AN: Just in time for the holidays, another Beenie chapter! So sorry for the long delay in getting this up. The story is complete, and the last chapters are going through the final editing process. Four chapters to go after this one - there are 44 chapters in total, including the epilogue. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me.

9:36 Dragon, Summer

I drag the back of my hand across my lip, and spit blood into the dirt. I don't have much time to recover, because those thick fists are flying at me again. I duck somewhat successfully, but that last hit hurt and my eye is starting to swell. I step to the side, avoiding another swing that whooshes by too closely, and drive my good shoulder into his stomach. It's like running into a bag of rocks. He barely stumbles back before he finds his footing and wraps his meaty arms around my shoulders. We stagger back and forth, and when he jerks me sharply to the left, I grunt in pain. I can't help it. My shoulder is killing me. He tightens his grip, and in response, I drive my legs into the ground, kicking up the dirt around us, trying to push him back, to push him down. But there's no pushing him down. When the Maker made the Qunari, He built them to withstand the strongest of men.

I don't know how many fights I've been in. I don't know how many months have passed. The days blur together as I am made to fight again and again.

The memory of how I got here is fuzzy. I remember the magister, Halcinus, and his entourage, Senestra's gruesome death, and Liam's destructive outburst. But after that, things get a bit hazy. The next thing I remember is waking up in a quiet chamber in a bed layered with silk sheets underneath a blanket stuffed full of goose feathers. On the side table were several plates of rich food: fine cuts of meat, brilliantly prepared vegetables, fresh fruits, and even something sweet to finish the meal. They even left a bottle of wine. Being that I was starving, I scarfed all of it down in a most uncivilized fashion. My stomach had a fit that night, because my body had been inadvertently tamed by the bland flavors of survival. There is no blackberry and port sauce to drizzle over duck in the wild. No cakes or éclairs, no thick mango and cream pureed into a glass to drink.

I thought I had been saved, but that was naïve. Saviors don't lock up the people they rescue. For weeks, I saw only guards, healers, and more guards. When I finally met my jailers, tall men in long robes holding twisted staves, I knew then that this was worse than the Crows. I was under the thumb of slavers yet again, but the threat of magic is greater than swords.

Over the weeks, or maybe it was months, they prepared me, strengthened me up for the fighting pit. Just like they did to countless others. I used to wonder why they fed us so well, why they fussed over healing us completely, and why they would go to such lengths to make our stay so hospitable. Perhaps they thought of themselves as civilized slavers. Perhaps they thought they could charm us into complacency – for some, it probably worked. However, I recognized even then that it was far more likely they saw the value in preserving that which brought them coin.

Judging from the crowd I'm in front of now, we bring in a fair share of it.

The Qunari and I shuffle to the right and the crowd roars, a distant din. We lurch to the left, and my feet start to give way against the thick clay beneath – his strength is too much! I feel myself slipping and, right before my knees buckle, a bolt of lightning shoots down from the clear blue sky. It scorches the earth just to our right, and the Qunari and I both start. Bloody magisters and their so-called enhanced pit fights.

I've known all my life that I would fight. That I would lead men and women to fight. But I never once thought that I would grow weary from it. I worry that all this fighting has grated against me for so long that my heart has turned coarse, like sanding paper. Is this what happens to warriors who see too much death? The more I fight, the less I feel.

The magisters throw a succession of fireballs that roll through the pit, searing the hairs off my arms and I turn my head away from the heat. Above this red pit of clay, I hear the screaming throngs of men, women, and children. I look back to the Qunari, who bares his teeth. Yet I feel numb. I've seen some of the fighters take their anger and resentment over being here out on their opponent. But I look at this proud Qunari and see another Emilio, the slaver I killed when Liam and I escaped the Crows. We're opposing pawns in a chess game played by one person. I feel no anger towards him. But I feel no mercy towards him, either.

