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The ride through the rocky roads was everything but comfortable. Ghilan’nain winced as her spine felt every bounce of the carriage.

The distance between her father’s settlement and his war camp was too short to justify using an Eluvian. Summoned urgently by him, Ghilan’nain and her mother had quickly dusted off the carriage — infused with lyrium to steer itself along the roads — and marched off at her father’s orders to meet with him and his army.

Ghilan’nain wished they were travelling by sea instead. The rocking waves were a familiar comfort for her, who had learned first to sail at her father’s feet.

Since her father demanded speed, they could not travel by sea, but at least the roads were near the shore and Ghilan’nain could smell the brine of the tides, feel the rare droplets of water filter in through her veil, and almost taste the salt in the air. It seemed to caress her lovingly, murmur sweet promises, call to her most hidden depths. 

“Andruil’s blessings, child, compose yourself.”

Ghilan’nain blinked her eyes open from her blissful trance of the sea before lowering them, chastised. “Of course, Mother.”

Her mother looked at Ghilan’nain for a moment before giving a small smile and letting silence be their only company on the journey. 

She took the opportunity to observe her Mother, on the other side of her, knowing just how many people compared her beauty to her mother’s. Dark hair in ringlets, dark eyes heavily lidded, pale soft skin, sharp features marked with one of the earliest designs of Andruil’s followers… Her mother was well suited for the refined features, having known nothing else but the life of a Lady of a Great House for centuries. 

Ghilan’nain had taken the duties of their House more seriously than the duty of a daughter of said House; she had grown to learn to hunt with her brothers, had tanned salty skin from years at sea under her father’s watch, had her long hair always braided and tied close to her head for ease of movement with her bow, had faithfully served Swift Andruil beyond what even priestesses were encouraged to undertake.

For all her devotion, however, there was a certain… discrepancy when compared to her official duties.  

“Mother?” Her mother hummed in acknowledgement. “Do you know why Father has summoned us?”

Her mother lifted her eyebrow. “Why do you wish to know?”

“I am… curious. Father has not yet left for war, even if he should have, and I wonder what deterred him? It could not have been a simple matter. I wonder—

“Yes?” her mother prompted when her words waned.

Ghilan’nain sighed. “I am a deft hunter, Mother. Father could have asked me to come to him to use my skills.”

Mother smiled gently. “You may have keen eyes, Ghilan’nain, but you are not skilled enough to merit a conscription from your Father.” Her mother arranged herself in her seat. “Besides, he has told me the reason for our summons; you are getting married.”

Ghilan’nain felt her breath strain through her lungs. She had not- That was not something she had considered. 

“Married, Mother? I—,”

Mother shrugged, taking time to smooth the lint off her purple dress. “It is high time, Ghilan’nain. You are approaching an age that is… concerning to be untangled.”

Two centuries was hardly cause for alarm. Slaves married younger, yes, but they were easily killed and replaceable; Ghilan’nain was the daughter of a Great House, her father commanded a navy for Andruil’s pleasure; her death would not be millennia from now, if she so wished. It was not as if she was bereft of companionship; some of her sisters of the Hunt were fine enough company, even if ultimately unsuited for marriage. 

“She will be to your liking, child,” her mother soothed what she thought was Ghilan’nain’s worry. “Your father will have made sure of that.”

Ghilan’nain lowered her eyes, hearing already the sounds of a war camp but a few paces away. “Yes, Mother.”

The conversation was over, and duty beckoned. 

The banners of Andruil’s faithful rippled in the wind. The scent of burning cedar and roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the distant clang of armor and the murmurs of soldiers preparing for battle. Ghilan’nain dismounted from the carriage, ignoring the hand offered to her by her father’s secretary, Rouen. He gave a wry grin, knowing well how she despised being treated like fragile glass.

“My ladies,” he bowed, hand to chest. “Lord Adren is at the temple.”

She strode forward, intent on finding her father. 

The temple was at the edge of the camp and was not a temple, rather it was a makeshift of one; crude and unsuitable for a wedding perhaps, but it was in a war camp where hunting was a prized skill… In some ways, this was Andruil’s truest temple. Even from the outside of the red-tented pavilion, Ghilan’nain could see a statue of Andruil erected, brought along to worship and infuse her with power, and allowed herself to accept the slight insult that her father presented to her and their Goddess. 

Ghilan’nain walked with deliberate ease, trying not to search the masses for any face that might attract her attention should she find her intended wanting. 

The temple soon cast a shadow upon her, and Ghilan’nain took one final, free, breath before gathering her wits. She gave a small nod of her head to the guards and waited until they parted the flaps so she could enter.

There were a few hundred officials inside, but her father was unmistakable; tall and proud, a King who oversaw part of a Goddess’ domain.

He had fought under Golden-Arrowed Andruil during the war with the Pillars of the Earth; long before Godhood had taken shape in the minds of the People, long before the first of Harmonious Sylaise’s great cities were built, long before the conflicts of their time were defined by rivalries between gods rather than a fight for their existence. 

Yet, he was still her father. 

His light silver eyes lighted even further when he spotted her and when she felt his arms around her, Ghilan’nain could have sworn he could have suffocated her such was his fervour. She blinked, startled by emotion, but her arms laced themselves around her father nonetheless, smelling the ever-present brine of the sea on his tanned skin. 

He let go of her but did not step away, instead he took her face and held her cheeks with a look in his eyes that Ghilan’nain thought was terror… anguish, even. If he was so emotional about her marriage, then why had he—... 

Unless, Ghilan’nain realised with significant trepidation, that was not why she had been summoned. 

Her father suddenly dropped her face and averted his gaze just as her mother entered the temple.

It was too late; she had seen the look in his eyes already.

Guilt. Horror. Acceptance.

So, Andruil had demanded a sacrifice and Ghilan’nain was to be the one who bled.

Ghilan’nain’s mother moved before her daughter, placing a firm, protective hand on her shoulder. Her mother possessed the same quick mind as Ghilan’nain… and she knew Father for far longer than Ghilan’nain had; if her father could not hide from her, then he could not hide from his wife. Mother’s voice was sharp as a blade, cutting through the hushed murmurs of the hall. 

“You summoned us under false pretences,” she accused, her dark eyes blazing. “You said she was to be wed.”

