After the third inn declared they had a complete lack of vacancies and closed its door in their faces, Kiara started to think perhaps it was not simply a coincidence. She could tell Sebastian certainly thought it was not; he grew ever more unhappy, until she was half-certain a glance at his face was what was inducing the innkeepers to turn them away.

"This is ridiculous," she said.

Varric snorted. "Oh, I'd say we passed ridiculous two inns and an impounded boat ago, Hawke. This is firmly walking the road to disturbing and leaving ridiculous in its dust."

Isabela groused, "I hate this city."

Sebastian glowered at her.

"What, I do. I'm just telling the truth. I thought you approved of always telling the truth, Princess."

"I wish you'd stop calling me that."

She winked. "If the pretty little high-heeled shoe fits…"

Kiara glared them both into silence. "What I'd like to know is how in the Maker's name word spread so fast."

Isabela's laugh rang out. "Oh, Hawke. Never underestimate the network between bartenders and innkeepers and whores. Slight one and you've slighted them all."

Dryly, Sebastian said, "You know this from experience, I take it?"

Rather than showing embarrassment, Isabela only laughed again. "Are you kidding? There's not a single establishment in Highever that'll let me past the door."

"Sounds like a charming place."

"Not particularly," Isabela replied before realization of his meaning struck. "Oh. Yes. Well aren't you funny, Princess."

Sebastian opened his mouth to launch another volley just as a second patrol of guards turned the corner and interrupted them. These looked somehow even more stern and serious than the patrol at the docks; they all had hands on weapons and their posture bordered on aggressive. The leader said, "Curfew at sundown. Get where you're going."

Whatever insult Sebastian had been preparing for Isabela died on his tongue, and instead he frowned and turned slightly to face the patrol leader. Isabela applied a swift kick to his shin and whatever damning words Sebastian had been about to speak in his Starkhaven accent were lost instead to a yelp of pain.

"We… were just on our way, ser," Kiara said, turning to walk in the opposite direction. The guards watched them go for a moment before continuing their rounds; as soon as they were out of earshot, Kiara paused.

"Curfew?"

Sebastian shook his head. "I don't understand it."

Waving her hand dismissively, Isabela declaimed, "Yes, yes, we get it. Never in your lifetime, not in my city, indignation, etcetera. I think we've established things are weird. But where are we going to sleep?"

With no small amount of trepidation, Kiara said, "I suppose… I suppose we could try Shira and Tad. Even if they don't have room, perhaps they could… point us in a more friendly direction."

A trio of confused expressions met her gaze when she glanced up and she sighed. "They're friends of my mother's. They're originally from Kirkwall, but have been here a decade at least. Mother always kept in touch. It was… they who sent the letter informing me of the change in Starkhaven's rulership. I admit I am concerned I didn't receive a reply to my last letter, but it's entirely possible it arrived after we left."

Isabela found her voice first. "We couldn't have just gone there first?"

Kiara gave an embarrassed, awkward shrug. "I've never met them. It seems… presumptuous. I intended to visit, certainly, but… but we seem to have exhausted our other options."

When she told Sebastian the direction, he nodded thoughtfully and guided them through deserted city streets. Just as the sun was setting, they arrived in a pleasant district that seemed to house mainly wealthy merchants. Large houses fronted a grand central square, though the square's fountain was silent. Approaching the house Sebastian indicated, Kiara raised her hand and, after a moment's hesitation, knocked decisively.

She knocked twice more, and was just about to give up when the door opened a crack. An eye appeared, though nothing else could be seen of the eye's owner. It blinked at them.

"Pardon me, messere. I am looking for Mistress Shira? Or Master Tad? I am… a friend."

At this the door opened a little wider—wide enough to see the blue eye matched in the face of a pleasant looking woman about her mother's age—about the age her mother would now have been. The woman planted her hands on her hips and glared up at them. "You're no friend of mine. Or my husband's. Unless there's something he hasn't told me."

Very softly, Kiara said, "You… knew my mother. Leandra."

Recognition tinged with fear—of course, Kiara thought, everyone else in Kirkwall is afraid, why should she be different?—flitted across the woman's face. "Are you the elder? Or the…?"

