Oh, shit...

This was Zevran's first thought as he squinted his eyes against the discomfort. He felt nauseous, the taste of the sedative liquid the guifols used still lingering on his tongue. He spat out the rag that had been stuffed into his mouth, grimaced, and tried to scrape off the unpleasant taste and stray fibres from the cloth with his teeth. His temple throbbed, and if he had to describe it himself, he'd say that pain was an understatement. To make matters worse, his head kept knocking against something hard.

He forced his half-stuck eyes open. A clear blue sky and bright sunshine greeted him, accompanied by a few pleasant fluffy clouds. But to Zevran, it felt as though it was raining just on him. His hands and feet were tied. He awkwardly pulled himself away from the object he kept hitting— the side of a jolting cart.

Where the hell am I?

"Hey! Zevran...!"

It was Morrighan's whispering voice, familiar and somewhat reassuring. The rope binding Zevran's hands and feet was tight, limiting his movement, but he managed to roll onto his other side. Morrighan lay opposite him, also tied up, along with the others—Leliana and Oghren—both unconscious for now, with rags stuffed in their mouths near the black-haired woman's feet. Alistair sat at the end of the cart, bound with even more ropes than the others. He seemed to still be unconscious, his head lolling each time the cart bumped along.

"What the...?" Zevran began, but Morrighan shot him a sharp look, signalling for him to stay quiet.

The woman scooted closer to him. "They've got our weapons." She nodded toward the two men sitting on the driver's bench.

Zevran lifted himself slightly to get a better look. One of them had set aside Alistair's sword and was now inspecting one of his scimitars. "We could get a few coins for these at the smith's."

"At the smith's? We should take them to the flea market instead!"

Zevran shook his head indignantly.

"Look at them. They're no fighters," Morrighan whispered to him, her voice and expression determined.

"If my hands were free, they wouldn't stand a chance," Zevran replied, pointing out the obvious obstacle.

Morrighan sighed deeply, a strange look crossing her face, almost like she was touched by something.

"Just now... Zevran... I think I managed to scorch the rope!"

That surprised him. Morrighan's mother was a renowned fire sorceress, a fact known to everyone, and while her daughter fought with a sword, it wasn't exactly by choice. The group had often watched Morrighan's painful attempts to cast spells, with little success.

"Help me!" Morrighan whispered quietly so the men up front wouldn't notice. She rolled over with her back to him, raising her hands as much as she could. Zevran shifted down and inspected the knot on Morrighan's arm. It was indeed blackened and thinned in one spot.

"Don't move. I can bite through this," Zevran decided, figuring that, after the amount of fabric from the rag he had already swallowed, a bit of rope wouldn't make much difference. He slid lower and set to work.

"Is it okay...?"

"Pf-pf... I've licked tastier things in my life, but..."

Morrighan sighed, but soon felt the tension easing around her hands. Before long, she was able to free one of her wrists. She quickly sat up, untied her feet, then gestured for Zevran to roll over so she could loosen his bonds too.

Zevran contentedly flexed his wrists, then grinned at Morrighan. In no time, the ropes around his feet were gone, and the woman crawled over to Leliana while Zevran went to Oghren.

"Wake up, dwarf...!" he muttered, slapping Oghren's face lightly. The dwarf groaned. "Quietly, you old tippler!" Zevran's face twisted in disgust as Oghren's breath hit him. "How are you still drunk?"

Honestly, Zevran wasn't sure why he even bothered asking. When wasn't he drunk? He kept patting and shaking Oghren, but the dwarf merely groaned loudly, eyes closed, and as soon as his hands were free, he began flailing them about. "Leave me alone...!"

He doesn't even realize he's been kidnapped!, Zevran grumbled to himself, turning as the sound of the dwarf's voice made one of the men up front—a scrawny, goblin-like figure—jump up from the bench. "Hey! They're trying to escape!"

"We're not just trying, goblin!" Morrighan gave the scrawny figure a well-aimed kick as Leliana leaped towards them.

