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Blackwall tramped through the woods, careful to avoid stepping on any branches that might crack beneath his feet. There were hunters in the woods, and the occasional apostate, and he had no wish to run into either. Or any category of human, for that matter.

There were times when he wished there was magic that could turn him into a bear. He would happily live as a bear the rest of his life, fishing and hunting grubs and sleeping through the winter … it sounded like a pretty good life. Of course, bears didn't read Orlesian poetry, he thought, remembering the several well-thumbed volumes wrapped in oiled skins in the bottom of his knapsack. He probably shouldn't, either—the poetry brought back memories of a life he had long ago given up any right to—but it also brought back the sweeter and more precious memories that went back even further. His mother had read poetry to him, her voice rising and falling over the lines so fluidly. How long ago was that now? Forty years? It was growing harder for him to remember how much time had passed. One day was so much like another out here. The seasons passed, but even those had a reassuring sameness, a pattern to follow. Truth be told, he was far from certain he knew what year it was.

The only thing he was absolutely certain of was the line between Orlais and Ferelden—those mountains that towered so forbiddingly over the eastern landscape. He made sure to stay far from those; not even a toe of his would ever enter Orlais again, if he had anything to say about it.

The green thing was still in the sky, he noticed, his eyes turning again toward the mountains to study the tear. And it was definitely bigger. Why wasn't anyone doing anything about it?

A sudden and utterly irrational fear gripped him. What if no one was fixing the sky because there was no one left to do so? He had occasionally entertained the notion of being the last man left in Thedas, but it wasn't really something he liked to contemplate. Not that he thought that green thing had killed people from as far away as the Free Marches, his long-lost home—after all, he was much closer than that and had thus far suffered no ill effects—but it could have killed whoever was near it, and those crackling green fingers of light that kept stabbing from it could be keeping anyone from coming near to fix it.

Well, either way, Blackwall told himself, it wasn't his problem. Definitely not. Once upon a time, he had been a man who fought things, who did his part for the rest of the world, but he had thrown all that part of him away, and it had been gone too long for him to find it again.

Resolutely, he turned his back on the green thing again.

As they continued up the icy path, Bridget could hear the sound of fighting ahead of them, including a peculiar ratchet and click she didn't think she had ever heard before.

Cassandra shouted, "Hurry!" and quickened her pace.

Bridget did so, as well, but she was more used to indoors than out and she slipped on the ice and fell heavily to her knees. She got up and kept moving at a more careful pace, with the result that the demons were dead by the time she reached the top. A bald elf came toward her, grabbing her left hand without preamble or permission and dragging her by it toward a rift in the sky. Bridget could feel a tug and a tingle as the magic in the mark on her hand connected with the Fade through the rift, and instinctively she closed her hand. As she did so, the rift began to seal itself off. She opened and closed her hand a couple of times, the rift sealing itself a bit more each time until it was gone.

The relief when the rift was gone was blissful; her hand felt almost normal again. She cradled it against her chest.

"What did you do?" she asked the elf.

"It was the mark," he said. "Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake—and it seems I was correct."

"Does that mean I could also close the Breach?"

"Possibly." He looked at Bridget speculatively. "It seems you may well hold the key to our salvation."

"Good to know," said a voice behind Bridget, and she turned to see a dwarf standing there. She had seen no dwarves in her life, and she couldn't help staring at this one, who looked not at all like what she would have expected. She would have imagined a heavy beard and a forbidding manner, but this dwarf was clean-shaven but for some blond stubble, and he had an open, friendly look on his rather handsome face that made Bridget feel at ease for the first time since she'd awakened in the cell. He went on, "Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever." He gave Cassandra a grin, which she returned with a scowl. Then he turned his gaze on Bridget, his smile softening as he did so. "Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong."

"Varric Tethras?" Bridget echoed. "From Kirkwall?"

"Once upon a time. I see you've heard of me."

"The Tale of the Champion," she said. "And others. I may have some questions, Serah Tethras, if you don't mind."

