Kinloch Hold smelled of lyruim and stoneβcold, unfeeling, and ever-watching. The Circle tower was meant to be a place of learning, bur for Mairead Thorne, it was a prison gilded in silence. The youngest daughter of Bann Gavan Thorne, she had been born to a name steeped in Ferelden honour, a house that once served the old kings with fire and sword. But nobility was no shield against fearβnot when your daughter could summon sparks with her breath.
Her family, practical and loyal to Ferelden above all, had handed her over to the Circle with clenched jaws and dry eyes. "Better here," they said. "Better safe."
She hadn't seen them since.
In those first years, Mairead did not cry. She observed. While other apprentices broke beneath the pressure of templar gazes and whispered rumours of Harrowing failures, Mairead studiedβnot just magic, but people. She learned who to speak to, and when silence was stronger than argument. She listened more than she cast, and when she cast, it was with eleganceβrefined, efficient, precise.
She excelled quickly, and not just because of natural talent. She pushed herself. Always farther. Always harder. When others sought praise, Mai sought mastery. She devoured the teaching of Spirit magic, a school many found too abstract, too intimate. But to her, it felt like truth, rooted in empathy, will, and purpose. With it, she mended bones and quieted pain, sometimes in secret, when templars turned their backs. She did not ask for thanks.
But healing was only half of it.
In dim, forbidden corners of the library, beneath dust-covered tomes that the Chantry often 'forgot', she discovered whispers of the Knight Enchantersβmages who once stood beside the greatest warriors of Thedas, wielding spirit as both shield and sword. It called to her like a memory from the Fade. She trained in secret, borrowing from Illusion, Warding, and Spirit alike until she could call forth a blade of light with thought.
Templars watched her, but she never stepped out of lineβuntil she had to. When a friend's Harrowing turned violent, when a templar struck down a frightened boy rather than listen, Mai didn't shout. She acted. Calmly. Deliberately. A healing spell laced with subtle force. Enough to stop a heart for a breath, and start again just as quickly.
They never proved it was her.
They learned not to underestimate the quiet ones.
During her time in the infirmary wing, she encountered Mother Giselle, a visiting Chantry representative sent to report on the mages' "well-being." Most scoffed. Mairead did not. She walked with Giselle, explaining the injuries the other mages were too ashamed or afraid to speak of. They spoke of duty, of faith, of silence and survival. No judgments were exchanged. Only understanding. And when the Chantry mother left, Mai returned to the shadows she'd built around herself, stronger than before.
Years passed. The world shifted...
Whispers of rebellion grew louder. Templars grew restless.
Then came the explosion: the Chantry fractured, and with it, the Circles. Kinloch Hold fell into chaos againβhistory repeating in ash and blood. But this time, Mairead did not wait for a rescue that would never come. She didn't rally the frightened or seek to lead. She moved through the halls with spectral blade in hand and shield in her eyes.
She walked out alone.
No title. No name. Just a robe, a staff, and a fire that never went out.
Now, years later, she moved unseen through the Hinterlands, answering need where it found her. Her house was gone, her name a ghost. She existed in half-remembered storiesβa veiled mage with healing hands and a blade of Fade-light who appeared in times of pain and vanished before the sun rose.
The Crossroads called to her. A wound in the world where the Fade bled into waking life. It was quiet hereβunreal, yet more honest than the halls of the Circle ever were. She wandered among the wounded and the lost, offering her gifts as she always had, without question or title.
And then, through dust and flickering veilight, she saw her.
Mother Giselle.
No pretence. No fear. Just recognition. The woman approached her without ceremony, her voice low but resolute.
"I remember you," Giselle said, linking her arm in hers with a familiarity Mai hadn't felt in, well, she couldn't remember when. "You know how to heal before the world remembered it needed healers."
She gestured to the growing crowdβsoldiers, refugees, the battered remnants of a war no one had agreed to fight.
"Stay," she said gently. "We need more hands, and yours know where to mend."
Mai did not answer right away. Her hand gripping the tattered robe she still wore over her armour. Her other hand curled in the soft light of a soothing spell still humming at her fingertips.
And then she nodded, once.
In the fading shimmer of the Crossroads, she took her place.
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