Disclaimer: I do not own Bioware. How sad. :(

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. :) I'm happy to know I didn't lose readers with my unexpected and unplanned hiatus. Here's another chapter, right on the weekly schedule - huzzah! And it introduces a character I've been dying to bring in since chapter one - huzzah again! Special thanks again to my beta, Teakwood, for helping me with language translation. Let the Long Game continue...

Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Ten: Taking Flight

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The sun blazed down on the open-air caffé situated near Antiva City's harbor, overlooking the shining blue waters of the Rialto Bay. It was a hot, humid day – as were many days in the capital of Antiva. All around the caffé the crowds bustled, merchants plying their wares, servants hurrying to their duties, courtesans flirting and smiling. The docks were full that day with passenger and cargo ships. It was a busy day – a truly beautiful day.

Two men sat at a table in the caffé, shielded under one of the few shaded awnings that provided a certain amount of protection from the heat. One of them was dark-haired and dark-eyed, a well-trimmed beard and short-cropped hair against tanned skin giving him a swarthy appearance. His companion was the exact opposite in appearance, honey-blonde hair hanging down to his shoulders and clean-shaven as all elves were. Both were dressed casually in open-necked tunics and well-fitting trousers. To a casual observer it would appear that they were simply two friends sharing a meal together.

Even someone looking more closely would be hard-pressed to identify the subtle bulges in clothing that concealed the daggers both men kept on hand even when not on assignment. A hazard of their mutual profession, and one they were both highly accustomed to.

The dark-haired man suddenly leaned forward, one hand resting on flat on the table as he looked at the elf across from him. "Have you gone mad?" he hissed. "There are more than enough jobs going around on this side of the Waking Sea – there's no need for you to go traipsing off to some dog lord backwater country after a mad contract such as this!"

The elf waved off his concern, leaning back in his chair with one leg casually crossed over the other. "You worry too much, my friend," he replied. "It is a good job with an excellent reward, should I succeed. And there is no guarantee that I will even get the assignment. My bid must be accepted first, of course."

"And you think that's going to be difficult?" the other man asked bitingly. "I'll be amazed if anyone else was fool enough to even put in a bid. Even the guild master knew when the request came in that the job was suicide. If it were taking place in Antiva the client would have likely found himself on the end of an assassin's blade!" He lowered his voice to a near whisper, though his tone was no less intense. "We're talking about Grey Wardens, Zevran!"

"I am quite aware of the details, Taliesin." The elf's cavalier attitude was interrupted by a slight narrowing of his eyes, a warning glint within amber irises that cautioned the other man against continuing along this line of conversation. But Taliesin had never been one to adhere to caution; it was one of the things that made him so good at his job.

"Then why?" Taliesin searched Zevran's face, but the elf had closed himself off, hiding his thoughts behind a veneer of smiles and warnings, one of his many-layered masks firmly in place. The older man clenched his jaw in frustration, the fingers of his hand twitching with the urge to go for one of his daggers and threaten an answer out of him. He stayed his hand – draw on Zevran and he ran the risk of losing a finger. At least.

Zevran had always been skilled in deception, but around those who knew him best he had never put up his guard quite so tightly. That had changed six months ago. Six months, and Taliesin had sensed Zevran slipping away with each passing day. He knew why – he'd have to be a fool not to – but the thought of it affecting Zevran so deeply infuriated him. He and Zevran had been together for years. Years. That one incident could potentially bring this all crashing down…Taliesin had spent the last month encouraging Zevran to put in a bid for a challenge, and what did finally do? He bid on a job so foolish that not even the masters wanted to touch it.

When Zevran failed to respond, Taliesin opened his mouth to begin his next protest, only to pull up short as a shadow fell across their table. Both men looked up to see one of the serving girls standing next to them, holding an empty tray. Taliesin felt a flash of irritation. They'd already received their meals, and neither of them had made any indication that they wanted to place another order.

