I sprinted across the great stone bridge, dodging soldiers and hurdling sleeping mabari like some kind of undertrained, over-armoured contestant in a boot camp obstacle course. My thighs burned, my calves ached—penance for too many nights on the couch and not enough gym time.
The only thing keeping me upright was spite and a fast metabolism.
The weight of the splint-mail armour wasn't making things any easier, and eventually I slowed to a stop a little more than halfway across the bridge and bent double, panting.
Apparently, surviving the Joining didn't come with bonus cardio.
"God, I'm so unfit," I chastised myself.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
"I don't know," a voice called out, "you look pretty fit to me."
The men around him laughed in appreciation. I rolled my eyes, answering with a mocking laugh before slowly straightening and turning toward them, shooting them a bored look that I hoped they took to mean: you are so far beneath me that I'm risking altitude sickness just by deigning to grace you with eye contact.
I was already turning to leave when a shock of recognition yanked me back like a leash.
The face clicked before the voice did. Tall. Raven hair. Amber eyes. The easy smirk that wouldn't have been out of place on the cover of GQ.
It took a beat, but the memory surfaced—one that hadn't technically happened yet: "We've been running since Ostagar."
No. Fuckin'. Way.
"Hawke?" I asked, narrowing my eyes in disbelief.
He mirrored the squint.
"Do I know you?"
His grin was casual, confident—too casual. He was watching me closely. Calculating. Sizing me up. The others were nudging him, laughing like idiots, but his attention was fixed on me.
"No. You don't." I let my gaze rake over him. Heavy armour. Longsword. Warrior class. Good news for Bethany.
I met his eyes again and they sparkled with amusement, but there was something else beneath the bravado. Something more intense and aware.
Classic protagonist energy.
I felt my lips tug into a crooked smile, nodding once.
He inclined his head back at me, all smoulder and swagger.
I took a slow step backward, already remembering why I had been running in the first place.
"Be seeing you, then."
"With any luck," he said, flashing a grin sharp enough to be for the boys, not me.
I smirked anyway. Then turned. And ran.
After we'd brought Grayson up to speed, Duncan said he would speak to King Cailan alone. He thought the truth might not go over well—and if it didn't, the consequences could be dire. Treason-level dire. He didn't want me implicated if things went south, so he sent me on a convenient errand to the Tower of Ishal. Deliver a message. Look useful. Stay out of the blast radius.
I knew it was busywork. A distraction. Maybe even a kindness. I did it anyway.
I'd already caused enough trouble. I wasn't in any position to argue. But it made me feel wretched, knowing that Duncan was carrying the weight of this alone—a burden that should have been mine to bear.
So when a squire tracked me down at the tower and said the king had summoned me to the war council, I knew something had shifted.
A hundred thoughts exploded at once as I bolted back across the bridge—none of them good. Maybe Duncan had told him everything, and Cailan wanted me arrested. Maybe Duncan hadn't believed me after all.
Maybe this was all part of some elaborate ruse to trap the crazy girl and cart her off to the nearest mental asylum.
No, I told myself, Duncan is an honourable man. You're being paranoid.
I just hoped I wasn't running headlong into a prison sentence...or worse.
By the time I reached the far end of the bridge, my lungs were on fire. I slowed to a jog, cursing the fact that my supposed Grey Warden stamina hadn't kicked in yet.
I half-stumbled, half-sprinted toward the stone ramp. The torches didn't reach this far, and I found myself moving through darkness, relying on memory to guide me.
A faint light flickered up ahead—just right of the ramp. Relief surged through me. I broke into another run, eyes fixed on the path.
I didn't see the shadow crossing in front of me until I slammed into it at full speed and landed flat on my back with a deeply undignified grunt.
The figure staggered but didn't fall. He turned sharply, hand already on the hilt of his sword.
"Who goes there?" he demanded—understandably on edge after being tackled by an unseen entity.
I squinted up at him.
"Alistair?"
"Lauren?" His shoulders dropped. "What are you— I thought Duncan sent you—"
"He did. But now I've been summoned," I muttered grimly, pushing myself to my feet.
