So.

Things have not exactly gone to plan since I arrived in Ferelden. Then again, arriving in Ferelden in the first place wasn't the plan, so I don't know why I thought anything after that would be remotely under my control. Maybe this really is like the game—your choices nudge the path a little, but some things are locked in, no matter what you do.

Like now, for example. Somehow—without even trying—I've landed smack in the middle of the main story. Out of all the thousands of people wandering around Ostagar (and yes, there are so many more bodies here than the game ever hinted at), I managed to stumble across the one person who could walk me straight to Duncan the minute I stepped into camp.

Statistically? Wild. Cosmically? Suspicious. Honestly? Hilarious.

I'm not a mathematician, but even I can tell the odds of that happening by chance are... yeah. Not high.

Anyway, I'm currently sitting by a bonfire, pretending to look chill while waiting for Duncan to come back with Alistair and the other recruits. Because—surprise—I am now a Grey Warden recruit. Bloody marvellous. Just what I always wanted. If I live through the Joining, I'll get a shiny new death sentence and a front-row seat to the end of the world.

I still haven't figured out how—or if—I should tell Duncan about Loghain. I mean, how would that even go? "Hi, yes, I've had a vision or a dream or a totally fabricated memory from an alternate dimension in which Loghain is a giant flaming turd of a man who betrays the king. Trust me." Yeah, no. I'd be locked up faster than you can say "mabari rabies."

And even if Duncan did believe me, could I make things worse by saying something? Loghain's not just any traitor—he's the Queen's father. Duncan might take this straight to Cailan, and then what? I get a personal invite to a royal execution?

I don't know what to do. But if I'm going to say something, I need to do it soon. Time's running out, and the Joining is looming. If I survive, I'll try to write again soon.

Right. That's enough brooding for now. I just spotted my new "colleagues" across the camp. Time to go meet the cast.

Bugger. Shit. Fuck.

I snapped my diary shut and dropped it back into the depths of my handbag, then leapt to my feet and smoothed down my dress. Despite my repeated protests (and the very obvious swamp-inappropriate aesthetic), I still hadn't made it to the armoury for a change of clothes. Duncan said it was on the agenda—but I could tell he had bigger things on his mind than my need for boots and breathable fabric.

To be fair, I had bigger things on my mind too. Like the fact that I was now walking around with a bloodstream full of Darkspawn taint. So far, I hadn't grown any new limbs or tried to eat anyone's face, which I was taking as a win—but still. Not great.

I'd had pretty bad Mondays before but today was definitely shaping up to be the worst.

I thought back to my first Monday at St. Margaret's School for Girls and wrinkled my nose at the unpleasant memory. Well, today was in the top five worst, at least.

Emily would laugh if she could see me now.

Or yell.

Or sob uncontrollably and make it all about her somehow.

Probably all three.

God, I miss her.

"Duncan," I greeted as he approached, flanked by four other men—three familiar, one not.

It didn't take long to figure out who the stranger was. The large mabari pacing faithfully at his side was kind of a giveaway. Cousland.

"Lauren," Duncan replied, inclining his head and gesturing to the man on his right, "This is Alistair. He is the junior member of the Order and will be accompanying you and your fellow recruits into the Wilds."

Alistair stepped forward and offered his hand.

"Well met, Lauren," he said with an easy grin, boyish and sincere.

I reached for his hand automatically—and promptly forgot how hands worked.

Because oh my God. I was shaking hands with Alistair. The Alistair.

If Emily could see me now, actually touching Alistair Theirin's hand, she would die.

Okay, poor choice of words.

But she would be hysterical.

She played the game before I did. Picked Alistair as her romance option. Obsessed. To the point that when I borrowed the disc, her instructions were—and I quote—"You can have Zevran. You cannot have Alistair. He's mine."

Little psycho.

I didn't really mind, though.

I ended up not going through with any of the romance options in the end, although Leliana had proven to be more persistent than I would have expected considering I didn't remember ever coming on to her.

