#ln writes

The ship was quieter in the small hours, the endless hum of its engines a kind of heartbeat that few ever noticed, but Abelard always did. He’d made a life out of listening to machinery and men alike.

The wardroom was never empty; a thousand officers with service mandates spread across every rotation of the chrono, there was always someone seeking sustenance for the next watch or a restorative after the last. The lack of life in the officers' mess primed Abelard’s senses, a silence that shouldn’t be.

He reached the open hatchway and spotted the cause: a swathe of crimson near the viewport, staring at the open void beyond. Of course. There was nary an officer on board who would willingly breathe the same air as an agent of the Inquisition. Given the choice, an empty belly was the obvious preference. 

Abelard was the rare exception. 

His bulk filled the doorway, silent as a breath. He saw the moment his presence registered, whether by sorcery or instinct. Heinrix’s shoulders stiffened, the hands clasped behind his back gripped tighter for an instant before the psyker forced calm upon himself. 

Heinrix’s head turned, expression set in its usual stoic mask. His chin dipped in a curt greeting. Abelard did not return the nod. He studied the other man, his rigid posture, the too-loose fit of his inquisitorial garb, notable changes since his return from…

“...Janus,” Abelard lied to himself. The truth of where the Interrogator had been, and with whom, still crushed the air from his lungs, threatening to drag him to his knees.

Abelard took a breath, watching himself being watched. Heinrix didn’t look away. He stood like a shadow among shadows, trying to disappear, too still, like a cornered thing, deciding whether to fight or flee.

Abelard’s jaw tightened. “Spit it out, Van Calox. You’ve been circling me like a carrion bird since we made dock.”

Heinrix didn’t flinch, but he didn’t quite meet Abelard’s gaze. He had the good sense not to skirt the matter.

“If you think me a threat to him, I will step aside. Whatever passed between us in Commorragh… it should not continue. It was circumstance. Weakness.”

That word, weakness, landed like an insult.

Abelard crossed the breadth of the bay in a dozen strides. The chain at his belt clinked softly with each step, silencing abruptly as he planted himself in front of Heinrix with all the immovability of a fortress wall.

“Weakness?” he spat. “You will not insult me thus. You will not insult him!”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a growl. “I’ve known since the day you set foot aboard this vessel that he’d have you in his bed. You weathered temptation longer than I managed to, I’ll grant you that. But don’t you dare pretend it meant nothing. Don’t you dare discard him like something used.”

Heinrix’s composure cracked, just a hair, just for an instant. His lips parted as if to reply, then shut again, at a loss.

Abelard’s gaze didn’t soften; instead, it sharpened, not with anger, but a grim, unyielding protectiveness. “All that matters to me is that he found his way back from--” he choked on the name, “that he’s alive. For that… for whatever hand you had, you have my thanks. But hear me well, Interrogator: if you disrespect him, you’ll answer to me. And I do not mean with words.”

A silence fell between them, heavy as iron. Heinrix swallowed. His voice, when at last he found it, was tentative. “You… approve?”

Abelard huffed, not quite a laugh. “You ask as if my disapproval would sway him." His remaining eye hardened with ruthless candour, the augmentation flashing. "Do not mistake me, if I’d thought for even a moment that you were a threat to him, you would have found yourself unfortunately close to a malfunctioning airlock many a watch ago. What is at issue here, is that you stood with him when I could not, that you returned with him with all your limbs attached, and that he sees something worth pursuing in you. If you want him in return, if you have something to give… then give it. But do it honestly. He deserves more than feints and half-measures.”

Abelard hesitated, then clapped a hand onto Heinrix’s shoulder. Not unkindly, but with weight enough to embed the warning in his next words. “Remember this, Van Calox: he belongs to himself. Not to you. Not even to me. Don’t mistake the way he surrenders for weakness. He is stronger than either of us.”

Abelard released the Interrogator. He turned and strode from the wardroom, the hunger that drew him there forgotten.

