"The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it."

Night had fallen, and the ritual was upon us. Alistair led us into the ruins, sneaking glances at me that hovered somewhere between suspicion and concern. I kept my eyes forward, clinging to faith in my plan. The more I thought about it, the worse it felt—but it was all I had. The time to do more had long since passed. I'd made my choice. There was no going back.

We stood in a loose circle, waiting for Duncan to reappear from… wherever he'd gone. My eyes kept drifting to the single silver goblet sitting ominously atop the stone table at the centre of the crumbling ruin.

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth snapped at Jory—his bravado thinly masking the fear behind it.

"Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?" Jory snapped, catching my eye.

I looked away. I couldn't bring myself to lie with a hollow smile or empty reassurance.

"Maybe it's tradition," Daveth offered. "Maybe they're just trying to annoy you."

He nudged me with a cheeky grin—get a load of this guy—but I just frowned and looked away, tuning him out.

Dead men walking.

Dead men walking.

Dead men…

"I don't like it any more than you do," Grayson said quietly. "But there's no changing it now."

I looked up—and it felt like he was speaking directly to me.

I forgot about Jory.

About the pregnant wife waiting for him in Highever.

The baby he'd never get to hold.

All the people I didn't know—couldn't know—but had failed anyway.

If I'd just warned him, maybe he wouldn't be here now.

Maybe she wouldn't be a widow.

Maybe their child wouldn't grow up without a father.

I told myself it was strategy. Calculated. Necessary.

But that didn't make it less cruel.

What gave me the right to decide? Whose deaths were necessary, whose lives were worth more?

Who was I to play god?

Because he was supposed to die? Because it would prove some point I thought I was making with my half-baked plan?

Is that all it took to justify standing by and letting it happen?

If I couldn't save one good man, what was the point of me being here at all?

"It just doesn't seem fair."

"Would you have come if they'd warned you? Maybe that's why they don't," Daveth said, glancing around the group. "The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?" Jory snapped.

I winced, swaying under the weight of the taint—and my guilt. Grayson caught me gently with a hand at my back. I gave him a small, silent thank-you.

When I looked up, Alistair quickly glanced away, wearing a tight, unreadable smile.

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight," Daveth said solemnly.

I couldn't look at him.

I liked Daveth. He was a bit of a lad. Bit of a chancer. The kind of guy you'd find in a pub, making everyone laugh with lewd jokes, selling dodgy DVDs, maybe a stolen Blu-ray player. A harmless rogue. Heart in the right place.

He didn't deserve to die. Not like this.

Dead men walking.

Grayson looked down at me. I could see in his eyes that I must have looked as miserable as I felt.

He nodded—steady. Reassuring.

I tried to smile. It came out as a grimace.

He cleared his throat.

"Alright, that's enough, you two," he said curtly.

"Yeah, Ser Knight. Try not to wet your trousers until the ritual starts."

"I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade."

"Yeah, I wouldn't worry about that." I muttered, despite myself.

Duncan's arrival cut through the tension. He strode past us, toward the stone table—and the goblet that held each of our fates. His face was grave. His stance, rigid. Formal. All steel and ceremony.

"At last, we come to the Joining.

The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the brink of annihilation. So it was that the first Wardens drank of Darkspawn blood—and mastered the taint."

He stopped and turned to face us, his eyes sweeping over each of our faces with quiet calculation.
I didn't look up. I kept my head down, eyes fixed on the floor—pretending to be weak.

Though truthfully, I wasn't pretending.

I was on death's doorstep. I'd just grown used to the knocking.

And the thought that it might all be over soon—one way or another—was its own kind of anaesthesia.

"We're… going to drink the blood of those—those creatures?" Jory asked, his voice shaking.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us," Duncan said evenly. "This is the source of our power—and our victory."

"Those who survive become immune to the taint," Alistair added, glancing at me. "Even those already infected. We can sense the Darkspawn…and use it to slay the Archdemon."

"Those who survive," Grayson echoed quietly.

