Andersson leaned forward, breath catching in his throat.
Skyhold rose from the mountains as if it had always been there. Towering spires of pale marble-like material reached skyward, their crystalline tips glowing with a quiet inner light that pulsed like distant stars. The symmetry was striking—sharp lines softened by sweeping curves, every structure precise yet fluid, as if the entire stronghold had been dreamed into being rather than engineered.
The main hall stood at the center, vast and solemn, its grand arch open like the mouth of a cathedral. It was flanked by tiered walls and pointed towers, each crowned in shimmering blue crystal. The whole complex was nestled into a high plateau, surrounded by snow-dusted peaks—but the courtyard at its heart was vibrant. Lush green grass cut into clean patterns by pale stone walkways, spiraling inward like glyphs drawn across the landscape.
It wasn't just beautiful. It was... intentional.
Andersson found himself stunned by how different it was from anything in the Milky Way. Not because of its technology, but because of its restraint. It didn't shout for attention—it radiated purpose. Age. Power. And peace.
"This is Skyhold?" he murmured, not even realizing he'd spoken aloud.
Reece let out a low whistle beside him. "Looks more like a palace than a fortress."
Hale, arms folded, nodded slowly. "Or both."
Andersson didn't reply. He couldn't. For all the fighting Thedas had endured, all the fragmentation and silence... this place was still standing.
Not just standing.
Waiting.
They descended toward a circular landing platform set into the upper slope of the mountainside, its smooth white surface lit by concentric rings of soft blue light that pulsed in rhythmic intervals. The altitude was punishing—the air thin and sharp, the clouds so close they seemed to breathe across the hull. Below, the world fell away into mist and shadow.
Through fleeting gaps in the cloud cover, Vael'Theron was still visible—just barely. The city that once loomed impossibly large now looked like an ornament, its golden spires mere reflections against the valley haze. From this height, the capital felt not just distant, but entirely separate. Another life. Another world.
Skyhold's courtyard unfurled beneath them like the centerpiece of a grand design—precisely segmented lawns bordered by polished stone, intersected by smooth paths that spiraled inward in quiet, deliberate geometry. The structure around it rose in radiant white—not heavy or defensive, but poised. Elevated. As though it had been made to be seen from the stars. The towers tapered into gleaming crystalline tips, catching the light of the twin suns and scattering it across the cliffs like glass spun into flame.
There were no banners. No turrets. No visible defenses. But the message was clear.
Presence. Command. Elegance with purpose.
Figures moved through the open space below—some in flowing robes, others in sleek armor that caught the crystal glow. They passed beneath vaulted archways and across elevated bridges, their movements calm, measured, purposeful. Whatever this place was—citadel, sanctuary, seat of governance—it lived. It breathed.
As the shuttle eased into its final descent, Andersson didn't move. His eyes locked on the architecture ahead as if trying to absorb every inch of it before it vanished.
The shuttle settled onto the landing platform with a gentle hum. The engines powered down.
Andersson rose, following Reece and Hale to the hatch, but his attention never wavered. Against the rising peaks and the twin suns, Skyhold seemed too refined to be incidental. Too precise to be the result of compromise.
Everything about it spoke of unity. Not just in function, but in memory. This wasn't a place built layer by layer over centuries.
It felt distilled.
Reece stepped up beside him, eyes narrowing slightly. "I've seen embassies with less polish."
Andersson just nodded—slowly, thoughtfully. Not in agreement. In recognition.
This was no fortress.
This was intent made visible.
The shuttle touched down with a gentle hum, its landing struts settling into the circular platform like a whisper. For a moment, the only sound was the soft tick of cooling metal and the fading whine of the engines spinning down.
Then the hatch hissed open.
Andersson stepped out into the open air—and paused.
The chill hit first. Crisp and biting, but not unpleasant. Clean. The kind of cold that cleared the senses. The kind that reminded you that you were alive.
He drew a breath. It tasted like untouched snow and distant trees—so unlike the recycled air of starships and spaceports that he blinked in surprise at how natural it felt.
Behind him, Reece muttered, "Okay… that's fresh."
Hale didn't speak, but her gaze swept the horizon, sharp and calculating, like she wasn't sure if she was walking into a summit or a trap.
Andersson glanced at the others, and the contrast struck him. They were tired and grimy, uniforms creased and dusted with almost two days of continuous wear and hard work. Out of place. Like something dragged forward in time and dropped in the middle of a vision.
Fenris, by contrast, possessed a kind of natural elegance—his tunic immaculate, his posture effortless, his presence sharp and composed. He looked like a figure from myth, not a man who had spent days in the field.
They followed him in silence.
The walkway sloped downward first, then gently began to rise again in long, sweeping arcs toward Skyhold's main structure. The path was flanked by clean, geometric walls and low crystalline guide-lights embedded in the ground, glowing faintly beneath their feet.
There were no visible weapons. Just space and silence—and guards from all three races stationed with quiet vigilance. Their armor gleamed beneath the twin suns, subtle differences in design marking their origins, but all standing as one.
