a grey place

Balmy summer days in Val Royeaux meant bustling streets, and with the press of bodies and clamor of merchants came thieves.

Erwin knew it well enough. He had left his home in the countryside at ten years old with his mother’s words well in mind—mind your gold and your life, for there are people who think little of stealing either. He had been pickpocketed twice early on in his stay in the enormous city before he learned to keep his valuables tucked well inside his leathers or armor, pressed close to his heart.

He’d had his things stolen from his trunk at the Academie des Chevaliers, too, before he learned to invest in a heavy Dwarven lock, the sole key tied loose around his neck by a leather cord. He never did recover the heavy parchment roll his mother had packed with him, a meticulously inscribed detailing of his lineage along her side, a many-branched tree with de Forgeron names that reached back as far as the Second Blight. Neither did he find the memento his father had sent along for him—a dog carved of stone from the Frostback Mountains, a blend of Avvar and Fereldan sensibilities that called to mind his own mixed, foreign blood.

Erwin wore the key now and always, nestled under layers of light, silken cloth and supple leather, under the scratched and dented armor of a chevalier-in-training, ever conscious of both it and his coin purse as he slid through the throngs of merchants and buyers filling the Grande Promenade.

He had been sizable even as a youth, and stood out all the more upon arriving in Val Royeaux for training. His passing adolescence had only made him taller and wider still—broad of chest and shoulder like his father was, thick with the muscle that chevalier training both created and required. At the start of every new summer Erwin wondered if he had yet stopped growing and his question was usually answered in the form of finding his most comfortable breeches suddenly an inch too short or his favourite shirt straining at the seams.

It wasn’t a terrible burden, truly. His size and the ease with which he gained muscle frustrated some of his fellow would-be chevaliers—boys and girls who remained sinewy and lean no matter how much they ate or trained, it seemed—and it often leant him an advantage in sparring and exercises that relied upon power or quick bursts of strength. He was hearty and hale, and both of his parents assured him that laughs and whispers about barbarian blood were a small price to pay in exchange for the constitution the Maker had granted him with.

“Ser, ser,” a masked merchant called, waving a delicate fan in his direction. It was trimmed with stiff lace and uniformly pink in color—a shade of it that overstayed its welcome last season and was surely so far out of fashion at this point that the merchant likely could not give them away. “A fan, yes? For your paramour?”

Heavily perfumed air wafted out from the merchant’s stall, carried more by the intermittent breeze than by his excessive fan-waving. It reeked of rose and lavender, though neither was fully able to disguise the undercurrent of sweat and commerce.

Erwin let his gaze slide away from the fan-seller and down the Grande Promenade, taking in the other merchants that lined the rest of the wide, evenly paved road—cheese vendors and toymakers, Antivan wine peddlers, a rare handful of elven merchants clustered tightly together as they tried to sell fresh herbs and soaps…

“Ah, you are venturing out from the Academie,” the fan merchant said quickly, drawing Erwin’s attention back to his narrow stall. The lines fringing his eyes crinkled, the hint of a pleased smile sitting behind his lace-patterned mask when Erwin did not immediately sweep back into the crowd moving down the street. He cleared his throat and beckoned the younger man closer. “Paramour or no, my wares make a fine purchase. Might you take a look, my lord…?”

“Erwin de Forgeron,” Erwin supplied.

He stepped forward, observant as the merchant’s eager demeanor was replaced by something more nervous and wary. Wary, but hopeful. Desperate to make a sale, even if intimidated by his potential buyer.

Erwin looked over the glass-encased fans resting atop the wooden slats, conscious of being studied as he did so. They were of finer make than the cheap balsam and cotton ones strung about the stall—clearly decent silk and fine ironwood or bone. A suitable gift for his mother, maybe, but she hardly had need. It wasn’t as though the de Forgeron estate lay in the heartlands or further north, where summers grew hot and muggy; rather, it sat so close to Ferelden’s mountainous border that summer was as likely to greet its inhabitants with a sprinkle of snow as anything else.

“My lord, perhaps something special to interest a chevalier in the making,” the merchant breathed from behind the mask, the whites of his eyes starkly visible against the dark khol and shadows that ringed them. He bowed to pull something from a low shelf, or perhaps a trunk, and when he straightened again he held a long mahogany box. Leather gloved hands placed the box atop the counter, fingers fumbling slightly at the latches. The interior was plush, satin-lined, and inside lay three fans, inconspicuous but for the occasional glimmer of metal peeking from under embroidered silk. “These are imported from Antiva. A favourite of many bards, my lord. Expertly crafted viridium blades, exceptional workmanship, and the finest silk Rivain has to offer.”

“Such a weapon is far from honorable,” Erwin commented as he let his fingers hover over a fan that was all hues of dark, burnished bronze and golden accents.

At an encouraging—if apprehensive—nod from the merchant, Erwin touched his fingertips to the silk-covered metal. It called to mind a sword sheathed in fabric, and it would have been an entirely fitting accessory at any ball or masque. He spread the ribs of the fan slowly, appreciating the silence of the well-greased blades concealed within. 

The pattern on the fabric was simple, just a repetition of gold-threaded flowers and leaves of royal elfroot. He dared not test the sharpness of the blades that peeked from the edge of the fan and risk bleeding on the fine fabric.

“But a lovely addition for any courtier or avid player of the Game,” the merchant suggested, and Erwin wasn’t sure whether to be amused at the man’s daring or offended at the brazenness with which he tried to coax a young lord and chevalier-in-training to buy an assassin’s tool. “And no fan will keep you as cool, even on days such as this,” he continued, eyes darting up to meet Erwin’s steady gaze. Briefly.

“It is lovely,” Erwin agreed, matter-of-fact. It was. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the weight reassuring. He could all too easily imagine it in use—the razor-thin blades spread into that wide curve, a flick of the wrist splitting skin and spilling blood, and all while tastefully wrapped in fashionable prints and colors.

A horrendously unseemly weapon for a chevalier, though.

“What are you asking for this one?” Fingers gloved in white leather tapped against another fan nestled in the silken bedding; it too held concealed blades, but wrapped in a cream-colored fabric.

“Twelve crowns, my lord.” His mask’s lace-adorned lips curved in a roguish smile, which did not reflect in the timid flitting of his eyes.

“Twelve? It is viridium, not silverite.”

“Nine,” the seller ventured. His hands rested on either side of the displayed fans, his shoulders squaring resolutely, gaze fixed somewhere below Erwin’s nose.

“Eight is still rather generous.” Erwin leaned in to scrutinize the materials again and pretended not to notice the merchant’s flinch, nor the way he edged back a half-step.