There was no fear in his voice—just grim understanding. Like he'd already made peace with it.

I was starting to do the same.

"Not all who drink will survive," Duncan said, and for the first time, I heard something close to regret in his voice. "And those who do… are forever changed. That is why the Joining is kept secret. It is the price we pay."

He paused.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair?"

Alistair stepped forward and looked down—his eyes catching mine.

For the first time since we met, I didn't recognise him.

I couldn't reconcile this grim, solemn man with the awkward, funny boy who had made me laugh when I didn't think I could.

For the first time since we met, I felt completely alone.

"Join us, brothers and sisters.
Join us in the shadows, where we stand vigilant.
Join us in carrying the duty that cannot be forsworn.
And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten—
and that one day, we shall join you."

Duncan lifted the goblet from the table with both hands—solemn, reverent.

Then he looked at me.

And I froze.

No, no, no. Don't say me.

I'd gone over that letter fifteen times. Accounted for every detail—except me. My presence had changed the timeline, and if this didn't play out exactly as it had before…

Daveth and Jory's deaths would be for nothing.

"Lauren," Duncan said.

I shook my head. "I'm just… not feeling great. Can someone else go first?"

Alistair frowned, and I caught the flicker of disappointment in his face—but I ignored it.

"Lauren, you are not long for this world. Delaying further would not be wise," Duncan said—sharp now, commanding. The voice I'd only ever heard him use on Alistair in the game.

"I honestly think I might projectile vomit. And I don't want to waste any of the… blood," I added weakly.

He studied me.

I held his gaze. I'm not backing out. I'm already dead. Just… not yet. Not like this. You'll ruin everything.

"I just need a moment. I've been dying for hours—what's a few more minutes?"

Duncan held my gaze a moment longer.

Then, with a curt nod:

"Very well. Take a few moments to collect yourself. Daveth..."

I turned away, breathless with guilt.

My chest ached from the weight of what I was about to allow.

I could still stop it.

But I wouldn't.

I had to let him die.

I squeezed my eyes shut until my skull throbbed, trying to block out the sounds:

His gasp of shock.

The panic in his breathing.

The awful, drawn-out scream.

And then—

Silence.

Worse than any scream.

It swallowed everything. The evidence of what I had done.

Silence had never seemed so loud before. So accusing.

You did this.

"I'm sorry, Daveth," Duncan said softly.

Beside me, Grayson let out a strangled breath.

He's dead because of you. Look at what you've done.

I opened my eyes.

Daveth lay face-down on the stone floor. Lifeless.

I raised a hand to my mouth, nausea twisting in my gut.

It was one thing to watch a character die in a game.

This was a real man. A man I had liked, despite myself.

And now he was just… gone.

Because of me.

I looked away, blinking back tears—just in time to see Jory stepping back, his hand inching toward his sword.

"Step forward, Jory," Duncan said.

"But... I have a wife..." His gaze darted between us, wild, pleading. "A child...Had I known..."

"There is no turning back," Duncan said, voice low and heavy. He stepped toward him, holding out the goblet like it might change Jory's mind through sheer will.

I caught Duncan's eyes.

And I saw it there already: the weight of what he'd have to do.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

Still, he held the goblet out.

Still, he hoped.

"There is no glory in this!" Jory shouted, drawing his sword.

Fear sharpened into resolve—flight gave way to fight.

Duncan set the goblet down, quiet and deliberate.

Then drew his own blade. Slow. Reluctant. But resigned.

Grayson stirred beside me—tense, ready.

I reached out, placed a hand on his arm. He looked at me, stricken.

I shook my head. Don't.

The sound of steel on steel pulled us back.

Too late.

Duncan's sword was already through Jory's chest.

Grayson shook his head, stunned. It had happened so fast.

"I'm sorry, Jory," Duncan said, gently—cradling him as he slumped.

None of us spoke.

I looked at Alistair.

He didn't look back. Just stared at the ground, jaw set.

Duncan laid Jory's body down, wiped his blade, and sheathed it.

Then, without a word, he reached for the goblet once more.

