Fenris led them from the chamber without a word, his footsteps steady, each motion purposeful and economical. Behind them, the tall doors sealed shut with a subdued hiss, quiet but final, as if Karass's presence had been locked away behind a wall of memory and command. Whatever warmth had flickered in that room, it didn't follow.
Daylight had faded in their absence. Somewhere during the conversation that rewrote the course of everything, the last rays of sun had slipped beneath the horizon, surrendering the sky to dusk. Now, the corridors of Skyhold held the hush of oncoming night, their pale walls catching what remained of the light like faded parchment touched by embers.
The hallways that stretched before them were vast and cathedral-like—not cold, but reverent. Smooth stone arches soared overhead, carved from pale, luminous mineral shot through with threads of metallic blue that caught the light like veins of living silver. The air held a faint charge, the whisper of energy woven into every corridor—a reminder that ancient didn't mean primitive.
Dim lights floated along the high arches, suspended orbs that drifted in lazy arcs, casting gentle halos as they passed. They illuminated the broad path ahead with a soft, golden hue, catching on the subtle etchings that ran along the walls—scenes of old pacts and long-forgotten wars, faces immortalized in stone, some serene, others screaming.
Andersson walked in silence, his boots barely whispering against the smooth flooring. The material wasn't metal and it wasn't stone, but something in between—cool underfoot, etched with faint lines that formed a map if you looked long enough. Every inch of Skyhold seemed built with intention, like the fortress itself was thinking, remembering.
Bioluminescent flora clung to the upper recesses of the structure, draped like living garlands. Thin vines curled around support struts and along decorative frames, glowing with soft lilac and blue light, their gentle shimmer adding a breath of life to the fortress's grandeur. They smelled faintly of rain and some sweet herb Andersson couldn't name.
At the next turn, the hallway opened into a vast atrium. Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing a sky no longer touched by day. The twin moons hung low and luminous above the mountains—one large and golden, the other smaller, casting a silver hue. Their light painted the spires and terraces of Skyhold in tones of faded brass and moonlit slate.
High above, Skyhold's towers rose like blades against the night, lit from within by coursing energy veins that pulsed just beneath the surface—pale blue and white, like veins of frozen lightning. Slender bridges connected the towers at impossible heights, their narrow paths protected by barely visible energy fields that flickered with each gust of wind. From here, the wind howled softly, not cold, but biting, pulling at Andersson's coat like a warning.
Below the overlook, the city of Vael'Theron tucked beneath the mountainside—its streets coiled like ancient script, its domes and terraces rising and falling with the stone beneath them like verses in a sacred text. And it gleamed.
There were no harsh lights, no artificial blaze to drown the night. Instead, the city shimmered—softly, steadily—with life. Bioluminescent vines spilled from rooftop gardens and curled around archways. Glowstones embedded in courtyards flickered in gentle cadence, and crystalline skywells cast dappled light upward like reflections from a moonlit sea.
From this height, the city didn't just glow—it twinkled, scattered across the slope like someone had taken the stars themselves and laid them out in tribute. Not to blind the night, but to speak to it. It was less a city and more a constellation anchored to the ground, blinking back at the sky above.
It was breathtaking. And utterly alien.
Fenris finally broke the silence, his voice smooth, composed, and unshakably calm—the same quiet control he'd worn like armor since the moment they'd met.
"I trust your meeting with the Inquisitor was productive."
He glanced over his shoulder, not quite looking at them, but gauging something in their posture before motioning them forward. "Your quarters are not far. This way."
Andersson followed without a word. He didn't have one to offer.
"It's been a lot," Reece said quietly behind him, voice low, almost more to himself than anyone else. "Being pulled into this place… losing half our crew… trying to make sense of a planet that's ancient and more advanced than anything back home. Then there's everything Karass just dropped on us." He gave a dry exhale. "It's like the ground keeps shifting under our boots."
Fenris gave a small nod but said nothing. His expression, as always, was unreadable—like a statue that had once cared but had since forgotten how.
They climbed a winding staircase, each step revealing more of Skyhold's layered grandeur. Towering windows cut into the stone like cathedral glass, offering glimpses of the snow-dusted peaks beyond—jagged and aglow under the twin moons. They passed statues nestled in alcoves, weathered and half-forgotten, warriors of old captured mid-stride, swords raised not in triumph, but in promise. Banners bearing the sigil of the Inquisition swayed gently in the breeze, pulled from the open archways where night air crept through and whispered along the halls.
At one landing, heavy iron doors loomed, half-cracked to reveal a glimpse of the level below—an underground causeway illuminated by a ghostly green-blue glow, as if the fortress held its own heart deep beneath the stone.
