"What took you two so long, anyway?" Daveth asked as the five of us crossed the threshold into the Korcari Wilds. "It doesn't take that long to pick up some mail and a helmet. Nice helmet, might I add." He grinned and winked.

I narrowed my eyes.

"Shut up." I clipped, airily. "Jealousy is an ugly trait."

"Not as ugly as that helmet."

"Would you like to be introduced to your entrails now or later?" I asked, politely, with a playful sword flourish.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning like an idiot.

"So come on," he pressed. "What kept you?"

Alistair, scouting a little ahead, apparently heard just fine. Without looking back, he answered for me.

"Well, apparently, not even the looming threat of the Blight can stop Lauren from helping a sick dog. We found an injured mabari near the edge of camp. He was in bad shape." His voice stayed light, but his jaw tightened slightly. "Lauren insisted we carry him all the way back to the kennels. Naturally. Poor blighter will probably be dead by morning, at any rate...but at least someone tried."

Daveth muttered something about women under his breath, and I just shrugged.

"Maybe not. The kennel master said if I bring back a Wilds flower, there's a chance he'll survive. Which I will. And then he will be mine, and I shall name him Larry, and train him to bite the ankles of all those foolish enough to question my logic in future." I threw a meaningful glance at Alistair. "So you might want to invest in sturdier greaves."

"Larry?" Jory asked, blinking.

"Temporary name. Subject to change, pending survival and personality assessment." I lifted my chin, doing my best to look aloof—harder than usual with the anti-aloofness device perched on my skull and sliding steadily into my eyes for the fifth time in ten minutes.

Grayson gave me a quiet look, his voice warm when he spoke. "That was good of you. Most wouldn't get near a tainted Mabari, much less carry one."

I gave him a small smile, the sincerity catching me a little off guard.

"He must've trusted you," he added softly.

"It's my animal magnetism," I replied, shrugging. "Works best on dogs, horses, and unemployed musicians in their twenties."

"I sense there's a story there." Alistair smirked as he doubled-back to re-join our group. I shrugged.

"Yes, a fascinating tale I might one day share. You'll laugh, you'll cry, it'll change your life."

"Really?"

"No."

"Wolves!" Jory shouted, and I blinked over at him, wondering if that was some kind of Fereldan expletive—like "Crumbs!"—until the unmistakable howl proved otherwise.

My swords were in my hands before I knew what I was doing.

It was still jarring, how easily my body responded before my brain could catch up. Battle instincts I hadn't earned. And then they were on us—dark shapes tearing through the underbrush, all teeth and snarls.

We cut through the pack in less than two minutes, blades flashing in the filtered green light, until Grayson drove his longsword into the last wolf's ribs and the clearing fell silent again.

I exhaled, my muscles finally unclenching. Alistair was already sheathing his sword. If he looked calm, it was probably safe to do the same.

His Grey Warden senses were my Fereldan equivalent of the canary down the mine. At least until the Joining, when I would either be bestowed with my own set of Grey Warden senses, or I would no longer be in a position to benefit from them, what with being dead and all.

I slid my swords away and shook my head, irritated. I should've seen that coming. I knew about the wolves. I knew they attacked here. What was the point of having this knowledge—of knowing what was going to happen—if I kept getting caught off-guard?

Think ahead, Lauren. What's next?

Nothing came.

"Keep your wits about you. All of you," Alistair warned, his tone shifting dark. "There are worse things than wolves in these woods. Believe me."

Yeah, I thought. Like Morrigan.

I knew she'd show up soon—at the ruins, just like in the game. And honestly, the sooner the better. I had a few choice words for her. If she hadn't left me to fend for myself in the Wilds, maybe I wouldn't have gotten infected. And if I hadn't gotten infected, maybe I wouldn't have accepted Duncan's offer.

It only took this thought for me to conclude that this whole thing was entirely her fault.

She'd said once that she'd been "watching the Wardens for some time." I shivered at the thought and scanned the trees, half expecting to catch a yellow eye glinting in the underbrush, or a raven overhead watching too closely.

What form would she take this time? Wolf? Bird? Nosy raccoon?

Creepy.

We reached the lake's edge and followed the shoreline, skirting reeds and driftwood as the trees thinned slightly around us. The path curved, sloped—then narrowed.

That's when the first group of Darkspawn appeared.

Only a handful. We made quick work of them.

Alistair dispatched two Genlocks with grim efficiency. Jory and Daveth took down a third between them, one flanking while the other struck from behind. Grayson and I each landed killing blows on a Hurlock, nearly in sync—their grotesque bodies hitting the ground within seconds of each other.

