Premise: So, another pilot. This story plans to be heavily AU, like all the previous iterations, in that there isn't a single point of divergence, rather several differences in the characters' choices, behaviors, and whatnot. My changes are usually justified either through altering a choice made in canon due to game constraints (like not exploring the Cousland-Antivan ties) or personal interpretation and preference (Bethany's situation is an early example) due to new plot elements.

Moreover, I played a bit with the cultures of certain bits of the Coastlands on the prompt of Eleanor Cousland being the daughter of a raider, and expanded on it with some loose Norse themes adapted to the pre-existing Alamarri conglomerate culture. If you want to put an image to the description of Cormac and the Storm Raiders, check up the Varangian Guard from the 1200s. What can I say, I love giving some more details to local cultures and breathe life into otherwise anonymous locations, like Waking Sea… which, as far as I'm concerned, is situated on that cluster of islands that kind of create a bottleneck in the Waking sea, just north of Lake Calenhad.

Other than that, I'll try and follow the dreaded GRRM approach to narration, which means each scene is filtered through a single character close 3rd person POV, and there'll be quite the cast. Also, minor time skips, all accounted for in the narration. If you've read one of the many previous attempts at The Hubris of Man, I'll lift themes and stuff from there too, though the story will be wider in scope and breadth.

PROLOGUE

A log popped in the hearth and a brief gout of flame licked at the ancient, blackened stone. Arl Rendon Howe stared at the flickering flames, leaning forward on his high-backed seat. His hawkish features were pinched in a look of brooding distaste that rarely left his face anymore these days.

Every stone around him was old. Older than Ferelden. Older than Calenhad's line. Vigil's Keep even predated the Chantry and her Ages, built by the hands of the Alamarri of old. From a time long lost in legend and myth, the fortress stood, and the Howes controlled it and its lands.

'My lineage predates the blood of the dragon by Ages, and yet, what have I to show for it?'

This was his family's legacy after a thousand years. A crumbling castle, the ancient stone worn and consumed by the same time that heaped prestige upon it. A dwindling Arling, still reeling from the Occupation and squeezed between the lofty holdings of Highever, Denerim and the ravaging weather of the Storm Coast. Unappreciative Banns held in line by vows of blood and allegiance, their loyalties wavering as their freeholders trickled away by the year to swear to the Couslands. And Amaranthine, the shining jewel of his crown, just one bold, ambitious Bann away from being wrenched from his grasp.

Bann Esmerelle descended from a long line of Howe loyalists, and the woman's great designs had restored the city to the splendor of before the Occupation... but her ambition was ultimately self-serving. That kind of people, together with the spineless and the cowards, had been the first to bend the knee to the Orlesians.

Rendon's lips pinched into a bloodless grimace.

Out of the three who braved the currents of the White River that fateful day, who survived the Orlesian onslaught and repaid them in kind ten times so, the Maker had decided to turn His gaze away from him only.

To Eleanor Cousland's spirit and charm, or Bronwyn Bryland's beauty and insight, Howe had been cursed with sickly, hateful wife that begot him children unworthy of the Howe name.

Tomas, weak of chin and will, fostered over to the Couslands in a myopic decision that ruined the boy's character by the time he was back under the Howe's aegis. He may have grown a capable warrior in his time yapping after Cormac Cousland and the Storm Raiders, but they had also made him soft.

Sweet, demure Delilah, pale and frail like porcelain. A shy and hesitant girl, a wallflower in ribbons and gowns. Lovely like her mother never was, but not assertive enough to bewitch the young King or distract Vaughan Kendalls from elf flesh. In her only duty, to tie another strong family to the Howes' fortunes, she failed even before she ever stood a chance.

And then there was Nathaniel. His firstborn, the apple of his eye. Strong and smart, with the looks of a true Howe to him. He'd shunned his other children to mold Nathaniel in the future the Howes deserved, but for all of the boy's skill and charm, he had been the greatest of disappointments. When his sight had grown unbearable, Rendon had had no choice but to send him away, in the Free Marches.

And while he, Rendon Howe, rotted, his many sacrifices gone unrewarded, his family a line of failures, Leonas's Arling was bursting, blessed with rich harvests and riches from the trade growing around the Imperial Highway. Habren was a little, spoiled wretch, true, but Bronwyn had given Leonas sired two younger sons as well before passing.

And Bryce... Bryce had had it all, once Meghren's head was put on a pike atop Fort Drakon. Eleanor for a wife, the natural, easy charisma and sweet words to pacify the eastern Jarls with the knightly Banns of the south and west. Then honors, praise, and riches, all piled upon him for his diplomatic successes, as well as brought to him by his sons' deeds in sword and word. To top it all off, not five years before, he had Ferelden and the Crown offered to him on a silver platter by those too blinded and swayed by the Cousland laurels to see the bloodied thorns digging into the palms handing them out. Cailan's election had been a close thing, and even the Guerrin-Mac Tir alliance of convenience would have had a hard time triumphing, hadn't Bryce stepped back.

All for the good of Ferelden, he said.