The word mage was left unspoken, but Kiara heard it loudly nonetheless. It was accompanied by another troubling twinge of fear. Kiara tried to remember what her mother had said about these friends, but nothing about mage-prejudice came to mind. In fact, Kiara had believed the family to have a mage child of their own—though one who'd gone to the Starkhaven Circle instead of leading an apostate's life. Even in the few letters exchanged since her mother's death, Shira had always asked after Amelle. Her tone had always been kind, concerned, and had contained nothing like the slither of fear Kiara witnessed now.

"I'm Kiara," she said simply, extending her hand. The woman waited a moment too long before clasping it in greeting, and then she pulled away too suddenly. "I was somewhat surprised by the information you related in your last letter and thought to come see for myself, but… I am afraid the city's hospitality has been found somewhat wanting."

After an uncomfortably long pause, and with a glance beyond them into the gloaming, Shira said, "Please. Do… come in. Forgive my rudeness."

When they were all safely inside, Shira seemed even more skittish. Kiara did not miss the way the woman balled her skirts in her fists, or how brittle and false her smile appeared. Her husband came to stand behind her, arms crossed and face impassive. Kiara almost glanced at Sebastian to see if he could indicate if she'd broken some horrible law of Starkhaven etiquette. For an instant she thought about turning and walking out again, but the threat of patrols and curfews and consequences hung over them and she found it was a risk she was not quite prepared to take.

Shira said, "The… Champion of Kirkwall. In our home. What an… honor."

She did not sound honored in the slightest.

"I am sorry, Mistress, to trespass upon your hospitality, but we find ourselves rather short on options. We will compensate you generously."

"No, of course, of course. Do come in. Leandra's daughter—and her friends, of course—are welcome here. Of course."

Varric chuckled mirthlessly. "That's a lot of courses."

Isabela moaned, "I'm hungry." On Varric's scowl, she added, "What? You said courses."

Evidently startled—begging for food rather went against the etiquette of anywhere civilized—Shira said, "I've stew, if you want it. Not much. But you are… welcome to what we have. Of course."

"Of course," Isabela echoed, tone just shy of mocking. Kiara frowned, but the pirate only smiled brightly and gestured for the woman to lead the way.

It was the quietest, most strained meal Kiara had ever eaten. Shira and Tad shared glances every time they thought no one was watching.

Kiara and Sebastian shared similar glances. Only she was certain no one saw these.

Later, the four of them retired to the spare room Shira provided. Isabela immediately flung herself face-down on the bed—the only bed—and began to snore lightly. Varric pulled a chair near the fire and began to tend so lovingly to Bianca that Kiara knew at once he was truly distressed about something. Sebastian stood at the window, staring out into the night, his knuckles white against the window ledge.

Kiara paced. At last she paused and said somberly, "We should sleep in shifts."

Varric glanced at Isabela and said wryly, "I guess she gets to go first."

Sebastian, however, frowned, and his words held no trace of humor, "You think these people mean us harm?"

Kiara replied, "I think I don't trust them. Something about the way… they seemed so concerned about me being me and not being Amelle. I've never once gotten the impression they had anything against her before now; they had a mage-child of their own. Shira has always asked after Amelle politely in her letters. And you saw how nervous they were at dinner. It's just enough to make me feel unsettled. So we set a watch. And we have an escape plan."

Sebastian nodded unhappily. Varric shook his head, and fiddled with Bianca's trigger. Isabela snored.

#

She woke to a hand over her mouth. Before Kiara could bite it or scream or struggle, she recognized Sebastian's face close to hers, his eyes intent and concerned. When she nodded, he released his hand and she took a deep breath, raising her eyebrows in silent question.

Sebastian tapped his ear, and when she listened carefully she heard what he was alluding to. Beneath the faint sounds of her companions sleeping, she heard the sound of booted feet on the stairs, and the telltale clink of mail and armor and weapons. If their company was attempting to be quiet, it was certainly failing; she feared this meant they had come in numbers, and were cocky about success. Throwing a glance at the window, she saw the sky was still completely dark, but that the moon had shifted position. A couple of hours, then. She supposed she ought to be grateful for what sleep they'd managed, but mostly she was just… angry.

Kiara turned to Isabela. The pirate woke as instantly as she'd fallen asleep, but she rolled her eyes in disgust as soon as she realized it was not simply her turn at watch she was being woken for.