"Pardon me, signori," the serving woman said, and Taliesin's irritation quelled. She had a lovely lilt to her voice and her eyes were rather mesmerizing. "I have a messaggio." She slipped her hand into the plunging neckline of her dress, withdrawing a folded paper, and extended it towards Zevran. When he took it without batting an eye, she turned and left them be.

Silently he opened it message, reading the words hidden inside. Then he refolded it and slipped it into his belt, rising gracefully to his feet. He placed a handful of coin on the table. "To cover my half of the tab, my friend," Zevran said with a smile to Taliesin. "It appears that I have a ship's passage to barter. Farewell, Taliesin." And then the elf was gone, winding his way around the tables until he reached the crowd of the harbor and market, disappearing into the throngs as swiftly as he intended and leaving Taliesin to sit and stare after him. There was something about Zevran's departure that seemed…final.

He shook his head. Ridiculous. Zevran, lucky bastard that he was, would likely defy all odds and complete the job, then return within a fortnight. And he would lord his success over the rest of them as he normally did, exaggerating his success until it was impossible to tell how much was fact and how much fiction. Just as he had done before that last mission – before he had left himself become distracted by unnecessary things.

Taliesin raised his glass to his lips and took a sip of the brandy, turning his thoughts away from Zevran and scanning the caffé, searching for the lovely serving girl with the unusual golden eyes.

But she was nowhere to be found.

The sun had begun its descent towards the horizon, turning the sky into a palette of rich ambers and golds. Yllia stood against the outer wall of the Chantry, arms crossed over her chest as she stared up at the sky. Rhys lay curled up at her feet, seemingly asleep but with ears perked in alert. Soon the sun would disappear completely, leading to twilight – the hour-long prelude to battle. Teagan had told her the undead always swarmed at the same time, as the last light faded into the black of night.

How very poetic.

"I thought perhaps you'd be here."

Yllia tore her eyes away from the sky to look at Morrigan as the other mage climbed the few steps of the Chantry to join her. Yllia smiled, aware of how different she and Morrigan appeared side-by-side – a petite elf practically swimming in a too-large set of robes, and a tall buxom human clad in far too little to avoid enflaming the imaginations of men and boys alike. Yllia momentarily entertained the thought of a Chantry sister emerging from within the building just then and seeing them, and the subsequent expression that would likely be on the woman's face, and then stored that away for another time when she could appreciate the humor.

"Where have you been?" Yllia asked. After agreeing to help, Yllia had spoken with Redcliffe's mayor, Murdock, and gathered an idea of what tasks needed to be completed and what would help. She'd split those up among their group, but at some point during the day Morrigan had slipped away and disappeared. Given her natural proclivity of keeping herself apart from the rest of the party, the vanishing act hadn't concerned Yllia so long as Morrigan returned before sundown. Alistair had been irritated but…well, when didn't Morrigan irritate Alistair?

"Preparing," Morrigan replied simply enough. She placed a hand on her hip, looking down at the elvhen mage. "'Tis growing stronger – have you noticed?"

"You mean the magic?" Morrigan gave a nod, and Yllia played with her hair uneasily. "I've noticed. The closer we get to nightfall, true night, the stronger it gets. No one else seems to notice it, but it's practically suffocating."

"'Tis the scent of dark power on the wind," Morrigan replied, "and 'tis coming from the direction of the castle. I suspect we shall find its source at the same time as the originator of the undead."

"Do you know anything about undead, Morrigan?" Yllia asked. "I've dealt with demons, but necromancy…that's blood magic, and the Circle keeps such things under lock and key." Not that it stops mages from learning the secrets anyway…

"Ah, yes – I forget on occasion how narrow the scope of your learning has been." Morrigan's disdain was unmistakable, and Yllia bit back her retort, her eye twitching slightly. If she wanted to discuss magical theory with Morrigan later, she was going to have to do her best not to alienate the woman now. "Fortunately mine has not, and though I have no taste for the art itself, I do believe you are correct in surmising that this is a form of necromancy. I do not, however, believe the cause is from a blood mage. Not directly, at least."

