Chapter Text
The sound of sparring rings across the small clearing—metal catching metal, quick footfalls, the occasional grunt of effort. Valeria and Rhea are going at it with enough force to draw attention, though not enough to be dangerous. Not now. The worst of that earlier mess, when Valeria and Borin fought half the Baranti guard like it was a tavern brawl, has simmered down. Mostly.
Faustus watches the sparring match from the treeline, arms folded, her expression unreadable. The stick in Valeria’s hand is clearly not balanced, and Rhea’s technique has the rigid precision of formal training, all angles and drills. Still, they’re giving each other a decent challenge.
She’s seen worse. Much worse.
She doesn’t move until Rhea steps back and glances toward the rest of the group, calling out an offer that no one answers. That’s when she notices the look Rhea throws her way—subtle, uncertain. Seeking approval.
Faustus claps slowly. “It looks like you two might make good sparring partners.”
Her voice cuts through the air, and both women look toward her. But Faustus is already turning, heading toward the edge of the clearing where Salem sits alone on a freshly-fallen log, the bark still pale and raw from where the tree split. There’s tension in her shoulders. Not from the sparring itself—Faustus has seen enough soldiers to know a bad mood when she sees one.
She lowers herself onto the log beside Salem, keeping a respectful distance. The seat creaks faintly under the weight of her armour.
“Did you teach her?” she asks, her voice low and thoughtful, a nod toward the younger woman standing just out of earshot. The question hangs between them like a thread, easy to break or pull tight depending on Salem’s answer.
Salem doesn’t answer immediately. “Some of it,” she says at last.
Faustus hums, a low sound in her throat. “She moves like someone who’s had more than one teacher. And a few bar fights.”
Salem’s answer is short, almost careless. “That’s about right.”
Rhea jogs over to the edge of the clearing to drink from Bert’s waterskin, and Valeria follows soon after, the fire in her still burning even after the match ends. Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a restlessness in the way she moves, like she hasn’t quite spent the storm she carries.
Faustus shifts slightly on the log they share, careful to keep her tone even. “You don’t look pleased.”
Salem doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes flick toward Faustus before returning to the field. “It got out of hand earlier. With the guards.”
There’s no surprise in Faustus’ tone when she answers, only the faintest curl of amusement. “I noticed. She’s aggressive. Not reckless, but close.”
“She likes to win,” Salem says, voice flat but not dismissive. It’s a fact, not an excuse.
Faustus nods, letting the words settle. “Don’t we all.”
They fall into silence for a moment, one that doesn’t feel awkward. It stretches like a shared breath, both of them watching the way the younger women cool down after the sparring session. Faustus can sense that Salem isn’t just annoyed or unsettled. She’s observing. Evaluating. Studying Valeria the way someone might study a battlefield—marking openings, watching how the enemy moves, calculating what happens when things slip out of control.
Her gaze doesn’t leave the clearing when she speaks again. “You train people often?”
Salem shakes her head once, slow and deliberate. “Not for a while.”
“But you have.” There’s a faint certainty in Faustus’ voice, the kind that doesn’t need confirmation.
“Dragons don’t care about form. You learn to fight what doesn’t play fair. Then you teach the next poor bastard not to die the first time they see wings.”
Faustus hums. “I spent the better part of ten years teaching soldiers to forget what they thought they knew. You’d be surprised how many think formation training matters when a mage lights the field on fire.”
Salem doesn’t laugh, but she does give the smallest nod of agreement. “Or when the dragon takes flight and half your men piss themselves before you’ve even raised a weapon.”
“Exactly.”
There’s no grin between them, no obvious warmth. But something steadier settles in its place. Shared ground. A mutual understanding that comes not just from knowledge, but from experience—scarred, burned, and carried forward. Neither of them says it aloud, but it lingers in the space between them like a scar: I’ve seen it, too.
The conversation doesn’t shift so much as evolve.
“Tevinter tactics?” Salem asks, watching Valeria with narrowed eyes.
Faustus glances over. “I had a unit back in Wutherford. Small, fast. Special tactics. Mostly urban conflict, precise operations. Cut the throat before the army arrives. No glory, just results.”
Salem raises an eyebrow. “High casualty?”
“Not for us.” Her tone stays even. “For them, yes.”
“You don't sound proud.”
“No, I don’t.”
They go quiet again, but this silence tastes different—less comfortable, more introspective. Faustus shifts slightly, flexing her hand once like it aches from memory.
