Andersson stepped back from the mirror, blinking at the face staring back at him. He still wasn't sure how much time had passed in the bath—it could've been ten minutes or an hour—but somehow, he felt like he'd woken from a deep sleep with every cell in his body humming quietly with renewal.

He reached for his undergarments first—clean, dry, and folded with eerie precision in the recessed chamber that had spit them back out. The fabric was softer than he remembered. He pulled on the undershirt and boxers, pausing to run a hand along the hem. Even the stitching felt... upgraded. Somehow.

He turned toward the folded jumpsuit, now neatly stacked atop the bench near the bath. But before he could lift it, a faint sound caught his attention—a soft chime, followed by the subtle hiss of a panel sliding open on the far wall.

Andersson blinked. He could've sworn that cabinet hadn't been there before.

Inside hung a robe—not quite a bathrobe in the Earth sense, but something else. A garment that looked part tunic, part overcoat, woven in deep charcoal grey with a faint, interlocking pattern that shimmered like stone dust when it caught the ambient light. The inner lining was silvery-soft, like liquid silk. There was a drape to it, a casual elegance—formal enough to wear before dignitaries, relaxed enough to feel like a second skin.

He wasn't in a hurry to pull on his uniform again.

He slipped the robe on over his undergarments. It clung to him with gentle pressure—not tight, but like it had been tailored to him specifically. The fabric breathed with him, warm but never stifling, cool along the sleeves, and perfectly balanced at the collar. It hugged the skin like it knew him. Like it approved.

Andersson gave a quiet breath of amusement. "Okay," he muttered. "You win, Skyhold."

The jumpsuit could wait.

He ran a hand through his now-perfectly clean hair—still somehow holding a faint, styled wave despite having done absolutely nothing—and padded barefoot toward the main room. He didn't know what he was expecting, but he was curious. He wanted to see how Reece and Hale had fared. If their baths had felt like his.

And, honestly, he just wanted to hear their voices again. To make this strange, beautiful, alien place feel a little more like home.

He moved toward the common room, the low, golden lights casting soft shadows across the stone walls, his footsteps soundless on the warm floor.

Andersson stepped into the main room, tugging the robe a little tighter around his waist. He barely had a moment to take in the quiet hum of the chamber before Reece emerged from the door opposite his—hair clean and subtly styled, the faint sheen of rejuvenation still clinging to his skin. He wore a robe nearly identical to Andersson's, moving with the same post-bath ease. A beat later, Hale stepped out as well, her expression unreadable but her posture looser than usual, as if all three of them had been released from the same hidden timer.

They looked... better. Hale's sharp edges had softened just enough to show through her usual no-nonsense stance. Reece's usual boyish charm was tempered by a kind of calm Andersson wasn't used to seeing. All of them had the same look in their eyes—the one you get after the first deep breath post-trauma. Not healed. But paused.

"Well," Andersson said, gesturing vaguely between them, "that was…"

"Probably the most interesting bath I've ever taken," Hale offered, already moving toward the table like the moment had passed and it was time for food.

"I don't think I've ever been so clean," Reece said, inspecting one hand, then the other. "I think it exfoliated my soul."

Andersson snorted. "What was with that water?" he asked, mostly to himself, but not quite.

Reece made a beeline for the table, his eyes lighting up like a man who'd just discovered gravity was optional. "Well, I don't know about you," he said, already lifting the lid off one of the dishes, "but I am starving. Last proper meal I had was at Arcturus—whenever that was. Three days? Five? I don't even know anymore."

Hale raised an eyebrow as she reached for a bowl to fill. "You had the lasagna on the Pathfinder."

Reece, already chewing something with questionable crunch, shook his head. "I said proper meal, not flavored cardboard."

"You weren't complaining at the time," she shot back, smirking.

Reece gestured vaguely, as if that erased all past sins. "Oh, I'm sorry—did you make the lasagna yourself?"

Hale rolled her eyes and reached for a ladle with just enough dramatic flair to make her point without saying another word.

Andersson, finally settling into the seat opposite them, shook his head like a parent trying not to laugh. "Come on, children," he said, dry and amused. "Let's eat."

