Ilya awoke like a scabbed wound cracking open, an oppressive half-sleep splitting suddenly into hot pain. His thoughts were slow and clouded, and his whole body ached. Where was he? He lifted his head, and instantly regretted it as pain jolted through his skull.

However long he’d been unconscious, his body remained spent. His throat was dry and his muscles sore, as if he’d been thrashing in his sleep. He must have been on his knees for some length of time, as the chill of the stone had seeped into his legs and his kneecaps protested under his weight. It hardly compared, however, to the hot pain radiating from his left palm and up through his arm. He lifted it to check for blood, and found instead an enigma, crackling white-green in place of where calloused flesh should have been.

Perhaps of more immediate importance were the manacles clamped around his wrists. The chains clanked as he stirred, but the circle of raised swords gleaming in the firelight deterred any further movement. The dungeon stank of sweat and dust, but he could make out little else.

The thing on his hand suddenly… snarled, the eerie light crackling like a fire over kindling. The pain was searing and sudden enough to make him cry out softly, a sound he quickly bit back between gritted teeth.

“He’s awake,” came a nervous voice, muffled behind the heavy wooden door.

What in the world had happened? The last thing Ilya remembered was… was what? A fever dream, filled with formless, hissing shadows, an outstretched hand glowing bright as the moons, the taste of soot on his tongue… He had been at the Conclave, had he not? He’d arrived the week prior with the mercenary company he’d joined up with. He had some sense that the appointed day had arrived, but when he tried to remember that morning, his memory grew hopelessly murky.

“Inform Seeker Pentaghast at once.” Another voice. The name widened the pit of dread forming in his stomach. He had never met the Right Hand of the Divine, but he knew her reputation well from his years among the Nevarran nobility. Hers were not the worst clutches in which to find himself, but the thought was not a cheerful one. What was the brand on his hand, then — Seeker magic? And what sort of crime would merit her involvement? (The same sort that would merit a dozen swords pointed at a chained and kneeling man, he supposed.)

“Where —” Ilya found his voice hoarse and dry, and had to clear his throat to continue. “Where am I?”

“Shut it,” one of the guards snapped. “Murdering bastard.”

Ah, so that was the charge. Still, he felt only more puzzled: why would he have killed someone here?

His objective had only been to observe events as they unfolded, not to intervene. It was difficult to think of a good reason that he would have acted against those orders. The most likely explanation, Ilya concluded after some thought, was that his identity had been somehow compromised, making him a convenient suspect for whatever murder had transpired. (It was possible, he conceded, that he had killed someone as a result of being discovered, but it seemed unlikely. Killing was seldom his first fall-back plan.)

Not that innocence would necessarily do much in his favor, particularly when he had no memory of what had even occurred. Perhaps they’d hit him on the head when he was arrested, although that didn’t explain why he would have seemingly spent days in the care of a healer. Other than the brand on his palm, he couldn’t detect any of the telltale signs of torture or the brutality typical of prison guards. Everything hurt, but so far as he could tell, it was not because of anything they had done, except for perhaps the mysterious brand.

The door opened with a shudder to allow two women to enter. With effort, Ilya lifted his head to observe the two, wincing as his headache pulsed with the movement. Both human. One wore a plain cowl, the other partial plate armor bearing the Mark of the Seekers. That would be Cassandra Pentaghast, then. She would be an imposing woman even if he were not on his knees. Even as his eyes struggled to focus in the dim light, the fury roiling beneath her every motion was unmistakable.

She paced a circle around him, passing behind his back and beyond his vision. A tactic meant to unsettle and intimidate. Her voice was tight with rage. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Off to the races, then. Ilya supposed it was a promising sign that they hadn’t already killed him. Whether they needed something from him or simply wanted the satisfaction of a confession — or of vengeance — remained to be seen. Still, he could have awoken on a torturer’s rack, so that was something.

“The Conclave is destroyed, and everyone who attended is dead.” That stopped him cold. “Except for you.”

What? Ilya’s head snapped towards her, sending a bolt of pain down his neck, but he ignored it as he strained to read her expression. His voice was bewildered. “What do you mean, everyone’s dead?”

“Explain this.” She moved with the speed of a panther, seizing his left hand and twisting its palm upwards.

Pain ripped through his arm once more, this time almost unnoticed. His eyelashes fluttered rapidly as he grappled with her implication. “You mean that’s not your doing?”

