Chapter 10

Highever, some time ago

Highever swarmed with guards ever since word arrived about the attack on Houndshome and the disappearance of Ferelden’s youngest Royal. The little village was still smouldering when Princess Eleanor rode up to it, hair streaming behind her in the wind and rain.

“Your Highness,” the local magistrate greeted her with a nervous bow, watching as the princess dismounted from the Ferelden charger, striding through the mud towards him. “We’re still trying to determine what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Eleanor snapped, handing the Magistrate the reins to the horse. “Slavers. That’s what happened. And you let them take your Prince.” The Magistrate withered under the Princess’s angry look. He mumbled an apology, and pointed towards the Inn.

“They were at the Inn. There’s a few Inquisition survivors that might-”

Eleanor glared at him and the Magistrate shut his mouth with an audible clack of teeth.

“Why is the Inquisition in my teyrnir without anyone telling me?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“I..don’t know,” the man admitted, glancing towards the Inn nervously. “I can find out, your Highness. I’ll go find out, right away.”

“Do so,” Eleanor said. “And then tend your resignation as Magistrate. I’ll find your replacement once this mess has been resolved.” First a prince kidnapped, then an armed force already on tenuous agreement with Ferelden was found mysteriously at the scene? Someone was going to give her answers, and Maker help those who didn’t.

Striding through muck and rubble to the survivors, Eleanor watched with no small pleasure as the Inquisition soldiers eyes widened and they tried to stand to salute.

“Shut up,” she said before they could start babbling. “You are going to tell me what happened, why you’re here and which direction they went, and then you are going to be escorted to the Frostbacks to prevent this Maker-damned alliance from slipping any further.”

Once strong allies, since the Inquisitor had handed the effective control of the Inquisition to that De Fer woman, things had gone downhill. Finding an armed Inquisition force in her terynir had just stripped any remaining goodwill from Eleanor.

“You,” she said, jabbing a finger at a dwarf in Inquisition armor. “Talk.”

“Ma’am,” the dwarf said, throwing a salute despite the thick bandage around his hand. “We apologize ma’am. Master Hanin was out to visit the Springs here, we were his escort. He was with your brother and someone else when the Vints showed up.”

El watched the dwarf through narrow eyes, turning that new piece of information over. The Inquisitor’s son who rarely left the nest of Skyhold was also taken?

“With respect, I would ask that we are allowed to join the search, it is our fault that Master Hanin-”

“No,” El said sharply. “You had your chance, and this is still Ferelden soil, in case you’ve forgotten. Moreover,” she added, starting to pace in front of the sorry looking soldiers. “Someone chose to attack the Inn instead of the farms which would be an easier target. Someone knew there was a target worth the risk of attacking in town.”

The dwarf blanched, and El’s lips curled into a tight, angry smile.

“Had the Inquisition not tresspassed on my land my brother would be safe. Now,” she said, turning to face the inquisition troops square on. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them.

“Who was this ‘other’ person? who was taken with them?”

The innkeeper, sitting off to the side as the local healer tended to him, cleared his throat.

“An Elf your highness. White hair, tiny, didn’t speak a word, though she knew how to write.” He frowned slightly. “one of those Dalish, I think. I didn’t know they even knew how to write. She helped the Prince since he was injured. He said something about owing her for her help.”

“Thank you,” El said to the man, the sharpness of her voice easing. “You have been //actually// helpful, unlike so many here today.”  The Inquisition soldiers shrank slightly as she glared their way.

“Did you see which direction the Vints left in?” She asked, walking over to crouch in front of the innkeep. The man was sitting on a bench by the Inn’s door, and he had a nasty bruise spreading across his jaw to his face.

“No my lady, but my boy Nethen said he spotted a ship at anchor out by Mabari point. With no colours flying.”

El nodded, and took the innkeep’s hand, giving it a grateful squeeze. He smiled through the pain and squeezed her hand back.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ll send builders to help repair your Inn. You’ve been of great service.”

“We will never forget what we owe your Mother,” he murmured. “I only wish I had been able to take down one of those Vint bastards before they got to your brother.”

“I’ll be sure to mark the first one I kill as yours,” El assured the Innkeeper. She gave his hand a last squeeze, and stood. There sat a real Ferelden, unlike the sorry bastards who had decided to allow the Inquisition to come and go as it pleased without notifying the Crown or Teryn either.