I hadn't minded. I didn't romance anyone in the end. Leliana kept trying, weirdly, even though I couldn't remember ever giving her a single flirt option. I guess I was too focused on saving the world to worry about kissing people mid-apocalypse. (Though looking back, maybe I should've made time. The end-game got rough.)

Still, I'd cared about them—all of them. More than I expected. And when the time came, I didn't hesitate. I sacrificed my beloved MC so Alistair could live. He was the heart. The reluctant hero. My himbo ride-or-die best friend with a sword and daddy issues.

And now, here he was.

Real.

Solid.

Smiling at me while I clutched his hand like it might spontaneously disappear.

It was...strange.

In the game, Alistair was a charming goofball with a sword and some decent stats. I'd never thought of him as a guy. More like... a golden retriever who could tank.

But in person?

Definitely guy-like.

He was tall—which, fine, everyone is tall when you're five foot nothing—but that's not what made him physically intimidating.

He looked like he could deadlift a wagon without blinking. Broad shoulders, strong grip, and that casual way he moved in heavy armour, like it weighed nothing.

I realized I was still holding his hand.

Still.

Oh no.

Abort handshake, abort handshake.

I cleared my throat, nodded briskly, and retrieved my fingers from his very warm, very firm grasp.

He smirked, good-naturedly, and raked a hand through his sandy hair.

And just like that, I could feel my face turning red.

Brilliant.

Ten seconds in and I was already acting like a starstruck idiot.

Oh God, he thinks I'm an idiot. Oh no, he thinks I'm staring because I fancy him!

Which—absolutely not. I loved the guy, just not like that.

Still, the thought made my cheeks burn even hotter, and I yanked my eyes away from his face before I gave him the wrong impression and melted into a puddle of second-hand embarrassment.

"Well met, Alistair," I said, trying way too hard to sound casual. My voice came out weirdly formal, like I was auditioning for a historical drama.

I turned to the next in line—Daveth—and tried to reset my mental circuits. In my flustered state, I almost greeted him by name, but managed to cover for it at the last second.

"Nice to meet you, Daaaa…rling."

I didn't say I covered for it well.

He chuckled and winked at me, clearly taking the slip at face value.

"Nice to meet you. The name's Daveth," he said, in that cocky, lilting tone I remembered far too well. "I must say, you're not what I was expecting when Duncan said he'd recruited someone else."

Then, as if auditioning for the role of 'Ferelden's Next Top Sleaze,' he lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles. Slowly. Like it was supposed to mean something.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I kept my face carefully blank and resisted the overwhelming urge to punch him in the neck. I'd had this conversation with him before. "Not a woman," he'd said back then, like that explained something.

Yeah, yeah. Groundbreaking commentary, Daveth. Try harder.

"Well met, Ser...?" I pivoted to the next one like a soldier abandoning the battlefield.

I had finally regained my composure and the ever dignified Jory crossed his arm over his chest and inclined his head with practiced formality.

"Jory, messere. It is a pleasure."

He was exactly as I remembered—dignified, measured, the kind of man who always stood too straight and clenched his jaw like his armour came with an extra burden of honour.

Finally, I turned to the last of the group.

The only one whose face didn't trigger a memory.

"You must be Cousland," I said softly, trying for warmth.

He returned the smile, faint and mechanical—like he remembered how to make the expression but didn't feel much of anything behind it.

My heart stuttered.

Right. He'd just lost his family.

And not in the vague, distant way I knew from game exposition—but here. In this world. He had watched his home burn. Probably stepped over the corpses of people he loved.

A knot rose in my throat, sudden and uninvited. My own grief stirred beneath the surface like a bruise being pressed.

Don't cry. Do not cry, Duval. They already think you're a weirdo, if you cry now you'll just remove all doubt that you are, in fact, a massive weirdo.

"Grayson," he said gruffly. "Well met."

