Cullen walked along the top of a fallen tree a few yards into the woods around the clearing where they'd set up their barricade across the road, feeling his shield lightly thud against his back with each step. The trunk trembled ever so slightly beneath his weight, though it would hold him. As he reached one end, he spun lithely and began pacing the other way, gaze flicking toward their blockade and then to the east.

Thane Blackwall was equally restless as he paced between a few frozen trees, boots crunching a worn line into the snow and his arms crossed as he peered into the distance. The entire field itself was only about two hundred yards across in any direction.

Night was falling and there had been no sign of this mysterious carriage. Each of them had brought a dozen warriors, and Cullen couldn't help but feel that this could have easily been dealt with by the Shadow Wolves alone. The fake Avvar had been little more than common thieves, untrained and slow. He'd been surprised half of them knew which ends of their swords to hold.

He'd always heard that lowlanders were weak, but this had been downright pathetic.

The whole thing stunk of deception, and a poor one at that.

His gaze wandered down to where Thane Blackwall had stopped, leaning forward to peer out into the encroaching shadows. He was waiting for a signal from one of his scouts that whoever they were waiting for was almost there.

A puff of air plumed in front of Cullen's face, and he scowled. No one was coming.

Part of Cullen wanted to ask if this whole expedition had been one of Mia's brilliant ideas to bring the clans closer. Husband and brother, working together to stop the vile lowlanders from some awful scheme that as of yet, made not a fleck of sense.

"What exactly is it that these lowlanders want from you?"

Thane Blackwall's shoulders tensed a little before he trotted over to where Cullen was still pacing. While Cullen stopped and glanced down, Thane Blackwall simply turned so that he was again facing the east. "Not a clue."

"Then why are we here?" Cullen snapped.

"Because they want us involved," the other thane retorted. He scratched at his neck and motioned along the road. "They've been hitting my hunters' camps, stealing pieces of clothing, weapons. They even killed one of my men when they were caught." He pointed toward the bodies that had been dragged off toward the northern tree line, waiting to be burned. They'd held off, not wanting the fire to signal whoever was coming that things might have gone sideways. "They want people to think that this, whatever this is, is an Avvar raid."

"Why?"

With a bark of a laugh, Thane Blackwall shook his head. "You really need to ask? They're spineless. They want to do something wrong, but know that they'll get punished. So instead, they point the blame to us and head off merrily on their way. Has to be pretty damned important for this long of a setup, though."

Silence settled betwixt them, the shadows growing longer with each passing minute.

"Haven't we already stopped whatever this was? We killed the thieves."

"I would like to know what they wanted so badly that they spent the last half of a year stealing gear from my people to get."

Cullen's brow shot up. He hadn't realized the problem had been so ongoing.

"So…what? You think they wanted a shipment of something for themselves or…?"

"If I knew the details, I would tell you," Thane Blackwall replied, a slight hint of irritation in his voice.

"Perhaps they were simple bandits, trying to strike fear into whoever might pass."

Thane Blackwall's expression tightened, though he merely looked toward the east again. "If that were the case, they'd have waited for summer, and they wouldn't have been organized enough to keep stealing from me."

"I never said they were smart bandits, and perhaps a wayward God was on their side, granting them luck," Cullen muttered. He resumed his pacing on his tree trunk. "If I go home to find my hold raided, I'm coming for yours."

"Be careful word doesn't get back to Mia. She'll be organizing raids just to get you to show your face," Thane Blackwall called back, tapping one of his boots into the frozen ground.

"Thane Magicsbane," a stern woman's voice called out to Cullen before he could think of a witty retort. He paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder to see his chief warrior stop at the base of the fallen tree. She crossed her arms as she met his gaze, back rigid, shoulders squared. A rough scar ran along her left cheek, with a fresher one scraped into the skin below her right eye. Her dark hair was cut short, and it fluttered as a cold gust of wind swept through the trees. "We are certain they are coming from the east?"

Both Cullen and his fellow thane turned to face her fully, frowns in place. Thane Blackwall answered her. "That's what the thief said." When neither of them seemed satisfied with his answer, he rolled his eyes. "I would assume the two of you would have more faith in one of your own. After all, it was Mia who got him to talk."

The woman's gaze slid toward Thane Blackwall before she returned her attention to Cullen, addressing only him. "If this is the case, we may have a complication."

