In which Margo tries to think (but keeps getting interrupted), visits an augur, and passes another alchemy test.

There are no public meetings. No town halls. No charismatic leader comes to stand in front of the chantry, delivering rousing speeches to the populace or rallying the troops for a final stand for dignity — or, minimally, for survival. No proud banners rise to fly over the palisade. No town crier pierces the unseasonably mild afternoon air with a shrill call to arms. The notes of the midday chant cascade from the temple with familiar, unperturbed resonance.

Instead, the state of emergency lurks in sealed envelopes delivered to key personnel. It settles in grimly pressed lips and rustles in hushed murmurs in dim hallways and back alleys. It courses through the brusque movements of flinty-eyed soldiers, who escort confused civilians towards the requisitions tents. It ripples through the tight circle of anxious faces that surrounds one of Torquemada's agents, the man's expression shrouded in shadows beneath his hood and his tone swaddled in bureaucratic opaqueness as he reads names from a roster. A brief glimpse at the vellum as Margo passes the knot of people lends a half-formed thought — the scroll is too neat and the ink too dry to have been drafted in response to recent developments. Haven pulses to the rhythm of a calculated silence, one kept for so long that no other form of rule is conceivable.

But Margo does not get the chance to contemplate the theater of Torquemada's ascendence to the apex of the Quadrumvirate. She is sent to the apothecary to assist Master Adan, with no further information on her projected position in the impending performance, aside from a terse, "Expect further orders." She walks on legs she barely feels, her thoughts circling purposelessly like agitated birds. What now ?

Solas leaves with the rest of the advisors — though that description seems uniquely ill-suited for their actual roles at this point — with a final backward look. The hierarchy of the Inquisition shifts like sand, but the next steps are clear enough: to inform Evie of the plans formulated in her absence and with none of her input. No doubt strategically omitting the whole Tranquility proposal, too. The elf offers Margo a parting, "We will speak again, lethallan," delivered in a noncommittal tone from beneath a mask of neutral affability but with the slightest overemphasis on " again ," marking the word for her ears only. She casts an uneasy glance at Rutherford's retreating back, still visible through the open doorway, and then she returns her attention to Solas, her eyes lingering on his. She nods once. Be careful , she doesn't say.

She finds herself outside the infirmary, with no clear memory of exiting — trudging through melting snow under a cloud of dense, wordless anger. Fuck. How did she get this so wrong? How did she manage to convince herself that Evie's mark would protect the kid — that, by virtue of being indispensable, the young woman would have the time and space to come into her own, to slowly make room for her voice until it would be heard — and heeded? How unforgivably naive for an alleged historian to believe the figurehead could ever ascend to the same level as the forces operating behind the scenes. Not that Margo's own voice has any weight — and not that she had a clear sense of how to help Evie in the first place. But the reassuring self-delusion allowed her to coast. To avoid taking a stand. It's not like the signs weren't there all along, but she played it safe — tucked away into the illusory security of marginal irrelevance, while the organization on whose coattails she's been riding pivoted around a core of... Well. Not "rot," exactly, or "wickedness," or anything quite so bombastic. Debating the Inquisition's moral standing feels like an exercise in absurdist humor. But—

"You alright there, Prickly?" Margo jerks her head up. She was so occupied with fuming that Varric's presence at her side didn't register until he spoke. "If you're contemplating murder — and, based on your face, I'd say you're getting awfully close — may I recommend waiting until nightfall?"

Margo forces herself to take a steadying breath, but the air rushes out of her lungs in a sigh of pure frustration. She regroups, turning to the rogue. "I guess this is your way of saying that I need to work on being a bit more subtle about it?" Her quip lands flat. "Any chance you'll help get rid of the body?"

