Fenris led them through the open courtyard at the rear of Skyhold, a space markedly different from the polished elegance of the front approach.
Here, the stone underfoot bore scuffs and grooves, the kind that came not from time, but from movement—practice, repetition. There was space to move, to spar.
Training dummies stood in clusters along the far wall, their surfaces worn smooth. Racks of melee weapons lined one side, and chalked rings marked the ground in loose, overlapping circles.
It looked like a training ground. Maybe for Karass. Maybe for the guard. Either way, it was clear: this space wasn't ceremonial. It was used.
Sunlight spilled over towering stone walls, casting long, angular shadows that danced across the ground like ancient glyphs. The morning was crisp and bright, the air sharp with the kind of clean bite that belonged to early spring—if this were Earth. The twin suns hung low on the horizon, casting golden rays that kissed the stone underfoot and glinted along the smooth contours of the elevated walkways.
The scent of the world was different here—thick with the aroma of alien flora. Earthy. Spiced. Faintly sweet. Foreign, yet inexplicably familiar. It stirred something in Andersson's chest, not memory exactly, but a sensation close to it. Déjà vu from a life he'd never lived.
Thedas felt different. Not just in its architecture or its cultures. There was something deeper at work. A low hum, not audible, but sensed—present in the very molecules of the air, in the way light curved and shadow lingered. A resonance. As if the planet itself remembered things long forgotten.
As they crossed the courtyard, their eyes were drawn to the figure at its center.
Karass stood beneath the morning sun like a statue carved from iron and fire. No armor covered him—at least, not from the waist up. His massive form was bared to the cold air, broad shoulders catching the light, grey skin marred with a latticework of scars. Some curved like ancient script, etched by time and blade. Others were jagged, like stone split by force. And a few—subtle, but unmistakable—had edges that looked burned, as if cauterized by something more precise than fire. As if whatever cut him had seared as it struck.
His muscles moved beneath his skin with deliberate precision, strength coiled rather than flaunted. He didn't need armor to hold power. He simply was power.
Andersson felt himself pause, just briefly. Not out of fear. Not even awe. But out of a strange, reluctant respect. Here stood a man who didn't need armor to hold power. He simply was power.
And apparently, Andersson isn't the only one who notices.
"Damn," Hale mutters under her breath, eyes wide. "Look at that."
Andersson shoots her a sharp look. "Lieutenant." His voice is low, firm—just enough of a warning to remind her where they are.
Reece doesn't say a word—he doesn't need to. The smirk tugging at his mouth says plenty.
But it's not Karass's physique that truly demands their attention.
It's what's being done to him.
Another Qunari—bare-chested, broad, and just as imposing—stands opposite him, gripping a thick wooden staff. Without warning, he swings the pole in a clean, brutal arc and strikes Karass square in the chest. The sound—sharp, resonant—cracks through the courtyard like a war drum.
Andersson's muscles coil instinctively. The blow was hard. Deliberate. Designed to hurt.
Karass doesn't flinch.
The staff comes down again, harder this time—controlled but merciless. Karass absorbs it without a sound. His chest rises and falls in slow, measured rhythm. No grimace. No resistance. If anything, there's a flicker in his golden eyes—something like satisfaction. As though this pain is not endured, but welcomed.
Andersson isn't sure what unnerves him more: the violence of the act… or Karass's quiet invitation of it.
Fenris steps forward, voice cool and formal. "Inquisitor," he announces, then tips his head toward the crew. "The visitors."
Karass lifts his chin at the words, eyes locking onto them with unnerving precision. Then, with a single flick of his hand, he dismisses Fenris and the other Qunari.
"Leave us."
His voice is steady, threaded with quiet authority. The staff-bearer bows his head slightly before stepping away without hesitation. Fenris follows suit, his movements sharp, precise, offering nothing in the way of explanation.
As the others retreat, something shifts.
Karass exhales, rolling his shoulders, and suddenly the air around him lightens. The presence of the warlord, the force of the Inquisitor—gone.
Instead, Karass gives them a lopsided, almost amused smile.
"So," he says, voice warm with unmistakable teasing, "how was your first night on Thedas?"
Andersson stiffens.
There's something about the way Karass says it—casual, effortless, but pointed. A knowing glint flickers behind his golden gaze, like he's already read the answer in the way they stand.
And then—just when Andersson thinks the moment might pass—Karass's smile widens, his eyes flicking briefly between him and Reece.
"Enjoy yourself?"
The words land like a dropped weapon between them.
