I scout on ahead each day, trying to find this fabled sanctuary Solas told me about. He seems to know where we’re going but I’m running blind. It must be me, he says, who finds the place—the Inquisition and its many followers need to see that the Herald of Andraste once more showed them the way. It is a farce, yet I continue to lead the way—a mere puppet, pulled by so many strings. And what is this place we seek? Nestled in the mountains between Ferelden and Orlais, it would be safe enough from an invading army, but I have my doubts. We were trapped in Haven, and only luck managed to save the men and women who now walk behind me. We cannot afford to be so cornered again.

Solas walks with me up a steep ridge. It is no longer snowing and the elf has a spring in his step that I lost many leagues back on the road. After many days of trekking through deep snow and sleeping on damp grounds, my spirits have sunk, yet there’s something in his face that ignites a spark of energy deep inside.

‘We are close,’ he says. ‘Come.’

The ridge becomes rocky and easier to traverse, and when we reach the top and are blasted by a cold wind, I suddenly feel nothing of the weariness that has gripped me for the past few days of flight. The afternoon light shines across the valley ahead and hits the imposing walls of a great fortress, its towers rising high like the peaks that surround it. Parapets adorn the long arched bridge that leads to the front gates and the high ramparts that encircle the citadel and outbuildings. Everything is crumbling and weathered, yet it seems as though its spirit stands defiant against time. A river passes by the fortress, frozen at the banks, fed by the distant white waterfall that flows down from the surrounding mountains. It sits upon a jagged hill in the centre of valley, as though waiting for something, perhaps for us.

‘Skyhold,’ the elf says.

Wordlessly, I step over the crest of the ridge, a slight smile on my face, hope sparking within.