Her hand went from his wrist to his throat in a moment. “Do not lie to me!"

He reflexively withdrew his tongue and loosened his jaw in anticipation of a blow, but before it came, the other woman pulled Pentaghast away from him. “We need him, Cassandra.” An Orlesian accent. Northeastern — Arlesans, maybe, or Val Chevin.

Pentaghast let out a growl of frustration, but conceded, releasing her grasp so he could breathe freely once more.

Despite her show of restraint, the Orlesian’s eyes watched him coolly, as sharp as an owl’s. “No,” she said, after a long pause. “It is not our doing.”

His brows knit together in unpretended confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t remember what happened?" she asked. "How this all began?”

“I remember…” He strained to think once again, his eyes sinking back to the stones beneath him. Only pieces were left: strange colors and shifting lights, a racing heartbeat, a familiar scent. The Fade? “It was like a dream. Something was chasing me. A woman…”

“A woman?” asked the Orlesian, frowning.

“She… reached out to me. Then…” He trailed off, the furrow in his brow deepening.

“What else?” Pentaghast demanded.

“I don’t know.” She wouldn’t much like that answer. He tried again. “I remember the night before the Conclave, I think. Everything else is a blur.”

Pentaghast swore under her breath, beginning to pace. The Orlesian remained icily calm. “Who are you?”

No, he supposed they wouldn’t know that. Not if he was the only survivor. Could they be lying? It would be a bizarre interrogation technique if so; one would think they would have chosen something less outlandish. Had they truly no idea who he was? Was it just a bizarre coincidence that their only suspect was a a killer?

“Snow. One of the hired blades meant to… deter disturbances." Evidently, he hadn't done a very good job of it. "No one of importance.”

Pentaghast huffed, but did not voice her obvious skepticism. After a beat, she turned back to the Orlesian. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will bring him there.”

That name caught him off-guard, although it should not have, as obvious an inference as it was in retrospect. The Divine’s spymaster? Worse clutches, indeed. Still, his answers seemed to have satisfied them for the moment. The Left Hand departed without a word, as Pentagast dismissed the guards with a wave and pulled him to his feet.

“What did happen?” he asked.

“It… will be easier to show you,” she answered, after a moment’s hesitation.

His legs were less unsteady than he'd feared as she led him out of the dungeon and up the stairs, and her grip on his arm reassured him that he wasn't at risk of falling. They emerged in an old stone chapel, only a short walk from a heavy door roughly hewn from ancient wood. Were they in the old village?

As Ilya stepped outside, the glare of the winter sun reflected off the snow was blinding. It took several seconds before he could stand to follow Pentaghast’s gaze upward.

What he saw there was gut-wrenching. A calamity sprawled across the sky, roiling and twisting like oil across water. As unsettling as that vicious green had seemed burning against his own skin, there was something far worse about seeing it seething amidst the heavens.

Staring up at the hole in the sky, Ilya noticed for the first time a sensation that had been crawling beneath the surface of the pain and exhaustion suffusing his body, like noticing the scent of smoke after feeling the heat of the flames. Something was terribly wrong. It was as if a discordant note had been strummed across the strings that made up the world, resonating deeper than mere physical senses could grasp. Magic hung so thick in the air he could nearly taste it on his tongue.

The Veil, he realized, as the slippery dread pooling in his gut resolved into cold horror. The hole in the sky was a hole in the Veil.

“Oh, Maker,” Ilya murmured, almost inaudible.

He hardly noticed the sound of Pentaghast's voice at first, and had to fight to wrench his attention back to the present moment. Focus. He balanced on a sword's edge; he could not afford even a moment's lapse.

"It's not the only such rift, just the largest," she was saying. "All were caused at the explosion at the Conclave."

What sort of explosion could rip the Veil apart like paper? As little of he knew of magic, he couldn't fathom how much blood would be required to produce an eruption so… apocalyptic. Was this how it must have felt to watch the Golden City blacken?

"Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world."

He felt it before he heard it — a spasm in the wounded Veil, followed an instant later by a thunderclap that shook the ground beneath him. The pain was immediate and blinding, and his knees hit the ground before he realized his legs had given out. He stifled a growl behind gritted teeth. Focus.

Pentaghast knelt down to hold his gaze. "Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time."

He slowed his breathing — in and out, deep and even. Count the blooms. He had spent years learning to discipline the restless animal that was his body. "The key to doing what?"

