The Hanged Man reeked of stale beer and old sweat, its rafters choked with smoke that blurred the lanternlight. Dice rattled, voices shouted over each other, and the scrape of chairs marked the uneven rhythm of yet another rowdy night.

The door banged open. Hawke stepped inside, armor clinking faintly as he pushed past a pair of drunks. He was no champion here, no savior of Kirkwall — just another mercenary with a sword to hire. Even so, his presence drew eyes: tall and broad-shouldered, black hair falling neat against a tanned face, his violet eyes sharp even in the dim. His armor was dark and practical but striking: black leather lined with crimson cloth, trimmed with dull gold plates scarred from battle. His companions trailed behind, keeping wary watch on the tavern’s chaos.

At the bar, a different storm was brewing.

A thick-set Rivaini named Lucky slammed a palm against the counter. His voice cut through the haze:
“You owe us, Isabela.”

The woman he faced barely shifted her weight. Isabela leaned one hip against the bar, her tanned skin glowing in the low light, long black hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. Gold trinkets winked at her wrists and ears, catching every flicker of flame. Her amber eyes danced with mischief, daggers sheathed at her hips like an extension of her grin.

“Well, Lucky,” she said, her tone teasing, “I’ll tell you what…”

The tavern quieted, eager for blood or spectacle.

Carver muttered low, arms folded. Another pirate with more bravado than sense. Kirkwall’s crawling with them.

Aveline’s gaze narrowed, jaw tight. She’s trouble. The kind that leaves bodies behind.

Varric smirked, already entertained. Now this is worth the price of admission.

“Since the information you gave me was worth nothing…” She tilted her head, the corners of her lips curling.
“…that’s what I’ll pay you.”

The crowd murmured. Lucky’s jaw clenched. He leaned in, laying a heavy hand over her mug on the counter.
“Me and my boys will get our money’s worth, bitch.”

Isabela laughed softly and leaned into him, close enough for her breath to tickle his ear. “Oh, you poor, sweet thing.”

Her hand shot out, seizing his wrist. With a violent jerk, she slammed his head against the counter. The tavern roared with jeers and cheers.

Carver:
“Remind me never to argue with her.”

Varric chuckled.
“Trust me, Junior, she’s just getting warmed up.”

One of Lucky’s men lunged in from the other side, grabbing Isabela around the waist and lifting her clear off the floor. She twisted sharply, driving the back of her head into his nose. Bone crunched; he stumbled away clutching his face.

Lucky surged up again, dagger flashing in his grip. But Isabela was faster. In one fluid motion her blade was drawn, the steel already kissing his throat. Her arm stretched to full length, steady as stone, while her free hand reached back toward the second dagger on her hip.

Her eyes narrowed.
“Tell me, Lucky — is this worth dying for?”

Aveline crossed her arms, unimpressed.
“Flaunting her knives in a crowded tavern. Typical.”

Hawke didn’t answer. His violet eyes stayed fixed on the woman at the bar, watching the way her amber gaze burned with fire and mischief both. The way she held herself — fluid, sure, unshaken even with steel drawn.

Not just a brawler. A dancer with blades. Dangerous… and intriguing. I wonder how well she fights when it isn’t for show.

The threat hung heavy in the smoke. Lucky’s bravado faltered, his throat working against the edge of her blade. He backed away step by step, Isabela matching him, her dagger never wavering. His cronies scrambled after him, shoving through the crowd until all three were gone into the night.

Silence clung for a beat, then the tavern erupted in laughter, coin changing hands as bets were collected.

Isabela sheathed her blade, sauntered back to her place at the bar, and leaned casually against it once more as if nothing at all had happened. She lifted her mug, her amber eyes sliding toward Hawke at the door. A chuckle slipped from her lips as she took another drink.

“I didn’t think so.”

Varric glanced at Hawke, brow raised.
“You’ve got that look, Hawke. The one that usually ends with me writing a cautionary tale.”

Carver groaned.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually interested in her.”

Hawke only smiled faintly, diplomatic calm on the outside. Interested? Yes. And not just in her daggers.

Isabela’s chuckle carried across the tavern as she turned, her eyes catching Hawke’s from across the room. That was all the invitation she needed.

She shifted her stance, leaning against the counter as Hawke started approaching her. Her tanned skin glowed warm in the tavern haze, long black hair spilling loose, gold bangles chiming faintly with every tilt of her wrist. Her amber eyes fixed on Hawke, playful, daring. Another mercenary rogue, probably… but not just another face. Those eyes. Dangerous eyes. Let’s see if he can keep up.

Isabela:

“My and here I thought the only men in this place were besotted fools who couldn’t hoist the mainsail.”

Carver folded his arms, muttering under his breath, Maker’s breath, she’s already sizing him up. This’ll end in disaster — as usual.

Aveline’s jaw tightened. Another pirate. Just what he needs — more trouble with daggers and painted smiles.

Varric smirked, leaning on the wall. This oughta be good. She’s either about to knife him or marry him. Either way, I’m not missing the show.

Hawke shifted only slightly, his voice calm, smooth, touched with charm. She’s testing me. Fine. Let’s see how sharp her blade really is.

Hawke:

“When you talk about hoisting the mainsail, what do you really mean?”

Isabela’s smirk widened. She lifted her mug, bracelets flashing, and let her gaze linger on him over the rim before answering. Bold. He didn’t flinch. Good. Most men are blushing by now.

Isabela:

“What else could it mean? It requires strength. Knowledge of rigging. And a small measure of sobriety.”

Aveline groaned inwardly. And there it is. Crude, careless, and he’s entertaining it.

Carver rolled his eyes. He really thinks this is charming? He’s worse than she is.

Varric chuckled under his breath. And we’re off. Knew she’d lead with a sail joke. Never fails.

Hawke leaned a fraction closer, his tone warm but steady, as though indulging her game while holding the upper hand. She’s clever. Teasing, but deliberate. That makes her dangerous — and interesting.

Hawke:

“I know my way around rigging just fine, and I’m good with my hands.”

Isabela laughed, low and throaty, leaning her shoulder against the bar so that her gaze slanted up at him, coy and appraising. Oh, he’s quick with his tongue. Dangerous indeed. And handsome enough to match it… damn him.

Isabela:

“Oh my. I’m Isabela, previously Captain Isabela. Sadly, without my ship, the title rings a bit hollow.”

Varric raised his brows. Captain, huh? Now that’s interesting. Hawke always did attract the dangerous ones.

Isabela:

“You’re Ferelden, aren’t you? You have that look about you. I was in Denerim not too long ago, you know. You might be just what I’m looking for to solve a little problem I have.”

Hawke inclined his head, violet eyes steady on her, his reply both courteous and inviting. She’s baiting me. But there’s truth in her eyes. A problem indeed. And I’m the one she’s already chosen.

Hawke:

“I’m always ready to help.”

Carver let out a sharp snort. Of course he is. Always ready to play hero, especially if the problem comes wrapped in curves and bangles.

Aveline’s lips pressed into a hard line. She’ll drag him into a fight, and he’ll let her. And I’ll have to clean up the mess.

Isabela shifted her weight, leaning in closer. Her fingers traced the rim of her mug idly, though her eyes never left his. Diplomatic, charming, and reckless. Just my type. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Isabela:

“Someone from my past has been pestering me. I’ve arranged for a duel. If I win, he leaves me alone. But I don’t trust him to play fair. I need someone to watch my back.”

Hawke:

“Who’s this person you’ve arranged to meet?”

Isabela:

“His name is Hayder. We worked together back in Antiva. He’s never liked me. He’s been asking about me all around Kirkwall. Thought I’d get it over with and meet him face to face.”

Varric rubbed his beard, already picturing the tale. An Antivan grudge? This is gonna end with blood on the cobblestones. Maker, I can’t wait to write it down.

Isabela:

“You wanted information from Lucky. What was it?”

