Chapter Text
“You don’t have to leave.”
Malik says it with that kind uncertainty she’s grown so accustomed to, that she expects of an older brother. Sturdy yet soft, truthful and earnest, but tapering off at the ends. They’re seven years apart. It’s a lifetime. They’ve been worlds apart for so long.
He’s grown into this role so well, the thin, gold circlet nestled comfortably within his dreadlocked hair, the purple embroidered jacket shaped perfectly around his broad shoulders. All of his fineries are well-tailored. He must actually sit for his measurements now. He didn’t as a boy. Wouldn’t sit still unless Mother was hovering behind him. Now—he waits, holds meetings at the head of the table with quiet assurance, smiles warmly at visitors.
Currently, the smile is small, but it’s there, rounding his chestnut-brown cheeks. He doesn’t want to force it—she’s barely been at the estate, at his home, for a week. It’s the longest they’ve seen each other in seventeen years. She almost left earlier, without a word of goodbye, until the twins snuck up on her. Malik knows this. He hasn’t said anything, mercifully.
She’s so bad at coming up with responses lately. Malik knows this.
“This is your home. You have every right to stay.”
This has not been her home in years. The former Bann Trevelyan doesn’t even know she’s here, by the Maker. How long can she stay hidden in these halls, plastering on a smile as the world burns?
“I can’t.” The words are quiet in her throat.
“You can,” he pleads. “I would love it. You know the girls would love it.”
They would, which hurts, which is why they’re having this conversation in the dead of night, now that she knows they’re asleep. She’s kissed the tops of their little heads, left letters for their mother to read to them in the morning.
“Malik, I have to go.”
“Arya—“
Raised pitch. He reaches for her hand, and she pulls away.
She can’t stay. It’s because of them that she can’t stay.
There is a war going on, far from the walls of this estate, far from the markets and the city proper. Ostwick’s guard will keep it at bay for some time yet. But it will not be far for long. She’s been hiding in the home of one of the most prominent men in the territory.
Arya is not that important. She doesn’t think, with all the chaos, that anyone will go looking for her specifically. But if any of her former templars do, the estate will be the first place they head.
Some other time, the templars might have been more forgiving with a noble harboring a mage. But there is a war going on. And if anything happens to those perfect little girls, if anyone harms their family, she will never forgive herself.
She offers her brother something resembling a smile. “I—it’s better this way. I’ll write.”
She means it.
Malik looks as if he’s about to protest again, but relents, a playful frown on his face. “You’d better, you ass. You’ll have to tell me what her Holiness is like.”
She snorts. “As if I’ll get anywhere near her.”
“You will. Be safe.”
She leaves after he hugs her (she lets him) on foot, dressed in as plain of a shirt and trousers that Malik could find, a bag with her robes, a few coins, and some rations at her back. The robe she can put on once she’s crossed the Waking Sea, when she’s surrounded by more of her brethren. She’s hopeful that she’ll be able to get another staff then too. For now, it’s not worth the risk—she’s just another wanderer, a passenger on a boat.
At this point, everyone knows that the Divine’s called for a Conclave, seems to think of it as a last effort to stop the war before things truly get ugly. The decree has asked for representatives of the templars and the mages alike to come together and speak, air grievances, lay down their weapons. Arya is sure that grievances will be set out—screamed out—but peace seems doubtful. The templars are still an arm of the Chantry, after all.
Still, it seems as good a place as any for her to go. She’s no Grand Enchanter, no person of seniority. She’s not even sure if she’s a rebel mage, exactly—she is because every mage not currently sitting in a Circle is, not because she’s joined up with any rebel bands. But there is that niggling part of her that hopes the Conclave is worth something, even if it doesn’t end the war. That it’ll point her in some direction.
She hopes.
Arya Trevelyan comes to in a daze, panting, to the pinch of shackles on her wrists.
She lurches forward in blind panic, but is subdued by chains pulling taut, the stocks further enclosing her arms pushing into her midsection.
Her entire body aches. Her ears ring, screaming, angry, her eyes burn as though she’s been staring into the sun, the blaze scratching at her brain.
Thoughts of the Conclave come delayed—no, don’t come at all, save for the understanding that wherever she is now is in Ferelden. She knows she came here with the intention of being a conscientious observer. She knows that there are other mages from Ostwick present, her betters, prepared to express the mages’ concerns.
But they are not here.
Where are they? They should be here. Why doesn’t she know where they are?
She tries to push her brain harder, and her body erupts in a sense of bottomless dread. No. Not now.
She can’t think about it with the restraints. More pressing matters—getting out of these chains. She’s so tired, and on her left hand, something is wrong. It’s glowing, a persistent and sickly green centered in her palm, pulsing a dull ache, shooting fractures of energy up into her fingertips.
Well. That’s new.
There’s no time for Arya to contemplate it further, though, as a strong arm jerks her up by the collar, bright, furious eyes glaring down.
Even in the room’s dim light, her captor’s armor shines, emblazoned with a lyrium sunburst on the chest and an eye, unblinking, in the center. Everything about the woman is harsh, angular, including her pale skin and dark, close-cropped hair.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now,” she snarls. The accent’s not immediately familiar—Nevarran? Not someone Arya knows, clearly not from any Circle.