Heinrix remained, just beyond the lumens' glow, veiled in the darkness of the Expanse.

Aristide Amell: born 8:41 of the Blessed Age in the Thedas timeline, died in 9:11 Dragon at age 70 due to cholera. Leandra says it was a week after the Hawke twins were born. Incidentally, Leandra would have been 27 and Gamlen 23.

Bethann Amell, née Walker: born 8:58 Blessed, died a year after her husband in 9:12 Dragon at the age of 54. Gamlen says it was of a broken heart. My headcanon is that Aristide married late and took a young bride to secure an heir. Bethann would have been 26 when Leandra was born, and Aristide 43. Aristide’s younger brother, Fausten, married young on the other hand, and this is why there is such a huge age gap between the cousins on either side.

Fausten Amell: born in 8:43 Blessed, date of death is not known, but it happened at some point before Revka disappeared in 9:08 Dragon, which places him in his early to mid 60s. Fausten’s wife is never mentioned and it doesn’t really impact my canon, so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Damion Amell: born in 8:67 Blessed when his dad (Fausten) was 24. It’s not clear when exactly Damion went to jail for smuggling. Assuming it happened between 9:03 and 9:07 Dragon, he would have been in his mid-30s. Leandra and Gamlen would have been in their teens in the 8:90′s when all the family’s problems were starting to spiral.

Revka Amell: born in 8:71. She married Quentin Vass, a scholar from Starkhaven, 5 years her junior. According to rumour, Revka was pressured into the marriage due to her suitor’s wealth, even though the origins of his fortune were quite the mystery. Quentin, a commoner, was eager to take the Amell name, ostensibly due to the family’s aristocratic status. He claimed that “sacrificing” his own ancestry would ensure that children born of the union would inherit their mother’s title and standing. In truth, however, Quentin’s motives for a change of name were far more sinister. In 9:34, Quentin would be exposed as a dangerous apostate and serial killer, responsible for the murder of Revka’s cousin, Leandra, and several other affluent women over the course of many years.

Whether Revka ever knew that she’d wedded a Maleficar remains unknown, but gossip abounds. Whispers linger that the couple’s marriage was unhappy and contributed greatly to the deterioration of Revka’s mental state. According to official records, Revka “disappeared” in 9:08 when the couple’s fifth child, Aelswith, was only two years old. Revka herself would have been 37 and Quentin 32 at the time.

Those few who remained close to Revka in spite of her many misfortunes, insist that she was nothing if not a devoted mother. The accepted conclusion, namely that she’d abandoned her three children not yet identified as magi and taken into the Circle’s custody, is unthinkable to these sources and they are convinced that Quentin had a hand in her vanishing.

Quentin Amell, né Vass: born in 8:76 and killed by Hawke in 9:34, aged 58.

Osmond Amell: Revka and Quentin’s first born child and only son was born in 8:93. He was discovered to be a mage at the age of 10 and taken to the Kirkwall Circle in 9:03, commencing a cascade of scandals that would rock the foundations of House Amell’s status and legacy. In the normal course, mages are not housed in the same city where their family resides. This policy is enforced to dissuade escape attempts, however, due to the Amells’ standing, an exception was made for Oswald. It is rumoured that his mother maintained correspondence with him until shortly before her disappearance, and even visited him in secret.

Assuming Osmond remained in the Kirkwall Circle, he would be 44 in 9:37 when Knight-Captain Meredith Stannard calls for the Right of Annulment.

Eadlin Amell: Revka and Quentin’s second child and first daughter, born in 8:95. Her magic was discovered in 9:07, four years after her brother was taken. She was 12 years old when the templars came for her. She was initially housed in the Kirkwall Circle along with her sibling, but accusations of nepotism, combined with the Amells’ declining influence, resulted in her being relocated to a Circle in Orlais. There’s every chance she’s acquainted with Vivienne de Fer as they are of the same generation and share a disposition of sophisticated grit.