Zevran glanced back at Oghren, about to slap him awake, but the dwarf was still flailing about, maybe in his sleep, and crashed into the side of the cart. The latch came undone, and Oghren rolled straight into the dust.

Zevran didn't even have time to swear before the scuffle reached him. The goblin was writhing under Morrighan's grip, while Leliana and Zevran dealt with the peasant-looking man on the driver's bench. The cart came to a stop, and moments later, they had their weapons back in their hands.

Zevran had just raised his to strike when the sound of hooves thundered nearby, and suddenly, a squad of guifol soldiers surrounded the now stationary cart. He lowered his arm and looked around at their white uniforms and smug faces.

Alistair finally woke up, spat out the rag in his mouth, and exclaimed in alarm, "We're surrounded!"

"No kidding," Morrighan growled.

Zevran scanned the road, but saw no sign of Oghren anywhere.

Soon, they were all back on the cart, bound again, though this time they were allowed to sit and had their mouths free. They learned that the squad of soldiers had been riding just ahead, keeping a watchful eye on the cart driven by the goblin.

Zevran sat leaning against the side of the cart, watching the clouds in frustrated helplessness once more.

"At least tell us where we're going!" Morrighan barked at the soldiers now surrounding them.

"Don't bother. They're probably taking us to Logan," Alistair muttered gloomily.

"And who the hell is Logan?" Morrighan asked.

"The current petty king of the region. He played a part in forcing my father to give up the throne." The knight cast a resentful glance at the soldiers escorting them.

The situation seemed hopeless. The group knew there was little they could do but let the guifol gang take them wherever they were headed.

"And why would this Logan want to talk to us?" Leliana asked, but no one seemed able—or willing—to answer her.

Zevran leaned his head back against the cart's edge. In his mind, he saw a fragile girl standing in the tall grass, scanning the horizon again and again, but no one came for her.

Damn it...

The thought saddened him, though he didn't know why. He couldn't explain it to himself; he tried to rationalize that there was no point feeling sad about it. Women came and went, in Perubia and elsewhere, that was all. But then another voice, a more serious one, his own voice, whispered, I swear I'll find you, and he grew so angry he wanted to kick the air.

Then he sighed. For a fragile girl like Dina, there were only two options: return to the brothel, or live on the streets. Both paths led to the same end.

"Where exactly is this Logan based? Far from Perubia?" Alistair was hit with the question.

"In Vasandoral, half a day's travel. We'll be there by evening."

Zevran said nothing, just dropped his head back in frustration.

Logan's castle was dark and cold, the torches mounted on the walls burned with a dreary monotony. In the central hall, the walls were draped with white banners. Logan, a black-haired, bearded man, sat on what could only be described as a makeshift throne, his face so sour that it was painful to look at. Despite being a provincial lord, he was lacking in all aspects of grooming. His straight, thin hair clung greasily to his scalp, his facial hair somewhere between stubble and a beard. His crooked nose jutted out disproportionately from his profile, and his dark eyes were framed by sharp black makeup, which only made his appearance worse. The edges of his dark gold collar showed signs of wear, and his burgundy cloak appeared expensive yet unwashed.

He is exactly that miserable type I am usually sent to, Zevran thought. He cast a disdainful glance at the man, then hissed at the guard who was holding his arm and reluctant to let go. At least the guard looked somewhat better groomed than his master.

When they were brought before the man, he rose and stepped closer to them.

"Alistair. It's been a while."

The knight said nothing, but his eyes burned with a murderous fire.

"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here, aren't you?" Logan began, his voice dry and raspy. "I could have had you all killed, you know. My army is now large enough to deal with a ragtag group like yours."

Morrighan glared at him with a face that suggested she might spit in his direction.

"Not to mention you gave a beating to one of my smaller battalions recently. For that alone, you should be hanging from the gallows."

"Get to the point, what do you want from us?" Morrighan snapped.