We gathered the blood in the vials Duncan had given us, as instructed.

I held mine up to the light—thick, black, and reeking like something that had crawled out of a grave. I wrinkled my nose.

This, apparently, was the key ingredient in my new diet. Wonderful.

"Good work, men. And… lady," Alistair added belatedly, with a sheepish glance my way. "But we're not done yet, and it'll be dark soon. Let's keep moving."

We picked up the pace. The mood had shifted—less nerves, more momentum. That first encounter had shaken something loose in the others. Confidence, maybe. Or adrenaline. I wasn't sure which.

Two more skirmishes followed—fast and brutal. My swords moved like they'd always known how to, even if my brain was still catching up.

And then, finally, through the trees: the ruins.

Crumbling stone and creeping vines, just as I remembered. The tower jutted from the earth like the bones of some long-dead beast.

Alistair turned to speak—

A monstrous bellow cut him off.

It came from the slope above us—deep, guttural, and close.

"With me!" he shouted, sword already in hand.

We surged uphill toward the sound.

It wasn't a good position. They had the high-ground advantage, and the Genlock archers used it. I ducked instinctively as a bolt hissed past my cheek and buried itself in the dirt behind me.

We hit the ridge and the fight broke apart immediately—chaos scattering us like leaves. I lost track of who was where, who was still standing. The only thing I could focus on was the next movement—the next enemy.

Steel, blood, breath.

Dodge, parry, thrust.

One Hurlock lunged at me, and I met him head-on.

Parry. Slash. Dodge. Repeat.

When he finally went down with a gurgled snarl, I straightened, panting, trying to catch sight of the others. My helmet had slipped again—great timing—and I shoved it back up, squinting around the battlefield.

Alistair was nearby, finishing off the last of the archers. Jory and Grayson were still locked in a brutal fight with a Hurlock that had to be the Alpha—larger, meaner, and clearly not going down without a proper send-off.

Just as Grayson landed the killing blow, I heard a sharp cry behind me and whipped around.

Daveth was on the ground, one arm raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself as a large Hurlock bore down on him.

He was too far for me to reach in time.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I tore the Stupid Helmet off my head and hurled it like a discus.

It sailed through the air, clipped the Hurlock on the back of the skull with a satisfying clang, and threw it off-balance just long enough for Daveth to scramble upright and drive both daggers into its chest.

It collapsed in a heap. Daveth stumbled back, panting.

I turned to Alistair with a triumphant grin.

"Hey, look at that. You were right! The Stupid Helmet did come in handy after all."

I shook out my hair with great dramatic flair. "Ahh. That feels so much better." I tilted my head back and massaged my scalp like I was auditioning for a medieval shampoo commercial.

Daveth jogged over, clutching the helmet like a treasured heirloom.

And handed it to me.

My heart sank. So much for poetic justice.

"Thanks," he said brightly.

I stared at him. Then yanked the offending object from his hands and shoved it back onto my head with all the enthusiasm of someone putting on a sock full of bees.

"Next time, I'm just going to let you die."

Alistair chuckled. "Come on. Let's grab those treaties and get back to Duncan before anyone else needs a helmet to the face."

We made our way into the crumbling ruins. The others fanned out, checking corners and archways, swords still drawn just in case.

I hung back, already knowing what they'd find—or rather, what they wouldn't.

"Nothing," Alistair muttered after a moment, frowning down at the stone chest in the centre of the chamber. "They're gone. They must've been moved or…"

He trailed off, jaw tightening.

I watched her slow descent down the stone ramp before any of the men became aware of her presence. All sharp lines and shadow.

A low growl bubbled in my throat before I could stop it.

Grayson shot me a sharp look—eyebrows raised, just short of asking—but then she spoke, and every head in the room snapped toward her.

"Well, well, what have we here?" she drawled, her voice sliding across the chamber like oil over water.

I hung back, saying nothing. She hadn't clocked me yet—or, more likely, didn't recognize me with the Stupid Helmet still on.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these Darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey? What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?"

"Neither," Grayson replied calmly—cooler than I would've been, given the theatrics. "The Grey Wardens once owned this tower."

"Tis a tower no longer," she said, dismissively. "The Wilds have claimed this desiccated corpse. I have watched your progress for some time."

She fixed her gaze on Grayson now, clearly designating him as the leader. The rest of us were background noise.

Her voice dipped into something half-whimsy, half-threat. "'Where do they go?' I wonder. 'Why are they here?' And now, you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

That was enough.