“You used reach weapons?” she asks after a moment.
Salem gestures casually to the stump of her left forearm, not bothering to look at it. “Used to. Now I stick with my axe.”
Faustus looks at the weapon in question, eyeing the thick handle, the wide blade, the way it leans against the tree as if waiting for war. “I don’t think ‘only’ fits there. That looks like it could cut straight through a man’s chest.”
“With the right swing, it can.”
Faustus doesn’t doubt it. Not when she looks at Salem’s body—built like a fortress, not the lean wiry figure most expect from a mercenary. Her frame is solid, powerful, all broad shoulders and brute strength, shaped by a life of hard work. There’s no sharp edge to her musculature, only mass and power, the kind of force that doesn’t need to be carved out to be felt.
Faustus looks back to the field, and it seems that there won’t be any more sparring. Valeria and Rhea rest in the shade; Valeria’s brows are furrowed, while Rhea seems amused, gladly taking more of the water Bert is offering. It’s peaceful, but Faustus doesn’t move to join them. Her attention shifts to Salem again, drawn by something quieter now. Her voice softens.
“You’ve lost someone.”
It’s not a question. She knows that expression, the tightness in the jaw, the weight behind the silence. She recognised it last night in the bottom of Salem’s mug, buried under ale and something far more bitter.
Salem doesn’t deny it. Her teeth grind slightly as she speaks. “And?”
Faustus lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, no judgment in her eyes. “Nothing. I just noticed.”
There’s a long pause. Neither of them looks away from the field.
Then, carefully, almost gently, Faustus adds, “I don’t know who they were to you. But it’s written on your face.”
Something shifts in Salem’s expression. A flicker, quick and sharp—pain that hasn’t faded yet, that’s too raw to hide. She exhales through her nose. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“No.” Faustus’ tone doesn’t change. “But I know the shape of grief. And how it eats at the edges of everything else, even long after you think you’ve buried it.”
This time, Salem meets her gaze. The look she gives her is unreadable, but it’s not dismissive. There’s something testing in it, a silent question about how much Faustus really understands.
Faustus doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen the ways people carry it. Or fail to. The gods you follow might shape what you do with the body, or the memories. But it all weighs the same.”
Salem tilts her head slightly. “You believe in gods, then?”
Faustus exhales. “I believe in power. The kind that shapes the world whether you like it or not. We name it. We kneel to it. But it doesn’t make it kinder.”
“Sounds like you’ve chosen the wrong ones.”
Faustus smiles, a tired edge in her expression. “I’m Tevinter. It’s expected.”
Salem leans back on the log, letting her weight settle into the wood. It creaks beneath her, but she doesn’t shift again. She watches the breeze move through the clearing, stirring grass and sweat-damp hair, and when she speaks, her voice is lower.
“I believe in gods,” she says. “But I believe even more in presence. In what remains. In the sky, in the wind, in the breath that leaves a body when it falls.”
Faustus doesn’t mock that. She simply nods, accepting it.
“I buried her in Jader,” Salem adds, voice gone distant. “Sky burial. She would’ve wanted that.”
Faustus doesn’t say ‘I’m sorry’. That’s not the kind of exchange this is. Instead, she lets the silence hold for a moment longer.
“You’ve held up better than most,” she says at last. “That says something.”
Salem’s eyes stay fixed on the clearing. “Not sure what.”
Faustus rises, brushing dust from her armour. “That you still have something left worth preserving.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her boots move soft through the grass as she walks toward the others, toward the warmth of Rhea’s grin and Valeria’s too-loud laughter. She tells herself she’s imagining it when she feels Salem’s eyes on her back, steady and unmoving.
But when she turns, Salem is still on the log. Her gaze flicks between Valeria and Faustus, lingering on the girl’s easy laugh before returning to look at her, lingering.
Faustus says nothing. She focuses on what Rhea and Valeria are talking about, but she feels the weight of that look long after the conversation resumes.
***
The village of Falconhill is quiet once the others head out, leaving behind only a light stir of wind and the echo of boots in the distance. Faustus watches them go from the doorway of the Old Stone Well, arms crossed, a faint crease between her brows. She could have gone with them, but then she caught sight of Salem, loitering like a stormcloud near the edge of the path, and something made her stay.