Logan smiled in response, dragging things out as he walked back and forth before them in his dark leather attire.

"If you don't do what I ask, I'll have you all executed. But I'm not in a rush. My spies tell me that among you is someone who could be important to me. The problem is, I don't know which of you it is."

Alistair cut in. "Why the riddles, Logan? We both know it's me you're after!"

Logan pulled a bored face. "Maybe it is you, dear brother Alistair, maybe not. Your kingdom is already mine, so as long as you wander far from your lands with this petty group, you're of little concern to me."

Alistair hung his head.

Logan continued to pace before them. "Unfortunately, I don't yet know which one of you I'm looking for. But one of you knows the prophet."

Zevran listened with utter indifference to this sour-faced man who fancied himself a lord, and honestly, even this talk of prophets failed to move him. He simply wanted to return to Perubia as quickly as possible, viewing every second spent here as a waste of time.

The others, however, exchanged questioning glances.

"What... what kind of prophet?" Leliana asked, baffled. "Prophet Druindar died years ago!"

"That's right," Logan agreed, grinning smugly.

"There's been no successor of him in the Euthorian Empire since! After his death, they spoke of an Evindal, a northern elf whom Druindar supposedly intended as his heir, but he was certainly killed in a dwarf attack. His body was found in the temple!" Leliana recited her knowledge, clearly learned during her time at the abbey. "They never found the prophet's body. Do you think he's returned?"

"Not at all," Logan shook his head. "Druindar is dead. And frankly, he wouldn't have been much use to me. The old man was too..." He searched for the words. "...let's just say, too devoted."

Morrighan raised an eyebrow. "Ha!"

Leliana, however, shouted back fiercely, "Watch your words! You're speaking of the Prophet of the Tünde People, the Chosen One of the God of the Forest!

Zevran, the only elf among them, glanced at Leliana. Unlike the redheaded girl, he didn't harbour particularly deep religious feelings.

Logan, on the other hand, laughed dismissively, visibly irritating Leliana further.

"A dead prophet is not a dangerous prophet. And the wrath of the God of Forest hasn't struck me down yet," he laughed, then suddenly became serious. "But I need this new arrival. They say he's still young, and as such, I assume he'll be quite easy to influence..."

"You want to control the plans of a deity through its chosen one?" Alistair asked, incredulous.

"You're not as foolish as your tutors said you were," Logan sneered, earning a glare from the knight, but he didn't care. He turned away and continued to walk, then dramatically addressed them. "What could be a greater power than having the possession of a god's will?"

Leliana shook her head. "This is nonsense. It's impossible!"

Logan shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it's not your concern, worms. Your concern is to tell me which of you knows this new prophet. Then, who this prophet is."

Silence. There was some shuffling, and a few suspicious glances were exchanged within the group. Logan watched them intently, then suddenly leaned into Zevran's face.

"Why so quiet, elf?"

Zevran pulled back, a disdainful smirk creeping to the corner of his mouth. "My silence, my lord, is simply because I am not well-versed in ecclesiastical matters."

And because I'm sick of you, and I have no business here!

Judging by their expressions, the others agreed. No one knew Zevran as the model of monastic virtues.

Logan stared him down for a moment longer, then moved on, walking past each one of them.

"The crueller method would be to send you to the torture chamber and extract the truth from you, one by one. But see, I'm not entirely heartless."

Alistair glanced aside and let out a soft grunt.

"You have until morning. You'll be in the dungeon until then. By morning, whoever I'm looking for must come forward. If that happens, you'll be spared. I'll take the person under my wing, we'll find this new prophet together, and they'll be richly rewarded. The rest of you will be set free. Not a bad deal, considering what you did to my troops. But if no one comes forward by morning..." Logan's voice dropped into a threatening tone. "Then by mid-morning, you'll all be in the torture chamber, one by one, and I guarantee my executioners have their ways of making you talk." He nodded towards Zevran. "You'll be first. Withdrawn one."

