Lain kept her hood up. The road was slick beneath her hooves, and she stepped carefully. Beside her, Mallow slowed enough to take stock of the place. His eyes moved over broken roofs, the washed-out fences, the faces of the townsfolk who stopped to watch them pass. No one spoke. But the air carried a brittle, collective weariness.
At the edge of the square stood three large tents and a rough banner driven into thawing ground. It bore a sigil she didn’t recognize: a falcon in flight, stitched in white thread on a black background. Men and women in traveling coats worked beneath it, their sleeves rolled, their movements brisk and practiced. They looked like soldiers, though their manner was more careful than the Dagorlind patrols she’d known. They were repairing, not commanding.
One of them noticed Mallow and lifted a hand. “You there,” he called. “Need work? Or shelter?”
Mallow shook his head. “Neither,” he said. But the man was already crossing toward them, mud streaking the hem of his coat.
Lain lowered her gaze, hoping not to draw attention, but the man’s curiosity had fixed already. He was tall, ruddy-faced, his hair threaded with gray. His eyes flicked from mallow to her and back again, then something like recognition passed over his features.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “Ren, isn’t it?”
Mallow didn’t answer right away. The name seemed to hang between them, something heavy and unused. “Captain Kovac. It’s been a long time,” he said at last.
Kovac gave a short laugh. “I’ll say. Thought you were dead after Varric Pass. Guess not everyone stays buried.” His attention shifted briefly to Lain, curious but not harsh. “You traveling with a pilgrim, then? Don’t see many Sisterhood cloaks this far north.”
“Work’s work,” Mallow said.
Kovac grinned. “A sellsword with morals. Miracles never cease.” Then, turning to Lain, “We’ve got soup on at the tents, Sister. No meat. The Elder here’s been keeping to fasting days. You’re welcome to a bowl.”
The offer was simple, but the word Elder sent a small current through her chest. Most villages and cities had their own Elders, members of the Dagorlind who kept up service for outliers. The odds of this Elder knowing who she was seemed small. She hesitated, then nodded her thanks.
They followed Kovac to the tents. The air there was alive with motion – hammers striking wood, voices murmuring orders, the scent of smoke and broth mingling with damp wool. Someone had strung lines for drying clothes. On a nearby table, stakes of parchment were weighted with stones, the top sheets covered in neat rows of names.
“What’s that?” she asked softly.
“A petition,” Kovac said over his shoulder. “We’re gathering signers for Lord Balthir. You’ve heard the name?”
Lain shook her head. “No.”
“Ah. He’s making things right.” Pride colored his voice, but there was an edge to it too, like he was quoting something practiced. “Ivath’s been bleeding us for years. Tithes, tributes, half our grain for the Spire’s stores, and for what? So their Bellborn can sing their storms onto our land? Lord Balthir says no more. He’ll bring the Dagorlind to account. The petition’s going to Ivath in spring, carried by his riders. Maybe the Spire will listen this time.”
Laid had never heard herself described this way, and internally she reeled as if struck. Their Bellborn. She wondered if anyone had told these people that the Bellborn was gone. Didn’t they know about the ceremony, at least?
Mallow took a bowl from one of the men ladling soup and handed it to Lain without comment. She accepted it with both hands, more for something to do than for hunger. The broth steamed faintly in the cold. The first sip was savory lentil, ordinary and grounding.
Nearby, a young man spoke to a small cluster of villagers, his voice low but firm. “The Spire will answer,” he was saying. “Balthir’s sent word. When the petitions reach Ivath, he’ll go himself to demand reparations. The Dagorlind will pay in coin, or in kind.”
“Do you think they’ll listen?” someone asked.
“They’ll have to,” said another. “They fear him already.”
Lain’s fingers tightened on her bowl. There was reverence in their tone when they spoke of Morgan Balthir. Something perilously close to faith. She had seen that same fervor in the eyes of the Sisters, the way they spoke of the Underserpent’s mercy. Different gods, same hunger for salvation.
When she glanced back at Mallow, his expression was unreadable. Kovac was still talking to him, the kind of conversation that sounded like two men remembering a battlefield they’d rather forget. Once, Kovac clapped him on the shoulder, and Mallow didn’t pull away.
She turned her attention to the petition table. One of the soldiers, a boy no older than her, smiled at her nervously as she approached. “Would you like to sign, Sister?”
“I’m not from here,” she said carefully.
“All the same,” he said. “The Lord welcomes the voices of conscience. Even those from Ivath.”
The implication caught her breath. “You think the Spire would listen?”
