The cobblestone streets twisted and turned like a maze around him, narrowing and stretching into strange shapes in his disoriented mind. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, each step feeling like it was pulling him further from the truth, from... something. Something important. But what? He couldn't remember.
His heart raced in his chest as he tried to piece together anything — his name, how he got here, even the reason why his legs were moving. Nothing came. The harder he tried to remember, the more his mind seemed to lock up, refusing to reveal any answers. He stumbled forward, eyes darting around the village square, where villagers passed by, their faces swimming in and out of focus like wraiths. Some of them glanced at him, curious or perhaps suspicious, their murmurs growing louder. Or was it his mind playing tricks? The sounds were overwhelming, each one sharper and more menacing than the last.
He noted that crimson chains appeared across the square, long and creeping, wrapping around the buildings and the people, enclosing him. He felt it then — a rising panic, the chains were coming for him! His head throbbed, and a song began to echo inside his skull. He couldn't understand the words, but they hissed, furious and demanding. His pulse quickened, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe. His vision swam again, and the song grew louder. He turned his head, desperate to find a way out, anywhere to hide. There — behind a stack of wooden crates piled against the side of a shop.
He stumbled toward them, his legs weak and unsteady. He crouched behind the crates, curling into himself, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. His hands shook uncontrollably as he pressed them to his head, trying to block out the song, trying to stop the trembling that had taken hold of his body. A sob broke from his throat, tears spilling down his cheeks. He didn't know why. Was it the fear? The confusion? The hopelessness?
Then, a soft voice pierced through the suffocating haze.
"Why do you weep, good sir?"
His head jerked up, startled. Standing before him was a little girl, frail and slight, her pale face framed by thin wisps of dark hair. Her eyes, small and pale, seemed far too wise for her young age, and she tilted her head curiously as she looked down at him.
"I... I can't... I don't remember," he stammered, his voice broken, barely holding back the sobs. "I don't know who I am. I don't know what's happening... the chains are coming after me."
The girl's expression softened. She stepped closer, her small, delicate hands folding neatly in front of her. "Everything will be alright," she said, her voice calm and gentle. "You're scared. But you don't need to be. I can help you."
He blinked, still shaking, his breath hitching. "Who a-are you?"
"I am Love," she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He stared at her, struggling to make sense of the words, his mind too fogged, too jumbled to understand. But there was something about her—about her presence—that calmed him. Yet doubt still lingered. "How… how can you help me?"
The girl simply smiled—a small, knowing smile—and that's when he noticed the amulet hanging around her neck. A simple thing, yet somehow striking. Engraved on its surface was the unmistakable symbol of Andraste's undying flame. As soon as he saw it, something within him stirred, a memory just out of reach, flickering like a candlelight in the wind.
His trembling hands reached out instinctively, his fingertips brushing the trinket. "I... I don't understand," he whispered.
"You don't have to," the girl said, holding out her hand to him. "Come, let me help you."
Hesitant, he took her small hand in his. The moment they touched, the world exploded into a blinding light. It swallowed him whole, and in an instant, the song, the chains, the fear—it all vanished. He felt warm, weightless, floating in an endless sea of gold…
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the haze of the dream that clung to his vision. Above him, the night sky stretched vast and quiet, a scattering of stars barely visible through the thin canopy of trees. The cold night air clung to his skin, and he could feel a dull throb pulsing through his left eye. He instinctively reached up to touch it, finding that his left arm was sluggish as if fighting his command. When his fingers grazed the edge of a rough bandage wrapped around his head, the pain bloomed sharper, and he winced. What happened to me?
Before he could even begin to sort through the jumble of fragmented thoughts, a calm voice to his right cut through the stillness.
"You're awake, then."
He turned his head sharply, his body tensing with alarm. His vision swam for a moment, and when it cleared, he found himself staring at a man sitting a few feet away from him, just beyond the dim light of the small campfire. He was an elf, middle-aged by the looks of him, with pale skin and a bald head. His robes were tattered and worn, patched in places with different fabrics, and a piece of wolf's jawbone dangled from a string around his neck, the bone darkened and weathered from wear. The elf's expression was calm but guarded, his light eyes studying him intently as if waiting for his next move.