Aleria Amell: born in the freezing cold on the 13th day of Wintermarch in 8:99, Revka and Quentin’s third child has always been a survivor.

She was only 4 years old in 9:03 Dragon when Osmond was taken – barely out of infancy, but old enough to witness and recall the fallout of her brother’s departure, her baby sister, Therese’s frighteningly early arrival and her mother’s lengthy recovery. In 9:07 Dragon, at the age of 8, the loss of her older sister, Eadlin, with whom she’d grown close, was quite traumatising. The household was still able to afford servants, albeit of the sort not repelled by a family afflicted with two magi offspring in succession. Aleria, ever dutiful and now the eldest, became the de facto caregiver to 4-year-old Therese and 2-year-old Aelswith, last of Revka and Quentin’s children, born in 9:05 Dragon, all the while watching as her mother’s sanity slipped away. 

In 9:08 Dragon, less than a full year after the loss of her older sister, 9-year-old Aleria’s mother vanished from her life as well.

Due to the quick succession of painful losses, Aleria’s childhood was marked by a terrible fear of magic. Even as a little girl, she devoted a great deal of time to religious contemplation and study, begging the Maker’s forgiveness for her family’s sins and praying that the “curse” which had claimed two of her siblings would spare the rest.

A few months after her mother’s disappearance – coinciding with the inquiry into the matter being turned over to the templars for investigation in place of the Guard – Quentin relocated to Starkhaven. Upon arrival in the city in the winter of 9:08 Dragon, he deposited his daughters into the custody of a man identified simply as their hitherto unmentioned “uncle,” and left without so much as a farewell.

In 9:10 Dragon, Aleria’s younger sister, Therese, became the third of her siblings to come into her mana at the unusually young age of 7. Like Oswald and Eadlin before her, little Therese was torn from Aleria’s life suddenly and quietly, cloistered behind the walls of the Starkhaven Circle – in the same city as her family, contrary to Chantry dictates. Unlike her brother, Oswald, however, the breach in protocol was due to the Starkhaven Knight-Commander’s indifference rather than awe. Between the walls of the pious Vael family’s Principality, the name “Amell” carried no weight.

It was three years later, in 9:13 Dragon, that Aleria herself was escorted by boat to Kinloch Hold in Ferelden. The templars were called after her “uncle” informed her that she was to be carted off to Nevarra to wed to a 51-year-old “business contact” of his, and found himself engulfed in flames. Aleria was 14 at the time. Why Aleria was relocated as per protocol instead of simply thrust into the Starkhaven Circle – where she could have reunited with her sister – was unknown, though the force with which her magic manifested might well have reignited the Knight-Commander’s enthusiasm for convention.

In Ferelden, she worried over the fate of her youngest sister and continued to blame the destruction of her family on magic, living in a state of self-loathing withdrawal. After being befriended by another apprentice named Anders, her resentment turned upon the Circle itself. The two grew closer as they matured. Their friendship became briefly intimate – an experience that confirmed Aleria amorous preference for women. As time passed, the dangers of Circle politics and Anders' reputation as a troublemaker, compelled Aleria to distance herself, but her fondness for her first fried remained. She became aware of Anders' affair with an older mage, Karl Thekla, and followed his example, engaging in discreet trysts with other apprentices. Unlike Anders, she feared the consequences of attempting to escape, but admired his tenacity.

She kept her burgeoning rebellious streak hidden, presenting a facade of content obedience. In 9:17, after only four years' instruction, she passed her Harrowing at the age of 18. She showed an aptitude for primal magic and, as a fully-fledged mage, her studies vested in this school.

In 9:30, at the age of 31, Aleria was recruited to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens, along with a young elven mage named Eríst of the Ferelden Circle and the first dwarf of her acquaintance. Valdrin, as the dwarf introduced himself, would later be revealed to be an exiled prince of Orzammar.