A gust of wind blows in from our right, and we both lean into it, diving for each other again, our fists flying and our bodies twisting. I move on instinct, keeping my eyes on his hips and his shoulders, watching for signs of his next move until he lunges for me, but his red-stained feet slip in the clay. His legs are spread too wide, and I react savagely, taking advantage of his misstep by lifting my foot into the air, and driving it down onto the outside of the Qunari's knee.

I fall backwards onto the clay when he lets loose a roar that echoes throughout the pit, swirling around with the dust into the cheering stadium above us. He collapses, holding his right knee, screaming bloody murder. It must be excruciating. His knee is bent inward in a way that is not natural. Without magic, it could be a year before he walks normally again. But we are not spared from magic.

The gong sounds. The match is over. There are no winners.

I have only a moment before the guards come and drag me away. I use it to take a breath, to remember who I am. To feel something. I look up at the cloudless sky and imagine that I am back in Sammie's gardens with her head resting on my throbbing shoulder. I try to forget about the crowd and the screaming Qunari and hear only Sammie's beautiful voice chatting away about her brother and the Circle. That's who I am. I am a Vael. I am not a monster. I am a Vael.

Two pairs of rough, metal-clad hands grip my shoulders, and I wince and gasp for breath and lament how they always go for the shoulder. I am dragged upwards and pushed out of the sunshine and into the dark. Beneath my feet, the red lay transitions into slate-grey stone, and I struggle to adjust to the dimly lit hallway. I can't seem to catch my breath, and the pinching pain in my side suggests that the Qunari cracked one of my ribs. Also, I can't see very well; one of my eyes has swollen completely shut. But nothing hurts as badly as my shoulder, which sends jolts of sharp pain down my arm.

First, I am brought to a holding chamber where I am can be properly chained back up with shackles around my wrists and ankles, and a muzzle. Yes, a muzzle. It's my own fault. Biting that healer wasn't one of my proudest moments. But when you are treated like an animal for so long, you start to feel like one. It was yet another in a long series of attempts at escape. I wasn't the first and I won't be the last and yet, though they know it will change nothing, our food and fine linens are taken away at every attempt. And while we're starving, sleeping on the dirty floor, they still force us into that pit to bludgeon each other into submission while they hang magic over our heads.

It's funny; the Crows were easier in a way. You could refuse to work in the mines and all they could really do was beat you down – not that torture is easy to endure. But here... Anyone without magic is subject to those who have it. The Crows may have broken my legs and branded marks into my skin, but the magisters could fry my brain into mush if they wanted. All that I am would cease to be. That's worse than broken bones and burn marks. That's worse than death.

It is a monotonous existence and though it feels as if my stay has been relatively short, I've seen many men turn demented, and I know that I, too, could lose myself to this. That's why I keep trying to remember who I am. As they buckle the straps around the back of my head, I close my eyes and conjure memories of brunches and parks, trips to Kirkwall or Nevarra City, Sammie's blue underwear... Liam and I howling into the mountain wind. I try to remember what music sounds like. There was an opera my mother loved... what was it?

The metal is heavy against my wrists and ankles and they make me walk, or rather shuffle down another hallway to the healing chamber. The Qunari is already here, but he isn't shackled like me, rather strapped down to a table. A guard and a healer are holding him down as he thrashes about – his knee must be killing him. Another healer waves his glowing blue hands over the Qunari's knee, and the swelling begins to shrink. After a few minutes, it'll look almost normal.

The guards push me onto a nearby table, and I slump down and close my good eye. I wonder how Liam is doing. I haven't seen him since that night he destroyed that inn. I wonder if they've sent him off to some magi college—

Someone yells and I open my unswollen eye to see the Qunari, a hand on each of the healer's heads, right as he bashes them together. There's a horrible thud, like two mounds of wet clay slapping together. The mages slump to the ground, landing on the guard who was holding the Qunari to the table; he's already down, bleeding from the head. Both of the other guards draw their swords, but only one advances on the Qunari, who readies himself for a confrontation.

They say luck is another word for the Maker's hand. I never would have imagined that the Maker would guide a Qunari to bash the skulls of two Tevinter mages together just for me, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth, either.