"But the Joining is not yet complete. Lauren."

I turned to Grayson.

"Whatever happens—don't do anything stupid," I pleaded, just loud enough for him to hear, "You have to finish this. No matter what."

He frowned, uncertain. I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

He met my gaze, and nodded.

"It doesn't matter what happens to me," I added quietly, though I wasn't sure if I meant it for him or for me.

I turned toward Duncan and took a step.

Then another.

The third never landed.

My legs gave out all at once—no tension, no warning. Just gone.

I crashed.

My body hit the stone with a sickening crack. My knees, my hip, my ribs, then my shoulder—each impact lighting up my nerves like sparks from flint. The breath tore from my lungs in one violent rush.

For a moment, I lay there.

Stunned. Flattened. Hollow.

Then the pain caught up to me.

Agony burst through my side like fireworks under the skin. My hands scraped at the ground as I tried to push up, but nothing in my body wanted to respond. My limbs felt distant. Useless. Shaking from the inside out.

I let out a sound I couldn't stop—a small, broken whimper.

Humiliating. Pathetic.

Somewhere ahead, boots shifted on stone—fast, approaching.

"No." Duncan's voice. Steady. Final.

I didn't need to look up. I knew who he'd stopped.

But I looked anyway.

Alistair had frozen mid-step. His eyes met mine. Something wrecked and aching passed between us.

Pain. Fear. Powerlessness.

I couldn't hold it.

I looked away.

He'd carried me this far. But this—I had to do myself.

I braced my arms. Tried to rise.

My elbows buckled, and my cheekbone hit the stone with a dull, horrible thud. The impact rang through my skull—but didn't register as pain.

There was too much of that already.

My body couldn't tell the difference.

I stayed there, breathing hard. Gritting against the cold stone. Eyes fluttering shut for just a second too long.

The temptation to stop—to give in—almost won.

And then I saw her.

Her face. Her laugh.

My name, screamed into the dark like a prayer I never answered.

She hadn't been given a choice.

She never got to fight for her ending.

I still could.

Even like this.

Even if all I could do was crawl.

I had to make it count.

For Emily.

Daveth. Jory. The letter.

My life. My death. My choice.

So I pressed my palms to the floor.

And I crawled.

Elbows dragging forward first. Then hands. My muscles screamed with every inch. My breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. My ribs stabbed with each one. My body trembled. Every shift forward lit up a new flare of pain.

But I didn't stop.

The world narrowed down to the floor beneath me and the space ahead.

Inch by inch.

The cold scraped at my skin. Blood stuck to the ridges in the stone. My arms trembled with effort. My knees barely remembered how to bend. But I kept going. Because stopping wasn't an option.

When I finally reached Duncan, I couldn't rise at first. I just knelt there, trembling, hands flat on the cold stone, head bowed like I was about to be executed.

Maybe I was.

Slowly, I raised my head.

The world spun.

My vision pulsed at the edges—too bright, too dark, too everything—but I kept my eyes open. Locked on Duncan, even as my body threatened to buckle again.

He stepped forward, solemn, and offered the goblet.

I didn't take it.

I shook my head once. Slow. Unsteady.

"Drink, Lauren," he said—low and careful.

I met his eyes and recognised the same weight that had been there when he had offered the goblet to Jory.

I closed my eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to find it—that one last flicker of defiance buried under all the pain and fear and exhaustion.

"If I'm going to die..."

My voice cracked. Barely there. I wasn't even sure he'd heard me.

I looked up—eyes burning, lungs failing, everything shaking—

"...it's not going to be on my knees."

The silence that followed stretched thin.

I waited. Poised, uncertain. Like playing jump rope with my own body—trying to time the moment when I might still catch strength mid-swing—just enough to stand.

But those moments had all passed.

I didn't have any strength left.

I stood anyway.

My body screamed. My legs barely worked. My spine wobbled like a tree about to split.

But I stood.

Wobbling. Swaying. Everything inside me pulling in opposite directions.

Still—I stayed on my feet.

