Ainur'Len has no intention of letting her home succumb to the threats Josephine had so urgently described in her letters, begging her to return.

As she walks through the streets of the Crossroads, now ravaged by the Blight, she takes in every detail with careful deliberation. Everything must be under control. She cannot afford mistakes. Not anymore.

Before their separation, she and Morrigan had crafted a strategy: keeping a low profile, Morrigan would be her eyes and ears. While Ainur'Len focused on halting the advance of the Darkspawn, Venatori, and Antaam across Ferelden and Orlais, Morrigan would shadow Rook and her companions, ensuring that none of them truly intended to harm Solas.

This plan was hardly new. What was new, however, was the chaos unleashed by the Evanurs' escape. Morrigan's role was little more than what Ainur'Len had initially planned for Varric in case something went wrong: a careful observer, one who would stay out of the way, ensuring nothing derailed the delicate balance of the Inquisition's last gambit. The key difference now was the need for unpredictability—fresh, unknown people, outside the circle of Solas' influence.

For years, Ainur'Len had fought the Dread Wolf with agents of her own, handpicked through rigorous trials devised by the Inquisition. She couldn't afford infiltrators, she couldn't afford mistakes.

Disbanding the organization had been the first step in moving discreetly, operating from the shadows. Everything that had brought her to this moment was the result of careful calculation, decades of planning. She'd surrounded herself with only her most loyal collaborators, recruiting individuals of rare value: those who could serve her without raising suspicion. Ainur'Len had woven a web she hoped would ensnare Solas, without ever having to harm him.

But Solas was still the god of lies, treachery and rebellion - depending on the story. He always seemed to be one step ahead, even as he left behind small, almost imperceptible clues - hints meant only for those who truly knew him.

Morrigan, however, had been her unexpected ace. Ainur'Len had never expected to see the witch again. Yet, only a few months ago, she'd found her in Skyhold, drenched from the rain, standing in the garden where they'd often shared quiet moments. Back then, when the war against Corypheus still raged, Morrigan had spent hours poring over arcane tomes in that very spot.

When the witch explained her decision to take Mythal within her, Ainur'Len had felt she couldn't refuse her help. From that moment, Morrigan had proven crucial in their pursuit of Fen'Harel. So crucial, in fact, that Solas was forced to speed up his ritual, leading to its disastrous failure and the flight of the ancient gods, an event that had reverberated across the world.

Together, they had used the Eluvians to their advantage. Solas had reactivated them to bring about the destruction of the Veil and the coming of Elvhenan. But Ainur'Len had ensured that some of the Eluvians had been redirected, their destinations changed, thanks to the help of the witch.

Morrigan had provided invaluable intelligence, information that no one else could offer. And she had shown a genuine interest in Solas, in his redemption, a goal Ainur'Len still struggled to fully understand. If, before Morrigan's return, only she and a few others believed they could convince Solas to redeem himself, Morrigan had joined the group with that very goal in mind.

When Ainur'Len asked her about it, Morrigan had only told her to be patient, to trust in her larger vision. And, because she needed Morrigan's help, Ainur'Len had accepted the witch's secrets in exchange for the invaluable support she provided.

Now, as Ainur'Len steps through the Eluvian that will take her to Kirkwall, she places her trust in Varric's most trusted agent: Rook. She knows her friend's instincts were sharp, and though she cannot show her hand, Ainur'Len is determined to let Rook take the space she needs, free of suspicion that the Inquisition's influence still guides her.

The cold air of Kirkwall's harbor bites at her skin, sending a shiver through her. For a moment, she gazes at the grey, weathered city before her. As she continues walking, she realizes her heart has led her to the place she needs to rest before heading to Orlais to meet with Josephine.

Ainur'Len knows she has a home to return to, a gift from Varric after he became viscount.

She reaches the door, turning the key in the lock with a slow, metallic click. It echoes in the quiet, a sound that mirrors the emptiness in her chest.

She lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, taking a long, steady breath before stepping through. The room greets her in shadow, lit only by the pale light filtering through dark curtains. Dust and ashes drift lazily in the air. The few pieces of furniture are wrapped in red covers embroidered with the Kirkwall symbol, like abandoned coffins, reminders of how little she has used them. The silence is suffocating, broken only by the dull thud of Ainur'Len's bag falling from her hands.

She shuts the door behind her with a soft click, feeling her legs tremble beneath her, as if they can no longer bear the weight of the world. She moves slowly toward one of the chairs around the large living room table. Varric had insisted she would need it - said it was large enough for their games of wicked grace.

She rests her elbow on the table, rubbing her forehead with a weary sigh, as if trying to scrub away the memories that cling to her. Her expression is grim, lips tight with resolve, but her eyes betray the weight of everything that has led her here.

She stays like that, in silence, forcing herself not to think of how many times she had promised to visit him, only to put it off with some excuse. There was always someone to save, something to fix, a trail to follow. And Varric was his friend, he would understand.

Shaking her head and cursing through clenched teeth, she freezes as she spots something out of the corner of her eye that she hadn't noticed before.

A gift box, wrapped in beautiful vermilion paper with the symbols of the Inquisition printed in gold ink, sealed with a shimmering ribbon and carefully wrapped. There is also a note.

Ainur'Len suddenly feels her blood boil, a sharp heat makes her shiver and her head begins to pound. She stares at the object as if she has seen a ghost, every muscle in her body tense and rigid.

Suddenly she jumps to her feet. She paces the room, back and forth, her hands behind her back. She stares at the gift, studying it defiantly, as if she were facing a demon, trying to understand its weaknesses, to attack it at the right moment. Then she stops, again. She averts her gaze. She wants to turn on her heel and run away.

"Ah, fuck it." she curses, grabs the parcel and unwraps it furiously.

A book. The cover depicts a sorceress from behind, wearing an Inquisition helmet with two pointed ears protruding from it. She has her hand outstretched to the sky, above her a cloud in the shape of a wolf's head, surrounded by green light. an elf gazes at the scene with a mixed expression and a sad face. At the top of the cover, in large, clear letters, is the title: 'Tales of Redemption'.

Her disbelieving gaze shifts to the card, which has fallen to the floor in her haste to unwrap the present. She bends down to pick it up, not letting go of the book.

"Whatever may happen, this is the story you deserve.
I just hope you like the ending.

P.S. For now, it's an exclusive just for you, it's not for sale. Tell me what you think.

With undying affection,
Your friend Varric".

Ainur'Len clutches the book to her chest, holding it close to her heart until she can swallow the tears that fill her eyes.

With a wave of her hand, she uses magic to lazily slide off the cloth covering the sofa. She drops onto the soft mattress and falls asleep instantly, hugging the heavy tome.

When she wakes, she feels something cold on her neck. Still numb from a deep sleep she had not fallen into for months, she slowly lifts her eyelids.

The first thing she sees is the reflection of the sun on a shiny surface. It takes her a few seconds to focus on the large blade pointed at her throat. She tries to jerk backwards on instinct, but the sword scratches her skin, pinning her to the couch. She cannot move.

When she finally looks up at the person holding the weapon, her heart stops for a moment.

A woman with short, raven-black hair looms over her, her grip on the sword unyielding and her gaze intense. Her icy eyes narrow to slits, burning with fury. Clad in full war armor, she stands unmoving, the blade in her hand a silent promise that she has no intention of lowering it.

"Hawke," Ainur'Len whispers in a hushed voice. The weight of the blade on her throat prevents her from swallowing. "Please. Can you tell me what time it is?"

"Good Morning, Inquisitor." Marian does not flinch, ignoring the elf's clumsy attempt at a joke. Noticing the sparks flickering in her eyes, she raises a hand and waves her finger in the air, the gesture accompanied by slow clicks of her tongue. "Don't even try it, it won't work. I spend my days with a spirit possessed apostate, I know exactly how to protect myself from your magic."

Ainur'Len stands still, watching her opponent cautiously, and slowly raises her hands in surrender.

"I know why you are here. Marian, it wasn't..."