The man opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His throat felt dry, and he swallowed hard, trying to push through the fog in his mind. "I—" He finally managed, then hesitated. "Where... where am I?"
The elf's eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained even. "We're a few miles outside Denerim, by the eastern road. You've been unconscious for a while."
The man blinked, struggling to piece together any kind of coherent thought. His head pounded, and every attempt to recall something only led to more confusion. "I don't... I don't remember."
The elf's posture shifted as he leaned slightly forward. "You don't remember what?"
"Anything… I don't..." He shook his head in frustration, the motion sending another wave of pain through his skull. "I don't even know who I am."
The elf let out a slow breath, and the wary look in his eyes softened. He glanced at the fire, as though weighing his words carefully before speaking. "That's not surprising, given the condition I found you in."
The man's gaze snapped back to the elf. "You found me?"
"Yes." The elf shifted closer, resting his hands in his lap. "You were lying on the road, unconscious. I thought you were dead at first. Bandits must have hit you, judging by the state you were in."
"Bandits..." his voice trailed off. His mind was blank, offering no clues.
The elf nodded. "There wasn't much left on you— just a few scraps, nothing of value." He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Your left eye... I did what I could. But it's gone."
The man raised a shaky hand toward the bandage again, his fingers barely brushing the cloth. His stomach churned with anxiety, but the elf's calm demeanor kept him grounded for now.
"I'm sorry," the elf continued quietly. "The blow to your head was severe, so it doesn't surprise me that you've lost your memory."
The man stared at him for a long moment, his thoughts scattered. "Who are you?"
The elf smiled faintly. "My name is Theron. I used to be an herbalist... of sorts. Now, I am little more than a wanderer, drifting from one place to the next. You see, unlike a human soldier like yourself, an elven herbalist has little chance in the city. There is no place for one such as me there outside of alienage. So I shall test my fortune elsewhere, as the winds and the fates allow." He glanced at the man's arm, the one that wasn't responding properly. "I hope your master will still be willing to keep you in his service."
"What are you talking about?"
Theron's gaze lingered on him, cautious, before he spoke again. "You're a soldier, aren't you?"
"Soldier..." he repeated, the word tasting strange on his tongue. It echoed in his mind, familiar yet off-kilter, like a pair of boots that fit but still pinched in some places.
Theron nodded slowly. "While there is no armor, no sword on you now," he gestured toward the man's arms. "Your hands are scarred and calloused in a way that speaks not of a laborer's trade but of one familiar with weapons."
The man lifted his hands before his eyes, turning his palms over as if they might hold the answers he couldn't grasp. His fingers were thick with calluses, his knuckles scarred—these were not the hands of a farmer. They had wielded steel, not plowshares. He tried to clench his fists, but his left hand only got halfway there. "So... I might be a soldier," he said, his voice unsteady as he let down his hands. He blinked, frowning slightly, then glanced at Theron. "Did you say I found work in the city?"
Theron met his gaze. "Yes. At least, that's what you told me when you first woke up. You were half-conscious at the time, but you mentioned it before passing out again. You and your wife were headed to Denerim. A wealthy merchant there hired you. It was a good position, or so you said."
The man felt a chill run through him. He was married? He had no memory of it, no female face that he could recall, no name, nothing. But deep inside, the thought stirred something raw. "My wife..." he muttered. "Where is she?"
Theron inclined his head gently. "Turn to your left."
The man winced as he shifted his body, the movement sending sharp pain through his head. His bandaged eye limited his vision, but as he slowly turned, his breath caught in his throat.
Lying not far from him, on another crude bedroll, was a woman. Frail and gaunt, she looked impossibly fragile, her skin pale and sickly. Long strands of white hair splayed across the ground, dull and tangled. But it was the bandages that drew his gaze, a thick wrapping covering her eyes completely, and beneath them, burn scars traced jagged lines down her face, across her neck, and over her exposed skin. The wounds were fresh, still red and angry, twisting over her like cruel, lashing marks. Her chest was heavily bandaged, her breathing shallow but steady. Her left arm ended abruptly just above the elbow, the stump wrapped in cloth that was stained with old blood.
There was no spark of recognition, no comfort in seeing her face. She was a stranger—yet the sight of her, broken and fragile, struck him like a sword to the chest. "What... what happened to her?" he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips. Tears threatened at the edges of his vision, but he forced them down. "Was it... was it the bandits?"
