Once the shuttle is fully underway, Fenris steps to the front, standing rigid, hands clasped behind his back. His expression is unreadable, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the crew. He regards them like a strategist surveying a battlefield—already calculating before a word is spoken.
"It is my understanding that Thedas is unknown to you," he says at last.
Andersson nods once. "Yes. That's correct."
"Then allow me to provide you with some background to our world."
Andersson listens closely, keeping his expression neutral, though his mind is already turning. This is the first real insight they've been given—into the world, its people, and the power structures they're walking into. Every word could matter.
"The planet of Thedas is home to three distinct species."
"You are in Vael'Theron—the capital—located on the continent of Arlathan. It is the only landmass where all three races coexist."
"You will see it for yourself." Fenris gestures toward the cityscape unfolding beneath them, the shuttle gliding smoothly over its threefold districts.
The shuttle glides effortlessly through the sky, carrying them deeper into the heart of the unknown. Below them, the capital city unfolds—a vast and sprawling metropolis where history, culture, and technology collide in breathtaking contrast.
As they descend, the distinct layers of its architecture begin to reveal themselves. The city isn't a single whole—it's three distinct visions, woven together.
One style is a fortress in every sense, dominated by towering structures of dark stone and burnished metal, their foundations thick and unyielding, as if carved directly from the planet itself. The architecture is rigid and imposing, designed for endurance rather than ornamentation. Bridges of reinforced alloy span great distances, connecting bastions to towering citadels, while open plazas and training grounds suggest a people accustomed to strength and discipline.
The second style is the complete opposite—an area interwoven with nature. Towering trees rise alongside buildings, their canopies stretching across walkways and platforms. Vast terraces spill over with greenery, vines creeping along the structures as if coaxed from the land, not imposed upon it. The streets curve organically, blending into the land rather than cutting through it, and the balance between nature and civilization is so seamless it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
The third style descends into the earth, its subterranean levels carved from stone with sharp, blocky edges and deep engravings of intricate runes. It is a city built downward as much as upward, its chambers and tunnels illuminated by a soft, ambient glow that pulses through the walls. Great archways and reinforced corridors suggest a civilization that values structure, durability, and mastery over the world beneath them.
At the heart of it all, where the three districts meet, lies the central spire—an impossibly tall structure that does not belong to any single style but instead merges elements of all three. Its base is reinforced with thick, ancient stonework, its midsection flowing into sleek, sweeping curves, and its peak glowing with radiant energy, channeling light from the twin suns above. It stands as the nucleus of the city, a silent testament to the delicate balance between its people.
The shuttle glides past the towering spire, its radiant peak casting shifting patterns of light across the city below. The hum of the vessel is the only sound in the cabin, but no one speaks—not out of discomfort, but out of sheer, unbroken focus.
Andersson exchanges a glance with Reece and Hale. That fact alone explains much of the strange contradictions they've seen so far.
"For centuries, Arlathan was a land of conflict," Fenris continues. "Each race laid claim to it at different points in history, each fighting for dominance. Wars were waged, territories changed hands, and the land itself bore the scars of countless battles. But no one ever truly held it. The bloodshed lasted so long that, eventually, an uneasy agreement was reached—Arlathan would belong to no one. The land was left abandoned, declared neutral ground by all three races, a territory none could claim but none would control."
His eyes flick toward Andersson, sharp and unreadable. "That changed with the Inquisition."
He lets it hang in the air, measuring their reactions before he continues.
"The Inquisition was the first governing body on Thedas to incorporate all three species under a single rule," Fenris explains. "It was formed not to conquer Arlathan, but to rebuild it. To forge something new in a place where no one had ever succeeded before." His gaze lingers on the towering cityscape outside the shuttle's windows. "Vael'Theron is that result. The first true capital of a unified Thedas."
Andersson draws a breath, taking in the sheer scale of what they are witnessing. The capital isn't just a city—it's a statement. A symbol of something larger than history, larger than war.
"The first race are the Qunari," Fenris begins, his voice even but deliberate. "They are a warrior people from the northern continent of Par Vollen—a land of towering mountains, jagged cliffs, and harsh, unforgiving terrain. They are mountain dwellers, hunters who stalk their prey with their bare hands, hardened by an environment that has never allowed weakness."
Andersson exchanged a glance with Reece. As Fenris spoke, a realization settled in—Karass was a Qunari. The description fit too well to be coincidence. And if that was true, then these weren't just warriors. They were something far more dangerous.
"Most Qunari follow the Qun," Fenris continues. "A rigid philosophy. A structure of obedience, purpose, and sacrifice. It is their code. Their faith. Their leash." He pauses, just for a beat. "But not all follow it. Some have broken away. These are known as Tal-Voshoth—'the free ones.'"