"Closing the Breach. Whether that's possible is something we shall discover shortly. This is our only chance, however." Pentaghast's voice was grim. "And yours."

Ilya's gaze shifted across her face, then back to the sky. The choice was simple, if it could even be called a choice. Even if the world weren't falling apart — a prospect that seemed more plausible with every moment he spent staring at the so-called Breach — to refuse to help would be to confirm his guilt and all but ensure his execution, if the magic burned into his hand didn't kill him first.

Truthfully, even that was irrelevant. Too much was at stake, and his own life was not so precious to him that he would cower from necessity. If there was even a chance that the disaster could spread northward…

Ilya's eyes snapped back to Pentaghast. "Just tell me what needs to be done."

Her expression flickered — relief, or perhaps hope. "Then…?"

"I'll do all I can." The resolve in his voice seemed to surprise her. "Whatever it takes."

After a long pause, she stood, then wordlessly helped him to his feet.

As they walked through Haven, Ilya could feel every pair of eyes on him and hear discontented murmurs following in their wake. Were it not for the seeker's presence, he had no doubt the townsfolk would have hanged him on the spot, or worse. How many of them must have themselves lost someone, he wondered. Each and every one, in all likelihood; the Chantry had drawn heavily on the labor of the little mountain village and further swelled its numbers by bringing in still more help.

The claim that all those people were gone — sellswords with whom he had laughed and broken bread, servants he had bumped against in the hallways, defiant-eyed rebels, what had seemed like half the Chantry and the Templar Order — was almost unimaginable.

And yet the rubble of the temple itself floated high above the mountaintops, drifting slowly around the churning heart of the storm.

Pentaghast was speaking, but her words weren’t meant for him, too preoccupied was she with her own grief. It was not until they reached the bridge to the rest of the valley that she addressed him. "There will be a trial. I can promise no more." He tensed for a moment as she withdrew a dagger from her belt, only for her to cut the rope binding his wrists.

"Come," she said. "It is not far."

"Where are you taking me…?" Ilya asked, glancing from her to the Breach. The road from Haven to the Temple of Sacred Ashes was a trip of more than two miles; not far seemed something of a stretch.

"Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach," she replied, although that did not answer his question.

Despite the unease permeating the air, he felt relief to have Haven at their backs, along with its suspicious glares and despairing whimpers. Better to be moving forward than meekly awaiting fate to take him.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

"Three days."

Three days? In that case, he was likely weaker than he had realized; they wouldn't have been able to feed him much, unless he'd partially regained consciousness at some point, but a remaining touch of fever would account for his lack of hunger. Worse, even if he were permitted a sword, the crackling mark on his hand precluded its use. His right hand might suffice, if demons were their only enemy — if Pentaghast were willing to give him one, which seemed an unlikely prospect, given the wariness lingering in her eyes as she watched him. Agreeing to help had earned him little trust, unsurprisingly.

Part of him expected her to resume the interrogation, but Ilya was grateful when she remained silent — in part due to his reluctance to answer more questions, but mostly because the adrenaline from when he had awoken was beginning to wear off, and with each step uphill he could feel fatigue settle heavier on his shoulders. The journey ahead would be difficult, and whatever lay at its end —

Another bolt of pain seared through his thoughts as the Breach groaned and crackling green light engulfed his had once more. He staggered and let himself fall to his knees with a hiss of pain, the landing softened by the thick blanket of snow along the road. He could have kept his footing, but it was a useful opportunity to demonstrate his weakness and show himself to be less of a threat. Pentaghast seemed a touch more sympathetic as she took hold of his forearm and hauled him back to his feet, but perhaps it was a trick of the strange light.

"The pulses are coming faster now." Her tone was almost reassuring, despite the ominous remark. Once he was steady on his feet, she turned to walk onward. "The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face."

“Where did you find me?” asked Ilya. “How did I even survive?”

It was a question that had been nagging at him, brushed aside until now in favor of the more urgent matter of staying alive. Memories prickled at the back of his mind, just out of reach, like a sweat-soaked nightmare half-forgotten by the time he jolted awake: the taste of ash and ozone, the smell of rot, a woman's hand… But before the dream, there was nothing.

Pentaghast shot him a glance that suggested she thought he ought to be the one answering that question, but hesitated before she replied. "They said you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. The soldiers who found you claimed a wolf led them to you." Her tone was conflicted, although he could not quite name the emotions in tension. "They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was."

