes herself up onto her knees, but she cannot summon the strength to stand up or run away. She's paralyzed by indecision, pulled apart by want and don't want. "No," she insists, in a broken whine. "Don't stop. I want..." she starts to hiccup, to almost cry.

"Hey," Stephen whispers. He traces his thumb underneath her eye, catching her tears. Her eyelashes tickle his fingers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just..." She shakes her head. "I can't."

"Okay."

"It's not you."

"It's okay," he repeats. He starts to pull away from her, but she grabs him.

She clings to him, she won't let go. "It's just that every time..." she shrugs, sobbing helplessly in his arms. "People always get taken away from me."

Stephen doesn't try to tell her that she's wrong. He just holds her. "Talk to me," he says softly. "Just... talk. I'll listen."

She doesn't talk; she freezes up in his arms. But he lets her freeze. He holds her, and whispers soothing words. His fingers trace over her skin, calming her. He might be manipulating her emotions with magic so subtle that she can't even tell for sure. She doesn't mind. It's been so long since she hasn't felt like everything is falling apart around her.

Stephen's fingers suddenly stop exploring, and Rhyanon's stomach clenches as she realizes that he's pulling down the collar of her shirt, revealing the whiplash cutting across her shoulder. She'd forgotten about it. She forgets about it all the time. It doesn't seem like a big deal anymore. But Stephen traces the scar, and hisses angrily. She shrugs him off, and covers it again. "It's not a big deal," she demands.

"If you say so."

"I'm just gonna go... I have to study."

"You don't have to lie to me, you know."

She sighs. "I know. I'm... sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just tell me the truth."

"The truth is... I need space. It's not you."

He kisses the top of her forehead gently, sending a spike of fiery guilt running through her whole body. "I know," he whispers. "It's this place."

Rhyanon nods. At least he understands.