"Outcasts. Free thinkers. Rebels." His eyes darken slightly. "Traitors, by the Qun's standards. And because of that, they have no home."
"Arlathan," Fenris continues, his voice sharpening, "became a refuge for many of them. The Tal'Voshoth are no longer welcome in Par Vollen, so they came here, to a land where no race had claim." His fingers tap absently against the armrest, his words edged with something unreadable. "And with the rise of the Inquisition, for the first time in history, they have a place."
Andersson absorbs that. A splintered people. A fractured belief system.
There's a subtle shift in Fenris's expression—just enough for Andersson to notice. A flicker of something personal. Disdain? Or distance?
Karass is one of them," Fenris says, voice steady. "Leader of the free Qunari. And the current Inquisitor of Thedas.
Andersson had known Karass was important. Commanding, dangerous, someone to watch.
But now it was clear—he wasn't just a symbol. He led the whole planet.
He turns his gaze to the window, watching the cityscape stretch out beneath them, slow and graceful.
"For much of history, the Qunari were feared and distrusted," Fenris says. "Their ways were alien to the rest of Thedas, and their presence was seen as a threat. They waged wars, conquered cities, and left no room for compromise: convert, or be destroyed. It was said they could not be reasoned with."
He exhales—a sound so soft it barely registers. A pause that almost passes unnoticed.
Fenris's voice remains steady as he continues, though there's a shift in his tone—something subtle, something measured.
"The second race are the Elarin, who come from the continent of Brelan. I am Elarin." His voice is even—controlled, almost restrained. His glowing blue eyes flick briefly over the crew, as if gauging their reactions before continuing.
"Brelan is vast," he says. "It stretches almost the entire length of the planet, crossing both hemispheres and the equator. A land of endless forest and jungle, where the trees grow so immense they block out the sky. The land is fertile, untouched in many places, not because it is uninhabitable—but because it is sacred."
He turns his gaze toward the window as the shuttle glides above the city. "The Elarin do not build upon the land. We grow with it. Our forests are not obstacles to be cleared, but allies to be nurtured. Every tree, every root, every creature within is part of our society." His voice drops slightly. "And the trees… they are alive in ways you do not yet understand."
There's a brief pause. Then he adds, "The trees are the reason our cities function. They provide our energy. Power is drawn through the deeproot networks—channeled, stored, and redistributed across the continent. There are no generators. No fusion cores. The forests sustain us, and in return, we protect them."
His gaze sharpens, distant but focused. "The greatest of these forests lies in Virehn, our capital—and at the center, Vhenasul, the Mother Tree. It is through her roots that the energy of our world flows."
Andersson feels the pieces click into place. EDI's scan had shown no signs of traditional infrastructure—no visible power stations, no orbital arrays—but everything still worked. The lights. The lifts. The shuttle they were flying in now.
The answer had been right beneath their feet.
Then, Fenris's voice sharpens—a quiet edge creeping in.
"The Elarin were once a slave race. We were taken because of our endurance, our resilience—because we could survive what others could not." His jaw tightens. "And because of that, we are still used as slaves today."
The bluntness of it lands like a punch.
Reece frowns. "Slaves?" His voice is edged with disbelief. "You're telling me there's still a slave trade on this planet?"
Fenris lets out a slow breath, gaze unreadable.
"Slavery never ended. It merely learned to hide."
His voice remains distant. "Elarin are valued for many things—our strength, our endurance, our resistance to illness. We make good laborers." His next words are cold, deliberate.
"And some find… other uses for us."
Andersson doesn't miss the implication. From the way Hale's expression darkens, neither does she.
"Who?" she asks, quieter now. "Who's still keeping slaves?"
Fenris's gaze snaps to her, unwavering.
"Tevinter."
The name falls like a blade—sharp, final, and cutting clean through the air.
"The island to the north of Arlathan," he continues, tone flat but charged. "A rogue state."
His voice hardens. "Tevinter is controlled by the Carta—a syndicate of smugglers, pirates, and warlords. They trade in everything: contraband, weapons… bodies. If there's profit to be made, the Carta is already there, bleeding the world dry."
His fingers flex against the armrest—the only visible sign of tension. Then he pauses. And when he speaks again, his voice carries unmistakable venom.
"It is made up of Stonari and Qunari."
He hesitates—just for a beat. As if the word itself tastes bitter.
"Qunari."
That last word is different. Harsher. Contempt sharpens the edge of his voice, colder than anything he's shown before. There's history there—buried deep and wrapped in iron control—but for the first time, Andersson hears it. Something personal.
Fenris draws a breath, steadying himself. When he speaks again, his voice is measured—but the hatred hasn't gone.