Varric harrumphs, but his amusement is skin-deep — the man hiding beneath the ironic persona seems long since out of jokes. All that's left is a dry sort of irony, bitter as wormwood. "If we were in Kirkwall, I'd tell you that I just might know a guy..." He exhales through clenched teeth, making a chuckle of it as if in afterthought. "And just when I was starting to think we might have a shot at fixing all this... Well." Varric gestures in abstract incredulity. "At times like these, I seriously question my sanity. Should've stayed far away from this mess."

"Did you have a choice, Varric?" She is still not entirely clear on whether the dwarf volunteered or got himself conscripted. Though one does not necessarily preclude the other, as recent events seem to suggest.

The rogue offers another one of his not particularly humorous smiles. "Well, that's just it, isn't it? Choice is a funny thing. You can 'have' an ale. Or coin in your pocket. You can 'have' a charming personality, or dashing good looks." He winks. "Can you actually 'have' a choice, Prickly?"

Margo stuffs her hands into her pockets, but she makes sure to return Varric's half-smile, even if the expression fits about as well as a tuxedo on a pig. This talk of choice has the unpleasant side effect of conjuring thoughts of the Cosmic Shitgibbon, and, by association, of Ser Lancelot the Bearer of Dire News, and then of red lyrium. And, from there, the dream of the infected Tree. What is that thing? The thought, urgent now, ricochets across her mind, garnering no answer but sending her right back to where they started — the impending attack by a red-lyrium-riddled army. Has Alexius's modeling been right all along, then? Perhaps the mad magister actually managed to anticipate the craptastic future correctly and this — this moment — is the early stirrings of that unfolding trajectory? One that will lead to ugly deaths for most, and uglier outcomes for those who have the misfortune of surviving...

"I suppose 'possession' isn't exactly the right idiom, is it?" Margo manages. Wittgenstein's words in Amund's voice resonate with the unbidden insistence of a memorized mantra. She doesn't have time for hypotheticals, one way or another. That future is not there yet.

"In my experience, Prickly, possession is never the right idiom." Varric lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Anyway, don't let me hold you up — we have an escape to plan." He squints, his expression cagey. "I don't know where they're putting you, but... I'll make some inquiries. Who knows, maybe they'll stick us together — along with all the other folks the Inquisition has no idea what to do with." Judging by his tone, the dwarf finds that possibility rather unlikely.

"Thanks, Varric." Margo collects herself, and the smile she shapes feels at least passably genuine. "I hope you have a way to get your books out."

Varric claps her on the shoulder. "See, Prickly, that's what I like about you. You've got your priorities straight." With that, the rogue departs towards his tent.

Instead of immediately following Torquemada's orders, Margo pokes her head into the tavern. Sera is absent, but Flissa sends her down to the smithy with a shrug and a harried expression. Check there.

The unexpected thaw has turned Haven's unpaved streets into muddy mush, the reddish clay painting the snow in russet streaks, and the rusty color sends a twinge of foreboding across Margo's spine. She jogs to the forge, boots squishing unpleasantly in the melting, muddy snow, the northern breeze soft on her skin. The air is heavy with moisture and the scent of warming earth. Unless the night brings another freeze, the village will be knee-deep in mud by the following morning.

She slows down next to the stables. The few horses that remain are restless. A bay mare with her front legs encased in standing wraps shakes her head from side to side and rolls her eye at Margo's approach.

The forge is eerily silent. Blackwall and a few of Master Harritt's apprentices are loading a rough-hewn cart with weapons and armor pieces. The blacksmith and a spotted, gangly youth with a shock of ginger hair are disassembling one of the forming presses. The contraption they use for improving weapons is lying in parts in the low bed of the cart.

Blackwall spots her first, and Margo waits for him to finish his task. At length, the Warden approaches. He leans a shoulder against the stable's fence and cocks a dark eyebrow at his visitor. The bay mare takes this opportunity to nose at his shoulder with an impatient snort, clearly angling for a treat or a scratch. Blackwall pats the horse's neck with absentminded familiarity. "Hope your head's feeling better than mine, agent. What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Sera." The thought of why she wants to find Sera rattles around, half-formed — nothing like a plan, only a hunch and the vague need to do something . "Have you seen her?"