Hawke:

“I asked Lucky and his boys to track down something I lost. They failed to do it.”

Isabela rolled her shoulders, dismissive, her smile curling back into place. Smooth, steady. He doesn’t rattle. I like that. Very much.

Isabela:

“It’s nothing to worry about. And this is much more important.”

Hawke:

“Why a duel?”

Isabela laughed softly, her amber eyes glinting like firelight. Because it’s simple. And because blood is the only language Hayder understands.

Isabela:

“I like duels. It’s what I do. And if I win, he’ll be dead. Problem solved.”

Hawke:

“What makes you think I’m right for this?”

Isabela leaned in close enough that the tavern noise seemed to blur away, her voice velvet and sharp all at once. Because you’re different. I saw it the moment you walked in.

Isabela:

“You saw me talking to Lucky, didn’t you? Those boys couldn’t manage simple information gathering. I can’t trust the riffraff in this place to do anything right. But you, you’re different.”

Hawke allowed the faintest smile, meeting her gaze with steady charm. Different. Yes. And you know it, too.

Hawke:

“I think I could manage watching your back.”

Carver scowled. And there it is. He’s hooked. I should’ve bet money.

Aveline folded her arms tighter. Reckless fool. He’ll follow her into Maker-knows-what, and I’ll be the one dragging his corpse out if it goes bad.

Varric chuckled, shaking his head. Well, I’ve found my opening chapter. Hawke and the Pirate Queen — this is gonna sell itself.

Isabela’s laugh was warm and knowing, her eyes gliding down and back up as if testing him. Oh, he’ll do nicely. Very nicely indeed.

Isabela:

“I’ll bet. I’ve arranged to meet Hayder in High Town after dark. I’ll meet you there.”

She made to leave, slipping her daggers back into place, when her gaze lingered on Hawke just a moment longer. Amber eyes narrowed with curiosity.

Isabela:
“Wait. I never did ask your name. If I’m to trust you with my back, I should know what to call you.”

Hawke straightened, his voice smooth but carrying weight.
Hawke:
“Alexander Hawke.”

Isabela’s brows arched. Alexander. A name from noble lines. And Hawke… foreign, but not without weight.

Isabela:
“Alexander… hmm. That’s a noble’s name, if ever I heard one. What’s a man like you doing playing mercenary in Kirkwall?”

Bethany spoke before her brother could, her tone gentle, practiced.
Bethany:
“Our mother was once a noble here in Kirkwall. An Amell. She left it behind when she met our father — an apostate Grey Warden. We were born in Ferelden.”

Isabela chuckled, her smirk returning.
Isabela:
“Amell, is it? That explains the bearing. And the name Alexander rings louder when tied to an Amell. I met the Hero of Ferelden once, back in Denerim. Cousland, wasn’t it? There were whispers then of Amell ties.”

Hawke inclined his head, his violet eyes calm.
Hawke:
“A far cousin, yes. We share blood, though the lines are long.”

Isabela’s gaze flicked over him again, sharper now, weighing him not just as a fighter, but as a man of lineage. Then the smirk returned, low laughter curling from her lips.

Isabela:
“Well, Alexander Hawke, let’s see if you fight like a noble — or like a man worth keeping alive.”

With that, she pushed away from the bar and slipped through the crowd, gold trinkets flashing as she disappeared into the smoke and noise of the Hanged Man.

Hawke watched her go, expression calm, though his companions could see the spark in his eyes.

Varric smirked. This is going to be a hell of a story.

Carver, arms folded, leaned toward his brother with a raised brow.
Carver:
“Do I wanna know how she met our cousin?”

Bethany flushed scarlet.
Bethany:
“Carver!”

Varric grinned, already tucking the line into memory. Oh, that one’s going in the story.

Hawke finally spoke, violet eyes still glinting with the spark Isabela had lit. His voice was steady, calm, but edged with that irrepressible wit.

Hawke:
“She probably either cheated him in cards, or took him to bed — although the last I doubt, considering Morrigan would have killed her out of sheer possessiveness over our cousin, I’m afraid.”

He glanced at the bar, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Hawke:
“Anyway… I need a drink first.”

The door of the Hanged Man swung shut behind Isabela, her laughter fading into the din. Hawke exhaled slowly, then moved to the bar. He dropped a few coins onto the counter, nodding to the barkeep.

Hawke:
“Two pitchers. And don’t water them down.”

The man grunted, sloshing froth into clay mugs. The Hawkes and their companions settled around a corner table, the rough wood scarred with years of dice gouges and knife points.

Varric leaned back, Bianca resting against the bench at his side. His sharp eyes flicked between Hawke and his siblings.

Varric:
“So, Hawke… your ‘cousin.’ The one our new friend just dropped into conversation. What exactly was the deal between him and Morrigan?”

The mugs hit the table, froth spilling. Hawke wrapped a hand around his drink, turning it once before answering. His voice was measured, but the edge of memory weighed it down.

Hawke:
“Morrigan struck a bargain with him during the Blight. She carried his child. That was the price for a way to defeat the archdemon without sacrificing one of the Wardens.”

He lifted the mug, violet eyes lowering into the foam.

Hawke:
“He agreed. And in the end… he still gave his life in that battle. The Hero of Ferelden didn’t walk away.”

Bethany’s fingers tightened around her own mug, her gaze soft but heavy.

Bethany:
“We knew. The whole of Thedas knows he fell striking the final blow. But to think… he left a son.”

Carver shifted in his seat, brow furrowed, but his voice carried less sarcasm than usual.

Carver:
“Some legacy. Save Ferelden, kill the archdemon, leave a child behind with a woman like Morrigan. Maker only knows how that boy will turn out.”

Varric tapped a finger against the rim of his cup, smirking faintly, though his eyes held more gravity than usual.

Varric:
“Sounds like a story worth telling. Tragedy, sacrifice, mystery child… got all the good parts.”

Hawke took a slow drink, setting the mug down with a quiet thud.

Hawke:
“He’s out there, somewhere. That much we know. Morrigan won’t let him be found unless she wants him to be.”

The table fell quiet for a moment, the roar of the tavern filling the gap. Then Bethany sighed, steadying herself with a small smile.

Bethany:
“Wherever he is, I hope he’s safe. He’s family, in the end.”

Carver snorted, lifting his mug.
“Family we’ll probably never meet.”

Varric raised his in a mock toast.
“To family you’ll never meet. Cheers.”

They clinked mugs, the moment swallowed by the laughter and chaos around them. But in the back of their minds, the shadow of a dead cousin and his hidden child lingered, unspoken but unforgotten.

The clink of mugs faded into the background noise of the Hanged Man, each companion lost in thought about the Hero of Ferelden and the shadow he left behind.

Aveline’s arms were folded, her expression taut. She leaned forward across the table, her eyes settling firmly on Hawke.

Aveline:
“You mentioned your father earlier. Malcolm Hawke. An apostate… and a Grey Warden?”

Her tone was clipped, equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

Hawke met her gaze evenly, violet eyes steady. He rested his hand around his mug, considering his words before speaking.

Hawke:
“Yes. Malcolm Hawke. He kept us alive more times than I can count. My father was both those things — a mage who never bent knee to the Circle, and a Grey Warden who carried that burden to his grave.”

Bethany’s voice softened, memory rising in her eyes.

Bethany:
“He taught us. Protected us. He wasn’t perfect, but… he believed family came first. Always.”

Carver’s mug hit the table harder than he intended, his scowl quick.

Carver:
“And he left us with nothing but trouble. Apostate, Grey Warden… two marks the world would’ve killed him for, and us with him if they’d known. Don’t make him into a hero.”

Bethany:
“Carver—”

But Hawke lifted a hand, his voice firm, diplomatic.

Hawke:
“No one’s making him into anything. He was who he was. A man who chose to fight his battles on his own terms. He died with those secrets, and left us to live with them. That’s all.”

Aveline’s lips pressed thin, her brows drawn.