Sebastian silently slipped to Varric's side, but Varric only mumbled in his sleep, wrapping his arms more tightly about Bianca. He didn't wake entirely until Sebastian attempted—very gingerly, Kiara noted—to remove the crossbow from his grasp.

The room was on the second floor, but the window opened into the garden—Kiara hoped they had not thought to send men around the back, and was grateful at least they did not have to jump into the main square to escape. Sebastian, by dint of being tallest, was the first to go. By hanging out the window, he was able to simply drop the rest of the distance, landing with only the faintest sound of gravel crunching beneath his feet. Kiara spared a moment to worry about his wound, but he didn't so much as wince. She supposed if he was able to draw his bow, hanging from windowsills was nothing.

With a glance around the room—the guards were speaking in the hall now, but not loudly enough for Kiara to make out their words—Isabela followed, also hanging from the window ledge before dropping silently into the shadows below.

"You next, Hawke," Varric whispered, jerking his chin in the direction of the window.

Kiara shook her head, but since he already had Bianca locked, loaded and trained on the door, it only made sense and she reluctantly left him. Dangling from the window ledge, her knees banged into the stone wall beneath and she winced. The garden beneath was in darkness; she knew Sebastian could see her better than she could see him, but still she hesitated, inhaling deeply, before releasing her hold and dropping. She spared a brief thought for how much more challenging an escape would be with a broken ankle or cracked skull, but then Sebastian's hands tightened about her waist and settled her firmly on the ground. She smiled her thanks up at him, but he was already looking to the window above, where Varric had yet to appear.

The unmistakable sound of shouting rose from within, followed by the thunk of a crossbow firing. Kiara had her own bow in hand and was prepared to shoot if anyone not Varric appeared above them. The shadow that materialized in the window, however, was Varric's. "Choir Boy," he shouted. "Catch!" Bianca fell into Sebastian's waiting hands.

"Varric!" Isabela cried, "What do you think you're—"

Before she could finish, Varric flung himself from the window, dropping into a neat roll and coming up lightly to his feet. He grabbed the crossbow from Sebastian's hands and grinned.

They all stared.

"What?" he said. "You've never seen me do the flying dwarf trick?"

Isabela feigned a swoon. "Why, Fuzzy, that was almost heroic."

Varric chuckled. "Aww, shucks. I tell you what, it'll ruin the finale if we're caught now, so maybe we save the raptures for later?"

Isabela smiled.

As they moved through the garden, Varric added, "There will be raptures, though, right? I mean… that was definitely deserving of raptures."

"Varric," Kiara hissed, "I will write you a bloody song if you'll pipe down until we're safe."

"Better be a rapturous song," he mumbled under his breath.

#

They followed Sebastian through the empty, darkened streets, always listening for—and fearing they'd hear—the crash of soldiers behind him. Three times they had to wait out patrols, and Kiara was forced to acknowledge that without Sebastian's intimate knowledge of the city's layout, they'd have been caught many times over. After what felt an eternity, they took refuge in a warehouse whose lock was obliging, and which seemed to be unguarded.

A thin cut to one of Varric's shoulders proved their escape could have gone much worse. Isabela was quiet as she tended to it.

"You gonna kiss that better, Rivaini?" Varric quipped.

Kiara, rooting through her pack looking for a bandage, half-expected Isabela to retort in a similar vein, but when she spoke the pirate's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "I'm not sure if what you did was brave or stupid."

Varric patted her hand reassuringly, but responded lightly, "I'd prefer we went with brave, if it's all the same to you. It'll make a better story. Singlehandedly fought a legion of darkspawn—ooh, ogres! Everyone loves an ogre story—to give his companions a chance to escape! Grievously injured, with no other recourse, the lionhearted dwarf flung himself from the rooftop whilst arrows rained down all around him! Then—"

Isabela rolled her eyes, finished tying the bandage Kiara had handed her, and pressed a brief, chaste kiss to the binding. Varric instantly fell silent, staring down at the bandage and the top of Isabela's head. And he blushed. Just a little.

Isabela smirked up at him. "Rapturous enough for you?"

After a moment of amused silence, Sebastian said seriously, "We have to consider the worst-case scenario. The guard should have excellent descriptions of us, and names to go along with them."

"So much for incognito," said Varric.

Isabela raised her eyebrows hopefully. "Does that mean we can leave?"