"Not since this morning. Fuzzhead woke me up by dumping snow on my face — not that I'm complaining, all things considered. Took off after that. Want me to pass on a message?"

Margo chews the inside of her cheek, suddenly doubtful and weighing the next question. What are the chances that Sera was accidentally up early enough to wake up Blackwall after a night of heavy celebratory drinking? Varric mentioned that notes were delivered to strategic people with orders of moderation. He never mentioned whom the notes came from — though it was implied. Now, Sera's Friends, from what Margo understands, are a network of informants — unremarkable ones, unlike Torquemada's hooded spies. Sera's people — those who sweep floors and launder linens and, perhaps, clean the rubbish generated by the scribes — would be easy to overlook. "Blackwall, when did the order to pack up the forge come in?"

The warden's eyes narrow. "Early this morning. I would've slept right through it, if not for Sera."

Factoring in the time treating De Chevin's wounds, it adds up. Her hunch, then, was correct — the scene in the infirmary must have been orchestrated. Torquemada decided to act on Ser Lancelot the Fleet's bad news as soon as he showed up, if not earlier, effectively sidestepping the rest of the Quadrumvirate while they were occupied with arguing. It bears asking how much the spymaster's willingness to let Rutherford put forth his Tranquilization solution was a way of keeping the powers that be tied up in one place and unable to interfere with whatever the Left Hand had already set in motion elsewhere.

As to the rest... Hungover people are less likely to question orders. Or have the mental and physical bandwidth to panic.

Margo takes her leave of the Warden, trying to intuit the choreography of Torquemada's plan. A quick survey of the camp — swarming in purposeful if somewhat confused agitation — fails to turn up Sera, and Margo finds herself hesitating, suddenly caught between two contradictory impulses. The cautious side of her wants to do what she's been told — if she is to subvert directives, best make it a quiet, unobtrusive subversion, the resistance of subtly added friction. But the other side, the one stirring beneath with the cold, calculating anger of disillusioned pragmatism — grown untended from the memory of a thin, rancid straw pallet, from the sharp end of a spoon used for digging a tunnel, from the sour leer of a man with flat, reptilian eyes — is not particularly inclined to obedience. Problem is, she has no idea how to channel the emotion productively. Grab Evie and make a run for it, as Sera once suggested? Untenable. Find out about how the distribution of the Inquisition's "disposables" shakes out as the decoy strategy is implemented... And do what with it, exactly? Warn the right people? Argue with Torquemada? Flee?

And what, besides, did the spymaster mean by "a decoy"?

The thought is so sudden it halts Margo in her tracks. The pair of soldiers who were walking behind her practically trip over her suddenly still form. One of the men swears, though without particular anger — watchit, rabbit — and pushes her out of the way with barely a look. They hurry on towards the trebuchets. Margo steps into the shadow of the palisade, rubbing her bruised shoulder. Is Torquemada factoring in Evie's hex — or luck suck, as Sera would have it? Because if she is, then she must realize that the highest risk is not to Evie herself — or even to whomever or whatever might serve as the decoy — but to whomever comes with their lethally lucky Herald.

Solas must realize this. Cassandra, too.

Would Evie be safer inside Haven or outside of it? Perhaps the key question, then, is about National Hero's predictive capacities. Supposing that he knew about an attack on Haven in some hypothetical future beyond his reach, and supposing that he decided to prepare a ward for it — how much did he foresee? Did he predict Evie? Would smuggling Evie out ahead of the attack launch them on a different path from the one National Hero was anticipating — along a different branch of the Tree, to use the thrice-cursed dendritic horror for metaphorical purposes? Or will they have an Oedipus-style outcome on their hands?