Aveline:
“You say that like it absolves him. Apostate or not, he put all of you at risk every day he drew breath. Maker knows, I’ve seen what happens when families hide mages.”

Her words cut sharp, but not without a trace of regret.

Bethany lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening on her mug. Yes… we’ve seen it too.

Varric cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence with a lopsided grin.

Varric:
“Well. Family legacies, apostate fathers, hidden cousins, mystery kids. If I don’t get a best-seller out of you people, it’ll be a miracle.”

A ripple of reluctant amusement broke the tension, though the shadows in Aveline’s gaze lingered.

The laughter from Varric’s quip lingered, but Aveline didn’t smile. She sat back, staring into her mug. For a long moment, she was silent. Then she spoke, her voice lower, steadier than before.

Aveline:
“You speak of your father like he was a choice. A man who lived and died on his own terms. Mine… was nothing like that.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the ale.

Aveline:
“My father was a soldier. Fereldan. He fought at Ostagar — and he came home broken. Wounded in body, hollow in spirit. The man who raised me was gone. What remained drank himself into the ground, bitter at the world that cast him aside.”

Carver glanced at her, the smirk wiped from his face.

Aveline:
“I learned my discipline from him. Not in the way he lived — but in the way he failed. I swore I would never break the way he did. Never lose myself to anger or despair.”

Bethany’s eyes softened, compassion touching her features.
Bethany:
“I’m sorry, Aveline. That must have been… lonely.”

Aveline’s jaw tightened, her gaze lifting briefly, guarded but honest.

Aveline:
“It taught me. That’s all. Duty, order, the law — those things don’t falter the way people do. That’s why I cling to them.”

Hawke leaned forward slightly, diplomatic warmth in his voice.
Hawke:
“And yet, you still stand with people like us. Apostates, rogues, pirates. Doesn’t sound like the law to me.”

Aveline met his violet eyes, something flickering in her expression — a grudging respect.
Aveline:
“It means I see what the law doesn’t. What family means. I won’t forget that.”

The table fell into a quiet understanding, the noise of the tavern folding around them.

Varric finally raised his mug again, breaking the silence with a crooked grin.
Varric:
“Maker’s breath. We’re a cheery lot tonight. Anyone else want to unpack their tragic backstory, or do we save it for after the next round?”

Varric’s crooked grin still hung in the air when Carver turned toward him, leaning back in his chair with that all-too-familiar smirk.

Carver:
“So… what about you, Varric? We’ve all bared our family scars tonight. Where’s your tragic backstory?”

Varric didn’t even blink. He leaned back, draping an arm lazily across Bianca’s stock, grin widening.

Varric:
“Me? Sorry to disappoint, Junior, but I’m not tragic material. Born rich, stayed rich, parents still alive. No Blight, no dead hero cousins, no broken soldier dads. Just a mansion in Hightown and a brother I can’t stand. That’s it.”

Carver snorted.
Carver:
“So you’re just here to mock the rest of us, then.”

Varric raised his mug in salute.
Varric:
“Exactly. Somebody’s got to lighten the mood while you all compete for Most Depressing Family History.”

Bethany laughed softly, shaking her head.
Bethany:
“I don’t know. I think even without the tragedies, your brother Bartrand sounds dramatic enough to count.”

Varric chuckled, though his eyes flickered briefly, shadowed at the name.
Varric:
“Yeah, well. That’s a story for another night. Trust me, you’ll hear it whether you want to or not.”

The group eased back into the din of the tavern, the heaviness of shared truths softened by Varric’s levity.

Varric’s grin held, but the flicker in his eyes at the mention of Bartrand lingered. Hawke caught it, let the silence hang for only a heartbeat before leaning forward, his tone light but decisive.

Hawke:
“Enough ghosts for one night. We’ve got a duel to keep. Isabela’s waiting in Hightown, and I’d rather not make her any moodier than she already was.”

He pushed his mug aside, rising from the bench. His violet gaze swept over the group, diplomatic calm back in place.
Hawke:
“Come on. Time to see what kind of mess our new friend is dragging us into.”

Carver groaned, dragging his greatsword onto his shoulder.
Carver:
“Oh, I can already guess. More blades, more blood, more trouble.”

Aveline stood, adjusting her shield straps with a curt nod.
Aveline:
“Then let’s keep it clean. Maker knows someone has to.”

Bethany smoothed her skirts, rising with a small, nervous smile.
Bethany:
“I only hope this Hayder is more reasonable than his hired thugs.”

Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder, smirking.
Varric:
“Reasonable? With her involved? Not a chance. But hey, at least it’ll be entertaining.”

Hawke cast one last look at the bar where Isabela had stood, her laughter still echoing faintly in memory. His lips curved into a faint smile before he turned toward the door.

The Hanged Man’s noise washed over them one last time as the door swung wide, spilling them back into the cool night of Kirkwall.

The door of the Hanged Man slammed shut behind them, cutting off the haze of smoke and laughter. Outside, Lowtown breathed in its usual rhythm: narrow alleys damp with spilled ale, the stink of fish and sweat, torchlight flickering against crumbling stone.

Carver wrinkled his nose, muttering as they passed a pair of drunks slumped against a wall.
Carver:
“Maker, I’ll never understand how people can live like this. Squalor stacked on squalor.”

Varric walked with Bianca resting across his shoulder, smirking at the scene.
Varric:
“Lowtown’s got character, Junior. Every rat, every broken bottle, every bad decision baked right into the cobblestones. You just don’t appreciate the ambiance.”

Aveline gave him a sidelong look.
Aveline:
“Ambiance doesn’t excuse crime. Half the city’s problems start down here.”

Bethany, walking close to Hawke, glanced around with quiet sympathy.
Bethany:
“And yet these people survive it, day after day. Not everyone has a choice of where to live.”

Hawke said nothing, violet eyes sweeping the alleys as they walked. Squalor or no, this is Kirkwall’s heart. Ugly, loud, alive. And tonight it’s leading us to more blood.

They wound their way upward, the streets broadening, the air clearing of smoke as they crossed into Hightown. The change was immediate: polished marble, clean lanternlight, guards in sharper armor patrolling streets lined with noble estates.

Carver let out a low whistle, his tone sour.
Carver:
“From piss-soaked alleys to polished stone. Doesn’t feel like the same city.”

Varric:
“Funny thing about Kirkwall, kid. The higher you climb, the more the stench just hides under perfume.”

Aveline’s gaze swept the quiet square, wary.
Aveline:
“Keep alert. This isn’t over.”

And then they saw her.

Isabela stood waiting beneath a tall lamp at the edge of the square, arms crossed, one boot tapping impatiently against the cobblestone. Her bronzed skin gleamed in the light, long black hair loose around her shoulders, and her amber eyes fixed sharply on the shadows. The daggers strapped to her back caught the glow as she shifted, her posture equal parts relaxed and coiled.

The moment her gaze caught Hawke’s across the square, the tension in her shoulders eased. A sly smile curled across her lips. Relief and amusement blended into one.

Isabela (relieved):

“There you are. I’ve been here for hours. (sigh) Hayder hasn’t shown up. No one has. I don’t like this.”

Her fingers brushed the hilts of her daggers. Something’s wrong. Too quiet. I hate waiting… makes me think too much.

Varric cocked his head, Bianca slung casually in his hands, grin sharp as always.

Varric:

“I don’t like this. That’s right up there with ‘what could possibly go wrong?’”

And just like that, the Maker answers, he thought, as boots scuffed stone.

Raiders spilled from the shadows, steel glinting.

Raider:

“That’s the wench we’re looking for. Gut her!”

Hawke stepped forward, violet eyes steady, staff spinning into his grip.

Hawke:

“ahhh, here we go!”

The Clash

The raiders surged.

Isabela moved first, daggers flashing like streaks of silver. She ducked beneath a cudgel, spun low, and carved across a raider’s belly. Her laughter cut sharp through the square. Slow, clumsy… this is almost boring.