He shrugged. “If they don’t, Lord Balthir will make them. He’s gathering support across the valleys. Not just soldiers. People who’ll speak the truth of what the Bellborn’s done.”
“The Bellborn?”
He nodded. “The one that drove the storm north. They say that storm was on track for Ivath, supposed to land right in their borders. Then the wind shifted, and we got word few days past that the Glinnel roused the city to sing it off. Landed right on top of us.” He traced a Serpent Circle around his chest with one finger. “Whatever that Bellborn is, she isn’t holy.”
The bowl had gone cold in her hands. “You don’t know that,” she said.
The boy smiled with pity, mistaking her tone for devotion. “I’m sure your Spire taught you otherwise, Sister. But it’s not faith that rebuilds a home. It’s people like Lord Balthir.”
He turned away to greet another villager. Lain stood there a moment longer, the world suddenly smaller around her. She lingered at the edge of the tents. She tried to make sense of the shouted orders, the hammering, the rising talk of petitions and vengeance. None of it sounded like faith, and yet it felt familiar: people believing in something because they had nothing else left.
Kovac was giving directions to one of the younger soldiers, then turned back to Mallow, studying him with a look that was appraising. “Never thought I’d see your face again, Ren,” he said. “A sellsword guarding a Kelthi girl? Didn’t think you went for charity work.”
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Lain glanced up sharply at the word Kelthi. Kovac had said it easily, as though it were a matter of fact. The air caught around them, a small stillness in the noise.
Mallow’s answer came without pause, dry as kindling. “Yes, well. She pays in prayer.”
Kovac laughed, a deep and tired sound. “Careful you don’t wind up on the wrong side of the cause, friend. Morgan’s looking for people with spines.”
“I’m sure he is,” Mallow said. His tone was mild, but Lain could sense something steely under it. Kovac didn’t seem to notice.
“You should come by our camp proper,” the captain went on. “Lord Balthir’s building something larger than this. We could use hands like yours. Men who know war and still remember which side is worth bleeding for.”
The way he said worth bleeding for made Lain’s stomach tighten. Around them, the camp’s talk rolled on, but here, in this small circle, the air felt sharpened.
Mallow tiled his head. “I’ve got my own contracts for now,” he said at last, the faintest edge of humor in his voice. “But I’ll send word.”
Kovac grinned, satisfied, as if that was answer enough. “Good. Morgan likes a man who keeps his promises.” He clapped Mallow on the shoulder, firm and companionable, before turning to shout something at the nearest tent.
Lain tried to keep her expression neutral, but her pulse was fluttering. She pays in prayer. That had been thrown in like a jest, but it landed someplace deep. She didn’t know if she was meant to feel insulted or protected by it. The talk of this Lord Balthir carried the same heat she used to hear in sermons, the quiet promise of justice, sharp edged and holy.
She stared into her bowl. Kovac’s voice carried on, animated now as he called orders to the others. Mallow stood still a long moment before joining her again, his boots soft on the thawing earth.
“You knew him,” she said.
Mallow shrugged. “Once.”
“He spoke like you fought together.”
“Once,” he repeated, and didn’t elaborate.
Lain wanted to ask more about the war, about the cause that had once been his, but something in his posture made her stop. He was watching the horizon beyond the village, where the mountains rose pale and blue in the distance. His eyes had that distant cast again, the same look he’d worn on the ridge that morning, when the wreckage had come into view.
She looked away, embarrassed by her own curiosity. In her chest, a quieter thought stirred. If Morgan Balthir was gathering people like him, what happens when they find out what she is?
Mallow lingered a moment longer, watching Captain Kovac’s men at work. “They’ve got a falconer here,” he said at last. “I’ll send a message before we move on.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he turned toward the tents. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”
Lain nodded, though unease pricked at her throat. The wind had picked up, brushing cold fingers across her cheeks. The air smelled of river silt. She stood still until he was out of sight, his dark coat disappearing in the movement of the camp.
The longer she waited, the more aware she became of her body. Her pulse warmed her neck, her skin humming restlessly. The tincture had quieted the worst of the Heat, but now it was wearing off. The sensation wasn’t as consuming as before, only constant: a low tide rising by degrees. She folded her hands together, pressing her palms tight, willing the trembling to still.
Across the square, a group of villagers worked to raise a fallen roof beam. They had set a length of timber through the wreckage, wedging it under the corner of the collapsed house to use as a lever. It was slow work, each main straining against the weight while another tried to brace the frame with stones. The river had eaten away at the foundation, turning the ground to sucking mud.
