#wiitsmh

—*Chapter One: Disrupt and Conquer*—

“Is that—? No… it can’t be…”

Cold air coils around Rook, biting at her ears as she sprints toward the ruins, her boots crunching heavily in the snow. Ahead, an elven man donning Mythal’s vallaslin addresses a crowd, his voice fractured by the wind—Spirits? Circle?—but the meaning is clear enough. Whatever he’s commanding, the elves hang on every word, their breath suspended in both air and anticipation.

As she nears, realisation hits her like a stone in her chest. Beside him, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the onlookers with practiced detachment, stands a figure she knows all too well.

Solas.

But something is… different. For one, he has hair. For another, there’s a strange uncertainty in the way he carries himself—a hesitation that feels unlike the man she’s unfortunately come to know.

Though his face is almost the same—the same etched lines of frustration, lips curved into a habitual scowl, his brow furrowed with equal parts determination and anguish—there’s an unfamiliar weight in his posture.

He shuffles slightly, kicking the snow at his feet. Then, as the man beside him addresses him, ‘Dread Wolf’, his hands curl into fists at his side. He turns to the crowd and his lavender eyes, soft in colour but always burning with hatred in her memory, now seem dull and detached, scanning the faces before him without truly seeing.

There’s no fury, no scorn—only cold indifference.

“The false gods, the Evanuris,” Solas booms, his voice every bit as commanding as his general’s. “They have overreached. I shall humble them.”

“We’re seeing the past—a memory!” Emmrich whispers at her side, his tone alive with fascination.

She forces a small, wry smile. “I figured. Pretty sure Solas hasn’t been able to call himself ‘humble’ in centuries.”

Bellara leans in, equally enraptured. “He must think we’re one of these spirits,” she murmurs, her voice vibrating with excitement.

Rook stays silent, cold dread gnawing at her. While her companions brim with curiosity, all she feels is a rising tide of nausea.

“Within their citadel lies a relic with the power to imprison even a god,” Solas continues, speaking over them. “With it, I can bring their tyranny to an end forever.”

Rook exhales sharply, the words like ice in her veins. She already knows how well this plan works out. Could she warn him? Could she tell this version of Fen’Harel that, in a thousand years or so, a hapless reject from the Mourn Watch would undo his work—freeing the Evanuris and plunging the world into chaos—all because he was dead set on destroying it?

Or, perhaps, she could tell him how that very same novice would be his only connection to the world and—in a cruel act of injustice and terrible luck—the only hope of putting things right. Even if he was insistent on acting like her life was created for the express purpose of ruining his.

She scoffs inwardly. He’d never listen. He’d probably laugh. When did Solas ever appreciate advice—or anything, for that matter?