Whatever answer Ilya had been expecting, it was not that. He was no stranger to the Fade, but to enter it physically was the province of myths and would-be gods — an act so fateful it was said to have doomed the world, to hear some tell it. Whether sin or fable, to find himself the successor to such a tale was… disconcerting, and left him even more certain that whatever had transpired was none of his doing.

"Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes." Pentaghast sighed. "I suppose you’ll see soon enough."

The pensive silence that followed was abruptly cut short as they crossed the next bridge. One moment, the centuries-old stone was firmly underfoot, and the next, he was in freefall. Mercifully, the drop was not far, although it nearly knocked the wind out of him. He reflexively scrambled back to his feet. Nearby, there came a rasping howl — a sound borne of a throat not shaped for breath. Demons.

"Stay behind me!" Pentaghast called out, already on her feet. In her haste, she failed to notice the second demon wriggling through the Veil a few feet from him.

A soldier's body lay still amidst the rubble, head turned at a sickening angle from an unlucky fall. Her sword had fallen nearby. Ilya dashed forward to claim it, just as the demon freed itself and turned on him with a croak.

The weight of the sword in his right hand was… not entirely unfamiliar, but awkward. He had practiced only with daggers with that hand, and the weight and heft of a longsword was a different beast entirely. Still, dispatching the demon was a simple matter, if inelegant.

With it dead, he stepped further into the pale winter sunlight, scanning the area for any sign of other intruders to the waking world. Pentaghast caught sight of him as she wrenched her sword free from the collapsing shape of the slain demon, and wheeled towards him with menace in her eyes. "Drop your weapon," she growled, "now."

Ilya lowered the sword, raising his other palm to face her as a show of conciliation — perhaps a poor one, giving the faintly glowing gash across his hand — but did not relinquish the weapon. "You need me alive," he said, his voice soft but insistent. Thank the Maker for that sliver of leverage; he had no chance of defeating her, as weakened as he was from this ordeal and without the use of his good hand. "I need to be able to defend myself."

"You do not need to fight," she snapped back.

Stubborn. "More demons will come," Ilya replied patiently. "How many can you protect me from? How many do you think are in the valley already?"

Pentaghast's jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth, and for a moment he thought she would double down. Then she sighed and sheathed her sword. "You're right," she conceded. "I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless. I should remember you agreed to come willingly."

"Thank you." Ilya offered her a wan smile. "I know you don't trust me, Seeker. But without you, without fixing this, I'm as good as dead. I hope you can trust that much." A flicker of black humor ran through his voice. "If my alternatives are being lynched by the townsfolk, freezing to death in the mountains, or this," he gestured loosely with his left hand, "I'll gladly take my chances with your trial."

He needn’t mention that he had no chance of besting her in a sword fight — not with his right hand, at least, nor as weak as he was now. With a bit of care, he could cut her throat, of course, but that would get him nowhere but a noose. He did not intend to bet his life on the Left Hand’s credulity or compassion.

Pentaghast huffed a humorless laugh, the faint edge of a sardonic smile on her mouth. "How very pragmatic." She turned away. "We should keep moving."

Corpses lined their path forward, frozen blood crackling underfoot where it had pooled across the ice. Most were Templars — Ilya could not decide whether that was ironic or unsurprising — but the unfamiliar matching armor of two bodies caught his attention. With a quick glance at Pentaghast's back, he crouched to examine one of the bodies more closely: heavy steel-blue fabric and paragon's-luster scale with a matching ornamental pauldron, well-made but too light for close fighting. It was unmistakably a uniform, not mercenary gear. They must have been among the first to fall; snowdrifts had already begun to form alongside them, covering any bloodstains.

Pentaghast looked back, frowning, and Ilya did not wait for her warning to stand and catch up with her. "So many dead," he murmured.

"The onslaught has been relentless." Her voice was grim. "We must hurry."

As they walked, he found himself eying each body they passed, although he didn't dare to stop again to examine them. If he hadn't been looking for that unknown uniform, he might not have noticed the pendants hanging from the necks of a few of the Templars, unpolished shards of a blood-red crystal he did not recognize. He had never noticed such a charm on the Marcher Templars he often dealt with; perhaps it was a Fereldan tradition.