It was Aleria who cast the spell that killed the Archdemon, earning her the moniker, “Hero of Ferelden.” She survived the Blight and was awarded the title Constable of the Grey, acting as Valdrin Aeducan’s second in command at the Weisshaupt Fortress.

Therese Amell: born was born prematurely in 9:03, likely due to the stress of her elder brother, Osmond’s removal from the household. In 9:10 Dragon, she became the youngest of the Amell children to come into her mana at only 7 years of age. She was the third sibling of her family line to be taken by the templars. Since her “uncle,” was simply a “guardian,” and her siblings considered “foreigners,” the typical protocol of housing mages in Circles distant from their kin was considered not worth the effort of arranging. She would reside in the Starkhaven Circle until it’s destruction in 9:31.

Nicknamed Terrie, she was 28 when she (unknowingly) encountered her cousin, Wreath Hawke, while hiding on the Wounded Coast with the other Starkhaven mages tuned apostate, fearing the rumoured brutality of the Kirkwall Circle.

With Hawke’s aid, she managed to escaped. Unlike her fellows, she successfully evaded recapture and, like her cousin, carves out a life as an apostate.

Aelswith Amell: born in 9:05, Aelswith was the last of the Amell children to manifest magic. It happened a year after her elder sister, Aleria, was taken to Ferelden. Aelswith was 9 years old when she was taken to the Circle at Ostwick. She would later meet a fellow apprentice from a local noble family named Lysander Trevelyan, but the two were never friends.

Leandra Amell: born in 8:84 Blessed. She arrived so soon after her parents’ wedding that there were whispers about her conception hastening the ceremony, but Aristide and Bethann’s joy would not be overshadowed by wagging tongues. At 43, Aristide had been a bachelor for so long that many wondered how he would adjust to family life, but he proved to be a doting father and husband.

In 9:00 Dragon, when Leandra was 16, talk began of a betrothal to Guillaume de Launcet, the 22-year-old heir to his father’s title in Orlais and holdings in Kirkwall. Leandra, an intelligent and open-minded girl, was quietly horrified at the idea. The De Launcets were traditional to the extreme and Leandra had no interest in being dragged into the Grand Game, which persisted among the Orlesian nobility, even while residing Kirkwall.

Since childhood, Leandra held a deep fascination for magic and all things related to the Fade. With no talent of her own, her interested was academic and considered mostly harmless by her father. After all, Leandra was a dutiful daughter and a sensible girl. She would never do anything rash or disgraceful.

In 9:02 (a year before Osmond’s magic was discovered) Aristide surprised his daughter with a magical demonstration by mages sent from the local Circle as part of the celebration of her 18th name day. Leandra was captivated by the display... and intrigued by one mage in particular. 

If Legacy is played while Leandra is alive, this conversation happens:

Hawke: How did the heir to the Amells meet a Ferelden apostate, anyway?

Carver: Not by prowling the sewers, I hope (lmao 😂)

Leandra: He wasn’t an apostate then. He was a Junior Enchanter in the Gallows. I’d always thought mages were grim old men in strange robes, but Malcolm was... he was young, strong, never considered himself anything but the equal of every man there. And they all knew it and hated him for it. 

It was with curt civility that the clearly Chasind mage introduced himself as Malcolm Hake – the only one of his fraternity to do so. Leandra’s eager attempts to speak with his brethren had resulted in nothing but obsequious well wishes, followed by a brisk, bowing retreat. Not Malcolm.

He met the stares of Kirkwall’s assembled aristocracy, holding the gaze of each until their eyes darted nervously away. Years later, he would confide that when Leandra approached him, brimming with earnest, marveling curiosity, he had hoped that his aloof, unimpressed decorum would frighten her off as well. Malcolm, however, was not the only one present at that fateful gathering with a penchant for dancing on the knife’s edge of proprietary.