Cassandra groaned in disgust, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

Varric ignored her. "I love to answer questions, but only if you call me Varric."

She smiled. "Thank you. And I am Bridget. Bridget Trevelyan."

He gave her a courtly bow.

"Are you with the Chantry now, Varric? I confess, I would be surprised to hear that, given … your book …" She trailed off, remembering too late that Cassandra was unquestionably with the Chantry, and her own rather precarious position.

Behind her, the elf chuckled. "That can't have been a serious question."

"Technically," Varric said, "I'm a prisoner. Just like you."

Cassandra shifted restlessly, clearly impatient with the small talk. "I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine," she snapped, glaring at both Varric and Bridget as if she wasn't certain which one to be most angry with. "Clearly that is no longer necessary. You can leave us at your earliest convenience."

"Considering current events, it's lucky for you that this is the most interesting tale in town at the moment." He eyed Bridget speculatively. "Any objection to being put in a book?"

"One of yours?"

"Naturally."

"None at all. I'd be flattered."

"You may reconsider that stance, in time," said the elf, still standing behind her. His eyes appeared to still be on Bridget's hand, and she closed it into a fist.

"Aww, Chuckles, I'm sure we're going to be besties sooner or later," Varric said. "There's a lot of fighting ahead of us, plenty of time to develop a fabulous camaraderie."

"Absolutely not." Cassandra took a step toward Varric, glowering down at him. "Your help is appreciated, but …"

"Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?" he asked. "Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me."

Cassandra growled and stalked away from all of them. Bridget wondered why such a charming dwarf seemed to irritate her so very much.

The elf nodded at Bridget, at last dragging his eyes away from the mark on her hand. "My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live."

"He means, 'I hope you're grateful that I kept that mark from killing you as you slept,'" Varric put in.

"You are a healer?" Bridget looked at him more closely, now recognizing the staff on his back. "An apostate?" She had never met one of those, either. "And you know about the mark?"

"Technically, we are all now apostates," Solas said.

"That takes some getting used to." Bridget thought longingly of her warm, comfortable bed and her bulging bookcases. "I … was always taught that a mage belonged in the Circle."

"Perhaps now you will have a chance to broaden your horizons. My own travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. Or so I imagine. Perhaps at some point we can compare notes." Solas gave her a small nod. "I came here to offer what help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed."

"Whatever I can do in that effort, I am willing to try," Bridget assured him.

Solas turned to Cassandra. "The magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner may be a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine that she, or any mage, could wield such power."

Cassandra looked them both over warily, but without anger. "Understood," she said. "Now we must get to the forward camp, and quickly. There is little time to lose."

She and Solas moved off together, and Varric fell into step next to Bridget. "Well, Bianca's excited," he said.

"Bianca?"

He gestured to a complicated contraption he carried in a sling over his shoulder. "My crossbow. She thinks it's just like old times."

"You mean with the Champion?"

Varric nodded. Bridget considered asking more, but decided to save her breath for the climb.

They moved on, Cassandra forging ahead on the icy paths. There had been widespread destruction, so they ended up cross-country, wading through the snow and climbing over things. Bridget felt hopelessly clumsy; Solas and Cassandra had to help her over most of the obstacles in her path as she tried to keep up with them, and she was breathing heavily, her breath puffing in the chill air. At last she fell back. Solas was light on his feet, barely even making a dent in the snow, and Cassandra had ample determination to pull her through.

"Welcome to the slow pack," Varric said to her. He struggled in the snow and over the obstacles as well, due to his height. He sighed, looking down at his clothes, which didn't look particularly suited to the cold weather. "I think it's a grand conspiracy to ruin my boots."

"I'm really not used to … being outside."

"Neither am I."

"Oh, are you from Orzammar?" she asked him in surprise.

Varric chuckled. "No, born and raised in Kirkwall. But I spent most of my time there in the tavern, when Hawke wasn't dragging me all over."

"That puts you one up on me. The last person who dragged me anywhere was the Templar who took me to the Circle."

"Sounds like it wasn't your idea."