Margo closes her eyes. Her head pounds with the circular logic of the potential temporal paradox — round and round it goes, chasing its tail. So. National Hero was a blood mage. Did he inherit blood magic like she inherited Maile's linguistic knowledge and murderous reflexes? Minimally, it explains why he was able to construct the ward. But what eventuality was the ward meant to address? The Breach? Keeping Haven safe from maddened spirits and red lyrium eruptions? Keeping it from an attack? But if so, how ? The Writhing Farthingale of Supreme Creepiness certainly doesn't prevent people from entering or leaving — based on evidence gathered, a physical army would march through Haven and not even notice the ward was there. So what is it for ? And it invites the rather obvious other question — what, exactly, did National Hero know, and why did he know it? If he was like her, was it simply that he snatched a body capable of seeing the future? Or were his insights something that came with him across worlds? Goran did mention National Hero's affinity with the Tree... And what of Leliana herself? Hypothetically speaking, if National Hero was trying to prevent something from happening, and if he implemented the blood ward for that purpose, then is Torquemada acting with or againsthis prophecy?

The decision comes to her like something floating up from murky depths, and Margo lets her legs carry her forward, up the road and back towards the dark, jagged tree line behind the temple. She squints against the snowy glare until she spots the triangle of Amund's fur tent and the wispy smoke of his campfire about five hundred meters up the slope.

By the time she reaches the campsite, Margo is winded and sweating beneath her leather coat. She finds Amund sitting placidly on a tree stump. He passes her a skin of ale, his face creased in wordless amusement, and she gulps down the liquid greedily before handing the skin back.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, little spider?" the augur inquires. His dark eyes are remote and unreadable, and he seems unhurried and otherwise unperturbed. If he has an opinion of recent developments, it doesn't show.

"You know we're evacuating, right?" The question is only one on the technicality of syntax.

Amund inclines his head. "Compassion said as much."

"Where is Cole, actually?"

Amund shrugs. "Wherever he must be."

Margo fidgets in place. The wind rustles in the pines above, breathing resin and snowmelt. "When are you leaving?" she asks.

"It depends." The Avvar glances at the sky. "Would that I had convinced you to abandon this Inquisition when time was on our side, spinner." Above them, dark dots soar in a wide circle against the soft blue. "Though I doubt you'd have heard reason," he remarks with good-natured mockery. "And I suppose I am too old to spirit you away in the dead of night — besides, I would've had to take you for a wife, then." His eyes glint with quiet humor. But," he adds more seriously, "it would have spared us what is to come."

Margo swallows. "Amund..." she hesitates. "Query your Lady for me, would you? I'm..."

Lost she wants to say. Lost, and uncertain, and unable to understand the messages this insane world keeps flinging at her in dreams and in cryptic letters — or why she should be their recipient. Can't the universe find another pen pal? Or, minimally, provide her with an interpreter?

The Avvar measures her with a narrow-eyed look. "Are you sure prophecy is what you wish?" A cautionary note creeps into his voice.

Margo nods.

At length, he fishes out a small cloth parcel from inside his coat, unfolding it on his knees. The thin bird bones, yellow with age and worn to a smooth ivory polish, fall into unreadable glyphs in his large palms. "Ask your question, then."

Tell me which branch we sing from, augur . The voice in her head doesn't quite feel like her own. She shakes it off and the question dies on her lips. She stares at the bones, amorphously furious with the lingering sense of helpless disorientation, with the lack of opportunity to sit and think through it all properly. Ask how? Ask what? "Just... tell me what I need to know."

Amund bends forward, sets a strip of felt onto the snow at his feet, and tosses the bones onto it. He traces the patterns with his eyes, one palm scraping thoughtfully against the beginning of a greying stubble. "Too many lies, little spider, and not just yours. Mind who does the speaking. The net will hold, but blessings and curses are simply two sides of one blade. For you, two roads from here, both bloody." He looks up from his scrying, his jaw set. Margo tries and fails to keep her expression neutral. Whatever Amund finds in her face, his own softens a fraction. "I yet owe you skuld, spinner," he notes gravely. "I shall not desert you, however the bones fall. And then, perhaps, we shall be even."

