#...to be continued.

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The Soldier's Peak, 21st Cloudreach, 9:54

Dear Dorian,

first, let me thank you once again, on behalf of every Grey Warden, for all your help with our research. We've made huge progress, in part thanks to your contributions. But regular Wardens and 'Avernus's gang' are different, as you well know. Warden Marra, the last surviving 'ghoul' at the Peak, didn't respond to the treatment very well. Instead of cleansing him of the taint, the cure very nearly killed him. And for reasons I won't trust this paper with, Marra, his survival and, hopefully, his eventual recovery do matter. Few people have your expertise or the access to the resources you can provide, let alone both. More importantly, nobody else cares. Because Marra is believed to be the last surviving of Avernus's test nugs and as far as everyone else is concerned, he can drop dead and they can all heave a sigh of relief. But I can't have that. I realize it is a lot to ask, but I need your help again. Yevren.

Dorian looked at the man who'd brought the letter – a handsome dark-skinned elf in his late forties or early fifties. He was sitting on the luxurious settee on the other end of the table, smiling and sipping tea. His blonde hair was already gleaming with some premature silver and his eyes were honey and gold. The ward-protected walls of Dorian's private meeting room snugged safe and cosy around them. Ser Arainai had demanded an audience 'someplace safe'. "No unwanted ears or eyes, no eavesdroppers." So Dorian had taken him here. Here was as safe as it got in Minrathous.

"Are you familiar with the contents of the letter?" Dorian asked. "As a matter of fact, yes," the elf replied. "That – and more." There was that pleasant cadence to his words only Antivans had. "Whatever we discuss between these walls is, naturally, intended for your ears only." Dorian nodded and his head felt both light and heavy as he did so. His heart leaped in his chest and began racing. He looked at Zevran Arainai and the knowing smirk lingering at the corners of the elf's mouth only reinforced his suspision: whatever Yevren was hinting at in her letter, it had something to do with Dasahngaris. The Antivan continued: "There are at least two of them still alive. The ghouls, I mean. There—may be more. But let us all hope there are not – and that no unpleasant surprises lurk in the dungeons beneath Weisshaupt." He took another sip of tea, then met Dorian's gaze and held it. "One of the two we can account for is Marra." Mist started gathering in Dorian's eyes. He felt for the pendant on his chest, the locket containing the dead sending crystal, and clutched it through his robe. Zevran Arainai continued: "Judging from your expression, you've already guessed who the other one is. And I can tell you where to find him." "In exchange for what...?" "If you figure out how to help him, you share what you've got with Yevren. And, of course, you promise to keep the secret. A good bargain, no?" Bitterness began pooling in Dorian's mouth. "Why does it have to be a secret at all..." Zevran replied: "Hiding from the Order is one reason, protecting the narrative Leliana has spun around him is another... Especially now that she's decided to resurrect the Inquisition... As to why he chose not to inform you—you'd have to ask him, I suppose." A mirthless chuckle escaped Dorian's lips. "Oh, I will do that." He blinked away the gathering tears and met Zevran's eyes. "Very well... Tell me what you know."

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Chapter 1: The Red Lords

The Isanan enclave was anchored just offshore of Llomerryn. By no means the only elven enclave around, it was definitely one of the larger ones, a massive nest of ships the size of a village. In addition to three barques, Dorian counted four galleasses and about forty smaller ships of varying sizes and designs, all interconnected through a network of planks, gangways, ladders and rope bridges and abuzz with life and activity. He had little doubt that the whole floating cluster could disassemble and get into a battle-ready formation at the drop of a hat. The idea made him even dizzier than he already was. He had never expected it would be so easy to get here.

But apparently, the whole upper deck on one of the larger ships served as a bazaar and anyone with some coin or interesting goods was welcome aboard. Isanans ran the ferries and they kept close tabs on who was coming and leaving, but they turned few people away.

