A/N: Thank you for the heads up about the formatting mess up!

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Things could be worse…

After all, the fourth wave of lowlanders—additional chevaliers who had been called out of the woods by that damned horn—had only totaled in about six, and assuming there wasn't a fifth or sixth wave of lowlanders en route, the Avvar might still win this.

Cullen gutted the chevalier in front of him, forcing his blade up just below the bottom of the breastplate and into the man's ribcage. As he withdrew his sword with a jerk, he turned to scan the clearing. Despite the numbers, the fighting seemed to be going in the Avvar's favor.

He couldn't help the small swell of pride that brought him.

As he looked for his next adversary—most of the chevaliers were already engaged with one or more Avvar at this point—he saw something that replaced his pride with fury.

Two of the chevaliers had mounted up and were riding off, trying to escape. The Gods would forsake all the clans before Cullen let that happen.

He whistled for his steed, already running toward the east. The stallion, Gunvor, navigated the edge of the battlefield, meeting him at the road. In a flash, they were racing after the cowards. He wasn't about to let any of those deceptive bastards get away, not when his people were dying because of them.

In truth, they were dying because of Cullen, because he'd been so selfish that he'd come to terms with the fucking Shadow Wolves, just to appease his sister. His sister who had betrayed his clan. It should have been Thane Blackwall and his clan alone out here, dying for this pointless, twisted lowlander mess.

Gunvor took the swerves in the road with ease, practically flying across the frozen terrain. Cullen caught a glimpse of the chevaliers ahead before another turn in the road left trees blocking his view. The next time he caught a glimpse, he was closer.

He lowered himself further on his steed. He wouldn't let them escape.

However, the next turn led to a rather long, straight stretch of road, and Cullen could see that the chevaliers weren't fleeing at all. They werechasing the lowlander woman.

He'd told Jim—his real name was Jari Ar Thora O Lionhold, but thanks to an old accident and a long story involving proving games from years ago, everyone just called him Jim—to put the woman in the carriage, figuring that would be the safest place for her. He hadn't wanted to spare anyone to have to watch her when they were outnumbered.

While he hadn't wanted to watch her, he'd had to admit that she'd known the most about what was going on out of anyone, and Cullen had a feeling that she'd be more cooperative with them after they saved her. Thane Blackwall had overheard the order and simply grunted his approval—unlike the guard and driver, they doubted she'd be inclined to join their enemies in the fight, considering the chevaliers were there to kill her.

None of them had expected her to escape in the middle of the battle.

Weren't lowlander women supposed to be squeamish and prone to fainting at the mere thought of blood or something ridiculous like that?

The ground was clear, for the stretch, so Cullen kicked Gunvor into a faster run. As he closed the gap between them, one of the chevaliers noticed him coming up and dropped back. The knight was on the offensive as soon as he reached him. Cullen blocked the man's first attack and then slammed his shield into his face. The helmet crunched, and the chevalier cried out as he nearly tumbled off his steed. As he clung to it, Cullen managed a quick jab with his blade through a gap in his armor under his arm. The man fell off his steed and rolled across the snow before lying still, his blood soiling the pristine white.

Looking ahead, Cullen saw the other chevalier's charger had caught up to the mare the woman was riding. He swung at her with his blade, and she almost fell off the horse as she dodged to the side. She jerked back on her reins to drop behind him, and her mount panicked, rearing up and tripping on a rut in the ground, throwing her from its back.

The chevalier turned his steed, slowing it down. He had just started to swing his leg over the charger's back when he noticed the Avvar advancing on them. With a curse, he slipped his foot back into his stirrup and charged toward Cullen.

They each readied their blades. And then, as the yards closed in, Cullen abruptly shifted his grip and threw his, catching the man in the throat. The chevalier let out a startled gurgle as he fell from his steed, the horse continuing on past Cullen.

He didn't bother to retrieve his weapon just yet, instead heading after the woman. She'd managed to get to her feet, though she was favoring one of her legs. The sword she'd stolen had been thrown further than she had, and she limped after it, struggling to pick up her pace when she saw Cullen advancing toward her.

While he could have easily just ridden up and grabbed her as she limped along, he had a feeling that she'd likely dive down, only making her injuries worse. That would probably lessen her desire to assist them.