Duncan didn't speak. But something in his expression softened—just barely.

He held out the goblet again.

I took it, steadying it with both hands like it might slip through my fingers if I blinked too hard.

Then I turned.

Alistair's eyes were on mine. Quiet. Focused. There.

I offered him a weak smile.

"See you on the other side."

I hesitated. Just a breath. One last moment.

Then I closed my eyes.

And drank.

The taste hit me first.

Metallic. Thick. Wrong.

It coated my tongue, clung to the back of my throat, like I'd just drunk a mouthful of someone else's nosebleed.

My stomach lurched.

Then the pain vanished. The weight. The heat. The stone. The struggle.

Gone.

"I'm sorry, Lauren."

Duncan's voice.

And then—nothing.

Just… black.

Not even darkness—not really. Darkness implies depth. Shadows.

The potential for light.

This was more final.

More absolute.

Absence.

No falling. No floating.

No Lauren.

I was thought without shape. A whisper without a voice.

So this is death.

I thought she'd be here.

Emily.

I thought she would be waiting.

I hoped Alistair remembered the letter I gave him.

I hoped that, even in death, I could still do something good.

My life for theirs… I could live with that.

Or—more accurately—I wouldn't have to.

I wondered, vaguely, if this was all there was.

Just this void. And my own thoughts.
Forever.

A memory floated in like a leaf on still water.

Emily.

Her face. Her voice. That stupid rainbow hoodie she never took off.

I wanted to see her one more time.
Tell her I was okay.
That she would be too.

I wanted to hold her.

But the void didn't care what I wanted.

The void was still.

Blank.

Timeless.

And mind-numbingly boring.

No angels. No clouds. No fire. No brimstone.

Just… nothing.

Static.

Unmoving. Unfeeling. Unforgivably dull.

Unimaginably, soul-crushingly boring.

I'd died, and somehow Hell turned out to be nothing happening forever. No audience. No banter. No chaos. No me.

And I hated it.

I had things to do. People to warn. Jokes to finish.

A mabari to check on.

I wasn't done.

Absolutely not.

I refused to let this be the end.

And just like that—

I gasped.

Air slammed into my lungs. My body spasmed violently. Pain bloomed sharp and fast across every limb like I'd been struck by lightning and run over by a train. Simultaneously.

My eyes flew open.

I rolled sideways and coughed, hard, my ribs screaming in protest. My hands scrabbled weakly at the ground.

Stone. Cold. Real.

Then—hands. On my shoulders.

Strong. Warm. Shaking.

"Lauren?" Alistair's voice cracked. "Maker—Duncan!"

I couldn't answer. I was too busy trying not to retch my soul back up.

I clutched at his wrist—reflex more than anything. Grounding. Real.

He crouched beside me, frozen halfway between holding me up and not daring to touch me.

"You were—" He cut off, catching my shoulders as I sagged forward, still gasping. "How are you—"

"Didn't like being dead," I rasped, as if that explained everything. "Too quiet."

He let out a stunned half-laugh, half-exhale.

Then—coolness.

The tip of a waterskin pressed gently to my lips.

I drank greedily. I couldn't remember water ever tasting so sweet. It spilled down my chin as I gulped, but I didn't care. It was cold, and wet, and real—apparently dying really worked up a thirst.

When I finally pulled away, breathless, Duncan met my eyes.

He greeted me with a soft, genuine smile.

"Welcome back, Lauren."

His voice was low. Steady. Warm in a way I hadn't expected.

"How are you feeling?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"I'm feeling," I managed eventually. "That's...not nothing."

Alistair dropped to sit fully on the ground, bracing his forearms on his knees, like his legs had finally given out. He let out a quiet breath beside me—relieved, but cautious. Like if he believed it too quickly, it might un-happen.

"Next time you want attention," he said, voice a little too casual, "just ask."

"Nah. You know me," I started to smile, but pain bloomed in my face and I winced, raising a hand to my bloodied cheek. "I like to make an impression."

"Yeah. Well. You did."

I turned my head. He wasn't looking at me.