Everything about Skyhold hummed with presence. Not just history—but memory. Like it remembered who had walked here, what they had built, and what they had lost.
"Skyhold was not always as you see it," Fenris said at last, his voice soft but firm. "It was a ruin once. A place left to rot in the wake of war and silence. Karass rebuilt it. Gave it shape again. Purpose."
They rounded another corner, and Fenris gestured subtly to the massive stained-glass window that crowned the next corridor. Moonlight streamed through it in pale gold and silver, casting fractured light onto the floor. Three figures stood at its center: a Qunari, an Elarin, and a Stonari—each rendered in rich jewel tones, standing shoulder to shoulder, weapons raised in defense of a fractured world.
But there was a fourth figure, smaller, at their feet—partially obscured by time, weathered by age. A shadow of someone once central and now almost erased. A Shemlen.
Andersson slowed, gaze catching on the faint outline. His throat tightened.
"They stood together once," Fenris said, his tone almost reverent. "Four pillars of what Thedas used to be. Before the cycle broke. Before the silence."
"The Inquisition made this place a symbol," Fenris says, his voice quieter now. "A promise that the past will not repeat itself."
As they reach a large set of doors, reinforced with dark alloy but carved with the same careful craftsmanship that marked the rest of Skyhold, Andersson exhales, his mind still turning over everything they had learned. Fenris steps forward, placing his hand against a glowing panel at the side, and the doors slide open with a quiet, seamless motion.
As the doors slide open, Andersson blinks. He had expected something functional, maybe even austere—but this? This was something else. The space was vast, almost absurdly so, a far cry from the cramped bunks of the Pathfinder.
Inside, the quarters are vast—far more luxurious than Andersson expected. The main living space is expansive, lined with polished stone and warm ambient lighting. A large dining table sits near the double doors leading to a sprawling balcony, its surface laden with an array of dishes, fresh fruit, and pitchers of unfamiliar drinks. Beyond the doors, the balcony overlooks the endless stretch of mountains, their jagged peaks bathed in the silver glow of the twin moons.
The room is structured for three occupants, with separate sleeping quarters branching off from the central space. Rich fabrics hang from the walls, woven with intricate patterns that reflect the artistry of Thedas, and near the fireplace, plush seating invites them to relax. The whole place feels like a careful balance of practicality and quiet opulence.
Fenris stepped aside, allowing them to enter the guest quarters without a word. The suite beyond was generously sized, its polished floors and arched ceilings echoing the grandeur of the fortress around it. A low table had been set near the wide window, offering a breathtaking view of the distant peaks, now bathed in silver moonlight. Spread across the table was a careful selection of Thedan cuisine—rich stews, unfamiliar fruits, something gelatinous that shimmered faintly when the light hit it.
"I have no idea what humans eat," Fenris said dryly, gesturing toward the spread, "but we've provided a selection from Thedas. Something should be to your liking."
He turned then, casting a long, appraising look at Andersson. His eyes lingered—not with curiosity, but with something more akin to assessment. And maybe a hint of disdain.
Fenris looked him up and down once more, a look of mild disgust flickering across his features.
"Perhaps you could care for a bath." he said, tone clipped and surgical
Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving behind only the echo of the remark and a faint draft from the corridor.
As the door shut behind Fenris with a final, metallic click, the three of them exhaled—long, slow, like they'd been holding their breath since the moment they stepped into Skyhold.
"Shit," Reece muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "That was a lot."
Andersson let out a groan as he unzipped the top of his jumpsuit, peeling it back just enough to get some air. The fabric was stiff with dried sweat, and he felt like he'd been living in it for a week straight. "What a day," he murmured, stretching his arms with a satisfying pop.
Hale flopped into the nearest chair like it owed her money. "That Fenris guy," she said, pulling off her boots with a snap, "what a piece of work."
"He hates us for sure," Reece said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Andersson rolled his shoulders. "Pretty sure he hates everyone. Karass included."
There was a beat of quiet before Hale tilted her head, a smirk playing at her lips. "Anyone else think Karass is kinda hot?"
"Yes," Reece replied instantly.
The word hung in the air.
Andersson didn't react—at least not outwardly. But something in the way Reece had answered made his jaw clench, just for a heartbeat. Irrational, maybe. But it was there. He forced the tension away before it could settle, tamping it down beneath years of practiced control.
He schooled his face into neutrality, flicking a glance Reece's way without a word.
Reece caught it immediately, eyes widening just a little as he cleared his throat. "I mean—inappropriate, Lieutenant."
Andersson raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He wasn't about to unpack that look. Not now.
Reece shot him a sideways glance, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just keeping it real, Captain."