“Eight,” the merchant conceded, masked head cocked to the side as he considered the young lord. “Discreetly boxed, and artfully tied with ribbon, if it would please you.”

“It would, thank you. Something green, if you have it.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Erwin stood stiff and still as the merchant retrieved a thin, narrow box and set to work. The fan of his choosing was carefully wrapped and tucked within. As the masked man set to securing the lid with carefully cut and tied measures of forest green ribbon, Erwin fished out eight golden coins and held them tight in his fist. The press of the coinpurse nestled between his body and his battered training armor was considerably lessened by the purchase.

He watched the fan seller work, taking in the myriad little signs of his stress while he waited: sweat running behind his mask, leaving skin-colored streaks in the khol; rapid breaths that set the ruffled doublet over his chest fluttering; his hands, only still when spread flat against the countertop. The slight tremor in the merchant’s fingers did not affect the end result, though, which was a gift box with clean lines of ribbon and perfect symmetry.

“Very nice,” he commented as the merchant—a Frederique Marchand— began to draw up a receipt.

“Thank you, my lord de Forgeron.”

Erwin put on a thin but polite smile, almost unused to being addressed so respectfully.

The sons and daughters of proper Orlesian nobility spoke his name with the heavy accent of Ferelden. Or an approximation of it at least, all the syllables loud and rounded. They addressed him by his father’s surname—Smith, woefully common even by Fereldan standards—rather than his mother’s old and storied de Forgeron, the surname that he had been admitted to the Academie under.

He preferred to escape the Academie whenever the taunting of boys like Jules du Reiss became too persistent—as it had this morning, with barks and woofing sounds made each time he began to speak. It was trite and tiring. Even Nile grew weary of having to defend him at times, Erwin could tell. It was better to offer them both a break by fleeing the chevaliers’ grounds for a few hours to lose himself in the thick crowds of the markets, where Fereldan accented-Orlesian blended with Nevarran, Antivan, and Rivaini…

Sunlight struck the high, white-plastered walls of the high avenues and shone so brightly that Erwin’s eyes ached. The breeze that made pennants bearing the crest and colors of the Imperial du Reiss family snap and furl kept the day from ever growing too hot. The sights and sounds—and smells, even—were a welcome distraction from life at the Academie, and there was a relief he could hardly give voice to in being lost in a swell of people who did not know his name, his blood, or his family history.

Some days were enough to almost make Erwin long for the heavy masks and make-up donned by nobles and their houses. Young cadets like himself, however, were discouraged from wearing their families’ masks for the duration of their training, as the Academie sought to strip them down to the same base, to train them up into chevaliers bound by a single code, a common sense of honor, a standard repertoire of tactics and forms. Ties to their houses could come after—were supposed to fall second to their unity in the brotherhood, anyway.

Erwin paused upon reaching a wide square where the crowd thinned and the burbling of a large, centrally placed fountain muted the murmurs of the people coming and going. Emperor Kordillus Drakon’s likeness sat imperiously reclined at the top of the statue at its center, a tome in hand and one foot carelessly dangling off of the head of the coiled dragon he rested upon. It was sculpted in the style of the Steel Age, all languorous curves and rippling marble flesh and easy, confident authority; a complete departure from the work of previous ages, in which statues of Drakon and Andraste alike were rigidly posed monoliths, unnatural and stark against their surrounds.

Water poured from the marble dragon’s open jaws and sprayed in graceful arcs from the ‘wounds’ of the many weapons lodged in its serpentine body, each supposedly a perfect facsimile of the first Orlesian emperor’s favored armaments. And kneeling in the great pool that surrounded Drakon and his dragon was an array of lesser statues—animal, man, and elf, all bent low before the conqueror. Copper pieces blanketed the bottom of the pool, obscuring much of the teal and yellow tiles that were laid in a sunburst pattern underneath.

Erwin de Forgeron stood there, comfortably entranced by the unwavering cascade of water from the wounded dragon, and considered whether tossing a coin into the fountain might be worth the hassle of maneuvering his fingers under his breastplate to find the small pouch, until shrieks and well-bred gasps from the other side of the square drew his attention.

He watched, hand lightly resting on the pommel of his sword, as the crowd across the way bunched and thinned with the fluidity of a school of fish. A handful of masked men and ladies scattered a moment later, hands curled protectively over their jewels or coin purses as a small figure clad in dark, unremarkable leathers darted past.

Erwin watched the man—an elf, he guessed, a small and narrow thing—as he sprinted across the open space, already closing on the fountain before the city guards managed to clear the throngs he had just escaped. He moved with the swift, purposeful strides of someone well accustomed to fleeing. A thief of some sort, doubtless, with his narrowed eyes focused keenly on the Chantry wall stood opposite the square.

The elf—Erwin saw his ears now that his hood had fallen away, the ends of his inky, undercut hair just long enough to brush over their points—gave him a cursory glance as he made his approach. If he had any concerns that the chevalier-in-training might draw steel and attempt to impede his escape, he brushed them aside with ease. The lithe little rogue leapt fluidly onto the fountain wall and then upon the back of a statue, and then onto another, never once hesitating as he bounded over the glimmering pool.

For the briefest moment, Erwin curled his hand around the grip of his sword—a trainee’s simple weapon, of sturdy steel and significant weight. The elf was never quite close enough for him to intercept, his dance across the fountain statues taking him past the young chevalier but not near. Which was well enough, Erwin decided, once he had a good measure of the thief’s speed; he would be a difficult catch even in light armor meant for agility and pursuit.

The city guard, outfitted in gleaming steel plate from helm to greaves, hadn’t a chance of keeping up with the elf. Neither did Erwin, for that matter. Even if he had been possessed of a spear like the guards, the extended reach wouldn’t be enough to compensate for the rogue’s nimbleness and quick step.

His concerns were tested and proven moments later, when a pair of city guards that had been stationed near the Chantry placed themselves in position to cut their quarry off. Rather than skirt around them, as Erwin suspected he might, the thief kept his forward course and momentum. He met the initial thrust of the pair of guards with two lengthy daggers, pulled from Maker-knows-where, in a move that made Erwin’s breath catch in the well of his throat. It was not Mantis Takes Spider, not quite, but it was close enough to the proper chevalric form to have Erwin in motion, intrigued, taking steps toward the skirmish.

The slim rogue was holding his own against two trained guards of the Orlesian Empire’s greatest city—an elf, a commoner, a lowly street vandal, using techniques and attacks that eerily approximated the very ones that Erwin spent hours each day working into perfect muscle memory.