I jump from the bed, still muzzled and bound, crashing into the other guard and knocking his sword from his hand. We tumble to the floor in a heap. He tries to get up, but I ram my shoulder – Maker have mercy, my shoulder! – into his chest and he grunts, falling back to the floor. I awkwardly climb atop him, and though he tries to push against my legs, I am leaning into him with all my weight, driving my knees into his neck. He claws at me and his jostling causes his helmet to fall off. I can see that he can't breathe, his brown eyes bulging from his beet-red face. He grips my thighs, and I have to work hard to keep my balance as his shoulders shake back and forth. I close my eyes again, willing him to pass out so these terrible seconds can be over with.

I am not a monster. I am not a monster.

I hear noises coming from behind me, and turn to see the Qunari pulling the guard's sword from the man's chest. He walks to me, enormous and cruel, and just when I think he's going to murder me, too, he tosses a set of keys on the floor in front of me. Right before he walks out the door, he says, Don't follow me.

Right. Don't follow the murderous Qunari out onto the streets of Tevinter. Got it.

It takes some doing, but I manage to undo the shackles around my wrists, and after I undo the shackles around my ankles and peel off the muzzle, I find some healing potions in one of the cabinets and down them quickly. My eye opens up, I can take a breath, and my side no longer hurts. Near the ceiling on one of the walls is a long mirror. They use it to watch us, in case we have handmade daggers or rocks hidden behind our backs. I've always tried not to look in that mirror, but in this moment, I can't help looking up.

I've caught glimpses of myself over the years, warped reflections in teapots, a slice of my blurry likeness in a sword. But I am not prepared for my true self. My rough skin is such a deep brown that I look more Nevarran than Havener. I also look older. Hardened. The hand in the mirror moves – my hand – and it's like looking at one of those little books that you flip through and the image stutters into motion. My hand goes to my hair, the tips of which tickle the tops of my shoulders. It's no longer a deep auburn, instead sandy and streaked with gold. The Maker apparently forced His Light into me in whatever way He could. I have so many scars... Once I get home, will anyone recognize me?

The hand in the mirror moves again, this time to wipe the blood splatter from my face.

I am not a monster. I am not. I am not.

I can't stay here. I have to get out before someone finds me. My first thought is to grab the guard's gear and walk out of here, but... I'm in Tevinter. My gaze shifts to the mages on the floor in their clean robes. There's a staff leaning against the wall in the far corner. Before I can change my mind, I pull the robe over my head, grab that big stick, and bolt out the door.

I make it past two sets of guards who all look to the ground in deference as I pass. I know the tunnels quite well, and I navigate them around and around until I come to the main entrance. The guard glances back, and gives me a double look before scrambling to open the gate. He fumbles with the lever, apologizing profusely for making me wait. He's terrified. I feel sick to my stomach, which probably comes off as disgust at his ineptitude. Like all the others so far, he looks away from my face the whole time.

I step onto the cobblestone street and try to act natural, wondering if that crazy Qunari is drawing the attention of the city guard. The street is bustling with people, which could be good or bad, depending on who decides to look at me. Most aren't looking. My mind starts to stumble through a list of needs. I need to get out of here... wherever here is. Okay, first, I need to find out where I am. Next, I need a way out. I need to find Liam—

Liam! I feverishly look up to the horizon, tracing the circumference of the skyline until I see the tallest building in the city. It must be the mage's college. It must be. But how in the world am I going to get in? I can't just walk in—wait, yes I can! I'm dressed like a mage! I could get in, find out where Liam is – he could be anywhere in this country – and then get him out. I can't leave without him. I gave him my word.

I place one foot in front of the other, walking through the streets of some Tevinter city. I hear people talking, the sizzling of food hitting hot pans, laughter. Colorful awnings curl over every doorway, and every time one opens, I can hear the tinkling of bells. There are all kinds of people on the street. Tall, short, elf, dwarf, pink, brown, all shuffling in and out of the numerous quaint little shops that line the street. In Starkhaven, we are all dark-skinned, dark hair, light eyes, and tall. We know foreigners by the shade of their skin, by the subtleties of their accents. But here, there are too many differences. Too many voices. How does anyone ever know anything about anybody in this town?