And beyond them, Skyhold itself: a structure so impossibly grand it felt like stepping into a dream.
The main hall loomed ahead—distant but unmistakable. The wide archway that framed the entrance revealed glimpses of what lay within: high vaulted ceilings of pale marble that shimmered faintly with embedded circuitry, thin spires of glowing crystal arranged in careful symmetry, and interior courtyards that pulsed with life.
As they climbed, Andersson found himself slowing—drawn forward by the sheer scale of it all.
Andersson feels the stare of dozens of eyes on them as they descend the walkway. The crowd—Elarin, Qunari, and Stonari—gathers along the edges of the marble path, their faces a mix of curiosity, caution, and something eerily close to reverence.
Whispers ripple through the gathering like wind through grass. Murmurs passed from voice to voice, glances exchanged, heads turning as the humans walk past. He doesn't know how he can understand them—if it's tech, magic, or something in between—but the translation comes through clear as a bell.
"The Shemlen have returned."
The words land like a ripple across the surface of his mind. Reverent. Uneasy. Watching.
As they walked beneath the crystalline towers, Andersson glanced sideways at Fenris. The question had been nudging at him since Vael'Theron.
"How are our languages being translated?" he asked.
Fenris didn't slow his stride. "Translation matrices are embedded into the infrastructure here. The Elarin, Stonari, and Qunari each speak distinct languages—with a range of regional dialects layered in. The Stonari alone have over two dozen recognized linguistic branches, some unintelligible to one another without assistance."
"So we sound like we're speaking your language?" Reece asked, arching a brow.
"Correct," Fenris replied.
Andersson frowned. "But you've never encountered humans before. You'd never heard our language—and yet your systems can already translate it?"
"Yes," Fenris said, as if the answer required no further explanation. But after a moment, he added, "The matrices analyze language on a neuro-acoustic level. They interpret syntax, tonal rhythm, and contextual emotion in real time, mapping patterns against a central lexicon that evolves as the system learns. Once a baseline is established, the matrix overlays a vocal modulation—one that mimics native cadence while preserving your voice."
Andersson blinked. There were translation technologies on Earth, of course—but nothing like this. Real-time, cross-species decoding with no prior reference data? That wasn't just advanced. It was astonishing.
She hesitated, then added, "But how does it make you sound like you're speaking Alliance Standard to me?"
Fenris answered without looking back. "Because it doesn't just translate—it synchronizes perception. The matrix maps the incoming language to the listener's neural expectations, then generates a localized auditory overlay. To your mind, I am speaking your language. To mine, you are speaking ours."
Andersson shook his head slightly, still trying to wrap his mind around it.
"That's not translation," he muttered. "That's reality editing."
Reece let out a low whistle. "Damn. Back home, we're still struggling with cross-accent subtitles."
Fenris inclined his head slightly. "The system interfaces with your auditory perception. A neural frequency—inaudible, but present—creates a harmonized overlay between external language and your brain's expected phonetic structure. You don't hear a translation. You experience the words as if they were spoken in your own tongue."
Andersson exhaled slowly. It was elegant. Sophisticated. And just uncanny enough to feel like magic dressed in science.
Reece muttered, mostly to himself, "Explains why everything sounds so polished. I bet even the insults feel eloquent."
Fenris didn't comment. But Andersson could've sworn his expression shifted—just slightly. A twitch of amusement. Or perhaps calculation. Hard to tell with someone so effortlessly unreadable.
Fenris leads them inside, where the air carries a faint vibration—the low hum of embedded technology pulsing beneath the surface. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably present.
As they continue forward, the grand structure of Skyhold opens up around them. They pass through soaring archways that feel almost sacred, like thresholds to something greater than mere architecture. The ceilings above are impossibly high, adorned with intricate carvings that shimmer faintly in the glow of unseen light sources. The walls themselves emit a soft, otherworldly radiance—neither harsh nor decorative, but ambient, alive.
They move deeper, now following a long internal corridor. The mood shifts—quieter, more reverent. The walls here are painted in sweeping, intricate murals. Scenes of history rendered in delicate detail, stories stretching across centuries.
Andersson's gaze catches on one in particular.
Three figures stand at the center—an Elarin, a Qunari, and a Stonari—each captured in mid-motion, expressions sculpted with grief and reverence. At their feet lies a fourth figure, unmistakably human. The body is draped in ceremonial cloth, arms folded across the chest, and around them the others kneel or bow, mourning. The composition draws the eye to the fallen, the focal point of the scene. Gold leaf glints around the figure like a halo—elevated not in life, but in memory.
He slows as he studies it, struck by how out of place—and yet central—the human looks.
Fenris notices.
"The fall of the Shemlen," he says quietly. "This mural depicts what Thedas has lost."
Andersson doesn't respond immediately. He just stands there, staring at the human figure—the familiar shape in a story that should be impossible. Broad shoulders. Flat features. Hands like his.
It hits harder than he expects.
