Kinloch Hold smelled of lyruim and stoneācold, 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 fearānot 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 studiedānot 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 eleganceārefined, 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 Enchantersāmages 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 lineāuntil 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 againāhistory 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 storiesāa 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 hereāunreal, 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 crowdāsoldiers, 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.
It was that one fight too many that changed the direction of Velaren's life.
Life in the Teyrnir of Highever wasn't rosy, for sure, but under the Cousland family it was tolerable. The Couslands were a kind, generous family, welcoming and forgiving, wealthy and powerful but not arrogant. They looked after the people in their lands, encouraged people to fend for themselves.
Velaren's father, Harren, was one of those people. A merchant working in the Teyrnir, he traded commodities: cloths and materials, leathers and hides, occasionally potions and herbs and salves. His store was stocked and frequented, but there were times ā particularly in the winters ā when trading was tough because of the increased difficulty of getting stock in.
Then there were the lessons. Vel hated those, although he still accepted them and studied. He didn't want to be a merchant, but his father was convinced. Harren had three other, younger, offspring that could have taken up the family business, but Vel was the Chosen One. Vel didn't have the temperament for the lessonsā¦and the local bullies picked up on it, calling him stupid and slow and an idiotā¦Vel was often in trouble for fighting with the likes of those., and they didn't stop until he'd knocked one out.
Then the Templars came and took the boy with them.
There was something different about Templar training and lessons. Maybe because he was trained to fight in addition to doing studies. Vel accepted it gratefully, thankful to be doing something that was helpful, even if it meant giving his life to the service of The Maker.
Then came the news: Highever had been attacked, the Cousland family slaughtered, other families also killed or missing or scattered. Arl Howe was suspected, but there were no firm leads and Howe denied his involvement, and the lands of Highever were now being looked after by Howe. A few months later was the confirmation that Vel's entire family was also killed that nightā¦and a bit of Vel died that night, too.
Templar training because his sole focus in life. He had nothing else. Studies to exhaustion, training to exhaustionā¦if the life of a Templar was all he had, then he was going to be the best damned Templar that Thedas had seen. He took his vows, and his first draught of lyrium, when he turned eighteen, six years after the attack on Highever.
He went to the Denerim Chantry, he went to the Redcliffe Chantry, he spent months on patrols through the Bannorn. He spent a couple of years in the Ferelden Circle. He watched over Harrowings, and started to see things a little differently. He killed a Mage during one "failed" Harrowingā¦there was something not right about killing a person on nothing more than a suspicion. He went to the West Hill Chantry. West Hill was quiet, peaceful; there he learned a lot more about the history of the Templar Order. He was also very aware of the events occurring in Kirkwall, just one hundred miles away across the Waking Sea.
Then the Circles fell.
The news came like a bolt: Maker's Breath, how was that allowed to happen? The people were scared, mages were loose in the country. There were no mages in West Hill, but that didn't stop the people from looking around nervously. Anyone could be a mage, possibly. Anyone except a Templar, that is. He received his orders: hunt down and kill Apostate Mages, because apostates were a danger to everyone and there were no Circles to deliver apostates to. The Templars had abandoned the Chantry, abandoned the Nevarran Accordsā¦so what did orders matter any more?
He took his greatsword, took his armour, took a bedroll and blanket, took a couple of handfuls of coin when he left West Hill.
The Mage-Templar War ā or the Mage Rebellion, as it was also called ā grew. The conflict increased over time. And in that chaos, bandits increased in both number and boldness; there were no routine Templar or soldier patrols to stop them.
Except one man, a ghost of a whisper on the lips of farmers through the Bannorn and Hinterlands.
The man fought off small bandit groups where he encountered them, accepting nothing but food and shelter, and occasionally lyrium, for payment. He was once a Templar by his armour and demeanour, and his fighting was something not seen in a long time. He was a large man, a solid man, a rock, a boulder, a mountain of a manā¦he grew slightly with each travelled whisper.
But even the biggest mountains fall over time.