Yllia frowned, looking at Morrigan intently. "Not directly?" she asked. "What do you mean?"

"There is an air about this magic," Morrigan replied. She narrowed her eyes a touch, as if best trying to determine how to best explain what she meant. "I sense too much of the Fade in it. If it is the work of a blood mage, then it is a mage grounded more in the Fade than out of it."

A chill swept down Yllia's spine. "An abomination?"

"Perhaps. Or something of a similar nature." Morrigan looked down at her, her amber eyes darkening with the setting of the sun. "Yllia, I know that I cannot dissuade you from aiding this village or seeing to the matter at the castle. Therefore I will simply implore you to tread carefully. We know not what matter of mage or demon we may be facing here. Be prepared for anything."

If Alistair had been there, he would have made some biting comment about Morrigan seeming concerned for someone else. But as Yllia looked into the other woman's eyes, she realized with a start that Morrigan meant the words she said. She was truly concerned for Yllia's safety. Her indifference up until now had led Yllia to believe that Morrigan couldn't care less what actually happened to her companions, that she was only there at the behest of her mother, but perhaps that wasn't as true as she made it seem?

"I will be," she said with a nod. "And thank you, Morrigan. I know you aren't exactly thrilled to be traveling with us, but I do appreciate your help. Alistair does, too. Somewhere. Deep, deep down inside."

"So far down that it will apparently never rise to the surface," Morrigan said dryly, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Speaking of our pet almost-templar, should he not have returned to your side by now?"

"He's up at the windmill with Ser Perth, helping him with his men," Yllia replied, her eyes going towards the steep incline that led to the upper levels of Redcliffe Village and automatically seeking out any sign of Alistair's familiar armor. "Leliana's at the tavern, and I'm not certain where Sten got himself off to. He was with me for a bit – I had to convince a few of the villagers to lend a helping hand, and they were…less than amicable. I managed it, though."

Her expression darkened a touch. "I just hope I haven't condemned them to certain death."

"Better to die defending one's home than to do so as a lamb in slaughter," Morrigan said, resting her hand on her hip. "They may not be aware nor appreciative of it, but you may have done them a favor."

"Oh, I'm sure at least one of them is not appreciative of it," Yllia replied, wrinkling her nose as the memory of the cantankerous dwarf who had actually had the audacity to think that she was propositioning him. She sighed, glancing once more up towards the sky. "…Tonight is Redcliffe's last chance. If we can't fend off the undead tonight, they're done for."

"And even if we do push them back, we shall still have to uncover the executor of all this before the next night," Morrigan pointed out. "Or else they will simply conjure another attack come nightfall."

"One focus at a time," Yllia said, her expression strained.

"And here comes one of your favorite focuses," Morrigan murmured, quiet enough that Yllia almost didn't hear her and had to look at her to be sure that she'd spoken.

When she did, she saw what Morrigan had seen – Alistair making his way down the incline steps with Leliana alongside him. At the same time Sten emerged from near the docks, striding towards them with purpose. Yllia started down the steps of the Chantry, Morrigan and Rhys both following behind her.

They met in the middle of the village, the six of them looking at each other. "The militia's all ready," Alistair said. "As ready as they can be, at least. That armor you got the blacksmith to make really helped with their morale. So did the free ale from the tavern."

"Bella was more than happy to offer it once I convinced the tavern's proprietor to assist in the defense as well instead of remaining in his cellar like a sniveling pig," Leliana said with a smile. "I also met an archer who agreed to…cooperate in the battle. Remind me later to tell you what else it is he agreed to, once we have more time."

Yllia raised an eyebrow slightly. "Well, now I'm going to wonder the whole time," she said, Leliana's smile drawing one of her own out. She turned to Sten. "Find anything of note around the docks?"

