The Wounded Dragon
The violet dragon flew low over the Wilds, its tattered wings barely keeping it aloft. Blood seeped from deep gashes along its sides, staining the icy ground far below with dark streaks. With a strained beat of her wings, Flemeth angled toward her ancient hut, nestled among the gnarled trees and thick mists of the Korcari Wilds.
Her landing was heavy, claws tearing into the earth as she stumbled to a halt. The dragon's once-proud form slumped, steam rising from its bloodied scales in the cold night air. Slowly, with a guttural rumble, Flemeth began to transform.
Her massive body shimmered, collapsing inward like smoke drawn into a flame. Within moments, the towering dragon was gone, and in its place stood a woman cloaked in violet light. Her long white hair fell in wild tangles over her shoulders, and her sharp golden eyes burned with a fierce, untamed light. Blood still marred her skin, but the wounds were already knitting themselves closed, the potent magic within her mending the damage.
Flemeth leaned heavily against the doorway of her hut, her breath slow and deliberate as she gazed out at the Wilds. Her gaze softened as her mind wandered to the battle she had just left behind.
"The Chasind," she murmured to herself, her voice carrying a note of quiet wonder. "How surprising."
She had seen countless generations of the Wilds' people rise and fall—petty squabbles, fleeting alliances, and short-lived victories. And yet, this time had been different. Fergus Cousland, the outsider, had forged a unity among the Chasind tribes that she had not thought possible. They had stood against the Darkspawn, not out of desperation alone, but with resolve and a shared purpose that Flemeth had not seen in centuries.
She stepped inside her hut, where the familiar smell of herbs and smoke greeted her. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a faint glow to her palm, passing it over her wounds. The magic seeped into her flesh, and the pain eased, though her body still ached with exhaustion.
Flemeth moved to a small table, her hands brushing over the tools and trinkets she had collected over the centuries. She paused, her fingers lingering on a small carving of a dragon. The Chasind resolve had surprised her, but it had also stirred something within her—a faint echo of respect.
"They fought not for greed or ambition," she mused aloud, her voice tinged with something almost like admiration. "But for each other. For their land. For their Wilds."
She allowed herself a small chuckle, her expression sharp yet amused. "And for a Cousland, no less. How strange the world has become."
Flemeth had intervened because the Blight, if unchecked, would consume everything—Ferelden, the Free Marches, even the Wilds she called home. And yet, there was more to it than simple self-preservation. The Chasind had proven themselves worthy of her aid, their unity a rare and fleeting thing.
The Archdemon was defeated, yet its essence was far from gone. She had felt the soul of the Old God leap into the Hurlock's body, tethering itself to a new, weaker vessel. The corrupted godling would retreat now, sinking into the Deep Roads to hide and recover.
She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the chill air. Months, she thought. Perhaps a year from now before it will rise again in its full, dreadful power. Time. Enough to tip the balance of the game, should the right players take the board.
Her mind turned to those players. Not Fergus Cousland, though he had proven himself a rare and steadfast leader. His purpose was here, in the Wilds, fighting for these people. But she was curious how he would fit into the greater picture at a later point in time.
No, she had the remaining Wardens in mind and the teyrn…if he proves that he could look past his own shadows and convictions.
Oh, how curious she was how things would unfold.