Maybe it’s the lingering scent of alcohol on the qunari’s breath, or the tension that coils around her like too-tight leather. Maybe it’s the memory of the sparring match earlier, or the edge in Salem’s voice when she barked at Valeria and Borin for taking things too far with the guards. Or maybe it’s simply that Faustus doesn’t want to spend her morning elbow-deep in bear guts.
She pushes off the doorframe with a breath and steps into the thin, brittle light of midday.
The sun lingers just above the trees when Faustus finds Salem near the edge of the village. Falconhill, for all its charm, has already begun to wear thin on her. The scent of damp hay, the quiet murmur of a village that’s seen better days, and the too-still air all make her feel like she’s standing in the middle of a breath held too long.
Salem’s near a fence, one foot braced against a low stone, arms folded. She’s looking toward the tree line, where the others vanished about an hour ago, their purpose clear. Faustus approaches without ceremony, boots crunching dry leaves underfoot. No need for preamble. Salem glances at her, gives a short nod.
“They’re taking their time,” Faustus says.
“Aye. Either the bear was bigger than they thought, or they’ve decided to adopt it.” Salem doesn’t smile, not quite, but there’s a wryness to her voice Faustus appreciates.
She joins her, leaning against the fence, arms folded to mirror the other woman without meaning to. From here, the trees look like sentries, unmoving, unbothered by whatever trouble stirs within them.
“Not your thing, rescuing lost children?”
Salem’s shrug is almost imperceptible. “Not my place. They had enough hands, and I figured I’d just get in the way.”
Faustus hums low in her throat. “Funny. I thought the same.”
They lapse into silence, not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that lets the wind speak for a moment. The cold’s creeping in again. Not bad yet, but enough to remind Faustus of Qarinus’ heat, dry and searing, and the sharp salt sting of the Ventosus Coast. She shifts, pulling her cloak tighter.
“You’ve seen a lot of Thedas, haven’t you?” she asks, nodding toward Salem’s weathered gear, the patchwork of scars, the well-worn weaponry.
“I’ve been around,” Salem replies. “North, south, across the sea. Was up in Antiva a while. Fought in southern Tevinter, hunted in Orlais. Got a scar from a wyvern there, stupid bugger wouldn’t stay down.”
Faustus raises a brow. “And you lived to tell it. Impressive.”
Salem glances at her, the corner of her mouth twitching again. “You?”
“Qarinus born and raised,” Faustus says. “Grew up under watchful eyes and high expectations. Spent more time training than living.”
“Ever fight anything like a dragon?”
Faustus scoffs, just once. “No. Raiders in the Vimmarks. Fereldan resistance when I came here. Some mad cult up near Perivantium that tried to summon a god or… something that looked like one. You?”
“Fourteen,” Salem says simply. “Though to be fair, the first one was half-dead already. The rest of them weren’t so obliging.”
“By Dumat,” Faustus mutters, then catches herself. “Old habit.”
Salem tilts her head. “I don’t mind. We all follow our own faiths. As long as we don’t stab each other over it, I don’t care.”
“That’s surprising to hear down here,” Faustus says. “I’m already Tevinter enough as is for most people, so I try not to mention the gods on top of that. It’s strange, in a way, ‘cause at home I mostly did it out of habit and politics. Easier to wear the right mask in the right temple than to risk saying nothing at all.”
“That sounds familiar.” Salem straightens, brushes a bit of bark from her coat. “Alamarri gods, for me. Not all of them. Just… some.”
Faustus doesn’t push. She’s always been good at reading the edges, finding the lines not to cross. She files it away for later. “You been with this group long?” she asks.
Salem shakes her head. “Joined a while back. Had nowhere else to go. Might’ve stayed for the people. Hard to say.”
“People can be difficult.”
“That they can.”
The sound of hooves and hurried voices drifts down the village path, enough to pull Faustus’ attention from where she leans against a low wooden fence, arms crossed and shoulders tight. Salem glances up as well, brow furrowed. Faustus reins in the familiar flicker of tension that comes with the sound of fast horses and raised voices.
A horse trots in, sweat-streaked and breathing heavy, its rider throwing one leg over and hitting the ground in a practiced slide. A young man, no older than twenty by the looks of it, and wearing the colours of Caer Darrow’s groundskeepers. His boots are caked with mud. His expression is grim.
Two older villagers approach him right away, murmuring something low. The man answers just loud enough for others nearby to catch wind of it. Salem shifts on her feet, then moves forward without needing to say a word. Faustus falls into step beside her, arms still loosely folded, keeping her expression just distant enough to avoid spooking the boy.