"I was nine years old. My parents spoke to me about it kindly, and made it clear they supported my going, but that didn't make me any happier about leaving home." She glanced at the dwarf. "But don't get the impression I spent my time there wishing to be anywhere else. The Circle became home. I miss it."

"I get you. We do what we must, but that doesn't make it what we want."

She shrugged. "Or sometimes what we must becomes everything we know."

"That, too."

They walked in silence for a bit, keeping Solas and Cassandra in sight. Occasionally Cassandra would turn and frown at them both for having fallen so far behind.

On a hill, Bridget stubbed her toe against something, falling to her hands and knees. She stayed there for a moment, panting, so tired she wasn't sure she could get up again. Her hair was falling in her face, the braid long ago having fallen down her back from its usual careful pinning and now beginning to unravel. Her hand with the mark on it was pulsing painfully, she had a stitch in her side, and she could barely feel her toes anymore, her feet were so cold.

Varric put a hand on her back. "I'd like to say it's going to be over soon, but that would be a lie, and I only do that for money. Or entertainment. But if you've got anything left, you're going to have to dig for it. I get the sense from Chuckles that we can't deal with the Breach without you."

"Chuckles?"

"The elf."

"Does he like that nickname?"

Varric laughed heartily. "He tolerates it. I nickname everyone. It's my thing." He stepped back and studied her. "You, now … you remind me of an old friend from Kirkwall. I called her Daisy, so … I think I'll call you Sunflower."

"Sunflower? Hothouse flower, more like," Bridget grumbled, but the moment's rest had helped, and she was able to get to her feet and start putting one foot in front of the other again.

"Nah, 'hothouse flower' is too long to say, and doesn't half do you justice. Besides, give you a couple weeks of this and you'll be trekking with the best of us."

"A couple of weeks?" Bridget stared at him in dismay.

"At least." He looked at her kindly, but without pity. "It's not like you have a cushy Circle to go back to. What else were you going to do with your time?"

"Stay warm?"

He laughed again. "That's the spirit. Keep that sense of humor, you'll make it, no problem."

Bridget wasn't so sure, but there was no time to respond to him, because up ahead Cassandra gave a shout and drew her sword. Solas lifted his staff and she could see magic flash from it, rippling in the air.

"Hope you're ready, Sunflower," Varric said. He drew the crossbow from his back and took aim, advancing toward Solas's position. Cassandra had already run forward.

A wave of weariness washed over Bridget. Or was it fear? Either way, she wondered if the other three couldn't just manage without her. She didn't know anything about fighting.

But a little voice in her head was chastising her shrilly for letting her companions face something she was afraid to tackle. She had always held her own in her classes, always taken pride in being a good student. This was like no lesson she had ever learned before, but it was a lesson, and as such, could she really stand back and make excuses for herself?

She jogged ahead, trying to call to mind what it had felt like to create that ball of energy before. Taking a place between the elf and the dwarf, she lifted her hand and sent one of those balls at the shade Cassandra was fighting.

Solas glanced at her in what looked to be surprise, but Cassandra was still surrounded, and despite the clear competence of Solas's magic and Varric's crossbow, Bridget was too embarrassed to sit back and just let them all take care of it, so she formed another ball of energy and shot it at another shade. She didn't seem to be doing much good, but she wasn't hurting.

At last between the four of them all the shades had been taken care of. After making certain that Cassandra was all right, Solas turned to look at Bridget. "I take it combat magic was not your specialty."

"It was … no one's specialty, at least not in my Circle. We are—we were," she amended, thinking again of Drea, lost in the Conclave, "scholars. Our Templars would not have looked favorably on anyone who wanted to try combat magic."

Solas nodded. "I see. Would you be amenable to my giving you a few lessons, when time permits? There are likely to be more battles in your future—you should be able to protect yourself."

"Thank you, I would appreciate that," Bridget said with relief.

"There you go, Sunflower," Varric said encouragingly. "We'll get you looked after." He shouldered the crossbow, smirking at Cassandra as she rejoined them. "Nice scrap, eh, Seeker?"

