Chapter One

The Volturnus was full to bursting that night, as it was most nights in Minrathous. The largish tavern was tucked into a side-street of the famed Vivazzi Plaza, not posh enough to be openly frequented by the upper class but too upscale to be frequented by the dregs. It was also close enough to the central square to be popular but far enough away to still be considered dangerous and clandestine. A perfect combination in all respects that the owner had wisely capitalized on.

Garrett Hawke stared out now at the loud, boisterous scenery before him without really seeing—or even hearing—much. He was far too lost into his own dark thoughts at the moment to take proper heed of his surroundings. A dangerous venture indeed for one in his currently tenuous position, and one that would have brought far more worry if he were not surrounded on all fronts by possibly the only three people in all of Thedas that he could completely trust with his life and well-being.

The eldest Hawke was flanked on either side by his younger siblings, a set of twins; Bethany and Carver. Two years younger than his twenty-eight, Bethany was the eldest of the two by three minutes and a mage, like he was. Carver was the baby of the trio and it tended to show in his frequently petulant manner, further set apart by being the only non-magic-user among what remained of the Hawke family. Garrett never could fully understand Carver's frequent feelings of frustrated inadequacy, bristling at any comparison made between them—imagined or otherwise—and constantly attempting to prove his worth and usually to his own detriment. It wasn't as if the kid was unskilled with that massive blade that usually rested between his shoulder-blades, currently sitting now at his side against the table within easy reach. That blade and the man wielding it had certainly protected his back enough times in the past, as much as Bethany had if not more with her magic.

Still, life was never easy in the Tevinter Imperium even in the best of circumstances. Incredibly less so for the non-magically inclined. Hawke sneered a little at that. Well, perhaps there was some explanation to his baby brother's constant disquiet after all.

The Ferelden apostate Malcolm Hawke could have gone anywhere after he escaped the Kirkwall Gallows for the final time, all those years ago. Arm in arm with his 'stolen' bride Leandra, all of Thedas was open to them. Why they had chosen to turn north-west into Tevinter was still much of a mystery. If they'd gone to Nevarra or Antiva or Orlais—or, Maker forbid, even Ferelden—Hawke imagined all of their lives would have turned out quite differently than they had.

Instead of any of those other choices, his father had settled in Minrathous and indentured himself to the first magister willing to take on a Ferelden apostate. Indentured servitude was barely a step above an Imperial-owned slave but his father was strong, stubborn and determined. Traits his children had eventually inherited. By the time those children were old enough to understand their surroundings, Malcolm had managed to earn himself and his family citizenship, the rank of Laetan and the modicum of respect that came with it. They weren't powerful and they weren't rich, but they were together, they were safe and well-fed. For a time, that had been enough.

Then his father had been killed. Murdered.

Oh, they had claimed Malcolm Hawke a vicious maleficar—a laughable enough offense when ninety-percent of the upper echelons of Tevinter mages practiced exactly what they had accused him of and worse behind closed doors. And it certainly didn't matter that his father had never so much as pricked his finger to power a spell in his life, much less summon demons or drain slaves for blood magic as they'd accused.

No, Malcolm's only crime had been speaking out against a powerful magister. He'd been rashly fearless of the fact that he himself had no real power and therefore no protection against such dangerous animosity. His father only cared that the magister in question was a cruel and capricious bastard deserving of far worse than the public set-down that had been served to him.

Garrett had only been twelve the night they came for him. Malcolm had fled the south to escape the templars and their tyranny, how ironic that it had still been templars who'd taken his life even after all he'd done to get free of them. He could still remember the terror that gripped his chest in a cold vice, could still remember his mother's screams of desperate denial and the twins' fearful tears. More than all of that though, Garrett starkly remembered the look his father threw him as the templars dragged him away. It was equal parts defeat and defiance, and the memory of it would be forever seared into his brain.

"Look after them Garrett!" he'd yelled wildly as the soldiers wrestled him through the door of their modest home and into the darkness beyond.

Garrett had sworn to himself that he would, somehow, and he'd held true to that vow these past sixteen years. Even after they'd all lost their home and most of the standing their father had earned them in the ensuing scandal. Even after their mother died years later from wasting sickness, mostly due to never-ending depression and the poor conditions they'd been forced to live in ever since. Garrett took care of his brother and sister ever after to the best of his ability. Otherwise he devoted every last ounce of his time, power and considerable will to preparing himself to utterly ruin the man who'd killed his father and destroyed his family.

It was no small task ahead of him, that was certain. Garrett Hawke was a very strong and talented mage, that was true, but he had no patron to teach him properly and no power base to fall back on. His adversary on the other hand was one of the more powerful mages in the entirety of the Magisterium, with all the coin, allies and resources that status entailed. He was also a decade or two older as well, which meant more knowledge and more practical experience. None of that mattered to Garrett, of course. He would have his due. His father would have vengeance.

Danarius would die by his hand, or Hawke himself would die trying.

Hawke was brought rather forcefully out of his reverie when a stout hand suddenly waved in front of his face. He reared back slightly, then slid a silent glare toward the offender who sat across the table from him. The dwarf in question merely huffed out a laugh, completely unfazed.

"Here I am, trying to give you valuable, potentially life-saving intel, and you're day-dreaming," Varric Tethras murmured into the rim of his mug. "Only you, Hawke."

