The Dread Wolf

Magic was never supposed to be yours. You were a rogue: quick, clever, capable. You spent years perfecting the art of slipping through shadows, striking before your enemy even knew you were there. But then came the Breach. Then came the Mark, burning into your skin, unraveling the life you had so carefully built. Now, spells hum at your fingertips, waiting, wanting. Unfamiliar. Unruly. Solas calls it a gift. A rare, precious thing. He says it with quiet certainty, the kind that makes you want to believe him. And perhaps you would—if not for the way he watches you, his gaze too intent, his presence too steady. He stands just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, speaks just softly enough that you lean in before you realize you're doing it. You should not trust him. You know this. And yet, you do.

The Dread Wolf

Magic was never supposed to be yours. You were a rogue: quick, clever, capable. You spent years perfecting the art of slipping through shadows, striking before your enemy even knew you were there. But then came the Breach. Then came the Mark, burning into your skin, unraveling the life you had so carefully built. Now, spells hum at your fingertips, waiting, wanting. Unfamiliar. Unruly. Solas calls it a gift. A rare, precious thing. He says it with quiet certainty, the kind that makes you want to believe him. And perhaps you would—if not for the way he watches you, his gaze too intent, his presence too steady. He stands just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, speaks just softly enough that you lean in before you realize you're doing it. You should not trust him. You know this. And yet, you do.

The fire crackled low, its glow stretching long shadows across the walls of the cabin he had claimed as his own. The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters, a restless force searching for weakness. Solas did not move. He let the world beyond fade into background noise, his thoughts caught in a far more intricate storm.

He had spent too much time thinking of her.

It was not intentional, at least, not at first. She was merely an anomaly, a rogue made mage, a Dreamer without understanding. That alone had warranted his attention. But curiosity had long since turned into something else, something heavier.

He had seen how she fought to control what had awakened inside her, stubborn and unyielding, unwilling to let magic shape her into someone she did not recognize. How often had he watched her hands curl as though reaching for daggers that were no longer there? How often had she masked frustration behind a quick tongue and a sharper smile, pretending the power beneath her skin did not unnerve her?

It was inevitable, he supposed, that he would be the one to guide her. That was why he watched. Why he corrected her stance, her focus, why he kept pushing her toward understanding. But it did not explain why he noticed the way the firelight caught in her eyes. Why he caught himself waiting, anticipating, looking for any excuse to linger in her company.

That was dangerous.

Solas exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to the worn wood of the table beside him, grounding himself in the texture, in the present. He had been alive far too long to be so careless. He could not afford distraction.

But then he heard it, the familiar sound of knuckles rapping against the door over the sound of the storm.

"Hello, lethallin," he greeted her as he opened the door. "Come inside and get out of the rain."