“...fell right out the window, if you can believe it,” the boy is saying, his voice rough like he’s been yelling. “One of the Antivan delegates. Important one, too. Whole courtyard saw it.”
Salem cuts in. “The bloody fuck happened? Was it an accident?”
The young man shakes his head, still catching his breath. “Don’t think so. Not with the way people are whispering. Said someone pushed him. Officially, no one’s saying it, but... well. You know how it goes.”
The older of the two villagers frowns, pulling at his beard. “Haven’t had a death at the keep in years. Not like this.”
Faustus steps a little closer. Her voice is even, almost disinterested, though she watches the boy carefully. “Do you know who he was?”
“Lord something?” the boy mutters. “Antivan. Came with that diplomatic group from up north. Fancy man. Never spoke to the servants, they said. But he’s dead now, for certain. Broke half the bones in his body, and his neck besides.”
Salem raises an eyebrow at her. Faustus only lifts one shoulder.
“No word on who did it?” Salem asks.
The boy shakes his head. “None. Though there’s whispers. Some folks think it’s to do with the visitor Lady Affraic was talking about. Or maybe something worse.”
“Like what?” Salem asks.
He hesitates. “Like magic. Or demons. Or something Tevinter. No offence.”
“None taken,” Faustus says coolly.
The boy seems to realise he might be overstepping, and backpedals quickly. “Just what people are saying. You know how rumours get.”
“Aye,” Salem says. “They usually grow teeth by the end of the day.”
There’s a beat where none of them speak. Faustus watches the boy with narrowed eyes, weighing him quietly. “Let’s hope this one stays toothless,” she says.
“Could be nothing,” the older villager mutters. “But with all that talk of crazed beings out near Jader, and now this…”
Salem glances toward her again, and Faustus meets her gaze. The agreement is wordless, but mutual.
“Thank you,” Faustus says, with a small nod. “You’ve been helpful.”
The boy nods and turns to see to his horse, which is surely borrowed, while the older villagers wander off, still muttering between themselves.
Faustus stands quietly for a moment, eyes on the path leading east. Salem shifts beside her, arms still crossed, brow still furrowed.
“Antivan politics, a dead noble, and no culprit in sight,” Salem mutters. “That sounds like a bloody mess waiting to get worse.”
“Doesn’t sound like an accident either,” Faustus says. “The timing’s too neat. Something happened, and whoever did it either wanted to send a message… or cover one up.”
Salem hums low in her throat. “You ever been to Caer Darrow before?”
“They don’t much like the Tevinter military visiting,” Faustus replies. “So I never did. Too many guards who’d want to string me up if anything happened.”
“I’d say it sounds like a good place for a quiet job to go sideways.”
Faustus doesn’t disagree.
They start walking, slow and aimless, around the village perimeter. There’s a narrow path near the old mill, mostly overgrown, and they follow it without speaking for a while. The trees here are thinner, the wind sharper, but the quiet is clearer too. No chatter, no carpenter hammering away, no arguing over supplies. Just the two of them and the distant crack of branches.
“I spent a winter in Cumberland once,” Faustus says, almost casually. “Cold enough to freeze the tears on your face. Beautiful city, though. Marble steps everywhere, fountains that didn’t work half the year.”
“Spent time there myself. Broke two ribs falling off a roof.”
Faustus looks at her, amused. “Doing what?”
“Chasing the cunt who stole my boots. Don’t ask.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
They end up on a low rise overlooking the village without really meaning to. The path is easy enough to follow once you find it, winding past the chicken coops and a small field of frost-hardened herbs. The sky’s been grey all morning, but the rain never comes. Only the wind, sharp and quiet, whips across the fields and sets the long grass to swaying.
Faustus isn’t sure why Salem leads them here, or if she even realises she’s doing it. The other woman walks with her hand in her pocket, a little too briskly for someone who claims she’s not in the mood for company.
Someone’s set a bench here, old and slightly tilted, but sturdy enough. Salem takes a seat. Faustus remains standing for a moment before joining her. From here they can see the edge of the trees, the glint of the Old Stone Well’s tiled roof, the shadow of Caer Darrow looming in the distance.
“She always like that?” Faustus asks after a while, nodding toward the village where Valeria disappeared with the rest of the group.
Salem huffs a laugh and shakes her head. “Who?”
“Valeria.” Faustus shrugs, not really sure why she’s asking.