Margo finds her way back to Haven in a daze of buzzing thoughts.

A net . Goran had called the ward a net. Had the old man — or whoever he really is — not known for certain? Why did he formulate the next part as a question? "Keep in, or keep out?" Idle speculation, or a provocation specifically aimed at her? Ask good questions.

Fine. What is a net used for? For keeping things out. Or for catching things.

The only other model she has for understanding the blood ward is, paradoxically enough, the Veil. Perhaps not a perfect analogy, but the similarities are there, aren't they? It too was supposedly designed by the proverbial Maker to keep something at bay — the world of spirits, according to the established explanation. It too had, until recently, a giant hole in it. It begs the question — is it possible that the Tentacled Dome of Considerable Foulness actually mimics the Veil itself? Or mimics some of its mechanisms? And, if so, then what sort of magic might have been used to create the Veil in the first place?

Maybe Solas or Dorian would have some ideas on the subject, if she can track either of them down in the mad rush of preparation.

Keep in or keep out?

Margo forces her body into motion. Is the Veil truly meant to keep spirits out of the physical world? Or is it the opposite? Spirits, after all, fall into the material realm with enviable regularity. With unpleasant consequences for everyone, to be sure, but... Why is the reverse not happening at the same frequency? If the Veil was indeed fabricated, what if its purpose is the opposite of Chantry doctrine? What if it's not meant to keep spirits out , but fleshlings in ? Might spirits be benefiting from the Veil's protection?

A vivid image of Baba's vegetable garden blooms in her mind's eye. The crude, sunworn black plastic thrown over the strawberry beds. Small, tender bushes starred with white poke out from circular holes like perfect little green spheres. Beneath the plastic, naked earth where the weeds remain light-starved.

If the Fade is the source of magic, then—

"Oi! There you are!"

Margo is wrenched out of her thoughts with a start. Somehow, her feet have carried her to the courtyard in front of the apothecary, and she finds herself staring mutely at Adan, who looms in the doorway, looking particularly disheveled and even more hungover than usual. Despite the shadows darkening his eyes and hollowing out his cheeks, his expression is focused and purposeful. He beckons her with a quick twist of his head. "Don't just stand there; we have very little time."

Margo follows him inside. Formulating a plan of action while trying to pick apart the snarls of disjointed thoughts is an exercise in futility. Time. I need time to think .

But time she doesn't have.

The shop is barely recognizable. Ingredients have been pulled off the shelves, stuffed into sacks and crates, everything piled haphazardly at the entrance. Adan is in the midst of packing the glassware with felt and straw. Clemence, silent and seemingly indifferent, is bent over a ledger, presumably writing up the inventory. Minaeve is absent — likely tending to her own research and livelihood.

"I'm sorry I missed most of the packing," Margo ventures, with a sudden pang of guilt. In her rather aimless meanderings, she had ignored one of her primary social obligations. No matter what the Inquisition's Finest might want from her otherwise, Adan took her in. She owes him.

The alchemist shakes his head in dismissal. "Never mind that for now. Clemence, you'll bear witness, as agreed." The alchemist carefully avoids Margo's gaze. "Listen up, fledgling. I'm going to ask you some questions as we work, and you are going to answer them correctly , every single bloody one of them, so that there are absolutely no inquiries later. Do you understand me?"

"Not quite," Margo offers cautiously, her shoulders tense and her palms clammy with a sudden jolt of fear. What is this about?

"Trust me, if I could, I'd do this properly, but there's no time for 'properly,' so here we are. You finish packing these while we chat. I'll start taking apart the work station. First question. Antivan Fire. Main formula and three alternatives."

Margo rattles off the standard formula, conjuring up Auntie's writing and illustrations in her mind's eye. She adds the improvements Adan has made, the addition of two other plants — dawn lotus for stability and dragonthorn to make the flames burn hotter.

A test, then, but why? Why did Adan decide to test her now of all possible times?

