#oc: isera lavellan

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 21: Tension in the Breath

The evening's lessons concluded, but the itch to practice clung to Isera like a restless wind. The knowledge she had gained gnawed at the edges of her mind, urging her to try again—this time without Solas or Felassan watching. She slipped away to her private garden, the moonlight casting soft, silvery shadows over the flowers and herbs, the scent of lavender lingering in the cool night air.

Standing in the center of the garden, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the quiet hum of nature calm her nerves. With a steady breath, she summoned the magic, feeling it gather in her core. Her hands moved instinctively, and a shimmering barrier began to form around her—a bubble of translucent energy that flexed gently with her movements.

Her heart swelled at the small success. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.

Encouraged, Isera narrowed her focus, trying to increase the tempo like she’d seen Solas do. The magic pulsed under her fingertips, responsive and eager—but as she pushed faster, the rhythm slipped. The barrier flickered, then wobbled unevenly, energy spiraling out of sync.

Before she could catch it, the spell unraveled with a sharp crack, arcs of unstable magic scattering in jagged bursts. Isera yelped and stumbled back as the remnants fizzled out around her, the force rattling the garden leaves and sending a pot of herbs tumbling off its shelf.

She exhaled hard, raking her hands through her hair, fingers knotting briefly in frustration. The embarrassment stung, even though there was no one to witness her failure. Why can’t I get this right? she thought bitterly. It had seemed so simple when Felassan and Solas demonstrated—effortless, even.

But here she was, standing in the moonlit quiet with nothing but the remnants of a failed spell and the ache of frustration settling in her chest. She closed her eyes, clenching her fists at her sides. The magic thrummed beneath her skin, eager to be called upon again, but her confidence wavered.

She sighed heavily, her breath clouding in the cool air. “It’s just a spell,” she whispered to herself, though the words did little to calm the storm inside her. The garden, usually her place of solace, felt stifling now, every plant and stone a reminder of what she couldn’t yet grasp.

Isera took another deep breath, the cool night air filling her lungs, grounding her. She rolled her shoulders back, flexing her fingers as she summoned the magic once more. This time, she focused on the memory of Felassan’s fluid barrier—how it flexed, adapted, and mended itself under pressure. She needed to stay calm. Flow with it, not fight against it, she reminded herself.

The magic surged under her skin, responding to her will. Slowly, the shimmering barrier began to form again, wrapping around her like a translucent cocoon. She could feel it humming, gently expanding and contracting with her breath, more stable than her earlier attempt. A small wave of satisfaction flickered within her—It’s holding.

Encouraged, Isera maintained the rhythm, steady and focused, resisting the urge to rush. She let the magic pulse outward with each beat of her heart, feeling it spread evenly, as if matching the cadence of the moonlight filtering through the garden leaves. The barrier shimmered, solid and fluid, and for a moment, it felt like she had it.

But the moment she tried to push faster, the magic wavered. It fought against her control, the delicate balance slipping as the barrier flickered erratically. She gritted her teeth, trying to hold it steady, but the magic rippled wildly, like a taut thread stretched too far.

A sharp crack split the night as the barrier fractured. Energy spiraled out in chaotic arcs, scattering sparks through the garden. Isera stumbled, catching herself just before falling. The spell fizzled, unraveling into nothing, leaving the garden still except for the gentle rustle of leaves stirred by the magic’s fading remnants.

She exhaled in frustration, her hands trembling slightly from the effort. That was closer—better—but not good enough.The sting of near success was sharper than failure. It had held for longer this time, but still, the control slipped through her fingers when she needed it most.

Unknown to Isera, Solas had been standing at the garden’s edge, quietly observing her attempts. He moved with the quiet grace of a shadow, stepping forward just as she prepared to cast again.

“You’re gripping too tight,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying the kind of calm that soothed yet unsettled all at once.

Isera gasped, startled by his sudden presence. She spun toward him, her heart racing. “I—when did you…?” she stammered, words catching in her throat as she struggled to find her composure.

Solas gave her a small, unreadable smile but said nothing, his gaze steady as he closed the space between them. His presence, always deliberate and steady, felt grounding, like the soft hum of magic lingering in the air. Standing behind her, he reached forward and placed his hands over hers, his fingers warm and sure as they guided her gestures.

Isera inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening—not just from the surprise, but from the closeness. His touch was careful but intimate, sending a ripple of warmth through her skin. It was a reminder of both comfort and desire, stirring a mixture of emotions she wasn’t prepared to confront.

Solas’s voice remained low, a steady murmur in the quiet of the garden. “Magic flows best when it’s treated as an extension of yourself,” he explained, his breath warm against her ear. “It isn’t something to control, Isera—it’s something to guide.”

His hands, still over hers, moved slowly, gently encouraging her motions to be fluid, almost instinctive. “You must trust it, just as you would trust your emotions. Both must move through you without resistance.”

Isera let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of his words settle within her. The magic stirring beneath her skin pulsed in time with her heartbeat, no longer strained but curious—waiting, watching to see if she could meet it halfway.

“Fear,” Solas continued softly, “stifles magic, just as it stifles emotion. The more you grip tightly, the more you try to control it out of fear of failure, the more it will slip from you.” He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “But if you guide it with intent, not force—if you trust it to follow where you lead—it will.”

Her fingers trembled slightly beneath his, and she fought the instinct to pull back—not from the magic, but from him. The warmth of his hands, the closeness of his presence—it was all so steady, so sure. And yet, it made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.

Isera inhaled deeply, letting the tension slip from her shoulders. With Solas’s hands gently guiding hers, she moved again, summoning the barrier. This time, the magic came easily, like water flowing into the shape of a vessel. It shimmered and pulsed, not perfect, but whole—alive with her intent, steady with her emotion.

Solas stepped even closer, the warmth of his presence wrapping around her like a second skin. His chest nearly brushed her back, close enough that she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath. His hands, still resting over hers, guided her gestures with calm precision. “Start slowly,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, resonating in the still night air. “Feel the magic as it builds, one step at a time.”

Isera closed her eyes, focusing on the hum of energy thrumming beneath her fingertips. It stirred gently, waiting for her to shape it, not with force, but with intention. She could feel Solas’s breath align with hers, grounding her, a reminder of the synchronization they had practiced before.

“Good,” Solas whispered, his hands guiding hers in slow, deliberate motions. “Allow it to flow naturally—there is no need to rush. This is not a race.”

They moved together in perfect rhythm, their movements fluid and seamless, as if their bodies were part of the same current. Isera cast the first spell, a simple pulse of energy that glimmered to life in the space around her. The magic felt smoother now, easier to wield as she let go of the frustration she had carried earlier.

“That’s it,” Solas said softly, his voice like a quiet river current, nudging her forward. “Do not think—simply feel the rhythm. As we practiced, let your breath move in harmony with it.”

She inhaled deeply, letting her breath guide the tempo of her movements. The next spell came more easily, unfolding like a ripple in a pond. Solas’s hands shifted slightly over hers, coaxing her to speed up, but only by a fraction. “Now,” he whispered. “Build the tempo. Slowly—feel the rhythm grow.”

The magic responded, shimmering brighter as their movements synchronized. Each spell built upon the last, the tempo increasing in perfect harmony with her breath. Isera felt the magic hum along with her heartbeat, alive and vibrant, no longer chaotic but cohesive.

Isera paused, her hands still hovering mid-motion as a flicker of realization dawned within her. The barrier shimmered around her, steady yet responsive, as if it breathed along with her. She could feel the subtle shift in the magic—how it wasn’t chaotic at all. It merely reflected what she carried inside.

Her breath slowed, and with it, the magic softened, curling around her like a familiar warmth. She let herself sit with the thought, a quiet clarity blooming in her mind.

“I may…” she murmured, almost to herself, “struggle with not being control.” The words were hesitant, as though admitting them aloud made them heavier. But she felt Solas still standing close behind her, patient and unjudging. His steady presence made it easier to say.

“That’s not necessarily a flaw,” Solas murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “Magic does not require control—it requires understanding.” His hands lingered just over hers, a breath away, as if waiting to guide her again should she need it.

Isera let out a slow exhale, releasing the tight knot of frustration she hadn’t even realized she was holding. As she embraced the emotions she had been fighting—her impatience, doubt, and determination—the magic responded in kind. It flowed smoother now, freer, without resistance.

The shimmering barrier shifted subtly, glowing brighter, but not rigidly—it flexed and moved like water held in a shape that could change at any moment. It was not fragile, nor chaotic. It was alive, just as she was.

“Let’s try something different,” Solas whispered into her ear, his breath warm and soft against her skin. The sound of his voice, low and deliberate, sent a flutter through Isera’s chest, as if the magic humming beneath her skin stirred in response to him.

Her pulse quickened, but she steadied her breath, focusing on the sensation of his hands over hers—calm, sure, and unwavering. There was no rush, only the quiet confidence he carried, coaxing her toward something new. “This time, let the magic carry you,” he murmured.

Isera exhaled slowly, closing her eyes to shut out everything but the rhythm of their synchronized breathing before opening her eyes ago. The magic stirred at her fingertips, playful and eager, as Solas guided her through the first spell. It sparked to life, rippling smoothly between their hands, each pulse flowing effortlessly into the next.

“Good,” Solas whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Now, again. One after another, in perfect tempo.”

Their hands moved as one, a graceful dance of precision and instinct. The chain of spells unraveled flawlessly, each casting building on the last, the magic rippling through them like music played in harmony. Isera felt the energy bloom and pulse with life—not just from her, but from the connection between them. It was fluid, alive, and responsive, following her emotions without hesitation.

The tempo quickened, and yet everything remained steady, each pulse of magic weaving seamlessly into the next. There was no room for frustration or doubt—only the flow, the rhythm, and the presence of Solas beside her, guiding without controlling. His touch was light, more suggestion than force, as if reminding her that she already had everything she needed.

The energy swirled around them in a shimmering wave, wrapping them in its glow. Isera could feel the magic in every breath they shared, a perfect balance of power and intent. And with it came a sense of ease she hadn’t thought possible—an understanding that she could guide this power not by force, but by trust.

“There,” Solas murmured, his voice carrying a thread of quiet approval. ��Do you feel it? The magic flows because you guide it with intention, not control."

Isera’s heart still fluttering from the nearness of him and the intimacy threaded through the magic they had woven together. The air between them felt charged with unspoken emotions, the boundary between magic and something deeper growing thin.

“I—yes,” Isera whispered, her voice barely audible as the magic dissolved into soft, shimmering wisps around them. But the charged atmosphere between them didn’t fade. It clung to the air like the lingering scent of rain, heavy with unspoken emotions and possibilities.

She turned slowly, heart fluttering, and found herself facing Solas. The quiet between them felt more intimate than words, as if they were standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted.

Solas’s gaze remained steady, unreadable yet soft in a way that made her chest tighten. Gently, almost absently, he reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingertips barely grazed her skin, sending a ripple of warmth through her, as if his touch carried the same magic they had just woven together.

Isera’s breath hitched, her pulse quickening. The soft caress of his hand was simple, but it carried a weight far greater than the motion—a silent acknowledgment of something shifting between them, something that had always been there but was only now taking shape.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, everything else melted away—the garden, the lessons, even the magic. What remained was the unspoken truth reflected in his gaze, a spark of understanding passing between them like a wordless promise. Neither of them moved nor spoke, as if breaking the stillness might shatter whatever fragile thing had just begun to bloom between them.

Without a word, Solas leaned in, the world narrowing to the space between them. Time seemed to slow as his gaze softened, and Isera found herself unable—or unwilling—to look away. Her breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest, but she didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

And then, his lips brushed hers—soft, deliberate, and impossibly gentle. The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if it wasn’t just a kiss but an unspoken promise, a quiet moment shared between two souls on the edge of something deeper.

The magic between them, though no longer visible, thrummed quietly beneath her skin, as if the remnants of their spell lingered in the space where their hands had intertwined. Isera melted into the kiss, her body relaxing as if drawn into the same rhythm they had found through magic—effortless, natural, perfectly in sync.

Solas’s hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek in a delicate caress, anchoring her to the moment. His touch was steady, just like his magic—never forceful, always guiding. And she let herself follow, surrendering to the warmth blooming between them, the kind that didn’t demand anything but their presence.

The kiss lingered, slow and intentional, not a declaration but a quiet understanding. It was a kiss that said everything neither of them had spoken aloud—a merging of trust, vulnerability, and connection.

When Solas finally pulled back, his movements were just as deliberate, his forehead resting lightly against hers for a brief, intimate moment. Solas’s hand slipped from her face, but not before his fingers trailed lightly along her jaw, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.

When she opened her eyes, she found his gaze waiting for her—steady, searching, as if looking for her in a way that went beyond sight.

Isera watched as Solas pulled back slightly, the warmth of the moment shifting like a breeze passing through leaves. Though his gaze remained on her, the light in his eyes dimmed, becoming distant, as if part of him had retreated to a place she could not follow. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a veil of quiet burden settling over him.

This kiss had been different from the others. It wasn’t born from urgency or fleeting desire but something softer, more deliberate. And yet, beneath the tenderness, she could sense a weight—something heavy that clung to him, a truth he had not shared, perhaps one he was not ready to.

Her chest tightened as the realization sank in. She could feel the distance between them, not physical but emotional, like an unspoken boundary neither of them had yet dared to cross. Solas was here, but not entirely. Something held him back—something unseen, lurking just beyond the words he never said.

Isera’s hand brushed his lightly, a silent offer of comfort, but his expression didn’t change. There was a sadness in his gaze, barely masked by his calm demeanor, a sorrow she knew well—the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.

“Solas…” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, searching his face for any clue of the burden he carried. But the words hung in the air unanswered, as if naming the distance between them might widen it further.

His lips curved into the faintest, fleeting smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Isera…” he murmured in return, the sound of her name on his lips like a bittersweet melody. There was something in the way he said it—fondness, perhaps even longing—but also resignation, as though he were already bracing himself for something neither of them fully understood.

The magic that had bound them moments ago felt thin now, unraveling into the night like smoke dissipating into the air. Yet Isera remained still, unwilling to let the distance swallow him whole. She knew there was more beneath his calm surface—something hidden, something painful. But she also knew that pressing too hard might only make him retreat further.

[ustalav]

this has been in my drafts and its time to oc dump

sooo faron's wife and isera's daughter were murdered in a raid on the lavellan camp by humans from a nearby town who were trying to rob them of their food stores. losing her child pretty much broke her entirely and faron became the person she used to ground herself in her grief, however he had his own grief and isera became a really unhealthy enabler of his own actions.

it began with vengeance. killing the men that attacked them and it span out of control quickly, seeking out more injustices in passing towns they could rectify through attacks of their own. until finally keeper deshanna told them they needed to stop their actions, which were endangering the others, or be cast out of the clan. faron agreed to stop. isera did not and left (also toying w reluctantly agreed bc faron did but continues to try to convince him to leave with her). when faron heard of the conclave he begged the keeper to allow him to go and spy as a way to prove himself an asset to clan lavellan once again. she agreed

and then inquisition

[sasskarian]

Non-OC ships I sail:

DA:

Canders (Carver/Anders) Tethraghast (Varric/Cassandra) Merribela (Merrill/Isabela) Sebasanthy (Sebastian Vael/Bethany Hawke) Adoribull (Dorian Pavus/Iron Bull) Sagna/Dagnera (Sera/Dagna) (I also love Blackwall and Josie even though they can’t be together– the tragic admiration/love is just too fantastic) (And there’s a little something to be said for Leliana/Josie, too, but I blame that on a couple of fantastic fics rather than something I see in the game)

ME:

Vegilliams (James Vega/Ashley Williams) Wrexara (Wrex/Bakara) Taligar (Tali/Kal Reegar) Jedi (Joker/Edi) Liavik (Liara/Javik) Mordin/Happiness Thane/Happiness Thane/Shepard/Garrus Nihlus/Shepard Nihlus/Shepard/Garrus

Other:

Stormlight/Cosmere - Kaladin/Shalan (i am allowed to have my fantasies) Stormlight/Cosmere - Shallan/Adolin Stormlight/Cosmere - Kaladin/Shallan/Adolin Stormlight/Cosmere - Renarin/Rlain Stormlight/Cosmere - Dalinar/Navani Cosmere/Mistborn - Vin/Elend Cosmere/Mistborn - Wax/Steris Cosmere/Mistborn - Wayne/MeLaan

***

GoT - Robb/Theon (not my fault; i read some excellent fic at one point) GoT - Brienne/Jaime and Brienne/Tormund (look i like them both for different reasons don’t judge me)

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Miraculous Ladybug - Marinette/Adrien Miraculous Ladybug - Ladybug/Chat Noir Miraculous Ladybug - Alya/Nino Miraculous Ladybug - Luka/Marinette/Adrien

My OCs:

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DRAGON AGE

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Isera Lavellan

One sentence description: medium-tol, angry, hot mess who didn’t ask for any of this shit but is making the best out of a bad situation Nickname: Issy (will cut you if you use it); Ashes Age: 28 in 9:40D Social Status: Former First of Clan Lavellan; Currently Herald of Andraste of the New Inquisition Relationship Status: It’s Complicated? Height: 5'7" Hair colour: silver Eye colour: gray-green Distinguishing Features: The Anchor; facial scars on lip, brow, and cheek; Mythal vallaslin; back, arms, and shoulders have vallaslin Family: Ethelan (brother); Eolas (father); Deshanna (grandmother) Love interest: Cullen “ball of awkward” Rutherford, Commander of Inquisition Forces Friends/Allies: Merrill; Dorian Pavus; Varric Tethras Enemies: Everyone in fucking Tevinter except for Dorian; Everyone in Orlais in general; the magister/god/darkspawn trying to take over the world; that one snooty merchant in Orlais she wants to smack Alternate Universe Love Interest: Evariste LeMarque/Fairbanks Face Claim: Katheryn Winnick

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Ethelan Lavellan

One sentence description: tol, sassy terrible flirt who sings like an angel and knows he’s too attractive for his own good Nickname: Eth; Amatus (Dorian only) Age: 29-ish (he’s only a little older than Isera but they bicker about it constantly) Sexual Orientation: bi and loud about it Social Status: Huntsmaster of Clan Lavellan Relationship Status: Firmly taken Height: 5’10” Hair colour: Auburn Eye colour: green Family: Isera (sister); Eolas (father); Deshanna (grandmother) Love interest: Dorian; Iron Bull, sort of; although he also flirts terribly with Cassandra and Varric Friends/Allies: Varric Tethras; Cassandra Pentaghast; Sera;  Enemies: the kitchen cook who keeps running him out when he steals frilly cakes Face Claim: [young] Travis Fimmel

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Iveani Lavellan [Voiceverse]

One sentence description: medium soft girl who lives too much in dreams and still doesn’t get enough sleep Nickname: Vee; Iv Age: 33-ish Social Status: Second of Clan Lavellan Relationship Status: Very Complicated Height: 5’4” Hair colour: brown Eye colour: golden-brown Distinguishing Features: Sylaise vallaslin; freckles; partially-docked ear  Family: ??(father); Deshanna (grandmother); Miseri (little sister); Davhalla (little brother) Love interest: Solas, Creators help her Friends/Allies:  Enemies: Duke Antoine of Wycome; any red Templar or Venatori unlucky enough to stumble into her path Face Claim: Emmy Rossum

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Marian Hawke [Glitterverse]

One sentence description: tol, dirty-minded, never-takes-anything-seriously actress very good at getting into Weird Shit Nickname: Hawke; That Bitch; Birdie (Anders only) Age: 30-mumble Sexual Orientation: bi and loud about it Social Status: Amell and doesn’t care Relationship Status: Firmly taken Height: 5’10” Hair colour: black as her soul Eye colour: Bright blue-green Family: Garrett (twin); Bethany (sister); Carver (brother) Love interest: Fenris; Anders (ish);  Friends/Allies: Varric Tethras; Anders;  Enemies: that one studio intern who keeps giving her decaf Face Claim: Kiera Knightley

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Valira Surana

One sentence description: smol, confused bookworm who got handed a sword and a dog and found out she had a hell of a spine. Nickname: Val Age: 20 Sexual Orientation: demi Relationship Status: “I might be dating an assassin? I think? It… is dating, right? Not an accomplice?“ Height: 5’0” Hair colour: red-gold Eye colour: golden-brown Love interest: Zevran Face Claim: Nathalie Emmanuel

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MASS EFFECT

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Iolana Shepard

One sentence description: Commander. Fucking. Shepard. Age: mid-30s Relationship Status: Taken Height: 5’4” Hair colour: auburn Eye colour: gray Distinguishing Features: biotic implant; facial scars Family: Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard; Kahele (father); Elizabeth Shepard Love interest: Garrus Vakarian; Thane Krios Enemies: Reapers; Councilor Udina Face Claim: Kelly Hu

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Sara E. Ryder

One sentence description: The textbook definition of “bad role model” Age: 23 Sexual Orientation: Flexible, very Relationship Status: Taken Height: 5’7” Hair colour: Brown with red highlights Eye colour: Hazel-Green Family: Scott Ryder (brother); Henry (honorary uncle); Nakmor Drack (grumpy adoptive father) Love interest: Jaal Ama Darav with some mild Kandros lusting going on Enemies: The Archon; Jarun Taan; anyone who says anything about her found family;  Face Claim: Jennie Jacques

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ELDER SCROLLS

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Hero of Kvatch/Champion of Cyrodiil

One sentence description: One very confused magic-wielding assassin who really just wanted to kill a few people Age: mid-30s Relationship Status: Pining Endlessly Height: 5’4” Hair colour: Dark Eye colour: Green Species: Altmer Love interest: Martin Septim; Lucien LaChance (formerly)

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Dragonborn

One sentence description: "Look, man, I just wanted to leave this fucking tundra, okay? Next thing I know, I’m sucking up dragon souls and stabbing draugr and fucking– just– I need a drink.“ Age: 30s Relationship Status: Taken Height: 5'11” Hair colour: Silver Eye colour: Gold Species: Khajiit Family: Ma'isha (daughter), Hroar (son), Aventus Arentino (son) Love interest: Farkas (married); Inigo (queerplatonic polyamorous)

***

Evelyn Swann - Fallout 4 Sole Survivor

One sentence description: Ghost of apocalypses past here to kick ass and dismantle the Institute brick by brick Age: 30s Relationship Status: Married, Widowed, now sort of casually dating her commanding officer who may or may not be human Height: 5'8” Hair colour: Red Eye colour: Green Affiliation: Brotherhood (formerly), Railroad (currently), Minutemen (currently) Family: Shaun (son) Love interest: Danse/M7-97; Nick Valentine (it happened in a dream; and kinda in the very AU past)

[greylikeawarden]

you've come to love what you always will fear (x)

[squidmayo]

I found this adorable picrew so decided to make some of my da elf ocs! 

from left to right: Mioluvun Lavellan, Nossa Lavellan, Eola Surana, Lailani Mahariel and Isera Tabris!

I tag @lyrium-lavellan @fenharel-s @thereluctantherosrose @waterwhisp-rivergoblin @thesaltyhealer @elfsplaining and anyone else who wants to add their own :3

[roseategales]

                                  INTRODUCTORY: ISERA LAVELLAN.

BASIC INFORMATION.

name: isera lavellan. age: 28, at the start of the inquisition. gender: cis female. sexual and romantic orientation: demisexual, biromantic. race: elven, born in ostwick’s alienage and raised among the dalish. class and specialisation(s): mage, rift mage. faceclaim: andrea mádlová. voiceclaim: eleanor tomlinson. religion: practicing worshipper of the evanuris. vallaslin: falondin's. myers-briggs: istj, the logistician. moral alignment: chaotic good. enneagram: five, the investigator. tarot card: judgement. romance: solas.

LORE.

on a job repairing ostwick’s alienage walls, isera’s parents suffered an accident and died when she was just five years of age and her sister, nellas, was eight. for most of her childhood, she and her sister had only each other, living on the streets and by what little they were given by the elves in the alienage or what they could steal from the humans. it was a difficult life, but they lived and dreamed through it together, hoping for better days to come.

at the age of twelve and fifteen, isera and nellas would find those days—however fleeting they were.

a theft of bread and fruit gone wrong had led to the city guard chasing them down an alleyway; and cornered and threatened, watching as a guardsman laid a hand on nellas, isera’s magic manifested in raging fire that burnt their hunters down to ashes. fear of the templars struck, and her sister grabbed her hand to flee with her from the city. once past the city walls, they wandered, for days, without food or water, until they were found by clan lavellan. the clan freely took them in and treated them as their own blood, happy to have another mage talent within their number.

however, as isera grew, so did the strength and volatility of her powers. she experienced vivid nightmares and became trapped in her dreams, easy prey for the demons that roamed the fade. keeper deshanna identified her as a sominiari—a dreamer mage. as knowledge on the ancient gift was scarce, there was little the keeper could do to help isera besides administer training and herbs for sleep, to control and limit the use of her abilities. dread gripped the clan. her welcome and acceptance was outlived, while nellas thrived as a hunter.

twelve years went by, and the sisters grew apart. nellas was genial and adjusted. isera was withdrawn and isolated. but nellas never gave up on her sister, not even to her deathbed.

after the kirkwall rebellion broke out in 9:37 dragon, the veil thinned perilously and isera was seized in a dream fueled by a desire demon. in order to wake her, keeper deshanna necessitated someone be sent into the fade. nellas volunteered, and bargained with the desire demon to take isera’s place; she was then slain as an abomination, and isera woke to her sister’s corpse.

traumatized and branded a danger to the clan, isera maintained an emotional and physical distance from the other members. she became a pariah, detached and dependent on the herbs to drug her, battling with the lure of death and joining nellas and her parents again. she was a risk every darkening night. and though she continued to live with the clan for four more years, when the keeper required a spy for the conclave, she volunteered. keeper deshanna let her, knowing it meant she would never return—believing it to be for the sake of isera and the clan.

CHOICES.

allied with free mages. | spared alexius, ruled that he work for the mages. | sacrificed stroud in the fade. | exiled the wardens. | executed magister livius erimond, imprisoned ser ruth. | celene and briala reconciled, gaspard executed. | arrested duchess florianne, ruled that she be exiled. | ruled that samson serve the inquisition. | chose to follow the rituals in mythal’s temple, allied with abelas and the ancient elves. | did not drink from the well of sorrows. | removed her vallaslin. | leliana made divine. | inquisition was repurposed to be the divine’s peace force. | vowed to save solas from himself, and the world with him.

[gezdrasz]

Art trade with @vir-tanadahl ❤️Isera Lavellan❤️

[asoulonfire]

Hey all!

I just posted a new chapter of ‘A Soul on Fire’. There is Solas and OC flirting... light flirting... okay, only a little bit of blushing and smiling. That’s flirting right?

[vir-tanadahl]

Into the Past

Summary: Originally written in 2015, this work has since been rewritten. After the defeat of Corypheus, Solas vanished without a trace. In her search for answers, Ellana Lavellan, desperate and determined, began experimenting with the dangerous time-altering magic of Alexius. One misstep, and the spell spiraled out of control, hurling her into the distant past. When she regained her bearings, Ellana found herself in ancient Arlathan, in the heart of a grand masquerade ball. Dressed in unfamiliar finery, she navigated the opulence of the elven empire, her heart pounding as her eyes locked with a masked stranger—the unmistakable presence of Fen'harel, the man she once knew as Solas. The encounter rippled through time, altering her destiny with him in ways she could never have foreseen. (Find on Ao3)

Ellana’s gut twisted the moment the device whirred to life. She knew she shouldn't have listened to Dorian. His smug grin and charming wit had worn down her better judgment, coaxing her into playing with the time-warping magic Alexius had left behind. With Corypheus defeated, she'd thought they had time to explore such curiosities. She should’ve known better.

The second the magic flared, it all went wrong. The device crackled, pulsating with an eerie green glow as it twisted her surroundings into a swirling, smoky vortex. Before she could react, it pulled her in—its smoky green maw swallowing her whole.

Ellana’s heart raced as she landed with a thud. The world around her was quiet, too quiet. Panic rose in her chest as she surveyed the scene, the familiar dread of another mistake washing over her. Tall grass stretched out endlessly in all directions, brushing against her waist, glowing under the golden light of the setting sun. The air was thick with silence, a vast green sea shimmering in the fading daylight. She wasn't supposed to be here.

‘Cassandra is going to kill me,’ she thought, the weight of that certainty grounding her, even as her pulse pounded in her ears.

She scanned the horizon, searching for anything that resembled the world she knew. The stillness of the meadow only deepened her sense of isolation. She was alone—no soldiers, no companions—just her, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar place, with the low hum of magic lingering in the air like an afterthought.

As she turned, something caught her eye in the distance. Her breath caught in her throat as she squinted, her heart skipping a beat. She could scarcely believe it. But there it was—something she never thought she'd see.

In the distance, the landscape shifted, revealing a towering forest unlike anything Ellana had ever seen. The trees stretched impossibly high, their trunks thick and ancient, as though they had been standing for centuries. Between the trees, crystal spires twisted and curled like vines, blending with the foliage in a way that seemed both natural and magical. The shimmering structures glowed faintly in the fading sunlight, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape.

Ellana's breath hitched as her gaze followed the trees upward, where she spotted a collection of manors and chateaux nestled within the branches. Their elegant, flowing architecture blended seamlessly with the forest, as if grown from the earth itself. And there, in the spaces between, she glimpsed what might have been shops, their intricate facades winding through the canopy like the fingers of a forgotten age.