Ghilan'nain understood then; of course he had tricked them, Ghilan'nain's mother would have never brought her here if she had known Adren's intentions; her clever mother would have devised a ruse to match her husband's. Ghilan’nain’s father—a king, a warrior, a man bound by his oaths—did not meet his wife’s gaze at first. His jaw was clenched, his hands fisted at his sides. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of something inevitable. 

“There is no choice in this,” he said, slow and deliberate, like each word was a stone laid upon his heart. “Andruil will not give her favour and without her favour… it would be certain death for thousands of us.” He looked weary, his black hair held far more grey than Ghilan’nain remembered. “The priestesses have confirmed her desire; a sacrifice will sate her.” 

Ghilan’nain's mother stepped closer, defiant. “And you would give her?” she spat. “Our only daughter?”

A flicker of pain crossed his face before his expression steeled. “The People stand at the edge of war and Andruil’s wrath is not to be denied.” He exhaled sharply, as if trying to steady himself. “Blood has been demanded; Ghilan’nain’s life will ensure her favour.”

Ghilan’nain, silent until now, could feel the shape of the moment settle over her like a shroud. This was no hasty decision. This had been planned.

Her mother’s fury did not wane. She turned to the gathered generals and commanders, to the priestesses and Ghilan’nain’s sisters of the Hunt in their ceremonial garb, to the warriors who stood witness. “Cowards,” her mother hissed. “To send a child to die in your place.”

None recoiled; Andruil’s will was unquestionable.

Her mother looked poised to raise another protest, but Ghilan’nain had heard enough.

If it was Andruil’s will, then there was only one response.

“It is an honor, Mother,” she said, sincere, “to have been chosen to herald a war.”

Ghilan’nain felt her mother’s grip on her tighten, nails digging into her arm. She looked to her father one last time, searching his face for any sign that he might change his mind; there was none, of course. She had listened on her father’s knees the tales of Andruil; he and her knew well that Andruil did not falter and so neither would they.

“Come,” one of the priestesses said, beckoning Ghilan’nain closer. “We must prepare you.”

Her mother gasped sharply, a sound of anguish, but Ghilan’nain did not look back.

The congregation moved leisurely. The sacrifice would be made only when the moons were high in the sky, for that was when Andruil’s power was absolute. Ghilan’nain was made to hunt one last time; she drank with her sisters and feasted on the boar she had speared. The priestesses then cleaned her; they unfastened the belt at her waist and removed the dagger she always carried, rings were taken from her fingers, she bathed her in milk and honey. Then, after the moons had already climbed the sky, she was given a new garment—one of pure white, adorned only with a belt bearing the golden Hawk of Andruil. 

Finally, she was taken back to the temple and the rituals began.

She felt weightless, like a bird plucked of its feathers, as countless eyes were fixed on her.

The walk to the altar was slow. The gathered court did not cheer, nor did they mourn. Her mother and father were near the altar; they did not speak, did not look at her or each other. They watched in silence, their expressions unreadable, and she did not allow herself to search for any more familiar faces among those gathered.

The altar was cold against her skin as she knelt, pressing her forehead to the marbled stone. The hush in the temple deepened, as if the very air was waiting.

The priestesses started speaking, but Ghilan’nain toned them out. She knew the prayers back and forth, could recite each line like the words were engraved on her heart, but she wished for a moment of peace, to convene with her Goddess one last time. 

“Let me not die ingloriously or without struggle,” Ghilan’nain spoke quietly upon the altar, forehead pressed against the marbled stones; the only recipient of her last words. “Let my death be the wind upon which Golden-Arrowed Andruil shall fly to victory.”

There could be an easy mercy, the swift kiss of magic before everything faded for Ghilan’nain. Andruil, however, was known to find that impersonable, lacking the necessary gravitas, a bloodess and gutless solution. Instead, there would be a golden knife, lovingly and gently piercing Ghilan’nain’s left side. It would be excruciating, the blood slowly pouring out of her, each breath more painful than the last.

It was the only way Andruil accepted sacrifices. 

Ghilan’nain had heard of a man who had given his life for Andruil’s just war against the Titan beneath where Arlathan now grew; his liver pecked to nothing by a hawk during the day while every night it grew back by way of Andruil’s blood mages. A most noble endeavour to ensure their Goddess’s victory. 

Ghilan’nain’s death would be swifter, but no less painful.

“Swift Andruil, She-Who-Culls,” the priestess of Andruil’s temple recited the holy rites with ease. This was not an uncommon ceremony. “Accept this sacrifice of Adren of Andruil, your most loyal Admiral, your ever faithful—

The air grew icy, all at once, so cold it stopped even the priestess’s words like she was awaiting time to flow naturally again. The torches sputtered, their golden glow flickering into blue as a strange hush fell over the altar. The only sound was the slow trickle of water from the temple’s fountain, an eerie whisper against the unnatural silence.

Then, in an instant, the sensation passed, and time resumed. The priestess shook her head as if to clear it of some strange daze and took up the ritual again.

"—follower, as intended r-reparations fo-for—" she continued, hesitantly, until her voice petered out as the whispers of the congregation grew to a degree that no one could ignore.

Ghilan’nain’s obstructed vision watched the priestess turn slowly to where all the attention was, as if afraid of what she might find had attracted the attention of all those soldiers. 

Then, the priestess let out a surprised cry before scattering away in shock.

At the altar where once Ghilan’nain had lain, there was now a strange creature. It resembled a deer, but its fur was of the purest white and its antlers curled like rolling waves of the sea. Its body trembled, golden eyes wide with terror, its breath coming in ragged gasps. 

A voice ran louder than the shock of the assembled cohorts of Adren.

"Behold!" one shouted, falling to his knees. "The Goddess’s blessing! Golden-Arrowed Andruil has accepted the offering and transformed her into a sacred beast!"

From a hidden corner of the temple, Ghilan’nain struggled against the strong hands that had taken her from the altar. One of the strangers’ hands was on her wrist, keeping Ghilan’nain confined and pressed to the stranger’s body, and another was on Ghilan’nain’s mouth culling her cry for attention, preventing her from alerting her father’s court of the ruse that was taking place. 

Ghilan’nain struggled, but the grip was firm, unyielding. The stranger’s breath was warm against her ear as she whispered, "Be silent.” Ghilan’nain tried again to free herself, but the grip only intensified. Their bodies were pressed together in the shadow beneath Andruil’s statue. “Wait,” the voice again, just by her elongated ear. “Watch.”