I reach the end of a block to find myself on a hill. I can see across the city. It's amazing; the city goes on and on, as far as I can make out. Grey and black and brown stones stack high and square, taller and taller, stretching upwards towards the heavens. This is the largest city I've ever been in. Larger than Starkhaven. Larger than Orlais. For a moment, I fear that I'm in Minrathous, but that's not right. I can see the shoreline, and the infamous giant stone barrier that surrounds Minrathous is not there. That means I am someplace else. Another stroke of luck. My thoughts drift back to Liam. I must find Liam.

I take a brisker pace to my destination, but the more I walk through this city, the more nervous I feel. Aside from the fact that I am an escaped slave in a town ruled by magic, and nevermind that I am recognizable by at least one magister and his contingent of guards, but how many people may recognize me from the fighting pit? I cannot be seen. I cannot be recognized. But maybe I won't be. So far, everyone has looked away from me. I remember my reflection in that mirror; my hair, my scars, and this ridiculous robe. I look around to the bustling group of women emerging from a bread shop, laughing in conversation. This is just a city, a place like any other; it simply has a different set of rules.

I practice acting natural, but I feel about as natural as a man wearing a dress. It's rather awkward, to be honest. There's an uncomfortable draft and I feel nearly naked. I don't see how women, let alone mage men, wear these things.

The college is an imposing four-sided and tiered building made of black stone and iron. The tall windows that line the building give me a hint about what goes on inside a Tevinter mage's college. Some rooms are aglow in a rainbow of colors. Others have the windows open – open! At a mage's tower! Part of me expects mages to fly from those windows on the backs of drakes, spitting acid on us poor souls below. But that was just a story that I read as a child and couldn't possibly be real. It's ridiculous that I have to tell myself that.

I walk to the college's door, which is unguarded. I can play by this city's rules, but I don't know if I can pretend that they aren't strange. With a deep breath, I push the door open much too easily. It's surprisingly lightweight. Two mages—a man and a woman—are standing by a podium near the doorway. They wear wicked black robes with thigh-high slits in the leg and steep angles around the shoulders. They look almost like they're in costume; but then again, I feel that way about Orlesians most of the time. Seemingly annoyed with her job, the woman opens a thick book on the podium and looks over to me expectantly.

Right. Here we go.

I offer a bow, and because there is nothing I can do to hide my accent, I tell them I'm from the Starkhaven Circle, on a quest for First Enchanter Raddick. They just nod resignedly, scribbling something into the book as though thoroughly bored. How many mages in the world visit this place, I wonder? Judging by these mages' behavior, it must be a common occurrence, if a dull one. I ask them where I may find the library. The man has already turned away from me, and the woman derisively points in the direction of the hallway to my right. I offer my thanks in general Starkhaven custom, with another bow, which prompts her to roll her eyes. Neither of them spoke a single word to me during our interaction.

I try to relax the grip on this staff. It feels hot under my hand. Bloody magic.

I arrive in the library, which is a room that puts every library that I have ever seen to shame. Even the library at the Starkhaven Circle. This room, if you can call it a room, is essentially the entire first floor of this building. It stretches back as far as the city block, and then turns at the corner. There are more books here than at every library in Starkhaven combined. The rugs are more plush than any rug in the Starkhaven palace, and there is a giant mural on the inside wall which depicts, as far as I can tell, the obviously skewed history of Tevinter. Goran would marvel at the seamless artistic transitions between eras; Andraste's Exalted March, the formation of the Imperial Chantry, even depictions of specific heroes from that ageless war with the Qunari. It's simply marvelous. And this isn't even Minrathous!

Incredible, isn't it? A female voice says from behind me.

