It wasn't such a vast undertaking, Amelle decided. When all was said and done, the only thing they had to do was get out of West Hill without attracting attention to themselves. People did that every day. Besides that, they knew about the Archon's men, but the Archon's men didn't know about them. It was a significant advantage, and one Amelle planned to take full advantage of. They had the upper hand here—they just had to keep it that way.

The globe of blue flame glowed steadily in Amelle's palm as she continued grinning up at Fenris. "All we have to do," she said, "is sneak downstairs like we got away with something naughty—which, all right, fair point; I suppose we did, in a way—then you get the horses while I collect Varric and Isabela and we'll be out of West Hill before you can spit."

The longer she looked at him, though, the more she noticed how Fenris' clothes, though worn, were meticulously cared-for; she'd yet to see him, their first meeting notwithstanding, looking anything but perfectly tidy. Even despite yesterday's watery interlude, his shirt was clean and tucked in and his plain, dark waistcoat had nary a wrinkle anywhere. He wore no collar, no cravat, but even the top button of his shirt, left unbuttoned, did nothing to detract from how very neat he looked. She looked up at him a long while, smile fading into thoughtfulness.

It would never do. If she'd been up here with him in that capacity, she'd—

No. It would never do.

"What?" Fenris asked, suddenly wary.

Without a word, Amelle pushed his hat back off his head, the windstring catching at his neck, and ran her fingers through his hair, mussing it. With reflexes quick enough they made Isabela look slow, Fenris grabbed her wrist and ducked away.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, tone sharp as he scowled down at her in the blue light.

"Think about what we told the guard we'd be doing up here," Amelle reminded him. "I don't know how you do things, but when I—"

"You make a habit of sneaking into off limits areas for secret assignations?"

"Well, no," she admitted, darting closer and, letting her flame transfer to the hand he held, Amelle reached up and tousled his hair with her free hand. "But I'm not going to stand here and pretend I've never even kissed a man before."

"And how do you think I should look?" he asked, skepticism running thick through his words.

"Definitely less annoyed," Amelle returned pertly, her fingers still carding through his hair. It was softer than it looked. "Maybe a little flushed," she added, trying not to imagine that and failing. When, exactly, had this seemed like a good idea? "…Satisfied."

A beat of silence followed, Fenris' expression inscrutable as he watched her. Then, he arched an eyebrow. "You think highly of yourself."

"You'd rather pretend to be two people who went into the tower and didn't enjoy themselves?" she reasoned. Pulling her hand from his hair—reluctantly—Amelle brought her fingers to the topmost button on his shirt. This time Fenris grabbed that hand, stilling it.

"Hawke—"

Amelle sighed. "Really, Fenris, we don't have time—"

Then he kissed her. Hard.

The light in her hand guttered out.

It took a moment for Amelle's brain to catch up with what the rest of her was doing; Fenris hands were still closed around her wrists, and his lips pressed firmly against hers. Tugging her hands free, Amelle twisted closer, then grabbed his coat and held on for dear life because, Maker's breath, his mouth was hot and insistent as his fingers wound into her hair, tugging on the strands, tilting her head back as he opened his mouth to hers.

Verisimilitude, indeed.

Amelle responded in kind, trying to meet his intensity with her own, darting her tongue out to taste him, and with that contact something primal sparked deep in her brain. She slid her hands into Fenris' coat, up his chest to grip his shoulders, fingers clutching at his shirt, digging into his flesh; he felt so good, so solid, it would have been so easy to forget—

All an act, that's all it was. Or meant to make their act more convincing. Something. Coherent thought had become gradually more difficult to maintain.

One hand slid from Amelle's hair, trailing down her neck and onward down her body, coming to pause at the curve of her waist—exactly where Fenris' hand had rested before, when they'd fooled the guard so successfully. The memory of that touch, of the way he'd pulled her close, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his breath so close to her ear, surged in Amelle's mind and she groaned into the kiss, hooking an arm around his neck.

Then Fenris' thigh moved between her legs and either Fenris remembered himself or Amelle did, because with that contact they parted on a gasp in the dark, both of them panting. Every inch of her skin tingled as she pressed her fingertips to her lips and attempted to catch her breath—easier said than done.