"It's nice to meet you, Grayson." I managed, my voice scraping out around the lump in my throat. I cleared it quickly—loud, awkward—and tried to salvage the moment with the first thing my panicking brain spat out. "Ah, sorry. The…ah, smoke…from the fire…I'm just a little hoarse. And I see you too have a little horse."

I pointed at the massive mabari beside him with a crooked grin.

Alistair laughed, appreciatively, and Grayson flashed me the ghost of a smile.

"He's the talkative one," Grayson said dryly, nodding toward his hound. "This is Khan. Say hello to Lauren."

Khan barked once, tail wagging furiously. I crouched down to scratch behind his ears, and he made a noise that could only be described as joyful suffering. A full-body whine like this was the best day of his life and I had made it so.

"Alistair, take Lauren to the armoury," Duncan instructed. "Once you're equipped, return here. There's little daylight left, and the Wilds will not wait for us."

"Very well," Alistair said, cheerful as ever. He turned and began striding off like we were already late.

I jogged to keep up in my fabulously inappropriate shoes and was already halfway across the clearing in the main camp before I caught up.

"Short strides, if you please," I called, gesturing to my stilettos. "These shoes were not designed for cardio."

He stopped and gave me a slow once-over, eyes catching on the heels like he'd just noticed them for the first time.

"...What were they designed for?" he asked, baffled. I rolled my eyes.

"I can't keep having this conversation today. Does nobody in Ferelden have taste? Look at them. They're divine. They just weren't made for... hostile terrain."

"And…the dress?" He asked, obviously amused.

"What about the dress?" I followed his gaze and folded my arms across my chest, defensively. "The dress is nice."

"It's a very nice dress." he agreed, nodding. "But you're not exactly dressed for the occasion."

"Yes, well," I huffed, flipping an invisible hair strand off my shoulder. "Coming to Ostagar and being recruited by the Grey Wardens wasn't what I had planned when I picked this outfit."

We resumed walking, my heels clicking ominously with every uneven step.

"That's why we're going to the armoury, genius."

He chuckled, that low, self-deprecating sort of laugh that told me he was either used to being roasted or was secretly enjoying it.

"What did you have planned?" he asked, his brows lifting as he glanced down at me.

I hesitated.

My sister's funeral. A world away. It already felt like a lifetime ago.

"That's a long story." I replied, softly.

"I've got time."

I glanced up at him, dry. "You really don't. 'There's little daylight left, and the Wilds will not wait for us.'" I declared in my best Duncan impression. Honestly? Not half bad.

Alistair laughed, appreciatively.

"Alright, alright. Good point, well made."

He gestured ahead. "And here we are, anyway."

A collection of heavy wooden chests stood in a rough semi-circle near a sweating man hunched over an anvil.

"Hail, Alistair! And…" The blacksmith's gaze fell to me and confusion furrowed his brow as he looked to Alistair for enlightenment.

"This, my good man, is Lauren. She's our latest recruit and, as you can see, is somewhat lacking in the armour department. Do you have any child-size armour that will fit her?"

His voice was so flat that, if I didn't already know him so well, I might have missed the joke.

"Ha. You're a funny man, Alistair," I deadpanned back.

"Well, I try."

The blacksmith laughed, squinting kindly at me through the sweat and soot. "Come with me, messere. We'll get you sorted."

A few minutes later, I stepped out from behind the makeshift screen in full Warden chic: leather greaves and gauntlets, proper boots, splint-mail, and a dagger holster strapped to my thigh. My dress and heels were crammed into my handbag, which now lived at the bottom of a rucksack bigger than my torso.

I caught my reflection in a shield leaned against a crate.

Okay, not bad. Actually... kind of badass.

I turned to Alistair, who was slow-clapping with theatrical approval.

"Muuuuch better." He said, with a smile. "Now you might not die instantly."

I bowed low.

"Thank you, kind sir! Your confidence in me is simply inspiring!" I straightened and adjusted one of my bracers, looking from my armour to Alistair's. "Hey, look at us! We're practically matching. It's clearly a sign that this is the beginning of a firm friendship."

