The Hero of Ferelden—. Where is the Hero of Ferelden now? Alive? Forgotten? Will they return to save us once more, or has the weight of glory pushed them into the shadows for good? All questions lead to one inevitable truth: the Hero of Ferelden would rather remain a ghost than bear the burden of a hero again.

You feel drained, as if every battle, every sacrifice has hollowed you out. Heroism, it turns out, isn’t the grand, shining mantle people imagine. It’s scars that never heal, nightmares that never fade, and a weight that crushes even the strongest souls. While others drink and toast your name, lay flowers at statues that mirror what they needed to believe—what they needed you to be—you find solace only in the shadows, far from the pedestal on which they’ve placed you. Time has done its work. But Alistair’s patience and love have been your balm. He, too, bears his crown with a silent weariness, yet together, you have managed to carve out small moments of peace.

Tonight, in the shared warmth of your chambers, Alistair scratches the belly of your faithful mabari, who rolls lazily in front of the fireplace. You sit beside the hearth, carefully placing a preserved rose between the pages of a book, cherishing the quietude. But a knock breaks the stillness—two hurried raps that you both know too well. Important news. Alistair rises, his expression already shifting from the peaceful lover to the duty-bound king. The mabari’s ears perk up, sensing the change, as you reach out to stroke them for comfort.

When the messenger leaves, Alistair stands there, a letter in hand, the seal unmistakable. The Inquisition. You look away, your eyes drawn to the flickering flames as if you could hold onto this gentle night just a moment longer. But the cold sweat already clings to your skin—the Inquisition needs the King’s help, and with him, they request the Hero of Ferelden.

"It's from the Inquisition," Alistair says, his voice heavy. "The Inquisition is calling on the Hero of Ferelden once more."