Andersson feels the heat crawl up the back of his neck, his body going tense with the sheer implication of that question. He doesn't dare look at Reece—he already knows the expression he's making, already knows the smirk that's probably tugging at his lips.
There's a moment of silence. Too long. Too heavy.
Karass laughs—a deep, rolling sound that carries across the courtyard, loud and unapologetic. It's not mocking, not cruel—just knowing.
"Relax," he chuckles, shaking his head, amusement clear in his voice. "I can smell it on you."
Andersson blinks.
What.
Reece, for the first time in Andersson's memory, looks almost embarrassed. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the ground beneath them.
Andersson, on the other hand, goes rigid.
"You—what?"
Karass grins, entirely unbothered. "Your scent changes when you've had a good night. Qunari senses are—" He waves a hand, as if the details aren't necessary. "Let's just say... I'm rarely wrong."
Andersson swears his soul leaves his body.
Karass watches their reactions, his smile deepening as if this is the most amusing thing he's seen in years. "I'm not here to judge," he says finally, clapping his hands together, clearly enjoying himself. "It's natural. You're guests here, after all."
Reece clears his throat, straightening his shoulders in an attempt to reclaim some dignity. "We've had a lot of... new experiences," he says, voice neutral but still tinged with something.
Karass's teasing fades, just slightly, as he regards them with something more thoughtful. "Good," he says, his tone shifting. "You'll need rest, but don't let your guard down too much. Thedas is not what you're used to. Things here… they don't always make sense."
The lightness in his voice has dimmed, a trace of something unspoken threading through his words.
Andersson meets Karass's gaze, and for the first time since arriving on this world, he feels the gravity of the moment settle over him.
Karass knows something.
The easy confidence, the teasing charm—it's real, but it's also a mask. Beneath it, there's calculation. Expectation. And despite the warmth of his presence, Andersson can't shake the feeling that this isn't just a meeting.
It's a test.
Andersson straightens, matching Karass's stare. "We're not here to play games," he says carefully. "Whatever this is—whatever we've stepped into—we need to understand it."
Karass watches him for a moment, then shifts his stance slightly, weight settling evenly on his feet. The intensity in his golden gaze remains, but there's an approving flicker behind it. "And you will," he says, the statement more of a certainty than a promise.
Karass walks over to the pole that had just moments before been used to strike him, his massive form moving with the grace of someone used to wielding power effortlessly. He gestures to the pole and then looks directly at Andersson, his expression unreadable but with an edge of expectation in his voice.
"Take it," he commands.
Andersson hesitates, tension tightening across his shoulders. "Oh, I don't think—"
"Take it," Karass repeats, his tone firmer, more insistent.
Andersson glances over at Reece, unsure of what to make of this, but the look on Karass's face leaves little room for debate. He doesn't quite understand the reasoning behind it, but he feels compelled to follow through. Reluctantly, Andersson steps forward and grabs the pole, the wood heavy in his hands. He looks at it, and then at Karass, still unsure of what's expected.
"I'm not sure I understand," Andersson says, his voice betraying his confusion.
Karass's expression doesn't falter. "Take the damn pole and hit me with it," he says, as though it's the most normal request in the galaxy, no hesitation in his voice.
Andersson stares at him, processing the words, still unsure how to react. "Why would I do such a thing?" he asks, his mind racing for some form of logic in the situation.
"It's a Qunari exercise in trust," Karass explains calmly, stepping a little closer. "We are going into battle. We need to assess each other's strengths. If you can't trust me to take a blow, how can we trust each other on the battlefield?" His eyes lock with Andersson's, unwavering, as though this were the most crucial step in forging a bond of mutual respect.
Andersson stands still for a moment, Karass's words land like a challenge, heavy with unspoken meaning. His thoughts race—what is this strange ritual? What's the purpose of this physical act? But despite his discomfort, he knows he's been thrust into this alien world where the rules don't quite apply to what he's used to. The commander in him can't afford to refuse a test of trust.
He swallows, grips the pole tighter, and raises it. His muscles tense as he prepares to follow through, but a flicker of doubt crosses his mind. He meets Karass's eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation, any indication that this might be some strange joke. But Karass's gaze is steady, unwavering.
"Do it," Karass urges, his voice commanding, puffing his chest out.
This wasn't just a test. It was a declaration. If he couldn't follow through, maybe he didn't belong here after all.
With a deep breath, Andersson swings the pole, striking Karass with a controlled force in his chest. The impact is solid, but nowhere near as hard as it could have been. He quickly lowers it, his heart racing.