He'd heard rumours coming out of the Hinterlands that a new organisation was forming ā The Inquisition. He wasn't too keen on that name. Yes, the stories had the Inquisition trying to stop the fighting, but that was just making them another power, putting a third force on the battlefield. Not a good idea, and something to avoid. He'd been a part of a "big organisation", and that had crumbled under its own weight and corruption. Far better be be alone, or maybe part of a small group. Right the wrongs of the world one at a time, not all at once.
Fate had a different idea.
"Quick, get him onto the cart!" A male voice.
"But he's too heavy, father!" A female voice, younger.
"Come one, sister! He saved us!" Another male voice, but younger.
"If only he wasn't wearing that armourā¦" The same female voice.
"On the count of threeā¦" The first male voice again. "Oneā¦twoā¦three!"
Rocking, pushing, shoving, rollingā¦still. Clanking of metal ā his sword being dropped next to him?
"Nowā¦on the cart with you all. We'll leave him at the Crossroads. We'll be there by nightfall, now." Another female voice, older.
Silenceā¦darknessā¦motionā¦? Darkness again.
"What do we have hereā¦?" Female voice. Orlesianā¦?
"Former Templar." The first male voice. He knew that voice. "He fought off a bandit group as we were coming here. He saved us ā me, my wife, my son and daughter. Butā¦you can see he's badly injuredā¦"
"I'll see he's looked after." The Orlesian woman again. "Go, get some rest. The Inquisition will look after you."
"Thank you, Mother." The male voice. The woman was with the Chantryā¦?
"Now you, young Templar." The Orlesian woman againā¦talking to him. "You've seen better days, I'm sure. Stay a while."
Like he had a choice. His arms refused to obey him. Breathing wasn't easy, either.
"You need healing, and a good clean." The Orlesian woman again. Annoyingā¦but calm, soothing. "I know someone who can help, but you have to trust me."
Trust. Not an easy thing to come by these days. Did he manage a nodā¦?
She had not intended to stay as long as she had. The Crossroads, with its churn of tents and makeshift pavilions, its broken banners and whispered prayers, had felt too raw, too full of things she could not fix. But the hurt clung to this place, quiet and cloying, like damp that never leaves the bones.
So she stayed.
She wove herself into the rhythm of the wounded: binding shattered limbs, cooling fevers, whispering soft assurances to the dying when words no longer held power. It was not the glory of a Knight-Enchanter's charge, nor the silence of her wandering days... it was work.
Bloody, breathless... necessary.
In time, the rhythm became ritual.
At first, she treated the worst of them beneath a leaning oak that still clung to its leaves despite the corruption in the air. Her old staff, once more talisman than tool, became an extension of her hand, glowing faintly as it summoned spirits of comfort and clarity. Nearby children had began to call her 'Ash-Breath', for the wisps of the Fade-ember that flickered always near her robes.
Then, the Dalish came.
They were not welcomedānot at first. Elven refugees from the north, driven from their forests by storms that cracked the sky and monsters that fell with green fire. Their hahren came with them, her hair braided in the old ways, and her eyes lined with suspicion. But sickness among their youngest forced humility, and Mairead knelt at their camp without word or weapon.
For seven days, she worked among themālearning herbs not found in Chantry texts, pressure points known only to elvhen hands, and the sacred murmurs that guided spirits into calm rather than command. In return, she taught what she knew: how to harness healing through the Fade without pain, how to protect without harm. They parted without ceremony, but not without respect. The Dailish left her a charm of vhendahl bark, strung with a single blue feather.
She wore it beneath her robes.
When the wounded templar arrived, Mai was binding a burn with marrow salve.
Mother Giselle found her not long after. The Chantry woman's steps were always deliberate, as if the ground itself waited for her words before it dared shift.
"There is a man," she said, gently, knowing what was to come next might raise a brow, or furrow it. "Templar, or former Templar. He saved a family on the roadānearly died for it."
Mai glanced up only briefly. "There are many men."
"This one was carried in by cart. Half-dead. He needs healing that others here can't give."
A pause. Mairead's hands did not stop moving. "Then perhaps you should call for a Revered Sister. I am not in the habit of treating blades meant for mages."
Giselle said nothing at first. She stepped closer. "You and I both know there is no place for old grievances here..."
"Grievances?" Mai's voice was soft, but it carried. "If he dies under my hand, even as I try to heal him, what will they say? That I finished what his vows began? That I bled him with mercy and called it a kindness?"
