Though she lives in Ferelden, a few days’ journey from the Korcari Wilds, Hawke has never really believed in witches as anything other than a bedtime story to scare Carver, retold under the sheets in a hushed voice into air thick with quick, frightened breathing. As she grew up, she left them behind with her wooden swords and balding dolls.
Witches are for children. They don’t step out of storybooks in fire and blood, the wind carrying the scent of smoke and burning flesh. She carries herself like a queen, the air still throbbing with the sound of her roar.
Hawke feels a sudden shift. They have stepped out of the world and into the unreal- here be dragons.