He let Gunvor slow and leapt off the horse, his swift strides easily closing the gap between the two of them. She reached the saber just before he reached her, spinning around on unsteady legs and pointing it at him. Her hands shook, her grip clumsy.

Low clouds had been blocking the second moon earlier, but as they disappeared, the two moons managed to push back the darkness, albeit barely, giving him a better view of her.

"Put it down," he instructed, his voice a bit harsher than he'd intended.

She did not.

Instead, she tried to take a few steps backwards, though her injured leg nearly gave out underneath her. She had to stop. Blood trickled down one side of her face from where she must have hit her head when she fell.

He held his hands up, palms toward her. "Put it down." When she still held her ground, he arched his eyebrows, turning slightly and taking a step that took him just barely closer. "If you do not, I will take it. That will hurt."

Her breathing was heavy as she watched him, gaze flitting toward the road, then him, the woods, then him again.

"I can out run you."

"Just let me go." She tried to limp back another step as he slowly came closer, in range that if she tried to lunge forward, she'd probably be able to get in a glancing blow before he disarmed her. He doubted she could with her leg as it was, but he'd already underestimated her once.

"Say I do," Cullen offered, stopping in his tracks. He motioned toward the road. Her horse had managed to survive its tumble unharmed and had run off. "You have no horse. You cannot walk. You have no food and no water." Frustration was twisting her features, tears glistening on her eyelashes in the moonlight as he pointed out every flaw in her plan. "If you want me to let you go, I might as well just kill you now."

She raised the sword a bit higher, that angry glare sweeping back into place. The tremors in her hands lessened, ever so slightly.

"If you want to kill me, you can work for it."

By the Mountain Father.

For a split instant, he believed that she actually could take him in a fight. There was a gleam in her eyes, a fire burning brilliantly, that dared him to even take a breath without fear for repercussion. Even with all her cuts and bruises, with blood matting some of her wild hair and leaving her face sticky and her clothes stained, she stood tall, strong and unyielding.

It was beautiful.

He stood there, mystified for a moment. Then, a slight tremor in her leg sent shivers through her, and the spell was broken. She maintained her balance, her glare, but he could see it for the façade it was. She was, after all, a mortal woman, injured and cold and desperate. That fire in her might be willing to fight on into eternity, but her body wouldn't be able to keep up.

Already, it was failing her, and that thought terrified him in a way he couldn't explain.

He resumed his slow steps toward the side. "But I don't." He paused before adding, "Want to kill you. I just want to talk."

With a scoff, she turned a little, trying to keep him in front of her. "You expect me to believe…you're just some woodland hero…in the right place at the right time?"

By the Gods, he didn't want her to die. She was already so pale, her voice wavering and cracking, her lips shivering so badly it made her accent all the worse.

She had the answers he needed, or so he told himself. The least that he could do for his fallen warriors was get what they'd come out for. With a shrug, he caught her fiery gaze and held it as he continued to circle her so very slowly. "It was an odd path that led me here."

She took in a few deep breaths, trying to keep her balance as she turned after him again. "I think I have you beat."

He kept pacing to the side, shrugging again as he watched her. This time, she turned a bit too quickly, and she hissed in pain as she agitated her leg.

That was all he needed. Darting forward, he gripped her right wrist—it seemed to be her dominant hand—and squeezed just hard enough to force her to drop the blade. At the same time, he swung around behind her, bringing his other arm up beneath hers to draw her to him and pin her folded arms against her chest as the sword fell from her grip. As it thudded into the snow, she let out a shriek, trying to kick at him with her good leg, only to have to put it back down so that her weight didn't rest on her injured one.

…-…

Katrina had been caught. Again. That was what, three times in one day? Or was it more? It was hard to remember…hard to think about anything for too long…

She'd managed to outrun the occasional city guard or disreputable kidnapper in Starkhaven for twenty some years and now… It had to be that despicable cold. It was in her too deeply, and it made her slow.

Even so, she wasn't going to give up without a damned fight.

