The ale flowed freely in The Hanged Man, sloshing into cups, onto tables, onto boots—especially Isabela’s, who hardly noticed or cared. The tavern, nestled in the heart of Lowtown, had seen its fair share of revelry, but gods help Kirkwall when Hawke and Varric were in the same place with full mugs. And gods help it twice over when Hawke was drunk.

They were a deal you couldn’t refuse, a disaster in motion—buy one, get two. Friendship, destruction, and a tale worth telling, or at least one Varric would spin into something legendary. Ale leaked through the cracks of old tables as easily as stories spilled from his books, and who could resist a good reason to celebrate? A job well done, a heavy purse, and the alternative—spending the night in the estate with nothing but Dog and the occasional, disapproving glance from the servants—was hardly appealing.

Varric was always there, watching with that sharp eye, sometimes silent, sometimes laughing, always steady. A partner in crime, in friendship, in everything. He could carry Hawke through the tavern on his shoulder like some champion, parading them around to cheers and mock applause. It was all fun and games—until the next morning.

Now, in the dim glow of the Hawke estate’s fireplace, reality had come crashing in. Hawke groaned, face buried in a pillow, hair an unholy mess as they forced one eye open. The hangover was merciless, their clothes strewn across the room in evidence of last night’s recklessness. And there, by the fire, sat Varric, already writing.

Hawke squinted at him. “Tell me that’s a ransom note for whoever poisoned my ale.”

Varric didn’t even look up. “Sure, Hawke. I’ll let you know when I find the culprit—right after I finish this thrilling tale of how the Champion of Kirkwall tried to outdrink a dwarf and lost.”

His smirk deepened as Hawke groaned again, dragging the pillow over their head.