Cullen swung himself down to land beside his warrior, arching a brow as he looked westward. "What is it, Cassandra?"

"We found an old lowlander outpost a few miles down the road, and it looks like someone's there."

"That's been there for ages," Thane Blackwall interrupted, dismissing their concern. "Merchants and the like tend to stop there and rest up before making the long run through the mountain passes to the east. They won't head this way this late."

Though her fingers twitched toward her blade, Cassandra continued, "They are well armed, and at a glance, better trained than the fools who were here."

"Were they camped for the night?" Thane Blackwall asked, stressing his earlier point. When Cassandra reluctantly nodded, he shrugged. "So long as we're cleared out by morning, it shouldn't be a problem then."

However, Cullen was not so quick to dismiss the coincidence. While Thane Blackwall might deal with lowlanders more frequently than they did, this was already proving to be anything but ordinary. He nodded toward Cassandra, crossing his arms. "You think they're involved?" When she shrugged, he looked back at Thane Blackwall. "Perhaps we should send a few more scouts to the west."

"It's really not necessary."

"I'd rather not risk my men. There's no honor in getting slaughtered in a lowlander's trap."

His fellow thane scowled, glaring down one length of the road and then the other. However, even as he considered it, one of the Shadow Wolf warriors darted up to him and pointed out toward the eastern edge of the clearing.

"They're here."

Cullen and Cassandra both sunk closer to the ground, moving to the nearest trees to watch as a light flickered just in the tree line at the eastern edge of the clearing. The way the road had been laid, it followed the natural contours of the land, curving sharply before entering the empty, rocky expanse, with the woods marching close on either side. By the time a carriage rounded that bend and saw their blockade, their scouts in the woods would be behind it, there to make sure they couldn't even attempt to turn back.

Even without the scouts, though, the road wound so much that it would have been impossible for a carriage to turn around before this clearing.

In the dim light, they could barely see the shape of horseback riders coming into view. Two, then four, then six. The first ones noticed the blockade and called for the others to slow before cautiously advancing, weapons drawn. The other four riders moved forward to allow a carriage to get further into the clearing—likely so that it couldn't be caught and ransacked in the tree line. Eight more riders followed it in, the guard moving around to encircle the carriage, heads turning constantly as they scanned the area.

Thane Blackwall swung a horn around in his hand, glancing toward Cullen as he headed a bit further into the woods to where their mounts waited. "Looks like that's all of them. Ready to see what's worth so much that they intended to blame us?"

…-…

You love me, don't you?

Emotional blackmail was what that was.

Katrina clung to herself as her boots crunched into the snow, cursing to the Maker under her breath. Her riding leathers and leather overcoat were ripped and dirty, there would be no saving this shirt, her feet and legs were sore from running, and she was fucking cold.

If her mother heard her right now, she would be in tears, no doubt attempting to beat her with whatever priceless trinket was at hand, crying about how such words should never leave a lady's mouth.

However, even her mother would have probably let slip a foul word or two, if she saw Katrina's hair.

Maker, her hair had been her pride, all long and silky, falling all the way down her back in perfect, straight locks. And now it was a wretched mass of white-blonde tangles that she was sure she'd never get out. It might not have been so bad if she hadn't put it up right before she'd started running and then gotten it caught on every damnable branch in this forest. Well, she might have missed one.

At this rate, she was going to have to shave her head—and even if that was popular at the moment, she hadn't spent years growing her hair out to chop it all off just because of some Orlesian bastard.

Indeed, she had a great many things to curse about. Though…at least the chevaliers hadn't seemed to have found that she was missing yet. Or if they had, they were still a ways behind her. That had to count for something. When they'd locked her in the upstairs of that old watch post, they must not have known that she'd been climbing out windows since she was eight.

Before she'd left, she'd paused to eavesdrop at the base of the window—while she did her hair, actually. Despite a distinct and growing disdain for Orlais, at least the people there seemed incapable of speaking with their voices down. The sheer number of secrets she'd come across in Val Royeaux whilst pausing next to drawing room doors was ridiculous.

Though she'd wanted to listen in on all of her captors' plans, run away to Fereldan, and then expose to the world the sordid web of lies that the Comte de Forseau was weaving, she doubted she was going to make it that far.

Most likely she was going to be eaten by a bear.

