Karass stood silent for a long moment, the soft ambient light catching the hard lines of his face, casting subtle reflections across the polished surfaces behind him. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the stillness—quiet, but resolute.

"Until today, I never believed the Shemlen could truly return. I don't place my faith in prophecy—but I've learned to pay attention when the signs align."

Andersson shifted in his seat, unsure if the pressure in his chest was disbelief or the creeping pull of something deeper—recognition, maybe. Fate, maybe. He hated both ideas equally.

"Surely you can't believe that the three of us," Andersson said, gesturing lightly toward Reece and Hale, "simple soldiers from another galaxy— from a world technologically millennia behind you—are going to somehow defeat an enemy you've been fighting since recorded history?"

Karass didn't look away.

"No," he said. "I don't believe it. Not like that."

He began to pace, slow and deliberate, the heavy fabric of his robes whispering against the smooth floor. "You are not messiahs. You are not gods in waiting. That is not what this is."

He stopped near the edge of the projection still hovering faintly behind them—ghosts of maps and timelines flickering like half-remembered dreams.

"But you are the shift."

He turned back to face them. "You don't have to destroy Corypheus yourselves. But your arrival has already changed the game. The prophecy doesn't say how the Shemlen end the cycle. It only says they do. And from what I've seen of history… change doesn't start with armies. It starts with sparks."

Andersson stared at him, caught between resistance and understanding.

"I've been a soldier my whole life," he said quietly. "I don't believe in destiny."

"Neither do I," Karass replied, a hint of a smile cutting through his usual solemnity. "I believe in pressure. In moments. In decisions that bend the arc of the future."

He walked back behind the desk, placing both hands on its surface like a man anchoring himself.

"You don't have to believe in the prophecy," he said. "But you are in it. And now that you're here, the wheels are turning."

Hale crossed her arms. "And where did this prophecy come from?"

Karass didn't flinch. "Ancient scriptures. Murals. Hidden archives. But also... Vhenasul. The Mother Tree."

Andersson frowned, leaning forward slightly. "You're saying a tree… has seen the future?"

Karass gestured vaguely toward the tall windows behind him, where the sky stretched in brilliant silence beyond Skyhold. "You may scoff at prophecy, Captain, but there are places in this world where time bends in ways that shouldn't be possible. Forests where the trees whisper, where the land itself remembers things that have never been spoken aloud. The Elarin say some of those trees—ancient, vast things—are sentient. They've seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of kings. And they remember."

Hale let out a soft laugh. "Sentient trees predicting the future. That's a stretch."

Andersson glances at Hale, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. He says nothing, but the message is clear—one that, to her credit, makes her straighten slightly, though the skepticism remains in her expression.

He turned to Hale, his expression unreadable.

Karass gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I don't expect you to believe it. I barely believe it myself. But I do believe in patterns. And I trust timing. The last time the Mother Tree stirred—really stirred—was nearly an annim ago. The Elarin said Vhenasul whispered of a coming upheaval. A time of war. A time of rebirth."

He looked straight at Andersson, his voice quieter, more deliberate.

"And not long after… your ship arrived at the edge of our system."

Reece glanced between them, his brow creased. "Yeah. That's... a hell of a coincidence."

Andersson studied Karass for a long, quiet moment, the flicker of torchlight—or perhaps the soft pulse of hidden circuits—casting subtle shadows across the Inquisitor's angular face. The silence stretched between them, taut and curious.

"Did you bring us here?" he asked at last, the words low and measured.

Karass's lips curled into a smirk—not cruel, but edged with something close to amusement.

"No," he said, folding his arms. "Intergalactic spatial rifts are… well beyond our reach."

Reece leaned forward slightly in his chair, his expression sharp now, narrowed with interest. "Then do you know who did?"

Karass paused, gaze lifting for a moment to the high domed ceiling above them, as if the answer might be written in the stonework or the stars beyond. He didn't answer right away.

"No," he said finally. "Perhaps it was an unknown force. A fluke of science, a tear in the fabric of space caused by factors we don't yet understand." He looked back at them, eyes unreadable. "Or perhaps it wasn't an accident at all. Perhaps it was prophecy—playing out the way it always does, not in certainty… but in inevitability."