There was Bear Traps Salmon as the rogue locked the haft of one spear between his daggers, though the angle of the move was adjusted for a smaller man with smaller blades. Erwin saw shades of Crane Strikes Frog, Blade Meets Scale, even Wasp-sting, executed with the blunt pommel of a dagger rather than its blade. Interspersed between the clearly chevalier-inspired forms were techniques Erwin recognized as the unique methods of duelists and rogues, brutally efficient and utterly lacking in honor. The elf had no difficulty in shifting from an expert variation on Twined Serpents Bare Fangs to a low strike against his opponent’s groin, and Erwin observed the ruthless flurry of the skirmish with an uncomfortable degree of admiration.

The elf was a better combatant than some who had studied at the Academie for years. Erwin counted himself in that.

He stepped a little quicker, coming into the rogue’s line of sight just in time to watch as he broke a spear in two over his thigh and used the haft to strike a wickedly stunning blow against the guardsman. Erwin winced sympathetically at the resounding bell tone that rang out. The helmeted guardsman fell to his knees beside his partner, one gauntlet pressed to his visor.

The elf cast the spear-piece aside and regarded Erwin, still some thirty feet distant, with both of his daggers held in one small hand. It was only a moment, but it felt as though the world itself had drawn breath and held it, stilling the air as dark eyes met his own. Erwin had felt much the same when he first stumbled upon a lumbering great bear in the forest that stretched around his family’s chateau, tension drawn thick enough to bog time itself.

As the clatter and shouts of the approaching guards rose, they each made a move. Erwin abruptly pressed forward, uncertain whether he meant to attack or merely to close the space between them—whether he would greet the rogue with steel or with words. The choice was rendered unnecessary as the thief turned and fled, slipping away before Erwin had even cleared a yard; he was as fleet of foot as the thin-boned deer that made home in the de Forgeron woods and thickets.

Unlike the deer Erwin had known and hunted since childhood, the elf was undeterred by the tall wall of the Chantry’s east side. Slim, gloved hands and narrow-toed boots gripped along brick and crevice, propelling him upward nearly as quickly as he’d moved across flat ground. In a heartbeat, the rogue pulled himself up onto the Chantry roof, nimbly dodging the bolt of a crossbow that one guard had managed to fire. He was out of reach before the archer could even begin reloading the device, slipping away across rooftops and garden walls like an especially canny alleycat.

It had all passed in well under a minute, so brief and frenetic that Erwin wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Were it not for the certainty of the guards lying in his path, the tang of blood in the air and the pitiful sounds of a wounded man’s groans, he might have believed himself to be lost in a flight of fancy in front of Drakon’s fountain.

As a chevalier-in-training, he stepped forward and helped carefully remove the helmet of the struggling guard.

The man’s face and hair were slick with blood from a shallow wound where the metal of his visor had been bent inward. He was unsteady but largely unharmed, and waved off both Erwin’s assistance and that of the arriving guardsmen.

“My lord,” one of the approaching guards greeted, his tone mollifying as Erwin was subtly nudged and shouldered away by the other guards, all frantic to help their unconscious comrade. He dipped his head in apology and lifted his visor.

“It is only right,” Erwin replied as he stepped back to allow them more room to work. 

The unconscious guard was breathing, but with difficulty. It was unsurprising, given how Erwin had seen the elf slam her in the gorget with the hilt of his dagger… and with enough force to knock her backward. Her fellow guards worked to pull the bent metal back and away from her throat, her breaths evening and deepening once some of the pressure was lifted.

“He’s slipped away again,” the same guard from before told Erwin, his tone heavy with disgust and a healthy bit of shame. His cheeks were ruddy under the shadow of his lifted visor, and the faint smell of cheap alcohol clung to him. “That blasted rogue lives to make fools of us, my lord.”

“Fast as a spirit, that one, and no slouch with those daggers,” Erwin replied, hoping to offer some meager consolation.

He considered his observations as he wiped his fingers clean of blood and slid his gloves back on. His first assumption was that the rogue had been trained, and well, by someone with a history as a chevalier and intimately familiar with their ways. A second consideration was that perhaps the elf had learned on his own by sneaking close to the Academie and watching, listening, and learning. If so, he was an ambitious thief and one with dedication. It was impressive, despite the ill-intent with which the elf used his knowledge.

“What did he steal to have half of this quarter’s guards chasing him through the markets, if I may ask?”

“This time, my lord? The life of a Fereldan captain.”

Erwin stilled, eyes a hair wider as he met the guard’s gaze.

“Bad time to be a Fereldan in Orlais,” the guard said with a half-grimace.

“Has there ever been a good time?” Erwin wondered, taking further pains to keep his Orlesian as flawless as that of his Val Royeaux-born mother.

The guard—Hannes, he properly informed Erwin before they parted ways—laughed and tipped his visor toward the chevalier-to-be. “I suppose not, my lord.”

---------------------------time skippp-----------------------------------

“It has been a pleasure to instruct you, Erwin de Forgeron.”

Ser de Montfort looked up at him, a faint smile under his heavy mustache and the glimmers of pride behind the glasses that he now wore constantly—a concession to the body that was beginning to fail the old chevalier.

“I believe you will be one of the finest chevaliers the Academie offers this age,” Ser du Maurier added. As his longtime field instructor, she too was pleased, a smile bending the heavy scars across her cheek. “Never have I seen someone of such lineage take so well to the chevalic arts. You will go far.”

“Truly, a testament to what the Academie can produce, given a willing soul. I dare say few will be brave enough to offer insult regarding your parentage once you wear the feather of chevalier,” de Montfort grinned, clapping Erwin on the shoulder and wincing slightly. “You’ve the mind of a true-blooded Orlesian, that much is certain! And much to the chagrin of your peers, your father’s blood has been more of a boon than a detriment,” he added, stepping back to look the young, nearly-crowned chevalier up and down.

Ser du Maurier nodded along approvingly before chiming in with, “I will never forget the looks on the faces of your cohort when you were the first to reach the top of a tree in full armor—and I believe in record time. Let no one doubt your skill as a chevalier, de Forgeron, or question your honor. Wear the feather as proudly as any other noble son or daughter would.”

Erwin was hardly flattered by such compliments anymore, especially when paid to him in between reminders that even now, soon to become one of the most elite knights in the empire, he was not quite Orlesian enough.

He smiled anyway.

“You both have my gratitude. I could not have asked for better instruction.”

“You have been forged anew in the Academie, de Forgeron,” his tactics instructor reminded him. “Whatever impurities you arrived with, they have been stripped away. All that remains is a chevalier, a proud son of Orlais.”

All that remains is a chevalier, a proud son of Orlais.