Days passed in hurried searching and preparation. Agents of the crown spread out into the Free Marches to check ports and known trade routes for any news of a ship matching the one spotted at Highever’s coast. Quiet inqueries returned vague information at best. The ship was bound for Tevinter as expected, but there was no manifest, no name to track.

Whoever had greased the palms had done it too well, leaving Eleanor increasingly frustrated.

This was her baby brother, someone had taken him. It didn’t matter that he was an adult, he was still the small baby brother she’d carefully held on her lap and who had listened intently to her halting words as she practiced her reading. This was the boy who she’d missed desperately when he had to go away to that damn circle.

Her baby brother was out there, injured, and in the hands of Vint slavers who likely had no idea who they had chanced upon.

“You’ll wear a hole in that lovely rug the way you’re pacing.”

El stopped, whirling towards the voice. In her hand was a knife, ready to defend herself. After what had happened to Rahlen, El had no longer gone anywhere unarmed. Not even to bed.

Standing in the doorway of El’s study was an elf with wild red hair and a face full of freckles. But it was the strange armor the elf wore and the map in her hands that drew Eleanor’s attention.

“Who are you?” El asked. “And that’s my map.” She didn’t bother asking how the elf had gotten so far into the castle. Eleanor doubted she’d ever receive a satisfactory answer.

“Our map,” the elf said, glancing up. She smiled and winked. “Listen up princess,” somehow when the elf said that word it sounded like an insult. “My sister got caught up in whatever happened at Dogs’breath village. Normally I leave her alone, but now some abyss-damned slavers have her.”

The smile slipped from the elf’s face, ice replaced warmth, and Eleanor adjusted her appraisal of the woman. It seemed they had a common goal, one that El could appreciate the urgency of.

“And you want to join me?” Eleanor asked. “Why should I let you?”

When the elf laughed, there was no humour in it.

“’Let’ me? Sweetie. I walk my own path. Right now my path lines up with yours, but there is no ‘letting’ me join you. You can walk along next to me, and I’ll tell you where the ship was headed, or you can pretend that you don’t need my help, and I’ll rescue my sister on my own.”

Eleanor swallowed the hope that bloomed in her chest, and hid it behind a frown. Stepping forward, the princess snatched the map from the elf’s hands.

“How do you know where they are?”

The elf spread her hands, revealing more of the strange armor she wore under a dark cloak. Silvered leather and metal hugged the woman’s thighs and arms, leather bound around her torso and knives hung at either hip. It was elven inspired but… From where?

“I have a contact with a shared interest in seeing slavery eradicated,” the elf said. “And the Imperium crumble, but one thing at a time.”

Eleanor watched the elf for any sign of duplicity. The freckled face might as well have been a mask for all the emotion it showed. Frowning, the princess gauged the risk with the offer, but they had no other leads. This was the one chance to bring Rahlen home.

“And why are you here if you know where they are?” Eleanor asked. “Why are you not on your way yourself?”

The elf pushed off the doorframe, stepping within El’s armreach.

“Because not even Shemlen deserve slavery.” The elf reached out with a finger and tapped El’s nose. “Call me Rasha. My things are already on your ship. We should leave soon, Ellie.” The elf smiled again at the confused expression on El’s face.

“We leave at dawn,” Eleanor said. “And you aren’t sleeping in the castle tonight.”

“You say that as though I might want to,” Rasha said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like wet dogs. How can any of you stand it?”


Qarinus, Present

The first few bouts were a mess. Rahlen watched the first pair of fighters circle each other for nearly a full minute before the shorter of the two (an elf, maybe?) lurched forward only to catch his sandal in the sand and plant face first into the ground. It should have been over quickly, but the elf’s opponent was nervous, and it took repeated hacking with the man’s sword to stop the body from twitching.

Rahlen felt sick as he watched fight after fight, some with both fighters surviving, just wounded, others were the survival of the victor was in question. The prince’s shackled hands curled around the bars that kept the prisoners out of the arena. They had a view up and close of the gladiators that would make most of the paying fans envious… if it wasn’t for the reason they were so close to the fights.

Next to him, Hanin watched the fights with sharp eyes, showing a restraint that Rahlen hadn’t seen yet in the man. Whatever soft shell the man had worn earlier was being stripped away by this hellhole, Rahlen thought. What was underneath? What would be left of any of them?

