The danger of battle did not hold sole claim to the noise of combat. Blows rained down and were knocked aside with thunderous cracks. Sand rasped under soldiers' quick, shuffling steps. What made this a humming, comfortable cacophony were the voices, familiar and bright with exhilaration and encouragement. Cullen had informed Adaar that the soldiers trained in better spirits when she was on the grounds with them. She had yet to tell him that they raised her spirits in turn. Here, Adaar slipped easily into the infectious mood of friendly competition. It helped, too, that her opponent was the Iron Bull.

"Come on!" Bull roared. He swung wide, and Adaar danced easily out of his reach. "Hit me!"

She was by no means fresh—they had been at this for over an hour—but still she was smiling. "You'll wear out before I do, old man."

Bull grumbled curses at her. There were only a few years between them, but he hated reminders that he was her senior. He shifted to strike again. Bull's heavy weaponry meant that he could almost never disguise his intentions. He had to brace himself, drop his weight, square his shoulders, turn his hips—every movement lent to the next, and the axe was last, hurtling with force that could (and had) given dragons pause.

This was only sparring, and the axe was only for practice, not battle. Even so, when Adaar held her shield against it, she had to dig into her stance. Her left arm stung with the impact, and her teeth clicked together. But she gave only a single step of ground. Bull readied himself again, and she surged forward. She threw her shield wide to meet his axe before it could build momentum, trapping his only weapon nearly behind him and leaving him open to her short sword.

With quick pragmatism, Bull let go of that great beast of a weapon with one hand and punched her soundly in the gut. She stumbled back, and he kicked the front of her hip. She collapsed unceremoniously on her rear.

Bull grinned down at her. "Sloppy," he chided.

Adaar smiled back, abashed. A new voice said, "It wasn't knightly."

Adaar accepted Bull's hand, and he pulled her to her feet with such enthusiasm that her feet briefly left the ground. He enjoyed showing off that way. Only when she was standing steady did she turn to face their sudden audience. Her smile warmed and brightened. "Cole."

The earth and wood and stone of the practice yard nearly swallowed Cole's outline, but he was there, peering at them from beneath the brim of his hat. Bull sighed, but there was no sour note in his voice when he said, "Hey, kid." He leaned the axe against the nearest post and relinquished it without waiting for Adaar's cue. Adaar sheathed her sword and began unstrapping the shield, silently grateful. With Bull, camaraderie was traded blows, needling questions, and loud laughter. No doubt Cole could sense the heart of that; even so, she hesitated to meet the boy with anything but his own gentle thoughtfulness.

Cole continued matter-of-factly, "Cullen wouldn't have done that."

"So you're telling me she's been spoiled by fancy human chivalry?" Bull folded his arms and shook his head sadly. "It's like every day you get worse at being qunari, Boss. And you were already Tal-Vashoth when I met you."

"Bull, if you can be a proper qunari," she replied serenely, "I doubt it's all that difficult."

He snorted a laugh. And then he looked at her with that canny eye that so often belied his friendly manner. It gleamed now. "I've been thinking," he said easily, and she knew at once that whatever his thoughts, they had been too clever by half. "Imaari. Funny name for a Tal-Vashoth."

It was a name rarely used. Knowingly or not, the Inquisition had turned to a qunari habit when they addressed her by her station. Only a few people called her by her given name, and Adaar doubted that many more even knew it.

"It's pretty," Cole put in shyly.

Adaar was startled into a smile. "That's… thank you." She met Bull's sly stare again. "What's odd about it?"

"It's qunlat," he answered at once. "As a matter of fact, we have to talk half our converts out of calling each other that as a nickname. Your parents were running from the Qun. Why not name you something Marcher?"

Adaar doubted that the option had occurred to them at all, hidden and alone in a foreign land. She had no memory of that time, but she could still see glimpses of it through little things her parents did or didn't say. "They wanted it to mean something."

"A new growth," Cole piped up, "just starting. Buds in the spring. Or… trying again, entirely new." His pale eyes searched something past the two of them, and he tilted his head slightly. "A word for new things that isn't new. An old word they took with them."

"I know what it means," Bull grumbled, but not without a surprised, sidelong look at Cole. "How do you know what it means?"

Cole was silent for a moment and then said with interest, "Qunlat words are like folded paper, aren't they? They're so small, but they can be a hundred shapes."

Bull looked at him wonderingly. "Yeah," he agreed, far quieter than usual.