"You think too little of yourselfāand too much of the chaos," Giselle replied, more gently now. "You fear that saving him makes you complicit. But tell me, childāif you do not try, and he dies, will your silence weigh less than your guilt?"
Mai's jaw tightened. Beneath the hood of her dark curls that spilt over her face as she continued to work, her eyes dimmed like distant coals.
"It is not guilt I fear," she murmured. "It is symbol. A mage laying hands on a fallen templar... healing him. That means something. And in a world as broken as ours, symbols spark fires.
"And perhaps," Giselle said, laying a warm hand on Mai's shoulder, "this world needs that fire to warm it, not burn it. You have walked among ashes long enough, my dear."
Mai stood without another word.
She found the manāVelaren, she would learn laterāunconscious beneath a tent flap heavy with storm-scented canvas. His armour had been half-peeled away, each movement resisted by limbs swollen with bruises and fever. Blood crusted like paint at the corner of his mouth. He had fought well.
And paid for it.
She knelt. Slowly. The breath she took was long and steady.
Her hand hovered above his chest, glowing with the soft, golden pulse of Tranquil Touch. Her other hand trembled slightly, just for a moment, before it found its place above his brow.
"I will not let you die," she softly swore, to no one.
The darkness continued. The silence continuedā¦maybe. He wasn't sure. Sometimes he thought he heard thingsā¦other times he didn't know whether he was hearing or not hearing. The absence of sound didn't prove whether he was hearing thingsā¦.
He was awareā¦tugging, fiddling, clanking of metalā¦his armour being removed, maybe with care, maybe not. Arms ached. Ribs ached. Legs ached. He couldn't tellā¦so much ached, hard to know the difference between aching and not-aching. Tried to say something, didn't hear his own voice. A jumble of images flashing through his mind meeting a voice not capable of articulating or expressing. Aching was cold, not-aching was hotā¦or maybe it was the other way around. Hard to tell. Could be both. Could be neither. He wasn't making sense to himselfā¦
Five men in front of him, two with swords, one with daggers, one with a large club, one a little further back with a bow. Again wished he spent more time training with a sword and shield. Greatsword preferred, though ā better range and damage, but sacrificing defence.
They came at him. Seemed to not care that he was using a large greatsword, didn't care that he was very relaxed in his fighting stance as they approached.
Arrow whizzed past as he locked blades with one of the bandits. Blades clashed again, another arrow. Keep awareness, Daggers trying to get behind him. Noā¦use reach to stop him, make him wary. Archer having a hard time shooting at him without risking friends. Good. Club trying to flank him. Block him with reach ā this far, no more.
Sword-One closed againā¦feint, slice, sliceā¦Sword-One went down. Daggers got behind him. Shit. Swing, cut slashā¦Daggers got nicked, but still in fight.
Thunk, recoilā¦Club hit him hard on forearm, Sword-Two slashed from opposite side. Vel was in trouble, he knew it. Arrow bounced off armour. More hits deliveredā¦more hits receivedā¦he was weary. Too much time on the road without proper rest or food, no time to really recover from past battlesā¦
Archer starting to find his mark, his rangeā¦can't get rid of Club, Daggers still flanking him, Sword-Two still holding in front. Sword-Two finally went down as Club grazed his cheekā¦thankful for reflexes. Daggers striking at his backā¦lash out savagely at Club, almost took his arm off. Club's out. Turn to Daggers, arrows start biting through armourā¦
He was shivering slightly, sweating in spite of the cold, tossing and turning as the memory of fighting replayed in his mind, cracked and weakened voice crying out in silent pain as remembered blows landed. He was completely unaware that someone had joined him and was studying him critically, almost with contempt; he had no awareness that someone was kneeling next to himā¦
Daggers finally down. Where's Archerā¦? There. Move to him, slowly, fight through pain and blood. Archer caught, not free to move, overconfident perhaps, trying to get swordā¦slash, slash, exchange blowsā¦another blow received before Archer fellā¦ He turned, saw familyā¦they're safeā¦weakness, fatigue...collapseā¦
"I will not let you die." Refugee-father-man speaking, but not his voiceā¦? That was odd.