From the collapsed bridge, they followed the path of the frozen river, a more direct route than the winding mountain road. They had encountered some dozen scattered demons roaming the slopes like lost sheep. Ilya might have wondered whether the mortal world was what they had expected, but from all appearances, those haunting the valley were as good as rabid. He had met many demons over the years, many of them cunning, even intelligent, but he had encountered nearly all of them within the Fade. He doubted many of them would have looked forward to this fate.

"We're getting close to the rift," Pentaghast said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "You can hear the fighting."

"Your soldiers?" Ilya asked, turning his eyes back to the seeker and away from the shimmering green dancing across the river ice. The sound of ringing steel echoed from somewhere ahead of them, although the stone of the mountains to either side made it difficult to gauge the distance of any sound.

"Among others," came her vague reply. She started up the slope from the riverbed back to the road. "You'll see soon enough."

They found the source of the clamor past the crest of the ridge, within the crumbling ruins of an old fort. Ilya's breath caught at the sight of it: strange, shivering geometries, jagged edges that expanded and contracted in shuddering breaths, scintillating colors for which he had no name. Just looking at it set off a wave of nausea through him and a dull ache behind his eyes.

Pay attention. Three demons, four combatants, one a mage. He didn't wait for Pentaghast's signal to hop over the wall, taking advantage of the demons' focus on the soldiers to flank them. With their entrance to the fray, the clean-up was quick, and the last demon was soon dissolving into the old paving stones. Still the aberration hung in the air above them, its black teeth bright and blinding as they hissed and snapped at the wind.

"Quickly, before more come through!" The mage seized Ilya's wrist with surprising force and thrust his hand towards the rift. The surge of power that burst from the mark nearly knocked them back, but the mage held fast, his own arm shaking with the effort of holding Ilya's hand in place. After several interminable seconds, the rift's jaws snapped closed with a clap that echoed through the ruin, and the beam of light pouring from his mark vanished.

The silence that fell was broken only by the sound of the wind and his own heavy breathing. The change in the air was palpable; if he hadn't seen the rift with his own eyes, he might not have believed it was ever here. The scent of ozone and hot metal lingered, as did the goosebumps prickling across his neck and arms. The hand fell away from his wrist, drawing his attention suddenly back to the man beside him.

"What did you do?" Ilya asked breathlessly, studying him with a look of disbelief. Roughly-dressed, tall and broad-shouldered for an elf, head shaved close to the scalp. A hedge mage, if he had to guess by his attire.

"I did nothing," the mage replied, a smile curling around the corners of his mouth. "The credit is yours."

Ilya's eyes fell to the mark on his hand. His voice was soft. "Then there is a chance."

"Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct." That was the most cheer Ilya had heard since he had awoken – for good reason, he supposed. Odd accent, though.

"Meaning it could also close the Breach itself," Pentaghast interjected.

"Possibly," the mage replied, before his eyes shifted back to Ilya. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation."

"Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever." Another voice, confident and gregarious, as if to put the mage's quiet smile to shame.

Ilya turned to the dwarf sauntering towards them, with a tunic beneath his coat unbuttoned to expose his chest and some sort of ornate crossbow slung over his shoulder. His face was stubbled, roguishly handsome, and –

Familiar. Ilya's expression didn't change, but his thoughts raced. Where had he seen that face before?

If the dwarf recognized him, he showed no sign of it, and offered Ilya a crooked smile. "Varric Tethras," he introduced himself. "Rogue, storyteller – and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong."

Ah, there it was. The businessman from Kirkwall. They had met only once, four or five years ago, when Ilya attended a negotiation regarding protection and the Tethras family’s extensive network of connections in the western Marches. Despite his amiable demeanor, Tethras was sharp and quick-witted, with a mind nearly as clever as his tongue.

An unfortunate coincidence, but far from the worst case scenario. With any luck, Tethras wouldn't remember him – but judging by recent events, luck seemed to have deserted Ilya entirely. A problem to be dealt with after averting the current catastrophe. What in the world was a Kirkwall businessman doing here, anyway?

"Call me Snow." His weary smile betrayed none of his swirling thoughts. At least he’d never given Tethras his name, if he even recalled the meeting at all. "Pleased to meet you, Varric."

"You may reconsider that stance, in time," the mage teased.

"Aww. I'm sure we'll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles."

"Absolutely not," Pentaghast broke in. "Your help is appreciated, Varric, but –"

"Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?" he shot back rhetorically. "Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me."