"Arlathan…" The word left her lips in a breathless whisper. Awe and disbelief coursed through her as the name hung in the air, reverberating through her mind. The memory of one of her first conversations with Solas flickered before her, unbidden but undeniable. Her heart ached at the thought of him, the pain as fresh as it had been the day he left. She had pushed thoughts of him aside, burying the emotions deep. Maybe that was why she had agreed to meddle with unstable magic—anything to keep her mind from wandering back to him.

But now, here she was. The city of her ancestors stretched out before her, its forgotten beauty pulling her forward. With nowhere else to go, Ellana moved toward the towering woodland, her feet carrying her over the soft grass. The Well of Sorrows’ voices echoed faintly in her mind, guiding her like a compass, whispering fragments of wisdom and forgotten truths as she made her way through the ancient city.

Reaching the forest's edge, she paused, taking in the sight before her. Streams of water crisscrossed the forest floor, their crystal-clear currents weaving between the trees, converging in the heart of the woodland. The rivers glimmered like silver threads under the dappled sunlight, each one winding its way toward the center as if drawn by an invisible force.

This place—it was alive, brimming with magic that pulsed beneath the surface, waiting, watching.

As Ellana neared the heart of the forest, the quiet hum of nature gave way to the sounds of life. She could hear faint chattering, the shuffle of feet on soft ground, and the clink of objects being moved. Her pulse quickened. The presence of people filled her with both curiosity and apprehension. She kept her steps light, staying close to the tree line, hoping to go unnoticed.

Peering through the gaps in the trees, she saw them—elves. They moved between small huts, each section of the village separated by the winding rivers and connected by simple, arched bridges. The huts themselves were modest, crafted from wood and stone, yet they radiated a quiet elegance that reminded her of something lost to time. The elves wore robes of soft hues—strange, yet familiar, their flowing fabrics reminiscent of the ancient tales Solas had once shared.

Ellana’s hand instinctively tugged at her own robe, grateful for its simplicity. It allowed her to blend in, at least for now. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, slipping into the village with careful, tentative strides, her head lowered to avoid catching anyone’s gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest, each step feeling like it might give her away.

But despite her attempts to remain unnoticed, the eyes of the village were drawn to her. As she passed by, she caught glimpses of the elves watching her, their expressions puzzled, their work slowing as they turned to stare. She lifted her gaze ever so slightly, enough to catch the vivid markings on their faces—*vallaslin*, the intricate tattoos sacred to the Dalish, though these seemed older, more intricate, carved with symbols she barely recognized.

The air thickened with tension, and Ellana’s stomach twisted as whispers spread among the villagers. She had failed to slip in unnoticed.

Suddenly, the chattering ceased. One by one, the elves bowed their heads to her, their confusion melting into something almost reverent. Her breath caught in her throat as she stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Why were they bowing? Her mind raced, searching for explanations, but only one thought emerged clearly:

They thought she was someone she wasn’t.

Ellana’s heart sank as her fingers brushed her cheek, the absence of her vallaslin a stark reminder. Solas had removed her markings after she drank from the Well of Sorrows. ‘These are slave markings. They think I’m some kind of noble,’ she thought, her throat tightening. Her eyes flickered over the villagers, noting the various vallaslin etched into their skin: the bow of Andruil, the fierce lines of Elgar’nan, and the graceful curves of Mythal on the face of a small child.

The village seemed to breathe around her, its rhythms unfamiliar yet laced with a forgotten history. The rivers converged ahead, forming a shimmering lake that reflected the waning sunlight. Rising from the lake’s center was a palace—sprawling and ornate, its towers stretching skyward. Two wide bridges arched toward it, connecting the grand structure to the village. A steady stream of carts moved along one of the bridges, heading for the palace gates, their wheels creaking under the weight of goods.

Ellana hesitated, unsure of her next move. She spotted a villager nearby, a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and stepped forward to ask for help. But before she could utter a word, the girl’s eyes widened with fear, and she turned, fleeing as though Ellana were a threat. The others noticed, quickly dropping their gazes, avoiding eye contact as though they feared her, too.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention to the palace. The bridge loomed before her, its stone cool beneath her feet as she began to cross. Each step echoed in her ears, mingling with the creak of the distant carts. The weight of her situation pressed down on her—trapped in Arlathan, with no way to reopen the portal that had brought her here. Solas’ face flashed in her mind, his voice reminding her of the delicate, ancient magic at play.

Her options were slim. The Well’s knowledge whispered in her mind, but offered no immediate answers. She would have to be careful, fluid in her approach, if she was to find a way back. Whatever answers lay within the palace, she would have to take them—no matter the risk. One way or another, she would find her way home.

As Ellana neared the palace gates, lost in thought, she was jolted back to the present by a sudden collision. A young elf, dressed in simple garb and bearing the vallaslin of Mythal, stumbled into her. But something about the markings caught Ellana’s eye—they were not quite like the vallaslin she knew, subtly different in their design, more intricate, as if imbued with an older magic. The girl immediately bowed low, her tone flat but respectful.

"My mistake, my lady. I humbly apologize," the girl said in fluid, ancient Elvish, her eyes lowered.

It took Ellana a moment to process the words. She had understood the language effortlessly—a tongue she had barely been familiar with in her time. The realization sent a wave of unease through her. ‘I can understand them…’ she thinks to herself, realizing the Well of Sorrow is translating for her.

"N-no, it’s okay," Ellana stammered nervously, unsure if she will be understood. She watched the girl closely, waiting for a flicker of confusion. But the elf only straightened slightly, her expression unchanged, no evidence of confusion. The girl can understand her.

The girl spoke again, her tone as polite as before. "Is there anything you need before the masquerade, my lady? Shall I escort you to the changing room?"

Ellana blinked, her mind racing. ‘Masquerade? Changing room? None of this made sense, but her heart beat a little faster with the realization that the girl saw her as someone of importance—perhaps even nobility. She was trapped in this strange time, with no clear answers, and now a masquerade was involved?

"Masquerade?" Ellana repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. "The changing room?"

"Yes, of course, your dress will be there along with any cosmetics you may have brought," the young elf continued, though there was a slight pause in her voice before she added, "Though there are always extra gowns if the tailor’s creation doesn’t please you. I shall escort you immediately, my lady."

Ellana nodded, hiding her uncertainty behind a polite smile, falling in step behind the girl.

As they walked deeper into the palace, Ellana couldn’t help but feel more disoriented with every turn they took. The grand halls seemed endless, each corridor more elaborate than the last, with soaring ceilings and walls adorned with intricate carvings that shimmered under the soft glow of enchanted sconces. She was utterly lost, with no idea how she would ever find her way out again. The weight of her situation pressed down on her with each step.

Finally, they reached a set of heavy velvet curtains. "Here you are, my lady," the girl announced with a respectful bow, pulling the curtains aside.

Ellana stepped into the room and was immediately overwhelmed by the sight before her. It was a sprawling chamber, filled with row upon row of gowns and robes in every imaginable color and fabric. The soft rustle of silk and the gentle murmur of voices filled the air. Across the far wall, vanities were lined up, each one occupied by elven ladies with their hair being brushed and makeup carefully applied by attentive slaves. Some were being laced into elaborate gowns, while others sat in elegant repose, their gazes distant as they were tended to.

Ellana stood frozen for a moment, the sight both mesmerizing and suffocating. She felt out of place, an intruder in a world she didn’t belong to—a world long lost to time. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she fought the urge to flee, knowing she had no choice but to keep playing her role.

"Oh, my..." Ellana muttered under her breath, her bewilderment only growing as the weight of her situation pressed down on her. She was going to have to attend this masquerade, whether she wanted to or not. Asking the slave to take her back to the village would surely raise suspicion. But if she blended in at the party, perhaps she could trick someone into giving her the information she needed—maybe even a way out.

Another girl approaches, breaking through her thoughts. "Would you like me to assist you in selecting a gown, my lady? Or shall I fetch the one that was prepared for you?”

Ellana hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. "Yes, thank you," she said quietly, the words leaving her lips before she could second-guess herself.

The slave first guided her to an unoccupied vanity, the large mirror reflecting Ellana's pale face and long, unkempt hair. As she sat, the girl began to gently comb through the tangles, each stroke steady and practiced. The repetitive motion was almost soothing, though Ellana’s mind remained far from calm.

Her gaze wandered to the mirror, and that’s when she noticed it—a brand on the back of the slave’s hand. It was faint but unmistakable, a mark etched into her skin like a scar that had healed over long ago. Ellana’s stomach churned at the sight of it.

"What’s that mark?" Ellana asked, her voice careful as she gestured to the girl’s hand in the reflection.

The woman seated next to Ellana chimed in, her voice carrying a hint of idle amusement. "Oh, she’s had her magic cut off."

Ellana turned to face the speaker, her gaze landing on a striking figure. The woman had impossibly curly blonde hair that cascaded past her waist, each ringlet bouncing slightly as she shifted. Her silvery-gray eyes, however, reflected clear disinterest in the topic at hand. Beside her, a slave marked with June's vallaslin massaged oil into the woman's long locks, the scent of lavender drifting between them.

"She’s... tranquil?" Ellana asked softly, feeling her hair being gently pulled into a loose Orlesian braid, a style she recognized from her own time.

The woman shrugged, her elegant posture unaffected by the weight of the conversation. "Tranquil?" she repeated with a faint frown. "I've never heard such a term for those who have been branded." Her voice carried an air of superiority, as though the topic was beneath her. "We simply cut them off. Magic is a gift, not a right." Her words were as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "I am Imra," she continued, finally turning her sharp gaze to Ellana, her shoulder lifting slightly in an elegant shrug. "And you?"

"Ellana," she answered quietly, turning her attention back to the mirror. “What an unusual name!” Her reflection stared back, her braid now fully formed and gently pulled to one side. The slave’s hands moved with precision, delicate yet efficient.

"Showing off the neck is quite popular," Imra commented, her smile painted in a bright, vivid red. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she spoke, seemingly entertained by the rituals of the masquerade. "Tell me, who do you plan on courting tonight?"

Ellana’s heart gave a small lurch at the question. ‘Courting someone? She barely knew where she was, let alone who would be attending. Still, Imra’s question hung in the air, and the eyes of the nearby women seemed to flicker with interest at the prospect of courtly intrigue.

She forced a small smile, hoping to mask her unease. "I’m... not quite sure yet," she said, turning back to the mirror to hide the uncertainty creeping into her expression.

Imra chuckled softly. "Playing coy, are we? Smart girl." Her voice dripped with knowing. "There are many powerful individuals attending tonight. Best to keep your options open."

Ellana’s stomach tightened, her mind racing. She was no noble, no political player in this world, yet here she was, surrounded by the intrigue and vanity of an ancient society. And worse, the deeper she slipped into their world, the more it resembled a gilded cage.

Imra laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Oh, of course! The Pantheon hosts this grand celebration once every century, or so. I'm hoping to catch the eye of a certain lord from west Elvhenan, though I won't tell you who." She winked playfully, her voice dripping with intrigue.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat. "The Elven Pantheon? They’re... here?" she squeaked, her voice betraying her disbelief. She had no idea how to proceed, her thoughts reeling at the implications.

Imra raised an eyebrow at Ellana's reaction but nodded, as though the presence of gods was merely another detail of the evening. "Naturally. This is the time when families present themselves, hoping to gain favor and blessings. It’s a great honor, though costly. Each family must offer something to gain entry into that part of society. It’s usually slaves," she added, her tone casual despite the weight of her words, "but there have been... other contributions."

She paused thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly before she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, all the Pantheon except for Fen'harel, of course. He doesn’t keep slaves. It is said he frees them."

"The Dread Wolf?" Ellana gasped, her shock evident. ‘Did the Dalish get this wrong too?’ Her mind raced with confusion. Before she could process the revelation, Imra’s expression twisted into horror.

"Do not speak his name like that! Are you deranged?" Imra hissed, her earlier lightheartedness vanishing. Her voice was sharp, her eyes wide with fear and indignation.

Ellana hesitated, startled by the outburst. "I'm sorry," she stammered, trying to soften the tension in the air.

Imra glared at her, her silvery eyes cold. "Just don’t let anyone else hear you call him that," she warned icily, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You might not get off so easily next time."

"Actually," Imra’s gaze softened, a fleeting vulnerability slipping through her haughty exterior, "I’m surprised. Most girls your age find the god quite attractive. I did too, once." She giggled lightly, as if sharing a secret.

Ellana blinked, taken aback. "Girls my age?" she repeated, confused. The slave had just finished applying the last touches of makeup, and as Ellana glanced at the mirror, she gasped. Her reflection was nearly unrecognizable. Her eyes appeared darker, smoky, intensifying the golden hue of her irises, while her lips were painted a deep red, a striking contrast to her complexion.

Imra's eyes sparkled with amusement at Ellana’s surprise. "Yes, surely you’re about seven hundred years old, no?" She arched an eyebrow, then smiled approvingly. "You’ll attract quite a bit of attention tonight."

Ellana’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Seven hundred?’ The absurdity of it all was overwhelming, but before she could respond, the slave marked with June’s vallaslin spoke up, her voice calm yet deferential. "My lady, it is time to choose your gown."

"Quite right!" Imra agreed, already moving away from the vanity, her excitement for the evening palpable. "See you at the party, Ellana," she called out with a knowing grin, gliding off to find her own dress.

Ellana watched her go, the weight of her situation pressing down on her once more. She had to stay focused, had to find a way to blend in. But the longer she stayed in this time, the more alien everything felt.

The slave stood by patiently, waiting for her direction. "Shall we find your dress, my lady?" she asked, her tone polite but distant.

Ellana turned to her, her mind still spinning with the surreal nature of this world. Something tugged at her—something more than just the foreign customs and lavish surroundings. She hesitated, then asked gently, "What is your name?"

The slave paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she answered, her voice quiet, almost resigned. "I do not remember, my lady. Most masters call me ‘pet,’ if that pleases you."

Ellana’s heart ached at the confession, a hollow sadness creeping in. ‘How long has she lived like this?’ The thought haunted her as she moved toward the rows of gowns, her fingers grazing the fabrics. “That is not suitable…” she whispered under her breath, shaking her head.

The slave remained silent, but her hands moved quickly and deftly, helping Ellana sort through the gowns. After a moment, she pulled out a dress and held it up for Ellana to see. "How does this fare, my lady?" she asked, her tone as neutral as ever.

Ellana’s gaze fell on the gown—a rich, dark purple with a strapless heart-shaped bodice, intricately adorned with lace and sparkling jewels. The embellishments caught the light, glimmering softly. The bodice tapered just under the bust before flowing into an ethereal, silky skirt that seemed to float as it moved. It was stunning, almost too much so.

"That’s beautiful," Ellana murmured, running her fingers along the soft silk. "But... is it appropriate?" she asked, her uncertainty clear. She had no idea what was considered acceptable for a gathering of this magnitude, let alone in an era so far removed from her own.

The servant nodded with quiet assurance. "It is appropriate, my lady."

Ellana sighed softly, still unsure. She had no time to worry about fitting in perfectly, but every part of this world felt precarious. "Well," she said reluctantly, "I suppose this will do." Her voice held a note of resignation, as if she was accepting her fate for the night.

The girl bowed slightly and led her toward a nearby changing room. As Ellana followed, she glanced once more at the slave, the weight of her earlier words still heavy on her mind. She couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of responsibility—not just to escape this world, but to understand it. To understand these people, these lives lost to time.

Inside the small, dimly lit chamber, the slave worked swiftly, removing Ellana’s simple gown with practiced hands and helping her slip into the borrowed dress. The dark purple fabric clung to her in all the right places, the jeweled bodice shimmering faintly in the low light. Once the gown was secured, the girl held up a delicate golden mask, draped with thin lace. Seven small blue gems glowed faintly, casting an eerie light across the mask’s surface.

"I believe this mask will be sufficient, my lady," the girl said quietly, offering it to Ellana.

Ellana’s breath caught as she felt a subtle pull from the gems. Her fingertips brushed over them lightly. "Is that... lyrium?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was something unsettling about the gems, a power that hummed beneath the surface.

The girl nodded silently and began fastening the mask to Ellana’s face, her hands gentle but efficient. When she stepped back, she looked Ellana over, her expression impassive. "You are ready, my lady."

Ellana exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. "Will you be taking me to the ballroom?" she asked, hoping to delay any further interaction with the strange world she had been thrust into. The girl hesitated for a moment, thinking it over, before nodding and leading the way.

As they approached the grand vestibule doors, footsteps echoed behind them. Ellana barely had time to react before a man stormed toward them, his body radiating anger. His eyes locked on the slave. "There you are, pet," he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. He grabbed the girl’s arm roughly, his fingers digging into her skin.

The girl showed no fear, her face emotionless as she replied in a measured tone, "I was helping."

The man’s face twisted with rage, and his hand shot up, ready to strike. Instinctively, Ellana stepped between them, her heart pounding in her chest. "I’m terribly sorry," she said quickly, her voice laced with forced sweetness. She could feel the eyes of the hall on them, the air thick with tension. Her pulse quickened as she glanced up at the man’s masked face, his raised hand still poised to strike.

The glare that met her through his mask was cold, unyielding, but Ellana held her ground. "Your slave," she said, barely able to hide the bitterness that clung to the word, "has been most helpful. I distracted her from your orders. The fault is mine." She smiled politely, though her voice carried a steely edge. "I hope you understand, with all the preparations for the ball. It’s easy to lose track of time."

The hall had gone deathly quiet. Every eye was on them, the weight of judgment heavy in the air. The man’s hand remained raised, his fury simmering beneath the surface, but he hesitated, uncertain. Ellana’s heart raced as she waited, praying her intervention had been enough to diffuse the moment.

The man made an unintelligible noise, his fury barely contained, before lowering his hand. "Fine!" he snapped, his voice sharp and venomous. "Get out of my sight!" he barked at the slave, who walked away with the same emotionless composure as before. He glared at Ellana, his gaze full of unspoken warning, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd without another word.

The hall, which had fallen deathly silent, began to stir once more as chatter slowly resumed. Conversations picked up where they had left off, but Ellana couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation that all eyes had been on her during the exchange. ‘I’ve made myself noticeable,’ she thought uneasily. Standing up for a slave—especially so publicly—was bound to attract unwanted attention.

Keeping her movements as quiet and discreet as possible, she slipped through the vestibule and into the grand dance hall. The shift in atmosphere was palpable. Soft music floated through the air, graceful and ethereal, a perfect complement to the elegance of the elves who mingled, their laughter and quiet conversations weaving through the melody.

Ellana kept close to the walls, her heart pounding as she tried to avoid drawing any more interest. Her eyes flitted over the scene—a sea of finely dressed elves, their masks glittering in the soft glow of candlelight. In the center of the hall, couples twirled gracefully in the large dance area, their movements fluid and practiced, as if this was second nature to them. The air hummed with opulence, but Ellana couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, watching a world she didn’t belong to.

Her gaze shifted to the second level, an elevated platform that overlooked the dance hall. There, perched above it all, sat the Elven gods and goddesses. Ellana’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes landed on them.

The divine figures were unmistakable, their presence commanding the attention of anyone who dared glance their way. Yet as Ellana’s gaze lingered on them, an unsettling realization crept in. As unmistakable as they were, they looked... normal.

Ellana didn’t know exactly what she had expected gods to look like, but it wasn’t this. The Elven Pantheon, beings of legend, whose stories had been passed down for centuries, seemed almost too ordinary. Seated above the crowd, draped in finery, they looked like any other group of highly important elves attending the grand masquerade. Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. Falon'Din and Dirthamen, the twin gods, their disinterest almost palpable, looked like skilled and regal elven nobles, not beings of unfathomable power. Even the others, whose presence should have been awe-inspiring, appeared more like ancient aristocrats than divinities.

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her. ‘These are gods?’ she thought, her mind racing. The tales she had heard growing up, and even the stories Solas had shared, had painted them as beings beyond mortal comprehension. She had expected something more—something that would immediately convey their power and grandeur. But these beings looked… just like elves. Larger than life, perhaps, but still grounded in the world she knew.

The discrepancy gnawed at her, unsettling her more than she cared to admit. It was as if the veil of myth had been torn away, revealing something uncomfortably close to reality. Were these truly the beings who once shaped the world? The ones who inspired fear and reverence? Or were they something else entirely—figures built on legend, but whose true nature had been lost to time?

Her mind spun with questions she had no way of answering. As she kept to the shadows, she couldn’t help but feel the distance between the gods and the mortals below them, yet that distance was far less than she had imagined. They weren’t larger-than-life figures towering above the crowd—they were simply a part of it, watching from above.

She notices the figure with the golden bow strapped across her back could only be Andruil. Her fiery red hair, cut short and jagged like Cassandra’s, framed a face that seemed perpetually alert, eyes scanning the crowd with a predatory intensity. Much like the goddess the Dalish revered, Andruil appeared to be on the hunt for something—or someone.

Beside her stood another red-haired woman, though her hair was less vivid and cascaded down her back in long waves. Ellana surmised this must be Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper. Though her posture was serene, there was a quiet strength to her, as though she carried the weight of a protector.

A few feet away, Ellana’s eyes caught a smaller woman with pure white, wavy hair—Ghilan’nain, no doubt. She seemed engaged in a hushed conversation with a man who had cropped auburn hair. June, Ellana guessed, his quiet demeanor matching the tales she had heard of the god of crafting and creation. The two appeared absorbed in one another, their attention focused more on their conversation than on the splendor of the ballroom.

Farther away, two figures sat in regal stillness, towering over the rest, their presence impossible to ignore. One was a woman with dark, flowing hair and an air of authority so palpable it made the space around her seem to hum. Mythal, Ellana thought with certainty. Beside her was a broad-shouldered man, his features hard and unforgiving—Elgar’nan, the All-Father. Neither of them wore masks, and yet they seemed more aloof and distant than the rest, their eyes surveying the ballroom with a cool detachment.

Ellana’s heart raced as she scanned the room, her mind whirling. ‘One is missing.’ She quickly took a sip of the wine she had just picked up, her throat tightening with the thought.

Fen’harel.

Her thoughts quickened, and she began to take magical precautions, quietly weaving protective wards to prevent the voices of the Well from reaching out toward Mythal. The last thing she needed was to attract the goddess’s attention. As she worked, a chill ran down her spine, and a voice broke through her concentration.

"How kind of you to protect that slave, all things considered," a voice chuckled softly beside her.

Ellana froze, her blood turning to ice. ‘No.’

The voice was unmistakable, deep and filled with a dangerous amusement. She didn’t dare turn her head. ‘It can’t be…’Her pulse quickened, her mind racing, but her body refused to move.

Slowly, she exhaled, her fingers trembling slightly as she clutched the stem of her wine glass. The presence beside her was far too familiar, and despite all her efforts to remain calm, the sound of his voice sent her heart into a spiral.

Ellana slowly turned to face the speaker, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto stormy blue ones that were all too familiar. ‘Solas…’ she cried silently, the name echoing in her mind. But as her gaze swept over the man standing before her, she realized, with a sinking heart, that this was not the Solas she knew.

Instead of a smooth, bald head, this man wore tightly woven chestnut dreadlocks that cascaded over one shoulder, the sides of his head meticulously shaven. His smirk was unmistakably arrogant, a sharp contrast to the quiet, thoughtful mage she had known. Yet the resemblance was undeniable—his face was that of Solas, but his presence was entirely different.

"Have you lost your voice now?" he taunted, his tone dripping with haughty amusement. He stepped closer, his eyes boring into hers with an unsettling intensity. "I doubt that," he added, his voice smooth and mocking. "I heard you quite clearly a few moments ago."

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest as he closed the distance between them. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating even, and yet she could barely process it. ‘Solas is Fen’harel…’. The truth of it slammed into her like a weight, and she struggled to keep her composure.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her wine glass and took a sip, hoping the motion would calm her trembling hands. "I haven’t lost my voice," she managed to reply, though her voice was tight, a little too forced.

Fen’harel’s eyes narrowed slightly, amusement flickering behind them. He noted the tension in her stance, the subtle hesitation in her tone. ‘Nervous,’ he thought, silently filing the observation away. His arm moved to rest against the wall just above her head, leaning in closer, his towering frame dominating the space around her.

"Are you nervous, my lady?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously seductive tone, his breath brushing against her skin as he inched closer. His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her.

Ellana’s pulse quickened as she felt him encroach on her space, her mind scrambling for a way to escape. His proximity, the familiarity of his face but the strangeness of his demeanor—it was too much. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, and before she could think twice, her body moved instinctively.

Without a word, she turned sharply and began walking away, her movements quick and deliberate.

For a split second, Fen’harel was stunned. He watched her retreating form, amusement curling his lips into a smirk. A low chuckle escaped him, the sound dark and amused. ‘Well, that’s new,’ he mused, his gaze tracking the sway of her steps as she hurried away from him.

With a leisurely pace, he began to follow her, his amusement growing. ‘No one has ever walked away from me quite like that,’ he thought with a hint of humor, his eyes never leaving her as she weaved through the crowd.

Ellana rushed out onto the balcony, her breath shallow as she gripped the cool stone railing. "No, no, no," she muttered to herself, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside her. The evening air kissed her skin, but it did little to cool the fire burning in her chest. Closing her eyes, she focused on breathing, her heart racing beneath her ribs. ‘The Dread Wolf… Solas… literally took me, she thought, the irony hitting her hard. A small, bitter chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head, disbelief flooding her senses.

Unbeknownst to her, Fen’harel had followed. He stepped out onto the balcony, his movements smooth and quiet. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the guards standing nearby, sending them away without a word. The doors clicked softly shut behind him, the noise barely audible over Ellana’s frantic thoughts.

She was too lost in her own mind to notice his presence. He leaned casually against the railing beside her, his smirk deepening as he studied her. The trickster’s amusement was palpable, his eyes alight with a mischievous gleam.

"Well," he said with a low chuckle, "I’ve certainly never had that sort of reaction from someone like you before." His voice cut through the night, laced with laughter, making her freeze.

Ellana’s breath hitched as she slowly turned to face him, her pulse quickening once more. There he was—Solas, but not. Fen’harel. The Trickster. The Dread Wolf. Her mind reeled, and for a moment, she couldn’t form the words stuck in her throat. His eyes sparkled with amusement, waiting, almost teasing, as if daring her to acknowledge what she now knew.

She swallowed hard, licking her lips before finally speaking. "You’re..." she began, her voice trembling slightly before she caught herself. Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts a blur. "You’re Fen’harel," she finished, the weight of the name heavy on her tongue.

Fen’harel’s keen gaze flickered over Ellana, sensing her unease even as she tried to keep her composure. “That is correct,” he confirmed smoothly, his tone unhurried. She continued to stare him down, defiance simmering in her eyes.

"What did you mean by ‘someone like me’?" she asks, her voice firm as she took a step back, increasing the distance between them.

He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with casual indifference. "Young. Female," he replied plainly, with a nonchalant shrug. "Typically, the young ladies are quite... intrigued by me. You’re the first to run." His laughter was soft, but it carried a note of amusement that only seemed to heighten her tension.

Her face remained stoic, her eyes unwavering. "No," she said, her voice sharp, cutting through his playful demeanor.

Fen’harel’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, his tone flirtatious, as he took a step closer, closing the space she had created.

"No," she repeated, her posture rigid, her resolve unmoving.

He studied her, intrigued by the resistance in her stance. For a moment, the teasing smile faded from his face, replaced by something quieter, more calculated. His eyes lingered on her, noticing the subtle tension in her expression, the way her jaw tightened, as if holding back more than just words.

"You’ve been hurt," he said quietly, his tone shifting to something darker, more perceptive. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement, spoken with the certainty of someone who had seen pain before. The lightness in his voice had vanished, replaced by a blunt assessment of the emotions she tried to conceal.

Ellana flinched ever so slightly, but her expression remained hard, giving nothing away. She hadn’t expected him to pick up on it so quickly—his ability to read her, to cut through her defenses, unsettled her. He is the one who hurt her, some thousand years in the future.

Ellana remained silent, her arms wrapping around herself defensively. Fen’harel’s gaze didn’t waver. "What fool would leave you?" he mused, his tone casual, yet there was an edge to his words. "Even behind the mask, I can tell you’re beautiful."

Her eyes flickered, betraying a momentary glimmer of pain before she answered. "A trickster," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the weight behind the words struck him with their clarity.

"Ah…" Fen’harel murmured, his curiosity piqued. His gaze sharpened, intrigued by her answer. He moved to sit on a nearby bench, his body relaxed as if he were settling into a game he already knew the rules to. "Come, sit," he beckoned, motioning to the spot beside him. His eyes never left her, watching closely for her reaction.

Ellana hesitated, her arms tightening around herself as she glanced at the bench, the space next to him looming like a challenge. "Is this a game?" she whispered, her voice tinged with wariness.

"Not at all," he replied smoothly, though there was no trace of mischief in his voice now, only a calm honesty. He leaned back against the bars, waiting. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she stepped forward and sat beside him, her posture rigid, every muscle tense as if ready to bolt.

The silence between them was heavy, but Fen’harel wasn’t one to leave space unfilled for long. "Tell me what happened," he said softly, his tone gentle but commanding, as if he already knew there was a story buried beneath her silence.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as the memories clawed their way to the surface. ‘If I can’t speak to Solas in the present… why not speak to him through the past?’ The thought both emboldened and frightened her. She swallowed hard, gathering her courage, though her body remained stiff with tension.