Andersson exchanged a glance with Reece, but neither spoke. The silence said enough.

Reece leaned forward, curiosity flickering behind his eyes like a fuse just lit. "Karass," he began, careful but direct, "that station—where your ship intercepted ours. What is it?"

Karass's gaze didn't waver. "That was a Mass Relay," he said. "A relic of a civilization that vanished long before our time. The ancestors of the species who once ruled this galaxy left them behind—vast, stable corridors through the void. They connect distant systems, entire arms of the galaxy. Instantaneous travel. No time lag, no waiting."

Reece blinked, his expression shifting as the scope of it hit him. "So... you can jump between stars. Just like that?"

Karass nodded once, his voice low, but not without pride. "If the relay is active, yes. Each one is a node in a vast network—dozens scattered across the galaxy, still functional, still used. The galactic races travel freely between them. No single species claims them; they're too ancient, too essential to be owned. But for Thedas…" He paused, his gaze distant. "Our exile has come at a cost. We've been cut off for centuries. Most of the routes once open to us are gone. We're still part of the network—but the pathways have narrowed."

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "The Stonari maintain a few old trade routes—hidden lanes buried deep in the system's memory. Enough to keep their economies alive. But for most of us? The relays are a memory. A tool we remember, but no longer trust."

His voice dropped lower, threaded with old memory. "Thedas sits on the edge of that map now. Isolated. Half by choice, half by design. We remember the stars… but they have long forgotten us."

Reece hesitated, brows knitting as another possibility crept in. "So could one of them have... pulled us here? The Pathfinder, I mean."

Karass's answer was swift. "No." He shook his head. "Relays don't function that way. They're gates, not magnets. They require activation from within. What brought you here—ripping a ship across galaxies, bypassing all known networks—was not a relay."

Andersson leaned forward slightly, his tone measured. "You said Thedas turned inward. That you left the stars behind." His eyes met Karass's, steady and direct. "So what were you doing out there?"

Karass leaned forward, his massive arms bracing against the desk, the movement slow, deliberate. "The Carta's been running slaves off-world again," he said, his voice low, words edged with something dangerous. "There are syndicates in the outer systems—lawless sectors known as the Terminus—who have a particular appetite for the Elarin. Especially the men. Their appearance. Their rarity. They're taken. Sold. Used." His jaw tightened. "I was tracking one of the smuggling corridors. Trying to shut it down. I made a promise to the Elarin that I would end the trade."

His golden eyes darkened, something flickering behind them—restraint barely holding back fury.

"I owe them that much," he added, quieter now. His gaze lingered on the polished desk for a moment before lifting again, sharp and unwavering. "Too many looked away for too long. I won't be one of them."

Andersson said nothing, but the knot in his gut twisted tighter. The Elarin—already hunted, already broken by history—being stolen and sold beyond even the reach of their own world. It was more than cruelty. It was erasure.

Reece exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Your ship is unlike anything we've seen. It's immense."

Karass leaned back slightly, a flicker of something crossing his expression—pride, tempered by memory. "She's over three centuries old."

Andersson turned toward him, eyebrows lifting. "You're joking."

"I wish I were," Karass said, voice low with amusement. "She was built during the final days of Thedas's galactic presence—when the stars still welcomed us, and we dared to sail between them. Stonari engineering made her near-indestructible. She's been refitted and upgraded over the centuries, but her bones? Those are ancient. Mineral-core plating. You could hit her with a comet and she'd shrug it off."

Reece gave a low whistle. "And she still flies."

Karass nodded. "She flies. But Thedas has fewer than five serviceable ships left now. The Stonari have maintained a small fleet of trade vessels. The Carta have some ships too—smaller, nastier, the kind of vessels built for speed, smuggling, or worse. But mine?" His voice dipped, rich with meaning. "Mine's the last true warship."

He glanced to the windows, where pale sky framed the mountain peaks. "The Khazreth's Spine. Named for the first king of Orzammar to command a fleet. She was the pride of Orzammar once—the royal flagship, passed down from monarch to monarch for generations. But when King Balan and Queen Hespia joined the Inquisition, when Orzammar threw its lot in with the rest of us… they didn't just send soldiers."

