There were no windows in the rundown outbuilding where Torih found himself spending the night. Yet staring up into the roof, he caught glimpses of unfamiliar stars shining between the loose slats and slanted rafters, their light piercing into the gloom.

Cousland slept some paces from him, nestled in a corner with a blanket drawn about her shoulders and her head resting against the wall. Each time his eyes strayed towards the faint outline of her silhouette, the elf struggled to soothe his simmering resentment at his enforced association with her.

She excelled in her self-imposed role of martyr. Keeping a careful distance from each of the Grey Wardens since his intervention in her earlier conversation with Korgik, she had remained by the fire, sitting with her knees drawn against her chest, her fingers wrapped around the vial, and stared into the embers. When he had at last risen to his feet, she shadowed the movement without complaint and followed him to the door of an outbuilding attached to one of the ramshackle huts which he had decided was to be their shared sleeping quarters for the night.

Spying the pair about to enter into the outbuilding, their hostess—the woman who had earlier emerged from the ramshackle huts at sound of Cousland's shout—began to protest, insisting that she had arranged suitable makeshift beds in the living quarters of the other hovels. On hearing her, Cousland broke her silence and addressed her in a quiet and firm voice, reassuring her that all was well and she should not worry. It was no more than a few words and yet it succeeded in appeasing their host and the woman had then only asked that they might linger a few moments more so that she might fetch them some heavy blankets to ward off the chill.

When the woman returned, two blankets folded over her arm, Cousland accepted them with a smile and thanked her for the consideration, affirming that they were both a welcome and thoughtful gesture when she had already provided more kindness than they could repay. The woman waved the thanks away, though clearly pleased by the acknowledgement, and returned to see to the other Wardens who were now looking about for their own allocated beds.

Cousland had dodged around him and entered the outbuilding without further remark. As he stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the loss of the firelight, he watched her stumble to the far corner and, with a slight clatter, settle down for the night. No further words had passed between them.

With little else to do save wait for whichever came first, sleep or dawn, the elven Commander found his thoughts dwelling on Cousland and her part in the events of the day.

Her successes needled him. Her skill with her blades was undeniable, though he dismissed it as inevitable given that she had no other option if she wished to survive the past year. She was familiar with the tactics of the darkspawn and could anticipate their movements, though again he expected no less. At the same time, her failures infuriated him. Her subordination to the Order remained questionable, motivated by factors other than loyalty and duty, but save for the incident outside the gates of Denerim, she had complied in action if not wholly in spirit.

The incident outside Denerim.

A knot twisted in his stomach and hinted at the true reason as to why he could not fall asleep.

The issue had never been far from his mind but he was yet find a suitable means of punishment. He was certain a reprisal was expected—by himself, by Cousland, and by the other Grey Wardens. It was vital if he wished to maintain his control over her otherwise she would never heed his command, but there was little option available to him.

They were travelling; imprisonment was impossible and physical harm unadvisable. Their supplies were already limited, she had no comforts of her own and she was already deprived of those she considered to be her friends. All that she valued was the vial around her neck. Yet while her disobedience grated on him, he acknowledged that seizing the vial could only ever be used as a last resort.

All that kept his thoughts collected was his suspicion that Cousland might have begun to convince herself that his tardiness over the punishment was in fact deliberate—a means of forcing her to endure a last sense of dread. Her misassumption was convenient, but it only created more pressure for him when all he could be certain of was that her punishment would not be fulfilled any time soon. If providence provided, he may be able to at some unforeseen point, but for the moment he would have to rely on intimidation and threats.

Cousland had already brought too much chaos to order—to his Order. It would not be permitted to continue.

The templars had left Denerim early, just as Liahn predicted.

Zevran lurked in the shadows as he watched the templars make their final preparations. He had no wish to aggravate the Knight-Captain yet he remained intent on overseeing the group's departure from the city. A means of final farewell, as it were.