Karass looks down at the spot where the pole struck him, then back at Andersson, and for a brief moment, there's something almost approving in his expression. "Good," he says. "You've got strength. And you don't hesitate."
Andersson breathes a little easier, but he's still trying to process the oddity of the entire exchange. His hand still grips the pole, unsure whether to let it fall or continue in this strange exercise. The feel of Karass's approval lingers, but so does a new feeling of unease. What kind of relationship is this going to be?
Karass stands there, unmoving, his massive figure unflinching. His gaze remains steady, locking onto Andersson, urging him on with a calm but firm intensity.
"Now harder," he says, his voice carrying a commanding tone. "I need to feel it."
Andersson feels a strange mix of discomfort and confusion. His hands grip the pole tighter, muscles coiled as the request sinks in. He has no idea what to make of this, but something in Karass's tone drives him forward. He doesn't have the luxury of hesitation. This is the world he's in now.
His heart races as he swings the pole again, this time with more force. The staff strikes Karass with a deep, solid thud that jars through Andersson's arms. Karass doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. His golden eyes stay locked on Andersson like he's trying to see something deeper.
"Again," Karass says, voice calm, unshaken.
Andersson takes a steady breath. He grits his teeth and swings again, the pole singing through the air before striking flesh. Karass doesn't move.
Out of the corner of his eye, Andersson sees Reece flinch, like he's feeling it by proxy. Hale watches with narrowed eyes, arms crossed, unreadable—but even she shifts slightly, discomfort written in the way her jaw sets.
Andersson doesn't stop. He can't. He's not entirely sure what this is yet—but Karass is demanding something, and he's not about to back down.
The impact echoes through the quiet courtyard, and Karass absorbs it without so much as a flinch. He nods once—slow, deliberate—as if measuring the effort.
"Good," he says, voice steady, almost approving. "You're learning."
Andersson stays still, questions churning beneath the surface, but Karass meets his gaze with something that feels like acknowledgment. For a moment, the silence between them stretches—not empty, but thick with tension and unspoken meaning. A sense that whatever just passed between them… it was only the beginning.
Karass studies him for a long beat before finally speaking again.
"You may not understand it now," he says, his voice softer, "but trust is built through actions, not words. When the time comes to fight, we'll have each other's backs. That's what matters most."
Andersson nods slowly, feeling the tension in his body slowly ebb. He didn't know what he expected when he stepped into this world, but he's beginning to understand just a little bit more. The harshness, the physicality—it's all part of a culture that values strength, both mental and physical. And perhaps, just maybe, it's something he can learn to respect.
He lowers the pole, finally releasing the grip that had been so tight around it.
Karass steps back, his eyes shifting to Reece, then to Hale, giving them a silent acknowledgment before turning to Andersson again.
"Now," Karass continues, his tone changing, "we prepare. There is more to do, and time is something we cannot afford to waste."
Andersson, still standing with the pole in his hands, his muscles tense from the strange exercise, looks at Karass with a mix of exhaustion and confusion. As Karass stands there, unmoving and expectant, Andersson blurts out, unable to hide the nervousness creeping up on him.
"Please tell me it's not your turn to hit me," Andersson says, trying to lighten the awkward tension in the air. His voice betrays the unease he's feeling, and his grip on the pole loosens slightly.
Karass lets out a deep, booming belly laugh, his voice echoing through the courtyard.
"Relax," Karass says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I like you, human."
Andersson, still gripping the pole awkwardly, lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tension in the moment shifts—Karass's tone is playful, not threatening. Despite the raw physicality of the exchange and the mountain of muscle standing in front of him, Andersson feels an unexpected flicker of camaraderie. A strange, rough-edged kind of respect building between them.
Karass steps back slightly, his laughter subsiding as he eyes Andersson with a sense of approval.
"Now that's the spirit," Karass continues, his expression softening. "You'll learn that in our world, actions speak louder than words. Trust isn't built by politeness, it's built through tests—sometimes painful ones."
Andersson nods, still processing the strange exchange. He sets the pole down, his body relaxing now that the immediate pressure of the test is over. Karass looks him over, sizing him up as if gauging what comes next.
Andersson takes a moment to breathe, trying to adjust to the strange customs of Thedas. Despite the discomfort, he has to admit that he's beginning to see the value in this kind of testing. It's not just about physical strength—it's about understanding each other's limits, building trust in ways words alone never could.
"Alright," Andersson finally says, more to himself than to Karass. "Let's get started then."
Karass gives him a sharp nod, his usual imposing demeanor returning.
"The time for talk is over. Now, we prepare. We have much to do, and not enough time to waste."