The bazaar was a busy, lively place, overwhelming to the senses at first. There was the silver cling of coins, chirping and whistling of birds, a volume of voices both male and female, hoarse and nasal, ingratiating and intimidating, arguing, laughing, haggling, joking, singing even, there was the squeal of a badly tortured two-string fiddle accompanied by a shawm and a couple of flutes, and hissing of oil and crackling of a hundred little fires, mewling of cats and barking of dogs, barefoot taps and heavy-booted thuds; there was the endless flow of robes and veils and flutter of scarves, ribbons and feathers, gleams of steel, glimmer of gold and silver and every other precious metal you could think of, there was dazzle of jewels and precious gems, and the stalls overflowed with all kinds of goods - from expensive fabrics and furs to leather aprons, from porcelain dolls to porcelain earpicks, from gold-inlaid sabres to fruit knives, from fine teas, coffees and tobaccos to sunflower seeds, from silk robes to chainmails... A sweet-looking little lady just a few steps away was selling hairpins and the old man next to her had a wide selection of mirrors. A glance to the right and there was an ancient woman beaming a proud smile over a display of silk pouches and purses. No matter where the gaze fell, there was some kind of invitation or temptation awaiting there.

All the noise and movement didn't help much with his seasickness. His head was spinning and his insides felt like jelly. A tall, gaunt gentleman in a silk kaftan quirked an eyebrow and offered him a mint candy as he passed him by. He must have looked horrible indeed. He was probably changing colours more rapidly than a ghostdancer changing masks. He accepted the candy with a curt nod and a 'thank you' before he drew a slow, calming breath and dived deeper. Most food stalls were concentrated at this end of the deck and the air about him grew thicker and heavier with every step he took. His stomach, raw with motion sickness and sore with nerves, leapt all the way up to his throat. He quickly steered away from the strong smell and the heat, weaving a path through the crowd, eyes wandering about. The Isanans were easy to spot. Their tattoos varied from one person to another, but they had a unifying style – elegant, minimalistic, with straight, clear lines.

It was hard to tell a fighter from a mage at first sight – but Dorian knew what to look for: patchworks of scars, rune-covered weapon handles – and the tell-tale gleam of claw-rings on their thumbs. Damned blood mages. The sight of them was giving him all the wrong chills. And it mattered not that they were nothing like the maleficar back home. A blood mage is a blood mage. And perhaps the oddest thing about their presence was how unbothered by it everyone else seemed to be. It was—unsettling, to say the least. Like an ugly, discordant background noise beneath the buzz of the bazaar.

Dorian's heart was loud and heavy in his chest and his blood's panicked roar was almost deafening behind his temples. His legs seemed to weigh a dozen stones each, while his head felt so light he'd swear it was going to float up like a soap bubble.

The sending crystal in his pocket was giving off a faint vibe, coming alive after lying cold and buried under layers of silk for many long months. It remembered its former owner, the symphony of tones that was Dasahngaris... And it was calling to him now because he was near.

Perhaps for the very first time, the reality of it all truly sank in. Das was alive. And, for whatever reason, he wanted Dorian to believe otherwise. It was—confusing. Heartbreaking. Infuriating. It hurt.

Not that Dorian couldn't think of reasons. But each theory he came up with he liked less than the one before.

Was it because of the ugly words they'd exchanged last time they'd spoken? Or was it the taint? The thought twisted a cold dagger in his gut. ~What if it's too late?~

He looked around the bazaar, eyes roaming, mind searching for pointers or clues – but the noise and bustle surrounding him gave him nothing but headache.

He turned towards the nearest red-clad Isanan. A slight, wiry fellow, armed with a large sabre and covered in scars – many of them clearly mementoes from battles both old and recent, but at least some of them must have been left by the silver claw-rings he was wearing on both thumbs. One of the blood warriors, then.

Dorian shivered at the notion and almost turned away. There must have been someone else he could talk to. But the warrior had already noticed him. "You seem lost, sir," he said, sounding almost friendly. "I'm looking for—someone." His determination started slipping. He—wasn't ready for whatever discovery he was about to make. Every conceivable possibility was frightening. "You may have to be a touch more specific, sir," the elf said. "I..." Dorian paused and hesitated, uncertain just how specific he wanted to be. "I'm looking for the Warden." The warrior's eyes took on an entirely new, sharper gleam. "Warden?" he echoed. Dorian sighed and gave the man a look. "One may leave the Order behind, but not the taint. I believe he goes by his mother's birth name now, but if dropping old names is what it takes, I'll yell his loud enough for him to hear." A sudden prickling sensation at the back of his skull made him regret his cocky tone. The blood warrior's golden eyes flashed a warning. "You won't be yelling anything, sir. And you will come with me." "Only if I get to speak with him," Dorian replied – and he didn't bother to conceal the urgency in his tone. "It is important." "I'm not in any position to promise anything. Please, sir." The elf gestured towards one of the plankways.