In the centre of the handcart, Leliana sat propped in the midst of a range of supplies—all of which had been purchased using the coin Elissa had given him—while Liahn walked at one side of the cart, keeping vigil over her patient. Oghren had taken his position on the other side of the cart and the elf suspected that Leliana had insisted he be kept within earshot so that she might prevent him from undermining the Knight-Captain. How long the dwarf would be able to resist doing so would have provided an opportunity for a wealthy wager.

The remaining mages—only five, excluding Liahn, had survived—followed behind the cart, flanked by three templars. Two more templars shared the task of pulling the cart while the Knight-Captain took his place at the front. The templars had suffered their own losses yet the Maker had somehow seen fit to ensure that the mages did not outnumber their guards. Divine providence, indeed.

Given the early hour, the departure of the small group was marked only by the city guards atop the gates of Denerim and the ever watchful Dalish sentinels. Once they passed beyond the two cairns which had been built in honour of Wynne and Riordan, Zevran relinquished his responsibility for the group and turned back towards the Dalish camp.

The elves were in the process of dismantling their camp, but he was welcomed with a curt courtesy and directed towards Keeper Lanaya. She spoke with him briefly, confirming that the supplies he had organised had in fact reached them, and thanked him for his assistance. When he enquired if her clan would require anything further, Lanaya only requested that the King might not forget the Dalish and prove that his offer of friendship had been made in good faith.

Zevran readily agreed with a low bow and murmured pleasantries, but the request gave him pause for thought. He understood the Keeper's request, and why she was opposed to venturing into the city to seek an audience with Alistair. Human tolerance of the Dalish elves may have reached unparalleled new heights following the fulfilment of their obligations in battle but it would be folly to interpret tolerance as acceptance.

He also appreciated that the request had been made in part due to the acknowledged friendship which existed between himself and Alistair. Yet the Keeper had been quite deliberate in her choice of address; it had not been Alistair to whom she wished the message be relayed to. Rather, Lanaya had attributed to him a task which was more reminiscent of the duties of a Seneschal.

Many of his recent undertakings could have been construed as evidence of his being elevated to such a position, Zevran supposed on reflection, but he had no use for official recognition or titles. He could do more with less, as it were. To be associated with the right hand of the King would be restrictive. He would be bound by the ethical and moral constraints which, in his view, often hampered Alistair. Such things were all very well—he admired the conviction of the man, if not the sentiment—but adhering to them was not always conducive to achieving unpleasant but necessary tasks.

Even if he was so inclined to accept the role, Zevran fully expected that the Fereldan nobility would strive to convince Alistair to discard his old alliances. He experienced no resentment over the fact. He knew already that Alistair would wish to rule entirely by the rule of law and grace of the Maker—the presence of an assassin, a former Crow no less, within the inner sanctum of his court was not conducive to such an aspiration.

And none of those concerns even touched upon the additional issues of nationality and race. It seemed inevitable that his very friendship with Alistair would soon be called into question.

A frown flickered across his face.

Their friendship had not come easily. A mingling of distrust and jealousy had often soured Alistair against the elf. The distrust, Zevran admired—a prudent reaction given the circumstances under which they had met. Alistair's jealousy, however, had been another matter; one Zevran had thought to be an entirely wasted effort since Elissa had never reciprocated the elf's advances towards her. Still, the man would often brood over what he perceived as some flirtation between Elissa and the elf, yet make no attempt to act upon the burgeoning attraction which existed between the two Grey Wardens.

The events of Redcliffe had provided some respite. With Alistair and Elissa at war with one another, any feuds they each held with the companions had been put aside. However it was only after the Wardens had, at last, lain with each other that Alistair had truly accepted Zevran as a member of their little set. When Alistair had ordered the assassin to join Leliana in the search for Elissa, it had marked more than a basic confidence in the skills of the elf.

His brows drew closer together.