"And you thought you'd express your displeasure with the situation by attacking me?" he suggested.
I shrugged, brushing myself off.
"It seemed as good a plan as any," I replied, wincing as I rolled my shoulder. "If I'd known it would be like running into a brick wall, I might've considered a different approach. Pretty sure my bruises have bruises."
"Bet that helmet's sounding a lot less stupid now, isn't it?" he said, smug.
"Nobody likes a know-it-all."
"We're a deeply misunderstood people."
I hummed but didn't reply.
He tilted his head, picking up on the break in our usual rhythm.
"You okay?"
"I'm always okay," I nodded. "I'm just...how do I look?"
He hesitated.
"I'm not certain I should answer that. Feels like a trap."
"No trap. I promise. I just want to make sure I'm presentable enough for my first-ever royal audience."
He blinked. Then frowned.
"Cailan summoned you? Personally?"
The shift in his face was instant. Light drained from his expression, replaced by something far more serious. My stomach dropped. The concern pinching his brow confirmed it wasn't just me—this was bad.
He must've seen it—because just as quickly, he threw on a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ah. Of course," he said breezily. "Probably wants your opinion on which cape looks best fluttering in the breeze while he heroically ignores every warning we've ever given him."
"I told you I was bringing glamour to the order. It makes sense he'd seek the opinion of an expert," I shrugged. "Or, alternatively, he's just curious to speak to the crazy girl who accused his father-in-law of unprovable thought-crimes."
I didn't laugh. I just stood there, quiet.
His smile faded. "Hey... I'm sure it's not that," he said, softer now. "Loghain's still with them. Duncan won't have said anything yet. That was the whole plan—wait until they were alone. You'll be fine. Duncan's great at plans."
I nodded, but didn't speak.
"Unless the king's started having people arrested for egregious use of sarcasm or—Maker forbid— having better hair than him," he added, aiming for a grin and almost managing it, "In which case, we're both doomed."
I gave him a half-smile, but couldn't quite make it stick.
"And hey... Duncan and Grayson are there. Whatever this is—you're not alone."
I folded my arms to stop my hands from fidgeting and nodded again.
I wanted to ask him to come with me, but I couldn't bring myself to.
I tried to turn from him, toward the ramp. Couldn't bring myself to do that, either.
I glanced up at him. Opened my mouth. Closed it. Frowned. Looked away.
He hesitated.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked, gentler now. Not teasing. Just...there.
"Will you?" I asked—too quickly.
Alistair blinked. Just once. Then nodded.
"Of course," he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. Less a sigh, more a whoosh of sheer relief.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "I'll feel better with you there."
The words were honest, unfiltered—but they landed a little heavier than I'd meant.
"I mean... if nothing else, you'll make an excellent human shield," I added quickly, for good measure.
"Well, you know. Always happy to escort a fellow Grey Warden to potential doom."
I raised an eyebrow.
He winced. "That was meant to be comforting. I'll work on it."
"Come on, then," I sighed, already walking. "Potential doom isn't known for its patience."
We started up the stone ramp side by side, boots crunching quietly on the gravel. The torches ahead flickered against the looming walls of the ruin, throwing long shadows in every direction.
"Well," he said, exhaling slowly, "good news is, I'm right behind you. Bad news is, I'll probably trip and knock us both over."
"That's fine. I'd prefer to make an entrance."
Alistair chuckled, but I could feel the tension rising between us again as the voices ahead grew louder—Cailan's laughter, Loghain's grumble, Duncan's calm.
As we neared the table, the din of the war council shifted—conversation thinning, postures straightening.
Cailan's head turned first, his face lighting up like we were old friends crashing a dinner party he'd secretly hoped we'd attend.
"Alistair! And this must be the other new Warden."
I blinked. I'd been bracing for grim faces and stern voices. Not…beaming enthusiasm.
Duncan looked up, stiffening. "Alistair. Lauren. I wasn't expecting either of you."
His voice wasn't angry, but there was an undercurrent. Surprise, edged with something sharper.