The mural says more than grief. It says reverence. Myth. Memory. And Andersson knows—he knows—that he and his crew can't be the Shemlen. The timelines don't add up. The science doesn't hold. It's impossible.
And yet.
The odds that an alien species from a different galaxy would so perfectly mirror human form? That their legends would paint a figure so recognizably human? He's seen stranger things in the last week—but nothing as unsettling as this.
He doesn't turn to the others. He doesn't need to. They've seen it too.
And he can already feel it—how this image, this myth, is going to shape the way the people of Thedas see them.
They enter the central hall, and the sheer scale of it nearly stops Andersson in his tracks.
The room is vast—cathedral-like in its construction, with ceilings that soar high above, their ornate surfaces etched in intricate patterns that seem to shift subtly with the play of light. Soft illumination glows from recessed lines that trace the architecture like veins of energy, bathing the chamber in a pale, reverent glow.
Rows of tiered seating rise along either side, forming a grand aisle down the center. Figures are already seated—officials, observers, soldiers in polished armor—silent, watching. The murmurs fade as the trio steps inside.
At the far end of the hall, a raised platform commands attention. At its heart stands a podium of smooth, polished alloy—its surface inscribed with elegant symbology. Centered on its face is a single, striking emblem: the seal of the Inquisition. A stylized mark, angular and symmetrical, gleaming faintly in the same crystalline hues seen throughout Skyhold.
Andersson feels the gravity of it instantly. Not just the seal, but what it represents.
They walk down the center of the room, their footsteps echoing across the marble floor. The air feels thick with history and importance, the beauty of the room almost overwhelming in its grandeur. The people in the crowd remain respectfully silent, their eyes following the group as they make their way toward the front.
Behind the podium and to the side, Fenris leads them to a door—sleek and seamless against the curved wall. He presses a panel embedded in the stone. After a few seconds, the doors slide open without a sound.
They step inside.
Karass's private chamber opens up around them, grand and restrained all at once. The room is oval in shape, with a high domed ceiling inlaid with flowing inlaid designs that shimmer like captured starlight. Bands of crystalline material line the walls in soft pulses of light, giving the space a serene, deliberate glow. The architecture matches the rest of Skyhold in style—clean, symmetrical, commanding—but here, the scale feels more personal. This isn't a hall built to impress crowds. It's where decisions are made. Where power speaks softly, and is no less absolute for it.
A broad, curved desk anchors the room's far side, crafted from deep stone veined with silver and crystal. Behind it stands a figure even more commanding than the space itself.
Karass.
He rises slowly as they enter.
Easily eight feet tall, Karass is a towering wall of muscle and presence. His frame is draped in high-collared robes of deep grey and black, edged in fine metallic lines that glint like cut glass. The design is stark yet ceremonial, with layered panels cascading down from his waist to the floor like segmented armor—each etched with minimalist emblems that speak of status, duty, and resolve. The fabric moves like metal, crisp and deliberate.
His bare forearms are thick with coiled muscle, his horns curve back in great spirals, textured like carved onyx, his face regal and severe, with amber eyes that glow faintly under the room's ambient light. His stare is steady, unwavering—a mix of judgment, curiosity, and something older. Something watchful.
He says nothing yet.
He doesn't have to.
This is his chamber. His seat of power. And Andersson and his crew have just entered the lion's den—invited, yes, but still strangers in the presence of a living symbol.
The energy in the room shifts.
Andersson feels it immediately—a knot tightening in his stomach as Karass's gaze sweeps across them, his golden eyes cutting through the air like a blade. There's nothing casual about the way he studies them. This is not curiosity. This is assessment.
This is no ordinary leader.
This is the Inquisitor.
A man whose very presence commands the room, as if gravity itself bends slightly around him.
Andersson's mind scrambles to find words, but for the moment, the sheer force of Karass's attention renders him silent.
Fenris steps forward, then back again, bowing his head with practiced reverence. His voice is steady, though even he seems more careful now.
"Inquisitor," he says. "The… humans."
Karass doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he speaks a single word—low, resonant, absolute.
"Strange."
It's not a question.
With the slightest motion of his hand, he gestures toward a semi-circle of chairs arranged before the desk. Then, more clearly, the command follows:
"Sit."
They obey without hesitation. Andersson moves first, followed by Reece and Hale, each lowering themselves with controlled precision. The chairs are sculpted for comfort, but they feel anything but.
Karass doesn't look at them as they sit. His focus shifts to Fenris.
"Leave us," he says, voice still calm, but final as stone.
Fenris bows once more. Then, silently, he turns and exits—leaving the humans alone in the chamber with the most powerful man on Thedas.
The quiet between them is almost suffocating. Karass's presence dominates the room, his stillness more commanding than any speech. Unasked questions hang between them, heavy and electric, like a storm about to break. The tension crackles in the air—sharp, invisible wires stretched taut, waiting for the first word to snap them. Andersson sits perfectly still, every muscle alert, every breath measured.
Andersson feels a sense of unease. They are alone with Karass now, and whatever happens next, he knows it will be nothing short of pivotal.