He chuckled, shaking his head as I made a beeline for a chest of weapons, all gleaming and very shiny.

I pulled out a short sword and a leather strap of throwing daggers.

"How much for these?" I asked the blacksmith, already rifling through mental inventory of what was in my handbag. Did iPhones have trade value in Thedas? I had a holographic Batman case. That had to be worth something.

The man waved me off. "No charge. Duncan's an old friend. I owe him."

My brows rose. "Wow. Duncan really does get around."

I slung the sword over one shoulder, strapped the daggers to my thigh, and turned back to Alistair—who was now holding my rucksack like it was a prize he'd won.

"Well, shall we head back to Duncan, then?"

"In a moment. You still need one more thing."

He walked to another chest and returned holding what I can only describe as the ugliest helmet ever forged by man or beast. It looked like someone had tried to forge a chamber pot and given up halfway through.

I shook my head, slowly.

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes," he grinned, presenting it like a ceremonial crown. "It's hideous, but it's effective. Like most of us."

"Speak for yourself! I'm trying to bring some glamour to the order," I crossed my arms, stubbornly. "I'm not putting that on."

"Oh, yes, you are." He insisted, and before I could protest, he plonked it down over my head.

The brim dropped below my eyebrows and I blinked up at him.

"I look like an idiot."

"Ah, but you don't. See, only very clever people wear helmets. It protects the brain." He knocked on the side of the helmet to demonstrate his point.

"Stop that."

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"See? Aren't you glad you were wearing a helmet?"

"Oh, great. Our guide and mentor is a moron."

His smile widened.

"I like to lead with that impression. Keeps expectations nice and low."

"Seriously, Alistair, I'm not wearing this. It completely ruins my aesthetic. My hair is like ninety percent of my personality. And besides, it…obscures my vision. And stuff."

"And stuff. Seriously, Lauren, you are," he insisted, leaning in to adjust the thing on my head. I glowered up at him. He caught my eye—just for a second—then looked away quickly, still grinning. "I promise that before the end of today, it will prove useful. Could even save your life."

And for once, his tone was entirely sincere.

I sighed in defeat and adjusted the damned thing so I could at least see where I was going.

"Fine! You win. I'll wear the stupid helmet. But if I trip and die, you're telling Duncan."

Alistair gave me an exaggeratedly solemn nod.

"Naturally. I'll take full responsibility. Deliver a stirring eulogy. Maybe even... interpretive dance. Tasteful, of course."

He shot me a glance—half playful, half sheepish.

"Still... I'd prefer if you didn't die."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only the promising ones." He grinned—then flushed. "Not girls. I mean—recruits. Promising recruits."

He winced as the correction left his mouth, visibly regretting it halfway through.

I considered letting him stew in it a little longer, but decided to be merciful. It was oddly comforting, really—knowing he was just as awkward and endearing in person as I remembered.

I shook my head, grinning despite myself.

And just like that, it hit me.

This was the first time I'd properly smiled—really smiled—since Emily died.

Huh.

...Probably a side effect of the taint.

Alistair noticed, and his smile softened just slightly—not smug, not teasing. Just… glad.

Before I could reply, the blacksmith muttered just loud enough for both of us to hear:

"Maker's breath… get a tent."

I barked out a laugh, caught completely off guard. Alistair froze beside me like a mabari caught trying to steal a roast.

"Come on, then," I said, nodding toward the path. "Once more into the breach, et cetera, et cetera."

He cleared his throat, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Right. Duncan. Wilds. Darkspawn. Nice, safe, predictable horrors."

We started walking. The ground squelched faintly beneath our boots, the sun dipping low behind the trees like it was trying to hide from what was coming.

My heart pounded a little louder with every step.

I hadn't really had time to process anything. Being here. Being infected. Being… part of this. But maybe processing was a luxury I didn't get anymore. Maybe moving forward was the only option.