He offers no explanation. More questions follow as they work — intermittent, punctuating the slow, fastidious labor of tearing down the apothecary. She glances at the alchemist. His lips are pinched in a grim scowl.

The reality of her situation hits Margo with full force when Adan opens a window and a gust of wet, snowy air dispels the familiar smells of elfroot and sulfur and myrrh resin. The hut looks more and more like an empty shell, an uninhabited carapace already containing within it its future ruin. One way or another, they are leaving. This part of her new life is over.

Margo bites back a sudden pang of sorrow, focusing on Adan's next question. Not that all of his inquiries are equally easy, but they are nothing compared to the challenge of her first test, where she was asked to produce the formula that ended up conjuring Imshael. She trips up on a question about bezoars, but she draws on her memories of her world's alchemical histories to fill in the blanks. "Mostly not very useful, as far as I know. Might help against some poisonings, but won't do much good otherwise," she ventures, her heart hammering in her throat. Except for lyrium, their minerals seem close enough — close enough, anyway, that it's likely that they might have arsenic, or something like it. Not that the experiments with bezoar and arsenic were ever particularly conclusive, from what she recalls, but... "It could help with some mineral poisons, I suppose," she adds cautiously.

Adan looks up. "I've not taught you that, fledgling." But then he returns his attention to his work, his jaw set.

"No," Margo agrees. "You haven't."

A few more questions about processing follow, but they are simple — he keeps them to what he knows she knows. Finally, Adan straightens, pressing his palms into his lower back with a wince. "Congratulations, Journeyman Duvalle. Clemence, will you confirm?"

Clemence lifts his head from his writing, fixing his calm eyes on Margo. "Agent Duvalle certainly passed, Master Adan, but the test was too simple. Not up to the standards of Journeyman rank. I am afraid that..."

"Clemence." Adan pins the Tranquil with a heavy stare. "The standards are the Senior Alchemist's decision."

"Were she taking the test in a Circle..."

"She's not taking the test in a Circle. She's not a mage."

"No." The Tranquil pauses, strangely. "Not a mage." An awkward silence falls between them. "As you say," he relents with the barest touch of coldness to his tone — though it might be the habitual indifference of Tranquility.

"Adan, what is this about? Why now?" Margo fits a lid over the last box of glassware, and she reaches for a hand hammer left on the floor next to a pile of discarded rags.

Adan rummages around in the satchel tied around his waist, coming up with a handful of crude nails. He hands them to her, his expression clouded with unease. "Got the order to pack mid-morning." He hesitates. "And then, right around noon, I got a message from your archer friend, while you were... doing whatever it was you were doing instead of reporting to your post." Adan's squint registers a mild rebuke. "Had a feeling it might come to this, but I'd hoped... Well, never mind that." He turns. "Clemence, please check outside and see if you can track down a courier. We'd better get the news to the ambassador — journeyman, not apprentice. Let's make sure the record is straight."

The Tranquil rises to his feet and proceeds outside without a word. Once the door closes behind him, Adan returns his attention to Margo, the odd tension still in his face. "Don't know how that Sera lass got the information, but... You might have noticed we're leaving Haven, yeah?"

Margo smiles sourly. "I may have suspected."

The alchemist greets her jape with an unwilling chuckle. "Haven's no stronghold. Some of us knew it was coming, sooner or later — I'd hoped later. Anyway, there's an order to who leaves and when." He averts his gaze, letting it roam across the shelves still full of books. They have yet to pack his library. For a brief moment, he seems incredulous and a little lost, but he masters himself quickly. "We have a few days, so not everyone is leaving together. A few convoys leave tonight." He pauses. "Master craftsmen and journeymen are tomorrow morning."

Margo swallows, her throat dry. "And the apprentices?"

"The day after, I'd guess. Not with us, in any case."

"Why so spread out?" But the answer is obvious. To make Haven look inhabited for as long as possible. She doesn't wait for him to confirm her suspicions. "How are all the separate groups going to find each other? Afterwards, I mean?"