Bianca’s bolts struck from behind her shoulder, punching clean through leather and bone.

Varric smirked. Always happy to make the lady look good.

Aveline met the front line head on, shield braced, sword ready. The impact rattled her arm but she held, forcing the charge to break around her. Hold the line. Keep them off Bethany. Don’t let Hawke’s recklessness get anyone killed.

Carver roared, greatsword sweeping down like a hammer. Sparks flared as steel met steel. He shoved the man back, grinning. Finally. Something worth hitting.

Bethany lifted her staff, breath steady, eyes bright with power. Lightning cracked from her hands, arcing through two men who fell twitching to the stone. Her chest tightened with the weight of it. Control it. Don’t lose it. Just enough.

Hawke cast fire across the cobblestones, the blast forcing raiders to scatter. One charged, and he let the staff vanish onto his back, twin blades from his hips flashing into his hands. They sparked with lightning, every swing alive with magic.

Isabela froze for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing. Daggers? No—swords. Magic crackling through steel. He fights like a rogue… and a mage? Maker’s breath, what are you?

She darted back into the fight, weaving between foes with her own daggers flashing, but her gaze flicked toward him again and again.

Varric loosed another volley, grinning wide. Heh. Hawke with lightning swords. Gonna need a good title for that.

Carver sneered, hacking another man down. Show-off. Always has to look better than everyone else.

Aveline slammed her shield into a raider’s jaw, teeth shattering. She glanced at Hawke, eyes narrowing. This isn’t discipline. This is recklessness dressed as style.

Bethany’s frost swept the stones, freezing a man in place. Her gaze caught Hawke’s for a heartbeat — pride and fear mingling in her chest. He’s magnificent. But he’s burning too hot.

Hawke’s dual blades crackled, sweeping through the last raider. The man dropped, silence crashing back over the square.

Aftermath

Isabela flicked blood from her daggers, chest rising with quick, steady breaths. Her smirk returned slow, curling across her lips as she turned to Hawke. You’re not just dangerous. You’re fascinating. I thought you were a rogue playing mercenary. But you’re something else entirely.

Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder. “Well, that went about as well as expected.” And by expected, I mean badly. But damn if it wasn’t entertaining.

Aveline planted her sword tip on the cobblestones, scowling. Foolhardy, reckless, dangerous. And of course he makes it work. One day that luck will run out.

Carver rolled his shoulders, his grin sharp. Bet he thinks he impressed her. Bet he thinks he impressed everyone. Always the hero. Always the better Hawke.

Bethany steadied her breathing, staff still humming faintly. Brother, you’ll burn yourself alive one day. But for now… you shine brighter than any of us.

Hawke wiped his blades clean, violet eyes calm, though the corner of his mouth curved faintly. A test. And she saw me. Not just the fight — me. This is going to get interesting.

Isabela her gaze still lingering on him. Dangerous. Beautiful. Exactly my kind of trouble.

She crouched over one of the bodies, tugging her dagger free from his ribs. She wiped the blade clean on his tunic with a casual flick before sheathing it. Her amber eyes flicked to Hawke and the others.

Isabela:
“Best check their pockets. Idiots like this don’t move without someone pulling the strings. Maybe Hayder left us a trail.”

She leaned down, hands swift, tugging through belts and pouches. Varric whistled low, kneeling at another corpse.

Varric:
“Dead and broke. Story of Kirkwall.”

Carver kicked a raider’s hand away with his boot.
“Or maybe they’re just that pathetic. You don’t need a plan when you’ve got more muscle than brains.”

Aveline scowled, kneeling with more care than the others.
“Or orders. Someone set them on her. That means more trouble ahead.”

Bethany lifted a folded scrap of parchment from a raider’s jerkin, holding it delicately as though it might burn her fingers.
“There’s something here…”

Isabela snatched it from her hand with a grin, skimming the crude script. Her smirk sharpened.

Isabela:
“Chantry in High Town. Looks like our friend Hayder’s decided to get pious. Or at least hide behind people who are.”

Varric chuckled, shaking his head.
“Nothing says righteous like ambushing a woman in the street. Maker bless the faithful.”

Aveline folded her arms.
“He’s cornered. That makes him dangerous.”

Carver rested his greatsword against his shoulder, eyes narrowing.
“Good. Dangerous makes it worth my time.”

Bethany sighed, looking between them.
“Must everything end in blood?”

Isabela slid the note into her belt, already striding toward the edge of the square. Her hips swayed with every step, daggers gleaming against her back. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know eyes were following.

Varric, under his breath, amused:
“Careful, Hawke. You’re staring holes through her and it’s not the daggers you’re interested in.”

Hawke said nothing, violet eyes following her as she moved through the lanternlight. He let a faint smile tug at his lips, diplomacy on the outside, hunger flickering beneath.

Carver caught it and groaned.
“Maker’s breath. Not again. Do you ever think with anything but your—”

Aveline cut him off with a sharp look.
“Enough. We’ve got a job. Whatever this is—” she gestured vaguely between Hawke and Isabela—“leave it for after Hayder’s dealt with.”

Isabela glanced back then, amber eyes catching Hawke’s with a knowing spark. She chuckled low, the sound curling like smoke through the night.
“Let’s not keep him waiting, then.”

And with that, she led them toward the Chantry, her laughter echoing off High Town’s polished walls, leaving Hawke and his companions to follow.

The great hall of the Chantry was cold despite the torches. Statues of Andraste loomed above, silent witnesses to the tension building below.

Hawke entered first, his staff balanced easily in his hand, violet eyes scanning the chamber with calm focus. Varric strolled in behind, crossbow slung at the ready, his grin sharpened by the scent of trouble. Aveline kept tight formation, shield lifted slightly as though she expected arrows at any moment. Carver followed with his greatsword angled across his back, his expression already daring a fight. Bethany’s staff glowed faintly in her grasp, her eyes wary, her steps measured.

Isabela walked a half-step ahead of them all, hips swaying with casual poise, though her amber gaze never left the man waiting in the hall. Her tanned skin gleamed faintly under the torches, black hair spilling loose over her shoulders. She was every inch the pirate — relaxed, yet dangerous, as if she were only waiting for an excuse.

Hayder stood at the far end, flanked by armed men. He smirked as they approached.

Hayder:

“Isabela should have known you’d find me here.”

Isabela tilted her head, voice cutting across the hall.
Isabela:

“Tell your men to burn the letters next time.”

Hayder:

“Castillon was heartbroken when he heard about the shipwreck. You should have let him know you survived.”

She smirked, shoulders rolling in a careless shrug.
Isabela:

“It must have slipped my mind.”

Hayder’s eyes narrowed.
Hayder:

“Where’s the relic?”

Isabela:

“I lost it. Castillon’s just going to have to do without.”

Hayder:

“Lost it. Just like you lost a ship full of valuable cargo.”

Isabela’s gaze sharpened, her voice like steel.
Isabela:

“They weren’t cargo, Hayder. They were people.”

Hayder’s sneer deepened, his tone cruel.
Hayder:

“Those slaves were worth a hundred sovereigns a head, and you let them scurry off into the wilds. And now the relic’s gone, too. Castillon won’t be happy to hear that. I promise you.”

Hawke stepped forward, his staff angled lightly in his grip, violet eyes locked on Hayder.
Hawke:

“Will someone explain what’s going on?”

Hayder:

“Isabela’s been a very bad girl. Ruined a perfect business deal and then ran away. She didn’t tell you.”

Isabela:

“I told him enough.”

Aveline folded her arms, her voice like a blade.
Aveline:
“Somehow I doubt it.”

Isabela’s lips twisted in annoyance.
Isabela:
“I said I arranged for a duel, which I did. I also said you wouldn’t play fair, which you didn’t.”

She flicked a glance at Hawke, her voice softening.
Isabela:
“We can talk later if you want. Right now we have other problems.”