A fire hotter than the hearth's erupted into his chest, fueling on decades of repressed frustration and hate barely kept in check by bonds of friendship and promises for the future. The thick parchment in his hand cracked as his fingers curled into a fist around it. Howe restrained himself from throwing it into the fire and flattened it instead, glaring at the elegant and fluent handwriting revealing the utmost betrayal, paid in Orleasian coin and the blood of loyal Fereldans.

A smart rapping on the thick, wooden door broke the quiet of the night. It also brought Howe's eyes and displeasure to bear on a new target.

"M'lord," the muffled but deep voice of Captain Lowan announced. "You have a visitor, m'lord. The lady m'lord was expecting is here." Howe frowned in annoyance as his commoner accent grated on his nerves.

"Send her in."

"As you wish, m'lord."

The door cracked open on heavy hinges, revealing the torch-lit corridor beyond and the boorish silhouette of Lowan standing against it. The strong-jawed man stepped into the Arl's study, then to the side, eyes fixed and back stiff. He crossed his arms across his chest, fists touching his shoulders, and bowed smartly.

Howe barely noticed. Behind Lowan, a beautiful woman walked in. The rosiness of youth had long left her, leaving a sharp-lined face framing eloquent eyes and high cheekbones unspoiled of any powder or embellishment. She wore the gown proper of a Fereldan noblewoman, elegant and embroidered but demure and practical, of thick cloth made to withstand harsh weather and long travels rather than show off skin and allure like those Orlesians constructs of silk.

She bowed to him, hers inches shallower than Lowan's. The name announced by the Captain, however, spoiled the rather agreeable image the woman presented, bringing a tight grimace to Howe's face.

"The Lady Marjolaine, m'lord Howe."

'Bloody Orlesians.'

"Leave us."

"Aye, m'lord."

The Captain bowed again and the door creaked shut after him. Howe studied the Lady Marjolaine for long moments. To his growing annoyance, her long glance at the trophies gathered by generations of Howes and proudly on display, as well as the long tapestries draping the walls and depicting deeds of sword and blood, left a rather unimpressed, if polite, expression on her face. Her stance as she stood the proper distance away was straight and poised but relaxed despite her lack of weapons and the burning look he regarded her with.

A word from him and the guards outside the door would make short work of her. They both knew that, but the Lady Marjolaine seemed to refuse to care.

A long time after etiquette would have had him offer her a seat as well as bread and salt, Howe nodded at one of the stuffed chairs. The Lady sat with elegant slowness.

A few moments later and she broke the silence. "It's an honor to finally meet you in person, my lord Arl." Her voice reminded him of songbirds chirping after a storm.

"A meeting long delayed," Howe said.

Marjolaine tilted her head, her expression contrite. It was so good, he almost believed her. "My apologies, my lord. I had to bide my time to gather the incriminating evidence and then leave without raising suspicion. If I had been less careful, the Empress' Shadows would have caught me long ago, and Teyrn Cousland's betrayal would remain concealed under a friendly facade until it was too late."

She hesitated. "As it is, I'm not certain I have remained undetected. The Empress' agents are hard at work, weaving their webs in Ferelden. I'm afraid the time to act is drawing short, and this Blight is the perfect occasion for Orlais to complete what you sacrificed so much to foul."

Howe's eyes narrowed, ears ringing with suspicion and old anger at the flattery.

"Bold words from someone so thoroughly Orlesian. In this letter, you admitted you were involved with Cousland's transactions with the bitch Celene from the start. Why should I trust a turn-cloak who is so proficient in the Game, she can weasel information straight out of the Imperial Palace?"

If the Orlesian Bard was offended, she didn't show it. "It would be foolish of you to trust me on my word, my Lord Arl. That's why I brought tangible proof, penned by the culprit parties and reliable beyond any doubt," she said, smoothing a crease in the gown. "As you said, I'm a Bard. I've played the game for almost three decades at this point. I've killed, deceived, and seduced my way to secrets nobody should know." Her brown, expressive eyes found his. There was no allure or coyness there, only stony determination. "But in all these years, I never betrayed my homeland. I've always, always served Ferelden, at times and in ways nobody will ever know."

Howe blinked, then recovered his composure, hiding his moment of surprise behind a harsh snap. "Speak clearly, woman!"

"I'm Fereldan by birth, my Lord." Her voice tensed, but her eyes didn't waver from his. "My mother was raped by a Chevalier during the sacking of West Hills, then taken as a servant in his household when he returned home. The local Chantry's registers of the time will have her name and mine penned down. I may have grown and developed my craft under the spires of Val Royeaux, and my voice may lilt with their accent, but my blood, and my heart, belong to this country. And you, my Lord, are not the first Fereldan I've served and risked my life for to protect my home."

Howe filed away the information behind a mask of cool consideration. He almost spat the next syllable, his heart conflicted between believing her words and bisecting her from shoulder to hip with his ax.

"Who?"

Marjolaine hung her head, her posture drooping as old grief colored her words. "Her Grace, the Queen Rowan, may the Maker keep her soul from the Void. I was too late to stop the Emperor' agents from murdering her at the time, but rest assured none who participated in the deed live any longer." A vicious smile shattered the previous impression Howe had gotten of her, even as outrage swelled his chest and made veins bulge on his neck and temples. "Their end wasn't swift."