"He didn’t want to distract me from my duties," she whispered, her voice strained, as if the very words were a burden she struggled to release. Each syllable was soaked in the pain she had never fully allowed herself to voice, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on her. It was easier to speak to this version of him, where she could pretend, just for a moment, that her words wouldn’t go unheard.

Fen’harel’s gaze didn’t waver, though his smirk softened into something more thoughtful. He could sense the depth of her hurt, even if she tried to keep it contained. Her stiffness, the trembling edge to her voice—it was all too telling. He leaned in ever so slightly, his curiosity piqued by the delicate balance she was trying to maintain between her grief and her composure.

Ellana’s eyes flickered toward him, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face before she quickly looked away. Her mind raced. She had thought of this conversation a thousand times, but it never played out like this, with the ache of the past feeling so immediate, and his presence—so familiar yet so foreign—unnerving her at every turn.

Fen’harel’s gaze narrowed slightly, his curiosity deepening. "Was he one?" he pressed, his voice low, probing. “A trickster?”

She shook her head, the memory too raw to keep buried. "Not at all. He had something he needed to do—something on his own. He didn’t want my help." Her voice trembled, though she fought to keep it steady. "And then… he left. He left without saying goodbye."

Her words trailed off, the weight of what she had been holding back since that day pressing down on her chest. It wasn’t just the day Corypheus fell that haunted her—it was the day Solas vanished. He had told her what they shared was real, made her believe in something deeper, and then he disappeared without a word. The ache of that departure still stung, fresh and unrelenting, no matter how much time had passed.

Fen’harel observed her quietly, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. He didn’t interrupt, letting the pain she had buried resurface, knowing the name of the man she spoke of without her having to utter it aloud. He was fascinated by how deeply it still cut her, how it lingered in every word she spoke.

Fen’harel hummed lightly, a sound that was both contemplative and amused, before rising to his feet. With a graceful flourish, he turned to face her, bowing with a flourish that made the air between them seem lighter, more playful. "May I have this dance, my lady?" His hand extended toward her, his stormy blue eyes locked on hers.

Ellana blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking from his hand to his face. "Shouldn’t I be the one bowing to a god, not the other way around?" she joked weakly, her voice tinged with a mix of humor and disbelief.

Fen’harel straightened, a laugh bubbling from his lips, clearly not expecting her response. "Please, do not bow," he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. His laughter felt strange—so familiar and yet so foreign in this moment. He pauses for a moment, “and while powerful, I am not a god.”

A flicker of confusion danced across her features at his remark about not being a god, but there was no time to linger on it. Her brow furrowed as she eyed his outstretched hand, suspicion darkening her gaze. “Why are you being nice to me?” Her voice was low, edged with wariness as her eyes flicked back to his face. “You’re supposed to be cocky and arrogant.” Her words came out like a challenge, distrust curling around each one as she kept her focus on the hand she refused to take.

His laugh came again, light but sincere. "I am cocky and arrogant," he admitted, his smirk never wavering. "But I find myself... drawn to you. And I’d like to find out why." His tone shifted, becoming more serious, more curious. His hand remained extended, waiting.

The weight of his words made Ellana pause, her breath catching in her throat. There was a strange sincerity in his voice, something that tugged at her in a way she hadn’t expected. After a beat of hesitation, she nodded and placed her hand in his.

Fen’harel’s touch was firm but gentle as he guided her back into the grand dance hall. The moment they entered, the crowd seemed to part like water, making a path for them as they walked toward the center of the room. All eyes were fixed on them—gods and mortals alike—whispers spreading like wildfire through the gathering. The Dread Wolf, dancing with this unknown woman. It was a scene no one could have predicted.

Ellana kept her head high, her back straight, though her heart raced. Every gaze, every whisper was like a weight on her shoulders, but she met it with resolve. If they were going to watch, she would give them something worth watching.

Fen’harel stepped onto the dance floor, his movements fluid, effortless. As the music swelled around them, he drew her closer, guiding her into the rhythm. Their steps fell into sync, and though she kept her guard up, the dance itself felt like an unspoken conversation—a dance of power, of curiosity, of something deeper.

"Everyone is staring..." Ellana whispered, her voice tight with discomfort as she tried to maintain her composure. The weight of so many eyes on her made her skin prickle, and she could feel the tension creeping up her spine.

Fen’harel’s response, however, was anything but subtle. A wolfish grin spread across his face, his enjoyment of the situation evident in every step he took. "They are," he said confidently, his tone filled with amusement as he pulled her even closer, his hand firm on the small of her back. His delight in the attention was palpable, while she struggled to remain at ease.

Ellana’s gaze flickered toward the edge of the dance floor, where she noticed the remaining members of the Elven pantheon gathered, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes trained on the two of them. Her discomfort only grew. "So are your..." she hesitated, her lips tightening as she searched for the right word, "friends..." she grumbled under her breath.

Fen’harel cocked his head to the side, glancing in the direction of the gods. "So they are," he confirmed with a nonchalant shrug, clearly unbothered by their watchful gaze. His attention remained on her, and with a sudden shift, he sped up, guiding her into quicker, more intricate steps in time with the rising tempo of the music.

Ellana’s breath caught as she struggled to keep up with the pace, her heart racing not just from the swift movements, but from the intensity of the situation. ‘Why does he enjoy this so much?’ she wondered, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.

With a playful flourish, Fen’harel dipped her, his grin wicked and full of mischief. His hand slid slowly down the curve of her leg, lifting it to rest against his hip. The boldness of the gesture sent a shiver through her, and she gasped softly, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You are cocky," she whispered, her voice breathless, the accusation laced with a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. His grin only widened, gleaming with the satisfaction of having gotten the reaction he sought. He was pushing her, testing her boundaries, reveling in how easily he could unsettle her.

Her heart ached with the weight of it all. This was Fen’harel, the Dread Wolf, a being of ancient legend—and yet, he wore Solas’s face, the man she had loved. The man who, in this moment, did not exist. ‘Whatever events made him into the Solas she knew…’ she thought bitterly, ‘hasn’t happened yet.’ The pain of that knowledge twisted inside her. She longed for the Solas she had known, the thoughtful, compassionate mage, not the trickster who now held her in his arms.

Before she could gather her thoughts, Fen’harel pulled her upright, drawing her close enough that their faces hovered just inches apart. His breath brushed against her lips, and she felt the electric charge between them, heavy with unspoken tension.

His hand moved to her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle as he stroked her skin with a tenderness that caught her off guard. Slowly, deliberately, he brought her face closer to his, his gaze never leaving hers. He was watching her carefully, waiting for her to pull away, to protest—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. The confusion, the pull of familiarity, and the ache of longing kept her rooted to the spot.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss, when it came, was electric, sending a shockwave through her. It was as if time itself had bent around them, the moment reminiscent of their first kiss in the Fade. That same spark of connection flared to life, stirring something deep within her that she had thought long buried.

But it wasn’t Solas who kissed her now—it was Fen’harel, a stranger in a familiar skin.

Her body responded instinctively, memories of that first kiss flooding back, but her mind was a whirlwind of conflicted thoughts. She knew what he was, knew what he would become. Yet in this fleeting moment, the ache of her loss, the longing for what they had shared, overwhelmed her.

When they finally pulled apart, the air between them was thick with tension. His eyes searched hers, as though trying to gauge her reaction, his usual arrogance tempered by something softer, something more real.

But Ellana couldn’t meet his gaze for long. The kiss had stirred emotions she wasn’t ready to confront. Her heart ached for the man who does not currently existed—and for the one standing before her, a shadow of what had been and what was yet to come.

The grand ballroom trembled, a low rumble building beneath their feet. Ellana stiffened in Fen’harel’s arms, her senses sharpening as the vibrations intensified, rattling the chandeliers above and causing the delicate glasses lining the tables to clatter.

Then, the tremors grew violent.

Decorations fell from the walls, the ornate vases shattering as they hit the marble floor. Gasps filled the room as the assembled guests turned in confusion and alarm. Fen’harel’s grip tightened on Ellana, his playful expression giving way to something more serious, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

In the center of the ballroom, where moments ago dancers had twirled in elegant grace, a swirling vortex began to form. The portal—the very one that had spat Ellana into this world hours earlier—was reopening, its smoky green light twisting and expanding with a terrifying energy.

The air crackled with magic, and one by one, six shadowed figures were flung from the mouth of the portal, crashing to the floor. The guests recoiled in shock, stepping back as the six figures lay motionless, scattered across the ballroom like broken dolls.

Ellana's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she pulled away from Fen’harel, her eyes fixed on the portal. The energy radiating from it was wild, unpredictable, and she could feel the familiar pulse of its power tugging at her magic. The room fell silent, every eye on the figures who had fallen from the sky.

"Not again..." Ellana whispered, barely able to process what was happening. Her gaze shifted between the portal and the six figures lying on the marble floor, dread creeping into her chest.

Beside her, Fen’harel stood perfectly still, his eyes glinting with curiosity and wariness as he assessed the situation. He didn’t move, but there was an unmistakable tension in the way he watched the portal, as though he were waiting for the next act of whatever chaotic force had been unleashed.

The portal swirled ominously, casting flickering green light across the ballroom.

Relief flooded Ellana’s chest as she recognized the figures on the floor—her companions, her chosen family. She barely had time to think, her heart racing as emotions overwhelmed her. Without warning, she grabbed Fen’harel by the collar, pulling him closer, and slapped him with such force it echoed through the ballroom.

His head snapped to the side, and when he turned back to her, fury burned in his stormy blue eyes, mixed with raw confusion. The sting of her slap still fresh on his skin, his thoughts raced—her sudden kiss, the opening of the rift, and now this. It was all too much. "What was that for?" he snapped, his voice low, a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

He was taken aback, his arrogance slipping for just a moment as he tried to make sense of her actions. They had just shared a kiss filled with a fire he hadn’t expected, and now she struck him as if that kiss had never happened—as if the rift spitting out her companions wasn’t turning everything upside down. The swirl of emotions in the room mirrored the chaos inside him.

Ellana stared him down, her expression unyielding. "You’ll find out in about a thousand years—give or take a century," she spat, her voice filled with bitterness and a depth of hurt he couldn’t quite place. The fury in her eyes told him everything and nothing at the same time, and for once, the Trickster was left off balance.

Fen’harel stared at her, confusion flickering across his face. The tension between them crackled, the weight of things left unsaid hanging in the air.

She hesitated, her breath catching as her heart raced. Her voice was quiet but firm when she finally spoke, the weight of unspoken emotion hanging in the air between them. "You’ve been gone for a month," she said, her tone steady, though it trembled at the edges, betraying the torrent of feelings she was holding back. "In two days, I’ll meet you in Crestwood. The place where you left."

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his stormy blue eyes as he processed her words. He was caught between the chaos of the moment—the portal, her companions emerging, and the intensity of her presence. The air between them crackled with tension, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

She paused for a beat, biting her lip as if debating what to do next. Then, with a sudden surge of emotion, she gripped his collar again, pulling him toward her with a ferocity she hadn’t felt in years. Their lips crashed together, her kiss full of force and passion—like she was pouring all the things she could never say into that single moment.

It was more than just a kiss. It was a release of everything she had been holding in—frustration, longing, the pain of his absence, and the confusion of seeing him now, knowing what he would become. Her lips pressed against his with an intensity that spoke of all the moments they had shared and all the moments that had been stolen from her. It was fire and fury, desire and heartache, all bound together in the desperate need to feel something real, something that could ground her in this swirling storm.

Fen’harel’s initial shock melted away as he responded, his hands tightening around her, pulling her closer. The kiss was electric, charged with the passion they both couldn’t contain. But beneath the fire, there was an undercurrent of something far deeper—an understanding that this moment, this kiss, carried the weight of a thousand unsaid words and the unspoken truth that still lingered between them.

When she finally broke the kiss, her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her face inches from his. She stared at him, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. Without another word, she turned on her heel and ran, leaving him standing there, speechless, with the taste of her still lingering on his lips and the burning imprint of her kiss still echoing in his mind.

"Boss!" a familiar voice bellowed, and Ellana’s heart lifted as she saw Iron Bull, massive and imposing, emerging from the portal. His grin was wide, his massive sword at the ready. She ripped off her mask, holding it tight, her joy spilling out uncontrollably. "Bull!" she screamed, running toward him.

Perched on Bull’s broad shoulders, Sera sat with her bow drawn, her eyes scanning the room with suspicion. "Stupid mages and their stupid magic, yeah? This isn’t normal!" she shouted, directing her frustration at Dorian, who followed behind them with an air of calm, casually fixing his hair as if they hadn’t just been thrown through time.

"Stupid Tevinter mage!" Sera bickered, narrowing her eyes at him. "You caused all of this!"

Dorian scoffed, waving her off with a dramatic flourish. "Oh, please! It wasn’t intentional," he replied, clearly annoyed. His eyes roved over the scene as he assessed the situation. "Though I must admit," he said, with a hint of amusement, "it appears we’ve landed in the middle of a party. Quite the Orlesian court affair, I’d say."

The ballroom was in chaos, nobles gasping and retreating as the sight of Ellana’s companions registered in their shocked minds. The whispering increased, but Ellana had no care for the gawking eyes or the judging glances. Her heart was full, and her mind raced as she took in the faces of her friends.

Cassandra grunted as she landed beside Dorian, her sword and shield raised, scanning the room with sharp focus. “I believe we should focus on the task at hand,” she declared harshly, grabbing Dorian by the arm and yanking him back toward her. The urgency in her voice left little room for debate.

"Now you say so, Seeker?" Varric chimed in, his tone dripping with amusement as he notched an arrow into Bianca, his ever-reliable crossbow. His eyes flicked toward the approaching pantheon, tension simmering beneath his easygoing facade.

Dorian smoothed out his robes, more annoyed than unsettled. "You rudely dragged me away from Court to time travel into another Court, Dorian? My dear, you certainly know how to impress," Vivienne drawled, her voice rich with sarcasm as she readied her magic, the faint shimmer of arcane energy crackling in the air around her.

Ellana, despite the chaos and the rift still pulsing behind them, felt a surge of joy at seeing her companions again. Her heart leaped as she took in their familiar faces, the sharpness of their banter filling her with a sense of belonging. But her relief was cut short as she looked across the room to see the Elven pantheon standing in formation, their postures rigid, their gazes cold. The gods were preparing for a fight.

Fen’harel stood at the edge of their gathering, staring at the scene with shock etched across his usually impassive face. Before he could react, one of the twins—Falon’Din—grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, their eyes locking onto the intruders with an intensity that sent a shiver down Ellana's spine. The tension between the two sides was palpable, the gods' confusion quickly giving way to a looming threat.

Andruil, her movements swift and deadly, was the first to act. With a graceful flick of her wrist, she sent an arrow sailing through the air toward the group. Vivienne, always poised and prepared, conjured a shimmering barrier in the blink of an eye, deflecting the projectile with a cold, amused smile.

"Dorian, my dear," Vivienne said, her tone light despite the situation, "do be careful, will you? The Veil is terribly thin here. I’d hate to see something get through."

Varric smirked, his eyes narrowing as he aimed Bianca. "She’s got a point, Sparkler. You sure you’ve got this under control?"

Ellana’s heart raced, torn between the joy of seeing her companions and the terror of the looming threat from the pantheon. "Dorian, please tell me you know how to get us back!" she cried, rushing toward him, throwing her arms around him in a desperate embrace.

Dorian hugged her back, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. "Of course," he muttered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "If we can manage to gather enough power..." His voice trailed off nervously as he glanced over at the Elven gods, who were now advancing toward them with lethal intent.

“Eh? Look at all this stupid elfy crap! Look at them all dressed up in their elfy bits, hah!” Sera jokes as she makes eye contact with Fen’harel. “Is that Solas, with all his elven glory, what’s that shite?” Sera howls from her spot on Iron Bull’s shoulders.

“Sera, you are an elf! And it’s not Solas.” Ellana snaps at her as Dorian mutters about different types of power. “Yeah, boss? Well, it sure looks like him.” Bull adds. Cole, who was hidden behind Iron Bull, adding, “He has his face. Magic flows, similar yet different. He is not him yet.” He expresses, a sense of knowing.

“Who are you?” Elgar’nan bellows in anger as flames surround the group. “Damn mages,” Varric mutters in distress.

“Dorian, my mask!” Ellana pushes the mask into his hands. “The gems are lyrium shards. Seven of them. Can you use them to power the device?” Ellana rushes out as her and Vivienne cast a barrier spell to protect them from the flame.

"Yes!" Dorian yelled with glee, diving into his work as arcane energy crackled around him. His fingers moved swiftly, tracing intricate patterns of magic, while the rest of the group formed a protective ring around him, weapons and spells at the ready. Ellana’s eyes flicked between her companions and the Elven pantheon, her heart racing as she saw Fen’harel muttering angrily with Elgar’nan.

Elgar’nan stood taller than the rest, his broad shoulders tense and his long black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His face was flushed with fury, his angular jaw clenched as he glared at the Dread Wolf. The two gods bickered fiercely, their voices too low for Ellana to hear, but their body language told the whole story—Fen’harel wanted to stop the conflict, but Elgar’nan, with his imposing stance, was clearly ready to strike.

"We can’t attack them!" Ellana cried, casting another barrier to deflect incoming arrows and projectiles. The magical force shimmered around her, but it was clear they were under immense pressure. "We can’t kill them—it’ll ruin everything!"

Varric, standing a few steps behind her, notched another arrow into Bianca. "Shouldn’t we be attacking now, Rosy?" he asked with his usual calm, even as chaos surrounded them.

Ellana threw up her hands in frustration, letting out a strangled cry. "Now you give me a nickname? Rosy? Really?"

Varric chuckled, even as he eyed the approaching figures warily. "It’s better than Twinkles!" he called back, the tension in the air momentarily lightened by his playful banter.

Ellana shook her head, her focus snapping back to the growing threat. She and Vivienne were casting area spells in tandem, their magic shimmering across the room in an intricate web, keeping the pantheon’s attacks at bay while maintaining the barriers against any incoming projectiles.

"We can’t kill anyone!" Ellana repeated urgently, her voice rising over the din of battle. "If we do, it’ll destroy the timeline. My people are descendants of them!" she snapped, her eyes flicking toward Mythal, who had stepped forward with a commanding presence.

Mythal’s golden eyes burned with the same intensity that had haunted Ellana when they first met. Her long, straight white-blonde hair flowed behind her as she approached, her high cheekbones giving her an air of regal authority. A powerful fireball hovered just above her hand, flames swirling and crackling, poised to be unleashed.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat. She could feel something pulling at her, tugging at the edges of her consciousness. The voices of the Well, those ancient whispers she had kept at bay for so long, began to stir, echoing in her mind with newfound urgency. The magic was breaking free, forcing a connection she wasn’t ready for.

Her breath hitched as the voices surged forward, flooding her thoughts with a torrent of ancient knowledge. And then, like a crack of thunder, the connection was made.

Mythal’s eyes widened in shock, her golden irises glowing as she froze mid-stride, the fireball flickering in her hand. She turned her gaze toward Ellana, her expression one of surprise, realization dawning in her features.

"Hold your attacks!" Mythal’s voice boomed across the room, shaking the very walls with its force. The gods halted, their movements stilled by the power of her command. The fireball in her hand fizzled out, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Ellana staggered, the connection with Mythal pulsating in her mind, raw and overwhelming. She could feel Mythal’s presence—her knowledge, her power, her understanding—mingling with her own. It was too much, too fast, but it had bought them a moment.

The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath as Mythal's command rippled through the air. Even Elgar’nan and Fen’harel, who had been locked in a heated argument, fell silent. The tension in the room was palpable, every pair of eyes fixed on the goddess as she stepped forward, her golden gaze unblinking, locking onto Ellana.

"You drank from my well," Mythal stated, her voice steady, with a flicker of amusement dancing beneath the surface. Her long blue gown trailed behind her as she approached, every step measured, every movement regal. She came to a halt before the group, her eyes narrowing as she examined Ellana with a curious intensity. "How are you not dead?" she asked, the question laced with genuine curiosity, though the flame that reignited in her hand hinted at her readiness to change that.

Ellana hesitated, trying to remain composed under Mythal’s scrutinizing gaze. A nervous laugh escaped her lips. "You know," she said, her voice tight, "I probably should be. I ask myself that question far too often."

Mythal raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by the casual response. Her eyes darkened, and the flames in her hand flared brighter, casting flickering shadows across the ballroom. She was still poised to strike, and the room’s tension thickened as it became clear that one wrong word could reignite the fight.

Ellana growled in frustration, stepping forward with determination. "Look, I had no other choice but to drink from the Well," she snapped, her tone firm but edged with desperation. "I respected your temple. I willingly drank from the water."

Mythal’s gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable.

"You willingly became a slave?” Fen’harel’s voice cut through the air from behind Mythal, sharp and incredulous. His eyes burned with something unspoken, his question laced with both disbelief and a subtle anger. Mythal raised her hand, silencing the Dread Wolf with a single gesture, though his gaze remained fixed on Ellana.

"I didn’t know the price at the time," Ellana responded quickly, her voice tense but unwavering. "But my freedom, for the freedom of the greater good, is a trade-off I had to take."

Mythal hummed thoughtfully, her golden eyes narrowing as she studied Ellana with a chilling curiosity, "what is stopping me from commanding you to kill your friends, leaving you trapped here?" Her voice was dangerously calm, and with a slow, deliberate movement, she stopped walking and motioned for Ellana to come forward.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t falter. She signaled for her companions to stand down, though she could feel their collective tension rising. With careful steps, she moved toward Mythal, every muscle in her body tense as she prepared for whatever might come next.

"You," Ellana answered directly, her voice firm despite the tremor of nerves in her chest. "You are what’s stopping you."

Mythal raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the elf’s boldness. Her eyes gleamed with something unreadable as she began to circle Ellana, her gaze scanning her as though she were a puzzle to be solved. The would-be goddess’s presence was overwhelming, her power tangible in the air, but Ellana held her ground.

"Hm," Mythal mused, her lips curling into a slight smile as she completed her circle. "And so the tune begins."

The faintest chuckle escaped her lips, a sound that sent a shiver down Ellana’s spine. Mythal’s keen eyes lingered on Ellana for a moment longer before she abruptly turned away, her robes trailing behind her. The room, which had been so thick with tension moments before, seemed to exhale.

"Go, girl," Mythal said, her voice carrying the weight of finality. "Return to your own time." With a dismissive wave of her hand, Mythal accepted Ellana’s fate, as though she had seen what she needed to see.

Behind her, Elgar’nan’s face twisted in anger, his fury barely contained. His eyes flared with rage, his broad shoulders tensing as if he wanted to lash out, but he did not argue. Even Fen’harel remained silent, though the intensity in his gaze had not lessened.

Ellana felt a surge of relief, but it was tinged with the bitter knowledge of what had transpired. She had stood before gods and walked away, but the weight of their judgment still hung heavily on her. She turned rushing back to her companions, her body trembling from the tension of the encounter.

"It is ready when you are, Inquisitor," Dorian announced, his voice steady despite the lingering tension. He handed Ellana her mask, but she didn’t reach for it, her gaze locked on the man who had once been Solas, the man who now stood across from her as Fen’harel.

His face was a storm of frustration and confusion, his eyes hard and unrelenting. She frowned, her heart twisting painfully, but she wouldn’t apologize. Not for the kiss, not for the slap, not for her choice to walk away. There was nothing left to say, and she knew it.

"Alright, everyone stay close, unless of course, you want to stay here!" Dorian called out with a flourish, breaking the tension as the portal flared to life once more. The air crackled with energy, and the group began to gather.

Ellana hesitated for a moment longer, her hand gripping the mask. Her eyes flickered back to Fen’harel one last time—no words passed between them, but the silence was heavy with everything unsaid. With a quiet breath, she let the mask fall from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the ground sharp in the stillness. She moved closer to her companions.

"Get ready... and NOW!" Dorian shouted, his voice full of authority as the group rushed toward the swirling energy of the portal. In an instant, the room and the gods faded from sight, and the chaos of the past slipped away.

The portal spat them out with a jarring thud into the familiar surroundings of the Great Hall of Skyhold. For a moment, there was only silence as they all caught their breath, the weight of their journey settling on their shoulders.

“Damn," Varric said, breaking the tension with a grin as he brushed off invisible dirt. "That is something to write about." He reached down, helping Sera to her feet, who shook herself off dramatically.

“You mean the elfy bits or the magic-y bits?” Sera quipped, yanking out a chair from a nearby table and plopping down into it with a sigh. "Because both were pretty messed up."

Ellana allowed herself a small laugh, the familiar sounds of Skyhold easing the tension in her chest. They were home.

"Boss," Iron Bull rumbled as he pulled both Dorian and Cole up onto their feet. "Let’s not do that again, alright?" Cole, with his usual innocence, chimed in, “The Iron Bull isn’t afraid.”

Dorian, of course, couldn’t resist the banter. He flashed a broad smile and adjusted his robes, clearly pleased with himself. "I thought it was a fantastic field trip," he said with a gleam in his eye. “Too bad we couldn’t stay longer.”

Vivienne and Cassandra exchanged glances as they watched Ellana rush toward the throne, her hands shaking as she snatched up her staff. The urgency in her movements was unmistakable.

"Where are you going?" Cassandra asked, her voice sharp with concern as she quickly followed the Inquisitor down the steps and outside into the courtyard. Her eyes narrowed, noting Ellana’s frantic pace—and the fact that she hadn’t even bothered to change out of her gown.

She ignores the question. "Cassandra, stay here. That is an order," Ellana commanded, her tone firm, though her voice carried the weight of something far more urgent than a simple mission.

Cassandra gritted her teeth, but pressed on. "But where are you going?" she demanded again, her frustration growing as they entered the stables. Ellana’s face was set, her jaw clenched with determination that Cassandra recognized all too well—it was the same look she wore when she was about to face a danger only she believed she could stop.

"I am headed to Crestwood," Ellana replied shortly, her words clipped, barely giving Cassandra a glance as rushing out of the great hall and towards the stables. Cassandra grunted in disapproval, her brows furrowing deeply as she watched Ellana ride off without another word, her red hart galloping away into the distance. The sight filled her with unease. Whatever was driving the Inquisitor, it wasn’t something Cassandra could ignore.

As Ellana disappeared into the horizon, Cassandra let out a slow breath, the tension coiled tightly in her chest. She had seen Ellana like this before—too determined, too willing to face something alone.

"I’m not letting her go off without protection," Cassandra muttered under her breath, her resolve hardening. She marched back into Skyhold with purposeful strides, her thoughts already racing. When she found Leliana in the war room, the spymaster raised a questioning brow.

"The Inquisitor has left for Crestwood," Cassandra said firmly, her voice low. "Send your spies to follow her—discreetly."

Leliana’s eyes sharpened, her expression unreadable. She gave a slow nod, already understanding the unspoken weight behind Cassandra’s words. "Consider it done," she replied, turning swiftly to make arrangements.

When Ellana arrived in Crestwood, the world around her had already been swallowed by darkness. The cool night air clung to her skin, and the soft rustling of leaves in the wind was the only sound that broke the stillness. Her heart raced as she dismounted her red hart and quickly made her way to the place where they had last been together, where the memory of their intimacy still lingered like a phantom touch.

But the clearing was empty. He wasn’t there.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, trying to keep her voice steady even as frustration clawed at her chest. She stood still for a moment, her breath shallow, eyes scanning the empty space, as if he might suddenly appear from the shadows. But there was nothing. Just the cold wind and the aching silence that pressed in from all sides.

Her hands clenched into fists, trembling with the weight of her emotions. “He has to show,” she whispered, her voice shaking. Her mind raced, replaying their last moments together, the promises and the hope she had carried with her since his departure. “He has to!” she nearly screamed, the desperation in her voice echoing through the darkness.

She wanted to cry, the frustration burning in her throat, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t. Not yet. There were still two more days. He had two more days, and she would wait.

Ellana paced restlessly, her mind a swirl of emotions—anger, longing, uncertainty. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ she thought, her heart tightening with fear. But she shook her head, forcing the thought away. No. He would come. He had to.

She settled onto a rock, the tension in her body refusing to ease. The night stretched on around her, the stars glinting coldly above as she stared into the empty space before her, her thoughts filled with the man who would become the man she knows as Solas.

It was the last night she would wait. The last night she had allowed herself to cling to hope. Ellana had fashioned a makeshift bed out of dried leaves, the crackling of them under her weight a quiet reminder of how far she had come—rushing off with nothing but the clothes on her back and her staff in hand when they had returned to the present. She hadn’t even thought to pack supplies, her mind too consumed by the desperate need to see him again.

Now, as the final night stretched on, the air was bitterly cold. The dress she wore—still the one from the past—did little to shield her from the chill. She wrapped it tighter around her body, pulling the thin fabric close, trying to trap any warmth she could find. Her breath formed small clouds in the night air, the silence around her broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees.

She was tired—so tired. The weight of days spent waiting, hoping, had finally caught up to her, dragging her eyelids down like lead. The weariness seeped into her bones, and though she fought to stay alert, to stay awake in case he came, her body was betraying her.

The stars twinkled coldly above, indifferent to her struggle, and the ground beneath her was unforgiving. Ellana shifted slightly, trying to make herself comfortable on the bed of leaves, but the ache in her chest was far deeper than any discomfort of the earth beneath her. It was the ache of uncertainty, of hope slowly unraveling, fraying at the edges with every passing hour.