“Right. Which part?”
“The sparring. The intensity. Not that I’m judging. Just... observing.”
“Aye, that’s Val,” Salem says, kicking a stone near her boot. “Knows how to throw her weight around. Bit much sometimes.”
There’s something bitter at the edges of it. Not anger. Weariness, maybe.
“She’s your friend,” Faustus says.
“My best,” Salem replies after a pause. “Hasn’t been long, but… I dunno.”
Faustus doesn’t press. They don’t know each other well enough yet, and she has no interest in prying open something raw. She’s seen the way grief moves in people. Always there beneath the surface, ready to rise at the smallest crack.
“Time doesn’t matter all that much,” Faustus says quietly, and then realises how her voice drifts. She clears her throat. “She seems too young for the boy to be hers. Drynne?”
“Aye,” Salem replies. “Picked him up off the streets. Clever little twat. Eats everything in sight.”
Faustus lifts an eyebrow. “He looked feral. I take it he’s a slave?”
At Salem’s questioning look, Faustus elaborates. “The collar. It’s hard to miss.”
“Right. Aye well, Borin’s trying to remove that. And Drynne’s getting better, you know,” Salem says, tone unreadable. “It’s… strange. Seeing her with kids. She’s good with them.”
“She seems the type,” Faustus says. “Bit young, maybe. But she’d kill for them. That counts.”
Salem exhales and looks out across the fields. “Aye. That counts.”
“What about the girl?”
“Cole?” Salem nods. “That one’s not really hers. Her ma was a smith in Jader. Dora. Good woman. Haven’t seen her since the city fell. Been lookin’ ever since.”
“Must’ve been rough,” Faustus says, and she means it.
“Everyone lost someone,” Salem says simply. But there’s something behind her words. Not deflection exactly. Just a wall, not fully built.
The sky has changed. It's still grey, still wet at the edges, but it isn’t the same dull slate as earlier. A lighter hue has crept in behind the clouds, hinting at a sun that can’t quite make up its mind. The land rolls out before them, fields and trees damp with the last of winter, the little houses of Falconhill nestled low and quiet like they’re trying not to be noticed. The hills stretch out beyond the village, dotted with cattle and low stone fences. It’s peaceful in a way neither of them are used to.
Faustus leans back against the rough grain of the bench, arms stretched along its back, legs crossed at the ankle. She watches Salem sitting beside her, narrowing her eyes as the breeze catches a loose curl and tosses it into her face. Somewhere behind them, a cart rattles past on the main road.
“Not the worst place I’ve ever been stuck in,” Salem mutters, brushing the hair away. She gestures out at the village. “Smells better than some of the port towns in southern Tevinter, anyway. Fewer rats, too.”
Faustus allows herself a quiet smile. “That depends. I’ve yet to see the tavern kitchen. Or the people inside it.” She shifts her weight slightly, glancing down the hill, where a pair of goats are trying to headbutt each other into a watering trough. “But I’ll give you the rats. Emerius had them trained like dogs.”
“Ah, Emerius,” Salem says with a groan. “Got drunk there once, thought I was on my ship and woke up on the wrong bloody boat halfway to Val Royeaux. Only realised something was off when the cook handed me a plate of pickled eggs and called me ‘Marta.’”
Faustus huffs a laugh, warm and surprised. “Did you correct him?”
“By the gods, no,” Salem says, grinning. “I played along for five days until we hit port. Got a free hammock and everything. ‘Marta’ even got a bottle of blackberry wine out of it. Worst hangover of my life, but worth it.”
Faustus chuckles, but she can’t quite shake the image of Salem—broad-shouldered and solid as a stone wall, with a weight to her presence that commands any room she’s in—wedged into a tiny bunk on some creaking ship, hair askew, grinning her way through a false name and a borrowed identity. There’s something almost romantic about it, or maybe just terribly sad. She shifts again, letting her shoulder brush Salem’s lightly, more for grounding than anything else. “I once had a Fereldan noble challenge me to a duel,” she says, tilting her head so her voice carries above the breeze. “You know, one of those nobles no one knows, but who wave their title around like it makes them special? He was convinced I’d insulted his horse. I hadn’t. I had no idea which horse was his. But I accepted, out of principle.”
Salem eyes her, amused. “And?”
“He fainted when I drew my sword.”