Loyalty defined Alistair. Having given his friendship, the man would be reluctant to disavow himself of it—even if doing so would be in his better interests. It would not do for the King to become embroiled in any scandal as a result of his association with Zevran.

The elf considered his options and came to a decision. He would continue to offer his friendship, should Alistair decide he still wished it, but it would have to be at a distance—a distance which would bring additional complications, however. Opinion of the new King was high—and would probably remain high until after the Coronation—and that might make others less vigilant. Not he.

A new purpose began to form in his mind. It would need to be shrouded in secrecy, known only to himself and his select few. The King would be kept in complete ignorance so as to negate his culpability should the truth ever come to light.

A wry grin surfaced on Zevran's face as he directed his steps away from the Market District and headed towards the dockyards.

Midmorning saw the Grey Wardens some miles from the ramshackle buildings where they had spent the night. An hour or so before dawn, the barking of the dogs at some traveller on the roads had roused everyone, and they chose to take leave of their host and press onwards. Upon departing, Elissa spoke with the woman and tried to persuade her to take some of the coin she had taken from the darkspawn, but in the end all she could convince the woman to accept was advice regarding the burning of anything tainted.

Walking at the rear of the group, preferring voluntary solitude as opposed to the deliberate exile imposed on her whenever she fell into step with any of the others, Elissa found she had to concentrate to keep pace. Yesterday she had assumed that it was simply a result of her having grown unaccustomed to marching, but the pace was definitely faster than she was comfortable with. She estimated that for every day they journeyed, it was likely the equivalent of at least a day and a half travel with her old companions. It made some sense: all benefited from the increased stamina and strength that came with being a Grey Warden. There was no reason why they should not cover the distance in a fraction of the time. If memory served, she reckoned that they would be due to reach one of the small hamlets which dotted Ferelden, not shown on any map but there all the same, by or just after dusk. The thought that there might be someone willing to pass the evening in idle chatter with her almost made her feel giddy, before she recalled the interruption Torih had caused between her and Korgik the previous night. If he would not permit her to speak freely with her new comrades, she could not expect to be permitted to speak with outsiders. She imagined that it was a part of her punishment.

Her gaze drifted upwards from the road stretching out at her feet and towards the figure of her Commander, walking in tandem with Argarth at the head of the group. There had been a few skirmishes with isolated groups of darkspawn during the morning's travels and the elf had been forced to relinquish his position at her side so that he could continue to impart strategies and tactics with Ithyal. She assumed that he was discussing the young recruit's progress with Argarth, but in truth all she was really focused on was enjoying the unexpected, albeit temporary, reprieve from his scrutiny.

After a mile or so more, however, it appeared her peace was to be more short-lived than even she had expected. She found her focus drawn to Ithyal. Following a drawn out conversation with Damon and Gethin, who flanked him, he was able to sneak fleeting backward glances at her. Despite the insistent nudges from the two more experienced Wardens to halt such behaviour, Ithyal was slowly but steadily dropping back from his companions.

"Second," he said when he at last found the courage to address her, having fallen into step alongside her. The use of title instead of the derisory manner in which the rest used her family name—a name which she no longer held any connection with if their claims about loss of lands and titles rang true—was welcome and she rewarded him with an encouraging smile. "The Archdemon; it's worse than what we have encountered here?"

His question was greeted with snorts from Damon and Gethin, but neither chastised the newest recruit for his enquiry. They were both intrigued as to the nature of this almost mythical beast, though they were not so bold as to ask her about it outright.

"Much," she responded with a weak smile, intent that she would not make a fool of the young recruit. "It takes the form of a giant dragon, for a start. It calls to you through the taint too, so that your head is filled with its presence. And then there's the Horde."

"The darkspawn army?"

Elissa nodded. "It controls them all. The dwarves say that the Deep Roads are safest during a Blight so that might give you some idea of how many are in its thrall."

"It communicates with the Horde through its General though, doesn't it? We heard of two being in Denerim at the time of the siege."