Howe exhaled violently, rabid anger twisting his gut at the confirmation of an old, festering suspicion. If what she said was true... Orlais had murdered the Red Queen in spite and vengeance, all those years ago. Deprived the realm of her guidance when it was needed most. And now, history was about to repeat itself, with Cousland and Cailan and...

No.

He wouldn't allow it. On his honor and blood as a Howe, he would be dead before Ferelden was subjugated again to those duplicitous, incestuous, mask-wearing boot-lickers.

"Show me the proof, Bard."

Marjolaine smiled. From the folds of her Fereldan dress, she produced a thin bundle of parchments and letters, tied with string. The broken wax of the Cousland Laurels and the Empire's Sun was all over them, like flies on a corpse.

The next morning, the Lady Marjolaine was long gone when the King's messenger rode into Vigil's Keep. Senechal Varel, carrying the missive personally as the rider rested and ate, found his Arl standing on the highest tower of the Vigil, eyes lost on the Arling's countryside and the black clouds rolling from the Waking Sea.

The Captains Lowan and Chase stood with him and fell silent when Varel approached, though not out of respect for the man. Lowan and Chase were commoners, their fortunes and ranks bound to Howe until their deaths. Varel's family, on the other hand, was petty nobility, minor Banns from the northern expanses of the Bannorn. His views and stiff morality badly aligned with Howe's more pragmatic inclinations. As such, despite his position of authority over the keep and his competence, Howe rarely allowed Varel in his council.

It was why the Senechal knew nothing of the Lady Marjolaine, and why he hadn't been summoned on the tower top at dawn.

Howe broke the Royal Sigil and quickly read the missive, before dismissing the Senechal with the order to summon the Banns and start rallying the levies. King Cailan was raising the banners to vanquish the Darkspawn south. The missive presented it as a noble endeavor of patriotism, worthy of song and legend.

Howe considered it a vain deed for a vain boy who would serve his country much better if he put a child in his wife, rather than whore around and sell Ferelden to the Orleasians. Ultimately, however, the King wasn't Howe's problem to deal with. Not yet.

"Lowan, pick a few trusted men and ride for Denerim. Bring these to Teyrn Loghain, and to his hands only. He will know what to do." 'And if he won't, then I will.'

"Chase. You will have gold and a small escort. Ride to Amaranthine, to Harper's Ford and the Wending Woods, to every scum's lair and hideout you know of. Hire any apostate, mercenary, and thug you can find, and send them to the Knotwood Hills. You have two weeks." Howe fixed the peasant-born Captain with a cold look. The Captain didn't flinch, only crossed his arms across his chest, and bowed deeply.

He was younger than Lowan, fairer of face and tongue, with curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes giving away his traces of Marcher blood. Yet that fairness didn't hide the shrewd, calculating look Howe had come to expect from the man. After all, it was those qualities that had endeared the man to the Arl years before, when he was still a lowly, well-connected spy with dreams of greatness and the ambition to back them up.

"Do not disappoint me, and you will be rewarded well beyond your dreams." Howe smirked cruelly as Chase's coolness faltered with hope, doubt, and suspicion. All men had a weakness to exploit, after all. Chase's, surprisingly, was Delilah. How such a man, a cutthroat and cold-blooded assassin, could harbor feelings for a frail thing like his daughter, Howe didn't know, but that kind of knowledge had kept Chase in check and obedient for years.

It would continue to do so as long as Howe had need for him. There was no chance he'd dilute a Howe's blood with a commoner, but Chase needn't know.

"As you command, milord."

"Two weeks, Chase. Not a day more." 'And soon, the traitors will finally earn their due. As will I.'

CORMAC

The drums picked up in intensity, beating loud and fast over the crash of the waves against the bulwarks of the Werewolf, drowning the twangs of bolts and the whizz of raining arrows, but not the bedlam of wood crashing and men dying.

Cormac stood near the prow of the war galley, surrounded by Storm Raiders and Highever men in equal numbers, shield raised high with theirs to form a nigh-impenetrable barrier against the enemy ranged fire. Wind and rain battered his armored body. Cold water seeped through metal and drakeskin, chilling his flesh. Each lurch of the ship threatened to unbalance him on the drenched deck and throw him overboard to a death by drowning. Said deck shook every time the two banks of oars attacked the belligerent see: nature and the Maker challenged the bodies and resolve of the Werewolf's crew and of every other ship locked in battle against the pirates and the weather both.

Never like in these moments, with death and uncertainty encroaching him by all sides and his men rallied around him, did Cormac feel more alive.

The Thane brought an armored wrist to where the veridium mail aventail covered his mouth and kissed the small bracelet carrying the effigy of the Prophetess, safely tucked underneath his vambrace. All around him, dozens of voices joined in mismatched prayers, hands tightened on the hilts of swords and axes, eager to spill the blood of the Felicisima Armada.

Cormac barely heard his own prayer over the din of thunder, rain, and arrows thudding on the large round shield held angled above his head. The words resonated inside him nonetheless

"Maker, through the darkness comes upon me,

I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.

I shall endure.

