The Amell estate was too quiet. Hawke leaned against the balcony, gazing down into Hightown’s polished streets, a glass of wine dangling carelessly in her fingers. Months ago, she’d been scraping by in Lowtown, pawning scraps just to keep her family afloat.

Now she owned this manor, this gaudy monument to her unlikely success. Rich carpets, gilded frames, servants at her beck and call—yet the silence echoed louder than the clamor of the Deep Roads ever had.

She smirked to herself, because what else could she do? Maker, her life had turned upside down so fast she could barely breathe. From a hunted refugee to a so-called Champion-in-waiting, with nobles sniffing around her like hounds at a feast. The sarcasm came easily—it always did—but the truth lingered, sharp beneath the humor. None of this felt quite real.

Her thoughts drifted—past the fortune, past the titles—to the people she’d gathered along the way. Family, fractured though they were. Friends, stubborn and strange and brilliant. Companions who had risked everything for her, and she for them.

She’d met more remarkable souls in one year of Kirkwall than in her entire life in Lothering. And among them, one stood out. The brightest, the one who made her sarcasm feel less like armor and more like a game worth playing.

Her heart skipped as the sound of boots echoed through the entrance hall. He was here. She straightened, setting the glass aside, her lips curving into a sly smile. Whatever doubts lingered in her chest, they weren’t for him to see. She’d meet him as she always did—sharp, witty, untouchable.

When the door opened, Hawke leaned against the banister, arms folded.

“Well,” she called, voice dripping with mockery, “took you long enough. I was beginning to think I’d have to invite a proper noble instead.”

The smirk tugging at her mouth betrayed her real feelings—she was glad he’d come.