As soon as we burst through the trees, I realised that I knew where we were.

I had seen this place before.

We couldn't have been more than a hundred yards from the entrance to Ostagar.

A cluster of soldiers stood in a tight defensive circle, backs to each other, weapons raised. Two Darkspawn corpses already lay at their feet. One of the soldiers spotted us and straightened, probably about to yell a warning—but he didn't get the chance.

A shriek tore through the trees. I turned as a Hurlock barrelled toward us, its mottled skin stretched tight over jagged muscle. Another charged behind it—larger, heavier—followed by a pack of Genlocks.

I froze. No cutscene, no dialogue wheel, no fade-to-black. Just the real thing.

My heart stuttered at the sight of the first Darkspawn. No graphics could have prepared me for the true horror of it: even the way it moved reeked of cruelty. Its black eyes gleamed like tar pits, its face twisted into a grotesque grin as it descended on the clearing.

I whipped toward Morrigan.

She was gone.

Of course she was.

I cursed under my breath and turned back just in time to see the blade arcing through the air toward my neck.

I yelped and half-fell backward, raising my sword just in time to catch the blow. Sparks flew. The impact rattled up my arm, jarring my shoulder, but the block held. The Hurlock staggered back, snarling. I didn't think. I lunged forward, drove my sword into its gut, and twisted.

It let out a wet, gurgling shriek.

The smell hit me a second later—sour, rotten, wrong—and I gagged, ripping the blade free as it collapsed. I doubled over, panting.

No time to panic. The fighting wasn't over.

Three soldiers. Eight Darkspawn. Now seven.

One soldier was getting battered by the big Hurlock. The other two were barely holding the line—arrows thudding against shields, blades clashing. They needed help.

I spotted two Genlocks hanging back, bows drawn. They didn't seem to notice me—or didn't care. Maybe they thought I was least threat.

I couldn't help but agree. But the men were struggling to fight with the archers pinning them down.

I crouched by the Hurlock I had slain and pried the rusted sword from its stiff fingers, nicking my own in the process. I winced and muttered a curse, but rose with a blade in each hand.

Dual-wielding felt better—right.

Familiar.

Like I was finally holding the tools I was always meant to have.

My brain was working at a hundred miles a minute, and seemed to be running on two different levels.

The dominant voice in my head, the one that I recognised, was reeling in shock and terror, and was mostly just screaming expletives at me.

But the other half of my brain was working like it never had before, calculating distances and gauging battle opportunities.

My eyes were taking in everything and I realised that I could see exactly what needed to be done.

Those archers would have to go if the men stood any chance of a fair fight.

As I made my advance towards the Genlocks, I realised that all of the in-game references to Darkspawn not being very bright wasn't just smack-talk: they really weren't very good strategists.

The archers were sloppy. Shooting in sync, leaving themselves vulnerable while reloading. I darted along the edge of the clearing, hugging the tree line.

It was surprisingly easy to flank them, and I thanked my lucky stars that they clearly had the brains of Gavin Grieve.

They never saw me coming.

"Hey!" I shouted. They turned.

Too late.

I slashed—one blade high, one low—cutting through both before they could draw. They dropped like rag dolls.

A surge of grim confidence and adrenaline surged through me.

Not someone else.

Not a possession.

Me.

My hands.

My reflexes.

And yeah, maybe some mystery buff from beyond the Veil, but still—mine.

Flemeth had been right. I hadn't been sent here empty-handed.

The strength, the skill, the speed—they were mine.

Like someone had downloaded years of combat training into my muscles.

Matrix-style.

And yet, it didn't feel like magic. It felt like memory.

I spun the blades experimentally, testing their weight. Not necessary. Just devastatingly cool.

There were four Darkspawn left—three Genlocks, and the hulking brute still pummeling the poor bastard with the shield.

Without thinking, I sprinted toward the danger.

One Genlock charged me. I parried with one sword, stabbed with the other. It choked on its own blood and crumpled.

Now it was three against four. The soldiers facing the remaining Genlocks surged forward with renewed energy at the realisation that the balance had shifted in their favour.

The big Hurlock raised its blade, ready to finish the soldier on his knees.

I moved.

I stepped between them and raised both swords above my head to catch the downward strike.

It slammed into my blades with enough force to numb my arms.

Steel rang on steel.

I held.