Warmthā¦that was odd, too. Didn't remember feeling warmā¦
Eyes flickeredā¦woman above himā¦kneelingā¦mageā¦? Healerā¦? Long time since he'd seen a healer-mage.
"Thankā¦"
That cracked whisper of a voice again. Pitiful. Surely not his own voice. Pathetic.
Darknessā¦
Then a whisperā¦still don't know if it's his own voice. Too weak, too soft, Maker will never hear. Useless, a shell. "Maker, t-ā¦take this s-servant toā¦your side. This serv-ā¦servant has sinned inā¦inā¦inā¦in your nameā¦but seeks forgiveā¦giveness. I didā¦did not forsakeā¦you. Maker, be myā¦my guideā¦"
She had been at his side for three days without rest.
The Templarāwhat was left of himāhad been a ruin when they brought him in. His armour had nearly fused to his flesh from the heat of exertion and poorly healed wounds beneath: old bruises bloomed anew as she stripped the plates away, each one a bruise not just of body but of years spent throwing himself into the teeth of every fight he could find.
He reeked of lyrium, though it was fading now, like copper and frost, and something faintly divine. She had smelled it before, too many times, lingering on men with blank eyes and shaking hands, on templars who were no longer templars but engines of faith and fury.
His fever had not broken. Nor had he woken.
Mother Giselle visited every evening with fresh cloths, herbs, poultices, and that same serene calm that irked and soothed Mai in equal measure. On the third evening, she arrived at sunset, the light spilling amber through the slits in the tent.
"He remains the same?" the mother asked, crouching at Mai's side.
She sighed and leaned back on her heels, pulling her sleeves higher to expose her sweat-slicked forearms. "Unconscious, but stable. I've kept him sedated... to let his body do what it must."
Giselle raised a brow, reaching out to press a palm lightly to the man's forehead. "Sedated still, after three days?"
"Yes," Maid replied, and then, quieter, "Not only for him..."
Mother Giselle turned, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She waited.
"I needed time," Mairead murmured. "To let myself recover. Mana doesn't just bloom endlessly from the Fade, and I don'tā" She paused. "I don't take lyrium. Not unless I must.
"You know we have stores," Giselle said gently. "Clean. Not corrupted by the red. Safe, and blessed."
"I know." Mai's voice was barely above a whisper. Her fingers were tightening a cloth around the man's forearm, where infection had threatened to take root. "But others may need it more than I do."
Her eyes flicked to the man's face. "Like him."
Giselle regarded her for a long moment. She didn't argue.
She wrung the cloth and reached for a fresh bowl of water, still lukewarm from the kettle. The man had begun to twitch in his sleep. His body trembled, small spasms in his arms and legs, jaw clenched so tight once, she had feared he would shatter his own teeth.
Withdrawal.
She had seen it before, the way the body turned on itself without lyrium. The shakes. The sweat. The haunting, broken prayers whispered to gods who stopped listening long ago.
"I'm worried," Mai said at last. "He's older than most initiates. He's had his first draft, likely more. If he wakes too soon, the withdrawal could..." She shook her head. "Maker forgive me, but it could kill him faster than his wounds ever would."
"He may need it, if he wakes in pain."
"I know," Mai replied, the admission burning in her chest.
Mother Giselle reached for one of the tonic jars on the shelf and inspected the seal. "You've done well enough to keep the fever down," she offered. "The other healers speak highly of your work, Mairead."
Mai let out a dry breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so tired. "If he dies under my hands, I wonder how kindly they'll speak then."
There was silence. The kind of silence the Chantry women used like incenseāhollow but sacred, meant to make you reflect.
Finally, Mairead turned to her. "Have you learned his name?" she asked, voice hoarse, almost lost to the rustling canvas and distant campfires. "Anything at all?"
Giselle shook her head. "No official records. He bore no crest, no insignia beyond his old Order. The family he saved said only that he fought like a man who had nothing left to lose."
Mai looked at him again.
There was something terribly human in the way he slept. No fury, no purpose, no righteousness. Just a man curled up in pain, retreating into whatever warmth he could find in the dark.
