Thane P.O.V.
The moment the scout collapses into Kieran and Rayven’s arms, the room fractures into motion—controlled, efficient, familiar.
But beneath it, the wrongness hums like a cracked string.
I feel it before anyone speaks.
Ancient magic always announces itself to those who have lived long enough to recognize the shape of its shadow.
While Solas gives orders, I close my eyes.
Not to retreat—never that.
To listen.
There it is.
A thin thread of distortion trailing faintly off the scout’s clothes, clinging to the air around him. Not embedded in the flesh. Not burrowed into bone. Merely brushed against him, as if the world’s fabric had frayed near his path and he passed too close to the tear.
Better the wrongness touched the air than the wolf.
Much better.
I open my eyes as Ra
