Astrid doesn’t speak Dalish, but her understanding of the words comes automatically, out of nowhere, the knowledge simply blossoming in her sleeping mind: da’fen, little wolf. The diminutive makes her smile broaden, charmed. The room smells like warm skin and warm fur and burning fragrant wood.

“Y’know, you can call me Asta,” she says. Few here have.

(Where’s here?)

“So the lesson’s a warning? Don’t underestimate your…” She tries to sort through it, trying to pinpoint exactly what this Fen’Harel means, what those bright-eyed sharp-eared children clustered around the Keeper are supposed to think of him. “Enemy?”