Sebastian clenched and unclenched his hands before staring down into his palms. Then he said softly, "I will not stop you from going. You owe me nothing. You owe Starkhaven nothing."

Isabela said, "Well, you sort of owe me a ship, actually. If we're talking about owing."

Kiara elbowed her sharply and shook her head, then said to Sebastian, "You want to stay."

"Of course you want to stay. Ugh. Heroes," Isabela griped.

Kiara watched Sebastian make the decision to ignore the pirate. He said, "This… all of this… this isn't the way things are done here. I have a responsibility—"

But Isabela was not content to be ignored. She said, "Didn't you have a responsibility years ago?"

There was something open about the statement, and though the words were hard, Kiara could tell Isabela was not aiming to be cruel.

"I did," Sebastian agreed. "If you think I don't blame myself—"

"Oh, Princess, it's pretty obvious you're blaming yourself all over the place. I'm just not sure what you want to do about it."

"Isabela, please—"

"No, Hawke," Sebastian said. "She's right."

Varric cleared his throat. "Might I offer a suggestion?" They all looked at him. "Before anyone goes haring off into danger, as certain fearless dwarves have already done once this evening, perhaps we might spend a couple of days trying to gather information. No one wants a repeat of… Kirkwall."

"And you think slumming about in taverns for a week is going to help us?" Sebastian asked, his tone bordering on cynical.

"Information helps us, Choir Boy. I know it. You know it. Shit happens when there's a lack of it. You want to make things worse than they are already? I tell you what—we find out why your people are so damned scared, and that'll let us know where you can point that fancy bow of yours. Don't shoot blind. Someone innocent'll get hurt. We've all seen it happen."

Sebastian bowed his head. Kiara touched the back of his hand lightly, and was relieved when he didn't immediately jerk away.

"Get some sleep," she said. "All of you. Something tells me we may find it in short supply. First watch is mine."

#

Kiara woke to the sound of rain. She'd been asleep just long enough and in just awkward enough a position to have a terrible crick in her neck, but not at all for the length of time required for her to feel in any way rested. Shifting, she rolled onto her back on the hard, packed-earth floor. Her back protested by creaking unpleasantly. Turning her head, she saw Isabela and Varric curled on their sides, still sleeping, facing each other with Bianca between them. Her lips twitched in a smile. A glance in the other direction revealed Sebastian sitting near the door, keeping watch and checking his arrows one by one for flaws. The smile died. Every line of his body screamed the truth of his torment, and she realized he was taking the strange events since his return to his homeland more badly even than he'd let on.

Pushing herself to one elbow was enough to send Sebastian's attention her way. Then he returned to his task. She sighed and crossed the floor to sit next to him, lifting an arrow to the light afforded by the opened door. The greyness outside was a little lighter—somewhere above the cloud-cover it was dawn.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, pitching her voice low so as not to disturb Varric and Isabela.

Sebastian shook his head, setting a slightly-warped arrow to one side before picking up another and examining the fletching carefully. One of the feathers was askew. He set this arrow aside, too.

"You'll be little help if you're exhausted."

His fingers tightened around the shaft of a third arrow before he dropped it lightly back into his quiver. Even in the rainy dawnlight, the pinched lines and the dark circles at his eyes were starkly evident. He looked older than his years. "What if I can't help?"

"Sebastian…"

He looked away from her, out into the silvery rain. The heavy pounding was slowing, retreating to a drizzly mist. "One sleepless night hardly matters, Hawke. It will not be the first I've spent awake in prayer and contemplation. Nor will it be the last."

She huffed a sigh and set aside an arrow whose fletching was ragged and needed replacing. "I don't suppose the Maker provided any great insight?"

She didn't mean the words to sound bitter, but the tone was unmistakable and he flinched. Putting one hand to her forehead, she rubbed ineffectually at the headache building there. "I didn't mean—"

"No," he said softly, "you did. I understand. Perhaps it is justified. I ask the Maker for answers and He sends only more questions. Waiting… waiting so often looks like wavering. I suppose… I suppose I never considered how foolish my indecision must have seemed to you all those years."

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his legs and settling his chin on his knees, staring out into the morning. She was glad to see the left moved as easily as the right.

"Sebastian, if you're thinking about what Isabela said—"

He turned his cheek and gave her a rueful half-smile. "What did she say that was not the truth? Whatever has changed this city from the place I knew, I think I might have prevented it. But instead I dithered. For years I did nothing."