"You scared me."

I studied him for a moment.

He wasn't just shaken—he was braced. Like this had confirmed something he'd been trying not to believe. That people always left. That he always stayed. Like he'd already added me to the list and hadn't quite figured out how to cross my name back out.

"You missed me," I said, because maybe if I said it like a joke—it wouldn't sound like something heavy.

He wrinkled his nose. "You were gone for maybe two minutes. Let's not get sentimental about it."

But there was a softness in his voice. One he didn't bother disguising very well.

I waited.

He sighed. "Yes, alright. Maybe."

He cleared his throat, gaze flicking sideways.

"And I'd already started mentally choreographing the interpretive dance eulogy. Lots of this," he made a vague, defeated motion that vaguely resembled jazz hands. He glanced at me for my reaction.

"Oh, that's beautiful," I said, laying it on with solemn conviction.

Alistair gave a crooked smile. "Duncan would've hated it. I was going to make him be the tree."

I laughed—hoarse, thin, but real.

And then Duncan spoke. "Lauren."

I looked up. His eyes weren't unkind. Just firm enough to remind us this wasn't over.

"Can you stand?"

For a second, I didn't answer. Just looked at him. At the weight behind the question.

Alistair didn't speak, but his hand hovered—not offering, not pulling away. A silent vote of confidence. Or maybe just readiness, in case I fell flat on my face.

I gave him the barest nod.

Then I braced my hands against the stone, gritted my teeth, and pushed—only to find, to my surprise, that my limbs responded. Slow, but steady.

The sickness that had dogged every step since the Wilds—the weight, the heat, the bone-deep fatigue—was gone.

In its place… power. Not loud, not dramatic. Just solid. Present. Like gravity.

I rolled my shoulders. Flexed my fingers. Breathed.

And immediately regretted it.

Pain bloomed sharp and sudden across my ribs, my cheek, my hip—everywhere I'd met the stone floor with something resembling velocity.

I hissed. Alistair reached toward me instinctively but stopped himself halfway. I waved him off with a half-grimace.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just… aggressively aware of every bruise on my body."

I straightened up, slower this time. The pain didn't fade, but it didn't floor me either. My muscles still worked. My legs held. I was scraped and bruised and battered—but I wasn't broken.

I was alive.

More than that—I was something else now. Something new.

A Grey Warden.

The thought made me pause.

Then I turned.

And reality landed hard.

Daveth lay where he'd fallen. Still. Face-down. Gone.

Jory beside him. Crumpled. Blood already drying on the floor beneath him.

No one had moved them.

There hadn't been time.

I stared at them both, hollow and quiet.

No one said a word.

I remembered their voices. Their last words. Their fear.

I remembered doing nothing.

Because that was the plan.

Because I'd decided it had to happen this way.

I swallowed hard.

"Where's Grayson?"

"He hasn't woken yet, but he will," Duncan said gently. "It will just take time."

I followed his gesture to where Grayson lay a few feet away, still and pale, but breathing. Relief swept through me.

"Two more deaths," Alistair said quietly, his gaze on the bodies. "In my Joining, only one of us died. But it was still… horrible."

I glanced at him sidelong. "Let me guess. The one who didn't make it was already tainted? Had an attitude problem?"

He winced. "I didn't want to worry you.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat felt like it had been scraped raw from the inside. I turned away, blinking hard.

"Duncan," I said quietly.

He looked at me, alert again.

"Do you remember what I said to you when we first met? Why I came to Ostagar?"

His brow furrowed. "You said you needed to speak with me. That it was important."

I nodded.

I turned to Alistair, who was looking between Duncan and I, perplexed. "Do you have the letter?"

"Oh. Right—yeah." He fished it from inside his armour, still folded, still sealed. A little sweat-soaked, but otherwise intact.

"Good. I need you both to read it."

Alistair hesitated. "Lauren… is this really the time?"

I bit back the sarcastic response that was on my tongue and met his eyes with gentle sincerity.