"There," Fenris managed, sounding nearly as out of sorts as Amelle felt, and that was a comfort. "Do you… feel that will render us convincing enough?"

Maker save me from my own bright ideas, she thought, swallowing hard. What she said, however—and by the Void, her voice sounded breathy and foreign to her ears—was, "That… should work, yes." She tamped down on the urge to straighten her clothes, pressing a hand to her belly instead. It was flipping like a traveling Antivan acrobatics troupe, and all the deep breathing in the world wasn't going to calm it.

"I… apologize," Fenris said into the darkness.

"For what?" replied Amelle, forcing her tone so it sounded airy and carefree instead of lust-strangled. "Anything to make the act more believable, right?" Looking the part was the most important thing, right?

Right.

A pause came and went. "Yes. Precisely."

She curled her hands into fists so they'd stop shaking—hopefully—and leaned her shoulder against the tower door. "Shall we?"

"Lead on."

They descended the stairs together, and after such a… thorough discussion on the merits of convincing appearances, the only thing Amelle was absolutely certain of was that her pulse was still doing the Remigold in her veins and her cheeks were so very warm it was a wonder she hadn't burst into actual flame. Amelle had no idea how she looked, only that every inch of skin, every nerve ending felt alive and when she pressed the back of her hand to her flushed cheek, it would not cool. With no small amount of luck, the guard that had granted them passage wouldn't question them now in the least.

And he didn't.

Amelle and Fenris walked by the guard—and at the sound of their footsteps, he moved nonchalantly out of the way. They walked past, close enough to each other that the tops of their hands brushed, and though Amelle was certain she was giving off actual sparks with the contact, they behaved with nothing near the implied intimacy they'd displayed on the way up the stairs. Two people trying not to flaunt their illicit interlude—an assumption confirmed when the guard sent them both a nod coupled with a conspirator's smirk. Amelle's face went even hotter.

She really, really couldn't wait to leave West Hill.

"All right," she said, once they'd reached the bottom of the stairs, just on the cusp of a line of traders' stalls that ran the width of the courtyard. "Stables are that way," she told him with a nod in that direction, shifting her weight onto her left foot and slowly rotating her right. It did little to alleviate the ache still radiating up from her ankle and, exhaling hard, she set her foot down.

"Are you well?"

Amelle made a face. "I'll be better tonight." She wasn't quite ready to look him in the eye yet, not after—not after any of that, and not here in full sunlight where her flushed cheeks and rumpled shirt were on full display. With a grimace, she tugged her coat closed and began buttoning it. "Anyway, be careful. I'll find Isabela and Varric and we'll come to you quick as we can. Then we can leave and hope to the Void the Maker doesn't send us anything else to make this trip more interesting."

Then, still careful to keep her eyes from his, Amelle turned and began walking in the direction they'd seen Varric and Isabela head—though that had been… some time ago, before they'd… well. Some time ago, anyway.

Amelle walked faster. Or she'd started to, until Fenris called her name. She stopped and turned to find him sending her a quizzical look, as if she were a riddle he couldn't quite figure out.

"Yes?" She looked into his face this time, met his eyes, and was more than a little gratified to discover he looked similarly discomforted and flushed beneath his tan.

He hesitated a moment, shifting his weight briefly before jerking his chin in the direction she'd been headed. "Hawke. Be careful."

She smiled and shrugged. "Always am."

They parted ways and Amelle hurried along, eyes peeled for Isabela or Varric—they'd been just around here not that long ago; they couldn't have gone that far. Amelle gritted her teeth and ignored the ache pulsing up from her foot. Tonight—tonight, wherever they stopped, she would rest it properly. Directing mana to an injury was a process that took time and concentration, neither of which she had in great supply at that moment.

Finally, not far from a weapons vendor specializing in long, curved daggers, Amelle caught a flash of Isabela's blue headscarf and quickened her steps, hissing a curse as pain throbbed up her leg.