"There is a storehouse containing barrels of oil. They could prove useful," Sten reported in his brisk, no-nonsense manner. Yllia had to admit, despite not being especially talkative the Qunari handled orders well enough, despite her being a mage. He even seemed to expect them, and Maker help her but she was starting to get used to giving them.

"Oil, hm?" Her smile grew, becoming more genuine, a gleam appearing in her eyes. "That really could be useful. Alistair, take me to Ser Perth, I want to talk to him about something. I think we have just enough time before the sun finishes going down."

"Do you have a plan, Yllia?" Leliana asked with a tilt of her head.

"Possibly." Yllia brushed her hair back from her face. "While we're talking to Ser Perth, you better get ready on the front lines. I don't know how much warning we're going to get before these things attack."

And with that they separated again, each of them moving to positions previously discussed, preparing for a battle that they knew nothing about. Yllia started back up the hill with Alistair, her mind already racing with thoughts and plans. She quashed the nervous flutter in her stomach. This would be the first time she'd ever developed a strategy on her own – mages were not raised to be strategists or generals.

She glanced at the serious profile of the man walking beside her, his hazel eyes fixed resolutely ahead, and she was reminded of the last time the two of them prepared for battle together.

Maker, she hoped she didn't get anyone killed.

Nightfall came all too soon.

Yllia had thought that, after the Tower of Ishal assault, she would have been prepared for anything. But the undead were nothing like the darkspawn. The darkspawn, driven by single-minded purpose and bloodlust as they were, were at least in control of their own faculties. They could choose to fight or run, they could choose who to attack and make strategic decisions in the heat of battle. And they operated as one unit, a massive hive mind that the Grey Wardens brushed against the edge of with every breath that they took.

The undead had no such capabilities. When they came down from the castle in a wave of putrid, decomposing flesh and rattling bones, they had no purpose, no strategy. Planning for what they might do based off of previous attacks was impossible. The only certainty was that if you breathed, if you were living flesh and nothing stood between you and them, they would set upon you first.

Three nights past now the undead had seized any and all who fell into their path, dragging them screaming into the night. Tonight they intended to do the same. They tore down the paths towards the village, salivating and scrambling for the nearest warm flesh.

Instead they found the sharpened edge of a Qunari's massive greatsword, slicing through the air with impossible speed for its size, cutting deep in the flesh of the first ghoul that lunged for its wielder. There was a brief moment of pause as Sten bisected the ghoul cleanly, the other undead hesitating as if somehow realizing, despite their mindless state, that their prey could actually fight back.

Then there was a cacophonous shriek as the undead struck en masse, several attempting to overpower the Qunari warrior while others moved past him for the militiamen and soldiers that held the ground past Sten. These were met by a hail of arrows from archers perched on high ground, led by Leliana barking commands on when to fire, her bardic voice crystal clear as it echoed in the night.

Between warrior and rogue, with the aid of the soldiers, they held the first line. But a second group of undead was attempting to enter from the opposite side of the village, and Alistair began shouting to Ser Perth and Teagan to change targets as soon as he caught sight of them. Several soldiers broke off from the fighting as the tide of undead from the main line fell back and turned to answer to call – only to stop as stare as a giant spider literally dropped down onto the nearest skeleton, tearing it apart with massive mandibles that looked fully capable of ripping apart an ox much less a pile of bones.

The undead scurried to escape Morrigan's vicious mandibles and fangs, deciding instantly that they were far more interested in Alistair's human flesh than the spider, not even the intimidating presence of the snarling mabari at Alistair's side serving as enough of a deterrent. They began to press Alistair backwards, forcing the warrior to move further and further back towards the village center. He parried and struck, keeping claws and teeth away from the few unshielded parts of his body, his muscular body not quite as adept at dodging as it was to blocking.

He moved into the center, drawing the bulk of the undead with him.