The words still echoed in Erwin’s mind as he strode down the grand, thinly peopled halls of the Academie, boot heels meeting marble floors in a sharp staccato. His skull felt cavernously empty but for the sentiment that lingered from his meeting with his instructors—a chevalier. A proud son of Orlais.

Such was the goal he had pursued since childhood. The seed for it was planted in his heart before he could even sit a horse properly. He came to Val Royeaux at twelve, alone, to make something worthy of himself and his mother’s name.

Now, more than a decade later, he was terribly close to it. A yellow feather. A knighthood. A command of his own.

He continued making his round of the Academie, paying respects and saying goodbyes. After one more test and tomorrow’s formal feathering ceremony, he would never need look back at this place again.

Erwin greeted the chevalier-commander with a salute. “Ser du Zackalay.” 

“Erwin de Forgeron. Ser Erwin, nearly,” the old man said with a rough smile. He was large, stout, and nearly as tall as Erwin himself, who had begun outstripping his elders before his fourteenth summer. “Your family must be quite proud. I dare say these halls haven’t witnessed a de Forgeron in an age or so. You will be the first in…”

He looked to the Erwin expectantly.

“Too long, ser,” he replied with a winning smile, now well-accustomed to sidestepping baited attempts to discuss the specifics of his family and its shortcomings.

The chevalier-commander laughed quietly. “Indeed. But it is not uncommon for sons of your temperament to be foisted upon us here at the Academie.”

The brotherhood of chevaliers was one slim branch of Orlesian society where nobles with no great skill at or love for the Great Game could somewhat abstain from the intrigues, if so desired. Not completely, of course—to consider oneself above the Game was to invite the misfortune of a hunting accident, sometimes even within one’s own bath or gardens—but enough that it was not uncommon for marquis and duchesses with children who lacked the talent for manipulation to send them to the Academie for safekeeping. Better to risk death in training and a lifetime of battles than to allow an inept son or daughter to commit social suicide at a ball.

Erwin nodded, a genial smile in place. “My mother was indeed correct to judge that I am better suited for a life of military service than one spent frequenting balls and masques.”

Zackalay found that amusing. “You do yet retain some of your Ferelden roughness.”

Erwin stiffened, a rigidity in his spine that made him feel like the empty suits of legendary armor that lined the grand hall of the Academie. He relaxed himself again just as quickly, mostly certain the movement had been too subtle 

“You are a fine soldier, Erwin, and you will be an even finer chevalier. A position of command will not be long in coming, I am sure. Your soldiers will love you as they loved Gaspard de Chalons.”

“A bold prophecy, ser, considering that my soldiers will know that I carry less Orlesian blood than they do.”

The chevalier-commander regarded him from the corner of his eye, under heavy brows. A beat passed before he spoke again.

“And I do not doubt for a moment that they will come to love you all the same. You will order them to battle, to their deaths, and they will obey. You will subject them to every glory and horror that war has to offer, and they will return to you time and time again.” Ser du Zackalay smiled, the gesture oddly small, overwhelmed by the rest of his features.

Erwin kept his expression even and masklike, poised in some expression of humble reception.

“I appreciate your assurances, ser. I wish I had such confidence. I’ve no great talent for The Game, as has become readily apparent over my years here. Meanwhile, some of my cohort would be competition for the finest bards of Val Royeaux,” he added, earning an amused chortle from his commander, “and I am forced to wonder how I might make any headway at all, given that I cannot very well conduct myself in court with their same craft.”

Ser du Zackalay waved his words aside.

“Ser Erwin,” he began, chin lifting as he addressed Erwin, “I have watched you grow into a talented chevalier and an honest lord. What wins favor at court does not with the rank-and-file, and the soldiers in your command will care far more for your reputation as an accomplished tactician and a grounded leader than for what quips you made at a ball masque. I respect the Game, of course, as all wise individuals do, and I play my admittedly minor part in it. But some of us are not cut of the cloth to succeed on that front, and it is the Maker’s wisdom that it is so. Who would fight the empire’s wars if not?”

“Who indeed?” Erwin faintly echoed.

—---------------------------------

“So? How were your goodbyes?” Nile du Auk asked as he lowered himself onto the ground beside Erwin. They were in the shade of one of the very same trees that all of the Academie’s trainees were forced to climb in full armor, and the swaths of stripped-away bark and broken places where thinner branches had been snapped off offered testament to the struggle. “Did you need a spare set of arms to help bear all the accolades they piled upon you? Wait, I forget I’m talking to a half-Avvar chevalier—you could probably carry the same load as a bronto, and in full armor to boot.”

“My father was half-Avvar,” Erwin reminded him, his voice as low as the whisper of the leaves above them. “I am only a quarter.”

“Only a quarter,” Nile mouthed in repetition. The sinewy man leaned back against the tree trunk, rolling his shoulders as he got comfortable.

“How about you?” Erwin asked, giving Nile a knowing smile. “Ser du Maurier always liked you.”

“Not as much as I liked her,” Nile sighed. “She told me I’d acquitted myself well. Ser du Bonner gave me a bottle of whiskey from Lydes—Dragon Age stuff, survived the war and the Breach and everything else. I suppose it’s meant to endear himself to me after all those extra laps he made me run. It’s funny, seeing how my father’s star rising has changed the way everyone treats me.”

Erwin snorts softly at that. “If you’re hoping I will also be gifting you with a bottle of liquor worth more than a small farm in the heartland, I’m afraid you will be disappointed.”

Nile laughed at that, his shoulders shaking under his lightweight armor.

“Everyone but you,” he amended, quick to follow it with a contented sigh.

“I would be willing to treat you to a drink. I need one myself,” Erwin added.

“They’ll give us a drink before they send us off tonight.”

Erwin shook his head. “No, I need one even before that.”

“It will be alright, Erwin.” Nile’s assurance was soft. He wove his arm between the tree trunk and Erwin’s neck, holding tight to his broad shoulders. “It will be, I promise. It isn’t like we haven’t killed before. Neither of us is unblooded.”

“It isn’t the same.” Erwin still cannot square the air of jovial achievement around the Academie with what awaits them next. “This isn’t a training mission to root out bandits on the Imperial Highway, Nile.”

“No, but you can do it all the same,” Nile told him. Then he stood, apparently tired of listening to his complaints. “I know what you are capable of and you know it as well. You can do this. There is very little you cannot force yourself to accomplish when pressed,” he added with a quick grin.

Erwin accepted Nile’s offered hand, standing with him, and wondered if he was right.

 —-----------------------------------------------

They left the Academie grounds together, riding south into Val Royeaux. Nile, being the son of a now-prominent family, had social obligations to attend to before the appointed hour of their final test tonight.