Ghilan’nain, not because the stranger demanded but because she could do nothing else, watched with horror as the golden knife, intended for her, now found its place against the strange deer's side. The blade slid in, slowly, reverently, its warm lifeblood pooling upon the marbled altar. 

The gathered faithful chanted their praises, oblivious to the trickery that had just saved their intended sacrifice. All except her parents; her father watched the altar with grim horror while her mother’s eyes had never held such hatred.

Oh, Andruil— this would be their undoing, once the ruse was discovered; they had slighted the Goddess of the Hunt, the Mistress of the Untamed, the Spear of Elgar’nan.

That strange creature had taken Ghilan’nain’s place, certainly conjured by the woman who now held her against her will, took its last shuddering breath to the cheers of the court. Ghilan’nain whimpered at the thought of Andruil’s wrath, of what she would demand now that her sacrifice was spurned. 

“Shh,” the voice whispered again, the lips brushing against the cartilage of Ghilan’nain’s ear. “Stop moving.”

The world around them wavered, shadows stretching unnaturally, the air crackling with unseen energy. A sudden lurch, like the pull of an unseen current, sent her reeling. The temple vanished, swallowed by the darkness between heartbeats.

When the darkness gave way to light, Ghilan’nain felt the drizzle of rainwater on her. Wind whipped through her unbound hair, cold and sharp against the lingering warmth of the temple. The arid heat had disappeared in place of a wet thunderstorm and Ghilan'nain forced herself to accept this fate; the stranger had brought her to the edge of a cliff, only the Gods knew how far away from her father’s domain.

Ghilan’nain stumbled forward, sandals almost slipping in mud, to that edge of land. 

The cliffs were vast and jagged, rising like great sentinels against the restless sea. Below, waves crashed violently against the base, sending plumes of white spray high into the air. Here the scent of salt was thicker, mingling with the distant cries of seabirds that circled above. The bronze sky crackled in anticipation of a storm, fierce and pitiless in equal measures, and the seas below them moulded the rock. In a few thousand years, this cliff would be eroded to nothing and only the valley between these four dark mountains would remain.

Ghilan’nain took a breath and wished for all she was to have her bow, but in the absence of anything but her body, she turned around to face her kidnapper. 

The strange woman stood at a distance, a self-satisfied smirk on her handsome face— like she was challenging Ghilan’nain to say anything about her unprompted rescue.

Muscles coiled with pent-up fury, Ghilan’nain did not hesitate. With a swift motion, she lunged, her arm moving instinctively as she reached for the usual hidden dagger strapped to her thigh, but of course, it was not there. Undeterred— her hand snatched a jagged rock from the wet ground, a crude tool, but sharp enough.

She aimed for the stranger’s head, where the golden armour would not protect her. The woman did not flinch, only stepped to the side with an almost casual grace, her long white hair moving with her and hiding her features. 

The rock did connect with the stranger’s armour, striking a weak point where the plate overlapped— it made a sound it should not have made. 

Ghilan’nain could not have made that precise a strike had the woman not moved to avoid the rock hitting her face. Pleased at hitting the obviously more powerful woman, even if she had not injured her, Ghilan’nain lifted her chin now daring the other woman to say anything.

The woman’s lips curled, a flicker of amusement dancing in her gaze. “You missed,” the stranger said, her voice a quiet purr, as if she were relishing the struggle. “For the most part, anyway.”

Ghilan’nain’s chest heaved with both frustration and adrenaline, when the words hit. 

She had failed.

Ghilan’nain did not like to fail.

“You should not have intervened,” Ghilan’nain said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to strangle the strange woman somehow. “I would have gladly given myself to Andruil.”

The woman smiled a wry grin. “I know.”

Ghilan’nain’s heart hammered in her chest. She was no fool; this was no ordinary woman, and this was no ordinary encounter. Every instinct screamed that she should strike again, yet the force of the stranger’s presence held her frozen in place, every breath sharp and heavy.

Goddess or Champion, was the question. 

Only Elgar’nan’s disciples were known to travel great distances without using June’s Eluvians; which likely made the woman one of his. However, another God from the Pantheon under disguise was not an unreasonable deduction.

Hearth-keeper Sylaise was famously recluse as of late, bound to the South to rise another city, so fairly unlikely. Crafter June’s distinctive injury that rendered him unable to walk correctly in whatever form he chose was not present, taking  another name out of possibility, and Andruil… Graceful Andruil with no bow or spear at her side was unfathomable.  Nor would her Goddess ever refuse a sacrifice.

Any others were not as powerful, would not concern themselves with a sacrifice to Andruil, would never interfere with the Huntress for fear of retribution.

Without reasonable options, Ghilan’nain was stuck. She could not simply ask — Well, why not?

Gathering her courage, Ghilan’nain spoke over the roar of the wind. “Who are you?”

The stranger tilted her head, the thick and wild white hair clearing from her face to reveal a pair of piercing silver eyes. Ghilan’nain fought the shiver that raced her spine; those eyes were like a lure, catching the wan sunlight that slipped through the thick clouds to shine on their own like lyrium.  

The stranger lifted her dark strong fingers to cup her chin, in thought. “I suppose you could say I serve Elgar’nan.”

Whatever allure the stranger possessed, and Ghilan’nain dared not deny it was there, died whenever she revealed more and more of her interference of the holy rites. It seemed to have been nothing more than a flight of fancy. 

Ghilan’nain crossed her arms, and angled her chin up. “You suppose ? Are you so fickle?”

The infuriating woman laughed. “Well, not usually.”

Ghilan’nain felt her temper snap. She picked up the skirts of her dirty white dress and marched right into the stranger’s personal space, and her finger started poking the breastplate of the golden armour she wore. 

“Have you any idea of what you have done?” Ghilan’nain hissed, poking the armour again, her anger petty and righteous all at once. “The magnitude of what you interrupted? The repercussions that will unfold from this?”

The stranger hummed, unconcerned by her words or actions, and answered orderly in the utmost uninterested tone. “Interrupted a sacrifice. Large. Andruil will likely be angry.”

Shock at the casual response lasted only for a moment.

“Oh,” Ghilan’nain feigned a gasp of false contrition, “I apologise, am I boring you?”