She reached out and brushed a damp lock of hair from his brow, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.
"I wish I knew what name to call you," she whispered. "So I could remind you who you are. So you don't forget, if you ever wake..."
The only reply was a shallow breath and the quiet tremor of his limbs.
Not noisy sounds, though. Gentle sounds. Birds chirping, wind rustling, people walking around. Normal sounds. The sounds you'd expect ā want ā to hear when things were peaceful. He could get used to those sounds. The sounds of peace. They were calming, soothingā¦relaxing.
It struck him, then, that he was awake. His body ached, but it was no longer in pain. The aches weren't sharp and forever reminding him of battles fought; rather they were like a memory, a reminder that rest was needed, the warning to not push further.
Where was he?
He wasā¦warm, but comfortable. It had been a while since he'd felt that way. Not since West Hill, not really. Since then, he'd always been on his guard, or recovering from winning a fight that had been forced and unnecessary. Furs and blanketsā¦not armour. He was lying on his back, a straw mattress under him. Hadn't had the comfort of one of those since West Hill, either.
His breathing wasā¦calm, regular. Not laboured. Not difficult. Not painful, beyond the current aches his body was still working to recover from. The air wasā¦clean, warm. Steamā¦? He could smell herbs and poultices, gentle fragrances to stimulate his senses even if that was not the intent. Elfroot, most likely. Andā¦Embrium, or Prophet's Laurelā¦? Couldn't tell. They all had medicinal, healing properties, he remembered that much for now.
Sounds were soft, muted. Hearing issuesā¦? No, distance. He was in a quiet part ofā¦wherever this was. Last he remembered, he was helping a family fight off a bandit attack. Five against one. He knew he'd won the fight, thenā¦blank. What had happened? He was on the open road when he came across the family ā father and son, mother and daughter, a cart with a few belongings on it, a couple of horses. He was a couple of days' walk from the Crossroads, walking away from it when he found the-
Surely not. Damn.
It was dark. Night? No, eyes closed. Try to open them. Eyelids refused to move. Okay. Breathe. Try again. There.
Bright blue eyes peered out from beneath a strong brow that was covered by matted black hair to take in his surroundings. It was bright, and eyelids quickly squinted to protect his eyes from the sudden rush of light. It wasn't bright by normal standards, but still brighter than they'd seen forā¦however long it had been. He was in a tent, flap drawn closed as far as he could tell. Someone near him, kneeling or sitting, he couldn't tell. It was daylight outside, he could see that much from the muted light visible through the tent walls. What time of dayā¦? No idea. He'd find out in due course.
Hunger. A gentle grumble in the pit of his stomach. He was slowly becoming aware of that, the gnawing pang slowly trying to assert itself through all of his other aches and issues. How long had it been since he'd last eaten anything? Again, no way to tell, at least not now. Another piece of information that would ā hopefully ā be given to him in due course.
Another hunger. He knew that one, too. It wasn't bad, not yet, but it was scratching at the back of his mind. This hunger needed a specific reliefā¦and would never be fully sated. The only question was: wouldā¦whomever was looking after himā¦be able to satisfy this hunger? He had time, he knew the signs within himselfā¦but he didn't have a lot of time.
Easier to close his eyes for the moment. Light hurt. He'd try again later. When he was stronger. If he got stronger.
He wondered what became of that family he'd saved last. Had they run and left him, too scared to help? They hadn't said where they were going, but it was likely that they were heading to the Crossroads, like so many other people trying to find safety from the ravages of the Mage-Templar war. If they hadn't brought him here, then who did? Who did he have to thank for bringing himā¦here? Did he want to thank them? If he was indeed at the Crossroads, then he'd been brought to the place he'd been trying to avoid.
Noā¦that family had carried him. Memory started working. He remembered a conversation, arguing about how heavy he was, how he'd saved them, lots of effort involved in moving him, how they were lifting him, placing himā¦ He did owe them thanks and gratitude. It became more likely that he was at the Crossroads, but that still needed confirmation. The family wasn't to know he didn't want to go there.
He coughed slightly, weakly. Maker's Breath, how pitiful was he that he couldn't even cough properly? Even coughing hurt right now, sending ripples of annoyance through his chest. At least it proved he was alive.