Pentaghast gave a noise of disgust, but no further argument. It was an easier concession than he would have expected.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," the mage offered, drawing Ilya's attention back. "I am pleased to see you still live."

"He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’" Tethras snorted.

Ilya's eyes slipped from Solas' face to the mark and back again. "You're familiar with this magic?"

"Solas is an apostate, well-versed in such matters," Pentaghast said. Ilya had to resist a derisive snort at the implication that apostasy alone would be enough to explain a grasp of the sort of magic that would leave magisters pale. Moreover, that did not answer his question.

"Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra," Solas reminded her, before glancing back to Ilya. "My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin."

That, curiously, was not an answer, either. Solas would not be the first apostate to be coy about the source or extent of his knowledge, however, particularly in such company as a seeker who had served the Divine. In any case, they had more pressing concerns for the moment.

Ilya's eyes drifted towards the Breach once more. Looking up from below, it felt like he was staring up at the surface of a lake, watching the distant sun gleam through green water. It looked far larger from here, so wide it threatened to swallow the sky. The sight was dizzying – or perhaps that was the hunger, or the fever. Maker's breath, he was tired. "I will close it.” Even if it killed him.

Solas watched him in silence. After a pause, he looked back to the seeker. "Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power."

With Pentaghast safely behind him, Ilya wordlessly shot Solas a grateful glance, and was met with a small smile of acknowledgment.

"Understood," she replied, and Ilya could only hope that she truly did. "We must get to the forward camp quickly. Come."

"So," Varric began, in a tone that Ilya was beginning to associate with the headache throbbing in his temples, "are you innocent?"

So conversational, for a question that amounted to whether he lived or died. "Yes."

"You said you don't remember what happened." There was an irritating note of suspicion in Pentaghast's voice.

"I don't need to remember what happened to know I didn't do that," Ilya replied flatly, casting a sidelong glare up at the maelstrom above them.

"Who knows, maybe you tripped and kicked over a few dozen barrels of gaatlok."

Ilya didn't reply. Despite how thoroughly the day had tested his patience, he was too tired to feel anything more than exasperation. All that anger would accomplish was sapping his energy further, making it all the more difficult to complete a task that already seemed more daunting by the moment. The closer they got to the Temple of Sacred Ashes – what was left of it – the wider the Breach seemed to stretch above them, and the smaller he felt. It reminded him of when he had sailed south across the Waking Sea, and realized as he gazed across the ship's bow that he could see nothing but dark water and stormy skies in every direction. The occasional waves of nausea didn’t hold a candle to his seasickness, for one small mercy.

"I can assure you we did not bring gaatlok to the Conclave," Pentaghast said tersely, with a glare over her shoulder.

"Crazier things have happened."

Their voices pulled Ilya back from his thoughts. The way his attention had begun to slip was… disconcerting. He squeezed his left hand into a fist, triggering a flare of magic from the mark that sent bright sparks of pain shooting up the nerves of his arm. Compared with the unease he felt without complete self-control, pain was familiar, even reassuring; if its sharp edge could serve to keep his mind clear, then it was a welcome companion.

"Shit, are you doing alright?" Tethras muttered, quickly shifting from dry humor to concern.

"Fine," Ilya replied, his tone clipped but even. "We should keep moving."

More demons, another rift. Ilya was grateful the mark on his hand seemed to know its function, regardless of his lack of technique. Whatever it was, its magic did not seem to draw its power from his body; his arm ached from the effort of holding it in place, but he had not felt any effect on his mana or strength thus far. That was fortunate, as the effect that closing the Breach with the mark would have on him – if he even could – was troubling to consider.

The forward camp proved to be more of a collection of tents, crates, and casualties than a command post. As they approached, he could make out part of an argument between Leliana and some clergyman, whose scowl managed to grow even darker upon catching sight of him.

“Ah, here they come.”

“You made it,” Leliana said. The relief was audible in her voice, in a fascinating contrast to the chilling tone she had taken earlier. “Chancellor Roderick, this is—“

“I know who he is.” The chancellor folded his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing. Ilya met his gaze levelly, but his blank expression only seemed to incense the man further. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

“‘Order’ me?” Pentaghast scoffed. “You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor – as you well know.” A tremor of emotion ran through Leliana’s voice, although it was quickly brought back under control.

“Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey her orders on the matter!”