Which would be the perfect ending for this detestable day.

You love me, don't you? Amelia had asked. Katrina could still see her twin's face, softer, rounder features than Katrina's twisted with trepidation, hazel eyes wide and breath held as she waited for an answer.

Of course she loved her. They were sisters. Twins. Just because they were different—Amelia was older by seven minutes, and had accepted a ladylike upbringing so that she could marry well and make the family proud while Katrina had sort of put an effort in, though not enough of one for it to be counted by, well, anyone—didn't mean that she didn't love her.

Katrina adored her. She wished her every happiness, every smile, every hope and dream that Amelia had kept hidden for all these damnable years.

However, that hardly meant that she wanted to be fleeing for her life through a foreign countryside from soldiers sent by a man bent on ruining her entire family simply because Amelia had decided in the last days before her wedding that she would rather forsake her family name and run away.

Really?

Really?

Who actually did that?

If the matter had just been handled properly, all of this could have been avoided. Amelia could have been more forward about her feelings. Katrina would have happily stood with her against their parents, demanding her sister's freedom to do as she pleased. Their brothers would have likely defended her, too…or at least Clarence would have.

Clarence…

Katrina bit her lip, brow dipping low over her eyes as she glared ahead. Everything was spiraling into the void.

So many things should have been done differently. Their father could have properly vetted Amelia's fiancé. If he'd even given the man more than a halfhearted glance, he would have seen him for the sociopath he was.

In fairness, it seemed that most nobility in Orlais suffered some level of sociopathy, so the Comte de Forseau was hardly special in that regard. Still. Blame was to be had by someone. If not her father, then perhaps simply Orlais. What decent country claimed a game of murder, intrigue, and financially and socially ruining one another as their favorite pastime?

At least in Starkhaven the nobles had been more upfront about their vindictive tendencies. In Starkhaven, if you pissed off another noble house, they sent the Chantry after you. Those sisters could beat the sin out of a demon with a mere look of disappointment. And the prince… Maker, he could be a scary sort. So nice, yet so, so, so cold.

Now was hardly the time to concern herself with Starkhaven politics.

If she could just get into Fereldan territory, maybe she could claim asylum. Maybe she could find a nice little boat captain to take her back across the Waking Sea to her beloved Free Marches.

She'd cycled through so many maybes in the past several hours, and none of them did anything to help her situation at present.

A noise echoed through the woods, drawing her out of her thoughts, and she ducked to the ground, eyes wide. As her fingers splayed into the snow to support her weight, she had to bite back a hiss. The snowflakes felt like little needles stabbing into her skin. Why couldn't she have worn gloves?

And honestly, it wasn't like ducking would actually help. She was wearing fucking green in the middle of winter. It was a dark green, and with night falling, it likely looked gray or black in the poor lighting, but…still. She should have worn something more blasé.

Though, if she'd known she was going to be running for her life through the woods, she likely would have concerned herself with making a few other choices differently that didn't involve attire.

It hardly mattered anyway, in the long run. She doubted bears would care what color her clothes were as they ate her.

Such a vile day.

Year, really, though this particular day—really it was more of the accumulation of the last week that made this day all the worse—had easily put the rest of the events leading up to this moment to shame.

And it had all started with those abominable words.

You love me, don't you?

At the moment, she'd be hard pressed to say yes…

As she listened, waiting to hear what direction her doom was coming from, the noise sounded again, and she felt like someone had sucker punched her in the gut.

It wasn't a bear.

Well, not unless they sounded almost exactly like horses.

Had the chevaliers been toying with her all this time? Was she already circled? The sound was coming from up ahead, and she almost tried a different direction. However, she couldn't say what stopped her, really, but something did. Perhaps she was just coming to terms with her fate. Perhaps she just thought that being stabbed by chevaliers was better than starving to death in the woods or, again, bears.

Indeed, it would be better to face her captors with a modicum of pride—one might assume that, as disheveled as she was, trying to present oneself with dignity would be impossible, but, as her mother always said, Katrina was excellent at standing proud when she oughtn't to.

And so she stayed her course, heading toward those soft whinnies and an occasional shuffle of hooves.

As she drew closer to the sounds, she couldn't help wondering if perhaps she'd finally cursed enough times in the Maker's name that he'd noticed and decided to pay her a bit of attention.