The Hurlock blinked, seemingly confused by my sudden appearance. Then it roared.

I shoved upward, knocking it off balance, then drove both blades into its chest. It gasped, wheezed—and fell.

I staggered back, panting, heart hammering. I wiped my blade on the grass and sheathed it. The rusted sword, I thrust into the dirt.

The last Genlocks were already down.

The clearing was still.

For half a second, I just stood there.

Not moving. Not breathing. Not processing.

My arms ached. My fingers trembled. The stench of Darkspawn ichor clung to the inside of my nose—sharp and acidic, like burning meat left too long in the sun—and something inside me, something small and human, screamed that I should be crying, or shaking, or collapsing into the dirt.

But instead, I swallowed hard and stayed upright.

Because if I let go of the calm now, I wasn't sure I'd get it back.

I blinked. Breathed. Rebooted.

Then I smiled like I hadn't just murdered a monster in high heels.

The soldiers stared at me like I'd just dropped from the Fade—which, to be fair, wasn't entirely inaccurate.

I sheathed the sword, and flashed them my best "everything's fine and normal" smile. Shame about the hands—couldn't get them to stop jittering.

"Well. That was fun," I said, with all the manic brightness of someone one bad moment away from a breakdown.

The man I'd just saved stepped forward and pulled off his helmet. His beard was salt-and-pepper, and he had the tired look of someone who'd seen too many battles and not enough decent breakfasts.

"You have my thanks, miss," he said, holding out his hand in greeting. I reached out to shake it but he took me by surprise when he bowed his head and planted a kiss on my hand. How continental.

"It was nothing," I said, trying for casual but failing to stick the landing.

"I'm Judd," he said. "King's army. This is Kale. And Carson." he gestured at the other two men.

"Lauren," I replied, wondering if I should curtsey or something, but I thought better of it, settling for nodding at each of them in turn. "Nice to meet you."

Judd studied me.

"What are you doing out here? You don't look Chasind. Or Fereldan, for that matter."

"I'm on my way to Ostagar," I said. No point in lying.

That earned me a few raised eyebrows. Carson and Judd exchanged a look. Kale just frowned.

"What for?" he asked, squinting like I might rearrange into something more understandable if he stared hard enough.

"Sight-seeing," I deadpanned.

He blinked. "…Sight-seeing? What, here? Now?"

Carson smacked his arm. "She's joking, you nug. You're here to fight?"

"Not if I can help it," I said. "I need to speak with someone."

Judd looked mildly disappointed, but nodded.

"We'll escort you," he said. "You saved our lives."

We started walking toward the fortress. The trees thinned. The scent of smoke and steel drifted on the wind.

I recognized it immediately—the same approach from the game. Except this wasn't pixels and programmed fog. This was real. And it felt heavier. Like the world itself was bracing.

As we walked, Judd glanced sideways.

"Your clothes are strange. Where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," I said lightly.

"Your accent. You from Starkhaven?"

Oh. Right. Cover story.

"Yep," I said, flashing a tight smile. "Born and raised."

Starkhaven. Sure. Why not. Add it to the growing list of things I was apparently good at faking. It rolled off my tongue a little too easily—and what if someone actually knew someone from there? What if they asked me what street I grew up on or what the weather was like in spring? I'd be screwed. Maybe if they asked what school I went to, I'd just make up a saint and hope for the best.

I wasn't sure he was entirely convinced, but he let it go.

We fell into silence. But the silence was different now. Tense. A knot formed in my gut as the trees gave way to muddy paths and the flicker of torchlight. I was nearly there. Ostagar. The start of everything. The moment I would have to choose who I really was in this world.

I couldn't stop picturing the game as I remembered it—the rows of tents, the tower, the bridge—but the reality that awaited me was heavier, more alive. More dangerous.

The gates loomed ahead, tall and splintered, just as I remembered them. The guards opened them without a word. A few curious stares, but no questions. Just confused men in armour trying to make sense of the girl in heels carrying two swords.

Every instinct screamed to turn back—but it was too late for that. I was already on the board, and the game had begun.

I stepped through.

The weight of what was coming pressed against my chest like armour I hadn't yet earned.

I needed new clothes. Immediately.

I was about to ask where the armoury was when I saw him—cutting through the crowd like a knife, eyes already fixed on me like he'd known I was coming.

Duncan.