I whirl around, unprepared, feeling exposed, but instead of a maleficar abomination or demon, I find myself face to face with a small woman. A mage, obviously. She's short, brunette, with lightly freckled pale skin, a rounded chin, and great big dark eyes. They are so dark, that I can't tell if she has pupils. It's sort of creepy. Her deep blue and silver embroidered robe is far more elaborate than my drab grey woolen dress, which hangs unfashionably just below my knees. I'm considerably taller than the dead mage who wore this before me. She lifts an eyebrow at my robe, and with a confused expression asks me, in Tevinter affect, where I'm from. I stumble over my cover story: Starkhaven, quest, First Enchanter. She just nods like she's heard it a million times. I tell her my name is Alexsander and she says her name is Rebekha, and then she asks what I think of the mural.

Thank the Maker my brother is an artist. I talk about the brush strokes, the use of dark and light colors to make the transition between images nearly impossible to tell, and how impressive it is that the mural covers the height of the wall to tell the story. I bear no love for this country, but the history is rich and whoever painted this mural captured the details with amazing perfection.

She laughs and steps closer, pointing to hidden pictures, and I can't hide how impressed I am. And then she smiles at me.

Maker! She's flirting with me!

It's been a long time since a girl has flirted with me, and I can't say I've ever interacted with a mage this way. What if she casts some love spell on me? Stay calm, Beenie. Do what you have to do to get through this. So, with a breath of Tevinter air in my lungs, I look down to her and smile back – the Vael smile. The smile I've always reserved for Samantha. And it works. She flushes and looks away, seemingly flattered. Maybe today is my lucky day, after all.

My swordmaster's voice comes back to me, telling me that I can do this, that I am strong and people will listen to me, but I have to believe in myself first. I will my hands to stop shaking behind my back as I casually ask her about her duties at the college, and she tells me that her main job is to evaluate the effectiveness of the curriculum. I don't fully understand until she tells me that this is a magi college for children, whom she refers to as little monsters. She means it as a joke, I think, but I can't help feeling that it may be an apt description.

Thinking of Liam, I gently prod her for information about the early education of magic, because, as she may well know, education in the Orlesian Circle is a little different. She chuckles, making another joke about how children are the same everywhere, but here in Tevinter, all the little boys and girls are given the freedom to learn at their own pace. To develop their skills naturally.

Natural skills, she says. What's natural about harboring demons? What's natural about cutting yourself open and using your blood to kill people? What's natural about affecting the emotions of others? I try very hard to hide my fear and revulsion, instead smiling again and saying I would love to see her work, you know, so that I may bring these ideas back to my home. Rebekha seems so pleased that I feel sort of bad for using her this way. But then I remember that she's a mage. She would probably kill me on the spot if she knew I wasn't one too.

She leads me up several flights of stairs, down a few hallways and around a few corners, and at every turn there is something else to inspire. This building is old, and looks like it has stood for centuries; the high ceilings, dark wood, and stone contrasted with bronze and gold mark it as a classic Tevinter structure. It's perhaps because of all this majesty that, the further up we go, the more anxious I get. What if there are mages here who can sense those people with or without magic? I've heard of such mages who have extraordinary abilities like Liam – and I start to feel even more exposed. Be confident in your swing, my swordmaster always said. Be confident. Eventually we reach the classrooms, where Rebekha digs through a desk, bringing out a sheaf of papers.

I look around the empty classroom, noting that the sun is beginning to set, and ask where the children are. She laughs again at the differences between "our" Circles, and tells me they are all out experiencing their own gifts, learning magic in the world. She makes this place sound like a nursery but a Tevinter mages' college is no coddling commune. It's the world's capital for blood mages. Sure, they publicly denounce it, but everyone in Thedas knows that every Tevinter mage is a practicing maleficar.

I need to find out if Liam is here or someplace else, but how do I ask? I remember that some mages run away to Tevinter when the threat of Tranquility hangs over their heads. There are only a few reasons why a mage would be turned Tranquil, and magic like Liam's is one of those reasons. Rebekha lifts another stack of papers from a drawer and smiles like she may have found what she is looking for, but I haven't found the answers I need yet. I try to sound casual when I ask her about mages who run away from the Orlesian Circle to Tevinter.