Whether it was the sound of her steps against stone or some other tell Amelle was unaware of, Isabela turned, the expression on her face one of wary concern.

"There you are," she said sharply, though Amelle did not miss the flicker of confusion, followed by speculation. Whatever her thoughts, though, Isabela pushed them aside for more pressing matters. "We've got trouble, Hawke. Seven—"

"Tevinters," Amelle supplied. "We saw them already; Fenris is getting the horses. I saw them go into the kitchens a while ago. Should be—"

"Two of them are out already—guess mutton stew was too lowbrow for them," said Varric. "Rivaini and I—"

"We've been watching them. Nothing too terribly interesting. Just a lot of browsing and insulting the traders—always smart."

"Any idea what they're here for?" asked Amelle as she turned, the three of them making their way through the courtyard toward the gate.

"No," answered Isabela, annoyed. "If they've said anything about themselves to anyone, it's been rooted in their own self-importance. A lot of posturing going on."

"Fenris says they're agents of the Archon."

"And what's that? Their governor?" Isabela asked with a snort. "Sounds a bit of a puffed up title, you ask me."

"I don't think they're hunters," Varric said, rubbing his chin. "Hunters don't tend to advertise."

"They weren't dressed for it, either," added Isabela. At Amelle's curious look, she shrugged. "For one thing, they had too many valuables on them: rings and timepieces—things too easily lost or damaged most men or women don't wear on a hunt. For another, their leather was too supple and their velvet too clean. I don't doubt they're worthy of avoiding, but I'd bet my favorite deck of cards that group's not here to hunt broody elves."

Amelle snorted. "I'd take that bet and be happy to part with the coin if it means you're right."

"You're on."

"Do we want to know what they are here for?" Amelle asked, glancing back at Isabela as they crossed through the gates.

"I'd bet Rivaini's favorite deck they're not here for anything good."

"Sucker's bet," Amelle replied.

"And all the more reason for us to get as far from West Hill as we can," chimed in Isabela as they rounded the corner to the stables.

Fenris had wasted no time getting the horses readied—he was already astride Agrippa, eyes set watchfully in their direction. The horses looked as if they'd been groomed, at least, and the tack had been cleaned. They'd had no more than an hour's rest, which wasn't nearly enough, but it would have to suffice, at least until they knew they were a safe distance from West Hill and its not-entirely-welcome visitors.

As Amelle circled around Falcon and gripped the saddle horn, preparatory to pulling herself up.

"Do you require assistance?" Fenris asked, but Amelle shook her head. Truthfully, perhaps she ought to have taken him up on his offer of help, but aside from not being entirely ready to be so close to him again, she also didn't want to waste the time. Amelle heaved herself into the saddle with minimal discomfort and smiled to discover Fenris had indeed unwrapped her staff—most of it, anyway; he'd kept the blade wrapped in oilcloth, as it rested against Falcon's body—and fastened it along Falcon's side, beneath the saddle flap; its subtle presence pressing against the inside of her leg wasn't… comfortable, exactly, but it was reassuring.

"Farewell again, West Hill," Varric said mournfully as they nudged the horses down the hill onto the path cutting through the woods. "I will miss you, but not your mutton stew."

The paths through the Coastlands were well-traveled, if nothing else, lined by dense pine trees on either side, their branches canopying overhead. Earthy pine mingled with the salt air coming in off the water—close enough to smell, not to hear. Birds called overhead and branches sent needles drifting downward as squirrels raced from limb to limb. For twenty minutes they maintained a good pace in peace—it took at least that long for Amelle to stop glancing worriedly over her shoulder.

Then the birds went quiet. Small animals stopped scurrying along twisted, stretching boughs. Agrippa snorted suddenly and pranced, pawing at the ground; when Amelle looked at Fenris, she saw his jaw set like stone, his grip on his reins turning his knuckles white.

A low rumble rose from behind them. Amelle's breath caught; it sounded too like the river moments before it had swept her from the bridge. But the skies were clear. No, the rumble was hoofbeats. And they were drawing nearer.