"Whereā¦"
His voiceā¦at least it workedā¦kind-of. But so weak, a dry rasping croak that barely made any sound. Would the person next to him have even heard him attempt to speak? What would they think of the shell, the shadow, that he was?
Try again. Another soft cough, followed by a barely-wet swallowing of saliva to try and moisten his throat.
"Whereā¦am I? The familyā¦safe?"
Maybe that made more sense to whoever was there than it did to him.
She had long since forgotten what proper sleep felt like.
For five days, her world had shrunk to the flickering light of magefire lanterns, the quiet hiss of boiling kettles, and the slow, shallow rise and fall of a broken man's chest. She moved like a ghost through the Healer's tent, always in motion, always purposeful, even when exhaustion threatened to pull her down like river stones.
When she wasn't by his bedside, Mai was hunched over what little remained of the healer's library, parchment and worn binding spread across the small side table. The texts were oldāsome water-damaged, others missing pagesābut she scoured them anyway, searching for anything on lyrium withdrawal, long-term coma states, or ways to maintain mana without constant consumption. The sedatives had given him time. But now, time was growing thin, and her mana reserves were running low again.
When her hands shook too much to copy notes, she sought conversation insteadāshort exchanges with Corporal Vale about the stability of the Crossroads and the new Inquisition scouts combing the region. He always spoke with the weight of responsibility, but with a trace of hope in his voice. The bandit attacks had slowed, he said. A new group had driven them back. There was talk of a leaderāno, a Heraldāwho could close the Breach itself.
Recruit Wittle was less restrained. The young man had bounced into the tent more than once, full of rumours and wide-eyed awe. "She's a warrior, can you believe it?" he whispered once, leaning in conspiratorially. "Swung her blade and just banished a demon mid-charge. They say she's the Maker's chosen, walked out of the Fade itself."
Mai had smiled politely, indulgently. She hadn't known how much of it to believe.
Then came the fifth day.
Mother Giselle arrived just past midday, her robes drawn tight against the wind that rolled over the hillside encampment. She entered quietly, nodding at the guards stationed near the tent flap before gliding inside.
"How is he?" she asked, voice gentle but clear.
Mai looked up from her task, changing the bandages on his side, where deep gashes had only now begun to close. The colour had returned to his face, the stiffness of unconsciousness no longer gripping his limbs. His chest rose and fell with steady rhythm. His lips, once pale, had warmed with blood again.
"He's healing," she replied softly. "I stopped the sedative yesterday. His vitals have held steady since. Breathing's strong, colour's good. No fever. If the Maker's kind, he'll wake any day now." She glanced at the bedroll. "Any hour, maybe."
Giselle nodded, pleased. "You've done much with little, Mairead."
"I did what I could."
"You've done more than that." The older woman knelt beside her, smoothing the blanket where it had bunched at his waist. "And you'll want to hear this. The Herald of Andraste... she's been revealed."
Mai's brow furrowed as she reached for a cloth. "Revealed? I thought it was just camp gossip."
"No longer," Giselle said. "It's true. A young woman from Ostwick. Evelyn Trevelyan."
The name struck Mai like a blow to the chest.
"...Evelyn?" she breathed. "From House Trevelyan?"
"You know her?"
Mai slowly sat back on her heels, her eyes distant. "Yes... Maker's breath, yes. I met her... years ago. Ferelden's noble houses hosted many celebrations after the Blight. I was a guest more than once, before..." Her voice faltered. "Before I was found out."
She had been but a child. It had been summer. Evelyn had been a flame in the gardenādressed not for combat but for charm, laughing too brightly for a proper noble. They had danced once, before Mai was taken to the Circle. Evelyn had made a friend that night. Mairead had lost one.
"She was kind," Mai murmured, "and strong. I never imagined..."
But before either woman could say more, a low sound rippled from the cot. A coughādry, weak, but unmistakable his.
Mairead frose.
Then his throat shifted. A rasp. Two wordsābarely audible.
"... Where.. am I?"
Her heart leapt to her throat.
She turned sharply to the cot, kneeling close, watching as his eyelids fluttered beneath his brow.
A second attemptāsofter, but still there.
