The hearth crackled softly, its warm glow casting long shadows across the worn floorboards of Hawke’s estate. Fenris sat in his usual place, staring into the flames. He did not stir when the door opened, nor when soft footfalls approached.

“If you’re here for pleasantries,” Fenris said, voice low, “I suggest you leave. I’m not in the mood.”

The footsteps paused. “This isn’t a social call,” came the reply. “It’s about Hawke.”

At that, Fenris stiffened. His hand twitched toward his greatsword. Slowly, he turned, his green eyes narrowing as they fell on the Inquisitor.

“What of Hawke?” he demanded, rising to his full height. The faint glow of his lyrium tattoos pulsed with agitation. “You’ve come to offer more apologies for leaving them behind? Words mean nothing to the dead.”

“Hawke isn’t dead,” the Inquisitor said firmly. “Not yet.”

Fenris’s jaw tightened. “Do not toy with me.”

“The Fade is unstable, the veil thinner than ever,” the Inquisitor pressed. “It’s dangerous, but it’s also an opportunity. We can bring Hawke back.”

Fenris said nothing, his fists clenching. Memories of Hawke—of their laugh, their unwavering determination—rose unbidden.

“Hawke was…” His voice softened. “Everything this city is not. A light in the darkness.” He met the Inquisitor’s gaze, determination hardening his expression. “If there is even the slightest chance, I will take it. Tell me what must be done.”