Erwin, being the son of a baroness in disgrace over her marriage to a common-blooded Fereldan barbarian, had nothing to do but wait.

After parting ways with Nile, he found the first decent looking tavern and wandered inside. The air changed as he entered, as it often did. The handful of conversations in the room dropped softer. A few people discreetly exited out a back entrance.

Erwin does not blame them, given the sort of power chevaliers may exorcise over the common people. Given what they will do tonight, even…

“An ale, please.”

“Of course, my lord,” the barkeep hurried to say, returning to him moments later with an unchipped mug nearly spilling over with a liquid almost as dark as the lacquered wood of the bar top.

Erwin accepted it, paid, and settled down at a small table opposite the hearth that warmed the tavern.

It was only late-afternoon and there were but a handful of patrons like himself sipping out of tall steins or small glasses.

It was quiet, thank the Maker—the Academie was nothing but frayed nerves and anxious excitement this morning, the excess bubbling over into quick and heated encounters of all manner. Their education had been completed, after ten-plus arduous years of drills and chalkboard recreations of famed battlegrounds, the subpar trainees dismissed back to their families to pursue other avenues of glory.

He’d written home earlier in the week to let his mother and father know that his hefty tuition had not gone to waste: he would be graduating with high regard and receiving commendations from all of his instructors, who lauded his ability and his mind even as they lamented the willfulness that regrettably resulted from such unique parentage.

They meant well, and Erwin tried to remember that. His instructors, for all that they offended him with their intended compliments, at least meant well. Mostly. It was small consolation, but compared to his fellow trainees and the gossipy nobles that he encountered in the streets… it was better than active judgment, he supposed.

And it would all be far better once he became a chevalier in full.

That had been his parents’ reassurance to him when he first wrote home to them in shaky script, nerves still shot from his first brush with boys unafflicted with ‘Fereldan dog blood’. Prove them wrong to dismiss you, Erwin. Be cleverer, stronger, and more excellent in all things. Prove them wrong and they will respect you. It became a lifeline, a promise to himself. It became one that he eventually came to share with Nile, his only true friend.

One more night was all that stood between Erwin and official recognition as a chevalier—one final test, an act that would both mark the end of their tutelage under the Academie and the beginning of their positions as chevaliers of the Orlesian Empire.

Erwin took another drink, deeper, wishing the ale had more bite to it. He wanted it to burn across his tongue and throat and leave him cauterized along the inside. Two more servings of ale still didn’t quite do the job.

“Erwin.”

He did not bother looking up. “Nile.”

Nile sighed, his narrow face already falling back into a familiar expression of borderline exasperation. “How did I know I’d find you crawling in some tavern already? We haven’t even had supper yet.”

“Liar. You came looking for a drink, too, and only happened upon me.”

“Still, I suspected,” Nile hedged as he pulled out a chair and signaled the barkeep. “It’s sort of a given on a day like today, isn’t it? A celebration. When my great-grandfather was made a chevalier, they spent a week tromping from tavern to brothel to tavern in preparation. This is mild revelry by comparison.”

“Revelry,” Erwin muttered, tilting the glass in his hand. “It feels to me like funerary preparations.”

Because it was to be the eve of funerals, he reminded himself—for elves that did not know it yet, who could only wait in darkened slums in fear of the night chosen by the instructors of the Academie.

“Ten years, Erwin,” Nile said over the rim of his mug. “Ten years’ worth of blood and sweat and vomit. Don’t lose perspective so close to the end. You’ve worked hard. We both have.”

“Perspective is easier to maintain at a distance,” Erwin said.

“And more essential to maintain in the thick of things,” his friend answered, a bare, tight smile pulling at thin lips. “Necessities can be ugly, Erwin. Think of it this way,” Nile sighed, shifting in his seat as he prepared to speak words that Erwin knew by heart already. “Our best chance at changing the order is from within. Chevaliers will listen to other chevaliers! They won’t like what we say, they’ll fight to hold onto tradition,” he acknowledged with a one-shouldered shrug, “but it starts the rope fraying. Aveline becoming a chevalier under the guise of a man did more to challenge the Academie’s practices than ages of petitions by duchesses and revered mothers did.”

“So perhaps when an elf clips their ears and makes chevalier, this ugly ritual might end?” Erwin dryly wondered.

“Perhaps before that, even,” Nile muttered.

Erwin forced out a long, heavy breath. The ale has not left him numb and detached but rather loose-tongued.

“My whole life I have been treated to impromptu lectures on the barbarism of Fereldans, you know. And Maker preserve me from the gossips that find out my father is half Avvar on top of that,” he complained in low tones. “To have the very same people who speak of the backwardness in my blood condone this travesty as a tradition worth preserving, something deserved for whatever imagined slights some insufferable marquis suffered this year—”

“I know, Erwin. You’re preaching to the chantry sisters, here.” Nile smiled. “I’ve heard your sermon once or twice before.”

“Apologies. It’s just a shame—”

“Keep a lid on it for one more night, Erwin. Just worry about getting through it. Find an honest to the Maker criminal down there, blood your blade in a manner you can live with, and we’ll come back here for a drink. Or a dozen.”

“Don’t let me stop until I’ve passed out,” Erwin rumbled back, the weight of ale and uncertain guilt settling inside of him, heavy as the armor he wore.

“That is also a tradition I recall from my great-grandfather’s stories,” Nile said with a half-smirk. His stare then traveled past Erwin, to the tavern doorway somewhere behind him, eyes blinking wide. “Oh, would you look at that? Wardens! Filtering back through now that their war is done, you think? Or recruiting?”

“Both, maybe.” Erwin turned and eyed the bedraggled pack of Grey Wardens as they filed inside, their leader striking up a conversation with the tavern keeper that started poorly and only managed to get worse.

She was a mage, and one with a flair that could only be Tevinter in origin—her staff bore two serpents twined, carved from black and tan wood. The gems in each of the open fanged-mouths glowed softly golden, then brighter as the argument grew heated. Her flipped-back hood showed tousled, greasy hair that hung limply over her delicately framed spectacles and slightly hooked nose. She was an unusual sight for Orlais, even without adding the blue-and-grey garb of the ancient and recently embattled order that existed to combat darkspawn and Blights.

Her companions looked worn to the bone, their greys and blues all dust-stained and in need of mending. All seemed to be on the verge of collapsing then and there, remaining vertical only by will and muscle memory. One of the six looked wounded to boot, leaning heavily on a tall warden beside them. The mage’s second-in-command had set his jaw, committed to silence, and watched the exchange with the tavern-keeper with a fierce displeasure.