Kiara raised her hand to comfort him, but at the last moment froze. Her hand hovered in the space between them briefly before falling back to her lap, useless. "Not nothing," she insisted. "Perhaps you were neither Chantry Brother nor Prince, but you were… you helped. Whatever you did, it wasn't nothing, not to me. And not to the people we helped."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, clearly mulling something over. A rogue lock of hair fell across his brow, but he did not raise his hand to push it away, and she found herself distracted by wanting to do so herself. She almost missed it when he said, very softly, very seriously, "Why do you do what you do?"

"What?"

He compressed his lips and shook his head, the lock of hair trembling. "Why do you care? I cannot fathom… time and time again, Kirkwall betrayed you. Time and time again, you attempted reason and were met with madness. You did not let it defeat you. Still you struggled. Still you lost and fell and were pushed down. Each time you pulled yourself to your feet and fought on, long past the point anyone, anyone else would have given up. Why? I know it wasn't for coin or prestige; you seem indifferent to both. Nor could your motive have been political power, or you'd have shown interest in the Viscount's position when it was all but offered you. What drives you, Hawke?"

Taken aback, she blinked and nervously wrapped a strand of her own hair round and round her index finger until the tip throbbed with trapped blood. When she glanced up, Sebastian was still staring at her, his eyes hawkish and sharp, searching her face. "I… suppose I wanted to protect my family. My mother. Amelle. Even bloody Gamlen, on those rare occasions I didn't want to kill him."

He shook his head again, as though this wasn't a good enough answer—wasn't the right answer—as though she'd failed some test she hadn't been aware he'd set. "Certainly," he said, without sounding very certain at all. "But why help me, so many years ago? You did not know me. You owed me nothing. I am not… family. Those mercenaries were murderers, aye, but you put yourself—and Amelle—in unnecessary danger to fight them. If your motivation was truly to keep your sister safe, would you not have avoided confrontation altogether?"

She held her hands wide in mock surrender. "I-I don't know if I have an answer, Sebastian. I—perhaps I did not yet know you, but… they were your family, and your grief was…" Kiara shrugged. "I suppose wanting to protect my family often translated—translates—into wanting them to live in a world that… doesn't require so much protection for them to be safe in it." She scuffed the heel of her boot against the hard floor. "I don't like bullies," she said finally. "You know that. And sometimes I'm strong enough or clever enough to stop them. Isn't that motivation enough?"

Sebastian pushed his hands through his hair and stared up at the ceiling; she wondered if he was offering up a brief prayer. Instead, he said, "I look in the mirror you hold up and I find myself wanting, Hawke."

"I'm… not sure I want to ask what you mean by that."

"You don't hesitate."

"Ahh," she said lightly, "what you mean is I act first and think later. My mother always insinuated it was a flaw."

Even now, the memory of her mother stung. No matter what Sebastian said, she'd hesitated then. She'd hardly listened when her mother spoke of her sudden suitor; she hadn't been clever enough to put the pieces together; she'd let herself not think about the dead girls she hadn't saved, Mharen and Ninette, never thinking their deaths would come back to haunt her. Stupid. Slow. Behind her eyelids she saw her mother's face on the patchwork body Quentin had built, and oh, the years had done nothing to dim that image, to make it anything but the most horrifying thing she'd seen in her life. Her stomach threatened to turn over, but Kiara mimicked Sebastian's gesture and wrapped her arms around her knees, curling into herself.

"I meant no offense," Sebastian said gently, as though he knew the turn of her thoughts, but his gentleness somehow only made the pain worse. She swallowed the rising bile. "I admire you, Hawke. You… make me want to be a better man."

Breathing deeply, she blew out a frustrated exhale. "Careful," she replied. "Don't want to make Andraste jealous."

The joke fell flat even to her own ears, and Sebastian smiled sadly.

Across the room, Isabela sat up and growled something in Rivaini under her breath that Kiara knew couldn't be complimentary. Varric mumbled and rolled over, throwing an arm over his head.

"Honestly," Isabela snapped. "Could you two take the heart to heart elsewhere? It's too bloody early for admiration and jealous gods. Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Fine," Kiara said. "We'll go find food. It's on you if you sleep through an attack, though."

"I'll take the risk," Isabela growled.

