The world was quiet after the roar.

It felt wrong, somehow. The kind of silence that rang through the bones like a bell after a storm. The ground was still warm where Corypheus had fallen, but even that was fading — leaving behind a strange emptiness that not even victory could fill. The soldiers sang, of course. There were cups lifted high and taverns bursting with laughter, songs rising to the mountaintops as if the Maker Himself might hear and join in. There were stories already being told, rewritten, exaggerated. Ballads of heroes, of Inquisitors, of the end of the world that almost was.

And yet, for Alistair, it all felt… hollow.

He had fought beside the Inquisition, seen death and ruin and hope so tightly wound it could barely breathe — and now that it was over, now that the sky was clear and the world saved, there was no peace in it. Not for him.

He walked through Skyhold’s halls in a daze. Past the war room, past the great hall that pulsed with celebration, past the place where once there had been a shared room — hers and his, back before this madness began. The door still stood open, as though waiting for her return. The bed remained untouched. The air smelled faintly of the lavender oil she’d liked to use on her armor, long faded but never gone.

Maker, how many letters had he sent? Ravens dispatched to Weisshaupt, to the Anderfels, to the Vimmark Mountains — anywhere she might be. He’d imagined her reading them by firelight, her brow furrowed as always when she was thinking, her fingers brushing over his name. But no reply ever came. The messengers returned empty-handed, their expressions apologetic. Some said they’d seen her, others said she’d gone deeper into the mountains.

Each night, he told himself she was alive. That she had to be. That she would come back to him like she always had — stubbornly, defiantly, alive.

And yet, the nights were long. Even the crown felt heavier than usual, the duties of a king dull compared to the ache of waiting.

But tonight — tonight was different.

A raven came at dusk, its feathers slick with rain. The wax seal on the letter bore the mark of Weisshaupt. His heart stuttered as he broke it open, eyes scanning the first line in frantic disbelief.

“To His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin — we regret to inform you that your inquiries regarding the Hero of Ferelden have concluded.”

His hands trembled. He read on.

“The trail ends at the base of the Vimmark Mountains. What remains of her company was found — a shattered staff. No body recovered. No survivors.”

The letter slipped from his fingers.

He didn’t remember sitting down. The room swayed gently, the edges of the world turning soft and unfocused. He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or burn the gods-damned world down until it matched the ruin in his chest.

Instead, he stood, moving on instinct to that room again — her room. The lavender scent was fainter now, drowned by dust and time, but it was still there, stubborn as she had been. He sat on the bed, his fingers tracing the curve of the pillow where her head used to rest.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then softly, almost to himself: “Guess you always did find a way to go where I couldn’t follow.”

Outside, the last of the stormlight faded, leaving Skyhold bathed in the quiet of night. The world had been saved — but Alistair had lost his reason for saving it.

He stayed there, motionless, until the knock came.

It was faint at first — hesitant, uncertain — echoing through the long, empty corridors toward his private chambers. A guard’s voice followed, muffled by the heavy oak doors.

“Your Majesty… someone’s arrived at the gates. Says she carries the mark of the Grey Wardens.”

For a heartbeat, Alistair didn’t move. Then — the faintest sound reached him from outside, carried by the wind through the open hall: the soft jingle of worn armor, the uneven step of someone too long on the road. And before he knew it, he was running — faster than he had in years — down the stairwells, the echo of his boots chasing the impossible hope that, at last, you had come home.