The Brecilian Forest breathed with ancient life, but even the oldest trees had begun to whisper of something unnatural long before Syrana Halwen ever heard of them.
Her clan had travelled deep into the forest's cradle, searching for solace, quiet, unclaimed land away from shemlen roads and blighted taint. They did not know of the curse that coiled like a noose within the trees until it was too late. The werewolves were smarter than the tales told. They did not attack the strong. They waited, studied. Their patience was their fangs.
Keeper Valinna moved the clan closer to the ancient ruins, far enough away to avoid the Spirit's wrathβyet near enough to sense her dominion. Syrana watched the boundary from the high boughs during her hunts. Once, just before twilight, she saw it:
The White Wolf...
Eyes like frostfire. Muscles tensed not with rage, but with sorrow.
She returned to the Keeper with questions pressed to her tongue. "I saw her again. The White One. There was sadness in her eyes. Not hunger."
Valinna barely looked up from her glyphwork, hands steady as she traced a protective sigil into the hide of a fresh charm. "You would do well to forget her, Syrana. The wolf is not yours to pity."
"But what if sheβ"
"She is not ours," the Keeper cut in, her gaze sharp now. "This forest is shared. And I will not give him the courtesy of concern. Not after what he allowed to happen." She spoke no more of it, or of Keeper Zathrian. That door was shut.
Still, unease grew. Hunting parties returned fewer and fewer. Whispers spread of sylvans once dormant, now rising with cruel sap and gnashing bark. Something deeper stirred. Not of fang or claw, but of shadow. The forest had stopped sleeping.
It ended quietly, the kind of silence that comes before a scream.
Syrana woke to smoke...
Her tent sagged inward, the edges singed. The scent of burning moss and charring leather clung to her tongue. Outside, chaos: ash fell like snow, and the trees glowed with firelightβnot summoned, but devouring. She ran barefoot over roots and coals.
Too late.
All too late...
She found the Keeper last, slumped at the edge of the ritual stones. Her hand, blistered and bloodstained, had scrawled words into the dirt before her final breath:
"The Dread Wolf stirs, and we are but ashes. Find the Wardens... Warn them..."
Weeks passed.
Her heart became a clenched thing in her chest. She made for Ostagar, each step taken in ghosted echo of her Keeper's command. But as she reached the Imperial Highway, the betrayal of Teyrn Loghain reached her ears.
The Wardensβdead.
Ambushed.
Branded traitors.
She almost turned back. Almost.
But Lothering's outskirts whispered something else:
The Wardens had been seen. Alive. Fugitives...
She followed the trail.
The Chantry bells tolled as she stepped into the crumbling village, her leather streaked in mud and soot, a Dalish shadow cutting through the human despair. She found them near the bridgeβan armoured pair of young men with a weary sort of handsomeness, one light, the other dark, and a sharp-tongued woman who looked like winter had walked into a human's skin.
She waited and watched the motley crew of travellers, sensing that the bandits were lying in wait, just as she was. Only, she did not seek to harm or rob them. When a confrontation finally came to a head, Syrana intervened. Loosing arrows and dropping one from the shadows.
"If you're truly Wardens, you've a talent for attracting vermin," she finally spoke as she lowered her bow, a perfectly arched brow raised as she took in the group she had just been watching a few moments before the attack.
Alistair noticed her first.
"Well, we've got Morrigan for that already," Alstair returned without missing a beat as he wiped his sword clean and glanced up. "Maker's breathβam I hallucinating, or is that an actual elf woman who isn't trying to kill me?" he said, blinking. "Should I be worried?"
"Charming," Morrigan said in a dry, sardonic tone, nearly scoffing at Alistair's comment.
Syrana arched a brow, her voice cool and quiet. "Do you often find yourself under attack from women, then? So it's true... You lived," the elf said, almost as though she didn't quite believe it.
"That depends. Are you here to kill us? Because only the ones who truly get to know me," Alistair replied, smiling despite himself. "We've had quite the week already," Alistair continued, though Syrana could sense a truth in his words, "but if you've come to stab me, might I request you aim somewhere non-essential? I've grown quite attached to all my parts."
Morrigan snorted. "You mistake her expression for mercy, Alistair. Perhaps it is merely calculation. "Where is your clan now, young elf?" Morrigan asked this time, her tone not necessarily unkind.
"I don't calculate. I weigh." Syrana's gaze lingered on them, her eyes shifting to the dark-haired man quietly observing in the growing dusk of the evening. "Gone. Or hiding... or worse," Syrana answered, her tone softening slightly. "And I've been sent to find the Wardens. If you are not them, I've wasted more than just my time."
"And if we are?" Alistair asked, still guarded, but a touch more hopeful. "I think I'm supposed to say something gallant now," Alistair said, looking as though he were about to scratch his head, "but I'm distracted by the fact she might actually be scarier than Morrigan."
"Flattery," Morrigan said, starting to smirk at Alistair. "From a man wielding a butter knife."
"If you are, then your journey just became far more complicated," she murmured. "There are things in the Brecilian Forest that hunger for more than bloodβand I believe your Blight is only half the storm."
Behind her, the wind rustled through scorched leaves, carrying with it the scent of distant ruin. Syrana Halwen did not look back.
The story was only beginning.
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