Moonlight traced silver veins across the canvas of Elias's mobile fortress, a ramshackle train of wagons and armored tents winding through the night. Marin Ashveil sat on a low wooden stool beneath a tattered awning, her wrists bound by iron manacles that rattled softly whenever she shifted. A velvet ribbon gag, once a token of false civility, had been swept aside—her silent voice was no longer a concern. Yet every breath tasted of metal and anticipation.
“Adjust her seat," ordered Varric as he strode into the lantern-lit clearing. “The manacles pinch the wrists."
Two guards stepped forward. Marin offered no resistance—they loosened the shackles, then refastened them snugly around her upper arms, chaining her to a thick leather strap that looped over a saddle horn. She tested the chain's