"Now!" Yllia's voice rang up from atop the Chantry, where she perched precariously atop the slanted rooftop, out of sight. Alistair slammed the bottom of his shield into the dried, packed earth and crouched down behind it, tucking his head to protect it as Yllia unleashed a firestorm, balls of flame falling from the sky and striking down at the undead. Those that missed their targets directly hit soaked earth – oil-soaked, a wall of flame erupting around them and catching any who were spared the initial onslaught.

The flames exploded outwards, sweat breaking out on Yllia's brow as she fought to control the oil-fed fire, to spare as much of the village as possible. The strain of the spell forced her to her knee. Her vision blurred as she drew in a deep breath, the last of the undead catching aflame below her.

A sudden switch in casting. She let go of the flames, and cold ice erupted from her hands, washing over the undead corpses and Alistair. It was only through Alistair's own templar training and his careful positioning on the only bit of land not soaked by oil in the circle that he withstood the onslaught of her magic, and she had to trust that he would weather it. The flames died, ice covering everything it touched, and at last the corpses grew brittle and shattered.

Silence.

Then cheers erupted from the militia, the soldiers, and the villagers who had grabbed weapons and risen up to protect their home. The undead had crumbled under her onslaught, and it was Bann Teagan who led victory cries. Yllia felt a rush of amazement – had any mage actually been cheered before in such fashion? Had any elf? Did these people even realize who it was they were applauding, or was it simply that in the face of survival and success they didn't care?

Her eyes swept the battlefield, silently accounting for each of her companions. Leliana and Sten, Morrigan returned to her human form, Rhys sniffing his way through the corpses to make sure they were well and truly dead, and Alistair rising to his feet from behind his shield, his armor blackened but he himself no less worse for wear. She felt a rush of relief. The battle could have easily gone out of their favor.

She started to push herself to her feet when a sudden rush of vertigo struck her, the overwhelming feeling of mana drain pulsing through her body. She felt her foot slip on the slanted wooden slats, felt her center of balance shift, and then the weightlessness as her body tumbled from the roof and pitched into the air.

As her vision went dark, she dimly thought she heard Alistair shout her name.

The sky was green again, everything below it tinted in the same sickly shade. There was no sign of the dragon, and yet still she could sense the darkspawn on the edge of her consciousness, that tingling sixth sense tickling at the back of her mind. Pulling her, tugging her, calling out for her to follow.

She stood on a massive plateau of dried, dead earth. Neither a bush nor tree grew on the soil, not even a blade of grass. Everything held the sense of taint and destruction, and a cold wind whipped around her, causing her to wrap her arms around herself and suppress a shiver. Could one be cold in a dream?

Only then did she notice the shadow that had fallen over her, and a massive crack of lightning made her jerk around in reflex.

She stilled.

Rising up behind her were the sun-bleached bones of a massive creature, spanning over one hundred feet from head to tail. Her mouth went dry as she stared at the elongated snout of the beast's skull, the curved horns that extended up and back, the razor teeth of its great maw. The years had worn away at the skeleton, pieces of rib missing, the bones of its wings collapsed to either side – Maker, what wingspan this creature must have had! There was little doubt of what she was seeing. She was staring at the skeleton of an ancient dragon.

She was several feet away, yet its size made her feel as if she were standing right next to it. She'd never seen a dragon in person, much less a skeleton of one – then again, she wasn't exactly doing so now, was she? This was a dream. She'd spent enough time in it to recognize the Fade when she was there. The whispers in the back of her mind grew stronger, and she forced them back as hard as she could. Demon or darkspawn, it didn't matter – her mind was her own and nothing was going to take that from her.

The thought had barely passed through her mind before she was moving, step after step drawing her closer to the skeleton, its great size growing ever larger the closer she drew. The mass of it threatened to take her breath away. She felt drawn to it – as if there were some purpose to the skeleton that she had not yet discerned.

The air around the skeleton shifted; a translucent, silver-white form appeared, shifting and twisting until it had the appearance of a man, though one with no discernable features that she could see. A feeling of foreboding came over her as she watched the spirit extend out its hand towards the skeleton, through the bones of the rib cage, hand closing around something as if to grasp it, but there was nothing there – nothing there, and yet there should have been, she knew that with certainty…

And the Fade shifted.