The table was a feast of contradictions—comforting and alien all at once. Platters of roasted meats, some clearly from creatures with bones and muscle, others with layers that shimmered faintly under the lights, were surrounded by bowls of steaming grains in hues that no Earth wheat had ever dreamed of. Deep violet, sunburst gold, even a shade of blue-green that shifted when you looked too long.

Beside them sat stacks of dense, dark bread, crusted with something that might've been salt or sugar—or neither. Small dishes held bright pastes and sauces, some aromatic and sweet, others sharp enough to sting the nose. At the center, a wide pitcher of deep crimson liquid sweated gently under the warm air, the condensation sliding slowly down its sides like a promise.

Reece picked up one of the translucent fruits—its skin shimmered with shifting shades of rose and jade—and eyed it warily. He took a bite.

Then grimaced. "That should not be crunchy," he said, blinking. "I don't know what I expected, but it definitely wasn't crunch."

Hale chuckled, taking a seat and scanning the room again. "If this is an alien planet, why does it feel like a fairy tale?"

Reece gestured with half a piece of dark bread. "Right? I was bracing for protein packs and neon sauce. Blue spaghetti, at least."

Andersson didn't say anything. He just sat, slowly, like something had finally given him permission to do so. The ache in his gut, dulled by adrenaline and tension, flared back to life now that he was clean, warm, and safe—relatively speaking. He reached for one of the grain bowls without hesitation.

Whatever else had changed, one thing hadn't.

They were still human.

And they were hungry.

The Elarin dishes were delicate in appearance but punched far above their weight in flavor—aromatic, perfumed with spices and herbs Andersson couldn't quite place. Subtle florals mingled with something earthy and sharp, like lavender had gotten into a brawl with peppercorns. Reece took one bite and grimaced. "Way too much," he muttered, setting the dish aside and reaching for something with fewer opinions.

By contrast, the Stonari fare didn't try to charm—it aimed to anchor. Dense, rich stews thick enough to stand a spoon in, paired with heavy breads that landed in the stomach like a challenge. "Feels like it should come with a warning label," Hale said, tearing off a chunk and chasing it with a sip from a goblet of deep crimson. She coughed the moment it hit her throat. "Oh, wow. That's... strong."

Andersson tried the bread and raised an eyebrow. "Feels like it could double as armor plating."

Then came the Qunari offerings—stark, no-nonsense slabs of meat and grains so plain they almost dared you to complain. No sauces. No frills. Just substance. Andersson chewed a bite of something vaguely beef-adjacent and nodded slowly. "Efficient," he said. "Nothing fancy, but it gets the job done."

Reece poked at a slab of Qunari meat like it might punch him back. "Thedas cuisine," he said flatly. "Come for the mystery fruit, stay for the existential crisis."

Reece nudged a heavy ceramic dish toward himself, steam curling from a bed of thick, dark red sauce. Nestled inside were round, seared morsels—glossy and irregular, like meatballs sculpted by hand rather than machine. A hint of spice lifted off the surface, grounded by something deeper, almost smoky.

He took a bite, blinked once, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

"Now that," he said, pointing at the dish like it had just solved all his problems, "that's the stuff."

Andersson tasted one next and nodded in agreement, the warmth of the sauce chasing something cold from his chest. "Agreed."

Hale scooped up a portion and exhaled slowly. "I can feel it nourishing me," she murmured. "Like… medicinal comfort food."

Andersson tore a side of dense bread from a platter—slightly spongy in texture, with a crust that crackled faintly at the edges—and dragged it through the sauce. It clung like velvet, thick but smooth, aromatic with layers he couldn't even begin to name.

He took a bite.

For a moment, everything else faded. The fatigue, the prophecy, the ache of lost crew and unfamiliar stars. Gone. Just heat, spice, and something that felt like it had been made not just to feed, but to heal.

This was the most comfort he'd felt in days. Maybe longer. His tongue lit up with unfamiliar notes—earthy, rich, citrus, umami, something almost floral—and none of it clashed. It was alien, and it was perfect.

Reece leaned back in his chair, still chewing, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"So," he said, looking at Andersson, "what do you think?"

Andersson raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

Reece gestured vaguely around them—at the food, the moons outside, the whole impossible situation. "Everything. We haven't had a chance to actually talk about it. Are we really part of some extinct race?"