His knowledge, gleaned from talk in the taverns and streets of Denerim, exceeded her own and Elissa faltered. She did not want to be caught out by his innocent questions—and she did believe his questions were innocent—but there was little point in lying about facts that his companions could immediately correct. Besides, she did not wish to rebuff his companionship.

"I wouldn't know," she remarked in a quiet voice. "I was unconscious in the Chantry for much of the battle. By the time I was healed and properly awake, the army were already making their stand against the creature on top of Fort Drakon. I never encountered a General while heading for the Fort so I can only assume they had already been defeated."

A frown crinkled his forehead. "So who led the army if you were not there?"

"Alistair, with help from Riordan and some others."

"But if you were not leading..." Ithyal risked another sideways glance towards her, the tip of his tongue running across his lower lip. "It was you who killed the creature, yes?"

"I did." Her voice was strained; one success, vital as it may have been, did not offer sufficient compensation for her prior failures. But those were secrets and revelations to be closely guarded, by herself and her dearest friends: Ithyal need not be told.

The young Warden fell into a silence, considering the facts presented to him. "I know that Riordan was lost in the battle. But why did..." he hesitated, seemingly unsure how to refer to Alistair, "he not land the killing blow, if he led the army?"

It was a question she should have anticipated, but his frankness caught her off-guard and her mouth went dry.

The unexpected pause prompted Damon and Gethin to twist round to face her, having given up their pretence of disinterest, and all three men stared at her with an open curiosity. It was clear that they did not know the true cost of defeating an Archdemon and given that it was unlikely another of the creatures would rise in their lifetime—and Torih was no doubt straining to hear to every word of the conversation—Elissa had no intention of enlightening them.

"He would have, if I hadn't been healed or reached the rooftop in time," she replied, seeking consistency in elements of the truth. "But once I was there, it was too great a danger to allow Alistair to strike the Archdemon. We had no way of knowing how defeating such a creature might have accelerated the taint within us. Alistair had been accepted as King and we could not risk his becoming a ghoul."

"I see," Ithyal cocked his head, deep in thought. "So, he led the army and disabled the creature even though you took the final blow?"

"Yes."

"If he achieved all that," Ithyal remarked slowly, "then he is surely the better Grey Warden."

Her suspicion that Torih had been listening was confirmed when the elf abruptly spun round and advanced on the four Wardens, snarling at the young recruit in Orlesian.

Elissa stepped in front of Ithyal, physically blocking the verbal onslaught which the elven Commander levelled at the man. What he had said stung at her pride but she would not allow Torih to diminish what Alistair had accomplished.

"You can't dismiss what Alistair achieved simply because it suits your blinkered view of what does and does not constitute a Grey Warden," she snapped, drawing herself up against the elf.

"I do not dismiss the King's actions," Torih retorted, though his gritted teeth belied the statement. "It remains true, however, that a Grey Warden defeated the demon."

"The taint flows in his veins as much as it does in mine."

"Then perhaps Ithyal is right, in which case we should return to Denerim and lay claim to the better Grey Warden," Torih rumbled, the implicit threat emphasised by the flash of his eyes.

Elissa stopped short. This continued threat which hung over her and ensured her compliance was intolerable, but she had no way of countering it. Dejected, she moved away from Ithyal and muttered bitterly, "that won't be necessary, Commander."

"I am glad to hear it," the elf spat before addressing Ithyal. "You will make no further mention of the King. Am I understood?"

The young man paled and ducked his head. "Yes, Commander."

Elissa sensed that she was also expected to respond.

Without even glancing up, she hissed from between gritted teeth, "yes, Commander."

General enquiries made about the bustling harbour led Zevran to a large warehouse. The large doors were thrown open and an array of crates and barrels littered the ground in front. A man stood in the midst of it all, arms crossed and with his back to Zevran, surveying the load.

"My friend," the elf called. "I am looking for a Ser Ignacio. I have been told that this is his warehouse?"