Hawke snorted a little at that, somewhat against his will but that was one of Varric's many talents—making him laugh whether he wanted to or not. Garrett wasn't a cruel man but he was focused, determined. Also very cautious and incredibly wary of the constant threat of betrayal. As such, he didn't have many friends. Really only had the one, actually, and that was Varric himself. Mostly because the damnable dwarf refused to take 'Piss off,' for an answer.

The second-son of House Tethras, member in good standing of the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, Varric had grown up most of his life in the Free Marches, to hear him tell it. It was only in the last five years that he'd relocated to Tevinter, to oversee some of his family's holdings there. Garrett got the impression that there was more to that particular tale but—despite a tendency to tell every other story under the sun to whomever would listen and even some who wouldn't—Varric's own tale remained much of a mystery. The dwarven 'merchant' spent most of his time frequenting the Volturnus drinking and playing Wicked Grace, on the streets of the Vivazzi Plaza managing his impressive spy network or at Hawke's side driving him to completely utter distraction.

"Please listen to him, Big Brother," Bethany suddenly murmured and Garrett winced at the tremor of fear in her gentle voice, dark eyes watery with unshed tears. "We need all the help we can get." Carver remained silent and largely sullen for the time being, but his fear and worry was no less than his twin's, visible in the lines that bracketed his too young blue eyes and mouth.

"Sorry, Varric," he managed, reaching for his own tankard and taking a pull of the ale within. The dwarf waved away his apology, unperturbed.

He addressed Bethany instead, though, with, "don't you worry, Sunshine. I promised I'd get us an advantage and I always deliver, don't I?" His confident grin and eye-brow waggle managed to tease a smile from her at least and Garrett was inwardly grateful. "My man on the inside says it'll be a standard mage duel. Good news is apparently Danarius doesn't think you're gonna be much of a challenge so there's no talk of 'boosting' his abilities beforehand."

Garrett knew Danarius' arrogance would ultimately work in his favor, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. The soft growl that rumbled out of Carver on his other side echoed the sentiment.

"His apprentice Hadriana will be his Second," Varric continued, and that was no surprise. "Since you're only Laetan, they're not bothering with the Grand Proving Arena either. It'll be held in Danarius' estate, which is somewhat worrying for the home turf advantage aspect but no less than we expected, either. The real wild card of the whole affair is Danarius' pet-slave-bodyguard-experiment-whatever the hell you want to call him."

Hawke felt his eyebrow lift, curious. "What's so special about him?"

Varric leaned forward, voice dropping to avoid being overheard as well as for theatrical effect. "I've never seen him in person myself, but I've heard about the bastard enough. Danarius apparently took one of his favorite elven slaves and carved actual lyrium tattoos into his skin. All over his body."

"Maker," Bethany breathed, eyes wide.

"What would that even do?" Carver demanded right after, brow furrowed in confusion.

"He'd be a constant and convenient source of mana, for one," Hawke cut in softly, expression thoughtful, and Varric nodded.

"He's also apparently twice as strong as a normal man and there're stories of him putting his fist through people's chests, bypassing armor and flesh entirely and crushing their damned hearts in his fingers like an overripe melon."

"Shit," it was Carver's turn to exclaim aloud, while all Bethany managed was a wide-eyed stare and a hand curling defensively around her throat. Hawke's expression never wavered.

"By all accounts the elf will be there—he never leaves Danarius' side to hear it told—but he's not supposed to be interfering in the duel itself," Varric continued. "I stress 'not supposed to.' There will be a representative from the Magisterium to officiate things and witness the bout to supposedly insure it's a fair fight, but don't hold your breath on the man not holding at least some sort of slant in Danarius' favor. Fairly certain he'll be firmly in the magister's pocket. The old bastard is too careful not to see to something simple like that."

"Bethany, you'll need to see to the apprentice," Hawke murmured and his sister nodded, if not entirely confident then at least determined not to let him down. Hawke trusted her abilities, however. His sister was a talented elementalist—far more talented than she gave herself credit for—and by all accounts this Hadriana was as lazy as she was cruel. "Carver, Varric, it'll be up to you two to keep an eye on the bodyguard. I won't be able to watch for his interference on top of dealing with Danarius."

"Certainly," Carver mused bitterly. "'Keep an eye' on the super-strong lyrium ghost elf. No problem."

Varric laughed while Hawke didn't bother to deign the comment with more than a faint eye-roll. "C'mon Junior, what's life without a little danger and excitement?"

"I'd prefer to keep my heart right where it is, if it's all the same dwarf. Uncrushed."

Hawke turned a little in his seat, fixing his younger brother with a steady stare, expression shuttered. "Do you have my back?" The youngest Hawke drew himself up as if he'd been kicked, cheeks flushed and blue eyes sparking indignant fury.

"I'm with you, brother," he ground out roughly. "Always."

"Always," Bethany softly parroted, her hand curling around his bicep in a comforting grip.

Hawke nodded at that, one of his own hands covering hers. The finality, the inevitability of the coming fight settled itself about his shoulders, cold and stark with purpose. "Always."

The dwarf eyed the trio and slowly shook his head before draining the rest of his tankard. "One of these days I'm going to put this all in a book."