What is she supposed to say? She can’t even remember how she got here.
“What’s going on?” she settles on, stifling a wince as she feels that new ache in her hand.
The woman’s grip tightens. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead…except for you.”
That can’t be possible. Arya can’t even remember it, can’t even count how many were in the temple—can’t recall going in in the first place.
“You think I’m responsible,” she says without realizing, too focused on the growing panic seizing her chest. Arya is an enchanter of moderate ability—capable enough, of course, to pass her Harrowing, for many bits of magic to feel as second-nature as breathing, but little else. She’d barely started teaching the younger apprentices the basic principles of elementalism. The destruction of an entire temple, particularly one that massive—she couldn’t. It’s not possible.
The Nevarran goes from her collar to her left arm, and Arya can do little else but flinch, arm twisting as steel-clad fingers dig in to the hand, putting the glowing mark on full display.
“Explain this.”
In less dire circumstances, Arya would have testily remarked that if she knew what was going on with her hand, she wouldn’t be here. Other jailers might have laughed at that. But the Nevarran seems disinclined to keep Arya’s head attached to her shoulders for much longer, so she answer easrnestly—that she has no idea.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” She means just that. “You’re lying,” the Nevarran continues, but she isn’t, just watching as the woman stalks her, seemingly ready to strike.
Before the Nevarran can lash out, she’s stopped by another woman, pale-faced and purple-hooded, placing a hand on her shoulder. The gesture isn’t aggressive, but it carries finality.
“We need her, Cassandra.” The new woman has a light, Orlesian tone, and Cassandra is seemingly placated by the words. There’s a relief that comes with the stillness, for a moment. But it fades. The Orlesian could be the bigger threat between them, if she’s capable of controlling Cassandra’s wrath.
The Orlesian turns her gaze towards Arya. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”
She tries, but the Conclave’s still missing. It comes in flashes. “I was…running, I think, I don’t know where. Something—some woman—reached out to me—“
“A woman?”
She has no new revelations to provide, as much as these two want them. “I…I don’t remember.”
It’s hardly an answer to make her worth sparing, much to her concern, but the interrogation stops with a shake of Cassandra’s head, scowl still set firmly on her face. She instructs the Orlesian—Leliana—to go to the forward camp, and Leliana exits without protest. Cassandra mentions a rift. Arya’s unsure what that means.
It does mean, though, that the metal restraints are removed from her hands, replaced by a cloth tied at her wrists. She’s not yet trustworthy. She’ll have to work on that if she wants to get out of this.
The sudden daylight blinds her for a moment—Maker, how long has it been since she’s seen the outside—but they press forward, toward what Arya assumes is the rift emerging on the horizon. She’s never seen anything like it, a giant tear in the sky itself, bursting with green energy, difficult to concentrate on for more than a moment. It’s as though the rift’s warped the very fabric of reality, and she wonders if the very same is being done to her hand, as it matches the torn sky all too perfectly.
She understands, grudgingly, why Cassandra and Leliana thought this was her doing.
“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra explains. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”
If there are more rifts, this could be widespread, elsewhere in Ferelden, even. She hopes it hasn’t gone further. “How does a single explosion cause rifts in so many places?”
“That, we do not know. But unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”
It swallows Arya’s hand, for a moment, light flaring with more pain to accompany it, radiating into her forearm. She doubles over, nauseous, barely able to react as Cassandra rights her.
“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads. And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”
Everyone else at the damned Conclave is dead, it’s hardly surprising that she’s poised to join them. It isn’t as though her day could really get any worse. “I don’t know what this is, much less how to use it.”
“Whether it can close the Breach is something we will discover shortly. It is our only chance, however.” Cassandra pauses, fixes her with a dour stare. “And yours.”
The confirmation of her tenuous position isn’t surprising, though her response comes with instinctive defensiveness. “You want me to fix the mess you’re convinced I started in the first place? You truly think I did this?”
Cassandra barely quirks a brow. “Not intentionally, no. Something clearly went wrong.”
“And if I’m not responsible for this at all?”
“Someone is, and you are our only suspect. You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”
Cassandra’s tired of this line of questioning, evidenced by the fact that none of Arya’s annoyed mutterings grasp her attention.
Their approach to the Breach is tempered by the stares of agitated soldiers as they pass, whisperings incomprehensible. Arya suspects nothing good, wonders if these strangers are aware that she’s a mage—it’d make the commentary worse, certainly. The mark is such an unnatural brand on her skin—the assumption may have been made of her abilities despite her not casting a single spell since she’s awoken. Her skin prickles.
She knows that there were several observers outside the Conclave before it exploded, imagines that these men caught between fear and mourning were among those waiting. Chantry sympathizers, as Cassandra clearly is by how she discusses the Conclave with pained reverence—naive reverence, Arya thinks, given her apparent belief that there would have been peace had the temple not been blown up.
It’s enough to make Arya scoff, though she does her best to stifle it. Her care is rewarded when Cassandra removes a silver dagger from her belt, rips her bindings away into rags.
“There will be a trial. I can promise no more. Come, it is not far.”