Andersson just shook his head. But the teasing note in Reece's voice stuck with him longer than it should have. Too long.
Andersson ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the feel of it—gritty, damp, and definitely past the point of salvage.
"Well," he said, glancing between them, "one thing's true—we all need a bath." He nodded toward the gleaming table piled with food, the scents finally catching up with them now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off. "Let's get cleaned up before we try to wrap our heads around… all this."
Without waiting for an answer, he peeled away from the others and disappeared into one of the adjoining rooms. Hale and Reece followed suit, each vanishing behind identical, ornate doors with quiet clicks.
Andersson's bedroom was... unexpected.
He'd been bracing for something cold or overly ceremonial. But what greeted him was quiet elegance—a space carved from pale mineral and darker structural bands, softly illuminated from unseen fixtures that gave off a gentle, ambient glow. The bed was low and broad, its frame curved like living wood shaped by intention rather than tools, the bedding dark and rich in texture, draped with throws that shimmered faintly when caught by the light.
At the far end of the chamber, a massive set of doors stood half open, revealing a private balcony that jutted out into open air. Andersson stepped closer, drawn by the sheer strangeness of it.
The twin moons hung above the mountains like ancient sentinels—one gold, the other silver, their light pouring into the room in ribbons. The air outside was brisk, edged with altitude, but clean in a way that made his chest feel clearer just for breathing it. The city glittered below like someone had shaken starlight into the cracks of the mountainside. It felt... surreal. Like something from a storybook.
He blinked hard, shook it off, and turned toward the bathroom.
The facilities, at first glance, were comfortingly familiar—until they weren't.
The basin, the fixtures, even the recessed sanitation unit bore enough resemblance to human standards that he could guess their function. Functionally, the beings of Thedas seemed to eliminate waste the same way humans did—no strange ports, tubes, or gelatinous contraptions. Just hygiene and plumbing, albeit with a distinct aesthetic.
But the bath was something else entirely.
It sat at the center of a sunken alcove, shaped not like a modern tub, but like an oval basin carved from polished stone, its edges inlaid with symbols that glowed softly as he approached. When he placed his hand near a hovering panel, it responded with a low chime and an elegant ripple of light. Water—or something very close to it—began to pour from a sculpted spout, not as a solid stream, but as a lattice of liquid light. It flowed thicker than water, almost viscous, and it shimmered faintly with pale green and silver tones.
As the basin filled, the air warmed and filled with a subtle, earthy aroma—reminiscent of petrichor and crushed herbs, something old and calming. The surface of the bath pulsed gently, as if responding to his proximity, glowing from within. There was an energy to it—not just heat, but something more. Vital. Tactile.
Andersson crouched beside it, passing his fingers through the liquid. It clung to his skin slightly, left a mild tingling sensation behind—pleasant, even invigorating. Not harmful. Just… strange. Like whatever flowed through the roots of the Mother Tree had been distilled into water and offered for washing.
"Well," he muttered to himself, as he started to unfasten his jumpsuit, "at least they know how to make a first impression."
Andersson stripped down, peeling the filthy uniform from his body with deliberate slowness. The jumpsuit clung to him—clammy, streaked with sweat and grime, the collar stiff with dried salt and something that might've once been ration paste. He rolled it off his shoulders, then his hips, letting it collapse in a damp heap at his feet.
His undergarments followed—sweat-stained undershirt, socks that had seen too many hours in too few gravity shifts, and boxers that could probably stand up on their own by now. His boots, caked with dust from crawling around the Pathfinder, were last. They landed with a dull thud.
As he turned toward the bath, a soft click echoed beside him.
A compartment set into the wall—smooth and seamless until now—had opened on its own, revealing a shallow cavity lined with a matte black surface. No buttons. No interface. Just a quiet expectation. Somehow, instinctively, he knew what it wanted.
He gathered everything—jumpsuit, underclothes, boots—and fed them into the open slot. The door clicked shut behind it with a faint hydraulic hiss, followed by a low, ambient hum that barely registered above the soft pulse of the room. A few seconds passed. Then another click.
The compartment had opened again.
Inside, his uniform lay folded with eerie precision. Not just cleaned—renewed. Pressed sharp enough to cut, the blue fabric gleamed with fresh texture, supple and weightless in his hands. Even the boots looked restored, as if freshly issued. The scent rising from them was rich and warm—notes of crushed citrus peel, cedar, and something faintly spiced. Inviting. Almost edible.
Andersson stared for a beat, brow twitching. "Right," he muttered, "that's not unsettling at all."