"I would guess so. It seems a Fire Bomb went off while they attacked you— judging by the damage, I'd say she took the worst of it."
The man swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the woman beside him while Theron continued quietly, "The fact that she's still breathing is nothing short of a miracle. I stabilized her as best as I could. But she's been unconscious since then. It could be days before she wakes. It could be longer."
"She needs a healer," he murmured, more to himself than to the elf.
"Yes," Theron agreed. "A skilled healer, at that. I've done all I can for her, but without proper care..." He didn't finish the thought, but the implication was clear.
The man nodded, though the ache in his chest didn't lessen. He reached out with his good hand, hesitating for only a moment before gently resting it on his wife's shoulder. "We need to get to the nearest Chantry," he said, his voice firmer now. "They can help her. They have to."
Theron's expression softened with a touch of pity, but he shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid her injuries are far too severe for a Chantry Sister to handle. Burns like those... they'll need more than just prayer and basic healing potion. She needs a skilled healer, the kind only coin can buy."
The man's face fell, his hope quickly deflating. "But... I don't have any—" He paused, frustration tightening in his chest. "How am I supposed to pay for it?"
Theron watched him carefully, then spoke with quiet deliberation. "The rich merchant that had hired you, the one you were heading to. Perhaps he might be able to help."
The man's eyes lit up. "Yes... I could ask him for a loan that I could pay back through my work!" But his shoulders sagged as the reality set in. "I…I don't remember his name or where to find him. I could wander the capital for days and get nowhere."
The elf gave a small, sympathetic nod, then reached into the folds of his tattered robes. He pulled out a weathered cloth pouch, the edges frayed and stained from wear. He held it out to the man. "This was among the few possessions the bandits left behind. Maybe there's something in here that can help."
The man stared at the pouch, a strange feeling bubbling inside him. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out and took it, the rough fabric warm from the elf's hand. He wasted no time, pulling open the drawstring and emptying the contents onto his lap. A few old rags, a half-used piece of soap, and... two letters.
With shaking fingers, he unfolded the first letter. The parchment was creased and worn, but the ink was still legible.
To Whom It May Concern,
It is my honor to recommend Reid Miller, former Captain of the Guard of Whitewood, for any future position requiring leadership and skill in the protection of valuable persons and property. Captain Miller served with distinction during his tenure, demonstrating not only a keen understanding of military tactics but also an unwavering dedication to his men and the safety of our town.
During his time with us, Captain Miller successfully thwarted multiple bandit incursions and was instrumental in maintaining peace during a period of recent unrest. His judgment is sound, and he is a man of high moral character.
Any employer would be fortunate to have such a man in their service.
Commander Arlen Dorev of Whitewood
His heart pounded in his chest. That's who he was! "My name is Reid Miller," he uttered aloud. Yet the sound of it felt wrong. It was like looking at someone else's reflection in a cracked mirror. There was no time to dwell on it, however, so Reid set the letter down and hurriedly opened the second one. This letter was newer, the ink crisp, and the paper well-kept, though creased from being folded.
Captain Miller,
I write to confirm my interest in hiring you as chief of security for my trade route between Denerim and Highever. Your reputation precedes you, and I have no doubt that you will serve my interests well, just as you have served Whitewood with honor.
Upon your arrival in Denerim, do not hesitate to make yourself known at the Drunken Hounds Inn located near the city gates. Mention my name, and the proprietor will ensure you are well taken care of before you make your way to my estate in the Market District. I trust this arrangement will be satisfactory.
May the Maker bless your travels.
Sincerely,
Master Vernon Maren
Reid stared down at the letters in his hands. "Master Vernon Maren," he whispered. His eyes shifted to the woman lying beside him, her chest barely moving, each breath a fragile, fleeting thing. Reid clenched his jaw as if sheer force could untangle the confusion roiling in his mind. His memories were a shattered mosaic, pieces scattered far beyond his grasp. But he didn't need to remember it all—not yet. He just needed one solid truth, something to anchor him amid the storm. And that truth rang in his mind with unmistakable certainty: He couldn't let her die.
His gaze shifted, his focus locking onto the elf watching the scene. "We're leaving." He started to rise, his legs weak beneath him, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his every movement.