Salem bursts out laughing, a proper sound that warms Faustus more than the afternoon sun ever could. She bends forward with it, her hand braced on her knee, her stump pressed over her stomach. “You’re shitting me.”
“I’m not,” Faustus replies dryly. “His second carried him off, muttering about migraines and noble bloodlines. I spent the rest of the evening drinking with his horse, waiting for my superiors to sort things out.”
“Sounds like you came out ahead,” Salem says, her laughter tapering into something softer. Her smile lingers, though, and she glances sideways at Faustus with something close to fondness. “Bet the horse was less stuck-up, too.”
“Oh, infinitely. He listened better, too.”
A beat of quiet stretches between them, the kind that feels easy, like it belongs there. Below, a couple of children dart between the houses, a flash of cloth and shrieked laughter. The goats have given up their fight and are chewing on what might be someone’s laundry. Faustus watches it all with a distant sort of detachment, as if none of it really touches her. It’s peaceful. She isn’t sure how long it’s been since she’s had a moment like this—unguarded, but not exposed.
“I meant it, though. I don’t mind this place,” Salem says.
Faustus makes a small sound. “I don’t mind it. As long as it’s not raining.”
Salem grins. “I like the cold.”
“You’re mad.”
“Probably.” There’s a grin still on her face, but it fades quickly, more quickly than Faustus would’ve liked. “You ever spend time in Antiva?” Salem asks, brushing a speck of dust off her sleeve, pretending her face didn’t just go through a dozen emotions.
“Only once,” Faustus says, choosing to let Salem have her secrets. “Years ago. Official escort for a visiting dignitary. He was assassinated two days into the visit. Never saw a city clear out so fast.”
Salem whistles low. “Figures. I like Antiva City well enough, but you’ve got to be reckless or armed to the teeth to walk around there after dark.”
“I was both.” Faustus rests her elbows on her knees, feeling oddly relaxed.
“That’s the spirit.”
Their legs touch now, thigh to thigh, and neither of them shifts away. Faustus is acutely aware of it, of the heat and the solidness of Salem beside her, but she doesn’t let it show. She keeps her gaze forward, studying the village with a sort of detached curiosity, like she’s trying to learn something from the way the wind moves through the trees.
“I spent a few weeks in Rivain once,” Salem says, after a while. “Met a woman who could fish with her bare hands. Said the sea taught her to listen. I thought she was full of shite until I saw her do it.”
Faustus tilts her head. “And what did the sea teach you?”
Salem grins, then sighs, leaning back. “Mostly that boats are either too cold or too hot, and that I’m prone to sunburn in places you wouldn’t expect. But… I don’t know. It’s different out there. No one expects anything. You can vanish, if you want to.”
Faustus nods slowly. She understands that feeling better than she’d like. “It’s easy to disappear at sea. Harder to come back.”
“Yeah.” Salem’s voice lowers a notch, and something flickers behind her expression that Faustus doesn’t try to name. “Hard to remember who you were before you left, too.”
Faustus knows something about that as well. She doesn’t speak for a while. The sun shifts again, glinting off the roof tiles, warm on her face. Eventually, she says, “You ever been to Nevarra?”
Salem shakes her head. “Too loud. Too full of dead things.”
Faustus smirks. “Passed through years ago. Nice and warm, and their tombs are more extravagant than most castles. Everyone trying to outdo each other in death, as if that means something.”
Salem doesn’t respond right away. Then she says, “Family still in Qarinus?”
Faustus’ jaw tightens, just slightly. “Some. We’re not close. Stopped having anything to say to each other.”
“You mentioned expectations?” Salem eyes her, clearly curious.
“Mh. There’s only so much social ladder climbing you can do as a soporati, but my parents always kind of seemed obsessed with status. I never much cared for it.”
“And yet,” Salem says, leaning back on her elbows, “you’re the one who talks like she’s had proper etiquette training.”
Faustus laughs. “I was married, once. It was expected.” She can’t stop her voice from going brittle towards the end, and she curses herself for it.
Salem arches a brow. “Yeah?”
“For a few years.” Faustus doesn’t say anything more, and she’s glad she doesn’t have to.
Salem doesn’t press. She only nods, slow and knowing.
Faustus clears her throat. “Your family?”
“Not sure. I stopped writing a while ago. Not for any bad reason. Just… it got harder the longer I waited. Stupid thing.”
“Not stupid.”
Salem looks at her, brow raised.
Faustus shrugs. “Time passes. Guilt grows. Reaching out feels more like confessing than reconnecting.”