Lain moved closer, half to distract herself, half to help.
Another man called from near where she stood. “You’ll drown yourselves,” he said. “The bank won’t hold.”
A worker straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. “Don’t have a choice, Camry. The well’s under there somewhere. If we don’t shore it up, the whole side’ll slide.”
Before Camry could speak again, one of the ropes snapped. The beam jerked sideways, the man nearest the water slipped, and with a startled cry he fell beneath the weight into the current below.
“Saints!” someone cried.
Lain ran forward. The others were already at the edge, shouting, trying to pull him up. The current tugged at his legs, the water slick with silt. He gasped, flailing toward the bank. The broken beam shifted, tugged by the river, and in another second it would crush him beneath it.
She didn’t think. She dropped to her knees and reached for the water.
Bell. She needed a bell to Tune to.
She tugged Tanel’s gift from her pocket, stripped the clapper of its leather, and gave it a sharp, deliberate ring.
The sound struck the air cleanly, but what came back was wrong.
There was no answering hum through the earth, no pulse of the Underserpent turning in its sleep. The silence beneath her was absolute.
Lain’s breath hitched. Panic spiked in her chest, the way a child might panic after calling a parent’s name into an empty room. The serpent was gone from her.
She rang the bell again. The echo tangled with the rush of water.
And then something else stirred.
Not her wyrm. Not the dreaming creature she’d sung to all her life. This was thinner, older, its presence cold as iron and vast as an open sky. For a heartbeat, it brushed her mind – curious, relaxed. The sound that answered her was a low, shifting creak, like scales dragging against stone far below the world’s surface. Her pulse leapt. She didn’t know this being, but it knew her. It recognized the language of the bell.
The song rose to her lips.
River, hold your weary tongue,
Loose your burden to the sea.
What is broken shall be sung,
What is drowned shall rise to me.
The air changed as she sang. The hiss of the river quieted. The surface smoothed, its color deepening to glass. The broken beam stilled, its motion slowed as though caught in syrup. The man below gasped and scrambled free, crawling onto the bank with a cry of disbelief.
The moment broke. The beam dropped, the water rushed again, and the world resumed its noise.
No one spoke.
Lain knelt where she was, the aftertaste of that contact like metal on her tongue. Whatever she had touched wasn’t the Underserpent. It was something else. Something awake. It filled her chest with ache and something dangerously close to joy.
The villagers stared, mouths half open. One of them Circled himself. Another murmured, “Blessed Saint.”
Lain rose unsteadily, clutching her cloak, and tucked the bell into her pocket once more. “He’s safe,” she said, though her voice trembled.
The rescued man nodded, sized. “How did you–”
She shook her head. “Don’t speak of it. Please.”
He hesitated, then dipped his head in thanks. The others went back to work, more cautious now, their voices hushed.
When she turned, Mallow was standing a few paces away, watching her. His expression was impossible to read.
“I thought your kind couldn’t reach the Underserpent outside of Ivath,” he said quietly.
“I can’t,” she said.
He looked toward the river where the man still knelt in the mud, his friend’s hand on his shoulder as he breathed hard. “Seems you can, Sister.”
“I…” she didn’t know what to say. “I just… didn’t want him to die. I reached something… else.”
He said nothing. After a moment, he glanced toward the tents where the falconer’s banner hung limp in the wind. “Come on,” he said at last. “We should find a place to sleep before it gets dark. They’ll have spare cots in the longhouse, if it’s still standing.”
Lain nodded. Her throat still ached from the song, the vibration lingering in her ribs. As they crossed the square, villagers stepped aside to let them pass, eyes following her like she was something divine or dangerous. She kept her hood low.
The longhouse stood at the far edge of the village, its roof patched with fresh timber. The smell of damp straw and old smoke met them at the door. Inside, a few travelers were settling in; the wounded, the displaced, a mother rocking a sleeping child beside the hearth.
Mallow spoke quietly to the keeper and handed over a coin. “One night,” he said. “We’ll move on after that.”
Lain lowered herself onto one of the straw pallets near the fire. Her hands trembled faintly. Beyond the open door, she could hear the falcons calling in high, keen notes that cut through the dusk.
She glanced at Mallow as he unbuckled his sword belt, his shoulders taut and unreadable. He rolled his cloak into a pillow and turned his face away. Lain lay awake longer watching the faint shimmer of the coals until her eyes blurred.
The strange, foreign serpent’s song still echoed faintly inside her. She pressed her hand against her throat, feeling the warmth there, wondering what it meant that the world had answered her so easily.