How do they know where to go? I ask.

Well, if they survive the Silent Plains, then there is only one place the children go: here! She smiles ruefully.

Though Rebekha is pleasant enough, I can't really tell if she likes children or not, which strikes me as odd considering her work. In any case, it takes me another hour to get rid of her, telling her I must get to my own work finding that research for my quest. She points me some direction or another after I babble something about directed dreaming.

As I re-enter the library, I can't help but wonder if Andraste is guiding me. Is it just coincidence that the children come to the same city that houses the gambling and fighting pit? Or is it providence that has kept me and Liam in the same city?

It's several hours before the children return, and when they do, they are so loud that I wouldn't be surprised if the whole city block hears it. No wonder they put them all in the same place; I can't imagine controlling this many little mage children across the country. They stomp by, giggling, and the uneven tenor of their voices drowns out the bustling sounds of the city streets.

I huddle behind a bookcase, watching the children file past – Andraste preserve them, they are so young. So small. Some too small for their robes. They don't carry staves, but instead little twisted sticks, waving them around, laughing and pretending to cast spells. Girls. Boys. There are so many of them... and they're all mages... I have a fleeting thought of Innley. If this had been his life, if he had run away to here, how would he be different? I wonder again where he is, and how he is doing. But thoughts of my old friend don't linger because Liam walks right passed me.

I say his name reactively, and then in a fit of panic, comically duck back behind the bookcase. He turns around, his laughter with the other children fading away as he scours the hall. I peek out from around the bookcase and wave, and the sheer joy that blankets me is enough to make all this worry melt away.

He's okay! He looks better than okay – he looks healthy. Someone has given him a haircut and a bath, and he looks like a boy again, with puffy cheeks and soft skin. The lines between his eyes are gone.

I don't know if it's him or me that prompts my laughter, but I don't care and he runs over to my open arms, leaping into my embrace.

You're here, he says in wonder.

You know me, I say with a smile. You've grown.

It's been a year, he whispers.

That's like a punch to the gut. A year? Liam and I have lost an entire year to this? I'm glad he's not facing me, because I don't want Liam to see how painful that is. I stand up, and say, Let's get out of here, but he looks momentarily pensive and then tells me he needs to get something from his chamber. I don't know if I'm allowed up there, but he insists and pulls me along.

He drags me back up the stairs and down the twisting hallways, and I keep my eyes open for Rebekha, nervous that I'll run into her again and have to explain what I'm doing with Liam. Finally, we come to a rather small but nice chamber. The bed isn't made, the standing bureau is half open, and there are opened books strewn across a desk. Next to the books are a quill and an unrolled sheet of parchment with some words painstakingly printed in splotchy ink. This isn't his prison... it's his room.

When I turn around, Liam is holding a small satchel. He thrusts it out to me. Take it, he says.

Confused, I ask, What is it?

A wave of sadness rolls over me as he starts babbling, telling me how he's been saving up coin, buying things in town, putting together a bag for me, intending to come and get me out of that pit as soon as he figured out how, but now I'm here! He hadn't even heard of my escape, and I am fairly shocked that he assumed he would hear of it.

I had to come get you first, I say. I gave you my word.

His bottom lip quivers. He whispers, You said you would take me to where I wanted to go.

Right, I tell him. I still will. But he says nothing. Wait. Wait a minute. Liam. You're not... staying here.

Little tears form in the corners of his eyes as he shakes the small satchel in his hands, intending for me to take it. I feel something too complex to immediately identify, but after a second, it starts to feel like resolution.

Wait, what? Is he seriously going to stay here? In Tevinter? This lawless, bloody, barbaric, slave-run country? I don't want him to stay here!

Incredulous, I set the hot staff against the wall and kneel down to argue with him, to tell him that he can't stay, but Liam talks over me, his sobs growing louder: I thought I killed you in that room! I thought I killed you! I thought I killed you!