In that moment it didn't matter who was behind them on the path—someone was, and that was enough. An apostate's life was a curious blend of risk and caution, and by this stage in her life, Amelle felt herself… more or less qualified to navigate the line between the two. Running like hell was in this case the cautious thing to do—sometimes it didn't matter who was behind you, only that somebody was.

"Go!" Amelle shouted, kicking Falcon's sides hard, pushing him forward.

But Falcon's strides had only started to lengthen when a sick thrum pulsed through the air, shivering unpleasantly up Amelle's spine. Her stomach churned to nausea as a cold sweat and gooseflesh crawled across her skin. Blood magic.

She dug her heels into Falcon's sides again, but her horse had already begun slowing. She pressed harder into his sides, snapped his reins against his neck, but her horse continued to slow down, his head drooping as if he hadn't the strength to hold it upright any longer. Fenris cursed off to her right, and when Amelle looked, she saw his stately mare stumbling to a stop. Falcon's legs trembled and he dropped to one knee, his breaths coming fast and hard. She slid from his back and ran her hands along his body, a healing spell lighting her hands, the magic made too rough and imprecise by her wild stab of fear.

What the hell had been done to her horse? And who in all the Void did it?

Cedric let out a dismayed neigh, and Varric only just barely dismounted before the animal collapsed. Unaffected by her own spell, Falcon tumbled over to his side. A glance showed her Tango was likewise incapacitated.

Magic seared the air again. Falcon's eyes rolled and closed, and for a too-long heartbeat of time Amelle's heart turned to ice in her chest.

But no, his sides still rose and fell. A sleep spell, then. But one far thicker and more insidious than she'd ever attempted.

Nothing more than pure luck had prevented Falcon from falling onto her staff. Amelle looked around them—the horses had fallen in the middle of the path. There was nowhere, no way to shelter them; a fight was coming—that much she was sure of, and it was coming fast. The only option remaining to them was to move that fight away from the animals. With a flick of her fingers, Amelle singed the rope holding her staff in place and pulled it free. The oilcloth loosened, slowly spiraling off the staff's bladed end as the hoofbeats grew louder. Closer.

She looked over her shoulder—dark shapes with riders cloaked in green rushed along the path. The glow of magic rippled the air and she saw at least one rider held a staff aloft. If at any point Amelle wondered how they had caught up with them, her questions were answered when she counted eight riders astride gleaming horses, animals clearly bred for speed, whose muscles flexed and rippled between clean, gleaming coats.

Wait. Amelle blinked. Eight?

"We missed one," she breathed. There was one rider they hadn't accounted for—all the while they were trying to be so careful and stay out of sight, when he hadn't mattered one damned bit. "Shit. Shit. We missed one." Quickly, she glanced to either side of the narrow road. The trees were dense, but were they dense enough to force the riders off their mounts? She dearly hoped so. Beside her, Isabela stood with daggers in hand. Varric stood by Cedric's still form, Bianca ready and waiting in his arms. Fenris rested one hand on the butt of his gun, the other on the hilt of the templar sword.

"We need to get off the road," she said urgently, striding off into the pine-dotted brush. The pine needles cushioning the forest floor were slippery, making the steep incline difficult to navigate. "Keep them away from our horses and force them off theirs."

"Hoping it's too thick for them to follow on horseback?" asked Isabela, nodding her approval as she followed. Varric and Fenris were close behind. "I like it. And not only because it's the only plan we've got."

"With luck," Amelle said, digging the bladed end of her staff into the ground to keep her steps steady, "they're expecting us to be unarmed."

"If we had luck," Fenris drawled darkly, lengthening his strides so he walked alongside Amelle. "We would not be in such a position to begin with."

"That's still luck, Broody," quipped Varric. "Just bad luck."

Amelle's grip tightened around her staff as she pulled herself up the incline. "We'll need to stay as close together as we can."

"Pick them off, see if we can whittle their numbers down?" asked Varric.

"My thoughts exactly," she replied, swearing under her breath as she nearly lost her footing on a patch of pine needles. "Don't let them separate us—Maker knows they'll try."

As far as plans went, it was lacking. But there was no time to plan, only run.