What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

The archers and crossbowmen on the Werewolf's castle loosed another volley. Through a gap in the shield wall, Cormac saw the pirate ship's port side grow ever closer, their rows caught in the middle of frantic maneuvering. The Armada's flag billowed from atop the main mast, an affront Cormac looked forward to rectifying.

"Ramming speed!" Cormac shouted, making himself heard over the drums now beating a frenzied tempo. "Brace for impact!"

The deck lurched under his feet as the Werewolf's ram broke the pirate ship's oars like twigs, then carved hungrily into its hull. The shield wall wavered and gaps opened, but the pirates were too busy being thrown head over heels and screaming as they fell overboard to exploit the gap.

And yet, the waves dulled the Werewolf's ramming, derailing the angle of impact and lessening the force of the blow. Or maybe the pirate ship was a rare example of Estwatch's capable craftsmanship. The fact was, the ramming hadn't broken the keel, nor damaged the hull enough to cause sinking.

Cormac's heart leaped with joy and anticipation.

"Highever! Highever!"

His war cry echoed by two dozen throats, Cormac vaulted over the parapet, silverite sword swinging downward. The tip of the blade caught a staggering pirate in the back. It tore through the cheap scale mail and the leather underneath like butter, Cormac's weight pushing it deeper and downward. It opened the pirate from shoulder to hip, bisecting his spine in the process.

Cormac hit the deck and rolled, the damaged wood screaming under his armored weight. He came up swinging, deflecting an ax meant to split his metal helmet. The boss of his shield hit the pirate in the jaw in riposte, shattering it and sending him reeling. Before he could skewer him, however, another battle cry rallied the pirates.

"Push the Dog Lovers into the sea!"

The ship's captain stood on the low castle, waving and pointing a cutlass unflinchingly as his men exchanged fire with Cormac's on the Werewolf's castle. Cormac could concede on his bravery and the effect it had on the crew, but it was too little, too late.

More thumps and creaks of straining wood were drowned as the Storm Raiders swarmed over the Werewolf's stuck prow and onto the enemy deck. Clad in full mail and lamellar cuirasses like Cormac's – though not of the same quality -, their faces concealed behind aventails to leave only the eyes bare, the Storm Raiders ought to appear like demons out of the stormy sea to the lightly armored pirates.

They certainly killed like demons.

The pirates staggered counter-offensive crashed into a wall of large, round shields, then shattered as the Raiders pushed back, stabbing and slicing with every step, creating more space for the Highever soldiers to safely board. Cormac stabbed over his shield and his blade plunged into a chest, the cry of pain lost to the cacophony of battle. He bashed the body away, kicking it underfoot, and the Raider beside him deflected a blow meant for his neck, opening the bold pirate for a stab in the belly that left her bleeding on the deck, her blood mixing with rainwater.

"Be careful!" Alfstanna shouted into his ear as the shield wall broke to pursue the enemy. Cormac strode for the castle, bringing his shield up and frowning as a bodkin arrow almost punched through the layers of whitewood and silverite.

"Why, when I have you as my huscarl, 'Sanna?"

He fancied she rolled her eyes at him under her aventail, always one step behind him. Then he reached the steps to the castle, and the battle raged again.

Minutes later, Cormac stood on the tilting ship's castle, ankle deep in the viscera, shit and blood of the dead pirate crew archers. Guardsman Kellogg, a sour-faced soldier from the Highever garrison, had killed the pirate captain before he could get to him. Cormac didn't begrudge him the accomplishment: the day had been ripe with battle already, and it was yet to be over.

The combat between the Felicisima Armada and the allied forces of Highever and Rialto still raged. Galleys, cogs, and dromons were burning brightly and sinking, bodies and flags swallowed greedily by the waves. Cormac saw the Alacrità, an Antivan galley, boxed in between a cog and a dromon, both flying the Armada's banner.

Then the Rosso Cremisi, the Antivan flagship, swept in. The ship sent a salvo of incendiary ballista bolts into the cog, then rowed around the three clustered ships and proceeded to shatter the oars of the Llomerryn dromon. The Alacrità's crew, their vigor renewed, cut loose the cog's boarding grapples as the ship started to founder and tilt dangerously. Moments later, the Rosso Cremisi threw its own barrage of grapples on the dromon and the Antivan crew boarded the pirate ship, the crossbowmen and archers on its castle keeping up the fire all along.

Elsewhere and all around Cormac, the laurels of the Couslands, the tear-and-spears of Highever and the red-wheel-on-waves of the Eremon of Waking Sea, even if bereft of the Rosso Cremisi's artillery, laid waste to the pirate fleet by skill and the strength of arms of their crews. The mixed contingents of heavily armed and armored Storm Raiders, Waking Sea reavers and Fereldan soldiers tore into the pirates, turning predators into prey.

"My Lord Cousland!" One of the Raiders shouted at him from the deck below. "Jarl Eremon's ship signals to push deeper into the fray and cut off the Armada's flagship! The scum is trying to flee!"

Under the aventail, the sweat and the blood soaked through the rings, Cormac smiled.

"Now, we can't have that." Louder, so as to be heard over the crash of wood and steel, Cormac shouted. "Kopral Garrick, your squad man this ship! It'll make a fine addition to the Highever Fleet! Everyone else, on the Werewolf! Kill them until your thirst is sated! Strike fear into their hearts and send them screaming into the Void!"