By the time Kiara retrieved her own bow and closed the door, Sebastian already stood outside. He nodded once to indicate the street was quiet, the coast clear. Mist beaded in his hair, but the rain had mostly stopped. Kiara inhaled deeply; the world never smelled so clean as it did in the moments just after a hard rain. Sebastian began walking away, but she touched the back of his hand and he halted.

"May I speak frankly?" she asked. He canted his head, clearly taken aback, but nodded.

She said, "You wavered. You were indecisive. There are those who would say you shirked your responsibilities—whether it was your responsibility to your homeland or to the Chantry, there are those who would condemn your choices. You have made mistakes, and it's possible those mistakes have caused harm. Who hasn't? I'm not a princess or a lay-sister, but apart from that? I've been guilty of all those things, at one point or another. The thing is, Sebastian… the thing is, you blame yourself, and that blame eats at you, and it makes you ineffectual. It makes you weak."

Sebastian stiffened and the color rose in his cheeks, but he inclined his head to accept her criticism.

Kiara continued more gently, "If you have enemies—in Starkhaven, or elsewhere—you must know they want you weak. Don't let them have it. You cannot change what has happened. Nothing can change what has already happened. Everyone… everyone has things in their lives they would wish undone. Fight what you can fight now. Be stronger than this. Be stronger than they expect you to be."

She watched him absorb her words. Gradually his brow lost the hard line of dismay, his color returned to normal, and his lips softened. After a moment, he nodded with silent resolve, and when he looked at her again it was with determination in his eyes and not the grief and guilt she had begun to fear would come to define him. "I—thank you, Hawke. Again."

With a wry smile, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Besides, Amelle is always the first to tell me whining is terribly unattractive, and we both know occasionally Amelle is startlingly astute in matters such as these."

He almost laughed. The sound that emerged was a ghost of a chuckle, but better than nothing. Kiara had heard little enough laughter from him in the weeks since he woke; she'd take a tiny chuckle if it was on offer. She hesitated—oh, Sebastian, see? I hesitate—only a moment before reaching out and gripping his hand. After a second he returned the comforting squeeze.

"We'll figure it out, Sebastian," she said. "We always do."

This time when he shook his head, it was accompanied by a soft sigh. "It's madness, Hawke, but I believe you."

#

It was still too early for the shops to be open, and though Kiara would have expected the markets to already be catering to the early risers, they found doors shut tight and windows shuttered. The mist turned heavy and became rain once again, and soon her hair dripped and rivulets of water rain down her face and into the neck of her clothing.

Sebastian, looking every bit as bedraggled as she felt, stopped abruptly and sniffed the air. She mimicked him and found she, too, smelled smoke—but not the clean burning smoke of hearthfires or cookfires. Something was burning, but it wasn't natural; even the faint odor made her gorge rise. A shiver ran the length of her spine, and she turned her face until she thought she knew the direction. Before she could dash forward, Sebastian put a hand to her shoulder and pulled her back.

"This way," he said softly. "We can't go in blind."

They skulked through the rain, always following the pervasive scent of burning. After a time, noise accompanied the smell—the unmistakable sound of a gathered crowd. She could not make out their words, but the volume and anger ensured she was prepared with an arrow to her bowstring.

Sebastian, having taken the lead, held up his hand. She paused, and when he urged her forward, they emerged onto a gallery overlooking an open square. Smoke billowed through the air, undaunted by the rain. A gust of wind cleared the smoke just long enough for them to see, and to be horrified.

Kiara froze in her tracks, for a moment unwilling to believe her own eyes, though she had never doubted them before. Her mind told her she must be witnessing a funeral—a great pyre for some fallen comrade or local hero. In spite of the rain, the fire burned hot and hard, throwing up its clouds of black smoke, engulfing the figure in the inferno.

It was the mob that convinced her otherwise. She had witnessed all too many funerals, and none of them had ever brought grief in the form of angry, screaming voices, not like this. It was not mourning. The crowd screamed for justice. For death. Death is never justice.

Kiara heard them shriek the word mage.

They crept to the edge of the balcony, peering out over the seething mass of fury beneath them.

"Maker," Sebastian breathed, his voice taut with horror. "Maker be merciful."

Kiara saw it then. The person trapped in the conflagration was still alive.