The pines were thick. Needles covered every inch of the forest floor in a thick blanket that offered no traction. Even using her staff for balance, Amelle slipped as she ran and stumbled over tree roots, newly healed bones and ligaments sending warning bolts of pain up her leg.

She reminded herself it would hurt worse if she were caught, and so she kept running.

###

Any thoughts Fenris may have entertained on whether or not Hawke was capable of betraying him, of arranging their discovery and pursuit, perished the moment he saw the look on her face. For as easily as Hawke wore masks to suit her needs, he had no doubt her surprise at being followed, turning then to unvarnished dread and then pale fear as her horse staggered beneath her, were all genuine. As genuine as the hardened determination she wore now.

His satisfaction at his well-placed faith, however, would have to wait. Many things would have to wait, in fact.

Beside him, Hawke drove the bladed end of her staff into the ground in time to catch herself from losing her footing on the carpet of pine needles. She looked over her shoulder at their pursuers, then gnawed hard on her bottom lip.

"I suppose here's as good a place as any to make a stand. Varric?"

"Higher ground's always good," the dwarf replied. "And what they've got in numbers, we can probably make up for in dirty tricks."

Below them, two of the riders were either brave, arrogant, or foolish enough to try navigating their mounts through the dense trees. It wasn't impossible to do, but it was impossible to do quickly. While the riders struggled, the remaining six learned from their brethren and dismounted, some pulling swords and daggers free, while others unholstered pistols or rifles. There was only a single mage; a woman with shining hair the color of coal swinging around her chalk-pale face.

The lead rider, a tall woman with pale blonde hair pulled back into a twist, strode forward, a rifle in her arms and a pair of daggers nestled in leather sheaths upon either thigh. Her stance was wide, her eyes watchful, though they narrowed above a thin smile when her gaze settled on him.

"We have no quarrel with you," she said. "Give us the slave and we'll be on our way."

Hawke's snort told Fenris she thought that was as likely as he did. "I'm afraid you must be lost," she called back. "You're in Ferelden. We have only free men here. Fenris," she said, tilting her head his way, "is one such free man."

Of all the words he'd expected Hawke to say, those had not entered into his mind. His breath caught as he shot her a sidelong look, but her chin was lifted stubbornly, her mouth showing now sign of mirth, her eyes hard. This was no silly ruse; Hawke was in earnest.

"He's been bought and paid for," the blonde woman said. "No magister wants to see such an investment slip through his fingers."

Hawke and Isabela exchanged a quick look; Isabela's brows lifted pointedly. But before Fenris could do any more than wonder, Hawke hefted her staff and gave it a twirl as she sauntered forward—Fenris wondered if the Archon's men saw how heavily she'd been leaning on it; he hoped not—and stabbed the bladed end into the ground, planting her other hand on her hip. "And I suppose you've been sent directly by the magister in question?"

The lead rider snorted. "We do the Archon's bidding, dog-lover."

Hawke swung her head around to look at the rest of them, genuine puzzlement on her face. "I've never understood why that's meant to be any sort of an insult. What's wrong with dogs?" she asked in an undertone before facing the riders again. "So it's the Archon looking for Fenris," she drawled. "My, he must be quite the celebrity where you're from." Despite her words, she didn't sound impressed.

"Our business is none of your concern," the woman tossed back, haughtily. "Now will you hand over the slave, or are we to—"

Hawke interrupted, taking a step forward. Her jaw tightened as she landed on her injured ankle, but what Fenris recognized as pain also looked akin to annoyance or anger. "So the Archon's errand you've been sent on isn't to return Fenris to the Imperium," she said, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head as if trying to comprehend something beyond the words the woman spoke.

The leader blinked, nostrils flaring as she answered. "I told you the Archon's plans are none of your business."

"But you also want to take my friend somewhere against his will—isn't going to happen, by the way—and I was just wondering if that was your primary objective, or if this little meet-up is a coincidental one." She shifted her weight off the injured foot. "Then again, you've all but told us collecting him isn't your primary errand—which, as you've said at length, isn't any of my business." Then Hawke twisted around again, digging in her pocket before flipping a coin Isabela's way. Upon catching sight of Fenris' surprise, she shrugged one shoulder. "What? She bet me they weren't actually here looking for you."