Zevran responded with an obviously fake smile, so insincere it came across as more of an insult.

Logan turned his back on them and gestured to the guards.

Soon, they found themselves in a filthy cell. It wasn't particularly spacious for four people, with only a low wooden stump serving as furniture and some straw scattered on the ground. The door clicked shut, and Alistair gripped the bars, watching the guard walk away, seemingly leaving them alone.

"I'm not convinced they aren't listening in on us," he muttered, glancing down the seemingly empty, torch-lit corridor.

Morrighan sat on the stump with her legs spread, one arm resting on her thigh, elbow pointing upward, leaning forward. Leliana settled herself on the straw, while Zevran nonchalantly leaned against the wall.

"Look," Morrighan began in a gentle, almost motherly tone, "we stick together and we'll try to escape no matter what. But we need to know who knows about this new prophet if we're to come up with a plan. So..." She looked at each of them in turn, her eyes questioning.

Still, there was silence.

"Leliana?"

"I know you might all think I'm the most likely one, given my background, but I honestly know nothing. I wish I did."

Leliana's voice rang with sincerity, and Morrighan seemed to accept it as such. She then turned her gaze to Alistair, who stood by the bars.

"Don't look at me. I've no idea what's going on. I learned about Druindar as a child, too, but that he had an heir? I'm clueless," the knight shrugged helplessly. "How do we even know Logan's information is accurate? What if his spies are wrong?"

"What if? Then we'll be impaled for nothing, all the way from our tight little rear ends to our big gobs!" Zevran fumed. "No big deal, I'll be the first, at least the stake will still be clean for me!" He was seething, every passing minute piling on his frustration. He felt like he was caught up in something he had no business with.

Morrighan looked at him with interest. "Zevran?"

"What?"

"You can tell us if it's you."

Zevran theatrically grabbed his head with both hands, eyes bulging. "Mee? Do you honestly think that?! Mee? And a prophet?! I beg you, an actual prophet would slap me the moment they met me! No, wait, they wouldn't even need to meet me, just seeing me would be enough to slap me!"

Alistair stepped closer. "Just think about it, haven't you met someone recently who..."

"Someone who plans to spend their whole life in a temple and speak in riddles? Well... I don't know... maybe not?" Zevran quipped back, shaking his head.

"You're the only elf among us," Leliana pointed out.

Zevran looked back at them, mouth agape, glancing from one to the other in silence for a moment, then threw his hands out wide and slapped his thighs. "Well, this is just great... You all think I'm lying?"

"No one said that, but why are you so unusually nervous?" Morrigan asked pointedly.

"Because...!" Zevran was about to snap back but stopped short, perhaps not even daring to admit the reason to himself. He sighed heavily, forced calm upon himself, and, fiddling with the hay, declared slowly and deliberately, "I'm not nervous. Not more nervous than any of you, considering our situation isn't exactly ideal. I won't speak for the rest of you, but I've never fantasised about a torture chamber. That's all there is to it. And I don't know this prophet. No, despite being an elf, I don't know them. Definitely not."

Morrigan sighed, looking away from Zevran, clearly troubled. "Maybe it's Oghren that this dark lord is after."

"Oghren? Come on!" Alistair scoffed in disbelief. "Since Druindar the Prophet's death, I doubt Oghren's been sober. I find it hard to believe that any religious types would bother with him."

Leliana protested. "There are monastic orders that help souls as broken as his. He could've met them, maybe they took him under their wing, and..."

"Personally, I find that highly unlikely. We'd know about it," Alistair shook his head.

"Actually, it doesn't matter," Zevran interrupted. "I see very little chance that this darkly masked fellow will believe us if we tell him, 'Oops, sorry, a completely smashed guy just fell off a wagon, must be the one you're after.'"

"I hear you're talking about me!" A gleeful, gravelly voice called out, filtering through the tiny window of their cell.

They all jumped up. From behind the ivy-covered bars, a familiar pair of dwarven eyes grinned down at them.