The woman laughed; low and warm, like the late-night stoke of a camping fire. It warmed the air between them, what little remained of it, and Ghilan’nain forced herself to ignore the pull of attraction, the instinct that had lighted itself from the moment her fate was left unknown and her life was no longer forfeit.

“Quite the opposite, Ghilan’nain.” Ghilan’nain frowned. How had she known— “I find you extraordinarily interesting, in fact.”

Culled somewhat, Ghilan’nain sighed. “Regardless, I do not understand why a servant of Elgar’nan would interrupt a service to Andruil.”

The woman shrugged. “Perhaps Elgar’nan willed you to live.”

“It seems unwise to—

The woman suddenly towered over her, exuded power Ghilan’nain would find hard to match without significant preparation, and silenced her immediately. “Are you saying that Divine Elgar’nan, Sun-Tamer, is not wise? That he is not the force behind the Evanuris? That his desires matter less than Huntress Andruil, She-Who-Walks-by-Moonlight?”

“Of course not,” Ghilan’nain was quick to respond, knowing the danger of the mere implication. “The First of the Firstborn, however, would never interfere with a sacrifice for Andruil, his favourite daughter.”

Everyone knew the story.

During the height of the war with the Pillars of the Earth, many of the Firstborn had called forth champions to serve them; Mythal had beaconed Wisdom, Sylaise called upon Curiosity, and Elgar’nan had commanded Freedom. Freedom took the name Andruil, Curiosity had chosen June, and Wisdom claimed Solas. All of them ascended to godhood, save Clever Fen’harel.

The bond between pairs was unmistakable. 

Even today, Andruil’s hawks flew over the entrance to Elgar’nan’s temples, June’s serpents coiled around Sylaise’s hearths, and wolves guarded the statues of Mythal. 

Elgar’nan would not rob his favourite of any sacrifice. 

The stranger laughed again, but it was no longer as warm. “Because you know him well, daughter of Adren?” Ghilan’nain remained silent, mildly chastised. “Or is it because you feel you know Andruil , and understand how she will fare once she discovers that the sacrifice remained unfulfilled? Or—no, no. I do think I’ve found it.” 

The stranger took one step forward, so close to Ghilan’nain that she warmed the rain that fell from the skies. The stranger did not dare touch her, but her strong hands — plain and free of jewelry like she was expecting a fight at any moment — hovered over Ghilan’nain’s shoulder. It felt hot, like a furnace, and intoxicating, like drowning in lyrium. The woman leaned in then, a smirk on her lush dark lips, like she was about to lay claim to Ghilan’nain’s mouth — like she was planning to devour her whole. Ghilan'nain willed herself to fight the temptation to close the distance.

“Do you feel—” a lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest go mad “— guilty, shamed —” Ghilan’nain could feel her smiling as the woman frustratingly teased a kiss without committing, “— for not doing Andruil’s biding? For not dying ?”

Ghilan’nain — drenched from the rain, lips unfeeling from the cold, twitching from anger, confused by the whirlwind of emotions she suffered through today — threw caution to the wind.

The space between them vanished in an instant, and then—

A mad kiss in a raging storm.

The stranger did not hesitate, did not yield—her mouth was warm, insistent, a force as relentless as the bronze skies above them. Ghilan’nain gasped, feeling the pain of her lips’ return to life, and the woman swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, fingers pressing into her waist, lifting her up, a searing touch through the wet fabric of her white dress, moulding Ghilan’nain against her body with a bruising grip.

Ghilan’nain clung to her, hands fisting in thick, wild white hair, pulling, demanding. The woman groaned into her mouth, low and pleased, and Ghilan’nain felt it burn down her spine.

The rain pounded against their bodies. The wind howled. And still, they did not part until air grew scarce and their bodies could be entwined no further.

When they finally broke apart, Ghilan’nain was breathless, dazed, her lips tingling from the force of it. The woman stayed close, her forehead brushing Ghilan’nain’s, her smirk lazy, victorious. Ghilan’nain’s white dress was sodden from the rain; it clung to her body like the sea lapped at the shore. Only the woman’s warm hands offered her succour from the cold water. Only the stranger’s strength held her upright.

“I think now,” though far more composed than her, the strange woman was breathless, “I may be the one who has missed her mark.” The strong fingers at her waist lingered, a brazen touch along Ghilan’nain’s wet skin. “That did not feel like guilt. ” The touch was hot, overwhelming, and her wet dress only seemed to enhance the sensation of the stranger’s touch on her body. “ More… exuberance at feeling your blood still thrum in your veins.” A pause, both in words and in touch— Ghilan’nain ached at the absence. “Is it, then,” the voice was low, rough, hoarse— Ghilan’nain felt her knees shake, “my sweet Ghilan’nain,” her name was a languid caress along her spine, “that you feel, not like you failed Golden-Arrowed Andruil, but that Elgar’nan might have slighted Andruil ?”

Ghilan’nain, through the fog of lust and deliberate confusion the woman had engineered, considered the words.

Insanity— her father would disavow her, exile her from his side, if it was ever known. What foolish daughter would deride the First of the Firstborn, even for Andruil? What daughter would doom their House and all its attendants by the mere implication?

Dangerous—  Sun-Bright Elgar’nan would scour her where she stood, to suggest that his will was not first and foremost in all things. 

Blasphemy— Andruil herself would extract vengeance for the insult upon Elgar’nan.

Only—

“She is the only mistress I recognise,” Ghilan’nain said, breathless as well, barely above a whisper. “If she wished for a sacrifice… I would gladly pay any price for her favour. He robbed her of that.”

The stranger looked down at her, blinked once and smiled a slow smile. “There is a temple to Graceful Andruil atop the fourth hill there, should you wish to pray.”

With those words the woman swiftly let go of her. When Ghilan’nain embarrassingly faltered the strong hands took her body again and lingered on her drenched see-through dress for a moment too long, as if unwilling to part. The woman looked down again, silver eyes wide and dark, and looked as if she was about to devour Ghilan’nain again, this time wholly and without hesitation, before the look disappeared and she took a step back with a strange and sober expression.

Ghilan’nain tried gathering herself. “What are you—

As quickly as she had appeared in her life, the woman vanished and Ghilan’nain stared, confused and dazed, at the place where the woman had once stood but was now was empty. The storm raged on, the wind biting at her skin, but the heat of the stranger’s hands lingered, ghostly but not entirely unwelcome.