"It wasn't your fault?' Hawke interrupts her, her voice a hiss of anger. The blade presses harder and harder against her neck. Ainur'Len moans in pain. If Hawke continues like this, she will cut off her head: "I have lost so much in my life, but no, Varric, no. You shouldn't have taken Varric from me."

The elf looks at the human sideways. In that look of rage, she sees her own pain. In those eyes staring at her with hatred, she recognises the same feeling she has for herself.

"No, the fault is mine alone," she admits without looking away from those cold irises. "You can kill me if you want to."

They stare at each other in silence, the tension thick between them. Marian's breathing is ragged, as if she's struggling with something inside herself. Her grip on the sword falters, her fist beginning to tremble. Ainur'Len feels the cold blade glide across her throat, the faintest pressure as it slides over her skin, a drop of blood warming her flesh before trickling quickly down the metal.

The elf remains still, eyes closed, bracing for the inevitable. But then the weight of the sword vanishes. The coldness against her throat disappears.

With a groan, Marian lowers her weapon, her breath shallow and uneven. Her eyes fall to the floor, where Varric's book rests in silent testimony to the void he left behind. She clenches her teeth, her face contorting as she presses a hand to her eyes, perhaps to hide the tears that threaten to spill.

Ainur'Len gently massages her sore throat, the red mark from the blade still staining her skin. She keeps quiet, out of respect for Marian's pain, though a strange disappointment gnaws at her. If Hawke had chosen to end it then and there, to take her head to Varric's grave, perhaps she would have deserved it.

Marian releases the sword and collapses onto the couch beside her, burying her face in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. Ainur'Len stares at a spot on the floor, lost in her thoughts. Neither of them speaks, the silence stretching for what feels like hours, though it's only a few minutes.

"Before he left for Minrathous, he came to see me, you know?" Hawke finally breaks the silence. She rests her back on the soft surface of the sofa and lets her hands slide from her face, a nostalgic smile curving her lips. Her eyes look off into the distance, straight ahead.

Ainur'Len sits down beside her.

"I didn't know."

"I tried to talk him out of it, I told him that some things can't be fixed with words. I mean, look what happened to Anders," she shakes her head and sighs slowly. She looks into the elf's eyes, her gaze is gentle, so different from a few moments ago. Ainur'Len feels her heart sink as she sees her smile. "But he was so confident. He said his friends needed him. That this time would be different, that he wouldn't let you feel the same pain as I had."

Hawke puts a hand on her friend's and slowly moves closer. "He really cared about you, you know."

Ainur'Len lowers her gaze to the woman's fingers brushing against hers, in an attempt to escape her gaze. She does not have the strength to hold it. She bites her lips, trying to control the wave of pain that crushes her heart in her chest, and she keeps her eyes wide open, as if to freeze the tears that slowly cloud her vision.

"Marian…"

"I looked for someone to blame. Solas was the easiest target, but you were the one I could reach. I thought that hating you, hurting you, would bring me some relief—it had worked before. But I can't. It's not your fault. Varric chose his path, and he died for what he believed in. To blame you now would only cheapen his sacrifice."

As Marian speaks, the elf listens in silence. She searches for something smart to say, but can only focus on the feeling that warms her chest. Varric's best friend, who needs her compassion and whose pain she can only imagine, stands before her and does nothing but offer comfort. The guilt is tempered by a feeling of infinite gratitude.

"I understand how you feel, I've been there." The human continues. "But I'll tell you this: if Varric saw something good in Solas, then I trust him. And someday, things will get better."

The elf can no longer hold back the tears that slowly flow down her face. She sobs softly, and Hawke looks away as she rests the back of her head on the pillow behind her, giving Ainur'Len the privacy she needs. She never loses the gentle smile that curves her lips.

"Thank you." The elf manages to whisper in a thin voice. "I promise I will do everything in my power to honour Varric's sacrifice."

Marian nods softly and closes her eyes, waiting a few moments before she resets her gaze on her friend.

''Make me a better promise.'' She says, giving her a wink. "Promise me that you will lend me Varric's book when you have read it. I'm curious to know the ending."

Ainur'Len laughs and wipes her tears with her palms.

"Deal."