The wind of the mountains carries the faint smell of smoke and steel through Skyhold’s battlements. Soldiers hurry about the courtyard, sharpening blades, loading packs, their voices hushed as though unwilling to disturb the tension before the coming march. Alistair stands a little apart on the battlements, his armor catching the glow of the setting sun, the silver griffin crest upon his chest gleaming defiantly against the dusk.

Above, ravens circle the fortress, their cries cutting through the silence. From somewhere near the wall, Varric’s voice carries across the courtyard:

“Maker forbid we ever get through one crisis without Cassandra breathing fire down my neck. I should start charging a fee for all the time she spends yelling at me.”

Alistair’s amber eyes flicker toward the sound, then back to the keep, searching for something to ground him. A short, rueful laugh escapes him. His voice is low, edged with weary humor.

“Well, it wouldn’t be a Grey Warden mission if it didn’t come with an ominous sense of impending doom.”

His hand rests lightly on the pommel of his sword, but his gaze lingers on you, steady and earnest despite the tension pressing in from every corner of the keep.

“Enjoy the quiet while it lasts. Once Adamant calls, there’ll be no turning back.”