Then, the realisation struck—cold and brutal.

It took her far longer than her vast intellect required to register fully what had happened.

The strange woman had left her there, alone, in that undeveloped rock; breathing though breathless, bare though clothed, alive though doomed.

Breathing heavily as thunder shook the earth, Ghilan’nain felt her head spiralling. She was supposed to— She was supposed to— She had been meant to die . Her blood was supposed to spill for Andruil. That had been the price, the offering, the sacred duty. Her blood to sate Andruil’s thirst, for Andruil’s favour. That was the deal— that was the deal! And that— that— that woman had interrupted the ritual; doomed her and her father and her goddess in one single strike. 

She hit the ground, knees first, caking her white dress in mud, feeling the rain pour down on her, and screamed— as long as her breath allowed, as loud as her throat managed, and then beyond even that. 

Ghilan’nain screamed until her voice grew hoarse. She screamed until her eyes grew red. She screamed until her white dress was stained brown from the earth. She screamed and screamed until the feeling in her fingers disappeared, until the wind grew so fierce it drowned her cries, until her heart wretched itself together again piece by piece.

Rain subdued somewhat, Ghilan’nain tried to think. She could not offer herself as a sacrifice again, if Elgar’nan had willed that she could not. However, to do nothing after her Goddess had demanded it of her House was unbearable, shameful.

Ghilan’nain forced herself to breathe, her mind clawing for a path forward. 

Worship came in many forms. 

If her blood could not be spilled, then let it be spent in devotion, in tribute, in creation. 

Blood called to her, shaped itself at her will, created life from the pieces of the dead coveted by Falon’Din. Perhaps her goddess would enjoy the spoils of hunts of monsters from Ghilan’nain’s creation, now that all Titans were subdued and all wars were bound to fall at her Goddess’s feet for Andruil was as magnificent in war as she was in all else. Ghilan’nain might even present her that strange stag the meddlesome woman had conjured in the place of Ghilan’nain’s sacrifice.

Her Goddess might enjoy the irony.

Comforted by her plan, Ghilan’nain rose from the floor, made a useless effort to shake the dirt from her ruined tunic and began the work of climbing the hill of Andruil’s temple.

Worship came in many forms. 

This would be hers. 

The wine-dark sea clashed against the iron cliffs, rising high in the sky before splattering back onto the land. These valleys deep in the South were still being developed by Sylaise, but already a small town rose in between the dark range of mountains near the shore. 

Her sister was proficient, Andruil would grant Sylaise that much. 

On an island just off the shore of the mainland, hawk-eyes trained on the lovely girl she had left on that knife-edge of land, the supple body falling to her knees with a cry. Was it rage? Perhaps. Though Andruil felt it different from the first unheard cry she had heard the girl give when she snatched her from the altar of her sacrifice.

Desperation, perhaps, fit better—yes. 

An emotion Andruil rarely encountered, one she actively avoided.

Bemused by the strange girl — the daughter of her most prized Admiral, one who worshiped her so… ardently — Andruil leaned against the lone tree of the small island, plucking a fruit for herself. Almost without thought, she pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling the tingling from the kiss.

The Huntress had had no designs to lose a girl so dedicated to her as Ghilan’nain was, but her most ruthless Admiral had thought himself too high and had dared to hunt one of her sacred hawks. 

It would have been an insult to let it stand.

When she had made the request via one of her pretty priestesses for Adren to make a personal sacrifice before departing to war, she had not thought him dedicated enough to sacrifice his only daughter: a son perhaps, but not the daughter. Andruil half-heartedly planned on slaughtering the entire family for Adren’s slight against her, if he so insisted on sacrificing his prized daughter, but if Andruil knew Adren’s wife, he would suffer regardless for his choice of sacrifice. 

The daughter, however—… Andruil pressed her cold fingers against her lips again. 

She had not expected such devotion, even if she had heard how the daughter of Adren served her so faithfully. She had not expected— Elgar’nan had no conception of Andruil’s current actions, this had been an internal matter, solved easily by Adren’s sacrifice.

And yet— the girl had claimed Andruil’s favour above Elgar’nan’s.

Foolish.

Yet, intriguing.

Andruil, piercing eyes still locked on the girl, rotated the small piece in her hand, chuckling a bit — a fig, of course. 

Before she could sink her teeth into the sweet and ripe fruit, a presence crawled out of the sea and intruded on her self-imposed rumination. Andruil sighed, already feeling her good mood slip away, but didn’t turn; she knew well who it was. 

“Solas.” 

He did not acknowledge her greeting; Mythal’s champion —… newly former champion — never did. Instead he forced the issue at hand.

“Elgar'nan has commanded you to strike Falon’Din?”

Willing to indulge him, Andruil made a so-so gesture with her free hand. “Not quite, but he is preparing for something.” She let her keen eyes drift over the strange, unassuming form Solas had chosen to take. “Are you preparing a retaliation, rebel ?”

He remained tight-lipped, but Andruil laughed all the same before finally biting into the fig. 

Um, as sweet as she had hoped.

Solas’ “rebellion” was hardly such; a few scuffles with Elgar’nan’s guards at key posts hardly earned him the moniker. Three centuries had passed since Elgar’nan declared himself — and those who followed him into corporeal form to slay Titans, thousands of years ago — something akin to gods. Yet only now did Solas make the conscious choice to attack them more directly, beyond his regular pretty speeches. Only now did he divest himself from the trappings of power Mythal had conferred him. 

Presumably, he had spent years at Mythal’s side begging and trying to persuade her to his side.

Apparently it had not gone well.

“Perhaps, Huntress.”

Andruil shook her head and bit again into the ripe fruit, finishing it off with a casual lick of her lips. “You know I can’t let you keep interfering.” Andruil shrugged off the tree. “If you had the shield of being under Mythal’s orders, whatever… indiscretion could be… forgotten, if not forgiven. However, if rumours are true and you have chosen to forsake her—

“I have not chosen to forsake her,” he said, voice thick with melancholy. “There are duties to attend to yet, before we part. After… After , then yes, I will have chosen to forsake her.” He frowned, like the mere thought of it was unbearable.

Ah, it appeared that it did not matter if it had gone well or not; Solas still felt the pull towards Mythal. 