Theron rose to his feet, stepping closer to put a hand on Reid's shoulder. "No. You need to rest, at least until morning. The roads are dangerous under the cover of night. You'd only doom both of you."
Reid shot him a hard look. His whole being ached to move, to do something other than sit helplessly by her side. "I can't just—"
"You can."
For a moment, Reid hesitated, the urge to argue bubbling up inside him. But the logic in the elf's words was undeniable. His strength was barely enough to stand, let alone carry his wife all the way to Denerim. After a reluctant sigh, he muttered "Fine."
The elf moved closer, pulling a flask from his belt and handing it to Reid. "Drink this," he said softly. "The herbal concoction will help you to regain your stamina while you slumber."
Reid took the flask and drank the cool liquid greedily until it was gone. It was bitter, but it soothed his dry, parched throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing slightly as the bitterness of the drink lingered. He handed the flask back to Theron. "Thank you for saving our lives. For your kindness. I wish I had something to repay you with..."
The elf looked at him for a moment, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He tucked the flask back into his belt, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. "You will repay me by just staying alive, now rest."
Reid nodded and lowered himself to the bedroll. He turned onto his side, lying closer to his wife. His hand reached out on instinct, grasping the edge of her robes, holding it tightly as if that simple touch could keep her tethered to him. His eyes fluttered closed, and the weight of exhaustion overcame him, dragging him down into sleep.
At the first light of dawn, the soft glow of the sun filtering through the trees, Reid stirred awake. The uneasy slumber had done little to ease the tension in his chest, but his body felt much stronger—the elf's potion proving effective.
Reid's hand was still gripping the edge of his wife's torn, bloodstained robes. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he let go and glanced toward Theron. The elf stood quietly at the edge of the clearing, his belongings already packed—a small, humble bundle slung over his shoulder as if he was ready to depart.
The man rose awkwardly from his bedroll. "Thank you again, for everything," he said, his voice sincere but edged with uncertainty. "If the Maker wills it, we'll meet again, and I'll repay your kindness."
Theron regarded him for a moment, one eyebrow arching upward in mild amusement. "Why so eager to get rid of me?"
"I'm not! You did tell me you were leaving the capital, so I just thought..." He faltered, suddenly unsure of his words. To be honest, the idea of being left alone made him nervous. He had no weapon, no memories, and a woman barely clinging to life under his care.
Theron let out a long, quiet sigh, his expression softening as he looked between Reid and the woman resting beside him. "After spending so much effort saving you both, I must admit, I'd feel more at ease knowing you reach your destination safely. It would be a shame if it was all in vain, wouldn't it?"
Reid blinked, then smiled, that smile that comes when words fail and all that is left is gratitude.
Theron's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Then, let's be on our way." He glanced at the rising sun. "The road ahead won't wait for us."
Reid nodded and proceeded to tie together the few rags he had left, fashioning a makeshift sling. He secured his wife firmly against his back, her weight light yet burdensome all the same. "We'll make it," he whispered to her, though she gave no sign of hearing him.
The elf led the way as they set off, the path winding through the dense forest gradually turning into more traveled roads as they neared the capital.
Hours passed as they trudged forward, the day warming and the sun climbing higher into the sky. Occasionally, they passed travelers or carts, some sparing a glance at the odd trio, others ignoring them entirely. Reid's limbs felt heavy by the time the towering walls of Denerim came into view. The city gates rose before them, and beyond them, the sprawling mass of streets and buildings stretched out like a maze. The capital was alive with noise and movement, a stark contrast to the wilderness they had left behind.
The guards eyed the small group with suspicion, but eventually waved them through after a thorough inspection of the letter he got from the merchant.
Once inside, they made their way to the inn Vernon had promised would be waiting. Reid's legs threatened to buckle more than once, but the sight of the Drunken Hounds sign hammered to the post was enough to keep him going.
Finally, they reached the inn. It stood quietly between two larger buildings, unremarkable and weathered by time. The inn's wooden walls, once sturdy, were now faded and worn, the kind of place that had seen too many seasons and too few repairs.
The sign above the door swung lazily on rusty chains, its paint long faded, but just clear enough to make out the image of two mabaris clinking jugs of beer together in a cheer. Reid stared at it for a moment, his exhaustion making everything seem a bit surreal.
