Chapter Text
It was raining—but then again, when was it not raining in Minrathous?
The heavy drops struck the cobblestones with a rhythmic tapping. Varric Tethras and Lace Harding huddled beneath one of the many colorful awnings that adorned the city. Water dripped from the edge, forming a growing puddle near their feet as they waited for Rook.
Varric’s contact, Detective Neve Gallus, was nowhere to be found. An hour had passed since their agreed-upon meeting time, and her absence felt ominous. Cultists in Minrathous always played for keeps, as Neve liked to say, and Varric knew trouble was brewing.
A loud crash interrupted the downpour’s rhythm. The tavern door across the street banged open, spilling out three men. Their eyes were wide with panic as they tripped over each other to get away.
The figure following the cultists moved with a calm, determined grace. Rook emerged, twin blades glinting as she sheathed them.
“Your friend Neve Gallus is at Dumat Plaza,” she announced in a cheerful voice.
Varric chuckled. “And that’s why you’re my second-in-command.”
“Dumat Plaza?” Harding raised a perfectly arched brow. “That place was crawling with Venetori earlier.”
“Better get to it, then.”
They moved through the city’s winding streets, keeping close to the shadows. The Archon’s palace loomed above, ever-present. Bright lights scoured the roads as the guards searched for signs of unrest.
Then, the world cracked open.
Above them, green light erupted from wounds that tore the veil asunder. The sound was deafening, like glass shattering across the sky, as demons poured through the veil and into the city. Rook had never seen so many; her look was one of horror as the deformed entities cloaked in flames or crackling with electricity tore past them, their screams drowning out the rain.
“Shit,” Varric growled as a blur of claws tore past. “I haven’t seen this many demons since Corypheus!”
“Solas must have started his ritual,” Rook furrowed her brows. “We need to find Neve before it’s too late.”
“Neve Gallus makes her coin solving trouble,” Varric remarked grimly. “Looks like today, trouble’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
Tremors ripped through the ground as magical fireballs thundered from the palace, raining explosions upon the streets. Bodies lay as silent witnesses to the horror, the smell of sulfur mixed with the scent of burning flesh. A magically amplified voice rang out over the carnage, warning citizens to stay safely inside.
They pressed onward, dodging demons erupting from battered buildings. Rook’s knives flashed, Harding’s arrows flew true, and Varric’s bolts found their marks. But there seemed to be an endless supply of targets.
When they finally reached Dumat Plaza, the entire neighborhood had turned into an inferno. They made their way through the smoke to find an ice barrier in their way—a frozen, solid dome at the heart of the chaos.
Just as Rook noticed movement out of the corner of her eye, a Venatori cultist emerged from the smoke, lashing out at her with his hooked blades. She managed to keep her balance as she evaded the attack, dropping low and making a sweeping move with her leg. The cultist landed on his back, and within seconds, Rook was on him, going straight for the heart. As more Venatori appeared, Rook moved like a storm incarnate, her dual blades a blur of lethal precision.
As the last cultists fell, the ice barrier dissolved with a crackling hiss, revealing Neve Gallus and two cultists frozen solid. As she stepped forward, her prosthetic leg struck the stones with a metallic clang.
“Varric. Harding. Not the worst timing,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the carnage with detached familiarity.
“Glad to see you, too,” Varric shot back. “Neve, meet Rook. She’s the expert on trouble. Rook, meet Neve. Our local expert. She was tracking Solas’ movements in the city.”
“Pleasure,” Rook said with a quizzical eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. “Nice work with the Venatori. Looks like you have excellent taste in enemies.”
Neve snorted softly, a crooked smile tugging at her lips before turning her focus back to Varric. “I haven’t seen Solas in person, but I did find hints of old magic. Similar to what you get in old elven ruins.” She said, her voice low. “I traced it to a building beneath Our Lady of Victory. That’s where your man is hiding.” She gestured toward a towering statue in the distance, a woman carved from stone with a sword planted into the earth and a hand raised to the heavens. Rain streaked down her upturned face like tears.
“Let’s move before this ritual gets any worse,” Varric said.
Neve’s eyes snapped to him. “Worse? It’s already drawing power stronger than a dozen mages. You told me he was working alone.”
Varric cocked an eyebrow. “I also told you he’s an ancient elven god.”
She sighed through clenched teeth. “God or not, he’s wrecking my city. Let’s go.” Her fingers tightened on her scepter, knuckles blanching as if holding onto purpose itself.
They slipped into the maze of tunnels beneath Minrathous, finally reaching the hidden elven chambers. Blue light pulsed ahead, casting ripples over a partially flooded floor. As they reached the last chamber, they saw a towering gilded mirror stretched to the vaulted ceiling. Its surface was constantly shifting, like a lake disturbed by unseen winds.
Rook drew closer, her reflection fractured and uncertain against a backdrop that was unfamiliar to her. “An eluvian,” Harding whispered in awe. “A doorway Solas uses to move around quickly. He must have gone through it!”