Fool.

“Mythal awaits me,” he murmured, soft-spoken once again as he ever was when in the mere presence of her name; like the manifestation of something holy, like a sacred blasphemy few dared to commit. “I must not—

She waved him off. “Yes, yes. We all know what you mustn’t for her.” Andruil almost let her eyes roll, but she refrained. The wolf would be insufferable if he saw it. “Go on, your leash is being pulled, Fen’harel .” 

He flinched at the epithet and Andruil cackled, the bronze sky clapping along with thunder. 

The title acquired after the war with the Titans, bestowed on Solas after he found a way to harness that power for their own, left him wounded and howling in protest. 

Victory.

Delicious .

Solas refused to slump, it would be unseemly and Solas hated to be unseemly, despite Andruil having seen him caked in guts of monsters, violet eyes savage when Mythal was in danger, hands drenched in blood. 

Pride often put appearance over truth, Andruil had learned.

Yet, for only a moment, his eyes betrayed his hurt, before quickly darting to the cliff where Andruil had placed Ghilan’nain. 

He observed the Admiral’s daughter with an interesting tilt to his eyes, the flash of violet quicker as they watched the girl gracefully rise to her feet, eyes red but undefeated, her devotion to Andruil only renewed. An unusual care for piety, from one so high above others, and despite all Andruil’s worship had made her suffer. It was curious… and Andruil did not like to see those violent eyes on the girl. 

“She is sensitive,” he muttered, eyeing Ghilan’nain with those violet eyes. “A most… unusual trait of your followers, Andruil.”

Andruil snorted. “Say it plain; my followers are either slaves or bloodthirsty generals.” He hummed, indicating ‘yes’ with his head, and Andruil shrugged, leaned back against the single tree on that island and stared at the girl. “It is true that she is different.”

Ghilan’nain, daughter of Adren, possessed both the prowess of Andruil's hunters and the sharp curiosity of June’s apprentices. This made her something of a castaway in Andruil’s cohort, though the girl seemed oblivious to it. Ghilan’nain may be beloved by her father, but the people he oversaw eyed her with anathema, if not outright revulsion

Her sacrifice would have been such to Adren only, not his congregation.

“Is that a flaw in your armor, Andruil? Have you grown soft, felled by the charms of a simple daughter of a Great House—neither Firstborn nor a Hunter of unmatched skill, but just a girl?””

He knew not of Ghilan’nain, it was plain, if he described her so unremarkably; yet, there was still something she misliked about his interest in one who had sworn herself to her. 

With unconscious effort, Andruil undid the enchantment around her weapongs; showing the golden bow and quiver and bracelet that stored her spear. “You best leave,” she hissed, “before I disregard Mythal’s attempt at truce and strike you where you stand.” 

Solas chuckled, cruel as he so often could be despite his endless protests. “So, the hunter does feel for the prey.” 

She glowered, feeling her beloved form itching to take shape. The wings she often used with her elven form clawed at her golden armor, yearning to break free at the scent of her desire to fight the meddlesome wolf. Andruil kept the reins of control tightly pulled on the golden hawk that threatened to free itself, not wanting to give Solas the satisfaction of seeing her lose control, but of course, Quick-witted Fen’harel took the momentary slip to declare victory.

He bowed, deeply, in mockery of humility. 

Andruil shook herself into a tenuous calm. “She is mine, you realise.”

“I should take her,” he said, smiling a close-mouth smile; wolf in sheep’s clothing, “she is wasted on you.”

He knew more than he intimated—

 Andruil almost laughed. 

Of course he did, he always did. Now, whether the knowledge was right or wrong was up for discussion.

“And how do you plan to accomplish that?” Andruil’s gaze swept over him, narrowing into slits as she caught the implication. “To take her from me, you’ll have to rob her of her senses. Is that your plan?”

Pride laughed. “I do not need to rob her of anything, Andruil. That may be how you— ”  he sneered at her, sneered “—function, but not I. I possess cunning and charm,” he eyed from head to toe, “while you possess nothing but brutality and coercion.”

Andruil let his insults wash over her, wondering if she should feel slighted. In the end, she decided she didn’t—what did it matter what Solas thought? He was insignificant, a fool abdicating his power for things no grander than the dirt beneath their feet.

“If you truly wish to take one who is mine—” the girl was insignificant, for as talented as she might grow to be. She was. Andruil convinced herself. She was but a plaything. Yet, she was still hers “—then it is only right that you do it for a price.”

“Discarding her so quickly, Lucky Andruil, Feast-Giver?” he mocked one of her many epithets.

Andruil laughed, her tone clipped. “The girl means nothing to me save for the fact that she’s sworn to serve me.” 

She stepped closer, towering over him as she always had, from the very moment their bodies took shape. Where he was lithe, she was muscular. Where he was pale and freckled, she was dark and unblemished. Where he was orderly but savage, she was frenzied but precise. Born on the same day, pulled forth by Command and Benevolence in turn, the Huntress and the Wolf, one the brutal front against the Titans and the other the architect of their defeat.

“I’m sure that will comfort her immensely.” Solas looked up at her, the wolf refusing to be cowed. “But I’m curious, Andruil—what do you demand for her?”

Andruil shrugged. “For your intractability and disregard for what does not belong to you, the punishment is simple: you’ll serve me in bed for a year and a day.” She spoke evenly, savoring the shock that flashed in his violet eyes. Almost smiling, she continued. “Then, you may take her.” A smile curved her lips now, knowing the shape her words would take for him. “You may even share her with Mythal, if you’re both so inclined.”

As always — predictable as the sun rising at Elgar’nan’s behest— when even implied insults were hurled at Mythal, Solas’ violet eyes grew violent. His form arched forward in a fluid motion, hands clenched in a rage that had once subdued the earth. 

Andruil jerked her head to the side, avoiding his rare clumsy blow, and with flick of her wrist summoned her enchanted spear, hitting him on the diaphragm with the blunt end of her weapon. 

He stumbled for a single moment, but it was enough for Andruil to grab his arm and twist an enchanted rope of June around him. He fell to his knees on the muddy earth and snarled, ensnared in her simple trap, trying to shake himself free. Foolish. He should know the power behind enchanted objects, should feel Ingenious June's magic on the rope… should know it was impossible to break out unless her will faltered. 