But the elf urged him to enter, and as they did, the smell of fresh bread and the low murmur of conversation greeted them. It wasn't a large place, but it was busy, and the patrons seemed to be a rough sort—mercenaries, traders, and a few ladies who looked like they belonged to less savory professions.
The innkeeper—a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard—nodded at the mention of Master Vernon. Without asking too many questions, he tossed a key across the counter, grunting, "Room's upstairs."
The elf caught the key, and they made their way up a creaky set of stairs.
The room was sparse, with just three bunk beds lining the plain walls and a single window that let in a shaft of light. Untying the makeshift sling, he carefully lowered his wife onto one of the bunks, Theron's steady hands helping to guide her fragile body. She stirred faintly, her eyelids fluttering, but didn't wake. Her breathing was still weak, each shallow breath making him wince with worry, though there was a steadiness to it, a rhythm that gave him comfort.
For a long moment, he just stood there, watching her. The thought of leaving her, even for a short while, twisted something deep inside. But what choice did he have? Dragging her under the unforgiving blaze of the midday sun, through the crush of bodies in the crowded market—it wasn't even a real option, was it? Especially when he didn't even know if the merchant would be at the estate to meet them.
"I'll keep watch," Theron said quietly, reading the hesitation on Reid's face.
He nodded, grateful for the elf's presence, and turned toward the door, pausing only to give the woman one last glance. Then, with a deep breath, he headed out, making his way into the crowded streets of Denerim.
The Market District buzzed with life as Reid wove through the throng of people. Merchants called out, their voices vying for dominance over the hum of conversation, the clatter of carts, and the sharp bark of stray dogs. His eyes roamed the stalls, searching for anyone he could ask for directions to Master Vernon's estate. But then he stopped short.
In a small, polished mirror hanging from the edge of a trinket stall, he caught a glimpse of himself—a stranger, worn and weary. He stared, unable to look away. A man with short, curly hair, greasy and matted, so streaked with gray that its original color was lost to time, stared back at him. Dark bags under his one remaining brown eye gave his face a haunted, tired look, while a fresh bruise marred his cheek, and an old scar cut across his lip like a memory half-buried.
Reid lifted a hand to his face, feeling the rough texture of his weathered skin beneath his fingertips. The reflection didn't answer any of the questions his mind struggled to form, but for a moment, he felt as though he had found a piece of himself—however damaged and unfamiliar it might be.
A sudden gust of wind swept through the market, carrying with it a sharp, metallic scent that jolted him from his reverie. Reid's gaze snapped to the source, where a butcher's stall stood only a few paces away. Fresh carcasses hung from iron hooks, their crimson surfaces glistening in the bright light. The butcher, a thick-armed man with a practiced, steady hand, brought his cleaver down on a slab of meat with a dull thud, splitting bone from flesh in one clean stroke.
Reid froze, his stomach twisting violently. A wave of disgust rose up within him, followed swiftly by something deeper. Revulsion. Guilt. The feelings slammed into him, unexpected and overpowering. His chest tightened, and without realizing it, he moved his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the surge of nausea.
His thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of the reaction, but the intensity of the emotions left no room for logic. The faces of the market blurred as the feeling of self-loathing crawled beneath his skin, its source elusive but undeniable.
Reid staggered away from the butcher's stall, clumsily pushing through the crowd until he found the rough stone wall of a nearby building. He leaned against it, pressing his forehead to the cool surface as he struggled to breathe, each inhale ragged and shallow.
For what felt like an eternity, he stood there, waiting for the storm within him to pass. Slowly, the intensity of the emotions ebbed, leaving him drained and bewildered. He swallowed hard, wiping the sweat from his brow, forcing himself to take deeper breaths.
"Andraste preserve me, what... was that?" he muttered under his breath. He had no idea why the sight of raw meat had triggered such a violent reaction, but pushing himself off the wall, he straightened up, regaining his composure. His wife was still waiting for him, and the clock was ticking.
He came to the nearest vendor—an old woman with a stall of spices—who looked like she might know the area. "Maker blesses you, good woman," he uttered, his voice rough from the earlier strain. "I'm looking for Master Vernon's estate. Could you point me in the right direction?"
