Early morning sun had burned the mist off the rolling fields, which shimmered with golden waves as the wheat, almost ready for harvest, danced in the breeze. Smoke from a campfire lazily swirled upward, wood crackling gently.

“So I've been thinking about Solas”, Alana said, lowering their tin cup of bitter and burned campfire coffee. “And, look, I’m a damn good mage, but I don't even know if I can kill a god”.

Viago de Riva's eyebrow twitched, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. The master assassin’s hand moved with precision, in a fluid motion borne from long practice. With a flick of his wrist, the king was dead.

“Checkmate”, he said in triumph.

“I'll get you next time, old man”, Alana replied, creasing their mouth into a half smile at the frown this quip drew upon Viago's face. He was probably less than a decade older than them, but Viago had mentored Alana during their training, and they never missed an opportunity to wind him up about it.

“You need to be less impulsive”, Viago explained with an air of exasperation. “Not every battle can be won through attack alone, Rook”.