As quick as a firecracker, Liam's shame explodes in my chest. There's revulsion and guilt and many more emotions that weigh tremendously on his small shoulders. Senestra and Desh. All those men at the mine. Probably his parents... My parents are gone, but if I had been the one who killed them...

Magic is a terrible thing. It turns men into monsters, and makes us beg for more.

You don't understand this place, I say forcefully. This isn't a good city, and the mages here are not your friends. You can learn to control this without them!

A voice from the doorway interrupts us: He cannot.

Both of us jump up and turn to the door, which frames a slender man with a shock of brown hair. His robe is dark, and even if he wasn't giving me that amused expression that he gave me back at the inn, I would still recognize him.

Halcinus speaks to me directly when he says, He is but a child. He has killed everyone close to him, and will continue to kill everyone close to him if he doesn't learn how to manage his gifts.

His gifts. What kind of Maker would give a child the ability to brutally slaughter a roomful of people and call it a gift?

No, I insist hoarsely, and then the words tumble from my mouth with more conviction than I've ever spoken them: The only reason to fear a mage is if a mage fears you.

I'm not afraid here, Liam says quietly.

I... But... No... No, Liam... not you too. Maker, don't take him from me, too. I've lost everyone. I've lost everything. I've been fighting so hard for so long, trying to get it all back, and now I'm losing the one good thing that has emerged from all this... this hell. How many times had I wished to be rid of Liam, to be free from his curse of magic, not to have to worry about waking up to the glowing, green eyes of a monster? And now... now there is nothing but regret for all that wasted time.

It's the height of irony that here, in a Tevinter mage's college, my fear of Liam simply dissolves. Perhaps for the first time, my fear for him trumps all of it. Oh, and it burns. I am burning. I finally understand what Halden meant. Liam has reached his hand out to me for so long, and out of fear, I never grasped it. Maybe if I could have controlled my fear more, maybe if I could have learned to trust him... maybe he wouldn't want to stay here. Maybe he wouldn't think that this was the only way.

Halcinus leans on the doorframe and casually says, I've summoned the guards. I estimate that you have about a five-minute head start. Consider it a courtesy.

No! No more guards! No more slavery! No more of this hell! The urgency to escape energizes me. I extend my hand to Liam but he doesn't move. Come on, Liam! We have to go!

He says, I don't want to be this way.

I can't hide my desperation, the fear and panic of getting caught yet again, and the urgency to leave. But to leave without him? I kneel back down, placing my hands on his shoulders and my voice cracks when I say, You are my brother.

My brother, he whispers sadly.

The guards will be here any minute, but how can I leave? It's my duty to shield him from all of this, to tell him that it's wrong – a sin! – and that he can't possibly understand what to do with this kind of power. But the argument in my head falls flat. Didn't I kill a slaver in self defense? Didn't Liam do the same thing in the mine and at the inn? I used a sword. Liam used his magic. Is there a difference between us? I suppose that I chose to wield to sword. I chose to fight. Maybe Halcinus was right. Maybe choices are a luxury that mages don't have.

Run, Liam whispers, frantic for me to live.

I say his name again, but this time it's a plea. I am begging him, a reversal from that day in the desert when he begged to come with me.

Run, he says again, his mouth wavering, and I feel grateful that he is fighting back emotion over me. That I am not alone in the sadness of our parting ways.

Through the helplessness that I feel, the fear of Liam and I going in different directions, and thinking about what may come next for both of us, I say, Don't let them control you.

I won't, he says back, though I'm not really sure he understands what I mean.

There's nothing more for me to do other than back away towards the door, snatch up the little bag Liam prepared for me and run my way back through the building. Rebekha looks perplexed when I sprint passed her, and the two mages in the front hallway curse at me in Tevene as I scramble out the front door.

Liam is an apostate no longer, now a mage of Tevinter. He is my friend, my savior, and the reason that I was able to push myself through the mountains. I lived because I had him to live for. And he lived because of me. And now I am leaving him here... I told him I would never leave him. I am breaking another promise.

The Maker may forgive me, because I don't know if I ever will.