"Master Ignacio," the man corrected coldly, his expression hardening as he turned to face the visitor.

Zevran bowed low in apology and swiftly gathered his thoughts. This was not the man who had sold him the Antivan liquor. Yet his accent confirmed that this man too was Antivan and the abrupt change in demeanour when he had caught sight of the elf confirmed that the man had considerable prior knowledge of who he was.

On a gamble, Zevran remarked, "the Hero ensured that my contract was rendered null and void, my friend. You and I should have no further dispute."

"I had hoped that where Taliesen failed, the demon would succeed. It appears you lead a charmed life, Arainai."

"I do not deny it," the elf lifted his shoulders in a graceful shrug.

The man remained where he stood, protected from assault by the haphazard distribution of his goods, and studied Zevran with a speculative, if wary, eye.

"There is a profitable bounty on your head," he remarked at last, voice still harbouring an evident resentment. "I am not so rich as to overlook such a thing."

"Ah, but you must ask yourself this, my friend," Zevran flashed the man a disarming smile while casually resting a hand on the hilt of one of his daggers. "Would you live long enough to collect it?"

The man snorted and spat the phlegm to one side, neatly missing his merchandise. He was about to retort, though his posture revealed that he did not intend on drawing arms against the elf, when he was interrupted by a third voice.

"Who are you speaking with, Ignacio? If it's Ser Mito demanding..." A bearded man emerged from the warehouse but the fraught expression marring his face swiftly cleared as his gaze fell on Zevran. "Ser Arainai, it is good to meet with you again!"

"I would wish to say the same but I would not know who to greet," the elf responded pleasantly.

The bearded man shrugged. "You must appreciate my reticence. Your reputation precedes you, yet alas the anonymity you once enjoyed has long since departed."

"As has the suspicion and wariness which accompanied it," the first man—the true Ignacio—remarked in a churlish grunt.

Zevran chuckled, relaxing his posture and removing his hand from the hilt of the dagger. "I have spent too long amongst honourable folk. Let me keep company with the notorious and see what ways I may recall."

The bearded man guffawed, slapping the other man on the back. "Ah, see Ignacio?" He raised his hand and gestured that Zevran was to join them. "Come, come, it is close enough to the midday meal. Eat with us. It will be a pleasure to enjoy a fellow countryman's conversation. These Fereldans are tolerable enough, but there is much to be said for the Antivan way."

Zevran cast an enquiring glance towards Ignacio, but the man had evidently given over his objection to the better judgement of his companion. He followed after the bearded man without complaint and left the elf to make his own decision.

The meal between the three Antivans was agreeable and the company enjoyable. The bearded man—Cesar, Zevran had discovered—was well-suited as a merchant with his effortless conversation. Ignacio was more guarded, preferring to allow Cesar to dominate, but when talk inevitably turned towards Antiva and a general reminiscing of their shared homeland, he became more forthcoming.

At last, however, they had exhausted much of the general chitchat and in the lull which followed, Cesar rose and fetched three fresh glasses and a decanter. He poured out a generous amount in each glass and indicated that Zevran and Ignacio were each to take a glass.

"To business, then," he announced, reseating himself at the table and taking up his glass. "You have not visited us simply to purchase. What do you wish of us, Zevran?"

"I find myself without a means of living," the elf remarked with an easy shrug.

Ignacio clenched his jaw. "That is not our concern."

"Truly, it is not," Zevran conceded with a grin. "However, what am I to do but return to what is most familiar? I am no merchant, politician, nor advisor. I am but a lowly assassin. One who is cast adrift in a land which does not truly appreciate the skills I can offer."

"Skills which failed you," Ignacio observed bluntly.

The elf laughed and raised his glass in acknowledgement. "I cannot deny it. I failed to kill two Grey Wardens, though I cannot experience much shame at a feat that no other has succeeded in."