Her eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment. She told herself it was only to rest, only for a heartbeat, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. Her thoughts grew hazy, and the edges of her vision blurred as sleep began to pull her under. She fought it, gripping her staff tighter in her hands, but the fatigue was winning.

As her body gave in, Ellana felt a final pang of frustration—why hasn’t he come?—before sleep began to claim her, wrapping her in its heavy embrace. The last flicker of consciousness clung to the hope that when she woke, he would be there, waiting for her.

But the silence of the night remained unbroken, and as her eyes drifted shut, the darkness closed in around her.

The sharp snap of a twig jolted Ellana from her half-sleep, her heart racing as her eyes flew open. Panic surged through her, the cold air biting at her skin as she scrambled to sit up, her fingers instinctively tightening around her staff.

She turned sharply toward the sound, and what she saw froze the breath in her lungs.

Behind her stood an enormous black wolf—the Dread Wolf—its size rivaling that of a horse. The creature's coat gleamed in the pale moonlight, but it was the eyes—six abnormally large, glowing red eyes—that held her paralyzed with fear and disbelief. They gleamed like burning embers, fixated on her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

“Solas?” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, as the recognition clawed its way out of her chest. It couldn’t be. Not like this.

The wolf, towering and silent, lowered its head toward her. There was a moment of stillness, an unbearable weight hanging in the air, before a swirling bright light enveloped the beast. The blinding glow twisted and spiraled around its form, and as the light slowly faded, the wolf was gone.

In its place stood Solas.

He didn’t meet her eyes. His posture was tense, his face shadowed with regret, as he stood before her, not the man she had known, but something far more powerful. Something ancient, something dangerous. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on the ground as if the weight of the moment was too much for even him to bear.

“That was not…this is not…” His voice was barely audible, and when he finally spoke, it was laced with a quiet sadness, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is not how you were meant to find out.”

His words hung in the night air, sharp and heavy, but he still wouldn’t look at her. His presence—the same man she had loved, the same face, yet somehow entirely different—was overwhelming. The quiet dignity he once carried now felt like the gravity of something ancient, something burdened with centuries of secrets.

Ellana’s heart pounded, her mind racing to make sense of what she had just witnessed. The truth that had always lingered at the edges of her awareness had finally revealed itself, and yet standing before it, she found herself unsure of what to feel—shock, disbelief, or the ache of betrayal that had been simmering inside her for so long.

“Solas…” she whispered again, her voice trembling, the name foreign on her tongue in this new reality.

"You lied. You lied about everything!" Ellana’s voice cracked as the words tore out of her, her fists clenched tight, shaking with rage and hurt. Tears streamed down her face, hot and uncontrollable, as the weight of his deception crashed over her like a wave. She had held onto hope, onto the man she thought she knew, but now that hope was unraveling before her eyes.

Solas shook his head, his expression filled with a regret that only deepened the ache in her chest. “I am Solas,” he said softly, though his voice trembled with the burden of his truth. “I was Solas long before I became Fen'harel.” His tone sharpened as he continued, a bitter edge creeping into his words. “And even if I had told you the truth… would you have believed me? Or would you have clung to your legends that paint me as a monster?” His voice broke, filled with anger and hurt, his frustration palpable.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her sobs rising in her throat. “I would have had you trust me,” she cried, her words shaking with the intensity of her pain.

There was a silence between them, heavy and suffocating, before she heard the soft shuffle of his feet as he moved closer. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not yet. But he was near—closer than he had been since the truth unraveled.

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan,” he whispered, the words thick with sorrow. His voice was gentle now, the anger and bitterness fading into something raw, something regretful. Slowly, he reached for her hands, his touch soft but hesitant, as if he feared she might pull away.

In her hands, he placed the golden mask—the very one she had worn in the past, a thousand years ago, when they had danced, when the world between them had been far less complicated. The weight of it felt heavy, like a symbol of everything they had lost.

Ellana stared at the mask, her breath catching in her throat. “You kept this?” Ellana sniffled, her voice wavering as a small, sorrowful smile tugged at her lips. She held the golden mask in her hands, the weight of it both comforting and painful, a reminder of what once was. Her eyes, red with tears, shifted to Solas, searching his face for answers.

“I deserve an explanation,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together as she tightened her grip on the mask. Her knuckles turned white as the weight of everything—his lies, her feelings, the shattered trust—pressed down on her.

“You do,” Solas replied plainly, his voice carrying the deep, steady cadence of a being who had lived too many lifetimes. Before she could react, he stepped forward, gently pulling her into his arms. The warmth of his embrace contrasted with the cold air around them, and for a moment, despite everything, she allowed herself to melt into it.

“Perhaps,” he continued softly, his hand brushing through her hair, “you should have changed before rushing here, ma vhenan. You’re wearing an antique, after all.” His voice held a gentle quip, a flicker of the humor he once shared with her. His attempt to lighten the moment was subtle, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Ellana let out a quiet snort, her tears subsiding as she managed to let out a half-laugh. “You’re an antique,” she replied, her voice still thick with emotion, but now tinged with a sliver of amusement. It was a brief, fleeting moment of their old dynamic—a glimpse of what they had been before everything had spiraled out of control.

Solas smiled. He tightened his arms around her for a beat longer, as if he, too, was holding onto the past in the same way she clutched the mask. His hand rested gently on her back, the movement soothing, though the enormity of everything that lay between them remained.

“That is not inaccurate,” Solas chuckled softly, the sound low and familiar. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, a gesture that was both comforting and bittersweet. The warmth of it spread through Ellana, grounding her in the moment as if they were the only two people in the world.

She looked up at him, her heart aching as she lifted a trembling hand to his face. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his high cheekbones, the curve of his nose—features she had memorized long ago, back when things had been simpler. “Don’t leave again,” she whispered, her voice breaking with the weight of her plea. “Please, don’t.”

Her fingers lingered on his face, as if by touching him, she could anchor him to her, keep him from disappearing into the shadows of the world he had once vowed to leave behind. The ache in her chest was overwhelming, the thought of losing him again unbearable.

Solas’s expression softened, and he gently took her hand into his own. His lips brushed against the tip of her finger in a gesture both intimate and filled with unspoken emotion. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t hurried, nor desperate—it was soft, aching, as if pouring everything he could not say into the touch of his lips against hers.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her body melting into his for a moment. She let herself get lost in the kiss, her hands gently resting against his chest. But then she pulled back, her breath heavy, her heart pounding. Her fingers lingered against his chest as she looked up at him, her eyes searching his.

“There is a time for that later,” she whispered, her voice breathless, but firm. “You have a lot to tell me, Solas.”

Solas’s gaze darkened slightly, the weight of what she said pulling at the fragile moment they shared. His expression, though still tender, now carried the shadow of the burdens he had carried for so long. The truth that had been hidden, the stories untold—everything that he had kept from her.

He stared down at her, his expression shifting as the weight of his thoughts consumed him. His stormy blue eyes, once filled with fire and defiance, softened as they searched her face, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken truths, before a small, almost reluctant smile formed on his lips.

Without a word, he gently pulled her down beside him, drawing her close until her head rested against his chest. The warmth of his body wrapped around her, and for a moment, Ellana allowed herself to feel the comfort of being in his arms again, despite everything that lay between them.

He let out a deep sigh, his hand gently stroking her hair as he began to speak, his voice low and steady. Ellana remained silent, listening intently as he unfolded the story that had been hidden from her for so long.

He spoke of his past, of the ancient world she had glimpsed, the time when he was both Solas and Fen’harel—two identities that had collided into one. He told her about the Elvhen, the world as it had been before the Veil, and the power that had once been theirs. His voice was calm, but heavy with sorrow as he described the actions he had taken to tear down the thrones of the gods, to break the chains of his people.

He paused briefly, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her arm, before continuing. He spoke of the Veil, the great barrier that separated the waking world from the Fade, and of the orb—the artifact he had created, the one that had fallen into Corypheus’s hands. The consequences of that loss still weighed on him, an invisible burden that she could sense in every word he spoke.

His voice wavered slightly as he explained the future he envisioned—the removal of the Veil, the restoration of what once was. "I intend to bring it down," he said quietly, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "To restore what the world lost when I created the Veil.”

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to process everything he was telling her. The removal of the Veil—the destruction it could bring, the chaos it could unleash on the world. She had known his plan, in theory, but hearing him speak of it so plainly, with such conviction, made it feel all the more real. All the more dangerous.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face was etched with regret, but there was also a resolve in his eyes that she couldn’t ignore.

"That’s your future?" she asked softly, her voice filled with a mixture of fear and sorrow. "Destroying the Veil... regardless of the cost?"

Solas looked down at her, his hand still resting gently on her back. He nodded, his expression grave. "It is the only way to restore what was lost," he murmured. "But it comes with a cost. One I do not expect you to agree with."

Ellana’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She had feared this, had known it, deep down. But now that it was out in the open, spoken aloud between them, it felt like a chasm that could never be crossed. And yet, there was still that part of her that ached for him, that longed to change his mind.

But another part of her—the part that had always admired his vision, his drive, and the way he saw the world—agreedwith his plan.

As she rested against his chest, Ellana could feel the weight of her conflicting emotions pressing in on her. On one hand, the thought of tearing down the Veil, of unleashing chaos on the world she had fought so hard to protect, filled her with dread. She had spent years as the Inquisitor, saving Thedas from destruction, guiding people to safety, mending the fractures of a broken world. How could she now stand by and support something that could destroy it all?

And yet, there was another side to her, one that resonated deeply with Solas’s vision. His words—his determination to restore what had been lost, to bring their people back to the greatness they had once known—stirred something inside her. She had seen glimpses of that ancient world, felt the raw power of the Elvhen, the freedom and beauty that had been stripped away when the Veil was erected. She could understand why he wanted to restore it, why he believed it was the only way forward.

She could feel the tension building in her chest, the pull between her sense of duty to Thedas and the longing to see the world as it could be—a world without the Veil, without the barriers that had divided them from the Fade, from magic, from what was once a rich and vibrant existence. There was a small, dangerous part of her that wanted to see it happen, that needed to know what that world could be like.

Ellana pulled back slightly, lifting her gaze to meet Solas’s face. His expression was unreadable at first, but as their eyes locked, she saw it—the deep well of regret, the weight of centuries etched into his features. He was quiet, waiting, his breath still as though anticipating her next words, her judgment, as if bracing himself for her to tell him he was wrong. His eyes, stormy and filled with sadness, seemed to plead with her without uttering a word.

For a moment, Ellana hesitated. She could feel the tension in her chest, the pounding of her heart as her mind raced. The man she loved—the man who had lied to her, who had hidden so much—was asking her to understand.

But he did not ask her to walk beside him in a plan that could tear the world apart. Yet, as she laid there, with her back resting against his chest, she couldn’t deny the pull. The vision he spoke of, the restoration of what was lost, it stirred something deep inside her. Something that couldn’t be silenced.

She took a slow breath, steadying herself, feeling the gravity of the choice she was about to make. Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his robes as she looked up into his eyes, her voice low but steady.

“What do we need to do?” she asked.

[vir-tanadahl]

The Temple of Fen'harel

Summary: Shortly after Corypheus' defeat, Inquisitor Lavellan begins to hear the voices from the Well of Sorrows calling to her. Following their guidance, she is led to a long-forgotten temple, where she uncovers the truth about Solas. (Set before the events of Trespasser.)

Note: I originally published this on 02/07/2015, seven months before Trespasser was released. Since I am re-writing all of my fanfics to help cope with my excitement for Dragon Age: Veilguard, I decided to rewrite this to make it more… lore-accurate—at least as accurate as possible. (Find on Ao3)

Rain trickled down Lavellan's face, cool droplets slipping along her skin as she gazed at the shadowy expanse of the forest. Her body trembled, soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin, but the sharp chill seemed distant, almost muted. In her mind, the voices of the vir’abelasan pulsed—urgent, insistent—urging her forward. The moonlight bathed her bronzed skin, casting a soft glow as it mingled with the wet sheen that glistened on her arms and shoulders. Without a word, she stepped into the dense, silent woodlands.

Each footfall sank into the mud with a soft squelch, the earth gripping her boots as if reluctant to release her. But still, she pressed on, her steps not entirely her own—guided, almost forced, by the ceaseless voices echoing in her thoughts. A week had passed since she left Skyhold. The only trace of her departure was a note, carelessly pinned to her desk, its message as brief and cryptic as her resolve: I will return soon.

Lavellan stepped into the clearing, where the remnants of a forgotten temple lay entwined with nature’s reclaiming touch. Wildflowers had woven themselves into the cracks of what was once a golden path, their vibrant colors softening the stone beneath. Towering trees loomed overhead, their roots surging through the ancient foundation, spilling into the temple’s entryway like fingers stretching across a forgotten canvas. Untouched by human hands, the ruins stood quietly, much like the sacred halls of Mythal—preserved by time and neglect.

As she crossed the crumbling bridge, a ripple of magic sparked against her skin, familiar and ancient. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of memories not her own, and soon her vision blurred—flickers of a time long before the fall of the elves flashing before her eyes. Without realizing, her steps quickened, her body moving as if carried by invisible threads. She was no longer walking of her own accord—the voices of the Well surged, pulling her forward, guiding her deeper into the ruins. The echoes of the past overwhelmed her, flooding her senses, leaving her unaware of her own movements.

Lavellan blinked, and suddenly she was no longer in the clearing. Elves moved before her, their heads bowed in reverence as they followed intricate rituals, one by one gaining entrance to the inner sanctum. Those deemed worthy knelt at the towering doors, leaving small tokens—a feather, a carved stone, a vial of shimmering liquid—before slipping inside. The sound of hushed prayers whispered through the air, their voices lost in the grandeur of the temple.

Beyond the heavy doors, a grand hallway stretched into the distance, leading to an open atrium. The scent of fresh water and elfroot filled the air, mingling with the damp earth. At the center stood the temple, its pale walls gleaming under the soft light. Lavellan’s senses were engulfed by the vividness of it all, until—

She gasped, yanked back into the present, her breath catching as the memory faded. Confusion settled like a weight in her chest as she found herself once again standing before the ruined temple. Vines snaked around the statues that lined the overgrown pathway, their once-pristine stone now concealed beneath thick, twisting foliage. She moved forward instinctively, fingers trembling as they brushed the leaves aside, revealing fragments of elven script etched into the stone.

The old language poured into her mind like a rushing river, unbidden and unstoppable. She traced the words, her voice barely a whisper as she read: “…give thanks to he who is named Fen’Harel as he aids us…”

Lavellan staggered back, heart pounding, pure shock and terror coursing through her. A temple to the Dread Wolf. Her breath hitched at the realization. This place was dedicated to Fen’harel, the betrayer, the one who brought Arlathan to ruin and plunged her people into endless exile. The voices in her mind swelled, chaotic and unrelenting, flooding her vision with fragmented images—elves clashing in bitter conflict, blood staining the earth, a deep, seething strife between forces she could not name.

Her stomach twisted violently as she fought to reclaim control, nausea bubbling up as the overwhelming flood of memories receded. She pressed her palm to her temple, feeling the dull throb of a headache building behind her eyes. Were the Dalish wrong... again? The question lingered, unanswered, as silence settled over her mind. The voices that had once urged her forward now offered no clarity, only a persistent push deeper into the temple.

Without fully understanding why, Lavellan found herself moving toward the entrance. The door stood ajar, its hinges creaking as she slipped inside. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and her footfalls echoed faintly in the silence. Her gaze locked onto the center of the room—a grand, golden mosaic throne. It loomed before her, untouched by time or decay, radiating an air of quiet power. She crept closer, her breath shallow, as if the weight of the temple's history pressed down on her.

Lavellan spun on her heel, panic rising as she tried to flee, but the voices locked her in place. Her body refused to obey, no matter how fiercely her instincts screamed for her to run. Even from across the chamber, she recognized him—the man who had captured her heart. Solas, draped across the golden throne, his body relaxed, his head resting in a peaceful slumber. Terror gripped her as her intuition shrieked in warning. She had made a grave mistake. The truth, buried deep inside her, clawed its way to the surface: the creature she had feared her entire life was the one she had fallen in love with.

The Dread Wolf.

Her mind raced, the realization crashing down with brutal clarity. She had slept with the betrayer, the destroyer. The image of him, laughing with cruel satisfaction, as he crushed her heart in his hand, flashed before her. He had deceived her, lured her in with tenderness, and now—now, he would tear her apart.

But her body defied her fear. Against her will, she moved toward him, step by step, the voices driving her closer to the slumbering god. His chest rose and fell in deep, rhythmic breaths, his consciousness far away in the Fade. Her hand lifted, trembling, and though every part of her screamed to stop, her fingers gently brushed his cheek. The warmth of his skin sent a jolt through her, and for a moment, his nose and lips twitched at the soft contact, though his eyes remained closed.

The voices surged again, pressing against her mind, straining toward him. They reached out, seeking the ancient power that pulsed beneath his skin. And then, like the snap of a bowstring, Solas jolted awake, his eyes wide and sharp. A ripple of ancient magic, raw and immense, pulsed through the air, and Lavellan felt the weight of his gaze pierce through her.

Solas’ hands gripped the arms of the throne, his knuckles white as his gaze locked on the golden eyes of his lover. His chest tightened, and his nose wrinkled with anger. “You should not be here,” he growled, the words thick with frustration. His sharp eyes scanned her, narrowing in suspicion. “The voices… did you ask them to lead you to me?” He rose from the throne, his movements sudden and forceful, the weight of his question hanging in the air.

Lavellan staggered back, her heart racing as panic swelled inside her, choking her voice. She couldn’t answer, her throat closing off any sound. The raw intensity of his presence pressed down on her, and she recoiled, unsure if it was the power that radiated from him or the terror that gripped her heart.

Solas paused, his anger flickering. He knew her well enough to understand—stubborn, determined, unwilling to let him vanish without a fight. His expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he watched her. He could never stay angry with her for seeking him out, for challenging the boundaries he had tried to impose. She was too passionate, too relentless, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

But something else caught his attention—the sheer terror in her eyes. Not fear of disturbing his slumber, but something deeper, something primal. His breath hitched as realization struck like a dagger. She knew. She had uncovered his secret.

“Vhenan…” he muttered, the word escaping him before he could stop it. His hand moved toward her, aching to offer comfort, though he hesitated, his throat tight with words unsaid. The distance between them seemed too vast now, a chasm carved by truths she wasn’t ready to face.

A broken croak escaped her throat as Lavellan stumbled back, her feet forgetting the steps behind her. Her body lurched into open air, falling—but before the cold stone could meet her, Solas’ hand shot out, gripping hers. He yanked her toward him with a desperate strength, and they both crashed against the throne, her body pressed tightly against his. “Please, ma vhenan,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he clutched her struggling form.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision, as the words forced themselves out between gasping sobs. “You are... Fen’harel.” Each word cut through the air like a blade, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Solas’ face twisted with guilt, his chest swelling with sorrow as he tightened his hold, keeping her close. He pressed his forehead to her temple, his breath warm and ragged against her skin. “I am,” he murmured, reluctant, the weight of the admission heavy between them. Her sobs racked against him, shaking her small frame as she buried her face in her hands. His heart clenched. “Ir abelas, ma vhenan, I am so sorry,” he whispered into her ear, his voice soft, pained.

Lavellan shook her head violently, hands still covering her face, unable to look at him. The voices in her head surged, their clamor filling her consciousness, making the ache in her stomach worse with each pulse. Solas’ cold fingers brushed her forehead, gently pushing her damp hair away from her face as he murmured apology after apology. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by her uneven breaths as they sat tangled together, her sobs gradually fading into exhaustion.

Time passed in that stillness. She fell into a deep, fitful slumber in his arms, while he remained perfectly still despite the aching pain that spread through his back and shoulders. Her anguish was far greater than anything he could feel.

When Lavellan finally stirred, her eyelids heavy and swollen, her mind foggy with the weight of the night’s revelations, memory came crashing back like a tidal wave. She jolted, eyes snapping open, her heart pounding. She tried to stand, to flee, but found herself unable to move. Solas’ familiar arms were still wrapped tightly around her, holding her as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.

“Lavellan,” Solas whispered, his voice rough and hoarse from the weight of sleepless hours. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, ignoring him, her expression unreadable. He leaned closer, desperation seeping into his voice. “Vhenan, please,” he murmured, gently reaching for her, his fingers brushing her chin as he tried to turn her face toward him. She didn’t resist, but when her eyes finally met his, they were cold, her emotions masked behind a wall of restraint.

Her gaze hardened, and a bitter edge crept into her voice. “You’re supposed to be a monster. To look like a monster. But you’re the master of tricks, aren’t you?” Her glare intensified, venomous. The moment hung between them, heavy with accusation, before her hand lashed out, striking his face with a sharp crack. And then her glare faulters, softening. Her own experience with him clashing with everything her culture told her about him.

Solas sighs, the sting of the slap echoing in the silence, but he didn’t defend himself. His eyes softened with the pain of her betrayal as she glared at him, her chest heaving. “You lied to me,” she said, her voice thick with anguish.

“In a way, I did, yes.” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me go.” Lavellan shoved at his chest, her words harsh, final. Reluctantly, Solas loosened his hold, and she pulled away, pacing back and forth as if caged by her own thoughts, her emotions warring beneath the surface.

Solas watched her, the ache in his heart growing as he stood from the throne. His voice, quiet yet steady, filled the room. “I have lied about who I am, but never about my feelings for you.”

Lavellan stopped mid-stride, her fists clenching and unclenching. Her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and grief as she turned to him. “You might as well have!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. She took a step closer, her fury palpable. “How could anything be real when everything I knew about you was a lie?”

“I didn’t exactly lie—at least, not entirely.” Solas’ voice trembled with urgency, his eyes searching her face for any sign of understanding. Lavellan’s steps faltered, uncertainty rippling through her as her fingers tangled in her hair. She struggled, torn between the truths she thought she knew and the reality unraveling before her.

Solas hesitated, watching her wrestle with her thoughts. “The Dread Wolf from the stories... from the legends… that’s only part of the truth,” he continued softly, stepping closer. His words hung in the air between them like fragile threads. “I was Solas first. Fen'Harel came later.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his confession raw.

Lavellan stared at him, her mind spinning as she tried to reconcile the man she loved with the figure of betrayal and legend. Her breath caught, and she fought to process everything, her heart hammering in her chest.

Solas’ expression softened, regret filling his eyes. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “But you should not be here.” He reached out, carefully taking her hands into his, his fingers warm against hers. He watched her, but her gaze drifted, her eyes glazing over, distant and unfocused. He knew the voices were speaking to her again, likely confirming that he is the Dread Wolf.

She began shaking her head, confusion clouding her features as the voices slipped into an unsettling silence. "I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes searching the floor. Fragments of their time together flickered through her mind—the quiet conversations, the guarded looks, the moments after Corypheus fell. Threads of memory wove together, forming a pattern she hadn't seen before.

Suddenly, her gaze snapped back to his, eyes sharp and filled with a dawning intensity. "The orb..." she breathed, the words barely audible. "It was yours, wasn't it?"

Her voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding, the hope that she might be wrong fading with each passing second. The realization settled heavily between them, an unspoken truth finally brought to light.

A sad smile flickered across his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It was,” he confessed softly. He paused, as if weighing the gravity of what came next. “I didn’t foresee him surviving the blast...” His voice trailed off, unfinished, heavy with regret.

Lavellan hesitated, searching his face for answers, her heart sinking. “But why?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. “Why did you give him the orb, Solas?”

His expression darkened, his frown deepening as he lowered his head, lost in the shadows of his memories. “I was too weak,” he muttered, the words slipping from him like a bitter truth. “Too weak after my long slumber to unlock its power.”

His voice was careful, measured, but she could hear the anguish threaded between his words, could see the pain reflected in his eyes—burdens he had carried for far too long.

Her heart shattered as she watched the dance of pain and anguish play across his face, each unspoken regret heavy in the air between them. Without thinking, she reached up, her hand trembling as she gently pulled his face toward hers. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of his sorrow and the ache in her chest.

She pressed her lips softly against his, tender and hesitant, as if her kiss alone could soothe the burden he had carried for so long. It was a silent plea, a desperate hope that in this moment, she could ease even a fraction of his suffering. For just a breath, she wished to take away the hurt, to hold him in a world where neither of them had to carry the weight of their choices.

She pulled back, her breath still lingering between them. “But why?” she asked, her voice quiet but filled with concern. Her eyes searched his, aching to understand.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen like this," Solas murmured, his voice low and weighted with regret. He wanted to tell her more, to lay his burden bare, but centuries of guarding his heart held him back. His eyes flickered with emotions he couldn't quite express.

Lavellan furrowed her brow, her mind racing as she sifted through memories—of time spend and conversations had with Solas, of Dalish legends half-remembered, fragmented and tangled like knotted yarn. The truth was there, albeit elusive, but something tugged at the edges of her understanding, and her heart clenched with a terrible realization.

“You didn’t mean for the Veil to hurt the People, did you?” she asked, her voice quiet but insistent, a plea for clarity in the face of so much confusion.

Solas’ expression tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face before he looked away. He didn’t answer immediately, but the silence between them was enough. The answer lingered in the air, unspoken but painfully clear.

“But why leave? Why come here when your plan failed?” Lavellan’s voice cracked, frustration, pain, and confusion swirling in her chest. “Did you really plan to live out the rest of your life in isolation, away from—” Her breath caught in her throat, words faltering as the weight of what she was about to say threatened to choke her. ’Away from me? The thought hung in her mind, unspoken, but its presence was undeniable, heavy and raw.

Solas’ gaze softened, as if sensing the unspoken question. His lips parted, but he hesitated, the guarded expression on his face slipping ever so slightly. The silence that stretched between them was filled with everything they weren’t saying, everything they were afraid to confront. And in that moment, her heart ached with the fear that perhaps, in his isolation, he had already made his choice—one that didn’t include her.

But, Solas remained silent, his gaze steady but unreadable, as if her question pierced through the walls he had so carefully built. Her eyes searched his face for something—anything—that might reveal his reasons, but all she found was the lingering sadness he tried so hard to hide. The tension between them thickened, the truth just out of reach, suspended in the heavy silence.

Her breath trembled, her heart pounding with the unspoken realization that perhaps his isolation was not just a punishment for himself, but a way to protect her—from his failure, from the consequences of loving him.

Solas shook his head slowly, the stoic mask settling back into place, hardening his features. But his eyes—those eyes still whispered the sorrow he could not bring himself to speak aloud. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, until finally, his voice broke through, a whisper of regret and weariness. “I need time…”

It was a fragile admission, but it left her heart aching, knowing that time alone couldn’t mend the chasm that had opened between them.

“And then you’ll come back?” Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile and filled with hope. The question hung in the air between them, trembling on the edge of uncertainty. She looked at him, her eyes searching for reassurance, for a promise that everything would somehow be as it once was.

Solas’ breath caught in his throat. He could hear the hope laced in her words, the quiet plea that, perhaps, he would return to her—not to his mission, not to the world he was determined to change, but to her.

Whether she was willfully blind to the truth or simply unaware of the path he had chosen, he couldn’t say. Her gaze, filled with that quiet hope, made it clear she didn’t fully grasp the depths of his intentions—the consequences of what he had set in motion.

Solas wasn’t sure if she truly understood that the orb had been only the beginning. It was his first plan, yes, and in many ways, his best hope for a swift restoration of what had once been. But it was not his only plan. The thought of the steps yet to come—the things he would have to do, the sacrifices he would demand of himself and the world—tightened his chest with guilt. The path he walks is the dinan’shiral. There is only death on this journey.

He feared she hadn’t yet realized how far he was willing to go to achieve his goal, how unyielding his resolve had become. The love that still exists between them, the tenderness that still sparked in her eyes—it was fragile. He could see it now, hanging by a thread that would inevitably be severed when the full truth came to light. But not yet.

For now, she didn’t see the deeper plan, the path that stretched far beyond their love, leading him to a future he couldn’t allow her to follow because he could not allow her to see what he will become.

“Yes,” he replies, the word slipping out—half-truth, but not quite a lie. It’s inevitable that their paths will cross again. She, leading the Inquisition, guiding the world through the chaos left in Corypheus’ wake. And he… he will be working tirelessly in the shadows, forging a new plan to tear down the Veil he once erected to protect the People.

The weight of the truth he couldn’t share sat heavy on his chest. Their reunion wouldn’t be as she imagined—there would be no quiet return to what they had before. He had no intention of leaving her life entirely, but not in the way she hoped. He would still be out there, always moving, always plotting, preparing for the moment when he would have to make the impossible choice.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, knowing she couldn’t see the full shape of what was coming. She couldn’t know that while he said yes, it wasn’t in the way she longed for. Their next meeting wouldn’t be born out of love, but of necessity. Of fate. Of a mission he could not abandon, no matter the cost to them both.

But for now, she believed in that small word, in the promise she heard. And he let her, knowing it would break her heart in time.