“Tonight! Hold your breath as Master Polonius presents to you a rare treat. A wild elf, captured in the Brescillian forests after slaying no less than five men,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the arena. Rahlen tightened his fingers on the iron bars.

“Is this her?” Hanin asked, nudging Rahlen with an elbow.

“I think so, Polonius keeps calling her Huntress,” Rahlen muttered, squinting to try to see into the dark tunnels that gladiators had been using to enter the arena.

“Master’s got a thing for free elves,” the dwarf muttered from Rahlen’s other side. “Athim tries to warn anyone new. That must be why they kept her away.”

Hanin snorted.

“He didn’t bother me,” the heir said. “I’m an elf too.”

“Yeah, a city elf,” the dwarf said. “He likes the wild ones. With the tattoos on their faces.”

Rahlen’s grip had only gotten tighter on the iron bars as he watched Fenlin walk out into the arena. She looked so …small. Wild, just like the dwarf had said. The armor she was in was- it was for the audience. It wasn’t for the elf who was stuck in it.  Torch light glinted off the long scar on her side, and Rahlen felt guilt well up in his throat.

He’d done this. He’d hurt her, then here she was, about to fight the fucking champion of this Maker-damned city, because she’d been caught trying to bring him home.

“This isn’t fair,” Rahlen growled. The Announcer was in the middle of his spiel for the champion, and the crowd was starting to roar.

“Life’s not fair, handsome,” the Dwarf said, patting his shoulder. “Athim’s a good guy, he’ll make it quick.”

“You haven’t seen her fight,” Rahlen said, a bit desperate for any last hope that Fenlin would pull out of the battle in one piece.

“Have y-” Hanin started to ask. He stopped, and when Rahlen glanced at him, he saw the elf had gone wide-eyed and pale under the peeling sun burn. “They called him Fen’Harel…”

“Isn’t that an elven god?” Rahlen asked, glancing back out at the arena to watch the ‘golden wolf’ strut out and bask in the adulation of the bloodthirsty crowd. He was tall for an elf, taller than Hanin and wearing more than twice the armor that they’d given Fenlin. And he had a spear that would easily keep Fenlin far out of striking range.

“The Dread Wolf, betrayer, the one who locked away the true gods and caused the elves to fall,” Hanin said. “It’s… it’s disgusting that they call him that.”

Trumpets announced the beginning of the fight. Rahlen’s nerves jangled up tight, nearly choking him as he watched Fenlin and the larger elf start to circle each other. The fight was heavily mismatched, and as much as he wanted to believe that Fen would be able to kick this Athim’s ass, Rahlen wasn’t sure. He hadn’t actually seen the woman fight. He didn’t actually know much about her, he realised, and he swallowed hard.

“Come on!” he shouted as Athim scooped up sand with his spear, but Fen was already rolling out of the way, scooping a handful of her own sand and flinging it directly into the man’s face. She was quick on her feet, scrambling around out of their sight to flank the Champion.

“First blood goes to the huntress!” the announcer shouted, and the crowd reacted in horror and surprise. Rahlen though, was on his feet, shouting encouragement and banging a palm against the bars.

But then she staggered back as the spear butt hit her, and Rahlen’s breath caught in his throat. Shit. But she was able to avoid the spear long enough to rip off the stupid mask they’d put her in. Tucking and rolling, Fen dodged another spear thrust, but Rahlen noticed that each time she was leaving less and less space to spare between her and the spear’s blade.

The Champion hesitated, Rahlen wasn’t sure why but he shouted at Fen to get up. He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him, but the small dalish elf took advantage of that hesitation. Sand kicked up dust, hiding what was happening from Rahlen’s eyes, but then as it cleared, he saw Fen toss away the man’s helmet and then get thrown from his back. She still got to her feet, but-

Rahlen watched, confused as the two elves stared at each other in the arena.

“What’s going on?” he asked, glancing at the dwarf. “Is-” he started to ask, but the words died in his throat as Fenlin leapt up into the other man’s arms, curling tight around him. Like she knew him. Like she- Rahlen swallowed hard as Fenlin pulled back and kissed Athim deeply.


But he’d asked if there was someone… back at the costal camp… she’d said no, hadn’t she?