Beyond the mirror, the world transformed. They stepped into a small clearing surrounded by ancient trees stretching toward the sky. Ivy-draped ruins peeked through the undergrowth, the bones of a forgotten empire breaking the earth’s surface.
Harding’s eyes widened as she looked around. “I know these trees… Arlathan Forest.”
Rook squinted into the darkness to get her bearings. Dark clouds smothered the sky, releasing a relentless downpour that hammered the forest canopy. Lightning illuminated the trees in stark bursts before thunder crashed all around them. It felt as though nature itself roared in defiance of the ritual.
Ahead, an ancient temple stood defiant against the encroaching greenery. Statues of the Evanuris watched from high above, their faces worn smooth by the elements. A searing light bled from the cracks and enveloped the ritual site.
“There.” Neve pointed. “He’s inside.”
This close to the ritual, the veil was almost completely torn asunder. Demons prowled freely while Solas stood at the storm’s eye. His lyrium dagger seemed to carve sigils into the very fabric of existence, unraveling spells that held the world together.
At the temple threshold, Varric stopped. His expression was almost unreadable. “I’ll handle him.”
Neve frowned. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. Keep the demons off me.” He half-smiled.
Harding hesitated, her concern etched in the lines around her eyes.“Varric, Solas isn’t going to stop just because an old friend asks nicely.”
“Solas needs someone to sell him another option, to help him justify changing his mind.” He patted Bianca’s worn frame. “And if he doesn’t listen to me, he’ll hear from Bianca.”
Inside, Solas moved like a conductor of chaos. Light poured from his eyes as unbridled magic swirled.
“Take care of the team for me, Rook,” Varric said pointedly, placing the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.
He strode forward and spoke up as he carefully went up the stairs. “Hey, Chuckles,” he called, trying to sound lighthearted. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Solas turned, his focus now fractured. The glance he gave Varric was annoyance tempered with weariness, like a man pulling weeds in an endless field.
It didn’t take long after their greeting for the conversation to become heated. Their words clashed like waves against rocks—idealism against pragmatism, dreams against harsh reality. Varric argued for those suffering now, while Solas spoke of a future free from the mistakes he made.
“The Veil is a wound,” Solas said, voice low. “One I have tried to mend.”
“You call this mending?” Varric barked. “You’re ripping it open. There are people dying in the streets.”
“I know.” For just a second, Solas looked… tired. “But what I’m building will outlast their pain.”
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t bleed anymore,” Varric growled.
“I bleed more than you know,” Solas snapped, then caught himself. “I offered peace. You rejected it.”
“You offered a grave and called it mercy.”
Solas’s eyes flared. His hand flicked—and Bianca shattered.
A combination of disbelief and pain spread across Varric’s face as he looked at the splintered remains of his beloved crossbow.
Nearby, Rook watched the exchange as she tried to hold the demons off Varric. Her patience thinned with every passing moment—people were suffering while they debated philosophy. Her gaze darted across the temple before locking on the scaffolding bracing a weakened arch.
“This isn’t working,” she yelled to Neve and Harding. “We need another way.” She gestured toward the fragile structure.
“Stepping into that raw magic is suicide,” Neve warned.
“Anyone got a better plan?”
Silence. Just the shriek of demons and the blinding pulse of Solas’s magic.
Rook didn’t wait. She ran.
Her boots barely touched the stone as she vaulted broken columns and ducked low beams. The raw magic in the air singed her skin and made her vision swim—but she’d moved through fire before. She wouldn’t forget the bigger picture. Not again. Not while Varric was in danger, not while Solas was playing god.
She reached the base, her fingers gripping the warped frame. One deep breath. Then she climbed.
Rook’s blades tore through the last support beam, and the scaffolding gave way with a thunderous crack. Stone splintered, statues toppled, and the ceiling collapsed in a storm of dust and magic.
Solas whirled toward the noise, eyes wide. For the first time, he looked rattled.
The ritual stuttered. Magic fractured mid-sigil, arcs of power seizing in the air like severed nerves.
Varric moved in the chaos, jumping onto Solas as he lunged for the dagger. They grappled. Rook couldn’t see clearly, only sparks of lyrium—then blood.
So much blood.
Varric staggered, the dagger jutting from his ribs. He looked down like he couldn’t quite believe it before he collapsed on the ground.
“Varric!” Harding’s scream pierced the silence that followed.
Rook moved before she could think. The ground cracked beneath her. Her chest was a tight, knotted thing. Not Varric. Not like this.
The Veil buckled around her, writhing with chaotic energy. Glancing frantically over her shoulder, she caught sight of Harding and Neve struggling against an invisible force, their boots skidding across the stone as it hurled them away from the ritual’s center.
Looking back toward Solas, Rook’s breath hitched. Behind him, a Veil tear opened up, jagged and feral. Two figures emerged, twisting free from the breach like nightmares made flesh. The first towered above her, a grotesque fusion of torsos, arms, and writhing tentacles. The second bristled with horns that seemed to come from its head and shoulders.
Then, a deafening explosion shattered the air.
A pulse of force hit her like a wall. She flew backward, slammed into a column—and the world vanished.