“I want no trouble,” the tavernkeeper said, louder now, bringing the matter to the entire room’s attention, “and trouble looks like you,” he added in distaste, gaze passing up and down the lanky mage. “A disgraced Grey Warden mage who knows more Tevene than Orlesian and hasn’t even enough gold for the two rooms she asks for? No, no. You will have better luck at a stable, perhaps.”

Erwin watched it unfold with more anger than he usually let himself feel.

“Maker, man,” rising interjected, rising and crossing the room to set his empty mug on the bartop counter. “Is this the treatment you afford soldiers sworn to defend you? Who would fight on your behalf if called to?” he asked, lifting his chin and watching the man squirm slightly.

It was a bit callous and a bit cruel, Erwin knew, to cow someone of lower status like this. The Orlesian knighthood served the empire, yes, but nobility first and foremost. Common men and women had nearly as much reason to fear the blade of a chevalier as any elf or criminal.

“N-no, my lord, of course not! I…”

“Will allow the wardens three rooms, if you have them,” Erwin finished for him. “I will pay whatever this warden cannot,” he added, fishing five crowns from his purse and handing them to the barkeep. “Here. For my tab, their rooms, and their meals as well. Recent events aside, they have saved all of Thedas five times over.”

The tavernkeeper left to make the rooming arrangements and Erwin quickly realized he’d made more of a scene than intended. He turned to regard the ragtag group of wardens. Faced with so many faces and sets of inquiring eyes, he felt some need to explain.

“Ah… hello. My father is from southern Ferelden. It was a pair of Grey Wardens that saved them from being overrun by darkspawn in the Fifth Blight. Respect for the order is still strong there, so...”

“The Hero of Ferelden was an elf, too, yes?” the mage asked in Tevene-accented Orlesian. “Rhetorical. Of course she was! Certainly improved the standing of elves in Ferelden as well. Her influence fell short of Orlais, quite apparently. I was advised not to bring any elven wardens with me to recruit in Val Royeaux… they say I cause enough of a scandal as it is,” she laughed, loud and borderline manic.

“I’m Warden-Captain Hange,” was the belated introduction offered. “On behalf of the Wardens, I thank you for your charitable donation to our mission. You wouldn’t happen to be interested in joining the order yourself, would you?”

Erwin had been raised in a house of some standing, and lessons on the behavior and mannerisms required by the Great Game came early. Some nobles played offensively, choosing bold acts and preemptive strikes that left their rivals reeling, while others stuck to innuendo and acquired secrets, or perhaps a tasteful assassination when the situation called for it. Even those who did not actively participate still minded themselves carefully. All prized perfect control—or at least the illusion of it—of one’s faculties. To wear your heart upon your sleeve in Orlais was to have it run through with a dagger. 

His mother would have been aghast at the open-faced surprise he allowed the warden mage to see.

“Me… join the Grey Wardens?”

“Warden-Captain, a lord-chevalier is perhaps setting our sights a bit high,” the man at Hange’s side interrupted, eyeing his superior with exasperation. Erwin placed him as a Cumberlander by speech.

“Oh! Apologies, I didn’t see that famous yellow chevalier feather. I’m assuming it’s because I’m mildly blind,” Hange replied, adjusting her spectacles and looking up at Erwin brightly. “My mistake—I didn’t realize you were too important for our noble cause. However, if you happen to catch any criminals or encounter someone whose prospects are more… limited, shall we say, perhaps send them our way for consideration?”

“Need to bolster the ranks?” Nile asked as he approached, coming to stand just behind Erwin. His shrewd, dark eyes met the other Orlesian’s briefly, before flitting off to consider the wardens again. “Nile du Auk, by the way, and this is Erwin de Forgeron. I suppose someone here has to make proper introductions. You have caught us on our eve of becoming chevaliers.”

Erwin apologized with, “Forgive me for not offering my name sooner. I was raised on stories of the Wardens and I let my interest get the better of me.”

“What is there to forgive? You’ve paid for our rooms and our food,” Hange grinned. “An appreciated gesture, but possibly unnecessary! I was only mid-haggle when you came along. I have negotiated Antivan Crows out of executing contracts. I would’ve broken that ugly nug of a man, too.”

The nug of a man in question, just returned from gathering the keys to their rooms, drew in an affronted sniff and began to wipe the bar top with a ferocity that threatened to remove varnish.

“I’m sure,” Erwin amiably replied, feeling a measure better. He has not evened the scales of what will happen tonight, but some good is better than none. “I pray you find better hospitality in the rest of your stay. Though… I would caution you not to expect it.”

“Oh, no need to warn us. We’ve gotten nothing but dirty glares and shuttered windows since we arrived,” the Warden-Captain agreed, nodding so quickly that her spectacles nearly slipped down her nose. “Anyway, I must get this bleeding man upstairs post-haste,” she said, gesturing to the wounded warden behind her. “A pleasure to meet you both. I do hope we’ll see each other again soon!.”

Erwin watched the group of Grey Wardens amble off and up the stairs to the inn’s rented rooms, still a little in shock at encountering Grey Wardens in the flesh—and such peculiar ones, at that.

“Three ales and you’re sticking your neck out for a Tevinter mage,” Nile said through his teeth, swatting Erwin on the arm. “Get it together, man. Can’t believe they let those walk around loose.”

“A Grey Warden mage,” Erwin softly corrected.

“Oh, as if that’s any better. Half their ranks are cold-blooded criminals.” Nile hung his head and sighed, exasperated with him. “Alright, you. We had better head out soon. Tonight’s going to be enough of a trial as-is. Can you imagine showing up late and getting stuck in a coach with that smarmy du Reiss arsehole?”

 —------------------------------------------------------

After nightfall, the graduating cohort of soon-to-be-chevaliers was assembled, stuffed into horse-drawn coaches, and trundled through the darkened streets of Val Royeaux. 

The coach jostled and swayed as it rolled down toward the slums, wheel axles groaning under the weight of so many armored bodies. Beside Erwin were his brothers- and sisters-in-arms, either chattering in excitement or quiet with anticipation.

Jules du Reiss’ bluster filled the small space of the carriage, his words uncomfortably loud in the heated air of their confines.

“It will not be the first time I have shown a knife-ear their place,” he reminded them all for perhaps the eighth time in the span of the last week. “Caught one stealing away from the kitchens with a ham hock when I was still a boy, and I took his hand with the ham still in it! To have such a quick, clean strike at such a tender age amazed the master-at-arms. My father insisted upon my early admittance to the Academie, after that.”