Rahlen let go of the iron bars, rubbing the indents they’d left in his palms, and frowned, turning away as the ‘golden wolf’ threw Fen over his shoulder and carried her from the arena. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling right now. Relief that Fen was okay was twisted by something else and he didn’t feel like sorting it out. Instead, Rahlen just wanted to punch something.

“Oh,” Hanin said. Then he turned to spot Rahlen’s face. “Uh… hey, at least she’s not dead?”

“Yeah,” Rahlen said. “Yeah it’s good she’s not dead. Or hurt.” Right?

The dwarf was behind Rahlen, and hadn’t seen his expression by the way she had laughed and clapped her shackled hands together.

“I bet they’re fucking against the wall back there,” The dwarf said with a lewd gesture and grunt. “Who could have staged that kind of drama?”

Rahlen shoved down the annoyance and odd tension in his chest, forcing the careless grin back onto his face as he looked over at the Dwarf and shrugged.

“This is what happens when your travelling partner can’t talk I guess,” Rahlen said. “You wind up finding out all kinds of things when you’re enslaved together.” The laugh sounded fine, but it tasted bitter on his tongue. Later, when he wasn’t surrounded by other fighters, Rahlen would need to sort whatever this was out. He wasn’t willing to risk himself like he had in the past. Especially not in a land of literal life and death.

“Hey,” Hanin said. Rahlen was already forming the words ‘I’m fine’ when the elf surprised him. “Do you think Fenlin will teach me that knee lock? I’ve never seen that before.”

“Sure,” Rahlen said. “Whenever she’s done ‘catching up’ with that Champion of hers.” Thank the maker Hanin was as focused on himself as he always was.


Contrary to a certain dwarf’s imagination, Fenlin and Athim were not pressed up against a brick wall, locked in a tight embrace. Guards had been waiting for them, hidden in the shadows of the ramp that led down to the underbelly of the arena. One ripped Fenlin from Athim’s shoulder before he had a chance to set her down. The guard threw her against a brick wall, the impact forcing the air from Fenlin’s lungs, and sending stars across her vision as her head cracked back into the bricks.

“Hey!” shouted Athim from the other side of the bursts of light that danced in front of Fenlin’s eyes. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, sucking in air.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

A heavy gloved hand grabbed onto the back of Fenlin’s vest and hauled her upright, sending a fresh wave of pain through her head. Her vision cleared enough to see Athim being held back by two guards, one on each arm.

“The Master’s not happy,” the guard holding Fenlin said. It wasn’t the one who had offered her advice earlier, which was too bad. That one hadn’t been a total asshole. “How do you think anyone’s going to want to pay for either of you tonight after watching the rabbits dry-hump in the arena?”

“A lot?” Athim said, glancing at Fen. He frowned. Fen was glaring at the man holding her, but she hadn’t started yelling at him. It wouldn’t make sense to Athim.

“Come on, Master wants you two looking pretty so that maybe, maybe you’ll earn your keep tonight.”

Fenlin made a face, and threw up a rude gesture at the guard. It was worth the moment of satisfaction before he backhanded her across the mouth.

The guards clapped the collars and shackles back on, then dragged the two elves to a cleaner holding cell where a healer and bath waited. The healer, a woman with dark skin and a thin metal collar around her throat, made a face as the guard dragged Fenlin in and tossed her to the ground, and Fen caught Athim stumbling past her as his guards shoved him into the room.

“Do you have to rough all of the women up?” she asked the guard with a sneer. “You make my job harder than it needs be.”

Fenlin felt something warm and wet land on her back. The guard had spit on her. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up to her feet, hands balled together and- Athim touched her shoulder, holding her back.

“<Mana, Lethallan>,” he said quietly. “<Atish’an>.”

How could he tell her to be peaceful when- Fenlin wiped her bloody lip on her forearm, and glared at the guard. Fine. Shaking the lingering frustration from her head, she let Athim lead her to the healer.

“You know this one, Champion?” the healer asked, roughly pushing Fenlin onto a stool in front of the bath. “You wash, I’ll heal those wounds once you get the worst of the sand out of them.”

“Sure thing Vela,” Athim said. “Yeah, we- we grew up in the same clan. I left when I was young, I didn’t expect to see her here.” Athim explained, pulling off his armor as he spoke. Fenlin immediately turned away, ears going red. The Healer made an annoyed sound and turned Fenlin’s face back so it was easier to examine.