"That would be my doing, Duncan," Cailan said, brushing the Warden-Commander's concern away like dust from his sleeve. "I wanted to meet both of our brave new Wardens."
Duncan gave a tight nod, but said nothing. He stepped back, his expression unreadable.
"Aw. She's so little!" Cailan exclaimed, stepping around the war table with the delighted surprise of someone meeting a particularly charming mabari puppy.
I raised my eyebrows, a little stunned, caught somewhere between laughing and scowling.
Alistair snorted, and I shot him a look.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered out the side of my mouth, meant only for him. "I get it. I'm adorable."
My voice echoed off the stone.
Louder than I meant it to. Definitely not just for him.
Cailan's grin stretched wider.
"Uh…what I lack in height, I make up for in...lack-of-height," I added quickly, wincing at my own delivery.
Alistair cleared his throat.
"Don't worry. She grows on you," he offered.
There was a beat.
Cailan's eyes slid to Alistair with renewed interest, and I saw the exact moment he regretted saying anything at all. He glanced at me. Then back to Cailan.
"It was a height joke," he added, stiffly.
Cailan tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself.
"No need to explain, Alistair. Your wit always stands head and shoulders above the rest."
Alistair gave a surprised laugh, then blinked, like the line had hit him sideways. He looked down, visibly recalibrating.
It was the kind of joke he would've made. The kind he had made. A dozen times.
He shifted slightly, thrown—not by the words, but by who they were coming from.
"Apologies, Your Majesty," I cut in smoothly, sparing him from further scrutiny. "I haven't introduced myself yet—it's the height of bad manners. Lauren Duval, at your service."
"At my service? Indeed? You do set high expectations."
"Then…let's hope I don't fall short."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll rise to the occasion."
"That's a tall order, but I think I can deliver."
The puns landed. The room laughed. But something in me tilted, just slightly off-balance.
I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Then I felt it. Just the barest shift beside me.
Alistair had gone quiet. Jaw tight. Eyes tracking the exchange like he was watching something slip through his fingers.
Like someone watching a rehearsal of a play he thought he'd already been cast in.
And that's when it hit me: the way Cailan stepped into our rhythm like he'd always belonged there.
Like it came naturally.
And maybe it did.
He was the golden boy. The rightful heir. The one the world had already chosen.
And now here he was, sliding into something that had felt like it was ours.
And I'd let him.
I hadn't meant anything by it. But the look on Alistair's face said enough.
Not anger. Not resentment.
Just that quiet kind of disappointment people learn not to voice.
The kind that says: Right. Of course. It felt like mine…so of course it's his.
It was such a small thing. I doubted anyone else would have recognised it. But I'd spent a lifetime navigating this with Emily.
I felt a flicker of protectiveness tighten behind my ribs.
My body moved before my mind caught up.
A step closer to him, slight but deliberate.
Like falling back into formation.
Alistair had gone quiet, and I knew that kind of quiet.
It was the kind of quiet Emily disappeared into when I slipped, without meaning to, into the role of Twin A—in spaces with people she'd thought were hers.
So I reestablished the line. Because you hold the line. That's what you do.
I didn't look at him—didn't want to draw attention to it.
Honestly, I wasn't even sure I hadn't invented the whole thing in my stupid, socially-inept brain.
But then—the lightest shift.
A presence reestablishing itself at my elbow.
I glanced back at Cailan, relieved to see that he was still beaming at me like nothing had changed. He started to speak—no doubt volleying back with another pun.
A cough—sharp and deliberate—interrupted his reply.
Loghain had turned, his eyes cutting toward me for the first time. His expression wasn't angry, exactly—but there was something appraising in the look, like he was trying to decide if I was an inconvenience, an asset, or something he needed to crush underfoot.
"Duval," he said slowly, the name pronounced with a curl of distaste. "Orlesian, is it?"
The words hung, cool and casual, but sharp enough to draw blood.
I tried to force my expression into something neutral, but I couldn't resist needling him—just a little.
"Non, je ne crois pas."
That earned me a second silence. Heavier than the first.
Loghain's eyes narrowed. Not hostile—not yet—but probing. Like he was peeling me back, layer by layer.