Erwin’s jaw tightened just slightly—imperceptibly, in the darkness of the coach, he hoped.

“If I have to hear one more time how du Reiss rescued that damsel ham from the vile clutches of some poor, starving servant,” Nile du Auk muttered near Erwin’s ear, sounding as dryly disgruntled as Erwin felt.

He chuckled weakly, grateful for the distraction his friend offered. His stomach still hadn’t quite settled, the drinks from earlier in the evening now only serving to make Erwin queasy in the bouncing of the carriage. Sweat rolled down his back and seeped into the underclothes and padding beneath his armor, and once again he was a fresh-faced recruit being forced to bake in the summer heat during drills that lasted into the night.

“Were I the duke, I would’ve shipped that little wretch off to the Academie at eight years of age, too,” Erwin replied in a whisper, head turned so that he spoke against Nile’s cheek.

Nile choked on his stifled laughter.

“Maker’s breath, I hope du Auk and de Smith can contain themselves. Whispering over there like ladies-in-waiting at a masque,” Jules du Reiss commented, suddenly aware of the pair’s hushed snickering.

“Better than boasting like a boy on his first visit to a brothel,” Erwin answered, expression flat and controlled even as he knew the other man must be positively ruffled.

Du Reiss sat shrouded in the humid darkness in which eight chevalier-hopefuls sat uncomfortably close, but his heated silence said enough. Beside him, Nile’s sharp slash of a mouth was drawn in a slightly lopsided smile, his narrow face reading faint irritation.

Irritation at du Reiss, certainly, but also at him. It was a dangerous game to goad the son of a duke, and under normal circumstances Erwin had the good sense to maintain his mother’s hallmark attitude of chill politeness. The little monster might’ve sprouted from a stunted branch of the imperial family, but Jules was still a du Reiss and possessed all the connections that name entailed.

“We are all of us in the same boat together. Or carriage, as it were,” Nile added a few long moments later, tone mild and clearly meant to diffuse the tension that had been building since the lot of them had piled into the coach under the cover of darkness. “And we will all bear the feathers of chevaliers soon, Maker willing. Let’s save the boasting and teasing for our commencement tomorrow.”

There was a gentle round of agreeing noises, and even du Reiss sighed and said, “True enough. I’ll have to address you as Ser de Smith soon, won’t I?”

“It would seem inevitable,” Erwin agreed, the words sticking to the dry insides of his cheeks and his parched tongue, reluctant to pass his lips. “Provided I am not done in this night. It will be my first encounter with an elf, in truth.”

He paired the admittance with a deferential smile, a bare hint of self-deprecation layered under the humor of his tone, and watched as du Reiss returned to a state of inflated ego.

Du Reiss inclined his head imperiously, waving aside the words. “They’re only tricky to kill because they skitter about like rats. Or rabbits,” he chortled. “I trust you will acquit yourself fine, de Smith. Stomp a bit and you’ll probably crush one underfoot without even noticing.”

The coach erupted into small titters of laughter, and Erwin made a show of sighing good-naturedly. The common notion of Fereldans as simple and forthright, as a people beneath the complexities and duplicity required of the Game, was something he had learned to lean into. The very same sentiments expressed by an Orlesian of purer blood would be interpreted and reinterpreted, subtle slights and veiled intentions discovered even where none had been made, while his own words were taken for sincere with little consideration, especially if he played to their estimation of him as too honest and open with his emotions.

There was a noticeable shift in the smoothness of the road as the carriage reached the edge of the alienage, the old and decrepit neighborhoods dominated by elves and the elven-blooded. The unevenness of the stones jostled the young chevaliers into one another, the clatter of armor on armor nearly drowning out the messy whir of the carriage wheels through mud and stagnant water, over grit and loose cobblestones.

Nile sought his gaze even when Erwin pointedly tried to avoid it, finally catching his eyes and holding them with a look of unease and concern. He slid a gloved hand behind Erwin’s head, holding him at the nape and drawing him in close.

“Erwin. You can do this. Please, do this,” he murmured lowly, his thin lips pressed pale together as he regarded his longtime friend.

They were meant to become chevaliers together. They’d promised it long ago.

After disembarking the coach, Erwin breathed in deep. The air was cooler out here, if fouler.

One by one, his cohort companions split off to find an elf or two to test their blade upon. Erwin was the last to leave the faint glow of the carriage’s lantern, cloaked and bladed. Resigned, he found a dark alley and made his way down it.

Slick, uneven cobblestones gave way to a wet layer of grit and gravel under Erwin’s boots as he advanced further into the alienage, past darkened doorways and boarded windows. It was silent, solemn, dead. The quiet click of his greaves on the ground and the jostle of the armor he wore the only noise to fill the crooked, rundown space that Val Royeaux’s elves inhabited.

If he was watched by large, fearful eyes as he passed through, he could not have said. Laundry still hung from alleyway windows. Smoke and the smell of cooking lingered. But it was as if every inhabitant had been spirited away to the Fade or beyond, nary a trace to be found.

The great tree that lay at the center of the alienage rustled softly in the wind that carried the smell of squalor and smoke. Erwin let himself study the massive tree-trunk, laced as it was with painted words of Elvish and tattered scraps of cloth. Poles jutted from the earth around its thick roots, strung with coils of rope and tiny pieces of metal that clinked gently in the breeze.

He thought of turning back, but… without blood on his blade, he will not be named a chevalier. If he cut his own palm to fake it, it would be spotted. If he drew blood anywhere less visible, it would surely stain through his clothing by the time they left the alienage. If discovered, he would be ousted from the Academie and the chevalier order entirely.

This was a test. Not of skill, but of loyalty. Of devotion. Of adhering to tradition.

Thanks to ten years of thorough instruction and practice, Erwin noticed the barest movement from the periphery of his vision: a shift in the shadows of the alleyway that lay to his right.

The chevalier-to-be drew his sword as he turned, advancing down the way with as little noise as possible. Crates lined the dirty brick walls, creating cover for whatever—whoever—lurked back here, silent as the Maker himself.

And then Erwin saw him.

Blue eyes settled on the small form half-shrouded before him, all clad in soft blacks and night-deep shades of navy. Wan moonlight illuminated just enough of the elf’s face for Erwin to draw a breath of surprised recognition.

“You… from the market?”

If the elf likewise had any recognition of him from the same day so many years ago, he did not show it.

“You’re a big fucking shem,” he noted, gazing up and regarding Erwin as if he were in fact something small and wretched. “Chevaliers coming down here at night only ever means one thing.”

Erwin inclined his head slightly, fingers winding tighter around the grip of his sword.