[vir-tanadahl]

Beyond the Veil

A rewrite. AU. The Gods are said to dwell above, but she has never laid eyes on them. Her mother, a high priest of Mythal, and her twin brother, a devoted hunter of Andruil, have never seen them either. The Gods don’t visit the weary, the starving, or the ill. But Isera does. If she were ever to meet a God who came to the bedside of the suffering, she might bend the knee. Until she meets a stranger… F!Lavellan x Fen'harel

[Ch1]

Chapter 1: Where the Gods Don't Dwell

Isera floated effortlessly in the middle of the lake, the cool water cradling her weight as she gazed at the vibrant night sky above. Colors rippled across the heavens like silk, the aurora’s glow casting faint reflections in the crystal-clear water around her. Beneath her, the immense form of the sea creature stirred, its haunting melody vibrating through the depths, a song only she could hear. The gods were said to dwell above, somewhere among the shimmering lights, but no matter how long she stared, she saw no sign of them.

Her mother spoke of them often, her voice reverent as she led ceremonies in Mythal’s name. Her brother hunted with the precision of Andruil’s chosen. They all followed, blindly reaching for something they’d never seen. And yet, they believed.

Isera didn’t.

They whispered her father’s name with awe, spoke of his control over the Fade as if it marked him divine. She’d never met him. Maybe that’s why they said he was different—godlike, even. The stories painted him as a bridge between worlds, but to her, he was just another absence, a shadow of a figure she couldn’t understand.

She drifted further, the water cool against her skin. I’ve'an'amelan, the People had called her. Blessed like him. Chosen. But the power that flowed through her felt like chains, not a gift. They expected her to kneel, to fall into line, to embrace the gods they cherished.

But Isera kept her gaze on the stars, her lips pressed into a firm line. Power or not, the gods weren’t hers to worship. She wasn’t meant to follow.

The world shifted before her eyes, sharper and more alive than it had ever been. The Veil above her rippled in vibrant hues, each wave of color more brilliant than the last. The song of magic was no longer a distant hum—it filled her ears now, a constant, pulsing melody that seemed to weave itself through the very air she breathed. She could feel it—feel the Veil move, as though it had a heartbeat that pulsed in time with the shimmering lights. Yet even as the power around her intensified, even as it tugged at her senses, she refused to bow to it.

Prayer was for those who needed something to believe in. Isera didn’t.

The spirits were never far, always lurking just out of sight, like shadows cast by the flickering light of the Veil. One, though, lingered longer than the rest, an unseen companion she’d grown accustomed to. It never spoke, never reached out, yet its presence was undeniable—a silent observer in her dreams, drifting at the edges of her consciousness. She had grown used to feeling it near, like a breath on the back of her neck, familiar yet elusive.

But today, the spirit was gone. The stillness in her mind was strange, almost unsettling. She searched for its familiar weight, the way she always felt it watching, waiting. Instead, there was only the quiet hum of the Veil and the distant, empty space where the spirit should have been.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the surface of the lake as she drifted. It wasn’t like the spirit to leave. And yet, just like the rest, it could disappear as easily as it had come.

Eventually, her mother stopped trying to drag her to the Temples. After her brother dutifully chose his god, falling into line with the faith that governed their family, the attempts to make Isera follow suit dwindled. Her mother no longer asked, and the pressure that once weighed so heavily on Isera’s shoulders seemed to lift. But the distance between them grew, unspoken yet palpable.

Of course, Isera still attended the holiday masses. It was the least she could do, a gesture to maintain the fragile peace with her mother. She could see the flicker of pride in her mother’s eyes when she stood there, silent and present. But beyond that, Isera couldn’t pretend. The rituals, the prayers—they weren’t for her. She couldn’t force herself to believe in something she never felt.

Instead, she found freedom elsewhere. She ran through the forests, her feet light on the soft earth, far from the expectations that clung to the temples like shadows. She spent hours hidden in the library, devouring books that had nothing to do with the gods, searching for answers that couldn’t be found in prayer. More often than not, she talked to the People—the slaves, the ones who lived on the edges of her mother’s world, their stories raw and real, not shaped by divine edicts.

The nobles whispered about her behind their jeweled hands, their eyes narrow as they watched her from a distance. Odd, rebellious, defiant. But none dared to challenge her. Her mother was the High Priest of Mythal, after all. Mythal, the Protector. The All-Mother. Goddess of love, justice, and vengeance.

And even the most powerful nobles knew better than to cross the daughter of Mythal’s chosen.

Isera knew exactly how to play the perfect child, the one everyone expected her to be. When questioned, she offered answers that were polished and polite, the kind that earned approving nods from the elders. She delivered the right words, said the right things. It wasn’t difficult—she knew the game well. What she didn’t answer, she let drift by, untouched, as though it had never been asked. Her smiles, soft and serene, mirrored the devotion around her, and her voice held the same reverence when she spoke.

The devoted, the truly faithful, would approach her afterward, their eyes gleaming with approval. They would tell her how she could rise even higher, be more devout, earn favor from the gods. Isera smiled, nodded, let their words roll over her like water. And when they were done, she would quietly slip away, the façade falling from her face like a discarded mask.

She could recite the creation stories as easily as breathing, the tales of Mythal taming Elgar’nan’s fury, their children shaping the world. She could speak of Falon’din and Dirthamen, guiding the People into uthenera, of June teaching them how to build, and Andruil teaching the way of the three trees. She knew how Sylaise brought fire and healing to the People, how June crafted with his hands what others could only imagine.

And then there was Fen’harel—the Dread Wolf. The trickster, the betrayer, the god who cared nothing for teaching. His stories were darker, more whispered than spoken aloud. Rebellion and betrayal were what the elders called him, a warning to those who might stray too far from the path.

Yet, Isera found herself lingering on his name. Not in worship, but in quiet curiosity. They feared him, but she wondered if there was more to his story than what was told. After all, rebellion had its own kind of power—one she understood far better than prayer.

Isera could sing the hymns to the gods, her voice soft with practiced ease, but it never truly soared. The words never took flight, held down by something deeper, something unspoken. Even as her lips moved with the melodies of praise, her heart remained quiet, untouched.

The sharp contrast of the cool water against the warm breeze stirred her from her thoughts. The stillness of the lake had always been her sanctuary, but the sun would rise soon. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp morning air before she let herself sink below the surface. The water enveloped her, a brief moment of silence, a respite from the noise of the world. It was only when her lungs burned for air that she broke free, swimming smoothly toward the shore.

The sky above had begun to lighten, and the early morning stillness clung to the air. As she stepped onto land, Isera murmured a spell, her skin tingling with warmth as the water evaporated from her body, leaving her dry and ready. She changed quickly, her movements practiced and efficient, and began the walk toward the fields.

The slaves would be rising soon. Their wounds would need tending—wounds that spoke more of cruelty than necessity. Her feet carried her through the familiar path, but her mind drifted, lingering on the faces she would see, the lives bound by shackles not of their making.

Upon reaching the fields, Isera scaled one of the trees at the edge, finding her usual perch on a high branch that overlooked the golden expanse. From here, she could see everything. The land belonged to a noble who worshipped Dirthamen, the God of Secrets and Knowledge. His devotion was twisted into cruelty, his slaves forced to bleed in his god's name. She had seen it countless times—the sharp crack of the whip, the slow seep of blood into the earth. All for the sake of devotion.

The first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, bathing the wheat fields in gold. Slowly, the slaves emerged from their quarters, moving in a tired line to begin their day’s labor. Scythes in hand, they set to work, cutting the plants with rhythmic strokes. Isera watched from her high vantage point, her eyes steady as she took in the scene below. She would descend soon to tend to them, but for now, she remained still, a silent observer.

In the growing light, the wheat swayed, golden and endless. Yet all Isera could see was the blood that stained the hands of those who harvested it.

From her perch, Isera’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the field, waiting for the inevitable. There was always someone who struggled, someone too slow or too weary to meet the unrelenting pace demanded of them. Her gaze settled on a woman as she faltered, crumbling to her knees, her scythe slipping from her grasp. Isera's heart clenched at the sight. She knew what would come if no one intervened.

Without hesitation, Isera moved. Her form dissolved into a swirl of white smoke, her body shifting into that of a sleek, pure white fennec. She darted across the field, her paws light against the earth as she raced toward the fallen slave.

Anise.

The woman had been here for as long as Isera could remember, a single mother of three daughters, trapped by the chains of servitude. As Isera neared, Anise hissed at her, a weak attempt to ward her off, fear and pain etched into every line of her face. But Isera wasn’t afraid. She weaved around Anise's outstretched hands with a dancer’s grace, her small fennec form a blur as she summoned the magic within her.

The soft glow of her healing spell washed over Anise's legs, mending the torn skin, soothing the wounds. Isera could feel the heat of the fresh lashes fade beneath her magic, the pain dissolving as she worked in silence.

Anise’s eyes widened as she realized what was happening. "Lady Isera!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "If he sees you here, he will kill you!" Her hands moved to shield Isera's small form, trying desperately to hide her, to protect her from the wrath of their master.

“Mythal curse him,” Anise muttered under her breath, anger and desperation bleeding into her words. “Fen’harel take him!”

Isera’s eyes flashed, her magic swirling just beneath her skin as she finished the spell. She lingered for only a moment, her white fur brushing against Anise’s hand in silent reassurance before stepping back, her form dissolving into smoke once more as she disappeared into the shadows.

She wouldn’t be seen, not today. But she would be back. And one day, they would not need to whisper curses under their breath.

Isera paused, her magic receding as the glow around Anise’s wounds faded. The injuries would heal in time, without the full force of her power, but at least the pain would ease. Anise nodded in silent gratitude, eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and fear. Isera offered a brief, knowing look before darting away, her small fennec form bounding lightly across the field.

She moved swiftly, her paws barely brushing the earth as she helped where she could—offering brief moments of relief to the weary, a soothing touch to those most in need. Her magic was subtle, just enough to ease the worst of their suffering, never enough to draw attention. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and with it, the risk of being seen grew. As the heat bore down on the golden fields, Isera knew it was time to leave.

Her body shimmered once more, shifting back into her elven form as she sprinted toward the edge of the field. Cloaked in shadows and smoke, she slipped away unnoticed, heading for the village where the poor and enslaved lived.

As she neared the outskirts, Isera tugged the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. The village was a stark contrast to the pristine estates of the nobles. Mud-caked roads and worn-down huts lined the path, yet the sounds of laughter and life still echoed in the air. The children, spotting her approach, let out gleeful squeals and ran toward her, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

Isera couldn’t help but smile. She dropped to her knees, arms open wide as the children threw themselves at her, wrapping her in tight, enthusiastic embraces. Their small hands tugged at her cloak, their voices all blending together in a joyful chorus, each one eager to share their stories, to tell her about their day, their families, their small triumphs and troubles.

She listened, her heart lightened by their infectious energy, her fingers gently combing through tangled hair and wiping dirt from smudged faces. Here, in the laughter of the children and the warmth of their trust, Isera felt more at peace than anywhere else.

Isera paused, her magic receding as the glow around Anise’s wounds faded. The injuries would heal in time, without the full force of her power, but at least the pain would ease. Anise nodded in silent gratitude, eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and fear. Isera offered a brief, knowing look before darting away, her small fennec form bounding lightly across the field.

She moved swiftly, her paws barely brushing the earth as she helped where she could—offering brief moments of relief to the weary, a soothing touch to those most in need. Her magic was subtle, just enough to ease the worst of their suffering, never enough to draw attention. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and with it, the risk of being seen grew. As the heat bore down on the golden fields, Isera knew it was time to leave.

Her body shimmered once more, shifting back into her elven form as she sprinted toward the edge of the field. Cloaked in shadows and smoke, she slipped away unnoticed, heading for the village where the poor and enslaved lived.

As she neared the outskirts, Isera tugged the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. The village was a stark contrast to the pristine estates of the nobles. Mud-caked roads and worn-down huts lined the path, yet the sounds of laughter and life still echoed in the air. The children, spotting her approach, let out gleeful squeals and ran toward her, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

Isera couldn’t help but smile. She dropped to her knees, arms open wide as the children threw themselves at her, wrapping her in tight, enthusiastic embraces. Their small hands tugged at her cloak, their voices all blending together in a joyful chorus, each one eager to share their stories, to tell her about their day, their families, their small triumphs and troubles.

She listened, her heart lightened by their infectious energy, her fingers gently combing through tangled hair and wiping dirt from smudged faces. Here, in the laughter of the children and the warmth of their trust, Isera felt more at peace than anywhere else.

The children eagerly led Isera into a small, abandoned shack, their eyes wide with anticipation. With a simple gesture, Isera conjured food before them—warm bread, ripe fruit, and sweet cakes—and the children squealed in delight, their faces lighting up at the sudden feast. Her abilities, granted by being i've'an'amelan, were unlike those of ordinary mages. She could bring forth life, create sustenance, even shape buildings and landscapes both in the waking world and in her dreams. The power came naturally to her, a quiet hum in her veins.

The Order of the Keepers had tried, time and again, to recruit her into their fold, promising knowledge, power, and divine purpose. But to Isera, their promises were hollow. She called them a cult, hidden away from the world, claiming to work for the gods while neglecting the very People they were supposed to protect. She couldn’t see how isolation and ignorance pleased any god. Her path was different, quieter, more tangible. She helped where she could, in small ways, touching lives in ways that mattered.

As the children tore into the food, laughing and chatting with mouths full, a boy burst into the shack, his voice panicked. “Isera!” he cried, breathless and tearful. “You must come!” He pulled at her cloak, jumping up and down, tears streaming down his cheeks. “My mamae, my mamae!”

Isera's smile faded instantly, and she knelt down, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Stay here,” she murmured to the other children, her voice steady but filled with urgency. Then, she stood, following the boy as he bolted out of the shack, leading her toward his home.

The child ran ahead, his small feet kicking up dirt, his cries echoing in the empty streets. “My mamae, my mamae,” he repeated, his voice breaking with each breath. Isera quickened her pace, her heart pounding in time with the boy's frantic sobs, knowing that whatever awaited them was not good.

When she finally caught up, she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently, offering what little comfort she could as they neared his home. She only hoped she wouldn’t be too late.

Isera stepped into the dim shack, the air thick with the stench of sickness. Her sharp senses picked up the faint, sour smell of illness and desperation. The low light cast shadows along the walls, but her focus remained on the fragile figure lying on the thin mat in the corner. She could hear the woman's labored breathing, the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Before the boy could follow, Isera knelt in front of him, gently blocking his path. “Da'len,” she whispered, her voice soft, a gentle balm against the panic in his eyes. “I will look after your mother, but I need you to stay out here. Can you do that for me?” Her hands enveloped his, small and trembling, and she ran her fingers through his tangled hair in a comforting gesture.

He nodded, tearful but determined, before Isera whispered a request for herbs. The boy turned and darted away, eager to help in any way he could.

Once he was gone, Isera stood and turned her attention back to the room. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, and that’s when she noticed a figure already at the woman’s side—a hooded figure, bent over her, murmuring words she couldn’t quite catch.

The man’s hands glowed faintly as he attempted to heal her, but there was something different about his magic that she couldn’t quite describe. Isera remained quiet, watching from the shadows, her own instincts flaring to life. She took a step closer, her movements deliberate and silent, studying the way his magic moved through the air. It felt familiar, yet distant, as though it lacked the warmth and life she was accustomed to in her own healing.

Isera's eyes flicked over the room, taking in the small details—the herbs strung from the rafters, the scraps of food scavenged and rationed with care. The woman had been hungry, desperate, trying to survive on whatever she could find. It wasn’t hard to see the traces of her struggle.

The hooded figure cursed under his breath, frustration etched in every movement as he pulled back his hood. His sharp intake of breath signaled that he hadn’t realized she was there until now. He turned to face her, his eyes dark with exhaustion. His simple cotton clothes were stained with dirt, and an open healing bag lay beside him. Isera’s gaze lingered briefly on the dark, jagged jawbone necklace hanging against his beige shirt before meeting his eyes again.

“You should go,” he said, his voice low, weary. “There is a sickness here runs too deep to be cured.”

Isera didn’t flinch. She stood quietly for a moment, her face still obscured by the hood of her cloak, her eyes calm and unyielding. A soft hum escaped her, a noncommittal sound that hung in the air between them.

“I haven’t tried,” she replied simply, stepping forward with steady resolve, her gaze shifting from him to the woman on the mat. She could feel the faint traces of magic he had already tried, the flickers of hope that had withered before they could take root. But hope was not something she was quick to abandon.

The man stepped forward, blocking her path with a firm hand raised in caution. “It would be best if you did not,” he warned, his voice steady but tense. His proximity brought the earthy scent of moss and dirt to her senses, the smell of someone who had spent too long in the wild. His presence was unyielding, a wall between her and the dying woman.

Isera’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes glinting with a challenge. "Step aside, please," she commanded, her tone calm yet unmistakably firm.

He frowned, clearly taken aback by her refusal to heed his caution. The air between them crackled with tension, his authority suddenly uncertain. He had expected her to back down, to trust his word and leave the shack. Instead, Isera’s gaze remained locked on him, unflinching.

“She is going to die,” he muttered, stepping aside with a resigned sigh. His words hung heavy in the air, but Isera barely acknowledged them as she dropped to her knees beside the woman, her focus sharp and unwavering.

Her fingers brushed the woman’s clammy skin—cold, yet slick with sweat. The rapid thrum of her heartbeat, barely steady, pulsed beneath Isera’s touch. Her shallow breaths were faint, barely enough to keep her tethered to life.

Without hesitation, Isera reached into her healing bag, pulling out a small vial filled with a deep amber liquid. Gently, she pressed the tip of the vial to the woman’s cracked lips, her voice soft and soothing as she whispered for her to drink.

The woman’s lips parted weakly, and the liquid slipped past her tongue. For a moment, there was nothing—just the same ragged breaths, the same fragile existence teetering on the edge. But then, the woman let out a long, slow sigh, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was less strained, more peaceful. Her body, once tight with pain, began to relax.

Isera stood smoothly, brushing the dust from her knees as she turned to leave the shack. Behind her, the stranger’s voice broke the silence. “You gave her something to relieve the pain then?” he asked, his tone uncertain.

She paused, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. He seemed out of place here, an unfamiliar presence in a village she knew well. His confusion was evident in the way his brows furrowed, but Isera met his question with a calm, steady reply.

“No,” she said evenly, her eyes flicking to the woman behind her. “I gave her the antidote to the poison fungi she ate.”

The man's eyes widened, his expression shifting from uncertainty to surprise as he glanced around the shack. His gaze finally landed on a small mushroom, half-crushed on the floor. Realization dawned on his face, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease as he took in the scene with fresh understanding.

Isera didn’t wait for further questions. She knew the signs of poison when she saw them, knew how to act swiftly, and in this case, the antidote had been the only thing that could save the woman. Unfortunately, incidents of accidental poisoning have been increasing recently, largely driven by limited access to food.

As Isera stepped out of the hut, another man rushed toward her, his eyes wide with desperation and relief. He stumbled to his knees before her, his voice trembling. “By the Gods, you came!” he cried, collapsing onto the ground, his hands reaching out as if to grasp some hope. “I prayed to all of them for weeks. No one answered. But finally—” his breath hitched, “Fen’harel must have sent you.”

Isera paused, her brow arching slightly as she regarded him. The weight of his words washed over her, but she shook her head, her tone even as she replied. “Faron, I visit the village weekly,” she said calmly, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. Her voice carried a gentle reminder that she had been there all along, quietly helping, not summoned by any god.

Faron looked up at her, confusion mingling with his gratitude, but Isera was already preparing to move on. She had more to do, another village to tend to, more people in need of her care. The prayers of the desperate were often cast to the gods, but she didn’t need divine guidance to know where her place was.

Without another word, she turned to leave, her cloak billowing softly in the breeze as she made her way toward the path that led to the next village.

Before she departs, one of the villagers starts to approach her. “My lady, you came early. You usually visit on Ghi'lan'vun'in, tomorrow,” another villager called out, their voice laced with awe. “He had to have sent you, my lady.” The murmur of agreement rippled through the small crowd, others nodding their heads and whispering their shared belief.

Isera exhaled softly, the weight of their reverence pressing down on her. They clung to their faith in the gods, their hope wrapped tightly in the belief that divine intervention had brought her early. She didn’t bother correcting them. For them, doubt was a luxury they couldn’t afford, something she could not take from them even if she wanted to.

As she moved toward the next villager, her eyes tracked the man from the hut, watching his slow, deliberate steps as he began to leave. A shadow of unease flickered in her mind. Lowering her voice, she leaned toward an elder who stood nearby. “Have you seen that man before?” she whispered, her gaze still fixed on the stranger.

The elder squinted, his brow furrowing as he looked up at the man. His weathered face showed no recognition as he shook his head. “Never in my life, my lady,” he replied softly, his tone tinged with suspicion.

Isera frowned as she quickened her pace, catching up to the stranger before he could fully leave the village. “Excuse me!” she called out, her voice carrying over the distance.

The man halted, turning slowly to face her. “Yes?” he asked, his expression calm and unreadable as she begins to walk in-step with him

"Who are you?" she demanded, her hand settling firmly on her hip as she fixed him with a steady gaze as she keeps pace. There was something off, something that tugged at her instincts, a familiarity she couldn't place.

He stops walking. "Just a traveler," he replied evenly, his face betraying nothing as they stared at each other, both sizing the other up. His presence felt strangely familiar, a subtle undercurrent that hummed in the space between them. Yet, his answers were frustratingly vague.

“Traveler from where?” she pressed, suspicion edging into her voice. It wasn’t common to see someone, especially a lone traveler, helping the poor with such intent. Most who did were part of larger organizations that only ventured out when there was social praise to be earned.

“A village in the North,” he answered, his gaze still locked with hers, his tone unwavering.

Isera’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing at the lack of detail in his response. "There are many villages in the North," she countered, her patience thinning. His evasiveness set her on edge, but there was something more—something just beneath the surface she couldn’t shake.

“There are,” he replies, his voice calm, offering nothing more. Isera’s scowl deepened as frustration flared in her chest if he won’t tell her what village he is from, he at least needs to have a basic understanding of the fauna and flora.

“You would have let her die,” she snapped, the weight of her words hanging between them. “If you're going to heal these people, you should at least know that the species of fungi varies between the northern and southern regions. What grows here is poisonous." Her tone was sharp, laced with the anger she felt bubbling inside her. Without waiting for a response, she brushed past him, the air thick with her simmering frustration.

She couldn’t shake the image of the woman lying helpless in that shack, her life on the edge, saved only because Isera had intervened. Had she not arrived, the stranger would have unknowingly administered a potion that would have eased the woman's pain—only to hasten her death. He had deemed the woman a lost cause before he had even truly assessed the situation, before he had taken the time to understand the land, the people, the delicate differences that could mean life or death.

The man lingered in place for a moment, his expression unreadable, before hurrying to catch up with her. “The villagers,” he said, his voice softer than before, more cautious. “They know you?” There was a quiet curiosity in his tone now, as if he was probing for something deeper, gauging whether she was someone he could trust.

Isera kept walking, her pace quickening as her thoughts churned. She couldn’t help but notice him out of the corner of her eye—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and those blue-gray eyes that sparkled with interest. Despite his plain clothing and dirt-covered appearance, there was something undeniably attractive about him. She noted the absence of vallaslin on his face, which meant he was no slave, and yet, he remained a mystery.

“You don’t know them,” she finally answered, her tone brisk as she increased her pace. She had never seen him before, and neither had the villagers. And if he planned to stay and help, as it seemed he might, he couldn’t afford to make the kinds of mistakes he had almost made today.

The villagers were a deeply superstitious people, and their faith was fragile. If too many died under his care, it wouldn’t take long for them to turn on her as well. They would see the deaths as a sign—that she had fallen out of favor with the gods. The whispers would begin, and soon they would ask her to leave. To them, her continued presence would bring more death, more suffering, and no amount of healing magic would convince them otherwise.

She knew how quickly fear and suspicion could grow, and she wasn’t about to let this stranger, with his careless assumptions, put everything she had worked for in jeopardy.

“You’re right. I don’t know them,” he admitted, matching her pace with ease. His voice was steady, but his eyes—blue-gray and full of curiosity—seemed to spark with questions he hadn’t yet voiced. “Why do you help them?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her, as if searching for something deeper beneath her sharp replies.

Isera’s jaw tightened, and she glanced away, her voice low. “No one else will.”

He nodded, as though her answer made perfect sense to him. “Yet they call to the Gods for help,” he remarked, his tone soft but probing. She could feel his eyes on her, watching closely, studying her every word.

Isera let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do you see any Gods here, stranger?” she asked, her voice hardening slightly. “I’ve traveled these parts for years, helping these people when no one else will. I have never seen any god come down from the heavens to tend to the sick or feed the hungry.” She stopped walking and turned to face him, her eyes sharp and unyielding. “Which begs the question—who are you?” she pressed again, her patience waning.

But the stranger didn’t answer. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he continued walking alongside her, silent. The mystery in his eyes only deepened, and the smirk suggested he knew more than he was letting on, as if he enjoyed her frustration.

“Do you find this amusing?” Isera asked, her voice sharper than before. She could feel her annoyance bubbling up, frustrated that her agitation seemed to bring him enjoyment.

“I find you quite amusing,” he replied with that same smirk, his head tilted slightly as he continued to watch her, eyes alight with mischief.

“Is that so?” Isera snorted, pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders, her lips curling in disdain. ’What an ass’, she thought, inwardly scoffing at him. He wasn’t the first man to respond to her anger with condescending amusement, and she doubted he would be the last. His words, though lightly spoken, only irritated her more.

“Yes,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by her reaction. “You care passionately for the People. Is that why the villagers trust you?” Isera shot him a cold glance, her patience wearing thin, shaking her head. “They trust me because I’ve been doing this since I was a child, and because I treat them with respect. Passion has nothing to do with it,” she replied, her tone brisk, though she couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of her eye, wary of his constant questions.

But then he dropped the words like a stone in a calm pond. “Is that why you help them escape?”

Her body went rigid. The world seemed to narrow, the weight of his accusation crashing down on her. Isera’s heart pounded in her ears as she slowly turned to face him fully, her expression carefully composed, though fear stirred just beneath the surface. How could he know?

It was true. For years, Isera had been quietly, methodically helping slaves escape, guiding them along a network of safe havens where one person would hand them off to the next, like passing a flame through the darkness. Each step of the way, someone else would take up the responsibility, leading them further from their chains, until they disappeared into places even she didn’t know. Once they left her care, their destination became a mystery, their future unwritten.

It was a crime punishable by death, a risk she’d always known, but hearing those words aloud from this stranger’s mouth was something else entirely. If anyone overheard, it would be enough to start an investigation, to ruin everything she’d built here.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you’re referring to,” Isera replied coolly, her voice regaining its usual composure. She had always been cautious, careful not to draw the wrong kind of attention from the nobles. The slaves, the villagers—they all kept their silence, a mutual understanding that what they did had to remain hidden. She couldn’t afford to let her panic show, not now.

The stranger hummed, unbothered by the shift in her tone, continuing to walk beside her as though they were discussing the weather. “Why do you think the villagers called for Fen’harel?” he asked, his voice casual, as if the question held no weight.

Isera shot him a glance, her confusion quickly turning to annoyance. “They pray to all the gods in times of stress,” she replied curtly, keeping her words sharp and to the point. “The man said—”

“If you want to know why the villagers called upon Fen’harel, I suggest you ask them yourself,” she interrupted, her patience thin. “I’m not a mind reader.” Her pace quickened, the conversation wearing on her nerves. She didn’t care to entertain his cryptic questions or his sudden interest in her world.

The man paused for a moment, and for a brief second, Isera thought she might have shaken him off. But then a grin spread across his face, as if her deflection amused him even more. He easily matched her pace again, unbothered by her attempts to put distance between them.

After a few moments of tense silence, Isera could still feel the stranger’s presence at her side, his occasional glances adding to her growing irritation. His smirk lingered, as if he were enjoying her discomfort.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you following me?” she asked, shooting him a sharp look. “It’s creepy.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m not following you. I’m simply walking in the same direction as you,” he said smoothly, pausing briefly before adding with a teasing tone, “As I recall, you chased after me first. Perhaps it’s you who’s following me.”

Isera scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I am making my way through the villages,” she replied curtly, her gaze fixed ahead as the outline of the next settlement began to rise over the horizon.

“So am I,” he countered, his tone light but still holding that hint of amusement.

Isera gave the stranger an incredulous look, her disbelief clear, but she quickly rolled her eyes and kept her silence. She would yield for now—if he wanted to follow her through the villages, so be it. It wasn’t worth the energy to argue further.

He walked beside her with an almost obnoxious spring in his step, humming a tune that grated on her already-thin patience. Isera resisted the urge to display her annoyance, keeping her face impassive as they entered the village. Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted.

The children spotted her first, their faces lighting up with excitement. Just like in the previous village, they rushed toward her, their small voices filled with laughter and delight. They tugged at her cloak and chattered all at once, eager for her attention.

Isera quickly pushed thoughts of the stranger from her mind as the excited children surrounded her, their infectious laughter and eager chatter pulling her into their world. She spent a few moments with them, smiling softly as she entertained their stories and antics, letting their joy lift the weight of her earlier frustrations.

But soon, she moved on, her focus shifting to the true reason she had come. The village elders—those too old and too ill to care for themselves—awaited her in their modest homes, their frail bodies unable to partake in the rites and offerings required for a peaceful passage into the deep sleep. It was a sacred tradition, one they could not afford, their poverty keeping them from the holy chambers they so longed to enter.

Isera knelt by their sides, one by one, refilling their medicine jars with herbs and potions to ease the pain in their aching joints. She worked quietly, her hands gentle as she massaged their gnarled fingers, listening as they recounted stories of the past. Their voices were soft and trembling, some still sharp with memories of days long gone, while others faltered as they struggled to remember their lives, their loved ones, or even her.