Duncan shifted—just slightly. Something flickered across his face. Too fast to read, but not nothing. Annoyance, maybe.
Right. I wasn't supposed to be clever and foreign.
My face burned, and I silently cursed my complete lack of filter. I cleared my throat.
"It, uh…it does sound Orlesian, doesn't it?" I offered, hoping to ease the tension.
"Then again, so does trebuchet," Alistair muttered beside me—always too quick for his own good. "But I wouldn't pick a fight with one of those either."
That earned a few smiles. Even Cailan looked faintly amused.
But Loghain's eyes didn't leave Alistair. They lingered a little too long. Not quite a glare—more like comparison. Appraisal. Recognition.
He glanced back at me, and his expression shifted.
"Names mean little, in the end," he murmured, "It's the blood behind them that matters."
It wasn't loud. But it was targeted. I felt it whistling past me like an arrow, and I knew exactly where it was headed.
Beside me, Alistair stiffened. No sharp intake of breath. No visible shift. Just a slight tightening at the jaw. Like his armour had gained a few more pounds.
My stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Because that hadn't been for me.
It had been for him.
And maybe it was my fault. Maybe if I hadn't opened my smart mouth, had resisted the urge to show off my highschool French smarts, Loghain wouldn't have taken the shot.
But he had, and I felt my anger flare.
Because Alistair—who was kind, and brave, and trying so hard—didn't deserve that. He hadn't asked for bloodlines or secrets or veiled barbs across war tables.
He was just standing here, trying to help me.
Because I'd asked him to.
And Loghain had gone for him anyway.
I opened my mouth—too quickly—and caught myself.
Careful, Duval.
I looked away and caught Grayson's eye across the table.
His gaze flicked from me to Alistair to Loghain. Then to Duncan.
He'd seen the shift—felt it in the room like a crack in the stone.
Something had passed. Something pointed.
And loud, in the way quiet things sometimes were.
Something had just been said. And something louder hadn't been.
He raised an eyebrow at me. The smallest tilt of his head. A silent question: What was that?
Cailan's smile had faded—not vanished, but paused, like someone holding a joke mid-punchline. He wasn't slow. For all his easy charm, he was watching. He'd felt the ripple.
His gaze flicked from Alistair to me, thoughtful. Measuring.
Like he was reappraising. Like he'd noticed the way I'd frowned when Alistair flinched.
And maybe he was wondering why.
Wondering what I knew that I shouldn't.
I dropped my gaze, shifting uncomfortably.
"Anyway," I said, my voice too light to be natural. "Lovely to be here. Love what you've done with the place. Very…fortress chic."
Cailan's grin snapped back into place like it had never left.
Loghain looked like he was rethinking the entire alliance with the Wardens on principle.
And Duncan just sighed, very quietly.
"You've arrived at the perfect time," Cailan was still grinning as he returned to the table, clearly thrilled to have someone new to perform for. "We're just discussing the plan for tomorrow's battle. Come, have a look."
He gestured grandly to the maps and miniatures, all laid out like a strategist's playroom. I followed, automatically, grateful for the change of subject. Alistair hovered near my elbow, noticeably not speaking.
Duncan hadn't stopped watching me.
Loghain looked like he wanted to launch me out of the nearest trebuchet.
So, you know. Going great.
As the conversation moved on, I let myself drift toward the maps—hand-inked, sprawling things full of neat little sigils meant to represent infantry, cavalry, archers. Tower. Ravine. Beacon.
War, reduced to board game tokens.
I should've been listening. To Loghain, railing about troop coordination. To Cailan, waxing poetic about glorious last stands. But the further I fell into the lines and symbols, the quieter the rest of the world became.
The new battle-aspect of my brain absorbed every detail, hungrily.
It was a sound plan.
On paper.
But the longer I stared, the less sense it made.
Not because the tactics were bad—Loghain was too competent for that—but because the plan assumed the enemy could be defeated.
They didn't know. Not really. None of them understood what we were up against.
And I wasn't sure I did either—not until now.