Hawke lifted his staff slightly, tone calm, diplomatic but edged with iron.
Hawke:
“You don’t have to tell Castillon about Isabela.”

Hayder:
“If I cross him, he’ll have me killed. And my life is worth more than hers.”

Isabela’s amber eyes narrowed to slits. Her hand swept up behind her shoulder, fingers curling around the hilt of a dagger strapped across her back. In one fluid motion, she hurled it across the hall, the blade flashing in the torchlight toward the raider standing at Hayder’s side.

Isabela:
“There’s only one way to settle this.”

Hawke laughed, low and knowing, staff spinning into his grip.
Hawke:
“I knew this would happen.”

The Battle

The Chantry erupted into chaos.

Hayder’s men surged forward, blades drawn. The clash of steel rang against the vaulted ceiling, echoing like a hymn turned violent.

Isabela darted ahead, reclaiming a second dagger from her back. She slid between two raiders, cutting one across the hamstring before spinning into the other, her laughter sharp as steel. Too slow. Always too slow.

Varric’s bolts cut down the men who tried to flank her, each shot precise, each fall punctuated by his wry grin.
Varric:
“Try not to move too much, Rivaini. You’re blocking my line of sight.”

Aveline braced in the center, shield locked tight, taking the charge head-on. Steel slammed against steel, her arm shuddering with each impact, but she held firm.
Aveline:
“Stay behind me!”

Carver ignored her, roaring as he swung his greatsword in brutal arcs. Sparks scattered across the polished floor as he met an axe, then shoved his foe back.
Carver:
“Come on! Fight me, cowards!”

Bethany lifted her staff, her lips forming silent words. Lightning cracked through the air, striking down a man who had nearly reached Varric. Her hands trembled faintly, but her gaze burned. Hold steady. Don’t falter now.

At the front, Hawke moved with calm precision. His staff blazed with light, fire spilling across the floor and scattering enemies like leaves in a storm. He planted the staff, sending a shockwave that cracked the polished tiles, throwing two men back into the Chantry pillars.
Hawke (dryly):
“Fighting in the house of the Maker. I can already hear the sermons.”

Isabela flipped her dagger in her palm, slipping behind another foe and slashing his throat before he could raise his blade. Her amber eyes flicked briefly toward Hawke, watching the fire and lightning dance at his command. Maker help me… he makes this look easy.

Aveline slammed her shield into a man’s ribs, sword following through to finish him. She glanced at Hawke, grim. Reckless. Always reckless. And yet… effective.

Carver swung his greatsword down with a roar, cleaving his opponent clean. He cast a glance at his brother, scowling. Show-off. As always.

Bethany sent a freezing wave along the ground, locking two raiders in place.
Bethany:
“Now!”

Varric loosed bolts in quick succession, both men dropping before the ice shattered beneath them.
Varric:
“And that’s teamwork.”

The last of Hayder’s men collapsed, silence rushing back into the Chantry like a held breath. Only Hayder remained, his smug expression cracking under the weight of the bodies strewn across the floor. His hand tightened on the hilt of his greatsword.

With a roar, he charged.

Hawke shifted his stance, staff still in hand. At the last instant, he pivoted aside, the blade cleaving through empty air. Hayder stumbled a half-step — and Hawke’s staff snapped upward, knocking the greatsword clean from his grip.

The echo of lightning still hummed in the air, the smell of scorched flesh lingering near Hayder’s body. Hawke looked down at the greatsword in his hands, the steel still faintly buzzing with the remnants of his magic.

He turned it once, weighing it. Then his gaze slid to Carver, who stood a few paces away, greatsword already in hand, his expression tight with a mix of awe and bitterness.

A faint smile tugged at Hawke’s lips.

Hawke:
“Here, brother. Catch. Yours now.”

With an easy flick, Hawke tossed the weapon through the air. Carver’s reflexes kicked in, and he caught it with both hands, the weight driving his boots half an inch into the polished floor.

Carver blinked, looking down at the weapon, then up at his brother. His scowl faltered into something closer to disbelief.

Carver:
“…You just killed a man with this like it was a lightning rod. And now you’re handing it to me?”

Hawke’s violet eyes glinted, his tone smooth, amused.

Hawke:
“Better in your hands than his. Besides, you swing big blades better than I ever cared to.”

Carver’s grip tightened around the hilt. For once, the scowl didn’t return. Pride flickered in his eyes — reluctant, but undeniable.

Varric, from the sidelines, grinned.
Varric:
“Touching. Just don’t expect him to write you a thank-you note, Hawke.”

Carver shot him a glare, but didn’t let go of the greatsword. Not this time.

The weapon skittered across the floor. Hawke’s hand shot out, catching it by the hilt as if it belonged to him all along. He turned it in his grip, violet eyes narrowing on the mercenary before him.

Isabela’s amber eyes widened, her breath catching. He fights like a mage… and yet like no mage I’ve ever seen.

Hayder sneered, scrambling to his feet. “You—”

But Hawke raised the greatsword, both hands steady on the hilt. Lightning surged along the blade, arcs of raw energy crackling in the still air. For a heartbeat, the Chantry glowed white-blue.

Hawke met Isabela’s gaze briefly, calm even as the storm built in his hands. Then he thrust the blade forward.

The lightning shot from the greatsword in a blinding bolt, spearing Hayder through the chest. The mercenary’s cry cut short as the energy burned through him, his body collapsing in a smoking heap before the statue of Andraste.

The hall fell silent once more. The only sound was the low hum of residual magic fading from the greatsword in Hawke’s grasp.

Isabela stared, her dagger forgotten in her hand. No ordinary mage could bend their power through steel like that. Staff, sword, it doesn’t matter. He wields magic as if it were born from him, not channeled through some tool.

Varric whistled low, cocking an eyebrow.
Varric:
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Hawke.”

Aveline frowned, eyes narrowing at the display. Maker’s breath… this isn’t Circle magic. This is something else entirely.

Carver scowled, torn between resentment and awe. Always the show-off. Always stealing the spotlight.

Bethany’s gaze softened, but her grip on her staff tightened. Father’s blood runs strong in him… maybe stronger than even he realizes.

Hawke lowered the greatsword slowly, his violet eyes calm as ever, though the faint crackle of energy still danced along his fingers.

 

The Chantry smelled of smoke and blood. The echoes of the clash still lingered under Andraste’s stone gaze, though the hall itself had fallen silent.

Hawke lowered his staff, violet eyes steady as he turned toward Isabela. She stood over one of the fallen raiders, casually sliding her dagger back into the sheath across her back. Her tanned skin glowed warm in the torchlight, her long black hair spilling loose as she flicked it from her face.

Hawke:
“Stab first, ask questions later.”

Isabela’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. She leaned one hip against a pillar, crossing her arms loosely beneath her chest, gaze fixed on him.

Isabela:
“Trust me, it’s better this way. Castillon won’t hear about me from Hayder, but he’ll find me eventually. I just have to get him the relic. It’s simple as that.”

Keep it casual, Rivaini. Don’t let them see you rattled. You’ve survived this long by smiling through the storm.

Hawke stepped closer, staff still in hand, his posture calm, his voice even.

Hawke:
“What’s so interesting about the relic?”

Isabela uncrossed her arms, letting her fingers trail across the hilt of her other dagger. Her amber eyes glinted with amusement, though the shrug that followed was careless.

Isabela:
“I don’t really know what it is, except that it’s ancient and worth my weight in gold. Castillon has me chasing it down as payback for freeing his slaves. To be honest, I think he just wants me dead, but that would be letting me off easy.”

Varric chuckled softly under his breath, adjusting Bianca. That’s Isabela for you — trouble wrapped in charm. Hawke’s already hooked, I can see it.

Aveline shot him a warning look, her jaw tight. A woman like this will drag us all down if Hawke lets her.

Hawke:
“You hired Lucky to track down information on the relic.”