That earns her a quiet laugh. “You sound like someone who’s done it.”
Faustus doesn’t answer.
The silence that follows is heavier, but not unbearable. Faustus doesn’t want to move. She watches the wind shift the long grass below, hears the faint clang of a blacksmith’s hammer somewhere in the village. It’s strange, the way she feels both utterly out of place here and entirely at ease.
“Reminds me of home,” Salem murmurs, voice low enough that Faustus might have missed it if she wasn’t listening. “It’s quiet. Not in a dead way, just… unbothered.”
“It won’t be for long,” Faustus says. “Places like this never stay untouched.”
“Maybe not.”
They let the moment stretch. Faustus doesn’t remember the last time she let herself have one. Maybe that’s why it feels so foreign, so hard to trust. But it’s nice. Salem is warm beside her, solid, grounded. There’s no pressure here. No grand confessions or dire secrets. Just two people sitting above a village that doesn’t yet know what’s coming.
Eventually, Salem breaks the silence again, this time with something lighter. “Worst food you’ve had on the road. Go.”
Faustus exhales through a smirk. “Somewhere between roasted goat lungs in Denerim and whatever that was the chef tried to pass off as stew near Vyrantium. I think it was mostly bark.”
Salem laughs. “I ate a raw eel once. Thought it was smoked. It wasn’t. Spent three days shitting water.”
“That might be the most Fereldan thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t knock it. Builds character.”
Faustus rolls her eyes, but the smile she wears now is easier. She doesn’t have to think about it or measure how much she lets through. Salem has that effect, somehow disarming in a way that isn’t invasive. It’s not that she pries, but that she listens when Faustus speaks, even the things she doesn’t mean to say.
They sit there for a while, watching smoke curl from chimneys, a dog chase something small and quick through the dirt paths below. There’s something peaceful in it. Temporary, of course. But peace doesn’t have to last long to be worth something.
“You ever miss it?” Salem asks, surprising her. “Home, I mean.”
Faustus doesn’t answer right away, but her hand instinctively goes to the small shell in her pocket. She leans back, gaze drifting upward, watching pale clouds drag across the sky.
“Sometimes,” she says finally. “Not the place. Not the city. Just… some of the simpler things. There was this bakery near the southern quarter. Tiny place. Old man behind the counter had one eye, barely any teeth. Made the best spiced honey bread I’ve ever had. I think about that sometimes.”
“Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something colder.”
Faustus huffs a laugh. “Fair.”
They sit with that for a while. No one else comes up the path. No noise from the village beyond the wind and the occasional bark of a dog. The world seems to have paused just long enough to give them this.
“I’m glad we didn’t go,” Faustus says, watching the clouds shift.
“To the bear cave?”
She nods. “I’ve seen enough caves. Enough blood.”
Salem makes a small noise in agreement. “Me too.” She watches Faustus for a long moment, unreadable as ever. Then her eyes drift back down toward the village. “Looks like they’re back.”
Faustus follows her gaze. Sure enough, a few familiar figures are beginning to appear at the edge of the trees. Rhea, looking grim. Valeria, silent, close to the small figure holding onto her hand. Cole.
“Well,” Faustus says, “seems we didn’t miss much.”
“Lucky us.”
They don’t rise immediately. The quiet stretches a little longer. Then Borin shows up, accompanied by a bear.
“I stand corrected,” Faustus says, not entirely sure how to process that.
Salem raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem surprised. “At least it didn’t take long for you to find out what kind of group this is.”
Shaking her head, Faustus tries to come up with something to say, but the only thing that comes to mind is that this group seems dangerous in its own, unique way.
When she speaks again, she does so without looking at Salem. “You ever think about stopping?”
“Stopping what?”
“All this. Fighting. Wandering.”
Salem is silent for a moment. “Sometimes. But I never do.”
Faustus nods, as if that makes sense. Then, just as Salem starts to shift, she says, “You mentioned dragons earlier. You still hunt them?”
“Not lately,” Salem replies. “Takes a different kind of mind. Not sure mine’s in it lately.”
Faustus understands. She doesn’t say so, but she does. Some battles you can’t win until you’ve healed. Others you walk into already wounded, because you’ve no choice.
As they begin to stand, Salem says, “But if we end up fighting that thing in Wutherford, I’ll let you watch.”
Faustus grins. “That generous?”
“I’ll even let you stab it once. For the story.”