Cesar cleared his throat. His gaze was fixed on his drink where he swilled the liquid in the glass but he glanced up when the silence confirmed that he had captured the attention of his two companions.

"What is it that you are offering us, Zevran?" he enquired with a pleasant smile.

"I am willing to work for you."

Ignacio pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, muttering an ill-tempered curse beneath his breath. "You dare to ask such a thing in the presence of a Master of the Antivan Crows?"

"He is correct," Cesar nodded, fixing a disapproving look on the elf. "In everything, we are embroiled with the Crows. We risk everything is they were to discover that we have an agreement with you."

The elf downed the content of his glass in one smooth movement before commenting, "you risk more to not consider my offer."

"Come, Zevran," the merchant chastised with a click of his tongue. "You know as well as we the penalty for displeasing the Crows."

"You have already displeased the Crows," Zevran remarked lowly, his demeanour losing its joviality. "As a Master, Ignacio has failed in his responsibility to ensure the honour of the Crows as much as I failed to honour my contract."

He straightened in his chair and leant forward, setting the empty glass on the table.

"Do not think that what has occurred here will go unremarked upon in Antiva should the news ever reach the Guildmaster." The elf twisted in his seat so that he could address Ignacio directly. "You knew the truth of this the very moment you conceded to the Hero."

The two men exchanged a hooded look with one another.

"The pertinent question is not if you have displeased the Crows but rather, what punishment will be agreed upon," Zevran asserted with full confidence. "What I offer is defence against their reprisal. You may try to appease them as you wish but you may also rest easy knowing that you are protected should they take action against you."

Cesar sipped at his wine. "And what would you expect of us?"

"Resources. Accommodation, a weekly stipend, and permission to train a select few to assist me."

"And if the Crows never come?" Ignacio demanded.

Zevran laughed, his easy-nature returning with a vengeance as he remarked, "ah, but that is the price of peace of mind, no?"

Cesar sighed and reached for the decanter to refill his glass. "We are already aware of what you suggest and your solution would seem a prudent measure."

Ignacio grunted with a decisive shake of his head.

"Peace, friend," Cesar interjected. "We exist on limited time. Running would only alert the Crows all the sooner. Better to remain in Denerim rather than raise suspicions by departing. Our acquaintance here offers an option that was not previously available to us."

The clean-shaven man swore and slammed a fist into the table, causing the glasses to shake. "This will be treated as a contract. There will be no written proof of the agreement and should we withdraw payment then the contract is immediately revoked. Do you understand this?"

"Of course," Zevran acknowledged, somewhat insulted. "I would expect nothing less. Just as I would expect no interference from you as to the methods I use to fulfil that contract."

"Agreed," Cesar cut in, before Ignacio could offer another condition on the arrangement.

The other man huffed but eventually offered a reluctant nod.

Zevran only grinned.

"What troubles you, Torih?"

Disturbed from his thoughts, Torih lifted his head and refocused on Argarth. The group of Wardens had walked in relative silence since his earlier outburst, but with time passing and boredom ensuing, some muffled conversation had resumed between Damon and Gethin, with occasional contributions from Ithyal and even Korgik. Cousland remained aloof at the back of the group.

The elf threw a cautious glance over his shoulder, assessing whether she might be able to hear any conversation between the two Commanders in the same way that the conversation between her and Ithyal had managed to reach his ears. Her head was bowed even as she kept up her loping stride, and Torih convinced himself that so long as they spoke in lowered tones, she was too far to overhear any conversation.

"Her survival," he muttered, looking away from Cousland and back to the dwarf. "There is more to it than she had told us."

"We knew this already, Torih. Hence why we were forced to be content to claim what is otherwise the lesser Grey Warden," Argarth snorted, his amusement evident in his tone even as he followed Torih's lead by quietening his voice. "What have you seized on?"

"Something she said. She claims to have taken the blow against the Archdemon to protect Theirin for fear of what might occur to him."