Her heart ached as she listened to them, knowing that no magic could truly ease the suffering of forgetting. All she could do was offer comfort, a familiar presence, and a soothing touch in their final days. Isera remained patient, murmuring soft reassurances, promising that though the world seemed to slip from their grasp, she was still there, watching over them.

For a brief moment, the weight of her role seemed to lift as she lost herself in the simplicity of care. But in the back of her mind, the reality of their situation lingered. There was so much more she wished she could do—more than just temporary relief, more than just a few moments of peace.

Isera moved with purpose through the community garden, her hands gently brushing the leaves and stems of the plants she had helped the villagers cultivate. She had taught them how to grow hearty crops, resilient enough to thrive despite the harsh conditions they lived in. Now, she guided them, offering advice on how to spot early signs of disease, how to protect the plants from blight. It was a task she took seriously, one that filled her with a quiet sense of pride.

As she crouched down to inspect a particularly delicate sprout, she felt the stranger's presence beside her once again. Wordless, he simply stood there, watching her as she worked. When she looked up, she saw that he had a plant stem hanging loosely from between his lips, his eyes full of curiosity and amusement.

“The villagers are quite fond of you,” he declared, breaking the silence as his gaze remained fixed on her.

Isera paused, still holding a leaf between her fingers, her mind flashing with imagined whispers from the villagers. She could already hear the speculative questions they would ask—wondering if this man was her apprentice, or worse, if she was being courted by him. The thought made her inwardly cringe. She could already see the smirks and the teasing glances.

Isera sighed loudly, standing and brushing the dirt from her hands with a sharp clap. Without a glance back at the stranger, she strode past him, determined to ignore the weight of his lingering presence. But when she turned, intending to ask him once more why he continued to shadow her every move, he was gone.

She frowned, her eyes scanning the area. He had vanished as silently as he had appeared, leaving no trace of his departure. For a moment, she felt an uneasy twinge, but quickly dismissed it. She had more pressing concerns than a mysterious man with a penchant for showing up uninvited.

With a shake of her head, Isera resumed her walk, heading back to the city. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the fields. Her mind returned to her usual worries—there were still medicines to prepare, people to see, and her endless tasks awaiting her.

A low, distant howling drifted through the air behind her, eerie yet familiar. The sound tugged at her, but she paid it no mind. It was likely just the wind, she told herself. Or perhaps a wolf, though she hadn’t heard any this close to the villages in some time. Either way, she didn’t slow her pace. There was nothing here for her now but the road ahead.

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 5: The Dread Wolf's Gaze

Isera slammed the door to her room, the echo of wood meeting stone sharp in the silence. Anger boiled in her chest, her breath coming in tight, uneven bursts. She was used to fighting uphill battles—proving again and again that she genuinely knew what she was doing, that her intelligence wasn’t tied to the pointed ears on her head. When she first started studying plants, there had always been the snide comments: “Oh, you’re studying plants? Of course, you are—you’re an elf!”

And when she was hired for her first teaching job, it hadn’t been enough to be smart. She had to be more than smart, to prove she wasn’t just “smart for an elf.”

She had danced around the subject of her race for years, shielding herself with careful composure. But it stung more coming from him—another elf. And not just any elf. Solas came from a time when elves had status, when they were something more. His words had carried a level of casual cruelty, so calm, so precise, that it had almost taken her by surprise.

Isera shook her head, forcing down the bitter taste of self-doubt rising in her throat. She refused to let the self-hatred she’d spent years burying claw its way back to the surface.

And to add insult to injury, the man wasn’t just any elf—he was Fen’harel, the Dread Wolf. The god who, according to legend, had damned the entire elven race by sealing away the gods. Why should it surprise her that he, of all people, would insult her? The legends all said the same thing: Fen’harel bore no love for the elven people. He had betrayed them once before.

The bitter irony gnawed at her, twisting the insult deeper.

Isera threw herself onto the bed, her mind swirling with half-formed plans of escape. Now, more than ever, she needed to find a way out of this place, a way back home. She clung to that thought—escaping, returning—her desire burning fiercer with every passing moment.

Isera blinked in surprise, realizing she hadn’t received her usual wake-up call from Felassan. The light streamed through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room as she sat up, her mind already swirling with questions. Quietly, she slipped out of bed, her footsteps light as she crossed the room in confusion.

On the table, a small stack of books caught her eye. One, in particular, stood out—The History of Magic. Isera frowned, narrowing her eyes at the suspicious offering. She approached cautiously, half-expecting some sort of trick, but when she picked up the book, nothing happened. Flipping through its pages quickly, she found it packed with detailed theories on the origins of magic, far more than she had anticipated.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, annoyance bubbling up as she slammed the book shut. Did Solas leave this here? she thought bitterly. Was this his way of making up for the insults he’d thrown at her? She rolled her eyes at the idea, swiftly changing into her day clothing.

‘Don’t fall for tricks of kindness—he’s the Dread Wolf,’ she reminded herself sharply. The legend of the Dread Wolf was known to all elves, city-born or clan-tied. His reputation for betrayal was ingrained in her culture, and she couldn’t let herself forget who he was. But as she headed into the garden, the thought gnawed at her—was this all part of a game? Insult her, then leave the very knowledge she sought within arm’s reach?

Isera blinked in confusion as she stepped into the garden, her eyes falling on a group of men and women standing nearby. They were watching her, their expressions a mixture of respect and hesitation. One of the men stepped forward, his head slightly bowed, his movements careful as though afraid to offend.

“Excuse me, my lady,” he began, his voice humble. “We have been watching you work the soil—we are grateful that Fen’harel has saved us, and we do not want to be a burden. Some of us used to harvest and seed plants, and we humbly offer to assist.”

Isera stared at him for a long moment, her mind snagging on a single phrase. ‘Fen’harel saved them?’The words echoed in her head, refusing to make sense. A frown crept across her face, confusion tightening her features.

“What do you mean Fen’harel saved you? From what?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, the disbelief cutting through her usual composure.

The man blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. “Surely, you know, my lady?” he said, straightening slightly, the surprise evident in his tone. “That is why you’ve come—to help us!” He gestured around him, as if the answer should have been obvious. “The war between the Gods—the false Gods. Fen’harel freed us. We were once slaves, forced to fight or be sacrificed.”

Isera continued to stare at the man, her confusion deepening with every word. ‘Fen’harel saved them?’ That wasn’t the story she’d grown up with. Everything she knew—everything she’d been taught—said that Fen’harel had sealed away the Gods, bringing ruin to the elves. He was the betrayer, not the savior. And never had she heard that the elves had enslaved their own people.

“You were a slave?” she asked, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach, a wave of anxiety rising within her. The thought that her people were no better than Tevinter gnawed at her, unsettling everything she thought she knew.

The man nodded, his expression calm. “No longer, my lady. But we will not be idle. We are free, and we choose to help.”

It took Isera a moment to process his words, her mind racing to catch up with this new reality. She swallowed, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Yes, of course. If you would like to help, I would accept the offer.”

The man smiled warmly and turned, motioning to the group behind him. Without hesitation, they began moving to the garden, ready to work.

Isera stood rooted to the spot, her eyes following the quiet rhythm of the people working the garden, their hands deftly toiling the soil. Her mind, however, was in turmoil. ‘The Dalish couldn’t be wrong,’ she thought, her inner voice stumbling over itself in disbelief. ‘We were free, before Tevinter. Tevinter enslaved us. We didn’t enslave each other.’

Her thoughts spiraled, trying to grasp the reality of what she had just heard. These people—they were real, standing before her, telling her a history she had never known. A history that denied everything she had been taught. ‘If the pantheon aren’t gods, then who and what are they?’

Religion had never been central to her life, raised as she was outside of the Dalish clans in Rivain. She rarely prayed, and yet the Gods were woven into her culture, into her identity. Now, everything seemed to tilt on its axis. If the pantheon weren’t gods, what was the truth?

“Surprise, surprise,” came the familiar, sardonic voice of Felassan from behind her. “I see you managed some help.”

Startled from her thoughts, Isera turned to face him, her response automatic. “They offered,” she said, the words leaving her without a second thought, though her mind was still reeling from the revelations.

“They’re a superstitious group,” Felassan remarked, leaning against a post, his gaze drifting toward the people now working the garden. “You didn’t die from toiling the soil. They must believe you’ve healed the scourge from the land.”

Isera blinked at him, her confusion deepening. “What?” Her voice rose slightly, incredulous. “The land was cursed?”

Felassan turned his attention back to her, his expression still as casual as ever. “Of course it was,” he replied, almost amused by her confusion. “That’s why nothing was growing. Andruil sent her warriors for an attack and used magic to poison the land.”

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, clearly enjoying the revelation.

Isera scowled, her eyes narrowing dangerously as her teeth clenched. “And you knew this? I could have been poisoned?” she shrieked; her fists tight at her sides as she stared Felassan down. The realization hit her like a slap—the plants, the berries... They were different from the ones she’d sorted in the kitchen. “I could have died!” she shouted, her voice filled with both anger and disbelief.

Felassan, however, remained infuriatingly calm, his grin widening, mischief dancing in his violet eyes. “But you didn’t,” he hummed, his tone annoyingly cheerful, as if her fury only amused him.

A frustrated howl escaped her lips as she stormed past him, unwilling to entertain his smugness any longer. But as she stalked away, Felassan quickly jogged to catch up, his grin never fading. “My, you have a temper!” he teased, a laugh bubbling just under the surface. “Your face turns a lovely shade of red!”

Isera scoffed, coming to an abrupt halt and glaring at Felassan. “Oh, no,” she snarled, her voice dripping with fury. “My face turns red because I’m angry—it’s not lovely.” Her hand moved to her hip as the other pointed accusingly at him. “You knowingly let me walk into blighted land! You don’t care about my wellbeing, and you certainly don’t get to patronize me by calling my ‘temper’ lovely!”

Her voice rose with every word, frustration and outrage pouring out. “You and Solas—Fen’harel, whatever he wants to be called—are condensing, inconsiderate assholes!” she muttered, turning on her heel to walk away.

But before she could fully process how much Felassan annoyed her, his footsteps fell into place beside hers. His voice, no longer whimsical, carried a sharp edge as he ordered her to follow him. The sudden hardness in his tone sent a chill down her spine.

Isera froze, instinct taking over. Despite every ounce of resistance in her, something told her to listen—to follow. And so, begrudgingly, she did.

Felassan led her down a maze of vestibules before stopping in front of an ornate door. “Wait here,” he ordered, his tone still sharp, not even glancing back as he stepped inside.

Isera sighed, rolling her eyes as she lingered outside, staring at the door now slightly ajar. Felassan’s voice drifted from the other side, muffled but unmistakable. Curiosity tugged at her, and she shifted closer, peeking through the crack.

The chamber beyond was bathed in light, but there was something unsettling about it. A heavy sense of dread clung to the air, sending a shiver down her spine. Her breath caught as she recognized the silhouette standing in the room. Fen’harel. She stepped back quickly, retreating from the door as if the mere sight of him could burn her.

Leaning against the wall a few feet away, Isera shook her head, trying to steady her racing thoughts. ‘I need to get out of here,’ she thought, the urgency building in her chest. She had wasted enough time trying to help these people from the past. And now... how long had it been?

Her mind turned to her mother and brother. ‘They must be worried sick.’ And Dorian—her heart clenched at the thought. ‘They probably think I’m dead.’

Felassan emerged moments later, his eyes sweeping the area until they landed on her. Without a word, he motioned for her to follow. Isera trailed after him, her thoughts still lingering on what she’d overheard, her steps heavy with uncertainty.

He led her down another winding vestibule and into a chamber unlike any she’d seen. The walls and ceiling were made entirely of glass, allowing soft, golden light to flood the space. The room was teeming with plants, vibrant and lush, their leaves stretching toward the sun.

“A botanic garden…” Isera murmured, her guard dropping for the first time in what felt like ages. She stepped inside, the air clean and sweet, filling her lungs with a sense of calm she hadn’t felt since arriving. The smell of fresh greenery wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.

Behind her, Felassan cleared his throat. “You’ve been permitted to work here, in addition to the field,” he informed her, his tone formal, before turning and leaving the room, the door left wide open.

Isera watched him go, but her focus quickly shifted back to the garden. Slowly, she began walking deeper into the space, her footsteps soft on the stone floor. In the distance, she heard the gentle sound of running water and, as she neared the back, she saw it—a waterfall, cascading into a pool filled with blood lotus and black lotus, their dark blooms contrasting with the sparkling water.

Isera made her way back to the front of the garden, her eyes lingering on the vibrant greenery surrounding her. She spotted the desk she’d noticed earlier and sat down, her fingers lightly brushing the surface before her gaze landed on a worn journal. Curiosity piqued, she opened it, flipping through the delicate pages.

Inside were detailed notes and intricately drawn sketches of the plants the previous botanist had cared for. Each entry was meticulous, capturing the growth cycles, ideal conditions, and unique properties of each plant. Isera couldn’t suppress the surge of excitement bubbling up inside her.

This room—it was everything she had ever dreamed of. A sanctuary of thriving plants, a place where life flourished despite the odds. For a brief moment, all the tension, fear, and uncertainty she’d been carrying faded, replaced by the sheer joy of discovery. The familiar voice of Fen’harel cut through the quiet, causing Isera to jolt so violently that she tumbled off the chair. She had been so deep in thought, immersed in the botanist's journal, that the sound of his voice sent a shock through her system. Snapping her head up, she found him standing there, his presence filling the room.

But this time, something was different. He wasn’t wearing the imposing golden armor she’d seen him in before. Instead, he was dressed simply, in cloth, his demeanor calm and possibly more relaxed. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her features as she watched him warily.

The room was bathed in soft magical light, the stillness of late night pressing in around them.

“My apologies,” he said quietly, bowing his head slightly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone was softer than usual, and his arms hung loosely at his sides, making him appear almost... unthreatening. “I see Felassan disobeyed orders,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping across the garden.

Isera said nothing as she continued to watch him. Fen’harel looked… exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes were more pronounced than ever, and his shoulders sagged with the weight of something unspoken. She sighed, shaking her head slightly, and gently closed the book before standing.

“I can… leave,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quietly than she intended. Her voice faltered, uncertain, as she turned toward the door, her movements slow, as though she wasn’t quite sure if she meant it.

Before she could take another step, Fen’harel raised his arm, blocking her path. His head tilted as he shook his head. “That will not be necessary,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Isera hesitated, her gaze flickering up toward him, uncertainty tugging at her thoughts. She wanted to stay in the conservatory, but she still felt the sting of her lingering frustration from the night before. He hadn’t even apologized.

“It is late,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the door, unsure of what else to say.

He let his arm fall, the moment stretching out between them. “Then, good night,” he murmured, his tone subdued as he turned away and walked deeper into the atrium, his figure disappearing into the soft glow of the garden.

Isera nodded quietly, leaving the conservatory and heading back to her room without glancing back.

[vir-tanadahl]

The Melody Between Us

Formerly named A Night Out. A re-write of my 2015 fic fan. Fluff. Ellana Lavellan nervously asks Solas out on a date to a musical, sparking a night filled with tender glances, soft whispers, and unexpected warmth. As they navigate awkward moments and teasing interruptions, they begin to discover that sometimes, the quietest moments speak the loudest. Find it on Ao3!

It started innocently, just glances shared when no one was looking, brief touches that lingered a heartbeat too long. But then Ellana grew bolder, catching him off guard.

She brushed her fingers along his arm as she laughed, her eyes catching the light in a way that made his breath hitch. “What about a date?” she asked casually, though her gaze never wavered from his.

Solas blinked, the question catching him mid-thought. He hesitated, his words stumbling out. "Ellana, I—" He cleared his throat, retreating a step as if to put some distance between them.

Her smile faltered. With a soft huff, she crossed her arms, her lips—usually so quick to smile—now curving into a small pout. “Solas," she said, her voice gentle but insistent, "it’ll be fun. The musical’s gotten amazing reviews.”

She tilted her head, eyes searching his face. His silence spoke volumes, the hesitation written in the way his brow furrowed, despite his calm facade.

“You know,” she continued, a teasing edge to her tone, “the Fade might be fascinating, but you need to experience life. With living people.” She smiled again, but this time there was a challenge in her gaze, daring him to step out of his world and into hers.

Solas scoffed, a hint of indignation in his voice. “The spirits are living—”

Ellana cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand, her frown deepening. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she said, her tone softening. Her fingers moved to the back of her neck, a nervous habit, as her gaze flickered down. “I just… I want to spend more time with you,” she murmured, almost shyly. “To get to know you… and stuff.”

Solas sighed, the sharpness in his expression melting into something gentler. Her wisedome and thoughtfulness, unexpected from a Dalish, tugged at something deep within him. There was a thirst for knowledge in her, one he hadn't encountered since Arlathan. And beyond that, the way she viewed the world—thoughtful, questioning—aligned so closely with his own.

His gaze lingered on her eyes, those warm honeyed orbs that seemed to pull him in. Few possessed such a rare shade of amber, and yet, they revealed so much. He knew that indulging in this would only deepen the inevitable pain, but the words left his lips before he could stop them.

“Very well,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Her face lit up in response, the tension melting from her features, replaced by pure, unfiltered excitement. The joy that radiated from her smile chased away his usual melancholy, if only for a fleeting moment. He would allow himself this—just this.

“Then it’s settled,” he added, watching her eyes brighten as the nervousness faded entirely.

“Really?” The word slipped out before she could stop it, her voice tinged with surprise. Ellana’s eyes widened as the tips of her ears flushed a deep crimson. “I mean—good. That’s... great,” she stammered, her nervousness rushing back, tripping over her words as she searched for the right thing to say.

Solas’s lips curled into a quiet chuckle, his gaze never wavering from hers. He found her flustered state charming. “Ma vhenan,” he murmured, the word soft and familiar. What had once been a simple title now carried a warmth that wrapped around them both. “I will meet you in the Great Hall at the toll of the seventh bell. I assume I must dress accordingly for this event?”

Ellana’s attempt to gather herself faltered as she coughed awkwardly, her gaze darting away from his steady gray-blue eyes. “Yes... yes,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t hold his gaze—not for too long. His eyes were too intense, too knowing, as if he could peer into her very soul. That prolonged eye contact felt like a secret only they shared, something that left her breathless and exposed.

She stole another glance at him, her cheeks still burning, while Solas watched with that same quiet amusement, his presence grounding her even as her thoughts scattered.

Ellana stood in the shadowed hallway just off the Great Hall, her heart fluttering wildly against her ribs. She had arrived long before the seventh bell, unable to stand the waiting any longer. Pressing her back against the cold stone wall, she took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to calm the nervous energy that buzzed through her.

Weeks of planning had led to this night, though Solas had only just agreed. Josie had been a quiet co-conspirator, helping Ellana prepare every detail with the precision and secrecy the occasion demanded. The idea had taken root long ago, even before she had gathered the courage to ask him. She had enlisted Josie’s aid to design something truly special—a dress inspired by the remnants of ancient elven formal wear she had glimpsed in the Fade.

Her explorations, though, had only gotten her so far. Ellana's skills in the Fade were nothing compared to Solas’s mastery, and even under his mentorship, she had struggled to find what she sought. Still, she had managed to uncover fragments—enough to give Josie a starting point. Together, they had worked tirelessly, sketching the design in secret. A trusted tailor had been discreetly commissioned to bring their vision to life.

Now, as she smoothed her hands down the soft fabric of the dress, Ellana still wondered if she had done enough. The material felt foreign against her skin, elegant in a way she wasn’t sure she could carry. What had she found in the Fade? A noblewoman’s gown? A warrior’s ceremonial garb? She hadn’t been certain then, and even now, wearing the finished piece, she still wasn’t sure.

Only Josie knew of the dress’s existence—well, Josie and likely Leliana, who had a way of learning things without being told. But no one else. Not even Solas. Not yet.

Ellana closed her eyes and took another deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as the seventh bell loomed. Soon, she would see his reaction. Would he recognize the effort she’d made? Would he care? The questions swirled through her mind, but for now, she could only wait.

The dress was unlike anything Ellana had ever worn, crafted from lavender Dales loden wool that felt soft yet substantial against her skin. The fabric hugged her figure, its low-cut neckline baring her sternum, while a corset adorned with delicate silver detailing cinched her waist, flowing gracefully down to brush the floor. The sleeves, loose and flowing, parted to reveal glimpses of the soft, tan skin of her inner arms. Silver links, thick and intricately woven, fastened the fabric at her elbows and wrists, catching the light with every subtle movement.

Her feet, like those of most elves, remained bare, though her steps were far from unadorned. Barefoot sandals, designed by a jeweler in Val Royeaux, trailed over her second toe, wrapping her feet in delicate strands of diamonds that sparkled with each step. The gems wound their way up her foot, clasping around her ankle with a dark blue sapphire—oval-shaped and elegant—nestled just above the split where the sandal framed her slender leg.

The weight of the evening pressed against her chest, a mixture of anticipation and doubt. She smoothed her hands over the fabric, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked up the nerve to move. With a quiet breath, Ellana peered around the corner of the dimly lit hallway, her heart quickening. Was Solas already there?

Her eyes scanned the Great Hall, searching for his familiar figure. Each second felt stretched thin, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she waited for that first glimpse of him.

He was already there. The moment Ellana spotted him, her face flushed with warmth. Solas had shed his usual "apostate hobo outfit," as Dorian had once teased, and instead stood in something far more refined. A light green, high-collared robe, fastened with delicate clasps, draped elegantly over his frame. The fabric shimmered slightly, a kind of silk that caught the light, and a beige belt tied neatly at his waist. The robes parted just enough to reveal darker green breeches that clung to his calves, ending just above his bare feet. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning the room—searching for her.

Ellana swallowed, her nerves tightening the muscles in her chest as she stepped out from the shadows of the stairwell. The light of the Great Hall bathed her, and for a moment, she hesitated, her fists clenching at her sides. She made a soft sound, barely more than a whisper of her presence, but it was enough.

Solas turned.

The change in his expression was immediate. The faint smile he had worn vanished, replaced by something far deeper—a stunned silence. His gaze swept over her, lingering on every detail of her gown, her bare feet adorned in delicate jewels, her flushed cheeks. His hands dropped to his sides, forgotten, as if the simple act of holding them together had slipped his mind.

For once, Solas—so eloquent, so measured—was speechless.

Ellana’s heart raced. She could feel his eyes on her, and for a fleeting moment, all her nervousness melted away. She had hoped for this reaction, but seeing it play out in front of her stirred something deeper. In his silence, in the way his breath seemed to catch, she knew.

She had left him breathless.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until Ellana, feeling her heartbeat quicken, finally whispered, “Hi…” Her voice barely carried in the vastness of the Great Hall. She quickly broke eye contact, sure that her face was flushed as red as a freshly picked apple.

Solas continued to stare, as though caught in a dream. “Inquis—Lavel—” His words faltered, and he coughed softly, regaining his composure. “Ellana,” he finally whispered, her name falling from his lips like a secret meant only for her. His deep voice sent a shiver through her, ringing in her ears, grounding her and sending her pulse racing all at once. The prolonged silence made Ellana’s nerves spike, and panic rose in her chest. “If you don’t like—“

“Ma ir'ina'lan'ehn,” Solas interrupted, his voice soft but firm. “You are beautiful…” His words were laced with awe as he closed the distance between them, his hands gently reaching for hers.

Her breath caught, the world around them shrinking until only he remained. “Ma serannas,” she whispered, her fingers entwining with his, the warmth of his touch sending a calm through her that steadied her nerves. His hands, so careful and deliberate, lingered for a moment before he gently released them.

Solas's fingers found their way to her hair, running through the silky waves that fell over her shoulders, his touch light yet intimate. His gaze softened as he looked into her eyes, a tender smile curving his lips. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause, the connection between them palpable and unspoken.

With a graceful step back, Solas extended his arm to her, his confidence returning. “Shall we depart, ma vhenan?” he asked, his voice smooth and assured, though his eyes never left hers, as if entranced.

Ellana smiled, her heart fluttering again, and took his arm, feeling the strength and warmth beneath her fingertips. In that moment, everything else faded away—there was only them.

Unable to trust her voice, Ellana nodded softly, slipping her hand into the crook of Solas’s arm. His presence beside her was both comforting and overwhelming, and as they began walking together, she marveled at how effortless it seemed for him.

By the time they had taken their seats in the amphitheater, the quiet anticipation of the evening hung between them. Ellana's hand had slipped from his, not because she wanted to let go, but because of the persistent worry gnawing at her—her hands were clammy, slick with the nervousness she couldn’t shake. The last thing she wanted was for Solas to feel her unease and pull away. She stole a glance at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed her quiet withdrawal.

Solas, however, appeared entirely at ease. A small, content smile played on his lips as he observed the patrons filing in, the hum of conversation and rustling of seats filling the amphitheater. He seemed so natural in this setting, as though he belonged there, far removed from the weight of their shared burdens. Watching him, Ellana couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for him in the world before—when attending musical performances and gatherings like this had been as ordinary as breathing.

While Ellana’s heart raced with each passing moment, Solas remained steady, as if the centuries between his past and present had collapsed into one comfortable memory. His calm only heightened her nerves, making her acutely aware of every tiny tremor in her hands, every beat of her heart.

Suddenly, Ellana squealed, her voice cutting through the quiet of the amphitheater as she threw herself into Solas’s side, clutching his arm tightly. A stranger had unceremoniously plopped down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders with far too much familiarity. Her heart raced, and she stiffened, pressing closer to Solas for comfort.

Solas immediately turned, his mouth opening to confront the intruder. His posture stiffened, protective instincts flaring—until he caught sight of the man's face. The realization hit, and he grimaced.

Of course. Dorian Pavus.

The Tevinter mage sat with a grin that practically stretched across all of Thedas, entirely too pleased with himself. "I must say!" Dorian announced with mock drama, leaning back into his seat with all the nonchalance of someone who had been invited. "Our dearest Inquisitor and the elven apostate! What a pair!"

Solas narrowed his eyes at him, his jaw tightening in irritation. Just as he was about to offer a sharp retort, Ellana beat him to it.

“Dorian! What are you doing here?” she sputtered, her voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief as she hurriedly shrugged off the mage’s unwelcome arm.

Dorian’s grin only widened, clearly enjoying every second of the disruption. “I could ask the same of you, my friend,” he said, his tone light and teasing. His gaze darted between her and Solas, his eyebrow arching with curiosity and mischief.

Ellana hesitated, her grip tightening around Solas’s arm. “I-I’m…” she faltered, her face flushing crimson as she searched for an explanation, but the words wouldn’t come. The heat from Solas’s body only seemed to make her nerves worse.

Dorian, clearly relishing the sight of the two caught in public, wasn’t about to let the moment pass without escalating their discomfort.

“Dorian—” Solas began, his voice edged with irritation, but Dorian cut him off with a dramatic flourish. “Our elusive woodsman-apostate hobo, all cleaned up for our darling Inquisitor! I never thought I'd live to see this day!” he drawled, leaning in as if inspecting them more closely.

Ellana’s face flushed a deep crimson, her voice squeaking in protest. “Dorian, please!” she managed, mortified by the attention and unable to meet Solas’s eyes. She squeezed his arm even tighter, hoping Dorian would let them off the hook.

But the Tevinter mage was having too much fun. “Oh, alright,” Dorian sighed theatrically, throwing his hands in the air. “I suppose I’ll leave the lovebirds in peace!” He sprang from his seat with exaggerated flair, drawing far too much attention for Ellana’s liking. “I do have my own date to attend to, after all!” he added with a wink, flashing them a mischievous grin before sauntering away.

Both Ellana and Solas watched as Dorian strutted back up the aisle, taking his seat beside Iron Bull. The Qunari grinned widely and, with his usual exuberance, bellowed, “Hey, boss!” His enormous hand waved toward them, drawing more attention than Ellana would have liked, before he draped his arm casually over Dorian’s shoulder.

Ellana’s face flushed once more as the lights in the amphitheater began to dim, the gentle hum of the audience settling into their seats filling the air. She instinctively moved closer to Solas, leaning in until her lips were just inches from his ear. “Ir abelas,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin, sending a gentle shiver down his spine. “I didn’t know they were going to be here.”

Her voice, soft and laced with embarrassment, tickled his ear, causing a prickling sensation to spread along his skin. He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade into the background.

“It is quite alright, ma vhenan,” Solas murmured, his deep voice barely above a whisper as his eyes locked onto hers. Her honey-colored eyes shimmered in the dim light, and their proximity made his pulse quicken. She was so close—closer than she had ever been before. If he leaned in just a fraction more, their lips would meet

They remained locked in each other’s gaze, the world around them blurring and fading away. Time seemed to suspend itself, stretching the moment into something timeless and delicate. Neither of them moved, neither spoke—each breath felt shared, each heartbeat synchronized.

But the spell broke as the announcer’s voice rang out, addressing the audience. Ellana blinked, reality slipping back into focus. A shy smile tugged at her lips as she leaned closer, tentatively shifting until her shoulder brushed against his. Solas, responding almost instinctively, let his arm slip around her, his fingers gently settling on her shoulder.

Ellana’s breath hitched as his embrace drew her in. She relaxed, allowing her head to nestle into the curve of his neck, the warmth of his touch soothing her nerves. Solas’s hold was both protective and gentle, as if he were afraid that the moment might shatter if he moved too suddenly.