Excited to finally converse with a shaper of the Fade, Leandra would not be deterred. As yet naive of the brutal truth of Circle “recruitment,” she strove to break the ice with an inquiry into the length of Malcolm’s “tenure” with the Kirkwall Circle. The answer he gave surprised her: ten years, a mere decade, “conscripted,” as he put it, from the Korcari Wilds as a boy of 15. Intrigued, Leandra continued to pepper him with questions. Some of the things she’d asked... the insensitivity of her prying would dawn on her much later, yet Malcolm had answered, perhaps sensing the absence of mockery or malice behind her intent. By the end of the evening, Leandra had managed to coax the stern man’s full mouth into a semblance of smile, igniting fire in her cheeks.

And thus, an affair was kindled that would change the course of history...

My headcanon is that Malcolm was already planning his escape from the Kirkwall Circle when he met Leandra at the party. He followed through with this course shortly after their meeting, joining a mercenary company to scrape together the resources to return to Ferelden. Leandra had intrigued him, however, and against judgment and sense, Malcolm began a correspondence with her that continued over the next three years.

In 9:05 Dragon, thoroughly aware of Leandra’s growing anxiety over her unwanted betrothal, Malcolm steered the company to accept a job in Kirkwall. Rationalising every step as he approached the city, his self-deception shattered as Leandra ran to him at their pre-arranged meeting place, and he found his arms enfolding her in a tight embrace. Leandra fell pregnant that night and a few weeks later, the couple eloped with the Larius’ dubious “aid.” Leandra was 21 and Malcolm 28. They spoke their own vows and exchanged rings, but were never legally wed. Vows spoken under false names would void any marriage officiated by the Chantry, and the risk of wedding under their true identities was simply too great.

This means that all the Hawke children are illegitimate, which is why not even Carver can lay official claim to his grandfather’s title.

In 9:27, 22 years after their departure from Kirkwall, Malcolm is killed by templars en route to the Highever market. 21-year-old Wreath is with him and is able to return his body to the family for cremation. Malcolm was 50 when he died -- the same age as Leandra would be in 9:34 when she is killed by Quentin.

The history of the Amell-Hawke branch of the family is covered extensively in the game. I don’t have much to add to the Amell-Hawke children’s stories, except to say that I love the detail about cousin Damion being accused of smuggling and Uncle Fausten bankrupting himself to try and clear his name. It adds a hint of poetic irony to  my smuggler apostate Hawke being the one to restore the fortunes of a family destroyed by magic and smuggling. The Amells were upstanding, law-abiding folk and it ruined them. Enter an illegitimate, career-criminal son of an apostate and the Amells’ fortunes are restored... for a time at least.

“Warden-Ensign Hawke!”

Carver broke from his thwarted nostalgia. He glanced up, spotting a statuesque woman striding toward him. He’d seen her likeness; would know who she was even without the insignia gleaming on her armour, but what stilled his breath was not surprise at finding the Constable of the Grey and a Hero of Ferelden greeting him on the docks.

The same blue-grey eyes he saw in the mirror met his own. There was familiarity in the slant of her nose, her jaw, the golden hair looped in an elegant braid like a crown. His mother’s hair had turned white after Father died, lines of sorrow etched in her face and growing deeper after Bethany, after the news of the lost estate and a year in Lowtown, watching her sons become criminals, but this… this was how she’d looked to him in her youth. Not the same face, not entirely, but close enough to pick at the splinter of loss festering in his heart.

A divot formed between her brows as she stopped in front of him. Carver realized that he was staring, that he had yet to offer a salute.

He swallowed thickly, brought his right fist to his left shoulder and dipped low at the waist for good measure.

“Aye, Constable Amell. Ensign Hawke reporting.”

It seemed this visit would not be free of ghosts, after all.

A carriage awaited them. Practical and inornate, yet unmistakable with the two-headed griffon emblazoned on the door.

Carver glanced out the window, watching the scenery pass. He felt himself being studied.

“Your father, Malcolm Hawke,” she ventured.

Carver turned to meet her eyes.