The screaming roar of the archdemon reverberated around her, overpowering and engulfing, pain ripping through her skull as the force of it sent her to her knees. She clutched at her temples, a shudder rippling through her small frame. It didn't matter that she was in the Fade – pain was pain, and a mage could feel it just as easily as if they were in their flesh and bone body.

Soon.

The word echoed in her mind, not so much spoken as sung, sounds and images giving form to concept and thought. Savagery, instinct…corruption. Death.

We are coming.

She forced her eyes open, kneeling upon dead ground, and saw the onrushing hordes coming at her.

"They're coming!" Yllia sat up with a start, a panicked look on her face, heart in her throat as she struggled to catch her bearings. One moment she'd facing down a horde of darkspawn just like the one she and Alistair had faced at the Tower of Ishal.

Now she was looking at the wide-eyed stares of several Chantry sisters and Redcliffe soldiers. She drew in a sharp breath, forcing her thoughts back into order. Dream. Fade. Right. It hadn't been real.

But it had felt real.

"Good. You're awake." Morrigan's matter-of-fact tone caught her attention, and then the other mage and Leliana were was pushing their way past a couple of sisters, both of whom seemed more than happy to move away from her and let her pass. "That was quite the spectacle you made of yourself, falling from the roof of the Chantry as you did."

"I fell?" Yllia gave Morrigan a blank look.

"You exhausted your mana supply," Morrigan explained, "and passed out at the end of the battle."

"Alistair caught you," Leliana hurriedly added. Her intent was to reassure the other woman.

Reassurance was not the reaction Yllia had as Alistair's name sent her scrambling to her feet. "Where's Alistair?" she demanded, brushing off Leliana's hand as the redhead reached for her arm in alarm. "Where is he?"

"Outside with Bann Teagan," Morrigan replied with a slight raise of an eyebrow. "What is –"

She found herself cut off abruptly as Yllia pushed past the two women, nearly tripping over the hem of her robes as she rushed for the door. As she stumbled out into the rising sunlight, bringing up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she found Alistair and Teagan standing at the top of the steps in conversation. The moment she emerged, however, Alistair's attention was quickly diverted.

"Yllia! Are you all right?" Alistair's relief was palpable as he hurried over to her, but his eyes went wide when, the moment he drew close enough, she reached out and grasped his arm.

"Darkspawn," she said urgently, her voice low as she looked up at him. "They're coming, Alistair. I…I had a dream…I saw them…" She was aware of the touch of panic in her voice, drawn from the knowledge that Redcliffe could not withstand a darkspawn attack after what they had just gone through, and looked at him pleadingly.

Alistair stared at her, and then placed his hands on her shoulders in a firm grip. "Get a hold of yourself, Yllia," he said in a low tone. "There aren't any darkspawn within miles of here. I'd sense them. You'd sense them. It was just a dream. You've got to remember that."

She tightened her grip on his arm, staring up at him, but something about the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice finally got her to relax. Somewhat. "But it…it felt real, Alistair," she insisted. "There's a horde of darkspawn on the move. Somewhere." He was right, though – wherever it was, it wasn't here. It wasn't to Redcliffe, and they couldn't do anything about it.

Her throat tightened, and his expression reflection the same pain she felt at the thought that more people were going to die and they could do nothing for it. All they could do was keep pressing forward and try to stop this Blight as fast as they could.

All they could do was sacrifice the few…to save the many.

Hawke's eyes snapped open, staring up at the dark ceiling over his head, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd broken out into a sweat, but try as he might he could not recollect what it was that had driven him to awake. The barest hint of dawn was coming through the single window in the room he shared with his brother, the deep rumblings coming from Carver's bed the only sound. The house was quiet.