The vendor gave him a curious look but didn't hesitate. "Aye, Master Vernon. His estate's on the far side of the district, near the western gate. Follow this road here," she pointed down the street, "take a left at the second corner, and keep walking straight. You'll know the place when you see it. Big, stone building. Can't miss it."
Reid nodded his thanks, offering a strained smile, and turned in the direction the woman had indicated.
Soon he stood before the estate, its towering stone walls casting long shadows in the midday sun. The place exuded wealth and power, but not ostentatiously so—it was a fortress, more functional than grand, yet there was no mistaking the influence behind its thick iron gates. Merchants and cityfolk hurried past, many with their heads lowered, clearly aware that this was a place for the powerful. Above the gate, intricate carvings in the stone hinted at Master Vernon's long-standing place within Denerim's elite.
Reid approached the gate with a mix of apprehension and determination. His mind was still clouded from the previous day's events, but he had to focus. Whatever had happened to him, he couldn't afford to let it show here. As he reached the gate, his left hand, still aching and unresponsive, remained hidden beneath his back. He gritted his teeth and lifted his right hand to knock.
The door swung open almost immediately, revealing an elven servant of striking beauty. His features were sharp, almost too perfect, with red hair pulled back into a tight braid and piercing green eyes that studied Reid with a cool, detached interest. The elf wore a simple yet pristine tunic, his demeanor one of quiet confidence. "Yes?" he asked, his voice smooth and soft, almost too refined for a servant.
Reid cleared his throat. "My name is Reid Miller. I'm here to see Master Vernon." He reached into his pocket and carefully pulled out the folded letter he had received, mindful to use only his good hand. "I am expected."
The elf's eyes flicked briefly at the letter before nodding curtly as he took it. "I will take this to the Master."
Without another word, the elf closed the gate with a firm click, leaving Reid standing alone in the street once again. The silence pressed down on him, and the wait stretched on, each passing moment gnawing at his nerves. His mind spun with doubt—had he said something wrong? Would Vernon even see him, or had the gate just been closed for good?
His hand moved instinctively to his face, fingers fidgeting with the bandages covering his left eye. The wound still throbbed beneath the wrappings, a dull, constant reminder. "Please, Maker," he whispered, feeling the weight of his prayer settle heavily in his chest. "Don't let this be the thing that turns him away."
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gate creaked open once again. The elf reappeared, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Master Vernon will see you. Follow me."
Reid followed the elf through the courtyard and into the estate. The inside was as functional and severe as the exterior, but impeccably maintained. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries depicting merchant caravans and ships, but there was little in the way of comfort or luxury.
As they passed through long corridors and into the heart of the estate, Reid's eyes occasionally caught glimpses of servants moving with silent efficiency, though none paid him any attention. Eventually, they reached a heavy oak door at the end of a dimly lit hallway. The elf knocked once, then opened it without waiting for a reply, gesturing for Reid to enter.
Inside the well-furnished chamber, Master Vernon sat behind a wide wooden desk, his thin, wrinkled hands folded neatly in front of him. The old man was a study in contrasts—though his body looked like little more than bones covered by taut, weathered skin, his bright attire was immaculate, and his silver hair and beard were trimmed with meticulous precision. His gray eyes, sharp and assessing, studied Reid from the moment he entered.
Vernon's expression shifted from curiosity to mild surprise as his gaze swept over Reid's disheveled, dirty appearance and the bandaged head. "Reid Miller," he said slowly, his voice dry and raspy with age. "I did not expect you to arrive… quite like this."
Reid bowed his head slightly. "Master Vernon, I beg your understanding," he started, his voice strained. "My wife and I were attacked by bandits on the road to Denerim. They took everything from us—our coin, our belongings… We barely made it here alive." He hesitated for a moment, forcing his expression to remain calm. "My wife was gravely injured, and I have no means to pay for her healing. I know this may be bold of me, considering we've only just met, and you've already been generous enough to pay for our stay at the inn. But I must ask for your further kindness—if you could advance me enough coin to hire a healer, I swear I will repay you in full once I begin my duties."
For a moment, the room was silent. Vernon's eyes narrowed, and Reid could feel the weight of the old man's scrutiny as he considered the request. There was a flicker of something behind those calculating eyes—something that made Reid's skin crawl, but before he could dwell on it, Vernon spoke. "Very well. I am not without compassion."