Fenris stared, first at her, then at Isabela, who had already—smugly—made the coin disappear. "And you took the bet?"

Hawke arched an eyebrow at him. "It's not like that. I took it hoping she was right."

This did nothing whatsoever to alleviate his stare. "You took a bet you… wished to lose."

A sheepish flush colored her cheeks, but she tilted her chin. "No, I—did you have to put it that way?"

Fenris arched an eyebrow at her. "Hawke, I think you need to revisit the concept of gambling."

"Shhh," Isabela hissed. "Don't tell her that."

"I hate to interrupt," the Imperium rider said, her patient, mocking tone running thin and peevish. "But if you will not give us the slave, we will have no choice but to take him by force."

Hawke turned back to them, her smile full of steel as she lifted one hand, mana dancing around her fingertips. "Well," she said, the stone at the end of her staff taking on a deep red glow, "you're certainly welcome to try."

Hawke's invitation was all the riders had been waiting for.

The incident in Kinloch Hold notwithstanding, Fenris had very little experience fighting as a part of a group. He preferred to move in close and fast, dealing with whatever opponent had made the mistake of getting in his way. It was, in part, why the hunters had managed to ambush him outside Ostagar—they'd taken him by surprise from a distance and made it difficult for him to get in close. He was an excellent shot, but a ranged altercation failed to make use of his true talents, so to speak.

It felt… strange to have someone at his back like this.

The air shimmered into a shield around Fenris, his ears popping with the change in air pressure as he charged forward, templar blade in one hand while the other blazed alight with lyrium. The Archon's agents scattered, some rushing for the considerable cover the trees provided, others standing their ground as they drew swords and daggers, metal glinting dangerously in the dappled light. Gunfire tore the air and Fenris ducked reflexively as bullets ricocheted off Hawke's protective shield; when he looked up again, his eyes settled on the man who'd fired on him—he'd looked pleased with himself at first, but that smile vanished into alarm as Fenris sprinted forward with a surge of lyrium. Before the would-be assailant could pull the hammer back and squeeze off another shot, Fenris had already thrust his blade into the man's belly as he shoved one glowing hand into his chest. The pounding heart burst in his grip like rotten fruit.

All around Fenris, Hawke's magic pulsed and hummed through the air as protective glyphs shimmered into place and well-aimed fireballs caught the underbrush aflame, forcing archers and riflemen out from the safety of cover and into his and Isabela's paths as crossbow bolts rained down. Isabela moved faster than he'd thought possible, dancing on the edge of his peripheral vision, daggers flashing and slicing through the air and into flesh as she lunged and spun, finding her targets with deadly accuracy. She moved behind trees and around adversaries with skill and speed that looked akin to magic, as if she could disappear into nothing more than shadow, only to reappear again at will. She appeared behind an archer aiming at Hawke and slit her throat before darting off to yet another target; Isabela's victim was left with blood coursing down the front of her, darkening supple leather and fine velvet as she fell to the forest floor.

The group's leader, the sneering blond, gripped two daggers in fisted hands as she made a beeline for Isabela, but all her grace and speed only brought a sharp, toothy smile from Isabela. The blond feinted, fooling Isabela not at all as her dagger raised to block the blond's strike before it could begin. Fenris drew his revolver, but in the time it took him to lift the gun and pull back the hammer, Isabela had dropped down and swept out her leg, knocking the other woman to the ground, before rearing back and plunging her other dagger into the leader's chest.

Then a wave of magic thrummed through the air anew, but this was not Hawke's magic, full of lightning and fire and protective spells. The lyrium in his skin prickled unpleasantly and he turned in time to spy the mage, blood dripping from her hand as she thrust her arm forward—the blood exploded into a red mist and unholy light with a force that sent Hawke sprawling backwards, engulfing her as she landed hard upon the carpet of pine needles. Before he could even wonder at the nature of the spell, Hawke let out a long, hoarse scream, nothing like Fenris had ever heard in his life or ever wished to hear again. She writhed in helpless agony on the ground, screams turning ragged as she clutched protectively at herself, mana flaring in useless light from her fingers as she fought to push past the spell.