Careful to not make a sound, not wanting to wake his family – it was too early yet even for a farm - he drew back the heavy blanket covering him and slipped from his bed, pushing his feet into his boots. He avoided the weak spot near the bedroom door to keep the floorboards from creaking, creeping out into the front room of the house.

All at once an uneasy shiver worked its way down his spine.

Loch was on his feet, staring at the closed door, his ears pricked and the fur on the back of his neck standing straight on end. As Hawke approached behind him the mabari drew his lips back, exposing sharp teeth. Freeholders and farmers they might be, but too many generations of breeding were worked into Loch to have him forget the instincts of a war dog.

Hawke spared a glance towards the single closet where his staff and Bethany's were hidden, along with that which had once been his father's, and then placed his hand on Loch's head. "Easy," he murmured as a growl emanated from the hound. "Stay." He lifted the bar on the front door and stepped out onto the porch, his eyes sweeping the slowly-rousing village that stretched out before him. Much was quiet, only a few columns of smoke from early-morning cooking fires lifting into the air. A smile twitched onto his face as he caught sight of the small figure of the blacksmith's daughter stealing out of one house and hurriedly making pace for her own before her father rose for the day.

Another growl from Loch and that smile vanished. Uneasiness settled into Hawke's belly once more.

He moved to the edge of the porch and reached out, grasping onto the thin slats that were nailed into the wall, pulling himself up and onto the roof. He balanced on the edge, one leg hanging precariously over the side with the other was bent and resting on the roof itself.

He twisted his body, letting his eyes slowly scan the village and its surrounding areas from his vantage point. Being on the outskirts of Lothering had its benefits – less of the view was obstructed by the village itself, more of it the long stretches of farmland of the other freeholds. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; he almost allowed himself to relax. Besides, surely Lothering's own lookouts would have alerted should anything be amiss. This close to the Wilds they had guards delegated specifically for that task.

But those guards aren't mages, nor do they have your instincts, a whispering voice murmured in the back of his mind.

Whether it was by pure luck or something drew his attention to the west he'd never know. There was no reason to do so. The Korcari Wilds were to the south – that was the direction that was the most heavily watched. That was the direction any danger was sure to come.

But he twisted his body abruptly to look west, and his heart nearly lodged itself in his throat.

There, in the distance, on the horizon, a black, shifting mass moving at a rapid clip. He didn't have to be a Grey Warden to realize what it was that he was seeing, what it was that was moving towards Lothering at a startling fast clip – from a direction no one had expected danger to come.

Hawke didn't hesitate. He brought his hand up in front of him, a fireball forming in his hand, and with a grunt of exertion threw it into the air as high and as far as he could. It exploded above Lothering, drawing the attention of the lookouts to the west, but Hawke didn't wait to see if anyone was going to sound an alarm. He swung himself down from the roof onto the porch, throwing open the door with a bang.

"Carver!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the dwelling. He heard the startled shout of his brother being roused from a deep sleep and ignored it, throwing open the door to his mother's room. His shout hadn't woken just his brother – Leandra was already sitting up in bed, looking at her eldest son in alarm, and Bethany had just opened the door to her room.

"Garrett, what is it?" Leandra stared at her eldest son in confusion as he went to her side and grasped her arm, pulling her up and out of the bed with no explanation.

He led her out into the hall and looked at his siblings. "Bethany, get our staves and the packs. Carver, your sword. We have to go. We have to go now."

Bethany drew in a sharp breath and whirled to do as her brother bade. Carver stared at his brother, and his face had paled. "Is it…"

Dimly, Loch's barking nearly drowning it out, he could hear the shouts of the other villagers outside, the few templars still in Lothering barking orders. He blocked it out. There was nothing he could do for the rest of the village. Nothing he could do for the refugees who had come to Lothering to escape the horde. He had to see his family safe – if they stayed, they would die.

He reached up and grasped the silver amulet that hung around his neck. He met Carver's eyes. "Yes. "Darkspawn."