"What are you all dawdling here for?" Cassandra snapped. "We have to hurry; they will be waiting for us."

"Of course." Solas glanced at Bridget. "Will you be able to keep up?"

"I'll try. I'm sorry if I'm holding you all back."

Cassandra looked as though she'd like to snap again, but a warning look from Solas made her take a breath and rethink. "It's fine. We will go as quickly as we can, but there is little point in expending all our energy; we don't know what we will face before there is time to rest again." She sheathed her sword and turned her face back to the path.

Varric nudged Bridget in the ribs. "Quite the motivational speaker, isn't she?"

Bridget nodded, trudging after Cassandra, trying to ignore the weariness weighing down her limbs.

At last they reached the forward camp, finding Leliana in the midst of an argument with a man in Chantry robes, whom Cassandra introduced as Chancellor Roderick. For a moment, it seemed touch and go whether the Chancellor would prevail and drag Bridget off to be tried for treason in Val Royeaux, but between them Leliana and Cassandra stood against him, and he backed down in the face of that formidable combination. Bridget imagined that most people probably would.

In the midst of the argument, the Breach expanded again, Bridget crying out with the pain as the mark in her hand flashed and flared. Everyone moved back away from her; everyone except Solas, who knelt next to her, taking the marked hand in his and looking at it with concern.

"We must get her to the Breach," he said to Cassandra. "It is our only chance, and hers."

Chancellor Roderick snorted, but he didn't argue any longer.

"Very well," Cassandra said. "We should go quickly."

"Solas," Bridget whispered. "I don't … I don't know if I can."

"You must," he said. "We will get you to the Breach, and give you all the support we can."

"Thank you, Solas."

"I wish I had time to teach you some combat magic," he said quietly, "but at this moment, I think it would be unwise."

With the weight of Roderick's glare on her, Bridget had to agree. She could only imagine what his reaction would be to the two of them murmuring and gesturing together—an elven apostate and an ex-Circle mage whom he suspected of treason and mass murder. "Unwise," she echoed. "Yes. But I thank you for the thought."

They got started sooner than Bridget had expected they would be ready to; the brief rest had only made her feet start hurting. She couldn't remember the last time she had spent as much time on her feet as she had today. It was quite possible she never had.

But she kept up as best she could; they were all counting on her, she knew that, and she also knew that she hardly seemed competent to them. Her skills, the skills of the library and the classroom and the sickbed, were not the ones these people valued or understood, and certainly not the right ones for this circumstance. And while she was of an age with them, a life spent sheltered and indoors had left her skin pale and unmarked; Bridget had been told many times that she looked far younger than she was. Given all that, and the mysterious mark she couldn't explain, it was only natural that they should distrust her. She was half-tempted to distrust herself.

So she pushed herself far beyond what she would have imagined she was capable of, hurrying up the hill behind Varric, taking as much care as she could not to slip in the thin shoes.

There was a crater, vast and blasted and rock-strewn, where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been. Bodies were frozen in their final moments of agony. Bridget felt tears coming to her eyes as she looked around her. Was Franko one of these bodies? Or Drea? There had been others at the Conclave whom she had met and enjoyed speaking to, and they were gone, as well.

A man approached them, a tall blond man with the unmistakable bearing of a Templar but without the armor. He said to Cassandra, "You made it."

"Barely." Cassandra glanced at Bridget, who looked down her feet. "The prisoner is holding up well, however."

"Is she?" The Templar looked at her coolly. "I hope they're right about you; we lost a lot of people getting you here."

More people lost, in addition to the ones here. Was it really all her fault? Had she done this, caused this, somehow? The Templar was looking at her as though he was certain it was her doing. "I hope they're right about me, too," she whispered.

"We'll see soon enough, won't we?"

Maybe she was imagining it, but there seemed to be a hint of a sneer in his voice, and it angered her. "Do you have any idea what it's like for me to be standing here? Having everyone accuse me of causing this? Some of these people were my friends!"