Isabela spread her arms wide in mock surrender, bangles jingling faintly.

Isabela:
“That’s right. He insisted he knew everything that was going on in Kirkwall. He lied. I bet he doesn’t even know everything going on in his pants.”

There — keep it light. Keep them laughing. Don’t let them linger on the danger nipping at your heels.

Varric let out a bark of laughter.
Carver rolled his eyes. Why is it always gutter humor with her?

Bethany hid a smile, her fingers tightening around her staff. She masks so much with that laughter…

Hawke:
“Did you end up in Kirkwall because your ship was destroyed?”

The smirk faltered. For the first time, Isabela’s shoulders dipped, her gaze flicking away.

Isabela:
“There was a storm. The ship ran aground on the reefs near the city. I managed to make it to shore.”

Her voice dropped, quieter.

Isabela:
“Most of my men weren’t as lucky. Poor sods. I knew some of those men almost ten years. Ah, balls.”

Her amber eyes softened, shadowed by loss.

Damn it. Don’t let them see that. Keep it hidden. They weren’t supposed to matter this much.

Hawke registered the flicker of sadness but said nothing, his expression steady. There it is — the truth beneath the swagger. She carries her losses, same as I do. Don’t press her, not here. Let her keep her mask until she chooses to lower it.

Hawke:
“Who is Castillon?”

Isabela:
“He’s a powerful merchant based in Antiva. I believe he has ties to the Felicissima Armada. I used to work for him. The jobs mostly involved smuggling lyrium, jewels, or the occasional criminal acquaintance. He paid well.”

And he owns too many pieces of me. Debt, memory, regret. One day, I’ll cut those ties for good.

Hawke:
“What’s this about you freeing slaves?”

Isabela began pacing a slow circle around the bloodstained floor. Her gestures sharpened, her voice edged with memory.

Isabela:
“I was asked to escort Castillon’s cargo ship. I got a bad feeling about the job partway through, boarded the ship to find slaves. Nearly two hundred. Elves, humans, children even. It was sickening. They paid Castillon to take them away from the Blight. He took their money and sold them into slavery. Even I know that’s wrong.”

She turned, smirking faintly at Aveline as if daring her to judge.

Isabela:
“Didn’t expect that, did you, Guardsman?”

Aveline’s frown deepened, her arms crossed tighter. Maker’s breath… she has a conscience after all. Pity she buries it under tavern floors and one-night stands.

Hawke studied Isabela quietly, violet eyes lingering. Beneath all that bravado, there’s a woman who chose mercy over profit. She can call herself a pirate all she likes — I’ve seen more honor in her than in half of Kirkwall.

Hawke:
“If getting the relic gets Castillon off your back, then I’ll help you retrieve it.”

Isabela paused mid-step, amber eyes flicking back to him. Her smirk softened, shifting into something warmer.

He means it. He actually means it. Maker, why does that make my chest feel tight?

Isabela:
“I still don’t know where it is, but you’ll be the first to know if I hear anything. Anyway, thanks for helping me out with Hayder.”

She took a slow step closer, her gaze sweeping over him with open amusement.

Isabela:
“I think I’ll tag along for a while. There might be something I could do for you. And I have a room at the Hanged Man if you’re looking for…”

She let the words trail off, her eyes deliberately catching his before dipping lower, lips curling into that same teasing smirk.

Isabela:
“…company later.”

There. Back to teasing. Back to safe ground. Don’t think about how much you wanted him to take the first offer seriously.

Varric smirked knowingly. This is going to be one hell of a story.

Carver groaned under his breath. Unbelievable. He’s actually considering it.

Bethany flushed, lowering her gaze, though curiosity burned in her expression. She hides her wounds with flirtation… and my brother lets her. And yet… he looks at her differently.

Aveline scowled, exasperated. Hawke should stay miles away from her. She’s nothing but a storm waiting to break.

Hawke’s calm expression didn’t waver, though the spark in his violet eyes said enough. She wants me to laugh it off. But every word, every look, pulls me further in. She doesn’t even realize it yet — she already has me.

Hawke’s lips curved into the faintest smile, his tone smooth, almost lazy, but his violet eyes glinted with unmistakable mischief.

Hawke:
“Company, hm? Tempting offer… but I’d hate to make it too easy for you. You’ll have to try harder than that, Isabela.”

Isabela’s smirk twitched, amber eyes narrowing with annoyance and intrigue both. Oh, hard to get, is it? We’ll see about that.

Hawke shifted his staff in hand and added, voice lighter:

Hawke:
“I do think an evening at the Hanged Man would be appropriate, though. Cards, and all of us closing the night with a drink.”

Varric grinned wide.
Varric:
“Now you’re talking, Hawke. Cards, ale, bad decisions. Just another night in Kirkwall.”

Aveline shook her head, already adjusting the strap of her shield.
Aveline:
“Sorry, Hawke. Some of us have real duties. I need to report back to the barracks. But the rest of you—” she gave the group a stern look— “try not to end up in the stocks before dawn. I’ll see you when you need me.”

Carver snorted.
Carver:
“She says that like we’d get caught.”

Bethany sighed, though her lips tugged faintly upward.
Bethany:
“I’d enjoy a quiet drink, at least. It’s been… a long night.”

Isabela’s smirk returned, sly and amused.
Isabela:
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll keep it lively.”

Hawke let out a quiet chuckle, leading the way toward the Chantry doors. Cards, drinks, and her. This night is far from over.

The Hanged Man was alive with the usual chaos: dice rattling, mugs slamming, the sharp bark of laughter echoing from shadowed corners. Hawke and his companions claimed a table near the back, lanternlight casting warm pools over scarred wood.

Varric fetched the first round of drinks himself, Bianca propped against his chair as he began shuffling a worn deck of cards.
Varric:
“Alright, people. Ante up. Nothing eases post-battle jitters like losing your coin to yours truly.”

Carver rolled his eyes, dropping into a chair with his new greatsword propped at his side.
Carver:
“Or maybe you just need to feel superior about something. Fine. Deal me in.”

Bethany hesitated before sitting, her staff leaned carefully against the wall. She folded her hands primly in her lap.
Bethany:
“I’ll play, but only for the company. Not for the coin.”

Isabela slid into her seat with all the grace of a queen claiming a throne, long black hair falling over one shoulder as she leaned her elbows on the table. Her amber eyes flicked toward Hawke with a smirk.
Isabela:
“Cards, drinks, and questionable company. Now this is how you recover from a fight.”

Hawke settled opposite her, staff set carefully against the bench. His violet eyes glinted faintly in the lanternlight as he drew a card into his hand.
Hawke:
“I’d say questionable describes this table well enough.”

The game began, cards slapped down against wood, coins clinking into the center pile. Varric’s grin widened with every hand, his charm as slick as his shuffle. Carver grumbled at each loss, blaming bad luck. Bethany played cautiously, folding more often than not.

But Isabela barely seemed to notice her own hand. Her gaze strayed often across the table, lingering on Hawke’s steady face, the easy confidence in his posture. Magic through a greatsword. Lightning from steel. Not even the Tevinters pull tricks like that. What are you, Alexander Hawke?

When her turn came, she tossed down her cards without hesitation — not even glancing at them.
Varric raised a brow.
Varric:
“Not like you to play so careless, Rivaini. Usually, I’d be checking the deck for tricks by now.”

Isabela waved a hand dismissively, smirk curling.
Isabela:
“Not tonight, sweetheart. I’ve got… other things on my mind.”

Her amber eyes caught Hawke’s again, sharp and amused.

Carver groaned, throwing his cards down.
Carver:
“Maker save me. This isn’t a card game anymore, it’s foreplay.”

Bethany’s cheeks flushed as she shot her younger brother a scandalized glare.
Bethany:
“Carver!”

Varric chuckled, sweeping the pile of coins toward himself.
Varric:
“Hey, don’t complain, Junior. Their flirting’s the only reason you still have coin left.”