“I am going to war, Clever Fen’harel,” she said, calmly despite the scorn, binding him with proper form, “did you really believe me unprepared for an ambush… if you could call it that, I suppose.”

The wolf snarled. “Release me, Andruil!” He shook again, dragging himself on the mud. “Release me!”

Andruil laughed and picked him up, throwing his body so his back hit the fig tree on the edge of that small island. Pride culled a cry of pain, of surprise, and the bronze-coloured skies thrilled in response. 

THe Huntress stalked toward him with deliberate ease, dragging her golden spear behind her, leaving swirling patterns in the wet earth. When she reached him, she crouched low, a wry grin tugging at her lips. She loved to win—especially at his expense. 

He snarled at her, a growl deep in his voice as he fought to control his emotions— his pride at being bested and Andruil chuckled.

“Oh, but I do think I will take that year of servitude,” she purred, letting the tip of her spear trace Solas’s form like a lover, dragging the sharp edge along his arm and up until his chin, lifting it up so he could meet her gaze. “There, there, do you think Mother Mythal will mind terribly?”

“You do not get to speak her name,” he hissed, more serpent than wolf. “You have no right.”

Andruil laughed. “Oh, I think I do. I have her Champion, after all. Well, former Champion. I wonder how she will fare without you, Quick-Witted Fen’harel.”

Violet violent eyes bore into her. “I will kill you.”

“No clever threats?” Andruil shook her head, feigning a pout. “I am disappointed, Solas.”

Solas’ jaw tightened, the muscles of his neck flexing as he restrained the urge to snap at her. Andruil laughed again, feeling the eminent ring of victory. She reached out her hand to touch his cheek, to gloat further, her warm skin started to feel his cold rage even at a distance, and she—

Andruil let out a yelp when an arrow flew too close to her thumb, slicing her flesh before planting itself on the dirt a few paces from them.

Both she and Solas turned where the arrow had come from, expecting an ambush.

A lone figure stepped out of the roaring waves of the sea, drenched in salt water, swaying on their feet. Their bronze armour was ripped in several places, but it was well-made, Andruil judged, even if it bore the ancient designs. The figure — male — was bloody as well, wounds and slashes showed along his body, coating the earth a vivid red in their wake. He had been in a fight, and yet had crawled out of the sea with sword and shield at his side ready for another.

Curious.

A flash of lightning allowed Andruil to see the features, and she blinked when she saw who it was. 

Anaris? Here? How odd. Elgar’nan had exiled Anaris and the rest of the Forgotten Ones for their interference with Those Across The Sea, and they had crawled deep into some hole Andruil and Elgar’nan had not bothered to search for. 

Perhaps, once this conflict with Falon’Din was over, she and Elgar’nan would have to revisit that decision.

For now Andruil watched as Forgotten Anaris exhaled, a ragged breath that was more exhaustion than fear, his bloodied fingers flexing around the grip of his sword. His storm-dark eyes locked onto Solas, then flickered to Andruil, assessing, calculating. 

Ultimately Anaris decided to focus on Solas despite Andruil being unbowed and very capable of striking him.

Foolish Anaris, was as applicable an epithet as any other. 

“You,” Anaris rasped, the weight of his wounds pressing on his voice. “You started this.”

Solas met his gaze unflinching. “I only finished what needed finishing.”

Anaris took a slow step forward, the wet sand clinging to his battered form. “My kin lie broken in their lair, bleeding because of you. You stormed into our sanctuary, spat in our faces, and now—” his grip on his blade tightened— “I will take from you what you took from us.”

Andruil let out an exasperated sigh. “How dramatic, boys.” She tilted her head, tapping her spear against the ground as if considering her options. “I have my own quarrel with him, Anaris.”

Anaris’ expression darkened. “Then step aside and let me handle it and we may both have our vengeance.”

Andruil laughed, deep from her belly. “Oh no, I am not letting you have all the fun.” She twirled her spear, the golden weapon gleaming under the storm-churned sky. “We settle this the proper way.”

Anaris stared at her, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “A duel?”

“A duel.” Andruil grinned, baring sharp teeth. “He has been very meedlessome to us, as of late—” she eyed Anaris, mockingly,  “—not that you would know, exiled as you are. I cannot simply let him go. The quarrel is just, on our side.”

“As is on mine.” Anaris considered her offer, then nodded. “Agreed.”

They turned in unison, eyes locking onto Solas, who simply sighed through clenched teeth.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Why would it be anything else? What does it matter what I say, when you both always only do as you will.”

Andruil chuckled, rose and tapped the top of Solas’ head. “Good boy. Seems you’re learning.”

Solas barely had time to roll to the side before Anaris barreled toward her, sword mid-arc, and Andruil had only time to raise her spear to deflect the attempted ambush. The force of their weapons colliding sent ripples through the air. They measured strength for a moment, before jumping back and circling each other. Andruil didn’t wait long and struck first, her spear a golden blur as it aimed for Anaris’ throat. He raised his shield, deflecting the blow just in time, the impact sending tremors down his arm.

“You are slower, Anaris,” Andruil taunted, voice thick with amusement.

“I am wounded,” he shot back, slashing at her midsection.

She twisted away effortlessly, the blade missing by a breath. Her own spear lashed out in response, a feint toward his ribs before shifting upward at the last second. Anaris barely managed to bring his shield up again, but the sheer force of her strike sent him stumbling back, feet dragging through the wet sand.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating Andruil’s path as she advanced.

The ground beneath them churned with every step, water pooling in the craters left by their movements. Anaris adjusted his footing and suddenly lunged, his shield bashing forward. Andruil barely sidestepped in time, but the force of the swing still clipped her, sending a dull ache rippling through her shoulder.

She clicked her tongue. “Better.”

Anaris smirked, shifting into a stance that spoke of experience. “I learn.”

Their weapons met in a flurry of sparks, steel screaming against enchanted metal. Andruil pressed the attack, forcing Anaris back with relentless precision. His shield was strong, his sword quick, but she was faster—stronger. She saw his weakness, the fatigue dragging at his limbs, the weight of his wounds slowing him down.

And yet, he did not yield.

Anaris ducked under a sweeping strike and rammed his shoulder into her torso, throwing her off balance. His sword lashed upward, catching the edge of her armor and pinching her skin, but the plate held.