Affection and longing pulled at Adaar with equal force, curving her mouth into a sad smile. For all the stark separation of their worlds, she suspected that she and Bull sometimes grew homesick for much the same thing. Interrogating him about life in Par Vollen was not so different from listening to her parents' stories; and answering her incessant questions kept his home close by.

At last, Adaar explained, "My parents named me what they wanted to give me. And… what I was to them, I think."

Bull exhaled through his nose, still disapproving. "A qunlat name for an ex-Qun life."

"It was all they had." Mindful of Cole, she nudged Bull in the ribs rather than elbowing him with half force. "What would you have named me, then?"

He shrugged. "Don't ask me. We don't do names names, remember?" He waved a hand. "Something bas, so you could walk into a tavern and say, 'Hello human, I'm Sally, got any ale?'"

A wry joke, but one that struck more harshly than Bull had intended. A qunari was welcome nowhere in the south. Adaar's mercenary band had emerged, as she understood it, as an accumulation of outcasts with no other ideas, clinging to what kin they could find. Roving Tal-Vashoth bandits grouped in much the same way. The difference between earning Bull's disdain and indifference had been sheer luck.

Bull caught her pained expression. He nudged her in return and rumbled, "Hey, it's not your fault you grew up in a country full of idiots who didn't like you."

The unspoken declaration of whose fault it was rang loudly, and Adaar answered it. "My parents wanted so badly to know me that they left home rather than give me over. How can I resent them for that?"

"Then why was it still so lonely?" Cole asked softly. He wrung his hands, quick and distressed. Adaar almost told him that was enough, but she had never silenced him before, and the last thing she wanted was to sound sharp with him. "Always wishing. Wondering—what if it were different? Whole cities, open streets, theaters, cafes. I'm smiling, I'm not frightening, I promise…."

Adaar grimaced despite herself. "Kid," Bull began reproachfully.

"Sorry," Cole muttered before anything more could be said, looking at his hands. He took a step back. "I know people don't like it when I do that."

"It's all right, Cole," Adaar assured him. "That was a long time ago. It's fine now." And it was; the world hadn't changed its ways, perhaps, but Cole came closer and took her hand when she offered it, and Bull put her in a brief headlock to dispel the mood.

"We could name you something else," Bull suggested while she struggled to extract herself. "I get the Imaari thing—"

"Thanks," Adaar put in dryly, strained.

He let her go with a grin. "But a good qunari name should be what you are . Your role. Your folks are settled by now. Nobody needs you to be a new start."

Adaar raked a hand over her disheveled hair. "What I am," she repeated hesitantly. It was a vast question to anyone except the qunari. But perhaps the Inquisition had answered for her when they gave her a title.

"You're safe," Cole said as if it were obvious.

Adaar and Bull blinked at him, nonplussed. Then Bull's eye lit up, and his smile turned devious. "Go on," he told Cole, "do your thing."

Encouraged, Cole continued earnestly, "She's safe. She's protected . Or, no— we're protected, because that's what she is. Do you see?"

Bull laughed in delight. "Damn! He's right. That's it."

Adaar was loath to interrupt when the exchange had put both her friends in such good cheer, but nonetheless she asked, "What's it?"

Beaming, Bull slung an arm around her shoulders. "Your parents ever teach you what beres-taar means?" When she shook her head, he explained, "It's qunlat for 'shield.' It's what you might call someone who takes the hits and covers everyone's asses."

She began to smile. "I'm good at that, am I?"

"That, or you're bad at not doing it. You're in charge around here, you know. We're supposed to defend you ."

"Bull, you don't even wear a shirt."

"That's my business."

A helpless laugh escaped her. Her friends watched her, Cole curious and Bull expectant, so she tried it aloud. "Beres-Taar." It felt solid and somehow right—not because it described her, for Imaari and Inquisitor were both true in their own ways, but because this name was something she wanted .

"It's up to you, Boss," Bull said. He raised his eyebrows. "But there's a lot of perks to picking out your own name."

There were roles Adaar had to serve, burdens and expectations she could not put down. Bull understood that, as surely as he must have understood the growing light in her expression as she repeated thoughtfully, "Beres-Taar." One more name, this one to define who she was at her heart.

Cole nodded seriously. "It's you," he intoned.

She smiled so widely that it nearly hurt, squeezing Cole's hand as Bull clapped her shoulder proudly. "You're right," Beres-Taar replied, "I think it is."