"...Family...safe?"
Mairead rose to her feet so quickly she nearly stumbled. "He's waking," she said, wide-eyed.
Mother Giselle was already moving, calling softly to the guards for water, for broth, for the others.
But Mai stayed at his side, hands trembling as she leaned in. He was still too weak to see clearly, but his eyesābrilliant blueāmet hers, even if just for a moment.
"You're safe," she whispered. "Rest now. You've come back..."
And this time, when she reached for his hand, he didn't flinch from her touch.
There were voices talking around him. They were in the tent with him. He'd thought they were outside. He really was ā or, at least, had been ā in a bad way. Talkingā¦he struggled to hear clearly, they were talking quietly. Hard to make words outā¦Trevalyanā¦? He knew that nameā¦
Then he coughed, spoke, and the talking stopped as people seemed to focus on him.
One person moved ā how he knew that, he didn't know ā to the front of the tent, called out for somethingā¦cloths, water, brothā¦? Something like that. His stomach might appreciate a little broth. Maybe.
The other person knelt next to him, touched his hand gently. He might have flinched from the touch, but he was still so weak that he couldn't. Eyes flickered open again, trying out the light once more. Still not easy to see as he squinted against the soft daylight, but he was looking up into what he assumed to be a pretty faceā¦he met the eyes of the face's owner for a moment, before the light made him close them again.
He groaned softly. Probably the most useful noise he'd made in the past few minutes. He needed to rest. He didn't want to rest.
His brow furrowed deeply as he tried to summon his strength, and he attempted to push himself up onto his elbows, to try and see what was around him, get an idea of his surroundings and who was with him. He partially succeeded, in that he managed to push himself up on one elbowā¦then he groaned again, a little louder, and fell back onto the mattress. He'd failed, but at least he'd proven that his body was capable of responding to his own commands. He only lacked the strength to do what he wanted to do.
That would come.
"You're safe. Rest now. You've come backā¦"
The words had bounced around in his mind while he'd made his pointless attempt to elevate himself, and he chuckled weakly before coughing from the effort of chuckling.
"A flyā¦thinks it's safeā¦before itā¦it gets stuck inā¦in the webā¦" His voice was still quiet, barely more than a whisper still, but at least it was a little clearer ā at least to his own ears. The comment proved to himself that his mind was starting to work properly, too. He coughed again, a bit stronger now, although coughing still hurt a little.
"I've restā¦rested enough. Questionsā¦"
Of course he had them. But could he articulate them properlyā¦and would they be answered?
"Whereā¦am I? Who areā¦you? Is the fam-ā¦family safeā¦?"
The Orlesian woman answered ā he couldn't see her, although he opened his eyes briefly to try. She wasā¦he couldn't tell how far away she was. She sounded closer, but maybe she was talking louder than the other woman. So hard to tell these things when your senses were still waking up after what must have been a while of being turned off.
"Hush, dear boy," she told him, her accent frustratingly annoying but her voice so calm and reassuring. "Do not rush these things. The answers will come in time."
Someone put a cold cloth on his forehead. That helped, and he couldn't help sighing softly at the coolness. The Orlesian continued speaking.
"For now, I can tell you that you are in The Crossroads in the Hinterlands, being cared for by members of the Inquisition. The family you savedā¦they brought you here as thanks for saving their lives." Did she laugh softly? "I think the young girl might have taken a fancy to you, young man."
His brow furrowed slightly. No, that's not what he'd intendedā¦he was fighting, saving, not flirting.
"I am Mother Giselle." The Orlesian woman again, still. "I will let my friend ā your healer ā introduce herself. Do you have a name? Referring to you as 'him' or 'that templar' is getting a little tiresomeā¦"
He coughed in the back of his throat at her comment, then coughed again as he attempted to speak.
"Velā¦Velaren Marks," he managed, his voice croaky and cracked. "Kn-Knight-Lieutenant, I suppose, i-if the ranks still hold weight." Another cough, weak, but getting a little stronger. Just like his voice, it seemed. "Most rec-ently of the West Hill Chantry."
Wellā¦if they hadn't realised it before, they know knew he was a Templar, one who'd taken his vows and lyrium.
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