Andruil hissed but barely faltered. She retaliated with a brutal swipe of her spear’s blunt end, smashing it against Anaris’ knee. He grunted, leg buckling slightly, and she capitalized instantly, twisting her spear for a follow-up strike—

Anaris caught it.

With a grunt of effort, he wrenched the weapon to the side, throwing her off her rhythm. His sword came crashing down, forcing her to twist away. They broke apart, both panting, eyes locked.

Then—

“Her armour!” Clever Solas shouted from his binds. “There is a flaw, Anaris!”

Anaris swung his sword to her side, Andruil bore the brunt of the blow to exploit an opening. She put all her weight behind her left hand, swinging her weapon to the— Anaris’ red shield held against the strike of her golden spear before swatting it away, much to her frustration and Anaris’ delight.

“Ah, I don’t need your help , Solas,” Anaris shouted in premature triumph. “I can beat her. I can. I will beat Andruil, Huntress of Elgar-

Andruil shoved against the shield, momentarily unbalancing Anaris, and thrust her spear true, slashing Anaris’ cheek. He roared in anger and slashed wildly at her with his strange sword, while Andruil laughed loudly as she dodged with trained precision. Anaris gave a final big, clumsy, swing of his sword, and she landed from the deadly dance a few paces away from him, he who was panting in his exhaustion.

“Maybe you want his help now, Anaris?” she gloated with a smirk, immaculate and unblemished despite his wild strikes. “It would, at least, make this more interesti—

“The left side of her armour, near her hip, there is a loose plaque. Strike there.”

Surprised at Solas’s accurate insight Andruil only felt quick Anaris’s sword pierce her side, in the tiny little opening Ghilan’nain had made earlier. 

She gurgled—more in surprise than pain. The warmth of her own blood slicked her side, thick and wet. Her knees buckled, hitting the dark earth with a thud, the impact rattling up her spine. Only then did she taste- copper-like, bitter rust, bloodied defeat.

“Hah! I beat her! I beat her!” Anaris' voice pierced through the fog of surprise. She barely caught his words before he turned away—to his true prize. “You are mine, Solas.”

Fucking Pride.

Andruil’s loud laughter cracked like wrenched copper. Blood coated her tongue, rust and ruin.

Dribbled from her mouth, tainting the earth red.

Fucking pride.

She clutched at her wound; it would not kill her, not with Andoral bound to her, but it hurt like little else ever had. Anaris’s sword was clearly infused with something; something dangerous, something powerful .

It felt like the pull of something forgotten, something she remembered feeling once; when Solas killed Titans at her side, when Elgar’nan had hidden something from her after the war, when Mythal had gently taken her aside and spoke of the price of war. 

The apocryphal Red Lyrium.

That explained that, then, for as little good as it did her now. 

Andruil’s gaze left Anaris’s sword to look at its master. Anaris had already forgotten her, convinced she was beaten. Foolish, foolish Anaris—so easy to defeat, so easy to forget .

Staring ahead, Andruil could see foolish-Anaris with his back turned and Solas talking but could not hear what they were saying, all she knew was that they were not paying attention to her. 

She clawed at the ground, fingers slipping in her own blood. Dragging herself forward, inch by inch. She reached behind her back, feeling the cold shaft of one of her golden arrows. Anaris was still talking to Solas, exalting his victory over her and all the horrible things he would do to the wolf at his mercy. The Huntress saw that Solas had noticed her but that was meaningless; he would say nothing and, for this one last time, they were kindred.

Close enough now.

Andruil arched herself into position, gathering what remained of her strength—then struck. She surged upward, golden arrow in hand, and drove it into the break in Anaris’ armor.

Anaris howled in pain, but Solas cackled in triumph.

Her golden arrow pierced Foolish Anaris’ back, exactly in the same place where he had stabbed her — only in reverse.

Andruil held Anaris in place by the arrow, prolonging the pain, twisting the arrow until his cries subdued to whimpers. She had enough presence of mind to feel the ground shake beneath Solas’ transformation into his preferred form. 

If Mythal and Andruil preferred the skies, then Solas was content to run in the dirt; the wolf had dark fur, the eyes of Pride, and was hardly as subtle as Solas pretended to be. 

Golden-Arrowed Andruil chuckled despite herself — having known that he would escape, for there was no other way for them to be and no chance that Mother Mythal would allow any vengeance be visited upon Clever Fen’harel while she lived — and cursed the damned wolf to the depths of the Void.

As if on cue, Anaris cried as her shaking rattled the arrow piercing his kidney. Andruil, growing crazed by his whining, gripped the arrow as brutally as she could and lifted him off the ground.

“Fool,” she hissed in his ear, holding Howling Anaris up by great strength and golden arrow. “You should know by now that wolves and dragons do not convene without bloodshed.” Her gaze fell then to the clever wolf, already too far gone for her to catch. “DO YOU HEAR ME, FEN’HAREL ?” she shrieked, lungs burning, and she discarded Anaris to the side, where he fell to the ground with a pained sob. “I WILL NOT ABIDE YOU OR THIS TRUCE!” Lightning ripped the skies, thunder shook the earth and a storm brewed at sea. “TILL ALL OF US FALL, YOU WILL NEVER REST!”

Andruil heard him laugh, laugh, laugh — and with an ear-splitting cry the Huntress summoned her golden spear and, in her wrath, plunged it into the rocky earth.

The ground where the top of the golden spear struck cleaved in two with a roar from below. Waves rose between that chasm, plunging everything into the water. Andruil lost her footing, Anaris was swept away in the tides, and that small island off the coast of one of Beautiful Sylaise’s soon-to-be great cities, divided itself in two and sank beneath the waves of the small strait. 

Submerged in the cold, dark waters of the southern seas; Andruil screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed until no air remained on her lungs, until even she felt the edges of her vision darken.

With a great push upwards, Andruil clawed out of the sea — coughing and sputtering into the surface of the water.

Now, dotted with one less island.  

Andruil breathed out and started her swim back to shore. 

It was a short trip and after just enough time to dry herself under the rays of the warm sun, her golden bow and spear planted on the sands, Andruil decided it was time to go.

The wolf escaped and Anaris had crawled back to whatever hole he inhabited these days. 

Struggling to her feet, the wound at her side still screeched in protest, and with her destiny marked from the day she took her body, she vanished to Elgar’nan.

There was work to be done.