Well, Ilya thought as he half-listened to the three of them argue, it was a comfort that the balance of power did not favor the chancellor, at least for the moment. He did not recall where in the hierarchy of the Chantry a chancellor fell, but given that he had survived the Conclave, Ilya suspected it must not be too high. Pentaghast and Leliana were, for now, the real authority.

“The path to the temple is swarming with demons,” Leliana was saying, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “It is far too dangerous. The route through the mountains –”

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path,” Pentaghast objected.

“We have no choice,” Leliana replied simply, folding her arms over her chest.

Pentaghast let out a terse sigh, then looked to Ilya. “What do you think?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What do I think?”

“The climb will be long. Are you able?”

Able? His eyes turned from the seeker to the mountainside, where scaffolds and ladders clung to the stone for dear life. He could not deny the climb was daunting in his present condition, but it was necessary; one way or another, ability would have to make do. “Yes.”

The wind howled past the mine’s entrance like something wild, clearing away the stench of sulfur as the demons’ remains dissolved into dark mist. Ilya’s chest rose and fell heavily, and for a moment his vision went dark. He braced himself with a hand against the lichen-covered stone, then cautiously sank to the floor.

“We do not have time to linger, Snow,” Pentaghast admonished him. He didn’t need to open his eyes to imagine her expression.

“A moment,” he replied. Steady breaths. Too fast, and the threat of blacking out would become a certainty. His heart was beating too quickly, throbbing insistently in his throat.

“We must keep moving. Each minute we waste, the Breach grows larger—”

Ilya opened his eyes again; he did not dare to keep them closed for more than a few moments, lest the fatigue catch up with him. She was right, of course, and the thought was enough to make him grind his teeth in frustration. It had been many long years since he had so sorely felt the cage bars of his body. While he had not quite found that limit yet, it would be better to stop and rest than for him to faint somewhere in a frigid mining tunnel, as loath as he was to admit it.

His voice was breathless, but sharp enough to echo faintly off the cavernous walls. “I am aware.”

“Here,” Solas interjected, retrieving something from one of his pockets and offering it to him. “You should eat. After so many days unconscious, your body needs the sustenance.”

Ilya accepted it gratefully, and did not bother to investigate what it was before taking a bite. Some sort of bread with a sweet bean paste filling. The crust was hard and the paste had an odd texture from the cold, but as far as he was concerned, Andraste herself might have baked it. He wolfed it down quickly, pausing only to accept some water.

Solas gave Pentaghast a sharp look. “You did feed him before marching him up a mountaintop, yes?”

She was silent for a long moment. “...Oh.”

“Shit,” Varric scoffed. “After three days? You’re lucky he didn’t fall off the mountain.”

“I… apologize. You seemed so capable, I… did not realize. We will wait until you are ready.”

Her regret and embarrassment seemed genuine, not that it mattered; Ilya was only half-listening. “Do you have any more?” he asked, looking back to Solas.

“Of course. Have as much as you need, but take care to eat slowly.”

The time it took him to finish another bun was enough to mostly banish the dizziness that had begun to overtake him, whether thanks to the quick rush of sugar or the few minutes of rest. His muscles protested at the command to stand, but ultimately obeyed; as exhausted as he was, he knew that the longer he waited, the more leaden his muscles would feel. So long as he did not overly exert himself, the food and water ought to be enough to carry him back down the mountain.

“You sure you’re good?” Varric asked dubiously.

Ilya nodded. “I can eat as we walk, but –” He hesitated a moment, then forcibly set aside his pride. “It would be best if I don’t fight unless necessary. Since I’m the only one who can seal the rifts…”

Solas finished the thought for him: “We cannot afford to exhaust your energy ere we reach the Breach.”

“Very well,” Pentaghast replied. “If you need to stop, say something. We should not take any foolish risks.”

As they descended towards the ruins of the Conclave, Ilya found himself hardly listening to their conversation, focusing instead on where he placed his feet on the snow-covered path downward. Although the food had done wonders to clear his mind and restore his focus, each step still required a disconcerting amount of resolve and concentration.