Karass gestures to one of his aides standing at the sideline, who quickly brings him a towel, which he takes without a word, wiping off the remnants of the earlier exercise. The atmosphere shifts slightly as he stands tall again, his imposing presence back in full force, though there's still a flicker of that more approachable demeanor from earlier.
As he drapes the towel over his shoulder, the comms crackle to life, the familiar voice of EDI cutting through the tension.
"Captain Andersson, come in," EDI's voice rings out, a sense of urgency hidden in the tone.
Andersson quickly moves to a quieter corner of the courtyard, holding up a hand to Karass, signaling that he needs a moment. He taps his comm, responding.
"Go ahead, EDI."
The voice of the ship's AI responds almost immediately, her usual calm giving way to a hint of frustration. "Captain, I've been trying to contact you for over 12 hours. What is your status?"
Andersson raises an eyebrow, glancing at Karass briefly, still unsure of what to make of this sudden shift. "We're fine, EDI. Something came up, but we're all safe. What's going on?"
Before EDI can respond, Karass interrupts, his voice surprisingly casual. "We were suppressing your communications. Don't think too much into it, human. It's standard procedure."
Andersson is taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovers. "Suppressing our communications? Karass, we needed to be in contact."
Karass shrugs nonchalantly, giving a small smirk. "It's not often we have guests from beyond Thedas. You'll survive a little disruption."
Andersson's expression tightens, but he doesn't press further. "We're fine, EDI," he repeats. "Now, what's happening? Why is it urgent?"
EDI's voice comes through again, now laced with concern. "Captain, you're going to want to get back to the Pathfinder. There are... developments. Something's changed."
The line goes silent for a second, and Andersson's stomach churns. "What kind of developments, EDI? You're not making any sense."
Before EDI can answer, Karass gestures toward one of his aides, who approaches with a sleek, rectangular device in hand. The aide presents it to Karass, who takes it with a steady motion and holds it out to Andersson.
"Go. Take this with you," Karass says, his tone both commanding and casual at once.
Andersson looks at the device, curiosity flickering through him as he steps forward. He reaches for it cautiously. "What is this?" he asks, inspecting the small, alien device.
Karass's lips curl into a small, knowing smile. "It's our entire database. History, star charts, scientific achievements—everything you could want to know about Thedas and beyond. Information on the greater galaxy, its races, its politics. It's all in there."
Reece steps forward, glancing at the device in Andersson's hands before looking up at Karass, brow raised. "And what do you want us to do with it? You want us to be researchers now? We shoot things, Karass. Not analyze spreadsheets."
Karass's smirk widens into a full grin. "And yet, here you are. Involved in a war you don't understand. But that's how it goes, doesn't it? Even soldiers need to become scholars sometimes."
He nodded toward the data unit. "I could've had it uploaded directly into your systems. All of it, in an instant. But I didn't. I want you to choose to learn. To engage. To trust me. This knowledge is yours now—you're in control of how you use it. That's not for me to dictate."
Andersson remains silent for a moment, glancing from Karass to Reece, taking in the situation.
"So you're asking us to help figure out your next move, based on all this... information?"
Karass nodded, his expression steady. "I'm sure you'll want evidence—proof of the things we've discussed. Everything you should need is in there."
Hale crossed her arms, eyeing the device. "And how do we know it's accurate?"
Karass didn't blink. "You don't," he said simply. "Some of this data is so old, even we don't. But it comes back to trust. I hope that by showing you this, you'll understand—I'm not trying to mislead you."
A few seconds passed. The implication hung between them like static—this wasn't just a download. It was a reckoning.
Karass's gaze returned to Andersson, the teasing gone. His golden eyes burned with something more deliberate.
"The time is coming when we'll need more than just weapons. We need to understand what we're up against—and who we can trust. You, humans, might just be able to give us an edge."
Andersson looks at the device in his hands. It was dense with meaning—not just data, but decisions.
Reece glances at him, half-skeptical, half-worried. "You heard him, Captain. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
Andersson nods. "Looks like it. Let's head back to the Pathfinder and see what's going on." He turns to Karass, giving him a firm nod. "We'll look over the data. But I don't know how much we'll be able to help just yet."
Karass's smile softens, his gaze a little more thoughtful. "I trust you'll find a way, Captain Andersson. The knowledge contained there could be the key to what happens next."
Andersson, Reece, and Hale began the walk back to the landing pad, the device still in his grip.
It might hold the answers to everything they'd been searching for—
or it might unravel everything they thought they knew.