She could see a horse through the trees. One with reins and a saddle. And, most importantly of all, no rider.

Part of her mind screamed that this was a trap. That part quickly lost out to the part that was tired of being cold and miserable and on foot. She crept forward, each crunch of her boots making her cringe. What if the owner of the horse was nearby and heard her? What if this was some poor innocent traveler, who needed that horse?

Granted, this was the backwoods of Orlais, the edge of the Frostback Mountains. Anyone in this area was likely here for something very illegal.

As she drew closer, that beautiful hope that had dared to bubble up inside of her began to run dry. There were two horses, and what looked like a dozen or more tents. She didn't bother counting in the dimming light. Even as she wondered if it would be better to run the other way after all—with enough adrenaline in her system, maybe she could take on a bear or two—she realized that the camp was silent.

All but one of the fires had been doused, and that one was near the center of the cluster of tents. Huddling near a tree, she had to fight the urge to get close enough to feel the gentle aura of warmth from those dancing flames.

After all, she doubted the two gentlemen seated beside it would be interested in company…and if they were, it probably wouldn't be the kind she'd want to offer.

Maker, they didn't seem to want each other's company, either.

They sat on opposite sides of the fire, pretending the other didn't exist. One of them was fiddling with a knife and a block of wood, and the other was eating an apple—and seeming to enjoy it a great deal, as though he weren't accustomed to such treats at this time of year.

Both of their faces twisted into scowls every time they looked up, however, and she had to wonder why anyone would leave two people who so clearly despised one another alone to…guard their camp, or whatever they were doing.

Past them, on the other side of the camp, she could see other horses. She could just barely make out their outlines in the growing shadows, but they didn't seem to have any saddles on them. They also looked a bit smaller than the two she'd snuck towards, though that could have easily been a trick of the shadows.

However, the point was they had a lot of horses, so surely they wouldn't miss one. If she took one of the saddled ones…it would likely be missed more quickly than one of the others. Dammit.

As she debated if she ought to try a distraction to grab one of the saddled horses, or sneak around and see if the others had gear near them that she could use, the one who had been whittling rose to his feet to stretch. The other man's head snapped up, as though he expected the first would do something heinous.

However, in that instant, Katrina felt fear curl through her as well.

Her heart sunk.

Before she'd run off into the woods, when she'd been listening to the chevaliers, one of them had been complaining about why they'd had to bring her all the way out here to kill her when they'd passed dozens of cliffs that she could have been thrown off. Another of the bastards had simply shrugged and said she was supposed to be a victim of an Avvar attack.

Why that had been so important was beyond her, but she hadn't waited to find out.

The man standing—both now that she thought to look at their clothes—was wearing what had to be Avvar gear. All this time running through the woods and she'd gone exactly where they wanted her to be.

He was dressed in fur-lined leathers. His trousers and vest looked so warm, with extra fur on his shoulders and around his neck to keep the cold out. His gloves and boots were rougher leather, but they looked warm, too. And he had a belt with leathers that hung down in front of his groin and over his rear like a loin cloth of some kind for extra warmth.

He also had a bow and quiver resting next to where he'd been sitting, with a sword hanging from his hip.

Biting her lip, she wondered how well trained they were. If she could lure one away, maybe she could steal their weapon and…

And most likely die horribly. That was easily the stupidest idea she'd come up with yet.

Ducking as low as she could, despite the aches in her muscles that protested the constant, continuous abuse, she took a few slow steps back. She could try for one of the other horses, on the edge farthest from the guards. So long as she didn't make any—

She stepped on a twig, and it cracked under her boot.

Truly, the Maker was a callous bastard.

She held her breath, waiting for the sounds of those two men coming to check on who had made the fucking noise. When she didn't hear anything, she dared to lift her head a little to peek at the campfire, praying that she didn't look up to see them staring back at her.

What she saw was so much worse.

Katrina might not have heard them, but they'd heard her. The fireside was empty.

She needed to backtrack and fast. Taking a few steps back, her gaze swept the area for any sign of either of the men. Her fingers brushed against some of the ice on a scraggly shrub poking out of the snow, but that prickle of frost hardly even registered.

It turned out that there was something colder than this atrocious weather, and that was the edge of steel suddenly pressed against the side of her neck.

Taking in a slow breath, she raised her hands up, wondering if there was even a point in surrendering.