The Avvar man who'd threatened to cut out her tongue held her against his chest, her arms locked against her. Her hip hurt so fucking much that it made her legs useless. She couldn't put her weight on it or use it, and she needed her good leg to keep her weight off the injured one. She tried to feel for a weakness in his grasp, a strained muscle she could possibly hit just right to make him let her go.

Hit him. Ha. With what? Her wit? That was about all she had left at this point, and even that was numbed by the cold.

Or perhaps it was just that immensely annoying dull pulse in her head. Each time it thumped, the world seemed to either slip in or out of focus, and it was getting even harder to concentrate.

"Enough, woman!" He barked in her ear, his other arm coming around to reinforce his hold on her. "There is no point in fighting."

Her breath came in exhausted gasps, and she felt dizzy. It took too much effort to respond. She tried to shoulder him, though that barely did anything other than make her hip hurt more from her twisting.

"I already have you." He spoke carefully, seemingly unfamiliar with the common tongue. "Just stop."

She tried to shift in his grasp, and he simply tightened his grip on her. It wasn't enough to hurt, just enough to let her know she wasn't going to be slipping free.

If she could just get in one good kick… Just one…

It wouldn't do her any good.

Even if she could get in a good kick to his manhood, she wouldn't be able to get away. She could barely make out the world in front of her anymore—there seemed to be red dripping down from the sky to her left, though that didn't make any sense. The thumping near her temple continued.

There was one horse. She could guess whose. Even if it was poorly trained, with her hip, and the way the world didn't want to stay in focus, she doubted she could get on it, let alone ride it for however long she'd need to get to Fereldan.

Without any food or water.

Maker, this was a mess.

There had to be something…anything…

It couldn't end like…this.

But then, what had she expected to happen? Clarence likely hadn't received her warning in time. And even if he had…

Abruptly, she slumped back against the Avvar man, letting her head bow forward in defeat.

She'd lost.

Of course she'd lost. The game had never been something she'd understood, never been something she should have been involved with.

"I won't hurt you. You have my word. We want…the one who set up the raid, not you."

Even as Katrina mentally sent accolades to the Orlesian bastards who had invented the Grand Game, his words somehow managed to make it through the fog beginning to settle over everything, and she slowly lifted her head. "You…are after the Comte?"

"If he is the one who tried to blame us for this raid, then yes."

Disbelieving, she let out a half laugh, though it rocked her world a bit more than it should have, and the ensuing dizziness spiraled out of control so that the whole world seemed to buck and reel. As it calmed down, she found her voice again. "Blame you…for a raid you did."

"We were not supposed to show up," he whispered in her ear. Slowly, he loosened his grip on her, slipping around to stand beside her, one arm against her back, holding her to him so that she either couldn't run or couldn't fall. Perhaps both.

"I…you're not making any sense." Katrina reached up to hold her head, frowning when her fingers came away wet and red. "Am I…bleeding?"

He didn't say anything to that, but instead stepped in front of her a little, his chest filling her blurry vision as he moved awkwardly. Slowly, she thought to look to where his hands were, and frowned when she saw he had taken off one glove and was removing the other. Even as something tried—somewhat unsuccessfully—to scream in the back of her head that something bad was about to happen, he stepped back to her side, carefully helping her to put his gloves onto her hands.

They were so warm.

Her brother, Gregory, had always groused that her affections were too easily bought, but even now she was inclined to disagree. After all, it didn't mean anything that she already wanted to hug the man who, only moments ago, she'd been seeking to make sure he'd never have any children.

There was nothing wrong with a bit of gratitude.

The heat from his skin remained in those blessed leather garments, making them feel a little like tiny ovens wrapped around her. She closed her eyes, willing that heat to fill her veins, to ease the pain in her hip, and to make her head stop throbbing.

"Where is your leg hurt?"

The words echoed in the darkness behind her eyelids, and she thought to respond, to tell him it was her hip, but her voice died before it reached her lips. She realized too late that she'd let her focus stray too much, that she wasn't sure she could open her eyes. Somehow, with her eyes closed, everything still reeled, and even with memories of Gregory telling her to be more careful and worries for Clarence trying to force her to keep moving, she just…couldn't.

She let herself fall into the dark, cold abyss that had replaced the icy forest around that detestable road, feeling something warm press against her face—or was her face pressed against it?—before everything finally faded away.