The sound of rustling parchment echoed in the still room as the old man pulled out his contract from one of the drawers in his desk. Vernon's bony fingers smoothed out the edges of the document with practiced precision, his sharp eyes glinting as he reached for a quill.
"Let's make some adjustments," the merchant murmured to himself, dipping the quill into ink and scribbling on the parchment. His hand moved with ease, and he hummed softly while adding lines and making annotations in the margins.
After a few moments, he finished, blowing lightly on the ink to dry it before setting the quill aside. Then, with a smile as polished as his appearance, he slid the contract across the desk toward Reid. "There we are. This should be more than enough to help you with your… unfortunate circumstances."
Reid made his way to the desk and took the contract eagerly, his hands trembling slightly as he gazed upon it. His eyes skimmed over the sum of money being offered. It was generous—far more than he'd expected. Enough to pay for the best healer in Denerim, enough to buy a good set of armor, a decent sword, and supplies to replace everything the bandits had taken. For a moment, a surge of gratitude swelled in his chest. This was more than just a lifeline—it was a new beginning.
But then his eyes stopped on the details of the repayment plan. His brow furrowed as he saw the interest rate—an impossibly high percentage. He read it again, certain he must have misunderstood, but the numbers didn't lie. At this rate, it would take him at least a decade, if not longer, to repay the debt—assuming he could scrape by on meager wages while still meeting the monthly payments. The terms were suffocating. He would be trapped, forever clawing at the surface just to keep his head above water.
Reid hesitated, lifting his eyes to the merchant. "Master Vernon," he began carefully, choosing his words with caution. "The sum is generous, and I'm grateful for your help, but… these terms." He glanced down at the contract. "The interest… it's quite high. It would take me years to repay this. I—"
Vernon's smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened. "Ah, but you must understand," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "I am compassionate, yes, but I am not a fool. I take risks when I offer my aid to you, and risks come with a price. The contract is fair. After all, I'm offering you a way out of your current predicament, am I not?" The merchant leaned forward slightly. "Of course, you are free to walk away," he continued, his tone deceptively gentle. "But if you do, I will have no choice but to inform the innkeeper that your room is no longer yours. And I imagine it will be… difficult to find another job in Denerim under such dire circumstances."
Reid's stomach twisted in knots. If he turned down Vernon's contract, where would they go? The streets? What then? Who else would lend him money for a healer? He had no other connections, no favors to call in. His mind raced, spiraling through bleak possibilities, each more hopeless than the last. The decision felt difficult, but in truth, it had already been made. There was no real choice here. He clenched his jaw. "Very well, I'll sign it."
The glint in Vernon's eyes sharpened, satisfaction gleaming in his wrinkled face. "A wise choice," he said smoothly, sliding the quill toward him.
Reid hesitated for just a moment longer, then, with a deep breath, he took the quill and scrawled his name at the bottom of the contract.
The ink dried quickly, sealing his fate.
Vernon smiled, folding the document neatly and placing it in a drawer. "Good," the old man uttered, his voice almost too pleasant now. "I'll arrange for the funds to be delivered to you by evening. And, of course, I'll send word to a healer immediately for your wife. I expect you to report to me and begin your duties tomorrow at first light."
The servant elf reappeared in the doorway, silent as ever. Vernon nodded toward him, signaling that their business was concluded.
Reid stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. He bowed his head slightly in thanks, though his throat felt tight as he forced the words out. "Thank you, Master Vernon."
The old man did not reply, waving him off with a dismissive hand.
The elf servant moved without a sound, the door swinging open in silence as Reid slipped through. Once he was beyond the threshold and away from the quiet weight of the old merchant's calculating stare, he let out a long breath, unaware he'd been holding it.
It could have been worse. The thought steadied him. He'd done what he came for—secured a healer and enough funds to keep him and his wife afloat. For now, it was enough.
As he stepped through the wrought-iron gates of the estate and into the open world beyond, Reid looked up at the bright sky, squinting against the sharp, unfiltered light. Hope stirred within him, tentative but alive. With the Maker's help, the healer will mend her wounds, and she'll wake up. And when she did, she would finally tell him what the empty spaces in his memory refused to yield.