He met Andersson's gaze, steady and unflinching. "They gave us the Spine. And with her, the right to defend what unity we still have."

Andersson was silent for a moment. "She doesn't land?"

Karass gave a short shake of the head. "Too large. Too valuable. She remains in high orbit—always watching. On clear nights, you can see her from the surface. Just a bright light in the sky. Most assume it's a satellite, or a star that never moves. But those who know… know better."

He paused, then added with quiet finality,

"She's not just a symbol. She's a warning. Thedas may be silent—but we are not defenseless."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower. "The galaxy may have forgotten us. But we haven't forgotten how to make ourselves known."

Andersson exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "So, do you want Thedas to rejoin the galactic community?"

Karass folded his arms, the movement deliberate. His expression sharpened—not defensive, but resolute. "I believe it's time," he said. "But mistrust of outsiders runs deep here—and with good reason. The Elarin being sold as slaves is only one example. We've been burned before."

He paused, running a hand along the curve of his jaw, golden eyes narrowing. "We've been isolated for a long time. And for a while, it was safer that way. But isolation doesn't make us stronger. It makes us fragile. Predictable. Easy to manipulate." His gaze locked onto Andersson's. "That has to change."

The crew exchanged glances—brief flickers of uncertainty passing between them. This wasn't just a backwater world recovering from its own wounds. This was a fragment of a much older whole. A galaxy threaded with ancient paths, ancient wounds, and an undercurrent of something vast. Something watching.

Reece broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "Just how much of the galaxy is out there?"

Karass didn't answer right away. His expression darkened—not with fear, but with memory. "More than you can fathom," he said at last. "Worlds beyond counting. Civilizations older than your species. And more threats than you're ready to face."

He leaned back slightly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Once, Thedas was part of something greater. A place in the weave of stars. Then... history happened."

He let the silence settle, like dust across forgotten maps.

"And now?" he said quietly. "Now we decide if we stay forgotten… or if we remember who we used to be."

Karass's tone sharpened as Fenris re-entered the room, the shift in his demeanor as sudden and seamless as a drawn blade. Whatever warmth had briefly surfaced was gone—replaced by the commanding presence of the Inquisitor once more. He straightened, arms folding behind his back. "I have prepared accommodations for you and your crew," he said, voice firm and final.

Before Andersson could respond, EDI's voice crackled over the comms, sharp and urgent.

"Captain Andersson, please respond. There is a group attempting to gain access to the Pathfinder."

Andersson's spine stiffened. His eyes snapped to Karass. "Who?" he demanded.

Karass, however, remained unfazed. "Stonari engineers. I ordered them to begin repairs. Your ship has seen better days."

Andersson exchanged a glance with Reece. Suspicion. Concern. A silent warning. The Pathfinder was more than their ship—it was the last thread connecting them to the galaxy they came from.

"That won't be necessary," Andersson said, his voice clipped.

Karass's tone didn't change, but something in his expression turned flinty. "It is necessary. We have the materials, the infrastructure, the expertise. Your vessel will be restored to its original state—and better protected while it's here."

Andersson's jaw tensed. "We can manage our own systems."

Karass let out a low hum, the barest echo of amusement. "Captain, I'm not asking for permission. I'm offering support. Your crew is grounded, your systems are failing, and you have nowhere else to go. At some point, even soldiers must acknowledge the terrain."

Andersson felt the argument rising in his throat, hot and reflexive—but something in Karass's words struck a chord. This wasn't about control. Not entirely. It was about survival. And right now, the future of that ship—of their mission—hinged on trust, whether he liked it or not.

It felt like surrendering his spine. Like letting go of the last piece of home he hadn't already compromised.

He exhaled, slow and reluctant. "Alright, Karass. If you insist."

Karass inclined his head, just enough to acknowledge the concession. But Andersson didn't miss the gleam in his eye. Not triumph. Not dominance.

Expectation.

Andersson couldn't help but wonder:

What, exactly, had he just agreed to?