"We have to—" she began, but the words drifted into silence, quelled by the rising of her stomach. She swallowed again and again, but still the bile rose.

It was too late. She knew it was too late. She… thought the victim was a woman; something about the slenderness of the writhing body, though distinguishing markers like clothes and hair were long since gone. The woman, if woman it was, was too weak to scream, but still she twitched within the flames. Perhaps she was unconscious. Kiara hoped she was unconscious.

Too late. Kiara knew even Amelle—even a healer as talented as Amelle—would not be able to heal such wounds. Kiara brought an arrow to her bow and pulled. Then her stomach rebelled once again and she… hesitated.

Sebastian did not. The burning woman's head snapped back, her throat pierced by Sebastian's flawless shot, the white fletching quivering even as it instantly went up in flames.

"'Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven.'"

Sebastian's words—his prayer—emerged choked, but sincere. Kiara wished rather than believed the Chant might grant some measure of peace; she knew she felt none.

Engulfed in white-hot rage, Kiara turned her still-drawn arrow on one of the torch-wielding townsfolk and released it. The man fell to the stones, hardly noticed by the press of others around him. Sebastian took out another. The crowd was wild, frothing with such wrath it took time for them to notice the arrows felling their members.

Kiara shot two more before Sebastian grabbed her shoulder, panting, "We can't take them all."

"We can bloody well try."

"No, Hawke, we cannot. This is more than we can handle alone. Dying here will save no one. There will be time for justice later. Please. Please."

She resisted a moment more, sending two more arrows into the throng, before Sebastian grabbed her wrist in an insistent, iron grip and pulled her forcibly away. She spat a curse at him, but followed, coughing as she inhaled a lungful of the acrid smoke.

It was a funeral now, but she could not stay to mourn. And so they fled, chased by the harrowing cries of the mob.

#

Kiara didn't remember much of the return trip to the warehouse. Sebastian pulled her down side streets and walked them in circles, never once taking his hand from her wrist as he tugged her along behind him. She knew his grip would leave bruises in the shapes of fingers, but she thought it was probably good he was so strong, because with every fiber of her being she wanted to go back and rain arrows on the mob, futile or not.

Even with all the things she'd seen—and some had been truly awful—she had never imagined, never in her worst nightmares imagined such a thing. Questions raced through her mind, each more alarming and infuriating than the last. Fear of mages she could understand—too well; so many years of constantly fearing for her sister's wellbeing in the face of such fear had trained her well—but to murder one? Again she was forced to swallow past the overwhelming nausea.

Where were the templars? Where was order?

In her mind's eye, just for an instant, she saw Amelle in a fire like that, burning like that, and she was forced at last to dig her heels into the ground and bend over, to void her mostly-empty stomach onto the wet cobblestones.

Sebastian, a bit wild about the eyes, released her wrist at last, but only to step close and put a hand to her back. He rubbed comforting circles against her spine. She heaved once more and spat, grateful for the gesture but still seething, still sick.

Where were the templars?

"That wasn't a mage," Kiara said, still trying to bring herself back under control.

"Hawke," said Sebastian. She didn't shrug off his hand, but she stood, and he lowered his arm.

"No," she protested, "don't you see? There were no templars."

"Hawke, now isn't the time—"

Clenching her hand into a fist, she pounded herself on the thigh once, hard. The pain bought her a moment's reprieve from the ache in her gut. "Listen to me. They were… they thought they were burning a mage. They were crying out against mages; you heard them. But there were no templars."

Sebastian held his hands wide in surrender, his expression exasperated. "Kiara," he said, emphasizing the syllables of her given name heavily, "it was madness. Whatever it was, it was madness. You cannot attempt to make sense of it."

She uttered a brief, guttural cry of distress. "But you heard them. They were purging mages. But there—"

"—Were no templars. What does it matter? Do you think templars are the only ones holding a grudge against mages? Especially after what happened in Kirkwall? You immediately wish to blame the Chantry for any action taken against mages?" Defensiveness tinged his words now, and his eyes were sharp as he blinked the rain from his lashes.

"No!" she cried. "But templars are the only ones with the skills necessary to incapacitate mages. It's why they bloody exist! You think any real mage would have submitted to that fire? That was no mage! It was—"

Realization widened his eyes and stole what little color remained in his cheeks. "—Someone innocent of the crime."

