In Denerim's Alienage, it was tradition not to name a child until they reached their sixth year. It came about as a pathetic attempt to prevent attachment to something likely to die. In hindsight, it did nothing to prevent attachment, if anything it made it fester, like an infection.

Cyrion and Adaia's daughter was…something. She was a little thing, smaller than all the other elves her age and all sharp edges where she should have been soft. This had been cause for concern, they fed her and fed her as much as they could but it never changed. She was just sharp, everywhere. A nose so pointed it could pierce through skin and a glare that could cut like razor blades. They fretted, trying to figure out what they had done wrong, their niece and nephew hadn't looked this way, they were all chubby cheeks and big round eyes while their daughter resembled a walking armoury. For a long time they were sure she would never get a name, they were so sure that their sharp little girl would slip through their fingers that they never even bothered to pick one. Shianni had already been named when Cyrion brought her to the Alienage and Soris was named by his father before he died, but their little girl had no hope and everyone knew it.

It was her third birthyear when she caught the flu. Adaia disappeared for a month and wouldn't tell Cyrion where she had gone, but he noticed her daggers were missing. When he was worried he liked to confront his problems, he liked to hold his child and pretend he believed she would survive, but his wife ran. She liked to hit things, hurt things. Her child was small, so small and sharp, like a blade. How could a blade be hurt by a blade? That was her reasoning when she passed her daughter a dagger and told her to stab. If she was going to die, she might as well do it with a blade clutched in her small bony fingers. Cyrion didn't agree. This was one of the many things they fought about. His daughter coughed and spluttered and he held her in his arms, ran his fingers through her short black hair and told her she would be fine, while Adaia pushed a dagger into her hands and told her to slash. She wanted to fight, Cyrion wanted to live.

At four their little girl fell down a flight of stairs. Shianni said she heard her arm crack like a twig. Within a week Adaia was gone again, but Cyrion stayed at his daughter's side, watching her face contorting in pain as he rubbed poultice after poultice on her injured arm.
"Two more years, Little One." He breathed, "Just hold on for two more."
Every healer who came to see her said she needed magical help, but Cyrion couldn't afford a mage. He didn't know where his wife had gone, and he didn't know when she would be coming back. Soris sat by the bed, one small hand on the girl's tiny forehead, his face contorted in concentration. He said he might be a mage, he said that if his cousin needed him to be he would. The boy was too young to understand that one is either a mage or they aren't, but he just pressed his hand firmer against her skin and continued trying. Adaia came back after a month, scarred and exhausted. Behind her was a woman, Adaia wouldn't speak her name and neither would she. Her voice came out in heavy Orleisan and her fingertips glowed with magic as they pressed on his daughter. Cyrion wept.

No one in the Alienage understood how she made it to five. Their little girl was sharper than ever, in not just her features but her tongue as well. The elves didn't know that she carried a dagger on her hip, Adaia had hidden it there and told her to kill. She pulled it out on a human who called her knife-ear, too bad he had one himself, and it was bigger than hers. Adaia found her before she bled out, the man's knife in the air ready to take a second swipe at her face. He never had a chance. If there was one thing Cyrion's wife knew how to do, it was kill. They didn't have time to hide the body, the humans vowed to come back, but Cyrion didn't hear. He was weeping as he clutched his bleeding daughter to his chest. His wife didn't understand how a blade could pierce their daughters steel skin, but she understood how to dress a wound. The cut was shallow, their little girl would yet live, but she would be scarred. Cyrion took Adaia's blades and hid them, because for the first time in five years, he believed his daughter had a chance.

It was an hour till midnight. Cyrion sat with his daughter in front of the fire, her sharp dagger eyes glinting at him. She smiled at him toothily, that seemed the only way she knew how, displaying rows of sharp teeth and reminding him that his little girl was still alive. He remembered her sharp little body, so small, so dangerous and how sure they had been she wouldn't make it, but here she was. His little girl was made for this world, she was a sword and a shield built into one, sharp enough to slay her foes, but strong enough to survive the ordeal. The small elven girl sitting before him was the perfect embodiment of both mother and father, she was everything to him. His little girl.
The clock was ticking and he held his breath. Ten more minutes. How could it be so frightening? His daughter leapt from her chair at the sound of a scream, her eyes wide and piercing.

"Da…?" She asked, her voice wavering.

He ruffled her hair, trying hide the way his hands shook. Eight minutes, "Wait here, little one."

She nodded, her quick little fingers groping her hip for the dagger that was no longer there. Cyrion stood from his chair and walked to the door, counting his heartbeats and counting the seconds. Seven minutes left. He pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness, the world around him cold. Adaia was there. Standing the way she always had, strong, fighting, always fighting. Cyrion remembered the daggers, he remembered how he hid them. He remembered the humans who sought revenge. Four minutes. His little girl was waiting for him inside, his wife was too far away. He broke into a sprint, his breath was ragged and his heart was pumping, but he was too late. Adaia fell to the ground with a thump, the humans didn't wait another moment before turning and walking away. Cyrion tried to scream at them, he tried to be like Adaia or like his daughter, but he couldn't. He fell to his knees.

The clock struck twelve. His daughter had survived. But his wife had not.