Hale made a face. "I don't see how it's possible."

"But it can't be coincidence," Reece said. "We look like them. They think we are them."

Andersson set down his bread, nodding slowly. "I'd have EDI run the numbers, but yeah... the odds of us being genetically linked to a species from another galaxy? Infinitesimal." He glanced toward the balcony, though it was the memory of the stained-glass mural that lingered behind his eyes. "And yet... the resemblance is uncanny."

Hale leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "So a mural looks like us—great. That's not a lot to go on." Her tone sharpened, not quite hostile, but edged with something wary. "I still don't fully trust them. For all we know, they brought us here. Made this whole story up."

Reece frowned. "Why would they do that?"

"Maybe they're fucking with us," she said flatly.

Reece snorted. "That's a lot of effort just to mess with three tired humans and a ship held together with duct tape."

Andersson leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed in thought. "Look, I'm not signing up to fight ancient warlords or join some galactic crusade until I see actual proof. Solid evidence. Records. DNA matches. Something."

"Right," Hale agreed. "Because I am not taking a giant tree's word for it."

Reece raised his glass. "Cheers to that."

Hale leaned back, her expression thoughtful. "So... what do we do next?"

Andersson gave a small shrug. "Karass didn't really say."

Reece raised an eyebrow. "You don't think they'll try to experiment on us, do you?"

"I damn well hope not," Andersson muttered.

Hale frowned. "Let's just say, for argument's sake, that we take them at face value. That all this prophecy bullshit is true. What if we're not what they think we are? What if we're just… three regular humans who got dropped into the middle of a myth?"

Andersson exhaled slowly. "I don't know. But something about this place... I can't shake it. It feels familiar. Like I've been here before."

Reece nodded. "Right? It's like a version of Earth—that could have existed."

Hale wasn't smiling. "They said their translators can alter perception. What else can they do? For all we know, they're manipulating how we think right now. You realize they're probably watching us."

Reece leaned back, unfazed. "Well, lucky them. They got to see me naked."

Hale grimaced. "Gross. I still think Karass wants to eat us. What if all this food is just to fatten us up?"

Andersson looked up from his plate. "What—so the bath was the marinade?"

"Could be," Hale said, shrugging. "They said happy animals taste better. Maybe this is all some elaborate prep work to make us nice and tasty."

Reece smirked. "You'd still taste bitter, no matter what."

Hale gave him a flat look. "Maybe they used to eat the Shemlen. Farmed them. And now they want us to repopulate the species so they can start again."

Reece shot her a sidelong glance. "Paranoid much, Brooke?"

"Ew," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Don't call me Brooke."

Andersson didn't laugh. "She has a point, as crazy as all that sounds, Kyle. We've only spoken to two of them. And we've only seen what they want us to see." He paused, a chill brushing the edge of his thoughts. "We don't know what the rest are capable of."

Reece's smirk faded, just a fraction. "Yeah, okay. Fair. But, I'm not saying I fully trust them," Reece gestured. "But there's something in this. It feels like there's truth in it."

Hale raised an eyebrow. "Typical Kyle. Your ego would love being the savior of an entire planet. Think of all the attention."

Reece pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I don't know what you mean."

Hale rolled her eyes.

There was a moment of quiet before she spoke again, softer this time. "Do you think we'll ever get home?"

Andersson hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the balcony, toward the twin moons hanging over the alien city like silver coins.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe. But we don't even understand how we got here. And getting back... could come with its own consequences."

None of them spoke for a while after that. The sound of cutlery tapping against unfamiliar plates filled the silence, but even that faded into the quiet hum of the room.

They finished their meals slowly, each lost in their own thoughts, chewing not just food but the enormity of it all—prophecies, alien planets, and names whispered through the folds of history.

And though no one said it aloud, the unspoken thought lingered between them, heavy as gravity.

What if this place is home now?

Andersson reached for his cup, but caught his reflection instead—faint and ghostlike in the glass of the balcony doors. The robe, the moons behind him, the city glittering like a dream.

He didn't look different.

But something had shifted.

He stared for just a moment longer than he meant to, then turned away.