I remembered flashes. Cutscenes. Levels. Deep Roads that went on forever, swarming with darkspawn. Corridors choked with bodies, endless waves of screeching, snarling, corrupted flesh. Thousands. Tens of thousands. More. And at the centre of it all: wings, teeth, rage. The Archdemon.
This wasn't a battle.
It was annihilation.
Extinction.
Even if Loghain had done what he was supposed to—even if he'd come charging out of the trees with his men at the perfect moment—it wouldn't have been enough.
Maybe it would've bought more time. Saved the king. Given the Wardens another day.
But we were never meant to win this.
Ostagar was always going to fall.
And suddenly, the anger I'd been nursing—the need to rewrite the scene and stop the betrayal—it twisted, hollowed out by something colder.
Because yes, Loghain's treachery mattered. But it wasn't the cause of the defeat. It was the aftermath.
The cause was standing right there on the map.
Too many.
Too strong.
Too late.
It wouldn't matter how many foot soldiers they threw at the front line—the horde would not break against them.
I felt my heart drop somewhere behind my ribs. I looked down again at the markers, suddenly unable to unsee them for what they really were:
Gravestones.
I hovered over the board, one second from saying it out loud.
This was never going to work.
And then—
"Splendid craftsmanship, isn't it?" Cailan said cheerfully. "The miniatures are based on actual troop colours. I had them painted myself."
I blinked.
He was pointing to a silver-plated soldier. Grinning like a child at his toys.
I frowned at him before I could catch myself.
"Very lifelike," I muttered. "Let's hope they stay that way."
He gave me a slightly wounded look but I ignored him, dropping my eyes back to the table. I looked over the maps again, shaking my head at the crushing hopelessness of it all.
"Ah," Loghain said, voice cool. "A furrowed brow already. The new girl sees something we've missed."
I froze.
He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough.
"Go on, then," he said, with mock generosity. "Don't be shy. Have we misaligned a flank? I'm certain your tactical insight—honed, no doubt, over a long and storied career—will set us straight."
"I—" I started, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? I've seen the future, and it's a bad time? Sorry to interrupt your war council, but this entire battle is a tutorial level in losing?
I took a step back—half a step, really. Not retreating. Just… regrouping. Like if I moved slowly enough, I could pretend it wasn't happening. That I wasn't out-of-my-depth and being pinned down by a hardened general in front of the king and the Warden-Commander.
But I didn't look away. I couldn't.
Because I was right.
Whatever their strategy was, whatever neat little plan they'd mapped out—it wasn't enough. Could never be enough. Not against what was coming.
The words burned behind my teeth now, pressing for space.
I looked back to the map. At the lines of soldiers fanned across the valley. At the tower. At the spot where Duncan and the Wardens were supposed to hold the line.
It was all too clean. Too small. Too optimistic.
"She's not the only one frowning at the map," Alistair said, voice low.
I glanced at him, surprised but grateful for the assist. He wasn't looking at me—he was looking at Loghain.
Calm. Controlled. But there was steel there.
Loghain's eyes narrowed, the edge of his mouth twitching—like he was debating whether to take the bait.
Duncan stepped in before he could decide.
"That's enough," he said evenly. "We have more to gain from cooperation than posturing."
His voice wasn't loud, but it landed like a weight between them.
Loghain didn't reply. Just turned back toward the map with a tight nod—like he was being generous for letting it go.
Cailan, to his credit, didn't try to laugh it off. He looked between us, the grin dimming just enough to suggest he'd actually been paying attention.
"Well," he said, light but genuine, "we've invited you here for a reason. If you see something we've missed, I'd like to hear it."
He looked to me first, then to Alistair.
"What do you think?" he asked. "Truly."
The table was quiet again, but not the same kind of quiet.
Not mocking. Not expectant.
Open.
It was almost worse.
Alistair straightened, shifting slightly, his hand brushing against the edge of the table. Not fidgeting. Bracing.
"I think," he said slowly, "that it's a good plan. For the battle you're expecting."
A beat.
"But that's not the battle we're getting."
Loghain's jaw tightened.