"When I spoke separately with him, he claimed to have permitted her to take the blow for that very reason," the dwarf remarked with a resigned sigh. "I was sceptical at the time that he would be able to do such a thing, but given how he was the more prepared to give her up for the sake of the Crown, perhaps there was truth to it, after all."

Torih felt his lip begin to curl. "I place little faith in the report from Theirin. Besides, it will have been Cousland who orchestrated events. It is unlikely that he would have had full knowledge of her actions and intentions."

"Regardless," Argarth brushed aside the elf's complaints and returned the focus to the facts, "it is not surprising that Cousland might agree to taking the blow considering the cost."

"Yet this is what troubles me, Commander," the elven Commander asserted with a fervent shake of his head. "She knew what was required to defeat the Archdemon when she fled. That much she already admitted to when we first interrogated her in Denerim. It means that Riordan had already spoken with both of them."

Argarth rumbled his dissent. "You cannot be certain of that. It may be a detail that has become conflated with the rest. Certainly, she must have known the truth by the time the creature was attacking the city. It would explain her renewed vigour."

"No, Commander," Torih argued, struggling to keep his voice controlled. "How could she have come to know it later? There was no one to tell her, if it was not immediately after the Landsmeet. She must have known it prior to her making the decision to leave."

"Why is it relevant?"

"We have seen firsthand how she responded to him—one extreme or the other. I cannot believe that she would abandon him to his death unless he had done something to anger her or that she knew there was no significant risk."

The dwarf shrugged, unconvinced. "There was always a risk that he may have been lost in the general battle."

"The same could be said ever since Ostagar," the elf countered. "No, I believe that risk was something they had both come to accept. This was different."

Argarth raised an eyebrow at the insistence of his former Second. "Even if it was different, it brings us no closer to understanding how she survived."

"No," Torih conceded, a scowl darkening his features. "It is one more piece, however. We must remain vigilant. We do not know what creature we have in our midst."

"What do you fear?" the dwarf barked out a short laugh. "That she is the demon incarnate?"

The scowl deepened further. "No, her very taint would alert us to that. But we still do not know what happened, Commander. Cousland deliberately obscures details and those she does offer make no sense. This detail about protecting Theirin does not fit with the explanation of the healer's involvement. She is not to be trusted."

"That much you have made abundantly clear."

Torih shot a sharp look at the dwarf, perplexed that the Commander seemingly could not understand the need for immediate action. "We are travelling to one of the strongholds of the darkspawn during this Blight. Regardless of the Thaw, we will encounter some resistance. We do not have the time for trust."

Argarth drew his cheeks in, eyeing the horizon thoughtfully. "Save for Ithyal, we are experienced Wardens—Cousland included. I cannot imagine such resistance that we would run afoul of the darkspawn." His eyes refocused back on the elf. "However, as you suggest, it would be unsurprising if we do not experience some injuries. A head injury may render her memories entirely lost."

"Precisely," the elf nodded earnestly. "We are no longer permitted access to Theirin. We must have our answers from Cousland."

"And you wish the answers immediately?"

"I think it would be unwise to delay further."

"It is true that I am loathe to return to Orlais without taking some steps towards confirming her explanation for her survival," the dwarven Commander let out a long exhale. "Very well, Torih. I concur; speak with her as you see fit."

"My thanks, Commander."

A dry chuckle escaped from the dwarf. "I would advise you to keep your temper in check, but that would be akin to telling the stone to crumble on command."

Torih bowed his head in acknowledgement of the advice, though not its prudence.

"Just remember, Torih," Argarth continued, his voice hardening as he impressed his point on the elf. "You and she are currently the only Wardens assigned to Ferelden. No matter how either of you rage, that will not change. As much as it may please you to do so, do not burn bridges between you without measured assessment. You have a significant amount of time to spend together before she can be sent from within these borders."

"Yes, Commander," the elf intoned. "I thank you for your support."

Thanks to EasternViolet for her keen beta eye.