“Did she speak back then? Or was she always mute?” the healer, Vela, asked, starting to probe at the split lip and bruise forming on Fen’s face.

“Oh, she used to talk all the time, a real chatterbox when we were kids,” Athim said, climbing into the bath. He hissed as the water reached his back. “But back then the scratches she left on my back were made with her nails, not daggers.”

Fenlin turned red and glared at Athim who just smirked at her.

“Stop squirming,” Vela said sharply, and turned Fenlin’s face back to centre. “She understands common, right?”

“She does, she’s just stubborn,” Athim said. From the corner of her eye, Fenlin could see he was starting to wash off the grime of the arena.

“Not too stubborn I hope,” Vela said, starting to cast a healing spell. “You know what happens to those that Polonius can’t break.”

Fenlin’s eyes slipped over to look at Athim. He was so different than the boy she remembered, but how different was she? Could she trust him? As he looked at her, he nodded just ever so slightly. As though he was thinking the same. The ache and heat of Fenlin’s lip faded as the healing spell took hold.

“She’s stubborn, not stupid,” Athim said. “She’ll learn how to manage the expectations of the job. Gaius hit her head against the wall, you should check that out too,” he said after a moment of thought.

Vela’s lips pressed together and she frowned, moving around to part Fenlin’s hair and peer at her scalp. Soon the familiar tingle of healing magic spread over her head, and Fenlin felt the fuzziness of pain clear.

“Alright, you’re done. You,” Vela said, pointing to Fenlin. “Wash. Hair too. And you,” the healer jabbed a finger at Athim. “Get your arse on the stool so I can clean those cuts out. Any other injuries?”

Athim stood in the tub, unbothered to hide himself. Fenlin blinked, and averted her eyes. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen Athim before, they’d gone swimming when they were little, but he didn’t have shoulders like that when they were little. And he didn’t have have… he didn’t have a lot of what he had now when he was little.

“Oh Maker, she’s shy,” Vela said with a groan. “They’re going to eat her alive out there.” She swatted Fenlin’s knee. “Go on. Wash. Now.” Chastised, Fen hopped off the stool and hurried over to the tub. With her back to Athim (and the guards who were still there, watching with disgusting smiles on their faces), she stripped off the sandy ‘armor’ and eased into the bath.

Fenlin prayed the night would be over soon, and she could just curl up on her small cot, and dream of killing every last slaver in Tevinter. Slowly. Picking up the soap, Fenlin was about to scrub away the dust on her skin when she felt a strange shape under her thumb. Lifting it, she noticed that someone had carved the shape of a bird into the soap. A glance at Athim over her shoulder told Fenlin that it must have been him.

Flying out of the chains of Polonius was tempting, but she couldn’t leave Rahlen behind, or Hanin. She might have to sew the inquisitor’s son’s mouth shut though, or his yelling would announce any attempts at escape to the guards. Dipping the soap into the water, she started to scrub at her skin, the carved side against her skin to wear the shape away.


The night was not over quickly, and Fenlin was falling asleep as guards led her and Athim back to the barracks. They hadn’t been given time to change from the straps of leather and scraps of silk that Polonius had given them to wear for the after-party. Hours of serving entitled Vint nobles wine, food, letting them leer at the bodies of the winners before they quietly spoke to Polonius with an offer.

“Huntress, this is your room now,” the guard to her left- a woman- said, opening the iron door of a small cell in the main barracks and pointed for her to go inside. “Champion you know where yours is.”

Glancing over her shoulder at Athim, Fenlin nodded at him. Hopefully, sometime, maybe later that day (for it was surely morning by now) she would be able to try to find out how he had ended up here, of all places. But right now, all Fenlin wanted was to curl up and sleep. She walked into the cell, crawled onto the cot and pressed her face into the sheet that covered the straw mattress. It smelled like mildew and sweat, but it meant she could sleep, now.

It seemed as though her head had just touched the mattress when a shield slammed into the bars of her cell. Fenlin jolted awake, hand reaching for the knife at- her hand found bare skin and a strap of leather. Sitting up, Fen squinted in the morning light to see Favus standing at the door.

“Get up, get dressed, time for morning training,” he boomed. He looked Fenlin over and arched an eyebrow. “Shame about last night,” he said, voice still loud enough to carry. “If someone hadn’t paid for your pretty little head, Master Polonius was going to let me keep you.”