The weary quiet of his thoughts was broken as the Temple of Sacred Ashes came into view below the hill-crest, and Ilya found himself stopping without meaning to. The temple he remembered had been as solemn and severe as the Chant itself, its scale and solitude a monument to the resolve and faith of its builders. It had been a grim choice for the setting of the Conclave, he had thought when he first saw it, but perhaps an effective reminder of the grave stakes of the negotiations. Now…

His first thought was of a bait carcass strung up and left for too long, devoured below the dangling neck and shoulders. Part of the outer edifice remained, without which the structure would have been utterly unrecognizable, but the explosion had laid waste well beyond. Shattered stones and splintered beams were scattered across the scorched ground, and black smoke still rose from some of the charred remnants. The rest of the structure was gone – no, it was obliterated. Strange black teeth erupted out from the crater at the temple’s heart, jutting high into the air and casting baleful shadows across the mountainside. To see the unmistakable, impossible geometries of the Fade scrawled across the waking world left him with a horror that eluded description.

Above them, the Breach loomed like a dreadful sun, casting its shivering and spectral light across the whole valley. The sense of wrongness was all but overpowering now, as if the whole world were a snapped limb hanging at a gruesome angle. Did the others feel it as strongly as he did, silently shrieking inside his skull? If they did, they didn’t speak it aloud, either. What was there to say?

Compared to the nightmare laid out across the valley floor, the thought that he had been there – that somehow, he alone had survived a disaster unfathomable – was little more than a whisper at the back of his mind.

It took him a moment to gather himself. Count the blooms. The wind was cold against his face. His ears hurt from the chill. His stomach still growled. His calves ached from the ladders’ countless rungs. There was a humming in his hand, radiating faintly as far as his shoulder. He was alive, and awake, and his task remained unfinished.

Standing on the crater’s edge, Ilya stared up at the Breach in silence. Pentaghast was saying something to him, and it took a moment to call his attention back. “What?”

A flicker of concern passed over her face. “Are you ready?”

No, he thought. Of course not. How could he be? “How am I meant to reach it?” His voice was flat; the words sounded like they belonged to someone else.

“No,” Solas said. “This rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.

“Then let’s find a way down,” Cassandra replied. “And be careful.”

They were so close now, but the walk felt like an eternity, as if they traveled to the bottom of the sea itself. A voice echoed around them, cruel and alien, and the hiss of magic from his palm was audible even over the shuddering groans and whispers of the Breach. His headache throbbed; it was almost comforting, a constant reminder that his body still remained, however loosely tethered his mind felt to it. From the rubble, strange crystal pustules had erupted, brilliant red and pulsing faintly. Lyrium, Varric called it, but in all the shipments he had overseen, Ilya had never seen lyrium like this.

As they reached the crater itself, a familiar voice rang around them and seized his attention in an instant. He couldn’t make out the words, but—

“You were there!” Pentaghast cried – nearly shouted. She rounded on him as if to seize him once more. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Ilya didn’t answer, only stared up at the space where the shivering vision had hung moments ago. The voice was his own, but the words were a stranger’s. The scene before them was nothing but a warped mirror, a spirit’s half-formed impression of reality. It was as if they were on the cusp of the Fade itself, watching as the Veil fluttered in the wind.

“Echoes of what happened here,” Solas supplied, as if speaking Ilya’s thoughts aloud. “The fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not sealed, but it is…”

Ilya studied the rift in silence. It was knit closed like an unhealed wound, and from its seam that strange light still wept. It seemed larger than the others he had sealed, but it was hard to tell.

This would kill him, he thought absently. Standing here in the hollow where a temple had once been, tasting the ashes of the dead on his tongue, it wasn’t such a strange thought. He should be dead already, after all. The few days of life he had somehow stolen had not been his to take, and he couldn’t begrudge fate for renewing its grip on him, just as it always had. He had never once shirked his duty, and he wouldn’t now.

Calmly, Ilya set his jaw, reached out, and tore the rift open once more.

There were soldiers enough to occupy the demons that slipped through, and his complete concentration was required to keep the gash from opening too wide. He could sense a great pressure from the other side, as if a dammed river loomed just out of sight, waiting to drown them. The effort to restrain it was far beyond that required for any of the smaller rifts, and he could sense his mana draining away, as if the mark’s own power was not enough to feed the flame. He didn’t think, would not think of the demons he saw from the corners of his eyes, or the clamor of the soldiers, or the fear that the magic would tear his arm from his shoulder. He had to close it, so he would. With everything left of him, he would.

Finally – finally – the force straining against the Veil abated, as if taking a deep breath, and he did not hesitate. The effort to force it closed left his ears ringing and stars in his eyes – but then, in the span of an instant, the wound was shut. Good, Ilya thought, dimly. Good.

Sharp pain as his knees hit the stone – then an easy, welcoming darkness.