A day and a night after the battle that routed the pirates of the Felicisima Armada, the conjoined Antivan-Fereldan fleet gave up on the chase and dropped anchor in one of the many inlets of Brandel's Reach for repairs and sharing the loot. The haggard remnants of the pirate fleet that plagued that stretch of the sea were left to limp back to Estwatch or Llomerryn and spread word of their defeat, if they didn't founder in another storm.

The leaders of the two fleets met on board of the Sword of Mercy, Jarl Elderath Eremon's flagship, to divide the spoils and decide on future endeavors. The Fereldan fleet had lost two ships out of the starting nine, but captured four in return. The Antivan met with similar results, though the boarding actions had cut into their crews more significantly. Indeed, there was much to talk about and decide. Tug the prizes home and recover, or push North for richer prizes?

The moment Cormac's head of brown curls climbed over the parapet, however, such concerns were forgotten as the younger Cousland found himself crushed by the bear paws of Jarl Elderath.

"Ha! Thane Cousland! Or is it Kaptain? Lord, perhaps? My lad, you have too many titles! Be as it may, you grace my ship with your presence!" Cormac was a tall and broad man, but Elderath topped him easily by half a head while helmetless. Said head was bald and crisscrossed with angular blue marks, save for a gray tress protruding from his nape. Similar tattoos covered his arms as well, partially hidden by bangles of gold and bronze. It was an old Alamarri tradition predating the Chantry and Ferelden, but still preserved by the people of Waking Sea, as was the title of their ruler, or Elderath's own name, rooted deeply in the history of the Prophetess.

Where the rest of Ferelden, save for the Chasind and Avvars, had Banns, Waking Sea Hold and the other isles on the homonymous sea had their Jarls. Where knights swore their oaths to the Maker and earned or bought their titles elsewhere, the title of Thane was the greatest honor and responsibility on the isles, bestowed by the Jarl for services rendered to the Hold. And where the Chantry monopolized religiosity, on the isles only the Prophetess Andraste's words had value over a man's soul.

As the Alamarri tradition had it, the most prominent mark on Elderath was indeed the same as Havard the Aegis', Andraste's first follower. It was a frayed V pointing at the crown of his head, whose arms then descended over his eyes and a single bushy eyebrow to end on the Jarl's cheeks with tears and streaks tapering off. An old burn scar disfigured the top left of the Jarl's face, where the eyebrow had never grown back, causing the skin there to resemble drakeskin leather more than flesh.

Cormac had spent long days looking at that mangled face during his fostering years, until he had just grown used to it. That wasn't the case for most of the Landsmeet nobles during the yearly gathering, however. Their discomfort never failed to bring a hearty laugh to Elderath's lips.

He was laughing now as well as Cormac extricated himself from his hold and clasped his forearm instead.

"Har fucking har," Cormac groused, but under his week's growth, he grinned. Elderath's laugh had always been contagious. "Many spoils in the last battle?"

"Ha! Certainly more than your milk drinkers, or those bare-faced Antivans! Today will be less about splitting, and more about Waking Sea gifting you lot!"

"I seem to recall it was the Werewolf and the Rosso Cremisi that actually captured the Armada's flagship, while the Sword of Mercy was held back like a blushing virgin by the small fish."

Elderath's grip on his forearm became steel. Cormac's grin only widened as he tightened his, ignoring the pressure of his mail digging into the drakeskin aketon covering his forearm.

"Your grip would shame a blushing virgin, Cormac! That way lies a grave at the bottom of the Sea!"

"If the two of you are done comparing your cocks, isn't there a meeting you have to attend?"

Alfstanna looked on the scene with her arms crossed over her cuirass, the red steel still speckled with the dried and crumbling blood of her kills. To the clotted dark red of the blood and the dull, metallic one of her lamellar cuirass, her hair was warmer, tied in a practical bun behind her head. Only a single braid hung free against her cheek, signifying her status as a Battle-Maiden. The laurels on her shield, painted opposite of the wheel-and-waves of Waking Sea, signified her personal allegiance to the Couslands and to Cormac himself, as his personal huscarl.

Fully armed and armored in the garments of the Storm Raiders, save for the metal helmet and gloves hanging from her belt, she cut an intimidating figure, even to the taller Cormac. Intimidating, and annoyed.

The pressure on his forearm relented. In two long strides, Jarl Elderath towered over the redhead huscarl, all cheer evaporated. His glower pulled at the burned flesh of his face, adding to his intimidating visage. A hushed silence fell over the deck crew and the warriors in attendance.

"Is this the manner to speak to your Thane, huscarl?!"

Alfstanna blinked and suddenly paled, then crossed arms over her chest and fell on one knee, head hung, eyes fixed on the planks of the deck.

"Apologies, Jarl Eremon. It was out of place of me." She looked at Cormac then, a focused and contrite look about her. "And my deepest apologies to you, my Thane." She unsheathed a dagger engraved with Alamarri runes from her belt, and brought the blade to her bare palm, slicing twice. A glob of blood hit the deck, then another. At the third, she spoke again, voice unwavering.