"Slavery is their foundation. Their trade. Their right. To them, a person's worth is measured only by their price."
Andersson absorbs the information, filing away the name: The Carta. But something else sticks with him—Fenris had said Stonari. That had to be the third race. The final piece of this world's puzzle.
He doesn't ask—not yet.
But the name lingers, a loose thread waiting to be pulled.
Hale studies Fenris carefully before speaking.
"Your markings," she says, her voice edged with caution. "They glow."
Fenris turns to face her fully. No shift in posture. No change in expression. Just the slightest narrowing of his gaze.
"Do they?" he says flatly.
She doesn't look away. "What are they?"
He holds her stare for a moment, then slowly lifts a hand, fingers tracing the lines that curl along his jaw.
"A brand," he says, voice devoid of emotion. "Burned into us by our slavers, so we can be recognized. So we cannot hide."
His hand drops back to his side. "It is not paint. It is not ink. It is something far worse."
The revelation hits like a blow. That Fenris had once been a slave silences the cabin.
It explains something—not just his distance, but the edge to him, the quiet volatility beneath every word. His guarded presence isn't just habit. It's armor.
His voice stays even, controlled—but Andersson sees it. The subtle tension in his fingers. The way his jaw tightens, just slightly. The pain may be dulled, but it's still there—etched into him, just like the markings.
Hale frowns, eyes narrowing as she looks closer. "It's infused with something, isn't it? That glow—it's not natural."
Fenris holds her gaze a second longer than necessary. Then, as if the answer is inevitable, he exhales.
"Lyrium."
No elaboration. No invitation for further questions.
Andersson doesn't know what he expected—but it wasn't this.
And yet, as he watches Fenris, the pieces start falling into place.
The contempt whenever he speaks of the Qunari. The hesitation before acknowledging them as part of the Carta. The venom in his voice when the name is spoken aloud.
Andersson has seen that kind of bitterness before. This isn't ideology. It's memory.
His slaver had been Qunari.
That would explain it all—the clipped replies, the carefully measured words, the ice behind his eyes whenever the subject comes up.
For his part, Fenris shows no sign of inner turmoil. No appeal for sympathy. He has stated the truth. That is all.
He doesn't expect them to understand. And he certainly doesn't expect them to care.
"The Elarin have fought for their freedom for centuries," he continues, as if the conversation hasn't just veered into personal history. "Some escaped. Some vanished into the jungles of Brelan, choosing isolation over chains. But others… others found a different path."
His gaze flickers to Andersson—sharp, deliberate.
"I chose a different path."
Andersson draws a breath, the truth settling in his gut like cold iron.
Fenris isn't just Elarin.
He had been a slave.
And now, he is something else entirely.
As Fenris speaks, the shuttle veers toward the towering peaks ahead, the capital city shrinking behind them. The mountains rise like an unbroken wall, jagged summits piercing the sky—so vast they seem almost unreal. Snow blankets their upper reaches, glacial blue and stark white against the ancient stone. Even from this altitude, the scale is staggering. Their bases vanish into mist, stretching far beyond the visible horizon.
Andersson watches as Vael'Theron fades into the distance, its once-imposing towers now dwarfed by the shadow of the range. These aren't just mountains. They're a fortress—an unyielding shield between the city and whatever lies beyond.
Fenris gestures toward the heights, his voice steady.
"Skyhold is nestled within these peaks," he says. His eyes remain fixed ahead, as if seeing through the rock to something waiting on the other side. "It overlooks the city, but it does not belong to it. It is hidden. Protected. Impenetrable to any who do not already know the way."
The shuttle climbs higher, weaving through frostbitten ridges. Glacial waterfalls spill down the cliffs, their frozen edges catching the light like shattered crystal. Deep ravines scar the rock, cloaked in mist and shadow. The sun vanishes behind a peak, and the wind rises—howling against the hull, fierce and constant, as they push deeper into the range.
Andersson draws a slow breath, eyes fixed on the harsh beauty around them. The city had been awe-inspiring—a monument to civilization.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
These mountains weren't obstacles.
They were guardians.
He glances at Fenris, whose gaze remains steady, unshaken by the sight before them. He is not discovering this place—he is returning to it.
Whatever lay ahead, Fenris had already seen it. Had walked these paths, had lived beneath these towering peaks. He was not merely a guide through this world—he was part of its very fabric.
Andersson's grip tightens slightly on the armrest. So far, they had learned of the Qunari, their rigid doctrine and fractured people; the Elarin, their deep roots and stolen past. Each revelation had unraveled Thedas further, exposing truths both unsettling and profound.
Now, only one race remained.
The Stonari. The final piece of the puzzle.
Andersson leans forward, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. If the past had already rewritten what he thought he understood, what would this last revelation bring?