Cheeks burning, Fenlin slipped off the cot and turned her back to Favus. She had to change into the more comfortable sparring gear. It was still ridiculous, but at least the leather vest covered most of her chest, and the hide skirt hid more than the gauzey silk had done. She pulled the other clothes on quickly, slipping the fancy straps off from underneath the leather.

“Shame,” Favus said from the other side of the bars. “Damn shame. Maybe if you keep pissin’ off Polonius, he’ll let me keep you, hm?” With a laugh that made Fen’s skin crawl, he unlocked the cell door and wandered down the hall, banging his shield against each iron door on the way by.

“Hey, how are you feeling after yesterday?” Fenlin, in the middle of braiding her hair into a tight bun, looked over to see Athim at the door, wearing linen pants and nothing else. Linen looked a lot more comfortable than leather in this heat, but between the leather vest or the silks… Fen would prefer the leather.

She shrugged, trying not to think about Favus, or the way he pushed down the magic around him, like he suffocated life and everything good.

“Fen-” Her head snapped up again when she heard Rahlen’s voice. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt-” he said to Athim. “We haven’t met. Rahlen, your girlfriend here saved my life. A few times.”

Fenlin frowned. Wh-

“She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” Athim said, eyes positively twinkling with mischief as he walked into Fen’s cell and pinched her cheek. “Such a cute little girlfriend, saving people all over the world.”

Fenlin glared at Athim, her hand reaching out to smack his hand away. They weren’t that. With a pointed look at Athim, then Rahlen, then back to her childhood friend, Fenlin tried to get Athim to explain how they knew each other.

Instead Athim just embraced her, shoving her face into his chest. While not unpleasant it was also the opposite of what Fenlin had wanted him to do.

“My darling,” he said, over the top. “I have missed you so much. With your angry glares and huffs of frustration and pretending you don’t love me back,” he added laughing as Fenlin gave up on her hair and started trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

With a slightly desperate look over Athim’s arm, Fenlin deflated a little when she saw Rahlen had left, and there was only the Inquisitor’s son peering in, a grin on his face.

“Rahlen said you would be willing to teach me that knee lock,” he said. “How do you know each other anyways? Fenlin doesn’t really seem like your type, Athim,” Hanin said, swaggering in and plopping down on the cot.

“You’re too big for that,” Athim said. “The knee lock thing. Her mother showed her and they’re the only elves I know short and small enough to get under my guard. But I mean, on sand it might be easier.”

Athim froze, still holding a struggling Fenlin to his chest. He peered down at her.

“Does… your mother know where you are?” He asked, a little hopefully.

Fen shook her head, paused as she considered things, then shook her head again. No.

“Damnit,” Athim said with a sigh.

“Don’t worry, my mother-” Hanin started. Athim held up a hand, and Fenlin ducked under it, finally freeing herself.

“No, I mean, no offense to your mother, but Fenlin’s here would have been really helpful to get us out of here.”

Hanin frowned, glancing at Fenlin, then back at Athim.

“My mother’s the inquisitor,” he said. “Who’s her mother? Someone more important?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Athim asked, then winced as Fenlin punched his arm and pointed to her throat. “Ah, right. Mute. So, get this, her mom-” Fenlin punched him again, harder this time.

She gestured at her palm and made a glowy gesture with her other hand. Then pointed at Hanin.

“So you’re saying…” Athim said quietly. “The he wasn’t shitting us.” Fenlin nodded, then glanced around. She pointed where Rahlen had been, and lifted her hand up, way up to gesture to mean ‘tall’ and made the motion of a crown on her head.

“And Rahlen normally wears a hat…?” Athim asked, arching an eyebrow. Fen sighed and rolled her eyes. No. He did not normally wear a hat.

“Rahlen’s the youngest prince of Ferelden,” Hanin translated. Fenlin made a shushing gesture at him, but the elf just shrugged. “No one believed me, why would they believe him?”

Fen thought about that, then grudgingly admitted he had a point. She left Athim and Hanin to talk, slipping out with mussed hair to try to track down the Prince in question. He’d been walking on his own just now, was he finally able to fight?“ Fenlin wasn’t sure that was a good idea. What would happen if word got out the Prince of Ferelden and the heir of the inquisition died in a Tevinter fighting ring?


Rahlen was standing in the practice yard, twirling a wooden spear in his hands.


Right in front of Cresca.