“I’ve heard he was Chasind.” It was a statement, devoid of inflexion.

It was not what people usually fixated on. Most who knew the story (and were bold enough to broach it) asked about his father’s magic, about the “apostate” who’d raised him in voices laden with either pity or censure. Given the unspoken history that hovered between them, Carver supposed he knew why that particular tangent was being skirted.

He, and his sister while she lived, had favoured their mother ever so slightly. They could pass for Nevarran, or perhaps Tevinter as long as no one questioned their accent – unlike Wreath who wore their Korcari ancestry in the bronze of his skin. Like his brother, Carver had inherited Malcolm’s stature, his aptitude with a sword and according to some, his temper. Wilders weren’t known as hospitable folk, but he rather thought that had more to do with highlander abuses than a lack of courtesy among the marshland tribes.

Carver squared his shoulders, tilted his chin. “He was.”

“And, was he… a good man?”

Carver nodded. The Constable looked down at her hands.

“My father was not.” She closed her eyes. “I am sorry.”

Carver blinked. His lips parted to speak, though what he planned to say he didn’t know. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected her to acknowledge—

He’d missed his mother’s funeral, her ashes already cold when Gamlen’s letter reached him on the outskirts of Tantervale. He’d been angry at Wreath for not writing himself, until he considered what it must have felt like to be there, to see what that bastard done and to watch her slip away.

He’d barely spoken of her fate since it happened. He’d received condolences before, of course. But this, from a stranger with her face, made it abruptly real in a way he was ill-prepared to confront.

The Constable drew a breath. “He killed my mother too.” Spoken so softly, Carver almost thought he’d imagined the admission.

“I was… very young. I wasn’t sure before, but now—” She shook her head and met his gaze. Her eyes shone. “I am sorry, cousin.”

“My brother killed him,” he heard himself say.

Her jaw was tight. She nodded.

The rest of the journey passed in oppressive silence. Carver listened to the scrape of the wheels and the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on the road. His mind was blank, a roil of unnamed emotion threatening to erupt in his belly. Too large, too dark to face.

The carriage slowed, there was a slight tilting sensation as the road took them up a hillside.

“We’re almost at the Keep,” the Constable said.

Carver leaned over and stuck his head out the window. The great edifice of Vigil’s Keep stood before him. The turrets rose above the ramparts, the stone dark and austere. One of the towers must have housed a rookery to account for the number of ravens circling above the castle. Dozens of black dots darted and swerved on the horizon, their cries rolling down from on high like a warning.

He’d heard of the battles the ancient Alamarri fort had withstood, the most recent being the darkspawn incursion of 9:31, four years ago.

Unbidden, the memory flashed of Ostagar, of the darkspawn charge surging across the field in an unstoppable deluge of snarling, gnashing death. His sergeant, a veteran of the Orlesian war, had shouted the command to retreat, but it was only the insistent hands of his fellow infantrymen, refusing to abandon him to the folly of youth and compulsion as they dragged him from the battle, that saved his life.

His sergeant had scolded him afterward, accusing him of recklessness and vainglory. He hadn’t bothered to correct her, but it was never glory that drove him. In the heat of the fray, he’d seen the faces of his mother and sister, even Wreath, who was older and stronger and commanded the Fade. Wreath looked so much like Father, a man Carver had thought invincible until that overcast morning when he helped his brother lay the pyre for his sword-marked corpse. The thought of those tainted, Maker-cursed things swarming the last house Malcolm Hawke would ever build for his family had filled him with a resolve beyond reason to break their advance.

His gaze panned the hillside. Patches of grey, sickly grass lay between the remains of skeletal trees, gnarled and twisted as if in pain. Stroud had told him that darkspawn blood poisoned the ground. In nearly four years as a Warden, this was the first time he’d seen the truth of it.

How many of the beasts had fallen here to scar the land so starkly?

And… was it true?