He let out a soft, contented sigh, and she felt it reverberate through his chest, the vibration soothing her like a lullaby. Slowly, Solas leaned his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes briefly as if savoring the simple closeness between them.

As the curtains rose and the first notes of the musical filled the amphitheater, the rest of the world faded once more. Whatever was happening on stage, neither of them noticed. Not fully. This—this quiet, unspoken intimacy—was the true performance of the evening.

[vir-tanadahl]

By the Dread Wolf's Destiny

Formally called Fate or Destiny. A re-writing of my 2015 fanfic. Fen’harel, newly awakened from his long slumber, encounters a bold, young Dalish mage along the Free Marches coastline, where she shares her people's stories of the Elven Empire's fall—unaware that she’s speaking to the Dread Wolf himself. Years later, fate reunites them when she becomes the Inquisitor, carrying the mark of the Dread Wolf. As they grow closer, Solas is torn between his original mission and the undeniable connection they share.

Fen’harel wandered the coastline of the Free Marches, his steps slow and deliberate, as if each grain of sand beneath his feet were a tether to this world. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, the cool spray of ocean mist touching his face like a ghostly caress. For a moment, the tension in his chest loosened, and he allowed himself to breathe in the peace of this unfamiliar shore.

A soft rustle disturbed the quiet—a gentle crunch of shifting sand. Too light for an adult, he thought, his ears pricking at the sound. He turned, scanning the shore behind him. His gaze landed on a small figure, crouched low near the rocks.

A young elf girl knelt beside a bird, her lips moving in quiet conversation with the creature. He couldn't catch her words over the constant rhythm of the waves, but there was an odd calm to the way she moved, as if the ocean itself had hushed to listen.

Her fingers fluttered in the air, mimicking the bird's sharp, jerky movements. Her feet shifted, following the creature’s steps with an eerie grace. Fen’harel's brow furrowed as he watched, his heart quickening. She was completely unaware of him, lost in her strange dance. Her movements, though odd, flowed with a natural rhythm, as though she were not just copying the bird but becoming part of it.

The wind caught her laugh—a bright sound that broke through the whispering waves. Before his eyes, the girl’s form shimmered, her figure twisting and folding in on itself. His eyes widened in disbelief as feathers sprouted from her arms, her feet rising off the ground in a sudden, effortless leap.

Where the girl had been, only the bird remained, wings beating against the salt-touched air, gliding away from the shore as if she had always belonged to the sky.

Fen’harel moved toward the shapeshifter, his footsteps quiet on the sand. The bird took off in a flutter of wings, disappearing into the blue horizon, but the girl remained. She bounced on the balls of her feet, her body still carrying the energy of the transformation. He paused a few paces away, observing her with an intense gaze.

“You’ve nearly mastered the form,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “But your eyes… they remain golden, not black.”

A soft glow enveloped the girl, spiraling around her like a warm breeze before her shape twisted and reformed. When the light faded, she stood before him again, the red vallaslin of Sylaise stark against her sun-kissed skin. Her golden eyes, bright and curious, met his with a hint of defiance, though she said nothing in response to his critique.

Fen’harel crouched down to her level, his head tilting as he studied her face. “Why are you marked like that?” he asked, his tone carrying a weight of ancient knowledge but laced with genuine curiosity. “To honor the gods,” she answered simply, her chin lifting slightly as if daring him to question her further. Her voice carried the firmness of belief, even pride. “And I have mastered the form,” she added with a sharp edge. “I choose to keep my eyes gold when I change.”

Her words struck him like a cold wind. For a moment, Fen’harel blinked, his shock barely concealed as he straightened. The girl’s unwavering stare—so bold, so sure of herself—left him momentarily at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected such control, such choice.

“I thought all elves knew about the vallaslin.” Her voice was light, but there was a hint of skepticism as she circled Fen’harel, her steps careful and curious. “Is that why your face is bare? Do you come from the city?” She paused, narrowing her eyes as she studied him with an almost unnerving intensity. “You don’t look like a city elf. You’re too... nice.”

She stated it matter-of-factly, as though it were a simple observation, but there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes as she walked around his crouched form. The way she moved—light on her feet, hands never still—reminded him of a wild creature, always observing, always ready to dart away.

“A city elf?” Fen’harel’s brow furrowed, confusion coloring his voice. His heart picked up its pace, thudding heavily against his chest as her words echoed in his mind. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken so freely to him, especially about the Dalish.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost wary.

The girl stopped in front of him, her golden eyes meeting his without hesitation. “A city elf is from the city, of course.” She sat down in the sand beside him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “They don’t follow the old ways. They’re not Dalish. But sometimes they come to find us, and when they do, we take them in. Teach them.”

As she spoke, small wisps of magic danced between her fingers, shimmering in the air like embers caught in the wind. She barely seemed to notice, her attention focused entirely on him. There was no malice in her tone, only curiosity, but her words made his chest tighten. She didn’t know who he was—didn’t know what he had done.

For now, she was simply a child, fascinated by the stranger with no vallaslin, and the magic in her hands hummed softly, like a lullaby in the breeze.

Fen’harel watched the girl’s hands dance with magic, the soft glow reflecting in his eyes. A smile tugged at his lips. Without hesitation, he sat beside her, his posture relaxed as though they were old friends sharing a quiet moment. “I can do that too,” he said, his voice gentle but teasing.

The girl’s eyes widened, a gleam of excitement flashing across her face. “You’re a mage?” she asked, her voice rising with wonder.

He nodded, his fingers now weaving through the air, mirroring her delicate spellwork. The magic between them pulsed softly, like ripples in a still pond, and her amazement was palpable.

“Did someone from the city teach you?” she asked, her words tumbling out before he could respond. “I heard you can’t do magic there. The Templars will find you and take you away!” She frowned, the joy from moments earlier fading slightly.

“It’s lonely being a mage in the clan, though. There are only two of us, not counting the Keeper.” Her words came in a rush, her small hands still idly conjuring sparks of magic. She rambled on, barely pausing for breath, talking about how much she disliked learning only elven culture. “I want to explore more, learn about everything!” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice as if revealing a grand secret. “Once, I even snuck into a Chantry—whatever that is—and took a book so I could read it.”

Fen’harel’s brow furrowed at her mention of Templars and the restrictions on magic. His fingers slowed, the glow fading from his hands.Templars? Forbidden magic? Why would there only be three mages in an entire clan? Shouldn't the People be more connected to magic, more alivewith it? And why did she call herself Dalish?

He glanced at the girl, her golden eyes now focused on the flicker of her conjured magic. He leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Why do only a few of you practice magic?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

The girl shrugged nonchalantly, as if the question was of little consequence. “I don’t know. That’s just the way it is.”

Her casual response unsettled him. Fen’harel’s mind raced with questions—about the Templars, the limitations on magic, and the strange divisions in this world he barely recognized. Yet, the girl spoke as if it were all perfectly normal, as if it had always been this way. The warmth of the magic between them faded as he struggled to comprehend how much had changed since the days of his people.

“We’re called the Dalish because we didn’t bow to the humans when they took back the Dales,” the girl said, her voice taking on a recitative tone as if reciting lessons long ago learned. “They broke their promise, and we’re the strongest bloodline left—ancient elves of Arlathan, I think.” She paused for a moment, glancing at him. “But not all elves have magic. Too many mages in one clan is dangerous, so we send new ones away to other clans or out into the wilds.”

Her words tumbled out quickly, but something in the cadence felt hollow, as though she had repeated this story more times than she could count. “The humans fear magic, so they lock up mages in a tower. They call it… a circle? Or maybe a sphere? I read it in a book somewhere.”

Fen’harel’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening at her nonchalant explanation. His thoughts swirled in confusion, disbelief, and anger. “Arlathan has… fallen?” His voice came out as a strained whisper, barely audible over the soft crash of the waves.

The girl, oblivious to the tremor in his tone, nodded without so much as a glance in his direction. “Yeah. Fen’harel locked the gods away, and when the humans attacked Arlathan, we couldn’t fight back. We prayed, but the gods never answered.” She spoke as if reciting a bedtime story, her gaze wandering off toward the horizon, completely unaware of the weight her words held for the stranger sitting beside her.

“The stories say the Dread Wolf hated us,” she continued with an almost disinterested shrug. “That he laughed when Arlathan fell. Most of us were sold into slavery, and the rest ended up in the Dales somehow. I don’t really remember how—some human gave us the land, I think.”

She paused, her gaze flickering down as if the weight of history lay just beyond the waves. “But then they stole it back,” she murmured, her voice softening for a brief moment. Her eyes hardened, though, and she straightened her posture, her chin lifting with the pride of her people. “That’s how we became the Dalish. We are the last Elvhen,” she declared, her voice growing firm, as though reciting a vow carved into her very bones.

“Never again shall we submit.”

The words slipped from her lips like an incantation, ingrained in her soul, spoken with the conviction of someone who had heard them countless times. She stood taller as she spoke, her small frame embodying the defiant spirit of generations before her. For a brief second, the playful curiosity in her golden eyes was replaced by something far older, a flicker of the ancient pride that coursed through her blood.

The wind caught the words, carrying them away into the vastness of the sea, but the fire behind them remained, etched in her every movement, every breath

Her casual tone pierced through Fen’harel like a blade. He stared at her, his mind reeling. ‘Laughed?’ His fingers curled into the sand, the weight of centuries pressing down on him. She spoke of his name, of the fall of Arlathan, as if it were just another story—something long past and irrelevant, stripped of the grief and the fire that had once defined his people.

He forced himself to remain still, his heart pounding against his ribs. His gaze lingered on the girl, her golden eyes still bright with curiosity but devoid of any understanding of the devastation she spoke of.

Fen’harel’s lips parted, but no words came. There was nothing to say. Not now.

Anger surged through Fen’harel like wildfire, his jaw clenched as he glared at the girl. The audacity of these Dalish—claiming to be the remnants of his people, yet blaming him for their downfall. His fists tightened at his sides, knuckles white against his skin. He hadn’t sealed the pantheon for pleasure, for some cruel joke. He had done it for the future of the Elven Empire, to save them from the folly of the gods.

“You blame the Dread Wolf?” His voice, once calm and steady, now cracked with fury. The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

The girl blinked, her expression clouded with confusion. But there was no fear in her gaze, no trembling beneath the weight of his anger. Instead, she looked up at him with wide, curious eyes, as though she couldn’t understand why he was so upset.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, her voice surprisingly light, as if she were explaining something trivial. “I’m only fourteen. That’s what the stories tell us. We don’t have much written down, just stories that are passed on by the Keepers. I’m sure things got added or changed to make it sound better… or something.” She gave a slight pout, her lips pressing together in thought, but the defiance in her posture never wavered. She didn’t question his anger, didn’t flinch beneath the storm brewing in his eyes.

Fen’harel’s rage simmered, the fire in his chest refusing to extinguish. ‘No written stories. Just twisted tales,’ he thought bitterly. The truth of the past had been warped, lost to time, leaving only fragments—fragments that painted him as the villain.

He took a slow, measured breath, forcing the anger to retreat into a cold, distant part of himself. “What is your name?” The question was sharp, cutting through the air like a command.

The girl glanced around, her attention drifting momentarily before her gaze returned to him. She grinned, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes. “I’m Ellana of Clan Lavellan,” she announced proudly, her grin widening. “What’s your name?” she asked, her tone almost teasing, as if she weren’t speaking to someone who had just glared at her with barely contained rage.

Fen’harel hesitated, his mind whirling. For a moment, he considered revealing himself, the truth simmering just beneath the surface. But then, with the ease of centuries spent hiding behind masks, he made his choice.

“Solas,” he said at last, the name rolling off his tongue. “My name is Solas.”

Ellana grinned again, entirely unaware of the weight of the name, of the past that lingered between them like a shadow. To her, he was just a stranger, a fellow mage. Nothing more. But to him, this moment was a bitter reminder of all that had been lost—and all that might still be reclaimed.

The sharp scrape of steel rang out, slicing through the air. Fen’harel’s muscles tensed, his ears catching the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. He turned, but before he could react, Ellana had already moved, her small frame stepping protectively in front of him.

“Get away from her, flat-ear.” The words dripped with venom, the voice commanding from behind them. A hunter, tall and imposing, stood with his sword pointed in their direction, eyes narrowed in disgust.

Ellana’s head whipped around, her golden eyes blazing with fury. “That’s not a kind thing to say!” she snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of indignation and defiance. She stood her ground, not budging an inch from Solas’s side, her hands balled into fists.

The hunter’s gaze hardened. “Get over here, da’len. The Keeper’s going to be cross with you.” His voice was thick with authority, though his grip on the sword wavered slightly as he pointed it toward the young girl.

Ellana shrugged, her posture as casual as her words. “The Keeper is always crossed with me,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. But she didn’t move. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest, the gesture stubborn and rebellious, as she glanced back at Solas. “Apologize to him,” she demanded, her chin lifting in defiance as she nodded toward the man at her side.

Solas couldn’t help but smirk, the child’s fierce determination and boldness momentarily distracting him from the tension coiling in his chest.

The hunter’s face flushed with anger, his grip on the sword tightening. “Dread Wolf take you, child!” he barked, his patience snapping as he lowered the blade, clearly exasperated. “Get over here this instant.”

But Ellana stood firm, her glare unyielding. “After you say you’re sorry!” she shot back, her voice rising with insistence.

Fen’harel, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, watched with growing amusement. A rebellious spark danced in the girl’s eyes, a fire he hadn’t seen in centuries. His lips curled into a faint smile, the weight of the hunter’s insult fading under the girl’s fierce determination refusing to let the hunter behavior go unaddressed. The hunter, flustered and uncertain, glanced between the girl and Solas. The sword now hung loosely at his side, and though anger still twisted his features, it was clear he wasn’t ready for this unexpected challenge.

The Dalish hunter let out a sharp hiss, his irritation barely contained. “Tel’abelas!” he spat, the words sharp and clipped, each syllable filled with bitterness. The phrase, meaning "I'm not sorry," was a subtle mockery, one he was certain the flat-ear beside the girl wouldn’t understand.

“There,” he added with a scowl, turning his glare toward Ellana. “Are you happy now, child?”

Ellana’s glare hardened, her face flushing red with frustration, her lips parting as if she was about to hurl a retort. But before she could speak, Solas smoothly stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. His presence was calm, but there was a quiet authority in his posture that silenced the tension around them.

“Era seranna-ma.” His voice was even, laced with a cool amusement. “Tel garas solasan, da’len.” He glanced at the hunter, his eyes gleaming with the faintest hint of a smirk. He tells the hunter to not from a place of pride. “You are not the only one who knows Elvish.” Solas continues.

The hunter’s face burned dark red, humiliation and anger mixing in his expression as he stood there, rigid. For a brief moment, he seemed frozen, the weight of his pride shattered by Solas’s quiet dominance. His jaw clenched, but he had no words left. With a final glare, he turned on his heel and stormed off, the sand shifting beneath his boots as he disappeared into the distance.

Ellana beamed, her golden eyes alight with mischief as she watched the hunter’s retreating form. Satisfaction radiated from her, a broad grin stretching across her face. She didn’t bother concealing it—why would she, after such a victory?

“Did you see that?” she whispered to Solas, excitement bubbling in her voice as she bounced on her toes. “He looked like he was about to explode!”

Solas’s lips curled into a faint smile, though his amusement was more subtle. “It would seem,” he replied softly, “that some lessons are best taught with patience.”

“That was funny,” Ellana snickered, her eyes still gleaming with mischief as the hunter disappeared into the thick woodlands. “But Kasim will be back. His ego is bigger than all of the Free Marches.” She sighed dramatically, pausing just long enough to shoot Solas a glance, her expression softening into something resembling a compliment. “Your Elvish isn’t all that bad, honestly… for a city elf.”

Fen’harel froze, the words sinking in like a stone dropped into still water. ‘Not bad?’ The disbelief surged through him, nearly bringing him to a halt. The audacity of this child—the Dread Wolf himself being told his Elvish was merely passable! He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the shock from showing on his face. But Ellana, blissfully unaware of the insult, continued speaking without missing a beat.

“There’s a clan to the west, Virnehn. If you’re looking to learn more about your history,” she added, her tone casual, as though she were offering directions to a wandering traveler and not speaking to a figure of legend.

‘Unbelievable.’ Fen’harel nodded slowly, forcing a small smile to his lips as he regained his composure.

Ellana’s face brightened, her earlier intensity melting into a warm, innocent smile. “Dareth shiral, Solas. I hope to meet you again. Go with Mythal’s blessing.” She waved enthusiastically, her energy boundless even in farewell.

“Dareth shiral, da’len,” he replied, his voice smooth, masking the tumult within as he gave her a respectful bow. As he turned westward, Fen’harel couldn’t help but marvel at her. Such confidence, such unintentional boldness. He shook his head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. ‘A city elf, indeed.’

Ellana stood watching Solas’s retreating figure, her gaze lingering on the rich fabric of his robes—too fine for any Dalish or city elf she had ever met. His long, brown locks swayed gently as he moved, vanishing into the shadows of the trees. She had no idea she had been speaking with the Dread Wolf himself.

Meanwhile, Fen’harel walked westward, the child’s words echoing in his mind. She spoke with such certainty about her people’s history—his people’s history—but it was all wrong. He moved with a purpose, his frustration simmering beneath the surface, a reminder that these elves were not the same as those he had once known.

Days passed, and when he finally reached the Virnehn clan, they welcomed him warmly, as though he were a simple traveler seeking shelter. For a brief moment, hope flickered in his chest. Perhaps here, he could help them understand the truth—reconnect them to the magic they had forgotten.

But when he spoke of his magic, of the ancient ways and the true history of the Elvhen, their warm smiles quickly faded. Eyes narrowed, whispers spread through the crowd, their once-kind expressions now twisted with suspicion.

“You speak nonsense,” one elder said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Hedge-mage, flat-ear—you have no place speaking of our history. You know nothing of the Dalish or the Elvhen.” Fen’harel’s temper flared, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. ’Hedge-mage? Flat-ear?’ The words stung, not for their insult, but for the ignorance behind them. His magic had once shaped worlds, and now, these elves dared mock him, casting him aside as if he were nothing.

He left without another word, anger burning in his chest. The elves of this time were shadows of what they once were, lost in their broken history. They could no longer see what he had done for them—what he had sacrificed.

As Fen’harel walked away, the familiar weight of loneliness pressed down on him, heavier with each step. ‘These are not my people,’ he thought bitterly, the words twisting like a dagger in his mind. The realization cut deeper than he cared to admit. ‘This is a nightmare.’

His chest tightened with the ache of disappointment, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. This was never what he intended when he sealed the Evanuris away. He hadn’t done it out of malice or cruelty—he had done it to protect them, to save the Elvhen from the false gods who sought to dominate their world.

But instead… instead, the People had been fractured, their memories twisted, their history shattered beyond recognition. He had become the antagonist of their stories, the villain in their legends. The Dread Wolf—cursed and reviled—was now nothing more than a shadowy figure of betrayal, whispered about with fear and contempt.

‘How had it come to this?’ He had sacrificed everything, sealed away the Evanuris to protect them, to give his people a chance to rise above the influence of false gods. Yet now, in their eyes, he was no savior. He was the one who had laughed as Arlathan fell, the betrayer who had doomed them to centuries of suffering.

Fen’harel’s hands curled into fists as the weight of their misunderstanding pressed down on him. He had become a twisted version of himself in their stories—a cautionary tale, an object of blame. The truth, buried under the weight of time, was a ghost no one remembered.

The wind rustled through the trees, but it offered no comfort, no solace. Fen’harel’s footsteps grew heavier, burdened not just by the clan’s refusal to learn about the true history, but by the weight of centuries that everything he had done to save his people caused them to crumble into ruin.

The wind rustled through the trees, but it offered no comfort, no solace. Each gust seemed to mock him, carrying with it the whispers of a history lost to time. Fen’harel’s footsteps grew heavier with every step, his shoulders bowed under the invisible weight of centuries. It wasn’t just the clan’s refusal to hear the truth that gnawed at him—it was the crushing realization that everything he had done to save his people had instead led them to ruin.

He had sought to protect them, to free them from the chains of false gods, but in doing so, he had unwittingly forged new shackles. His every decision, every sacrifice, had led to this fractured existence—where the People no longer remembered their true history, and worse, saw him as the architect of their suffering.

Fen’harel had never intended to see the girl again. She was just a brief flicker in the long stretch of his endless existence, a moment of curiosity in a world that had forgotten him. But Fate, with its cruel sense of irony, had other plans.

Nine years later, he found himself staring at the woman she had become. The girl with golden eyes, who once spoke so boldly of Dalish pride, now bore the mark of the Dread Wolf on her hand. The very symbol of his own legend. She was the one who had stepped out of the Fade—the Herald of Andraste, they called her.

He observed her from the shadows, his gaze fixed on the woman she had become. Time had etched maturity onto her features, but those golden eyes remained the same—curious, determined, and unyielding. His mind raced, memories of their brief encounter flooding back. Would she recognize him? The city elf who had shared a moment on the beach, who had spoken Elvish and matched her magic with ease.

But there was no time for hesitation. The mark on her hand pulsed with dangerous energy, threads of raw Fade magic intertwining with her very essence. If he did nothing, it would consume her. He could not allow that—not when so much depended on her survival.

He took a silent breath, steeling himself. Stepping from the shadows, he prepared to face her again, unsure of what she might remember, or what it would mean if she did.

‘She will die,’ the thought struck him with sudden clarity, his chest tightening under the weight of it. The magic, wild and untamed, was seeping through her veins like fire, each pulse burning brighter, fiercer. If left unchecked, it would consume her entirely. He could feel it, the raw energy coiling beneath her skin, threatening to unravel everything she was. And it was his doing—unintentionally, perhaps, but no less devastating.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t planned for this. Fen’harel had kept his distance, had avoided entangling himself in the lives of mortals again. Yet here he stood, on the precipice of intervening. ‘This was never the plan’

He needed Corypheus. The ancient darkspawn had been the key, the one meant to unlock the orb. But Fen’harel had miscalculated, blinded by his own designs. He hadn’t foreseen Corypheus’s twisted form of immortality, hadn’t known the creature would cling to life with such tenacity, returning again from death’s door.

And now this girl, this ‘Herald’, stood at the center of it all, the magic in her hand unraveling at an alarming rate. He hadn’t wanted to intervene, but now he had no choice. If she died, the consequences would be catastrophic—not just for her, but for his world he was still trying to save But now, Fate had twisted the threads of their lives together once more, and he could not ignore what she carried.

When they met again on the snowy mountainside near the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Solas introduced himself with the same quiet composure he always carried, but this time, after the dwarf—durgen’len—Varric. The cold air swirled around them, but it wasn’t the chill that sent a shiver down his spine.

Their eyes locked. In that instant, he saw the flicker of recognition in her gaze. She stared at him, her brows knitting together as she searched her memories, trying to place why his name and face felt so familiar. For a moment, he hoped that the years had buried the memory deep enough for it to fade entirely, but then her lips parted in a broad smile, brightening her entire face.

She had found the memory.

Excitement danced in her golden eyes. “Solas,” she said with a spark of joy, her breath visible in the crisp air. “You were the mage I met on the coast all those years ago!” The enthusiasm in her voice hadn’t changed, just like the eager curiosity that had sparked their conversation nearly a decade ago.

Fen’harel felt a strange mixture of surprise and unease. While he shouldn’t have been caught off guard—he had known this moment would come—her unshakable curiosity, her craving for knowledge, had not faded in the nine years since they last spoke. It was as if time had passed for him, but for her, little had changed. She asked him about the mark on her hand, the tear in the sky, and the rift that now threatened their world.

His heart clenched at the weight of her questions, at the innocent eagerness in her voice. She didn’t know the danger she was in, nor the truth about the power she carried. But it was the same inquisitive spark he had seen in her as a child—the same spark that drew him in now, just as it had back then.

He answered her questions calmly, masking the turmoil beneath his surface. The years had changed him, but she remained the same—relentless in her search for answers, unaware that she stood on the precipice of something far greater and far more dangerous than she could imagine.

Her flirtatious comments caught him off guard, like a breeze cutting through the cold air. Solas, ever composed, found himself faltering under her playful words, the glint in her eyes disarming him more than he’d care to admit. Despite his countless warnings to himself to keep his distance, to remain detached, he welcomed her attention. The subtle warmth in her voice, the teasing lilt—it all stirred something within him he had long tried to bury.

Her relentless craving for knowledge was intoxicating, her determination to understand both the mark on her hand and the mysteries of the Fade drawing him in like a moth to a flame. But it wasn’t just her mind that captured him. Her attempts to charm him, to weave herself into his affections, were becoming harder and harder to resist.

He knew better—he should know better. And yet, the draw was undeniable.

Was it fate or mere accident that had returned her to him, pulled her back into his life when he had spent centuries avoiding attachments? He didn’t know. But what he did know was that Ellana from Clan Lavellan was no longer just the girl he had met all those years ago. She was now his best chance at regaining the orb—the very key to everything he had planned.

Yet as he stood by her side, feeling the weight of her gaze and the subtle brush of her words, something in him hesitated. He had allowed himself to be drawn in by her curiosity and her charm, despite the warning echoes in his mind. There was no room for affection, no place for tenderness in the path he had chosen. And yet, with each shared glance, each playful remark, he found himself edging closer to something dangerous.

But the orb—his orb—was now within reach, and she was his best chance of reclaiming it. Everything hinged on her, on the choices she would make, and the path she would follow. He told himself that was all that mattered—his plan, his purpose. Yet, despite his better judgment, the spark of warmth he felt in her presence refused to be extinguished.

‘Perhaps that was just the price of fate,’ he mused, the thought lingering like a shadow at the edge of his mind. If he allowed himself to feel something, even in the midst of deception and manipulation, perhaps it was the cost of what he had set in motion. After all, he had sacrificed so much already.

He could never have prepared for the connection that would blossom between them. It was as if fate had woven their paths together, despite all his careful planning. Her boldness, her unrelenting curiosity, caught him off guard at every turn, and though he tried to remain distant, he found it enchanting. For someone like him—quiet, measured, used to walking through the world unnoticed—her fearlessness was both a shock and a balm.

She challenged him, not only with her questions but with her openness to learning about things long forgotten by her people. Her hunger for knowledge mirrored his own, and as she eagerly absorbed the old ways, the mysteries of the Fade, and the fragments of history he shared, he found himself drawn further into her orbit.

What began as calculated manipulation soon became something else entirely. Her interest wasn’t just in the magic or the power he held, but in him. Her interest in his studies, his thoughts, his views of the world. It grounded him in a way he hadn't expected, tethering him to this reality more deeply than he realized. She became a reflection of the world he had once fought to protect and is fighting to bring back, and with each passing day, he felt the weight of their connection grow.

The kiss in the Fade… it had taken him by surprise. Once again, her boldness left him unbalanced, her lips meeting his with a confidence that sent a jolt through him. In that brief, stolen moment, something deep inside him ignited—a desire he had long kept buried.

When she stepped back, a slight grin tugging at her lips, something stirred within him that he hadn’t felt in ages. Her touch, her audacity, had woken a part of him he thought long forgotten. Before he could even think, before the weight of his caution could press down, he reached out and pulled her back to him, his hands curling around her with a need he had not allowed himself to feel.

It was impulsive. Ill-considered. He shouldn’t have encouraged it. But in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. The boundaries he had carefully drawn between them, the warnings he had given himself—all of it crumbled as he gave in to the warmth of her presence, the softness of her kiss. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a hunger to be close to someone again, to be seen.

As their lips met once more, he knew this could only lead to ruin. He should have stopped. But he didn’t.

[vir-tanadahl]

As the Moon Rises

Chapter 5: The Colors of the Veil

I’m eagerly rewriting As the Moon Rises, which was originally written back in 2017, in anticipation of Dragon Age: Veilguard, channeling my excitement into refining the story. Summary: Isera Lavellan, at her mother’s behest, is sent to assist her twin brother, Banreas—the Inquisitor—in his mission to stop a force determined to bring about the world’s end. Together, they uncover long-buried secrets of their shared family history while Isera finds herself drawn to a mysterious non-Dalish elven mage whose knowledge of her heritage runs far deeper than she could have imagined. As the stakes rise, Isera must navigate this dangerous journey of discovery, where the past holds as much peril as the looming threats of the present. Solas x F!Lavellan.

[Ch1] [Ch2] [Ch3] [Ch4] [Ch5]

Skyhold was bustling in the weeks following their success at Adamant, the morale among the Inquisition at an all-time high. Yet, Isera remained mostly in her tower, harboring feelings of bitterness and anger. While she diligently assisted those who came to the healing center, she rarely ventured out unless absolutely needed. The lively celebrations felt distant to her, overshadowed by her internal struggles as she grappled with the complexities of her newfound abilities and her place within the group.

Banreas was too busy to visit her, consumed by the fallout of conscripting the Wardens. Nobles from both Ferelden and Orlais protested the decision, their fears of Corypheus's influence on the Grey Wardens echoing throughout the halls of Skyhold. Yet, Banreas remained steadfast in his choice, resolute in his belief that they needed the strength and experience of the Wardens to face the looming threats. Isera could sense his determination, even from a distance, but it did little to ease the bitterness that churned within her.