I didn't feel it yet—the taint coursing through my blood, slowly killing me. No headaches, no nausea, no fever. Maybe that was why it was so easy to put it out of mind, to ground myself in the familiar: sarcasm and denial.

I tried to recall what I knew about the Warden recruits' mission into the Korcari Wilds. If I was going to get through this, I needed to rely on what I did have—game knowledge, plot foresight, and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.

The more time passed since my encounter with the darkspawn, the easier it was to convince myself that I had just been lucky.

Sure, I'd caught a dagger mid-air and fought off a Hurlock like it was Tuesday, but that could've been adrenaline. Or luck. Or maybe Flemeth had sprinkled some cosmic cheat codes on me before sending me off into the story.

That would surely make more sense...all of that nonsense she said about powerful forces choosing me, about my supposed "greater purpose"...I shook my head a little. How gullible did she think I was?

...Gullible enough to come here and get myself recruited by the Wardens, I supposed. Couldn't really argue with that.

All I had to do was get through this without dying and then find a way to speak to Duncan.

The path curved around a rocky outcrop, edging closer to the forest line. The closer we got to the Wilds, the more the smells shifted—less campfire and sweat, more rot and damp earth. It was like the air itself had decided to lower expectations.

Alistair was the first to break the silence.

"So. Now that you've been thoroughly hazed—helmet, banter, blacksmith scandal—how are you feeling about your chances?"

I gave him a sideways look. "Oh, excellent. Top of the class. Just waiting for my 'Most Likely to Survive the Joining' sash to arrive."

He grinned. "They can take a while to arrive, but the embroidery is exquisite."

I was about to fire back another quip when a sharp, pitiful sound cut through the underbrush ahead.

A whimper.

Low. Weak. Animal.

I froze.

Alistair stopped too, instincts kicking in as he reached for the hilt of his sword. But the sound came again, less threatening, more... broken.

We stepped off the path.

A few strides through the grass and we saw it—curled beneath a leaning tree, half-hidden in the shadows, was a marabi hound.

He looked like death warmed over.

His sides heaved with shallow breaths, and a sheen of sweat slicked his fur despite the chill in the air. There was blood—dark and dried—matted around one leg. His eyes fluttered open briefly, glassy with pain, then closed again.

The camp bustled behind us and I looked around, certain that someone was either tending to him already—or had left him here to die. Slowly. Painfully. Nobody else seemed to notice, busy as they were with their preparations. Rage coiled in my stomach, but he whined again, and the rage melted into a puddle of heartache at the pitiful sound.

"Oh," I breathed, and knelt without thinking. "Poor guy."

"Careful," Alistair said gently, crouching beside me. "Some of them get aggressive when they're sick."

But the hound didn't move.

He didn't growl, didn't flinch.

He just whimpered again—quiet, exhausted.

Something in my chest twisted.

I reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the matted fur behind his ear. He didn't pull away.

"Darkspawn taint," Alistair said softly, glancing over the wounds. "He must've gotten separated during a skirmish. Poor thing."

"They got you too, huh?" I said, gently. "It's okay, boy."

I looked up at Alistair. "There must be something we can do."

He hesitated.

"There's an old treatment the kennel master uses sometimes. A kind of herbal poultice—risky, but it can work." He studied the dog for a beat. "If we carry him back, maybe there's still a chance."

My gaze dropped to the hound again.

His breathing was shallow. But he was still breathing.

"We're not leaving him," I said, and gently began working my arms beneath him.

Alistair blinked at me. "You… you do realise he weighs more than you do, right?"

"Then you'd better help."

He huffed a sigh, but his smile was fond.

"Yes, messere."

Together, we lifted the mabari—awkward, heavy, but somehow steady between us.

"I swear," I muttered as we started back toward the kennels, "if you make one 'puppy love' joke, I'm throwing you in the swamp."

He chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

I cooed softly at the hound in our arms, leaning down to kiss the top his head.

"Though I was thinking 'fetching' might apply."

"Swamp. I will do it."