Had the horde that besieged the Keep been led by a sentient darkspawn? One who spoke and reasoned, who rallied the mindless swarm even in the absence of an Archdemon; worst of all, who could twist the taint in Warden veins to enslave them to its will, turning their one advantage against them?

Rumours had reached the Warden garrison in the Free Marches, dismissed by his fellows as the embellishment of bards. Carver hadn’t believed it either – until he saw it for himself.

They were approaching the gatehouse.

Carver righted himself in his seat. The Constable was staring out the opposite window, gaze unseeing. Clearly, her purpose in meeting him had been personal. She had not come to question him.

It was almost a relief to be reminded of his purpose in coming here, summoned to the Wardens’ most venerated outpost.

Corypheus.

Perpetrator of the first violation. Usurper of the Golden City, cast down by the Maker himself. First of the darkspawn.

Carver had heard the creature speak, listened as it confessed to the hubris that brought the Blight’s taint to Thedas, yet it seemed more dream than real. As if the knowledge was too big to fit into his mind, threatening to overwhelm every memory and thought until it was all he knew.

Did more of these monsters remain?

If so, Maker help them.

The carriage came to a halt in the inner bailey. Even here, the ground was dust, bereft of verdancy.

The Constable led him up an imposing stairwell, flanked by sneering gargoyles, to the entrance of the keep-proper. The doors were huge. Iron knockers in the shape of griffon heads glowered from the dark wood, reinforced with a grid of metal rails.

Their arrival must have been anticipated as the doors creaked open before them.

The entrance hall was dim. The same dark stone of the outer walls swallowed the light trickling in from the high windows. Despite the twilight, fires crackled in interspersed hearths, banishing the cold and damp. An eclectic assortment of quilts and tapestries hung from the walls, depicting a dead dragon, the rising dawn, the head of a Mabari and the Flame of Andraste, sewn in different styles – tributes from the people of Ferelden, displayed in pride of place, adding a touch of optimism to the otherwise foreboding gloom.

“Luthias!” the Constable called. An elven lad (judging by the name and the breeches) hurried toward them. “Show Ensign Hawke to his quarters.”

The Constable looked to Carver. “Valdrin is impatient to hear your report, but you’ve had a long journey. Eat, wash and dress to meet the Commander. We convene in an hour.”

With that, she turned and strode toward one of the archways leading from the main hall.

“If you would follow me, Messere,” the elf said. Carver nodded.

He was led along a labyrinth of corridors until they came to a passage with a row of doors. The elf stopped in front of the third and pushed it open.

“Messere.” He gave a bow, leaving Carver to do as the Constable had instructed.

A plate of bread, cheese and fruit awaited him inside, along with a pitcher of water. He ate, washed and dressed in his uniform. The room held only the most rudimentary of furnishings, but to Carver, who was accustomed to sleeping in a bedroll on the ground, or a barracks shared with a dozen others, a room and a bed to himself seemed as close as he’d come to opulence.

The elf returned.

Again, he was led through the castle, up a spiralling stairwell that ended in a heavy door. The servant gave an abrupt bow and hurried down the stairs as though eager to be gone from the tower. Carver watched his retreating back for a moment before facing the door. He drew a breath, squared his stance and knocked. He’d barely retracted his hand when he was bade to enter.

Six people awaited him inside. The Constable and another woman were seated at a circular table along with two elves. A dwarf and a human remained standing.

Carver recognised several of the assembled, by reputation if not acquaintance, but it was one man in particular whose face registered like a blow to the belly.

Loghain Mac Tir.

The vaunted general. Who’d abandoned his king to die, who’d allowed the Blight to sweep across Ferelden as he waged civil war for the throne, all the while blaming the Wardens for his coup.