"Please forgive my offense. Whatever task you require of me to repent, I shall complete, or die trying."

Cormac remained silent throughout the declaration. It was necessary that he did as much, to preserve both of their honors: his, as the Thane who was publicly disrespected by his huscarl and hers, as the offending party. It didn't matter how familiar they were with each other outside of the public eye, or that they'd grown up together, or even that Jarl Elderath was Alfstanna's own father. If a huscarl, an extension of the Thane's will, bound to him by blood and oath, disrespected her Thane, then how could anyone else respect him?

'It was our banter. It brought her back to my fostering at Waking Sea, and the weariness from the battle made her slip. Maker.' He knew he had to punish her, in some manner at least. For both of their good.

"Rise, Alfstanna." She did as he commanded. Cormac didn't dare sigh or take a steadying breath. "You shall not take any share in the spoils of the Armada but what is already on your person. Understood?"

Alfstanna bowed, fists to her shoulders, but not before Cormac saw the flash of gratitude in them. "You are too kind, my Thane. I will not bring you dishonor in the future."

"See that you do, huscarl," Elderath boomed. "And she's right, Cormac. You're too kind. There are bloodstains to be cleaned on every ship after the battle. A task like that ought to teach her some respect."

Cormac's head whipped around to glare at Elderath. "She's my huscarl, Jarl Eremon. Her punishment is mine to dole out. Or are you questioning my decision?"

The more important question, the one whose answer would skirt dangerously close to betrayal, hung in the air.

'Do you question my authority over my own?'

The crew had probably forgotten how to breathe. A bad omen at the vigil of a talk with an important ally. So would any dissent between the two nobles who would sit at the table representing Ferelden be toxic.

Jarl Elderath frowned for a moment, then the lined panes of his face smoothed over, he threw his head back and barked a full-belly laugh.

"Ha! I see your spine hasn't sunk to the bottom of the Sea, Kaptain." He clapped Cormac on the shoulder, making the younger man suppress a wince. "Very well. Long be from me to challenge a Cousland. Even if you're all limp-wristed ground lovers, I'd like avoid another tongue lashing by Teyrna Eleanor." He shook his head, Cormac and his own daughter bleeding on the deck forgotten. "It seems only yesterday she ran on this very ship, pigtails in the wind and bow in hand."

The situation defused, Cormac gestured at Alfstanna to take care of her wound and guard the door to the Jarl's quarters, then he followed the half-giant of a Jarl inside to meet with Oriana's uncle, the Antivan Admiral Gustavo Biasìn.

BETHANY

The fourth anniversary of her arrival to the Circle of Magi found Bethany Hawke praying fervently in the Tower's chapel.

Four years. Four years since Father and Damien died. Four years since the templar hunters kicked down the door of her family's dwelling in Lothering, their swords still dripping with the blood of her father and eldest brother. Four years since they carried her away into the night, leaving her mother sobbing and her Carver beaten, but alive.

Bethany felt shame and guilt every day to consider even a single day of those four years within the Circle a good day. There couldn't be a good day in a prison. The shouldn't be. Her life should have been filled only with misery and regret inside the cage that was Kinloch Hold.

And yet, that hadn't been the case. As the months wove into years, there had been good days. There had even been great days, sparse and far in between, like when she discovered she had a family, a Kirkwaller cousin of all people, in her fellow apprentice Theresa Amell.

With time, her mother's wails had grown fainter in her dreams. The life in Lothering, the days spent practicing her magic hidden in the Wilds and afraid to even step into the town proper because the templars just might feel there was something wrong with the Hawke family… sometimes, those days had seemed like a dream.

Life in the Circle was never easy, nor altogether pleasant. The concept of privacy was beaten out of her by the unashamed eyes of templars watching the apprentices eat, sleep, bathe and even take a shit. There was no laxness, no respite from the surveillance, save what could be found in dark angles and alcoves at times. The most common form of communication between the two sides, the only form that crossed the two-ways barrier of suspicion, discipline, and threats of Smiting erected by generations between templars and mages, were stares and flat commands. Compassion and any chance at friendship were hammered out of the equation by training and reciprocal fear too engraved to be even questioned.

And so every day, at every moment, the bucket-heads watched for signs of Blood Magic and demonic possession, and mages like Bethany hung their heads and kept going.

Most of the clergy was hardly any better than the faceless, silent guardians. Bethany knew of resentment. Her twin Carver had been an early manifest example of the virtue. The older Mothers spewed it in buckets, always droning on about the sin of magic, beating mages and apprentices alike over the head with the same few verses of the Chant of Light, exacting repentance.

And yet, despite the berating and all the mortification of what she was because she was it, the Circle was also a place of study, and learning. As an apprentice, Bethany had learned more about magic than in her whole life under her father's spotty tutoring. For Malcolm Hawke, control had been tantamount, but a farmer's life left little time to spare to teach much of anything else.

Under the Senior Enchanters' tutoring, Bethany magical talents blossomed. Senior Enchanter Wynne, the most affirmed Healer in decades, had taken her under her wing after Bethany's talent in that School became evident. Even to an apprentice like her, the library offered boundless treasures of knowledge, tomes of botany and alchemy, glyphs and, eventually, runes.