He shared that his decision was rooted in history—the Fifth Blight had begun in Ferelden, a country that had banned the Grey Wardens years prior and only allowed their return months before the Blight truly struck. Banreas emphasized the importance of learning from past mistakes, arguing that their unity was essential in the face of impending danger. Despite the protests from nobles, he was determined to ensure that the Wardens had a place in their fight against Corypheus, believing that their experience could make all the difference.

He had argued that, for the sake of safety regarding future Blights, banning the Wardens from Orlais could lead to long-term consequences once this fight was over. At least, that was what she overheard from the soldiers during their stops at the clinic. Whispers of his reasoning circulated among the ranks, and while some agreed with his perspective, others remained skeptical, the tension palpable as they discussed the implications of such a decision.

There was always dissent to be had, however. Additionally, rumors circulated that the Inquisition would be invited to the Winter Palace. This was a critical moment to demonstrate that the Inquisition held not only power in numbers but also significant influence. As whispers of their upcoming presence at the palace spread, Isera could sense the gravity of the situation, knowing that this opportunity could shape their future in the political landscape of Thedas.

Isera was surprised when Solas entered the clinic, his presence a soft disturbance in the otherwise quiet space. She lay on the second level, still in bed, listening as he moved around below her. The sound of glasses clinking together filled the air as he picked them up and set them down, a rhythmic melody that echoed softly against the walls. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing, a mix of curiosity and intrigue sparking within her as she listened.

He called up to her, but when he received no response, he slowly made his way up the stairs. Each creak of the steps resonated in the quiet space, causing Isera’s body to stiffen with anxiety. The sound seemed to amplify her unease, heightening her awareness of his approach as she braced herself for their impending conversation.

Isera pulled the blankets over her head, hoping to successfully hide the disheveled mess of her bed and make it seem as if she wasn’t there at all. She knew she should feel embarrassed or ashamed; it was well into the afternoon. Yet, an unsettling emptiness enveloped her instead. She didn’t feel anything—not the shame she expected, nor the embarrassment of being caught in such a state.

“I can see the blankets moving,” Solas called, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. Isera felt a flush of embarrassment creep in despite her earlier numbness. She held her breath, hoping he would simply leave her be, but the teasing nature of his words left her no choice but to confront the reality of being discovered.

“It’s a ghost,” Isera replied, her voice hoarse from disuse. The playful deflection served as a shield against her embarrassment, a small attempt to lighten the mood despite her earlier discomfort. “Clearly there is a solid form,” Solas replied, his tone amused but steady. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“No, just a shell it seems,” Isera replied, feeling exposed as the blankets were suddenly pulled from her face. Solas stared at her, his expression unreadable, leaving her unsure whether it was pity or indifference. “You’re upset,” he stated, the softness in his voice betraying a concern that clashed with his earlier teasing.

“No. Being upset implies feeling. I’m not feeling anything,” Isera replied, her voice steady but hollow. The admission hung in the air between them, a stark acknowledgment of her emotional numbness. She met Solas’s gaze, hoping to convey the depth of her disconnect, even as the chaos of the outside world pressed in around them.

He sighed loudly, a mix of frustration and empathy in his voice. “You are upset because you experienced something you thought would no longer bother you. Yet, you had a taste of it only to have it cruelly taken away.” His words resonated in the quiet space, laying bare the reality of her feelings and the pain of loss that lingered beneath her calm facade.

“Really, do your elven eyes see that?” Isera shot back, her tone laced with sarcasm. She crossed her arms defensively, unwilling to fully confront the vulnerability he was trying to unearth. Despite the jest, a flicker of curiosity about his perspective tugged at her, but she pushed it aside, determined to maintain her bravado.

“Do you always deflect with humor or sarcasm?” Solas bristled at her words, his tone shifting slightly. There was a sharpness to his gaze as he regarded her, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air. Isera felt the heat of his scrutiny, realizing that her defenses might not be enough to mask her true feelings.

“Clearly. It’s a running theme,” she retorted, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. Her tone was sharp, a mix of defiance and humor as she stood her ground. Isera met his gaze with an unwavering look, determined to maintain her armor of sarcasm despite the vulnerability underneath.

“An exhausting one,’”Solas replied, his expression softening slightly as he regarded her. The hint of concern in his voice was unmistakable, as if he understood the weight of her sarcasm. He studied her, contemplating whether she would let her walls down or continue to hide behind her humor.

“Why are you here?” she asked, shifting the topic abruptly, her curiosity overriding her discomfort. She remained unmoving on her bed, a hesitant barrier between her and the world outside. The change in conversation offered her a momentary escape from the vulnerability they had been navigating.

“The Inquisitor is unable to break away from the nobles. Those in the inner circle who have gotten to know you are worried,” he explained, his tone carrying an unexpected sincerity. The weight of his words hung in the air.

“Yes, and why are you here?” Isera pressed, her curiosity piqued despite her earlier reluctance. She regarded him with a mixture of wariness and interest, eager to understand what had drawn him to her in this moment of vulnerability.

He seemed unimpressed with her attitude. “They have requested my assistance,” he replied, a hint of frustration in his voice. His gaze remained steady, undeterred by her deflection, as he made it clear that his presence was not merely a matter of choice but a response to a greater need.

“Well, you assisted. You can leave now,” she said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. The words were light, but there was an underlying sharpness to her tone, a clear indication that she wanted him to respect her space. Isera met his gaze with a challenging look, unwilling to let him linger any longer than necessary.

“I am afraid not,” Solas replied, his expression unyielding. There was a quiet determination in his voice, a refusal to back down in the face of her dismissal. He stepped closer, bridging the gap between them, his presence a reminder that he wouldn’t be easily dismissed. 

Isera let out a loud, whiny noise, exasperation bubbling to the surface. “Let me fall into the void in peace!” she exclaimed, her tone half-joking but laced with genuine weariness. The weight of her emotions pressed down on her, and she longed for the solitude that seemed just out of reach.

“You’re depressed,” Solas stated, his voice steady but tinged with concern. The simplicity of his observation cut through her defenses, forcing Isera to confront the reality she had been trying to avoid. She met his gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

“Yes, that’s why it’s called the void,” Isera shot back, her tone laced with sarcasm. She leaned back against her pillows, crossing her arms defiantly. The bitterness in her words masked the vulnerability she felt, as she fought to maintain her emotional distance from him."

"Get. Up," Solas demanded, his voice remaining soft yet firm. As he released the magic, it catapulted Isera out of her bed, the force of it startling her. She landed on her feet, slightly disoriented but compelled to meet his gaze, the urgency of his tone cutting through her lethargy.

Isera screamed, her eyes wide with disbelief. ‘Seriously? What if I was naked?’ she exclaimed, the embarrassment flooding her cheeks as she quickly glanced down, instinctively pulling the blankets around her. The suddenness of his command left her reeling, and she shot him a glare, torn between irritation and the remnants of her surprise.

“Then you’d be even more embarrassed,” Solas replied, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. His tone remained calm and steady, but there was an undeniable spark of mischief in his words. Isera couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his teasing, even as she felt the heat of embarrassment linger.

Isera clucked dismissively. “As if. My ass looks great clothed or unclothed.” Solas sighed loudly, clearly unamused, before making his way down into the clinic. Isera glanced at her reflection, noting her matted and flat hair from the lack of care. Quickly, she gathered it into a bun, hoping to create at least the appearance of being put together as she prepared to face the day ahead.

After changing into a clean mage robe, Isera made her way downstairs, her heart racing slightly with anticipation. Solas was still waiting, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. The air between them felt charged, and she steeled herself for whatever conversation awaited her as she stepped into the clinic.

Solas directed her to follow, and she complied, her heart quickening with each step they took down the stairs and toward the garden. As they walked, Isera's anxiety intensified, the unfamiliarity of the situation gnawing at her. “Where are we going?” she asked, a hint of apprehension creeping into her voice as she glanced up at him.

“You will see,” Solas answered, his expression unmoving as he led her forward. Isera sighed louder than before, a mix of frustration and curiosity bubbling beneath the surface. He guided her into one of the prayer rooms used by members of the Chantry. She wanted to make a remark about the solemnity of the space but restrained herself.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed gently. Isera complied, feeling a mix of anticipation and curiosity. He took her hands, pulling her into the room with a firm yet reassuring grip. “Stand here,” he told her, and she obeyed, sensing the space around her shift. She listened as he stepped back, the quiet settling in. “Open,” he commanded softly.

As Isera opened her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of walls adorned with the enchanted paint she had first seen weeks ago. One side depicted a lush, green forest, with crystals cascading down like glimmering raindrops between the leaves, creating an ethereal atmosphere. The other side showcased the members of the inner circle, their figures painted with intricate detail, each representing a unique aspect of their strength and unity.

“Cole shared that you missed seeing the forest and desired to see what the members of the Inquisition looked like,” Solas told her, standing at a distance and observing her as she moved around the room. Isera took in the vibrant colors and details of the artwork, feeling a sense of wonder wash over her. Each brushstroke seemed to breathe life into the space, inviting her to connect with the essence of her companions.

“I didn’t tell him that,” she whispered, approaching the mural of the inner circle. Her fingers traced the outlines of the painted figures, each one representing a vital piece of their collective strength. “No, Cole… is different. He is a spirit that took the form of a human. As such, he possesses abilities that a spirit does,” Solas explained, his voice steady. He watched her closely, noting the way she absorbed the details of the mural, a mix of curiosity and contemplation on her face.

“That’s why he looks different. He shimmers. He’s not actually human,” she responded, her gaze still captivated by the art before her. The vibrant colors and intricate details drew her in, making her momentarily forget the weight of their conversation. As she studied the mural, she felt a connection to the figures depicted, each representing a part of the Inquisition she was still getting to know.

“It seems that whatever magical effect has caused you to lose what most would consider vision allows you to see magical enchantments elsewhere,” Solas said, his voice soft and thoughtful. “As such, Varric asked me to see about enchanting the words of his books. Will you tell me if it works?”

Isera turned to look at him, her curiosity piqued. He was holding a small leather-bound book in his hand, its cover embossed with intricate designs. Isera felt a flicker of fear at the thought of touching it. She could see the enchantment shimmering between the pages, an alluring dance of light. As she stared at the cover, her eyes began to water, the weight of her emotions swelling as she traced the binding with her fingers.

After a minute, she steeled herself and began to open the book. Instead of the blank, gray pages she expected, she was met with shining black letters that glimmered as if alive. The sight filled her with wonder, each word pulsing with the magic that had transformed the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Hard in Hightown by Varric Tethras

Chapter One

They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who’s walked the patrol of Hightown Market at midnight might disagree…

Tears rolled down her cheeks as Isera held her breath, desperately trying to contain the wave of emotions threatening to burst forth. As she focused on the book, she felt the Veil pressing against her, the familiar sensation that allowed her to perceive things beyond the ordinary. If the Veil could touch it, she could see it.

However, books posed a challenge; the words were flat against the pages, and the Veil couldn’t differentiate between them. It failed to recognize colors unless they possessed magical properties. The Veil moved through gradients of gray, never truly black and never truly white, leaving Isera to navigate a world viewed through a grayscale lens. It was only when she encountered enchanted objects that shimmered with vibrant colors that she felt a glimmer of hope, a reminder of the beauty that lay just beyond her reach.

“Does it…? We can try again,” Solas said, stepping closer and lowering himself to one knee, concern evident in his voice. “Dorian had another idea if this one failed.” He reached for the book, intending to take it from her, but Isera refused to let it go. Her grip tightened as she clung to the book, her tears still falling silently, her determination unyielding. This moment meant more to her than words could express.

“Solas,” she hiccupped, a smile breaking through the tears as she quickly wiped her cheeks dry. “It works. I can see the words.” It was hard for her to speak; her chest felt heavy with a mix of joy and disbelief. “I wasn’t expecting any of this.” She gestured around at the murals, the vibrant art reflecting the magic in the room. “But I can’t read. Not novels.” A soft, pathetic giggle escaped her, the sound both light and tinged with embarrassment as she tried to process the overwhelming experience.

“I was six when I lost my vision. I can read spell books when they are enchanted, runes, and basic sentences to understand spells, but… not this…” Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she spoke, the weight of her limitations settling heavily on her. The contrast between her newfound ability to see the words and her inability to fully engage with them left her feeling frustrated and vulnerable.

She couldn’t look him in the eye; the embarrassment was overwhelming. She felt the heat radiating from her cheeks, a flush of warmth that only intensified her discomfort. As her emotions swirled, she noticed her nose beginning to clog, making it harder to breathe. Isera turned her gaze to the floor, feeling vulnerable under Solas's steady observation.

He moved to sit near her, his presence calm and reassuring. “There is a natural rectification for that. I will enchant more books that you can practice from. There is no reason to be ashamed. You have demonstrated that you are a powerful mage. You have trained your will to control magic and withstand possession. The same indomitable focus used for that can be utilized for this skill.’ His words resonated with passion and conviction, and Isera could see that he genuinely believed in her ability to master this new challenge."

Isera chuckled softly, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. ‘Indomitable focus?’ she echoed, raising an eyebrow. The phrase felt grandiose in the face of her uncertainty, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes. Despite her earlier embarrassment, Solas's encouragement stirred something within her—a flicker of hope amidst her doubts.

“Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating,” Solas replied, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, as if he found the idea both intriguing and amusing. Isera couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm, feeling the tension in the air lighten just a bit.

And for once, Isera had no retort for him, the playful banter slipping away. He offered a slight smirk before beginning to describe each member depicted in the mural, detailing who contributed what to its creation. As he spoke, Isera felt a warmth bloom within her; for the first time in her life, she felt completely included in something she had not expected. The sense of belonging wrapped around her like a comforting cloak, and she listened intently, absorbing every word.

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

This is the final update before Veilguard releases tomorrow! Our ten year wait is finally over! While this chapter does not have any Veilguard spoilers (all information has come from information, conversations, or codex entries from DAI and Trespasser), future chapters might include lore from Veilguard! If that is the case, I will give you a warning at the start of the chapter! :)

Chapter 27: The Shattered Heritage

Since uncovering her memories, Isera had grown more introspective, lost in the tangled threads of her past. She knows the memories are hers, but they feel distant, almost like stories that happened to someone else. There’s a strange detachment to them, as though she’s observing a stranger’s life rather than her own and certain fragments trouble her deeply, lingering at the edges of her mind.

First, where had her mother been when the Seers performed their ritual to block her memory and magic? The absence feels glaring, as though something important is missing from the scene. And then, there is the memory of the explosion—the one that had shaped so much of her life. It feels... off, like a painting with colors just slightly out of place. It wasn’t merely suppressed; it feels as if the memory itself had been altered, reshaped into something different. But by whom, and for what purpose?

Questions swirl in her mind, haunting her each time she replays the memories. Why would someone manipulate that specific moment with the statue, and why did they manipulate it to be a forest she wandered off in? The temple’s architecture—she can’t recall ever visiting a place like it, not in her childhood or any time after.

Then there’s the question of the Seers themselves. How did they even manage to suppress her memories and magic? From everything she knows, the Seers were not truly magic-wielders—not in the way she understands it now.

Magic in her time feels nearly impossible, a forgotten myth. So how could the Seers have accessed enough power to seal away her connection to the Fade? And if they somehow did, what else might be hidden, buried beneath the surface of her time?

These thoughts spiral, leading to even more questions, each one unsettling. ‘If magic still exists in her world but is suppressed, locked away—why?’ Who would be powerful enough to hide it, and for what purpose? She feels as though she’s glimpsing only fragments of a much larger, concealed truth, and the weight of it presses down on her.

An image of Solas flickers in her mind bringing with it the old Dalish tales. ‘Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf,’ the trickster who deceived both the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones. His cunning led him to trap them all, the Evanuris sealed away in the Fade, the Forgotten Ones banished to the Void.

The thought lingers, heavy and unsettling, weaving itself into her other questions. For a brief moment, she wonders—'what if there’s truth to these stories?’ 

But she quickly shakes the thought from her mind. Yet, as she tries to push it away, the image of Fen’Harel remains, haunting her with the possibility of truth buried within the stories she once dismissed.

Isera walked slow, thoughtful laps through the garden, her mind adrift as memories surfaced and faded. She paused, grounding herself in the feel of the cool grass beneath her feet, the earthy scent of flowers mingling with the soft rustle of leaves around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing it in, savoring the calm before her thoughts pulled her back in.

There had been something almost...freeing about seeing her younger self in those memories—moving so easily among the spirits, her face unguarded, her heart open, unburdened by fear or hesitation. The ease with which her younger self embraced the spirits left a bittersweet feeling blooming within her; she longed for that innocence, that confidence, as if they were treasures lost in the shadows of her past.

The more Isera reflects on her connection to the Fade and the spirits, the stronger her resolve becomes to reclaim and fully understand it and to wield it with the same freedom she glimpsed in her younger self. Finally, she turns back toward the fortress, her path clear in her mind as she makes her way to Solas’s private library.

He had given her unrestricted access to study there whenever she wished, a privilege she treasured. Within those walls, surrounded by ancient tomes and magical texts, she felt an unspoken encouragement to dive deeper into her craft, to experiment, to learn.

Once inside, she immerses herself in the creation of wards, finding an unexpected joy in the process. Crafting wards felt like creating and solving puzzles of her own design—each one could be as simple or intricate as she desired. Some wards succeeded, forming shields or barriers as intended, while others failed.

One ward in particular, meant to repel attackers by forming a protective shield, had an unexpected outcome. Instead of pushing away, it drew inward, creating an almost magnetic pull. Confused, Isera examined the glyphs and runes, trying to understand where she went wrong.

After a moment of studying her notes, she realized her mistake: one of the critical runes was inscribed in reverse, inadvertently creating an attraction effect rather than a repulsion. With each attempt, successful or not, her confidence grew. She could feel her connection to the Fade sharpening, becoming something she could understand.

Isera began to feel a profound connection with the Fade, as though it were a living presence intertwined with her own being and the world around her. The more she practiced, the more her confidence blossomed, each successful spell reinforcing her bond with the realm of spirits. Magic started to feel like a natural extension of herself, an effortless flow that grew stronger with each moment she spent immersed in her studies.

She could feel the presence of spirits now with increasing clarity, their energies faint yet unmistakable, like distant melodies calling from the depths of the Fade. This connection felt so intrinsic, so undeniable, that the Fade became as essential to her as breathing.

The door to the library creaks open softly, breaking the quiet with a faint squeak as Felassan steps inside. “Ah, there you are,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the scattered papers and sketches that litter the table around her—drawings of wards in various stages, some meticulously detailed, others scribbled over in frustration.

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You do certainly enjoy making wards,” he remarks, stepping closer to peer at her work. His tone is teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes as he studies the array of designs she’s created.

Isera glances up at him with a smile. “They’re fun,” she says with a shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Felassan chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, well, I think you’re in a rare minority. Most would beg to differ.” His tone is light, teasing, and Isera rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation.

“Let’s see if you can bring that enthusiasm to practicing your offensive magic.” He gestures toward the door, his expression turning slightly more serious. “The wards may keep things at bay, but offense has its own merits.”

Isera groans, “But I’m not good at it.” She begins gathering the scattered papers, reluctantly tidying up despite her protest.

Felassan shrugs, unfazed. “All the more reason to practice,��� he replies, crossing his arms as he waits patiently, a knowing look in his eyes.

Once she’s done, they start down the corridor, heading toward the familiar garden where she’s been honing her skills. But as they walk, Isera feels a shift in the air—an underlying tension she can’t ignore. There are more guards and soldiers than usual, their movements brisk and purposeful. The atmosphere feels heavier, charged with an unspoken urgency.

She glances up at Felassan, her brows knitting together with concern. “What’s going on?” she whispers.

Felassan’s expression darkens slightly, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “Movements of war,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a weight that silences any further questions. The words linger between them, pressing down like a shadow over their path as they continue toward the garden.

Isera lowers her gaze, the weight of Felassan’s words settling heavily in her mind. ‘Movements of war.’ The seriousness of the situation feels like a shadow stretching over her thoughts as they make their way to the garden in silence.

Once there, Felassan begins instructing her, his tone steady but his gaze distant. “Let’s focus on elemental abilities,” he says, gesturing toward a row of practice dummies lined up before her. “Each element has its strengths; see if you can find yours.”

Isera takes a deep breath and steadies herself, casting her first spell. The flame sputters, barely reaching the dummy, but she tries again, frustration and determination mingling as she works through each element. Fire, ice, lightning—she stumbles, but eventually, with each attempt, manages to strike the dummy with enough force to hit her target.

Felassan observes her progress with a slight nod, instructing her to keep practicing. Just as she refocuses, two more soldiers enter the garden, their faces set with grim determination. They approach Felassan, casting quick glances toward Isera as if appraising her or perhaps assessing the scene.

Felassan steps aside to speak with them, his expression hardening as he listens. Isera, glancing over between spells, senses the gravity of their conversation. The soldiers’ voices are low, their words muffled by the rustle of leaves and the sound of her own casting. She attempts to concentrate on her spells, but her gaze flickers to Felassan and the soldiers.

The air thickens with tension, each glance from the soldiers landing on her like a silent question. Their presence is heavy, and Isera feels it prickling at the edges of her focus, disrupting her attempts at casting. She stops, her attention drawn to fragments of their hushed conversation, catching only bits and pieces.

Unable to ignore her curiosity, she turns toward them, stepping closer, her gaze fixed on Felassan. His expression is grim, his voice carrying a note of bitterness she’s rarely heard from him.

“Ghilan’nain fancies herself a Creator,” he says to one of the soldiers, his tone laced with open disdain, “but I doubt she’s ever considered the true cost.”

The words hang in the air, weighted with an unspoken accusation, and Isera senses the darkness behind them. She watches Felassan’s expression closely, a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes before his face becomes impassive once more. The soldiers exchange glances, the tension palpable as Felassan’s words sink in.

Felassan glances over his shoulder, his gaze landing on Isera, unreadable yet sharp. Then, with a slight turn, he addresses the soldiers. “Dismissed.”

The two soldiers snap to attention, their respect evident in their posture. “General,” they reply in unison, giving a crisp nod before turning on their heels and departing, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Isera watches them go, her mind racing as she turns back to Felassan, confusion etched on her face. ‘Ghilan’nain?’ She recalls the stories she grew up with, the lore that has always been part of her heritage. Ghilan’nain, revered by the Dalish as one of the People before being elevated to the ranks of the Evanuris. She was known as a huntress, a chosen of Andruil, the goddess of the hunt. The Dalish call to her for guidance on their journeys, for safe travels, to help them find their way home.

Felassan’s words linger in Isera’s mind, their tone sharp with a disdain that feels at odds with the reverence she grew up hearing in stories of Ghilan’nain. It’s as if there’s a darkness to Ghilan’nain’s story, something hidden that defies the familiar tales of the huntress, the guide, the protector.

“What did you mean?” she asks, her voice edged with cautious curiosity.

Felassan’s expression hardens, a frown creasing his brow as he meets her gaze. “About Ghilan’nain?” he repeats, his tone guarded.

Isera nods slowly, her gaze fixed on Felassan, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Yes,” she replies softly, her voice urging him to continue.

Felassan’s expression turns somber, a shadow crossing his face as he begins. “Ghilan’nain has always had a taste for creation,” he says, his tone laced with a subtle bitterness. “Experimentation, reshaping life… creatures of all kinds. Giants, monsters, and beasts that once roamed sky, water, and earth alike.”

He pauses, the weight of his words settling in the air between them, and a flicker of something darker crosses his gaze. “But it wasn’t always so,” he continues, almost reluctantly. “The halla… they’re pretty, graceful even,” he adds, his voice softening, as if remembering a kinder legacy from her creations.

Isera’s brows knit together, trying to reconcile this image of Ghilan’nain with the revered figure she’d always known. The halla, sacred symbols to her people, contrasted starkly with the image of monsters and twisted creations that Felassan’s words conjured.

“I don’t understand,” Isera says, her voice trembling as she struggles to piece it together. “I thought the war was against the false gods?”

Her question hangs in the air, laced with a hint of disbelief. Felassan watches her, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he considers her words. “Yes,” he replies slowly, as if uncertain what part confuses her. “It is.”

He studies her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though trying to understand the reason behind her distress.

“Like… people pretending to be the actual gods?” Isera presses, her heartbeat quickening as she tries to grasp the full meaning.

Felassan’s confusion deepens, disbelief flickering across his face as he studies her. “They liken themselves to gods,” he replies, his tone edged with frustration, as if the answer should be obvious.

Isera’s brow furrows, a hint of urgency in her voice as she clarifies, “But… do they liken themselves to the actual gods?” She stresses the word, her mind racing.

Felassan’s eyes narrow slightly, his response coming slowly, deliberately. “To godhood, yes,” he answers, as if every word carries a weight of its own.

Isera’s mind reels, the implications crashing over her like waves. Could it be true? Could the elven history she’d known and cherished—the stories passed down through generations of Dalish—be wrong? The thought shakes her, unraveling the very foundation of the tales she grew up with, stories that painted the supposed gods as powerful, ancient beings beyond question.

Though she wasn’t raised within a Dalish clan, the legends had always been part of her, woven into the fabric of her heritage. To question them now felt as though she were questioning herself. ‘What if those so-called gods were never gods at all?’

“But… are they misrepresenting actual gods?” Isera asks again, her voice laced with uncertainty as a heavy pit forms in her stomach. The question feels strange on her tongue, as if she’s challenging truths that have always been unshakable.

Felassan turns to face her fully, his gaze narrowing, a hint of impatience flickering across his face. He tilts his head, studying her with a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You’re not usually this dense,” he murmurs, a sharp edge to his words. He lets the statement hang for a moment before continuing, his voice flat but intense. “No. They are not misrepresenting ‘actual’ gods. They want to be gods—and they’ve done much, sacrificed much, in pursuit of that power.”

His words settle heavily between them, and Isera feels a chill run through her. This was no mere misunderstanding; it was a twisted ambition, a hunger that had driven them to unimaginable lengths.

Isera’s hand rises to cover her mouth, her mind racing as she tries to process what Felassan is revealing. Memories flicker through her mind—moments when Solas had shown her glimpses of the past, the images of elven lives sacrificed in Andruil’s name. She had watched, horrified yet certain there had been some misunderstanding, that someone had twisted Andruil’s teachings to justify bloodshed.

But now, the truth begins to settle heavily over her, cold and unrelenting. She had been wrong.

‘It wasn’t someone misrepresenting Andruil,’ she realizes, her heart pounding. ‘It was Andruil herself who demanded those sacrifices, who sought power at the cost of her own people’s lives.’

The weight of her misinterpretation presses down on her, and she feels a chill spreading through her chest. The gods the elven people revered in her time, whose tales had inspired generations, were not gods at all—they were dangerous.

A coldness seeps through Isera’s body as the realization settles, her stomach twisting painfully. Without a word, she brushes past Felassan, her movements slow and unsteady, as though moving through a thick fog. The shock grips her so tightly that his voice barely registers as he calls after her.

Her mind races, her hands beginning to tremble as she walks, almost in a daze. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of her newfound understanding pressing down on her. The truths she had taken as pillars of her heritage now feel shattered, leaving her hollow and unsettled.

Still in a daze, Isera wanders through the fortress, her thoughts too jumbled to piece together any coherent question or plan. She’s barely aware of where she’s going, her feet moving of their own accord until she finds herself in an unfamiliar wing of the fortress. She stops in front of a heavy door guarded by two spectral figures, their eyes shifting to her as she approaches. Across the hall, she pauses, hearing faint echoes of Solas’s voice mingled with others behind the door.

Her mind feels blank, fragments of her discovery slipping through her fingers as she tries to make sense of it all. She has no idea how long she’s been waiting when, finally, the door swings open, and two armored figures step out. They exchange a startled glance at the sight of her but say nothing as they pass, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Inside, Solas stands, his expression momentarily softening with concern as he sees her. He studies her carefully, confusion flashing in his eyes before he gestures for her to enter. She follows him inside, her senses sharpening as she realizes she’s stepped into a war room. Maps and markers cover the table, symbols and plans she doesn’t understand—but she recognizes enough to know their gravity. Without a word, Solas guides her to a small sofa set apart from the war table, allowing her a quiet space to collect herself.

He sits across from her, his gaze steady, but after a moment, he breaks the silence. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice gentle but probing.

Isera inhales deeply, glancing around the room as if hoping it might somehow anchor her scattered thoughts. Her gaze lands on the war table once more, and she rises, drawn to it, her eyes tracing the various pieces and symbols. She doesn’t know what most of it means, but she can pick out the markers representing the gods—no, the false gods. She hesitates, her hand reaching out to one of the figurines. Solas watches her, tense but silent, his eyes following her every movement as she picks up one of the pieces, her fingers brushing over its surface.

The weight of it feels strange in her hand. She takes another steadying breath, the question forming on her lips almost without her realizing it. “What did they do?” she asks quietly, her eyes fixed on the figurine as if it holds the answer.

Solas’s gaze darkens, his expression shifting as a heavy silence falls over the room. He steps closer, his movements measured, and gently takes the figurine from her hand, placing it carefully back in its position on the war table. His fingers linger for a moment, as if the small figure holds more weight than its size suggests.

Then, without a word, he wraps his arm around her shoulders, his touch both grounding and protective, guiding her back to the small sofa. He sits beside her, the gravity of the moment reflected in his eyes as he studies her, gathering his thoughts.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of unspoken truths, “it’s best if I begin at the very beginning…”