Again, the memory rose of Ostagar. Of Lothering burning in their wake as they fled with the clothes on their backs. Of Bethany, broken and still on the parched soil of the Korcari Ridge…

Carver had known that Ferelden’s Warden-Commander had offered clemency to the Traitor Theyrn, a chance at redemption by serving the Order he’d nearly destroyed. It was the dwarven way; never waste a sword that could be pitted against the ‘spawn’s ceaseless assault on what remained of their empire below the world. The reasoning was sound. Carver agreed with it even, but to stand face-to-face with him, close enough for a fist to land, for a blade thrust and cleave—

The older man held his gaze, though only for an instant. He glanced to a spot on the floor, expression bleak, eyes hollow.

“Ensign Hawke.” The dwarf stepped forward. His voice was cultured, edged with an authority that cut through the tension. He stood nearly to Carver’s waist, tall for one of his people.

For the second time, Carver realised that he was overdue in showing deference. Heat spread up the back of his neck as he dipped in a hasty salute. “Commander Aeducan, it is an honour. Uh, Your Highness,” he added, suddenly unsure of the proper address. He’d never been in the presence of royalty before.

Oh flames, should he have taken a knee?

The dwarf’s lip curled in a wry imitation of a smile. “Thank you, Ensign. Commander will do. Whatever titles I held in Orzammar are of little relevance here.”

The accent of the Thaig clung to his speech, but his grasp of the Prophet’s tongue was as sure as any surface dwarf’s… which, Carver supposed he was.

“You’ve met Constable Aleria.”

He nodded.

The Commander gestured to the woman seated beside her – a slim redhead, whose face tugged at his memory. “This is Sister Leliana.”

“Sister?” Carver echoed. “Wait, weren’t you—? You were at the Chantry. In Lothering.”

“Indeed, Warden,” she confirmed, smiling with the serenity of the faithful. “I remember you as well. From the village, mind. You were not one for sermons.”

A bubble of latent fear burst behind his sternum. It didn’t matter anymore. Beth and Father were gone. Wreath was Champion of Kirkwall, the most infamous apostate in Thedas. No templars to run from, no secrets to guard.

“No, I wasn’t,” he said, more tersely than warranted, given that the woman was seated at a table with two mages.

“To. Her. Left,” the Commander pressed, “is Zevran Arainai from Antiva.”

One of the elves, olive-skinned with flaxen hair, rose and bowed in formal greeting. A sinuous tattoo curved from temple to chin. His clothes marked him as a man, though as with most his kind, his features were confusingly androgynous to human eyes, until he spoke. “A pleasure, Warden.”

Carver nodded in acknowledgement.

“Leliana and Zevran are not part of our Order,” the Commander explained, “but their aid was instrumental in ending the Blight. They graciously continue to lend their skills to our efforts.” His gaze moved to the next person at the table. “I trust you’ve heard of—”

“Eríst Surana, Warden-Enchanter. Charmed I’m sure,” the second elf spoke over the dwarf, impatience lacing his tone. Unlike the Antivan beside him, he did not rise. He lounged in the hard wooden chair, exuding ennui as he twirled a lock of long auburn hair around his fingers. There was a softness to his face, verging on plump for an elf, exaggerating the femininity of his features. The glint in his mismatched eyes, one green, one gold, warned that judging him by appearance would be a fatal mistake, however.

Carver had indeed heard of him.

Aeducan, Amell, Surana and Theirin.

The four Wardens who’d survived Ostagar and went on to rally the nations of Ferelden, ending the Fifth Blight with the Archdemon’s fall in the Battle of Denerim. Albeit, not before – he glanced back to Loghain – deposing the regent pretender from the throne.

“You recognise Warden Mac Tir,” the Commander surmised. “I understand you fought at Ostagar.” He drew a breath. “Bear in mind, Ensign, that we stand before a common enemy. As Wardens, we do not have the luxury of bearing grudges. We are all allies here, and it is only through unflinching cooperation that we will prevail. Opposing the darkspawn, in whatever incarnation they present themselves, is this Order’s first and last priority. Do I make myself clear?”

Carver stared at Loghain for a moment longer. “Of course, Commander.”