Hawke allowed the faintest smile, violet eyes steady on his cards though his attention was clearly elsewhere. She’s watching me more than her hand. Cards mean nothing to her right now. And she doesn’t even care if we notice.

The round ended, laughter and groans mixing as another pitcher of ale arrived at the table. The air thickened with the warmth of drink, the scrape of cards, and the spark between Hawke and Isabela that everyone could feel but no one dared say aloud — not yet.

The second pitcher of ale hit the table, froth spilling as mugs clinked. Hawke leaned back, violet eyes glinting as he surveyed the group.

Hawke:
“Cards, drinks, bickering… not bad. But you know what this table needs?”

Carver groaned.
Carver:
“Don’t say more rules.”

Hawke’s lips curved in a grin.
Hawke:
“A little more fun.”

He flicked his card down with a flourish, smirking as Varric muttered under his breath about dramatics. Laughter rippled around the table, even Bethany letting out a quiet giggle.

But as Hawke reached for his mug, his gaze swept the tavern—and caught.

A man leaned against a nearby post, eyes fixed not on the game but on Bethany. His stare was dark, calculating. When she leaned to gather her cards, his lips curled into something ugly.

The grin slid from Hawke’s face. His hand tightened on his mug, setting it down with a quiet thud.

Not her. Not tonight.

Isabela noticed the shift in his expression, her amber eyes following his gaze. Her smirk faded, replaced by something sharper. Whoever he is, he just made a mistake.

Hawke rose slowly, calm as ever, but there was an edge in his posture now.
Hawke:
“Carver. Keep my hand warm.”

Carver frowned, confused, until he followed his brother’s line of sight. His scowl deepened instantly.
Carver:
“Maker’s breath. Want me to gut him?”

Bethany’s cheeks flushed as she realized what was happening.
Bethany:
“Don’t. Please, it’s not—”

But Hawke was already crossing the room, every step measured, violet eyes locked on the man. The noise of the tavern seemed to dull around him.

Varric sighed, collecting the cards.
Varric:
“And here I thought we’d make it through one night without a brawl.”

Isabela rose too, her daggers gleaming faintly at her back, though she didn’t draw. I want to see how he handles this. No magic, no staff. Just him.

Hawke stopped a step from the man, his voice calm, steady.
Hawke:
“You’ve been staring at my sister. That’s unwise.”

The man sneered, trying for bravado.
“Didn’t realize she was taken. Pretty thing like her—”

The words cut short as Hawke’s hand shot forward, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him back against the post. Violet eyes burned into him, not with fury but with the cold steadiness of a man who commanded storms.

Hawke (quietly):
“She’s not yours to look at. Next time, you won’t get a warning.”

The man sputtered, nodding quickly. Hawke released him with a shove, and he stumbled off into the crowd.

The tavern’s noise roared back, as if nothing had happened.

Hawke turned, walking back to the table as though he’d simply gone for another drink. He reclaimed his seat, calm expression back in place, though the spark in his eyes still burned.

Isabela’s gaze lingered on him, amber eyes wide for a moment before her smirk returned. Protective. Dangerous. And yet calm as still water. He’s full of surprises… and I can’t look away.

Carver muttered, shoving Hawke’s cards toward him.
Carver:
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Bethany lowered her gaze, cheeks still warm.
Bethany:
“Thank you, brother.”

Varric raised his mug.
Varric:
“To Hawke: savior of sisters, breaker of fun nights. Try not to scare off all the entertainment, will you?”

The laughter rolled on, but the moment left its mark. Isabela’s smirk stayed sharper now, curiosity deepening into something else entirely.

The man Hawke had shoved off disappeared into the crowd, but the ripple of tension lingered. A few rough-looking patrons muttered at nearby tables, their eyes sliding toward the Hawke party.

Isabela noticed first, her hand drifting to the dagger at her back. Amber eyes glinted with mischief.
Isabela:
“Careful, sweetheart. Looks like we’ve attracted an audience. Wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would we?”

Hawke leaned back in his chair, calm as ever, staff resting against the wall.
Hawke:
“Relax. If they’re looking for a fight, they’ll get one. If not—well, maybe they’ll learn to stare elsewhere.”

The murmurs grew, one man slamming his mug on the table and pushing to his feet. His friends followed.

Carver grinned, greatsword already half unslung.
Carver:
“Finally. Something worth staying awake for.”

Varric sighed, shuffling the cards back into the deck.
Varric:
“Should’ve known. We can’t get through one game without somebody bleeding.”

Bethany stood quickly, staff clutched tight. Her eyes flicked toward her brother, worry etched into her features. Please don’t let this spiral.

The first drunk shoved a chair aside, stomping toward their table—only to stop dead as the tavern door slammed open.

Aveline stormed in, red hair catching the lanternlight, armor still scuffed from duty. Her eyes swept the room, instantly catching on Hawke and Isabela sitting far too casually at the center of a brewing brawl.

In three strides she was at their table, hands shooting out to grab both by the arm — Isabela on the left, Hawke on the right.

Aveline (hissing):
“One more stunt out of either of you and I’ll drag you both to the barracks myself. Don’t test me.”

Isabela leaned into the grip with a wicked grin, amber eyes dancing.
Isabela:
“Oh, Commander, if you wanted me in shackles, you only had to ask.”

Aveline’s eyes widened, color flaring across her cheeks as she released Isabela’s arm like it burned.
Aveline:
“Maker preserve me…”

Varric nearly choked on his drink.
Varric:
“Ha! And there it is. Saw that one coming a mile away.”

Carver smirked, resting his chin on his hand.
Carver:
“Please, Aveline, do lock them up. Then maybe I’ll get one night’s peace without listening to their back-and-forth.”

Bethany groaned softly, though her lips betrayed the hint of a smile.

Hawke only raised a brow at Aveline, violet eyes glinting with diplomatic calm.
Hawke:
“Now, Aveline, you wound me. Do I look like the sort who’d start trouble in a respectable establishment?”

The look she shot him could have curdled stone.

Aveline:
“Yes.”

The rest of the tavern burst into laughter, tension spilling out of the room like a broken dam. The men who had looked ready for a fight sat back down, shaking their heads.

Isabela leaned closer to Hawke, smirking into her drink. Maker, but he makes this fun. Even getting hauled around like misbehaving children.

Hawke’s lips quirked as he glanced across at Carver, amusement sparking in his violet eyes.

Hawke (looking at his brother):

“Are you sure about that, Carver? Might hear her scream loud enough in Lowtown to wake you from your sleep. If we end up locked in the same cell, I can’t promise personal space will be preserved — I can promise she will be loud, though.”

Carver’s scowl deepened into a rueful half-grin, half-grimace.
Carver:
“Shut it, Hawke. Don’t tempt me — I’ll happily hand you over if it means you stop with the flirting.”

Aveline’s hand went to her hip, eyes flashing.
Aveline:
“Both of you — behave. I’m not hauling either of you off for your private amusements.”

Isabela laughed, low and delighted, leaning forward so close Hawke could feel the warmth of it.
Isabela:
“Oh, Alexander, you talk big for a man who’s entirely too polite. Now I’m curious how loud you think I can be.”

Varric whooped, slapping the table as coins skittered.
Varric:
“By the Maker, someone write this down. This is peak Hawke banter.”

Bethany hid her blush behind her mug, but her eyes shone with relief and affection as she glanced at Hawke. He always knows how to take the edge off. Even if it’s by making the rest of us blush.

Hawke simply tipped an imaginary hat at Isabela, that same easy charm braided with mischief in his gaze, then settled back into the game as though he hadn’t just escalated everyone’s pulse by a notch. The table laughed, the tavern breathed, and the night rolled on with the promise of more trouble — and more stories — waiting just beyond the Hanged Man’s door.

Hawke’s violet eyes lingered on Isabela across the table, that calm, diplomatic mask he wore slipping just enough for a grin to edge through. He leaned in slightly, his tone smooth, pitched low so it wrapped around her words like a dare.