I stepped forward, pulling off the helmet and tucking it under my arm. Her eyes locked on mine.

For a split second, she faltered, her pale face blanching even more as recognition dawned on her sharp features.

"You," she said, blinking. That calm mask of hers cracked—but only for a heartbeat—before she slid it neatly back into place. "So… you survived your first encounter with the darkspawn. Impressive, for one who had 'never even held a sword' before this afternoon."

Alistair turned to look at me, brows drawn in confusion. "What does she mean—never held a sword before?" He lowered his voice. "Lauren, how do you know this woman?"

He leaned in slightly, voice lower. "She looks Chasind. And that means others could be nearby."

"Ooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" She mocked, gesturing emphatically.

"Yes. Swooping is bad." Alistair muttered, teeth clenched. The line hit like muscle memory. I almost smiled. "Lauren?" He whispered, pressing again.

I waved him off and stepped forward, my eyes never leaving Morrigan's.

"You…you abandoned me in the Wilds. Surrounded by darkspawn. And now all you can say to me is that you're impressed?" My voice came out low and sharp. Alistair's hand found my arm, gently restraining me. I tried to shrug him off but his grip tightened—not enough to be painful, just enough to keep me from lunging at the witch.

Morrigan shrugged, with an air of complete nonchalance.

"Twas intended as a compliment."

"A compliment? Try an apology, you treacherous, arrogant, self-important, little-"

"Lauren," Alistair cut in, a warning in his tone.

His voice snapped me back to my senses and I swallowed my next words, with no small amount of effort. I managed a small nod of acknowledgement and he released his hold on my arm, but his hand hovered just within reach, poised to catch me if I had another lapse in judgement and momentarily forgot that Morrigan could kill me with a thought.

I clenched my fists, forced a breath, and stepped back.

The others kept watching Morrigan, but I barely heard her anymore. Rage was making my skin buzz, and something worse churned just beneath it.

I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe. I was not generally a fly-off-the-handle kind of person. I didn't like the way this fury dug in, how fast it came, how strong it felt.

And then—just as fast as it had come over me—the anger fled, leaving me weak and trembling. I swayed unsteadily as a wave of nausea hit me and a cold sweat broke out on my brow.

My legs buckled, and I bent double, gasping.

Alistair caught me before I hit the floor.

"Lauren?" he asked, gentle now, voice near my ear.

The rest of the men were looking down at me with worried expressions. All except Daveth who kept his eyes trained suspiciously on Morrigan. She just stared at me like I was a specimen she hadn't quite finished cataloguing—curious but detached.

"I'm fine," I managed. "I just—I don't know. I just feel weird…"

"It's the taint," Alistair said, grimly.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh, yeah," I blinked. "Right. I forgot about that."

They stared.

"What? It's been a weird day," I muttered, defensively.

Morrigan snaked her way through the group to approach me, her movements reminding me of a large cat stalking a mouse. She crouched slightly, tilting her head like she was listening for something beneath my skin.

"Yes," she murmured. "There it is. I see it now. You have but a few hours before the change overtakes you."

Her smile faded into something almost regretful.

"I am sorry to hear of your situation. But my reasons for leaving you were my own. Perhaps I will explain them. One day. Perhaps not."

She straightened, eyes cool again. "Either way, your condition is not my fault."

I didn't have the strength to argue. Not right now.

"What is it you seek?" she asked, head tilting. "Shall I guess? You came for what lay in that chest… something that is here no longer."

"Here no longer? You stole them, didn't you?" Alistair snapped. "You're some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!"

Morrigan and I both rolled our eyes, before regarding each other with similar contempt at the prospect that we might actually agree on something.

"How very eloquent." She drawled. "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems." Alistair muttered.

"Enough," I said, too tired to care how sharp my voice sounded. The spots in my vision were growing. "The treaties. Your mother has them, doesn't she?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed. She studied me with new suspicion—but after a beat, she nodded.

"Can you lead us to her?"

She looked like she wanted to argue, but I must have looked as bad as I felt because she sighed in resignation.

"Very well. Follow me, if it pleases you."

Alistair shifted beside me. I swayed again, and without asking, he wrapped an arm around my waist, tucking me against his side. I slung an arm over his shoulder, too tired to argue.

The nausea had passed, for now, but a painful sensation not unlike pins and needles was spreading through my limbs and my legs felt like lead.

Jory appeared on my other side. I let the Stupid Helmet drop to the grass so he could help take my weight.

No one commented as it rolled downhill into a thicket of brambles.

I smiled faintly.

Suddenly, I felt a little better.