No.

Fenris spun on his heel, pulling at the lyrium in his markings until it flowed forward, bright and hot beneath his skin; the noise around him dulled as the fight dimmed to a grey-green blur around him as broke into a run, propelling himself toward the blood mage. The mage's smile, cold and cruel, vanished into shock and then—yes—fear as Fenris closed the distance between them and drove the templar-forged sword deep into the mage's gut. She sneered at him and lifted her hand to her wound, but he'd already seen her fear, and it lingered like sour sweat. Before she could call on the blood streaming so freely from the body and twist it into final a spell against him, Fenris thrust one glowing hand into her chest and squeezed her heart until it burst.

"Broody, duck!"

Letting the mage's body crumple to the ground, Fenris did as Varric yelled, turning in time to see an archer's chest, riddled with three rapidly-fired crossbow bolts; as the archer's fingers went slack and he fell, the arrow shot wide, landing solidly into a tree trunk, the note upon which the altercation ended.

The forest was preternaturally quiet, save for the dismayed sounds of the Tevinters' horses as they snorted and stomped at the ground. Varric was by Hawke's side, helping her up; her face had gone grey, and she leaned heavily on the dwarf, placing no weight at all upon her hurt ankle. Fenris wondered again about the spell that had affected her so, but despite her pallor, Hawke's expression evinced nothing but grim satisfaction.

"You all right, Hawke?" Varric asked, helping her to a fallen log, where she sat with a grimace.

She sent Varric a tight smile nodded, but Fenris found himself unconvinced. Perhaps it was the quality of that smile—too forced, too white-lipped—or perhaps it was the way she held her staff, both hands curled into fists around the length of it.

"Mages," she gritted out, "always know how to best hurt their own kind."

"You are not her kind," he said, loosing the words before he'd even realized he'd thought them. Hawke lifted her head and looked at him, surprise pushing through the lingering discomfort. Her smile grew less tight around the edges, easing into something genuine.

"Thanks," was all she said. Then she looked around at the carnage surrounding them. "Well. That went… better than expected. I think it's safe to—Isabela, what are you doing?"

Isabela was crouched over the fallen leader's body, nimble hands rifling through pockets and leather pouches. "What?" she said. "These are top of the line blades," she said, indicating the daggers she'd pulled from the woman's slack hands. "And it's not like she's going to be needing them. Besides—ooh, what have we here?" she murmured, pulling a sheaf of papers free from the dead leader's satchel.

"I'm almost certain I'm not inclined to give a damn."

But Isabela ignored her, frowning as she flipped through the documents she held. "Hawke, I think you might want to see this."

Something in Isabela's tone caught Hawke's ear; her brows furrowed together and she stretched out one hand, taking the sheaf of papers without a word. Likewise, she read them without a word.

"Is that," Isabela asked, arching an eyebrow and folding her arms, "or is that not a deed?"

"It is," Hawke murmured. She squinted at the type. "For a lyrium mine—correction, several lyrium mines."

"What's the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium doing trying to buy a lyrium mine in Ferelden?" asked Varric. "Mages can't hold property."

"Known mages can't," Hawke corrected him in a murmur, rifling through the pages.

"The Archon is a known mage," Fenris pointed out.

"And yet I'm holding paperwork for the pending sale of five lyrium mines all over Ferelden." She looked up at Isabela. "Check the rest of the bodies, grab anything that looks official." She pushed herself to her feet, and Fenris didn't miss how badly her legs shook. She leaned on her staff and glanced down the hill. "Varric and I will go see about rousing the horses."

With a brisk nod, Isabela turned and headed back towards the brush where the bodies still lay. "Come on, Broody," she called over her shoulder. "We've got some bodies to loot."

Fenris glanced once over his shoulder as Varric helped Hawke ease her way down the hill and back to the horses, then looked down at his white-lined, blood-spattered hands, flexing them uneasily.

Imperium-controlled lyrium mines. He sincerely hoped not.