Hawke:
“Trust me… I already told you I’m good with my hands. Haven’t mentioned the rest yet.”

Isabela’s amber eyes widened for a split second before narrowing into a slow, wicked smile. She leaned forward too, bracing her elbows on the table, chin tilted so the lanternlight caught the teasing curve of her lips.
Isabela:
“Oh, now you’ve gone and piqued my curiosity. Careful, sweetheart — I might just make you prove it.”

Varric barked a laugh, slapping the cards down.
Varric:
“Maker’s breath, I need stronger ale for this. You two are turning banter into foreplay in front of the whole tavern.”

Carver groaned, throwing his hands up.
Carver:
“Do you hear yourselves? This is unbearable.”

Aveline pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath.
Aveline:
“I’m seconds away from dragging them both out in irons.”

Bethany flushed, ducking her head, but her voice carried a faint laugh.
Bethany:
“They’re impossible. Absolutely impossible.”

Hawke sat back, completely unruffled, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth as if he’d just won a hand none of them had seen played. His violet gaze never left Isabela’s.

She pushes, I push back. And with every word, she’s more hooked.

Isabela, meanwhile, was already imagining what else he hadn’t mentioned — and finding herself more tempted than she cared to admit.

The table’s laughter hadn’t even settled when the crash of a chair breaking split the tavern air. Two drunk men toppled into each other near the bar, fists flying, mugs scattering ale across the floor.

The Hanged Man roared with cheers as the brawl spread, patrons egging them on.

Varric sighed, leaning back in his chair.
Varric:
“And here we go. A Hanged Man classic.”

Carver smirked, resting an elbow on the table.
Carver:
“At least someone’s entertaining us.”

Bethany winced, clutching her staff tighter. Always fighting, always violence. Can’t one night pass in peace?

Across the table, Isabela was laughing into her mug, amber eyes glittering.
Isabela:
“Oh, I love this place. There’s always someone throwing fists, and it’s never me. Well—usually.”

Before the brawlers could do more damage, Aveline stormed forward, voice like a whip.
Aveline:
“That’s enough!”

She seized one man by the scruff of his tunic, the other by the arm, and with a grunt of sheer authority, dragged both toward the door as if they weighed nothing. The crowd groaned, jeering as their entertainment vanished.

Aveline (snapping at the room):
“Anyone else want to spend the night in the stocks?”

Silence fell fast. The Hanged Man’s noise resumed only once she shoved the pair outside and returned, muttering curses under her breath.

Back at the table, Hawke raised his mug in mock salute, violet eyes gleaming with calm amusement.
Hawke:
“Problem fixed.”

Isabela smirked over the rim of her mug, voice dripping with innuendo.
Isabela:
“Oh, I can think of other problems you might fix, sweetheart.”

Varric groaned, already shuffling the deck again.
Varric:
“And we’re back on that track…”

The table erupted in laughter again, the chaos of the brawl fading into the background like it had never been.

Hawke leaned back in his chair, mug in hand, violet eyes glinting with calm amusement. He tilted his head toward Isabela, voice smooth as ever but carrying the weight of a quiet challenge.

Hawke:
“Keep dreaming, Isabela. Like I said — I might like charm and teasing… but you’ll have to do more than just that, and having good looks, to win me over.”

The table went still for a beat.

Isabela’s smirk flickered, amber eyes narrowing just enough to betray the spark he’d lit. Not enough? Oh, he thinks he’s clever, turning my own game against me. Slowly, the grin crept back, sharper now, as she leaned closer across the table.
Isabela:
“Dangerous words, sweetheart. You’ll regret daring me to try harder.”

Varric chuckled, already sliding coins into his pocket.
Varric:
“And here I thought she was dangerous with daggers. Hawke, you’re going to be the death of us all.”

Carver groaned, burying his face in his hand.
Carver:
“Maker help me, he’s actually enjoying this.”

Bethany gave her brother a sidelong look, a mix of embarrassment and concern flickering across her face. Alex… don’t lose yourself to her games. Please.

Aveline, returning to the table after tossing the brawlers outside, let out a sharp breath.
Aveline:
“Both of you — enough. If I have to arrest you for indecency next, I swear I’ll do it.”

Hawke only smiled faintly, lifting his mug in her direction as though she’d just offered him a toast.

Hawke (dryly):
“Relax, Aveline. I’m simply reminding our new friend that I’m not so easy to catch.”

Isabela’s laugh rang bright and sharp, her amber eyes gleaming as they locked with his. Oh, Alexander Hawke… you just made yourself the most tempting prize in the room.

The laughter and jeers of the tavern began to blend back into the background. Hawke pushed his chair back, the legs scraping across the scarred wood floor. He rose smoothly, rolling his shoulders as though the whole night had been little more than a warmup.

Hawke:
“Alright. Enough cards, enough chaos. Time to head back.”

Carver groaned but got to his feet, greatsword slung across his back.
Carver:
“Finally. Maker forbid we go one night without theatrics.”

Bethany followed, gathering her staff and smoothing her skirts, her smile tired but fond.
Bethany:
“It was… nice, in its way. Better than silence, at least.”

They trailed after their brother as he stepped away from the table. Hawke passed Aveline on the way to the door, her arms crossed, her scowl still firmly in place.

He caught her eye, pausing just long enough to tip her a wink, the faint curve of his mouth softening the edges of her frown.

Hawke (quietly, for her):
“Calm, Aveline. No arrests tonight.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the steel in her shoulders eased by a fraction. She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath.
Aveline:
“One of these nights, Hawke…”

Hawke just chuckled, leading the way toward the door, his siblings close behind.

At the table, Isabela lounged back in her chair, watching him go with a lazy smirk, her amber eyes glinting in the lanternlight. Plays hard to get, teases the guardswoman, walks out with half the room hanging on him. Alexander Hawke… you’re already more fun than I bargained for.

Varric shook his head, gathering up the cards.
Varric:
“Oh, this is going to be a hell of a story.”

The Hanged Man swallowed the rest, the night rolling on as Hawke and his siblings slipped back into the shadows of Lowtown.

Hawke and his siblings disappeared into the Lowtown dark, leaving the Hanged Man to its chaos.

Isabela leaned back in her chair, one hand toying lazily with the empty mug, her amber eyes still fixed on the door. That smirk never quite faded.

Varric watched her, amused.
Varric:
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She turned her gaze to him at last, lips curling into a slow grin.
Isabela:
“Oh, you’ve no idea.”

But then, for once, her tone softened, curiosity threading through the usual mischief. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, bracelets clinking softly.
Isabela:
“His way of fighting, though? I’ve seen rogues, soldiers, even magisters throw around their tricks. But him? He bends magic to whatever he touches. Staff, sword… even a stolen blade. That’s not normal, Varric.”

Varric arched a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth.
Varric:
“Trust me, Rivaini, there’s nothing normal about Hawke. That’s half his charm. The other half? He knows exactly how much people notice.”

Isabela’s grin returned, sharper now, though her amber eyes still held that glimmer of thought. Not normal at all… and I think I like that.
Isabela:
“His way of fighting, though? I’ve seen rogues, soldiers, even magisters throw their tricks around. But him? He bends magic to whatever he touches. Staff, sword… even a stolen blade. That’s not normal, Varric.”

Varric smirked, tilting back in his chair.
Varric:
“Trust me, Rivaini, there’s nothing normal about Hawke. That’s half his charm. The other half? He knows exactly how much people notice.”

Her grin widened, wicked and knowing, bracelets chiming as she stretched like a cat.
Isabela:
“Think I’ll tag along… see what else he can do.”

Varric chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for Bianca.
Varric:
“Maker help him. Or you. Or both. Yeah, probably both.”

Isabela only smirked wider, lifting her mug for another drink — the image of Hawke’s violet eyes and lightning-laced blade still burned in her mind.