She remembered Senior Enchanter Torrin's surprise when she managed a rune of frost on the second try in his class. That had been two weeks before.

It was the beginning of the end. An end worse than death. When she'd told Wynne, the older woman's reaction had been one of sadness and worn acceptance.

Too late she had remembered her father's warning.

"If you're ever taken to the Circle, remember this. No matter what happens, or what you're offered: never show the templars you can craft anything. They'll stamp your forehead and make you Tranquil before you can feel the lyrium brand on your forehead. You'll be just another cash cow for the Chantry."

Bethany had been ten when her father said that. She remembered she had been afraid and confused.

Kneeling on the pews of the Chantry now, her hands joined in silent prayer as the young acolytes recited the Canticles of Apotheosis in the evening rites, she was terrified. The verses were both beautiful to hear and terrible to the mind. Bethany couldn't stop her shoulders from shaking, nor the fresh tears trailing down her cheeks. Her stomach twisted into knots, tighter and tighter, pushing bile to burn her gullet.

It had been days since she last ate properly, or caught more than a few hours of fitful sleep. At any moment, she expected the templars to take her to the Tranquil's quarters and press the lyrium stamp on her forehead. She'd seen Owain and the others work in the storerooms, sweep the floors and do all the other little things and chore that kept the Circle spotless clean and running.

She'd heard from scuttlebutt what happened behind closed doors to young, pretty women who were made Tranquil.

They were golems, not people. Slaves, their free will burned off their mind in everything but theory. Unable to feel, ruled by the most passionless of logic that the Chantry harnessed long ago like a tool against them. Peaceful, sedate sleepwalkers. Cash cows.

Bethany felt the flat of the kitchen knife pressed between her clasped palms all the more keenly, and whimpered.

'Only one more day,' she told herself. Even her thoughts reeked of desperation. 'I can be still called from my Harrowing. I'm a good healer. They need me. I can heal nobles and the rich once I'm Harrowed. Yes. No. Oh Maker, please.'

She tried to summon another prayer, anything, but all that came to her was Owain's blank face and placid, admittedly fake smile. The sunburst mark burned on his forehead beckoned her, growing larger and refulgent, until Bethany had to open her eyes to dispel the nightmarish image.

The pew creaked under a weight that wasn't hers and Bethany felt a shoulder brush against hers. She flinched, fearing the cold touch of steel and armor, but only felt rough cloth and the hint of human warmth beneath.

"Easy, cousin. It's me."

Theresa knelt beside her, her head hanging low in fake prayer. To Bethany's dark, wavy hair, the same as her father's, Theresa's distant Anderfellian's blood was made evident by her sandy blonde bob cut and light green eyes. She was shorter than Bethany maybe by an inch, yet still willowy to Bethany's fuller figure, not that the heavy cloth of the mage garb showed much of that in any case. To many, that was a silent boon from the probing eyes of the templars.

"Theresa?!"

"Shh, keep it low, bumpkin," she hissed, then cast a furtive glance around. The sisters were still praying underneath the statue of Archon Hessarian, lighting a candle for every stanza of the Canticle. "Don't look at me, mouth some prayer or something. There isn't much time."

Bethany blinked away the tears. She didn't dare wipe her eyes, for fear of showing the knife to her cousin. Theresa was fervently attached to life, despite all hardships. She knew she wouldn't approve.

"Do you want to live?"

The metal of the knife was cold against her palms. Bethany sniffled, but nodded.

"Then listen and for the love of the Maker, don't jump or cry. I was in the First Enchanter's office, earlier. He's buckled to Knight-Commander Greagoir. I saw the papers on his desk: they're coming for you. Tonight."

All blood drained from Bethany's face. Her shoulders stopped shaking as a dull pain spread in her chest. It spread and grew and climbed up her throat, until a sob wracked her body.

"Nonono. Shh. I'm a moron. I'm a dunderhead. Don't cry, Beth. Please." Theresa's voice was equal parts pleading and commanding as Bethany's head sunk between her conjoined arms. Hot tears dripped on the pew, burning her eyes.

'It's over. Mom, Dad, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I should have fought, I should have –'

"Listen to me!" Theresa hissed. "Fuck's sake, Beth. I have a solution. There's a Grey Warden in the Tower."

It took a few moments for the words to register, and almost a minute before Bethany was in any condition to whisper. Theresa's foot was pattering insistently on the back of the pew, but she said nothing.

"A… Warden?" she asked weakly, sniffling.

"Yes, walked in this morning, straight out of a fairy tale, sadly sans the griffin. The Warden Commander of Ferelden, no less. More importantly, he's recruiting. As many mages as he can. He had this massive bitchfight with Greagoir in Irving's study over who and what and how many. That's when I saw the letter with your name on."

Bethany felt woozy, sick, and elated at the same time. "You… want me to become a Warden?"

"I want you to live, Beth. Like, live live. You should want it too. 'Sides, I'm thinking Duncan is gonna pick me anyway, and that's a chance out of here that only comes once in a lifetime. Irving was bigging me up the whole time during the meeting, saying what an amazing Harrowing I performed and all that." Bethany was confused for a moment, then she felt shame color her cheeks hotly, despite everything.

