Fenris, seemingly unmoved by the beauty outside the shuttle's windows, keeps his gaze fixed forward. His voice remains steady, but a subtle shift in tone suggests reverence—or perhaps caution.
"Finally, there are the Stonari."
He lets the words settle for a beat before continuing.
"They hail from Orzammar—a continent unlike any other on Thedas. Vast. Hidden. Enduring."
As he speaks, a holomap flickers to life along the shuttle's interior wall. Andersson turns toward it, instinctively studying the planetary sphere as it slowly rotates. His eyes are drawn downward—toward the southern hemisphere.
A continent spreads outward from the pole like a great stone shield, curved and immense. It does not resemble the jagged shapes of Earth's continents or the scattered archipelagos of human star charts. Orzammar appears to cup the base of the world, its landmass flaring upward like something poured and hardened in place—as though the lower half of the planet has been dipped in rock.
"Orzammar's surface is barren," Fenris continues. "Its climate—harsh. The air, dry. The soil, inhospitable. What little survives does so through sheer endurance."
Andersson narrows his eyes. There's something defensive in its shape. Protective. Imposing.
"It is the largest of the continents," Fenris says, "and almost entirely subterranean. The Stonari do not build up—they build down. Cities carved beneath mountains. Chambers that stretch for miles. Vaults older than any civilization still standing."
He gestures toward the eastern rim of the continent, near a jagged ridge line that barely rises above the stone. "The capital—Khazanar—sits beneath what was once a great mountain range. From the surface, it appears lifeless. But beneath the rock, it is the heart of Stonari civilization. The entire region, known as the Durn-Kelgor, is a network of deep industrial complexes, foundries, and ancient passageways. Power, manufacturing, and memory all begin there."
He lets that hang a moment, then adds, "It is also one of only three Orzammite cities with direct access to the surface."
He pauses.
"Many Stonari have an innate fear of the open sky. They do not trust it. It is vast, unpredictable. Aboveground, there is only exposure. Risk."
Andersson exhales slowly through his nose, digesting the scale of what he's hearing. A people who shaped their civilization not in defiance of the land—but within it.
A subterranean people. That explains the underground sectors of the city—the heavy, reinforced structures, the geometric tunnels carved with precision.
Reece leans forward, frowning. "But we saw Stonari at the spaceport. Surely they don't spend their whole lives underground in the capital?"
Fenris inclines his head in quiet acknowledgment. "Many of the new generation recognize that life beneath the surface no longer offers what it once did. The world is changing. Thedas is changing. Some are learning to adapt—just as we all are." His tone is measured, but there's something beneath it. A quiet gravity.
Andersson lets that sit. A people built for the dark, now stepping cautiously into the light of twin suns. A civilization shaped by generations of stone and silence, now facing a future that demands openness. For a species born beneath the surface, perhaps the sunlit world above feels as exposed as the void does to those raised planetside.
"They are the most populous race on Thedas," Fenris adds. "It's said they outnumber both the Elarin and the Qunari three to one."
Hale gives a low whistle. "That many?"
Fenris nods. "And yet, despite their numbers, they remain the most elusive." His expression stays unreadable. "Until recently, it was rare to see a Stonari beyond their subterranean empire. For centuries, they kept to themselves, their only contact with the surface world through trade caravans and merchant fleets."
Andersson glances out the window, mind flicking back to the spaceport—the seamless energy grids, the solid geometry of the architecture, the steady pulse of buried power. Now he sees the fingerprints clearly.
"Their cities are not just homes—they are fortresses of industry," Fenris continues. "Their forges burn without end. Their machines never sleep. Much of the infrastructure you see around you—the ships, the towers, even this shuttle—was built by their hands."
Reece leans forward slightly. "So, they're builders," he says, tone carefully neutral.
Fenris meets his gaze with an unreadable expression. "Yes." A pause. "But they are also survivors. The depths of Orzammar are no kinder than the surface. Their people endure not because they choose to—but because they must."
Andersson notes the way Fenris speaks of them—not with disdain, but with distance. There's respect in his tone, but no familiarity. No warmth.
It makes him wonder—how separate are these three societies, really? Even here, in the one place they claim to be united.
The shuttle banks slightly, adjusting its trajectory as they cross the breathtaking, mountainous landscape. Fenris stands at the front, poised as ever—his silhouette calm, yet carved from tension.
"We are a world of three nations," Fenris says quietly. "Three peoples, bound together by necessity more than trust." His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains composed. "Our unity is real. But it is not without its fractures."
He pauses—not for drama, but for thought. And when he looks at them again, there's something new in his eyes.
Caution.
"There was once a fourth species," he says. "The Shemlen."
He watches them closely. Andersson, already attentive, straightens in his seat. Reece frowns. Hale stills.
"The Shemlen inhabited Arlathan," Fenris continues, "until they were wiped out in the last Blight." Another pause. "It is said… they blended the physical traits of the Stonari and the Elarin."
Andersson's heart lurches. That would mean they might have looked…like humans.
He glances quickly at Reece and Hale. Reece is silent, jaw clenched. Hale meets his gaze briefly, but it's Fenris she's locked onto when she speaks.
"What exactly is a Blight?" she asks, voice low but steady.
Fenris draws a slow breath. His jaw tightens before he speaks. "A long story," he says. "But suffice it to say—Thedas has known war. Endless war. And some of it… was not political."
His gaze shifts to the window, as though seeing something far beyond the mountains.
"A Blight occurs roughly every 10,000 annims," he says. "When it begins, things rise from beneath the surface—things twisted beyond recognition. We call them Darkspawn. Creatures driven by hunger, rot, and ruin. They don't invade. They consume. They emerge like a disease—relentless, unstoppable—and sweep across the surface, destroying everything in their path."
His voice grows quieter, harder.
"When a Blight comes, it marks the end of an age."
Andersson leans forward intently. "When was the last one?"
"Ten thousand annims ago."
The answer hits like a sudden drop in pressure. Hale doesn't speak. Reece shifts in his seat.
Fenris doesn't let the silence linger long.
"The Inquisition was born from that Blight," he says. "The first one, I mean. A last-ditch attempt to unify the races, to stop the annihilation. It failed."
He turns back to them. His expression is unreadable.
"The Shemlen were wiped out. Entire cities vanished. Cultures lost to ash and silence. And in the aftermath, the Inquisition disbanded. What remained of the Shemlen became legend—the Forgotten. Revered. Even worshipped in some places."
Andersson swallows, a deep knot forming in his chest.
"They are not just extinct," Fenris adds. "They are sacred. A warning. And a memory."
A heavy pause followed.
"But the Inquisition rose again," he continues. "Recently. Not out of tradition. Out of need. First to fight the Carta—when Tevinter erupted into war and slavery returned in full force. Karass led that war. United the races. He was named Inquisitor by acclamation."
Andersson doesn't speak. He already knows what's coming. Fenris confirms it.
"And now…" Fenris turns his gaze back to the window. The peaks of Skyhold loom in the distance—cold, ancient, unflinching.
"…now, the Inquisition prepares again."
He turns back to face them, voice low but absolute.
"Because the signs are clear."
He lets the words settle. Then delivers the blow.
"There is another Blight coming."