Behind him, the bath chimed softly as the last ribbon of glowing liquid settled into place. The surface stilled. There was no steam, but the warmth radiated gently into the air, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The water—if that's what it was—glowed faintly from within, shot through with filaments of iridescent energy. The color reminded him of moonlight caught in glass, or something more ancient—something living. He couldn't explain why, but it felt... aware. Almost welcoming.
He stepped in.
Andersson eased into the bath, the alien liquid cradling his body with unexpected softness. As his skin submerged, the glow intensified—not sharply, but like the bath was responding to his presence, blooming with quiet recognition. Tendrils of light curled through the water like ink in air, shifting subtly around him.
Then came the sensation.
It wasn't heat. Not exactly. More like a gentle rush over his skin, like silk brushing against every inch of him at once. He tensed at first, expecting it to sting or irritate, but instead it soothed, easing into the contours of his muscles, cleansing without friction. He didn't need soap. Didn't need to move. The bath was doing the work—lifting grime, oil, sweat—without a single scrub.
There were no bottles or dispensers here. No products of any kind. Just the soft pulse of the liquid, washing over him like the forest itself was tending to his wounds.
He leaned back. Let himself sink.
The moment his head dipped beneath the surface, the sensation sharpened—not painfully, but precisely. The liquid rushed across his face, over his scalp, through his hair, and into every pore like a thousand tiny cleansing currents. Each point tingled, as though the bath was gently sifting out the long hours, the stress, the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.
It was intimate. Refreshing. Uncannily precise.
His hair felt lighter than it ever had. Cleaner than after any shower he'd taken on Earth or aboard a starship. Like the water had peeled him back to something untouched.
He blinked and surfaced, dragging a breath into his lungs as he settled back into the warmth.
Curious, he looked down into the water, expecting to see the filth of the last few days clouding the glow—sweat, grease, the grime of a world too old and too strange. But the bath remained crystal clear. Still glowing softly. Not a speck of dirt. Not a trace of residue.
It was like it hadn't just cleaned him—it had absorbed the dirt completely. Or maybe it had never allowed it to exist in the first place.
Andersson lay there in silence, the glow of the bath dancing across the walls, and for the first time since they entered this strange galaxy... he felt clean.
As Andersson rose from the water, the bath responded at once. Without a single gesture or command, the liquid began to drain beneath him, spiraling away in a silent, seamless whirl. He stepped out slowly, bracing himself for the usual chill, but it never came. His skin felt wet—technically—but not in the way it should. Not dripping. Just lightly moist, as if the water had left only what was needed.
He glanced around, searching for a towel.
Nothing. No hooks, no shelves. No soft white cotton waiting to be pulled from a rack. The basin behind him finished its cycle with eerie efficiency. When he looked back, the entire bath was spotless—not a drop left behind, not a smudge, not even a stray hair. It looked untouched. Like it had never been filled. Never been used.
Then the hum began.
A soft, rhythmic cycling from the walls on either side of him—barely audible, but unmistakable. He turned just slightly as something shimmered into being, a slow-moving cloud of golden energy that poured from the panels and washed over his skin in a warm, even sweep.
He flinched out of instinct—but there was no pain.
Just a tingling sensation, as if the air itself had grown electric, brushing over him with careful precision. It took only seconds. The glow dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, fading into the walls like mist retreating from sunlight.
He was dry.
Perfectly dry.
Even his hair—now clean and neat, with the soft fall of something subtly styled—looked untouched by fatigue. His skin didn't just feel clean. It felt nourished, like he'd stepped out of a spa after a week of careful treatments. There was no residue. No scent. Just a lingering smoothness, like the faintest layer of moisturizer had been invisibly applied by the air itself.
And then he noticed something else.
The ache behind his eyes was gone. The stiffness in his shoulders—gone. The dull, nagging exhaustion that had been dragging behind him for two days had lifted like mist off a field.
He moved to the mirror out of reflex.
The man staring back at him wasn't the one who'd been hurled across galaxies, who'd spent days without sleep and nights steeped in tension. The tired creases lining his brow were gone. The shadows beneath his eyes had vanished. His face looked refreshed. Younger, even.
Whatever this bath was—it hadn't just cleaned him.
It had rejuvenated him.
Rebuilt him.
He caught his reflection again as he moved past the mirror—just a flicker this time. No furrowed brow. No fatigue dragging his features down. The man looking back at him seemed… right. Not transformed, not someone new.
Just—himself.
For the first time in days, maybe longer, he didn't feel like a shipwreck in uniform. No tension in his shoulders. No grime under his fingernails. Just clean skin, clear eyes, and a strange, subtle clarity.
He didn't dwell on it. Didn't need to.
But he lingered a moment longer than he meant to.
For a moment, standing there under the moons of a planet he barely understood, Andersson felt human again.