"It's the only time," I promised. "What's in there...it matters. It has to matter. Lives depend on it. Lives have already been given for it. I'm going to have to ask you both to place a lot of faith in something impossible. Like—impossible impossible."

"Like take the most impossible thing you can think of and multiply it by itself." Alistair echoed, realisation dawning on his face.

"That's about the measure of it, yes," I said, quietly. "This letter is the only thing I have that's anywhere close to proof. So, please...can you confirm that this is the piece of paper I gave to you before the Joining ritual, and it hasn't left your possession since?"

I fell into the speel I had learned from Derren Brown: Mind-Reader.

He nodded, handing it to Duncan. "Hasn't moved."

"And you'd have noticed if I'd reached inside your armour to steal it."

He coughed. Blushed. "Yes. I'd… definitely have noticed that."

"Right. Good. So we all agree—no tampering. That's your signature. That's the note. Read it."

I watched their faces shift—confusion giving way to disbelief, then to something heavier. Grim and quiet.

When they looked up, the silence between us crackled.

"Lauren…" Duncan's voice was low, measured. "How is this possible?"

I shook my head.

"I think we've pretty much established that it isn't. Anything close to an explanation is...a long story. One I don't know how to tell, and one we definitely don't have time for now. But you read the last part?"

He nodded slowly.

"Loghain. The king.. Myself."

"It's going to happen. If we go to battle tonight, we lose. You die. Cailan dies. And Loghain turns Ferelden against the Grey Wardens."

"Do you expect me to believe," Duncan said carefully, "that Teyrn Loghain—hero of the Rebellion, the king's most trusted ally—would commit treason?"

"No," I said. "I expected you not to. That's why I let those two men die."

Duncan's expression tightened. Alistair glanced back at the bodies, jaw clenched.

"I knew what would happen, and I let it happen anyway," I said. "Because you wouldn't have believed me without proof. Please. Please believe me. Please don't...if their deaths change nothing, and I could have prevented them..."

"I believe her." Alistair said, quietly, glancing at Duncan, and the two shared a look. "How else do you explain this?"

"Warning you—it's the only reason I came to Ostagar in the first place. And I've paid for it with my life. Maybe I survived the Joining, but we both know what being a Grey Warden means. Duncan...I'm eighteen years old and I just let every single door in life that doesn't lead to struggle and death slam shut on me," my voice wavered, traitorously, and I studiously ignored Alistair's eyes. "This wasn't some stunt. It's not a guess. It's not a hunch. It's what will happen if we don't stop it."

I sounded a lot more confident than I felt.

Every fibre of my being was acutely aware that if he chose not to believe me, I'd have been better off succumbing to the Darkspawn taint.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out the penalty for treason, when the penalty for desertion was being hung in a cage until you starved to death.

Duncan held my gaze for what felt like several minutes, and I felt as though I could actually see the cogs of his mind working, trying to decide whether to believe me or not. Eventually, he looked away, shaking his head miserably, and my heart sank.

"Duncan—" I started, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand, turning back to face me.

"So, Lauren Duval..." he said, "What do you suggest we do?"

I blinked.

"You...believe me?"

He gave a tired, crooked smile.

"Yes, Lauren. Yes, I suppose I do."

Relief hit so fast it almost knocked the breath out of me. I hadn't realised how little I'd expected this to work—until it had.

A low groan from nearby pulled our attention.

Grayson stirred. He pushed himself upright, blinking blearily.

"Hey, buddy," I called softly, as we approached him. "How're you feeling?"

He squinted. "Hey… We made it." He sounded dazed. He looked like hell, but smiled faintly. "That was… something."

"Well, today's been… eventful," he muttered, letting Alistair help him to his feet. "Think I'll sleep well tonight."

The three of us exchanged a look.

"What?" He asked, apprehensively.

I stepped towards him, rubbing his arm sympathetically.

"Aw...you'll sleep tomorrow."

His face fell.

I considered for a moment.

"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. And maybe just a power nap."

I grimaced apologetically, and turned to the others.

"Gentlemen...we have work to do."