“I’d hoped to find someone like you here. If I am expected to test my blade on an elf, they should at least bear one of their own. Or two,” he added, glancing at the pair of daggers peeking out from the shadows of a ragged cloak.

A soft, agitated snort ruffled the dark scarf coiled beneath the elf’s finely pointed chin.

“You think that means anything? That it makes you better than the others of your ilk?” he asked, almost sneering. “The honor of chevaliers is about as genuine as anything else in this gilded-shit city.”

Erwin only narrowly avoided the first knife slung his way, the blade singing past his ear before falling to a tinkling clatter some distance behind him. The second throwing knife caught him inside the arm, forcing itself through leather and padding. Its tip pushed just into his flesh, the serration on either edge catching in his muscle with a fierce burn.

Poisoned, too, if he had to bet on it.

He side-stepped a third throwing knife and drew his sword in time to block the elf’s lunging strike, the shriek of their metal meeting reverberating off of the damp masonry. Erwin’s eyes darted down, finding the small rogue glaring metaphorical daggers at him—a complement to the ones he’d slung in his direction earlier.

Their position at the moment did little to help his opponent, whose small stature meant he was fighting both the weight of the chevalier’s blade and the force of the man behind it. Neither was a thing to take lightly. Erwin had split training dummies down the middle like this, the momentum of his height and size bearing down so easily.

“You stomp down here on those giant shem feet of yours,” the elf hissed, sliding his daggers out from under the edge of Erwin’s broadsword and spinning to the side in a flash of dark, whipping cloth and glimmering steel. He was flanking the chevalier in a heartbeat, pushing in for a strike at the man’s soft, vulnerable armpit as he recovered from the elf’s sudden shift in resistance.

Erwin barely deflected the rogue’s first dagger in time, turning and taking the blow across his chestplate instead. To his surprise, the elf worked with the move, seemingly undeterred that his original target had been removed from reach; he pressed closer, following through on the momentum of his strike and letting the edge of the dagger skim across the chevalier’s steel-plated chest.

The rogue brought his right arm in and crossed upward, aiming the blade at the underside of Erwin’s jaw.

“And think you’re untouchable. That you can cut us down and then be back at that Academie in time for a drink,” he hissed, adjusting gracefully as Erwin avoided his dagger. “And you’re usually right.”

Erwin recovered from the reel that spared him the unpleasant fate of having his tongue pinned to the roof of his mouth and widened his stance, greaves settling solidly against the earth.

The rogue darted close to lash out and then danced just out of reach, knowing full well how to engage his opponent on the best possible terms. He never ventured far from the sweet spot that rendered Erwin’s broadsword just a bit cumbersome and unwieldy and prevented him from making the full, powerful swings that would give him advantage. The chevalier was left to work through defensive maneuvers—Weaving the Basket, The Varghest’s Nest, Wyvern Catches Wasp—as his opponent labored to keep him on his toes.

The weight of his weapon was beginning to wear on him, no doubt as the rogue had intended. Erwin could feel a throbbing burn radiating from the prick of the knife on his inner arm and registered that thought for later. The wound would certainly need treatment, though the bite of whatever poison the elf had used seemed more of a nuisance than immediately lethal, at least for the moment. His main concern now was ending the fight before he was left handicapped.

Erwin took his sword in one hand and raised his injured arm to fend off another set of quick, successive strikes. The blows rattled down his bones, numbing his flesh and making his curled fingers tingle. He attempted to grab one of the elf’s thin arms as it lashed out with blade and hilt, making to pull him close and end his dance in and out of grasp. His gauntleted hand, now aching steadily as something flamed along his tendons, failed to connect.

The elf twisted back and out of reach, dark eyes unamused at the sloppy effort. He was still transitioning between chevalic forms when Erwin drew back, broadsword held aloft; there was a beat of stillness, a hitch in the rogue’s momentum as he tracked the movement of Erwin’s long, well-forged blade. He shifted quickly, already lunging toward the human, not away.

Erwin lunged forward as he swung down and out, beginning a sweeping arc that could easily cleave the thin elf in two at the waist—that would cleave him in two, a fact made more certain by every step the rogue took toward him. His brow furrowed as he saw the elven man suddenly dart near, with his heavy-lidded eyes that glimmered with the ambivalent lethality of a mountain cat, feathery strands of ink-dark hair, not a trace of color on the pale, heart-shaped face that could not belong to a man any older than himself.

And all Erwin could think in the moment was that the whole of it all was such a shame, a waste, a terrible practice of pride and power that would be more suited to Tevinter than the heart of an empire that had risen in Andraste’s shadow.

The sole of a slim, booted foot planted against his thigh, just above the knee, and the chevalier recalled the afternoon years ago when he had watched the rogue propel himself up the chantry wall. Erwin’s heel met the ground firmly as his opponent’s weight briefly settled atop his leg, and a straining ache bored through his inner thigh as the elf treated his body like another wall to be scaled; he pushed up and away from Erwin, easily arcing backward over the singing swipe of the chevalier’s sword.

Erwin contained a groan as he stood, drawing himself back into a respectable stance as the rogue nimbly sprung a safe distance away, wheeling from hands to feet without difficulty.

He did glance at his gloves afterward, though, rubbing thumb against fingers as though displeased that he’d had to dirty them. “I’d have kicked you in the face along the way if I wasn’t worried you’d fall flat on your ass and swipe me with that monstrous sword of yours.”

Alas that’s it!

If I remember right, the night would take a turn when Jules du Reiss, his own sword already covered in blood, and a lackey of his stumbled upon Erwin hesitating to kill Levi. After mocking Erwin a little, du Reiss goes to stab at Levi and instead find himself run through—by both Levi, who’d lunged to defend himself first, and by Erwin, who’d acted on impulse to protect this stranger he finds so curious and admirable.

Du Reiss’ lackey, a witness to the whole thing, runs off. Which leaves both Erwin and Levi in a pickle.

Erwin will be executed for killing a member of the imperial family. Levi will be executed for the same, though simply being an elf at the scene of the crime would’ve gotten him killed as well. Worse still, the whole alienage will be ripped apart looking for him.

They flee together, with Levi taking pains to lure the other chevaliers after them, away from the alienage. Nile corners the pair of them at one point but lets them go, telling Erwin to find the wardens and he’ll stall the others as long as he can.

Erwin and Levi find Hange, who is willing to use the Right of Conscription to induct them as Grey Wardens (and all too happy to bag a chevalier and a talented rogue in one fell swoop). The wardens take them and leave before dawn, with Hange using a bit of magic to deter the guards who try to stop them/deny the wardens’ right to claim two wanted murderers.