He didn't blink, unmoved by her outburst. "Some of them were mine, too." He passed by her, nearly hitting her with his shoulder, and said to Cassandra, "The way to the inner Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."

"Then we'd best move quickly."

Quickly indeed. Bridget could feel demons gathering near them, hear their voices in her inner ear. Was there another rift ahead of them, as well, in addition to the Breach? She could almost feel it, a strange pulsing in her hand.

Cassandra looked at her, seeming to understand some of what Bridget was thinking. "Give us time, Commander," she said to the Templar.

"Maker watch over you," he said, favoring Bridget with a final suspicious glance. "For all our sakes."

And then he was gone, stopping to help an injured soldier to the comparative safety of a stand of rocks. So there was kindness in there after all, Bridget thought. Perhaps he wasn't all bad. Unlike some other mages she'd known, she had never had much trouble with the Templars; she was a studious, quiet, relatively inoffensive mage and had had the good luck to be surrounded by Templars who were of the more disciplined kind. The Knight-Commander of the Ostwick Circle, Timeon, had been a man who believed in doing his duty to the strictest letter of its dictates, and the rest of them had followed his example.

But there was no time for further reflection. Cassandra was shouting, "Come on!" and they were on the move.

Around a corner was the small rift. Bridget was almost glad of it, for the chance to practice closing a rift again before she had to deal with the massive Breach. The others kept the demons off her, mostly, so that she was free to concentrate. Form the link between the rift and her hand, feel the strangeness of the power flowing through her, use her hand and her being to find the edges of the rift and pull them closed. It was not unlike healing a wound, and Bridget knew how to do that, and do it well.

She sighed as the rift sealed itself, the link closing, blessed relief in her arm and through her body for a moment. Some mages might have enjoyed this power, but it felt … alien. It wasn't hers, it didn't belong to her or in her.

"Well done," Solas said in his quiet way. "You give me hope that this can work on the Breach."

Bridget smiled at him. "Your hope gives me hope."

"And both of your hopes give me … yeah, mostly I'm just scared shitless." Varric grinned at her. "But I've been that before and come out of it in one piece, and so has Bianca. We're with you, Sunflower."

Cassandra glared at all three of them. "Less talking! Move faster."

"Succinctly put, Seeker."

They made their way deeper into the blasted wasteland that used to be the Temple. Spikes of some kind of red rock began to be interspersed with the chunks of building stone and the rest of the detritus.

The red rock hummed, drawing Bridget toward it, curious. She reached out to touch it, but Varric grabbed her hand, dragging her away. "That's red lyrium!"

Red lyrium? Bridget had heard something about that, murmurs, really, but no details.

"Seeker!" Varric called.

Cassandra said, impatiently, "I see it, Varric."

"But what's it doing here?"

Solas was studying it, too, his head cocked to the side. "Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it …"

Varric shook Bridget's hand, which he was still holding. "Whatever happened to bring it here, it's evil. Don't touch it!"

She looked at it again, still hearing the hum. It felt … odd. Regular lyrium had a hum, too, but it was brighter, clearer. This was low, primal, like a growl deep in the throat, almost like a lover. Bridget shook herself. She didn't know why Varric was reacting this way, what past he had with red lyrium, but based on the way it felt to stand near it, she was willing to go along with his assertion that it was evil. "Come on, then. Let's close that Breach."

"Now you're talking," he said, giving the red lyrium another agitated look.

There was more of it scattered throughout the ruins, more thickly the closer they got to the Breach. Could whatever had caused the Breach also be creating red lyrium? Bridget wasn't sure lyrium worked like that, but then, she didn't really know how lyrium was created, so she supposed anything was possible.

Suddenly a voice echoed around them. Deep. Calm. Emotionless. Precise. "Now is the hour of our victory," it said. "Bring forth the sacrifice."

"What are we hearing?" Cassandra asked shakily. The desolation, the bodies, the knowledge of what had occurred here and to whom all seemed to be getting to her. She gripped her sword's hilt tightly, looking ready to draw it on anything that moved.