Hackles raised, Kiara put her hand against his chest and pushed. It wasn't strong, and he only stumbled a few inches, but it was enough to discompose him, to make his hawkish gaze drop. "Being a mage isn't a crime," she snarled. "Don't you even—"

"Hawke, I didn't mean—"

"Anders committed the crime, Sebastian!" she shouted, even though a part of her knew, knew she shouldn't. Her voice rang in the empty street, echoing eerily, her own words flung back at her, punctuated by the pummeling downpour. "Anders! Not all mages. Not even most mages. Anders! Would you see Amelle put to that kind of... would you see Amelle... Amelle? Who heals people? Who cries when she loses patients? Is she a criminal to you? Is what she does a crime?"

"Kiara," he whispered, as though the gentleness of his own voice could induce her to imitate him. He didn't attempt to touch her, but she recoiled as if he had. "It wasn't Amelle. Amelle is safe. Amelle is protected. It wasn't Amelle."

"I know! I know that! But it was someone. It was someone with a mother and father. Maybe siblings. Maybe children. A lover. A life. It was someone, someone whose life mattered. No one deserves that kind of a death. No one! Not mages, not murderers, no one."

Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the rain. Tears brightened Sebastian's eyes, too, somehow rendering the blue even more startling.

"Believe me, Hawke. We will bring them to justice."

Kiara clenched her hands in her wet hair and tugged, hard, fighting the scream rising deep in her belly. Justice. "I hate that fucking word! I don't even now what it means anymore, except people dying."

His eyes did not leave hers. He watched her as carefully as one might watch a rabid dog. Steadily, he said, "It means we will find out who is spreading these lies, who is allowing such actions to take place, who is at fault, and we will make them answer for their crimes. Without undue cruelty. Without slaughter. Without sliding into madness and vengeance ourselves. I swear to you. I swear."

She wanted to believe him. Kiara wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as though the force of her own limbs might somehow keep all the jangling pieces of herself together. It was the wrongness of it all. She couldn't help putting her sister in that fire, seeing Amelle fighting for her life against the prejudice, the intolerance, the discrimination based on lies and half-truths and shadows. Always running. Always hiding. Always fearing.

The smell of smoke, of burning, lingered in Kiara's nostrils, clinging to her clothes like ghostly fingers. The odor was pervasive and cloying and—and then it was that night all over again; the burning city, the screaming citizens, the betrayals of Anders and Sebastian and Orsino all fresh and stinging. The smell of smoke reminded her of Meredith's madness, and of having to fight and kill people she didn't want to fight and kill, knowing it was already too late to save the innocents in the chantry. Elthina. How many templars had fallen to her arrows that night? How many of Cullen's comrades—Maker, how close it had been to Cullen himself—had died because they followed a madwoman who'd twisted their cause?

Once again Kiara found herself sick, sick unto death of the unreasonableness, the misconceptions and petty hatreds allowed to rage out of control, to lead to things like innocents burned in the streets. Her mouth tasted of blood and bile, and she realized she'd bitten her own tongue.

Isabela and Varric appeared then, their expressions wary. She wondered absently if they were near the warehouse, or if her shouting had carried so far. She wished—she wished with all she had—that she wouldn't have to tell them, wouldn't have to explain. And part of her resented them, because neither of them had to see what she and Sebastian had seen. Neither of them had to have the images of the mob, the arrow, that woman playing again and again on the backs of their eyelids.

Kiara's jaw clenched until her teeth hurt when Isabela said, carelessly casual, "Well, shit. Something happened."

Varric's eyebrows rose, but he didn't look to Isabela. He looked at Kiara, unblinking, searching her face. Kiara almost hoped he'd see the truth written there, so she wouldn't be forced to speak the ugliness aloud.

"Look at them," Isabela continued, her tone too unconcerned, her posture too easy. "They're all worked up. So now they're going to ask us to do something heroic. You know she always gets that look when she wants us to—"

Kiara flung herself at Isabela with a cry, and only the pirate's light feet and duelist's reflexes kept her from being hurled to the ground. Instead it was Kiara who knelt, hands scraped and knees aching. "Shut up!" she said, as fervently as ever a prayer was spoken. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Varric crouched beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder that ought to have felt comforting, but instead just felt heavy. "What is it, Hawke? Something… bad?"

Sebastian hung his head and replied, "Very."