So caught up in her own plight, she'd forgotten entirely about Theresa's Harrowing. Father had never hidden from them how the templars pitted the apprentices against Demons. His words that night when she was ten still haunted her nightmares at times, weaponized as taunts by the Demons whispering across the Fade.

"The entity that inhabits that portion of the Fade and governs the trial… I've never seen or felt anything like them, before or since. The First Enchanter of the time called them The Formless One. The greatest of the Forbidden Ones. And probably the smartest of the lot: every Circle in Thedas has been willingly feeding them souls for Ages."

A familiar shudder ran down her spine. Theresa waved her off with a small shrug, wrenching Bethany back to the space outside her mind. "Don't sweat it. You had much more on your plate."

"Will they – the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter Irving – will they even allow me to join the Wardens? I never took my Harrowing." 'And they've already decided my fate.' "Will the Warden even want someone like me?"

Theresa actually scoffed, then stole a glance around and fingered a fold of her robes. "That's bullshit, and you know it. You're the best healer in the Tower, bar none – no, Escape Artist Anders and Senior Enchanter Stuffy don't count in my book. Anders thinks only with his dick, and Wynne is way too old. And you can fireball shit like the best of them when you get your heart into it. Magic has been in our family for generations, and your dad only poured in some more. The only reason you haven't taken the Harrowing yet is 'cause you were brought in so late, and 'cause the children love you." Despite herself, the corners of Bethany's lips tugged upward, before falling again.

"'Sides, we're not going to ask, or give them a choice in the matter." Her hand disappeared for a moment, then produced a thin, long wand inscribed with glowing lyrium runes.

"Rod of Fire," she announced with a grin. "Senior Enchanter Leorah owed me one. Tonight, we're gonna break into the Sanctum, cause a bit of mayhem and flex our magical muscles. Maybe shatter a few phylacteries, who knows. If I've got the Warden Commander right, he'll jump to the occasion of Conscripting the two of us when the templars capture us. We'll just have to make sure he's around."

Bethany blanched, ice gripping her heart at Theresa's dead serious tone. She stared. Theresa tilted her head to the Sisters.

Bethany stared.

"Are you sure it's you, and not some Demon? That's… that's crazy, Theresa. Even for you. You plan to get us captured? They'll just kill us on the spot, o-or brand you too and make us both Tranquil." Bethany swallowed, then nodded at Theresa's embroidered robes. "You're an Enchanter now, Thes. Why throw everything away?"

Theresa didn't answer immediately. A long minute passed. The gaggle of Sisters moved from Archon Hessarian's statue to Andraste's own, wax candles held high, shifting seamlessly from one Canticle to the other. As Andraste's despair at the lack of answer from the Alamarri gods echoed against the stones, Theresa spoke, her words slow and weighed, the familiar undertone of flippancy absent.

"How could I live with myself, knowing that I let you become one of those… things? With you here, to remind me every day of what they did to you? What I let them do to you? What I could have done to stop it?"

Bethany drew a sharp breath as Theresa's hand found hers, and squeezed tenderly. "You're all the family I have, Beth. And family sticks together, through good and bad and the Void itself. I'll tear this place down stone by stone and murder the Maker-damned Divine, before I let them touch you."

All protests, doubts, and hesitation bubbling up in Bethany's chest abated, sinking under the surface before Theresa's naked, violent honesty. The coldness of the blade in her hand, from disturbing escape, became an unbearable shame. She let it slide between her palms and drop into her lap, the fall muffled by the robes and drowned by the Chanting.

Theresa didn't say anything. She didn't judge her, or berate her. If anything, her eyes showed pity, understanding, and a simmering anger.

"Tonight, in the free hour after supper. Meet me in the cloister on the ground level, under Andraste's statue." As she rose from the pew, Theresa stopped, thoughtful, then nodded to herself. "Don't tell Jowan any of this: I'm pretty sure that Sister Cow he fancies so much is one of Greagoir's little lures."

Bethany hesitated. If that was the case, didn't Jowan deserve to know, before he was baited into breaking the rules beyond repair and ruining himself? She didn't voice her doubt to Theresa, however. It would lead to bickering, and that would attract unwanted attention.

"And the Warden Commander?" she asked instead.

Theresa smoothed a crease of her robes and adjusted the belt around her hips. "Leave Duncan to me. And Sister Cow too, as a farewell gift for Jowan. Godwin owes me. You eat something solid at supper, alright? Empty stomach never made Warden mage, and we must work to impress."

Author Note: Since Rialto, the Antivan Capital, is lifted straight out of Venice, I'm using Italian (my native language), as the skeleton for the Antivan language. So, translations for the ships' names would be Scarlet Red (Rosso Cremisi) and Alacrity (Alacrità).

Anyway, this is the pilot. The idea would be to write ahead quite a lot, contrary to my usual practice of writing and pushing out chapters as they come, then start uploading in the future at a reasonable, constant pace.

Let me know what you think: good things, bad things, if I've lost my mind (again. Surprise.), "what the hell did I just read" and stuff like that. Lay it on me, I have wide shoulders.

Until next time,

Alexeij