"There are tunnels under Haven that lead into the mountains. A pilgrimage route, according to Chancellor Roderick." He shakes his head. "A load of horseshite, that. What sort of pilgrims scurry around in tunnels like field mice? And what sort of pilgrims build tunnels wide enough to leave enough room for horses and carts? It's an escape route put it by the dragon cult — for when the Chantry came a-knocking, which believe you me it did."

Margo nods. It would certainly explain why the Disciples of Andraste survived for as long as they did. "And what about the people with no rank? What about the... regular workers? When do they leave?"

Adan doesn't look at her when he answers. "I don't know. But as far as you're concerned, fledgling, you're my responsibility. I should have gotten you through the examination earlier. That's on me."

"Adan..." Margo forces her clenched jaw to loosen. "How they're doing this, it's not... the whole thing, it's... unconscionable. " The words get stuck half-way, the helpless outrage suddenly welling up inside her again. An unbidden memory of Redcliffe stirs and swells in her throat until breathing becomes hard labor.

Adan shakes his head once. "It's war, lass. It is what it is."

They finish the rest of the work in silence. Clemence returns, his mission apparently accomplished. They break for food in the late afternoon — a simple fare of bread and hard cheese and the perennial winter vegetables, pickled in sharp, tangy brine. Adan passes around a clay jug of weak ale.

They pack the library last.

A rhythmic creak punctuated by a few irritable snorts heralds the arrival of a cart. Margo looks through the window. The shaggy coat of something that appears to be a druffalo hybrid — though a hybrid with what isn't particularly clear — blots out the waning light. The local ruminant rumbles a gutteral call, something between a bray and a growl.

Above, the evening's first pale stars wink in the darkening sky.

Margo follows Adan outside. She is entirely unsurprised to see Blackwall, his hand resting on the animal's harness, standing by the cart. "Need help, Adan?" the Warden asks.

"Almost done here. As long as you and I manage to lift that accursed ingredient mill." The alchemist thrusts his thumb over his shoulder where the aforementioned contraption rests in the snow, wrapped in cloth and padded with straw against potential damage. Clemence and Adan got it this far, but the alchemist, as it turned out, has a bad back. Adan turns to Margo. "Go, fledgling. Get some rest." He hesitates. "While you can."

"But I will see you tomorrow morning, right?"

"Better you not oversleep," Adan counsels dryly. "You're not with us, are you, Warden?"

The warrior shakes his head. Margo turns to Blackwall, trying to stuff that feeling of lost helplessness as far down as it will go. "May I ask when..." She trails off.

"Tonight." Blackwall clears his throat. "Bull, the Chargers, and some of Cullen's men." His expression strikes her as strange. "We go to Therinfal," he offers after a moment, in a deceptively light tone.

So that's part of Torquemada's decoy strategy — to divide up the evacuation so that the enemy will have to make an educated guess as to where to strike, and when. Like a shell game — guess which container isn't empty. Except, of course, considering this is no doubt Torquemada's doing, the shell game is probably rigged. Still, the entire scheme depends on a careful evaluation of disposability.

"With the Herald," Blackwall adds, as if in afterthought.

Margo's stomach drops. Either the Warden is outright lying on purpose, or... or he doesn't know that Evie is not headed that way. Unless... She opens her mouth to reply, and then she closes it. "Are you Andrastean, Warden?" she manages.

He nods slowly. "Not an especially good one, I'm afraid, but yes, I suppose I am."

"Then Andraste be with you," she says through cold lips.

He inclines his head slightly. "And may your gods be with you, agent. Maker willing, we'll meet again."

Author's Note: My sincere apologies for the slow updates. I cross-post this from AO3, where the story is currently in a bit of a hiatus. You could catch up with the remaining chapters (I write under the pseud paraparadigm - if you want to binge-read the rest, you can find RAGT under the same title, or by doing an author's search).

As always, thank you for your follows, reviews, favs, and reading eyes!