Cailan blinked, taken aback—but not offended. Just listening.
Alistair continued, still measured.
"We're fighting darkspawn. Not Orlesians. Not bandits. Not even a proper army. We're fighting a tide. One that doesn't stop when it hits a line. It rolls through."
He glanced at the board.
"And even if we win this… that tide keeps coming."
There was a murmur of movement around the table—just the shift of weight, the twitch of fingers. Tension, reframed.
He looked at me, then—just briefly. Not asking me to speak, but offering the floor.
Cailan's eyes followed. I dropped my gaze, frowning in thought.
"He's right," I said quietly. "You're planning for a battle—this isn't going to be one. You can't flank something that doesn't break. You can't outmaneuver something that doesn't stop."
I turned slightly, eyes still on the map.
"We're not an army marching against an enemy that can be beaten back through force alone. We're trees in the path of a tsunami."
Duncan cleared his throat, but it wasn't a warning—it was support. When he spoke, his voice was calm. Measured.
"What Alistair and Lauren are trying to say," he began, "is something I have been saying for weeks, Your Majesty."
Cailan turned to him, frowning faintly. "Duncan…"
"We don't know how many darkspawn are out there," Duncan continued. "But all signs suggest this Blight will be worse than the last. They're surfacing in larger numbers, farther north. The horde beneath Ostagar is no mere raiding party. It is the vanguard."
A heavy pause. Even Loghain stilled.
Cailan looked between us—Duncan's solemn face, my own too-wide eyes, Alistair now pointedly avoiding looking at anyone at all.
"I appreciate your candour," the king said slowly, though I wasn't sure who he was addressing. "But Ferelden stands united. With your Grey Wardens at our side, we can win this."
"With all due respect," I said, "united or not, this is like sending an army to attack the sea. You can try to hold back one wave, maybe two—but they'll never stop coming."
"Maybe so," Cailan said, his voice a touch quieter, but not uncertain. He looked down at the map, then back at me. At Alistair. At Duncan. "But we've faced long odds before. We stood against Orlais when no one believed we could. Ferelden isn't so easily broken."
He didn't sound angry. Just... hopeful. Like he was clinging to it.
Like if he said it enough times, it might be true.
"This isn't Orlais," Alistair said quietly.
Cailan turned to him, and something flickered in his eyes. Not offense. Not anger.
Recognition, maybe. Or the faintest echo of doubt.
Then Loghain stepped forward.
"No," he said coldly. "It isn't. And that's precisely why panic and poetry won't help us."
He let the silence linger, like he expected someone to argue.
"You speak of waves, of tides, of hopelessness," he went on, eyes on me now. "But what I see is strategy. Numbers. Discipline."
A glance at Alistair. "What I hear is fear dressed up as wisdom."
Alistair stiffened beside me. I opened my mouth—
But Duncan beat me to it.
"And what I hear is arrogance dressed as certainty," he said evenly.
Not raised. Not sharp. Just final.
Loghain turned to him slowly.
"Careful, Warden."
Duncan didn't flinch.
"I've been careful. And I've been ignored. At some point, Teyrn Loghain, the truth stops caring whether or not you believe it."
It landed like a slap.
And still—somehow—Cailan held the room.
"Enough," he said. Not harsh. But firm. A king's voice, for once. "We don't have the luxury of agreement. Only action."
He stepped between them, drawing the moment back from the brink.
"Duncan, I trust your instincts. I trust the Wardens."
He looked at Alistair then—really looked.
"But I can't call off the offensive. Not now. Not when Ferelden watches."
He let that hang a moment. No pride. Just weight.
"We'll follow the plan."
Another pause. Then: "And if the tide comes, as you say… we'll need the beacon lit."
My mouth went dry.
Because I knew what that meant.
"The Tower of Ishal," Duncan said softly.
Cailan nodded.
"We'll signal from the tower when the time is right. Loghain and the main force will charge from the trees once the beacon is lit."
"And if they don't?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
Loghain scoffed.
Cailan didn't blink. Didn't smile.
"Then we hold the line," he said.
"And we trust that someone, somewhere, survives."