Solas looked around, appearing far less disturbed. "At a guess," he said, "the person who created the Breach."

That it clearly was not Bridget's voice went unnoted, but of course, she had known she hadn't done it all along, and neither Varric or Solas had ever appeared to seriously believe her guilty. Cassandra had been softening, but Bridget couldn't imagine the other woman bending enough to admit she might have jumped to conclusions. After all, the conclusions hadn't exactly been unreasonable, Bridget thought, flexing her left hand. The mark was burning more as they approached the Breach.

"Well, it's creepy," Varric said, holding his crossbow in front of him as the voice spoke again.

"Keep the sacrifice still," it said.

Then another voice, bouncing off the rocks. "Someone help me!"

Cassandra stopped in her tracks, looking around her in distress. "That is Divine Justinia's voice! What is this? What is happening?"

The Divine's voice cried for help again, desperation in it. And then Bridget heard her own voice, asking "What's going on here?" She hadn't spoken out loud, she was certain of it. But everyone was staring at her.

"That was your voice," Cassandra said, stunned. "Most Holy called out to you. But—why?"

"I don't know," Bridget whispered. The mark in her hand was crackling and flashing, just as the Breach was. "I don't remember. I wish I did."

Her voice echoed above them again: "What's going on here?" and then the Divine's, a scream of pain and urgency. "Run while you can! Warn them!" The first voice, then, the detached one, cool and collected. "We have an intruder. Kill her. Now."

There was no clue in that voice as to the identity of its owner, or of those to whom it issued that deadly command with such certainty.

And then there was silence. They all stood, stunned, everyone's eyes on Bridget, until Cassandra came to her side. "You were there! The Divine … is she? Is this … is it true? What are we hearing?"

"I don't know! I don't. I'm sorry!" Bridget could feel her throat swelling as panicked tears welled in her eyes. Her head ached with the effort of remembering, the black space in her mind cold and hard as the voice had been.

"The Fade bleeds into this place," Solas said. He alone seemed unshaken by what they had all heard. His eyes were on the Breach. He turned to Bridget. "This rift is not sealed, but it is closed. With the mark, you should be able to open it, and then seal it again properly."

"There are demons on the other side," she said. "I can feel them."

"I know. You will have to be as swift as you can."

"Stand ready!" Cassandra shouted to the soldiers around them.

Bridget reached up into the sky, flexing her hand open, over and over, the energy flowing between her hand and the rift, opening the tear in the sky. She could feel the demons clustering around it, trying to get through. As soon as it was open she tried to begin closing it as quickly as she could, but something ripped the connection between herself and the rift apart, sending her flying backward, and she watched from the ground, her muscles aching, as a pride demon stepped through, screaming.

Immediately, the soldiers were on it, but it was large and they were, comparatively, small. It could scatter three of them with a single blow. But the soldiers were determined, and they were angry, and at last they had a chance of fighting back and closing the terrifying rip in the sky once and for all, and every time the demon had them down, they got up and attacked it again.

A group of them, including Cassandra and Varric, surrounded Bridget, forming a defensive wall around her and keeping the demons that had come through the Breach after the pride demon off her.

It seemed to go on forever, the soldiers hacking away at the pride demon and Bridget in the midst of her cordon of protective fighters trying and failing to reestablish her link with the Breach. At last, there was a loud cheer. The pride demon was down, the soldiers surrounding it, hacking away until it was no longer a threat.

"Now!" Cassandra shouted. "Do it!"

With a glance at Solas, who nodded at her in confirmation, Bridget raised her hand again, feeling the tug and the pull, sharp against her open palm, as her mark made contact with the Breach. It was so big, the power in it so strong, that it took all she could to stand up against it, squeezing her hand closed over and over again, drawing the edges together so slowly it seemed to take an age, her hand tiring. She braced her left elbow with her right hand, grimacing in pain as she kept going. And then there was a blinding flash of light that seemed to stab its way down her arm and through her body, and blackness closed around her.