The old Chantry's orphanage in Lowtown was as weary as the lives of those who found themselves inside it. Its walls, crumbling with neglect, stood as a stark reminder of how little the people of Kirkwall cared for its downtrodden. The air in the dormitory was thick with the smell of damp wood and unwashed bodies; its once-bright tapestries depicting Andraste now faded to the color of dust. In the corner, beneath a small window streaked with grime, a girl no older than five huddled on a threadbare mattress, her black hair pulled back in two thin pigtails. Her small shoulders shook with sobs as she clutched an old ragged doll to her chest, whispering through broken breaths, “Mama promised… she promised she’d come back for me in a year, but… but she didn’t.…” Her voice was small, but the other children heard her clearly enough.

Kneeling beside her, an older girl named Anne tried her best to comfort her. She was about ten, tall for her age, and already bulky, with a shock of straw-blonde hair cut short and uneven, giving her a rough, almost farmhand appearance. Her face looked as if it had been carved out of wood—square-jawed, thick-browed, and hard. But there was warmth in her green eyes as she wiped the smaller girl’s nose on her own sleeve.

“Hey now, your mama loves you,” she said in a voice that tried to be reassuring, though it was stiff and clumsy. “She must have a good reason, yeah? I’m sure of it. Maybe she got sick, or—or maybe she got...some other serious stuff to deal with. But she’ll come. You just have to wait a little longer.”

The younger girl sniffled loudly, rubbing her puffy eyes, unsure whether to believe her words. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Anne replied, gently brushing away the girl's tears, this time with the opposite sleeve. "There ain't no mama anywhere who doesn’t love her babe and want to be with them."

“Oh, stop filling her head with lies, An.” They didn’t notice the boy standing nearby until his voice broke through their small cocoon of comfort. Though two years older, Tamlin was shorter and scrawnier than Anne, but with a sharpness to him that made up for his build. His long face, dotted with a mix of freckles and pimples, was framed by unruly red hair and set in an expression of disdain. Crossing his arms, he moved his gaze to the little girl. "Your mother's not coming back, Page. She's a beaten down, drunk whore who doesn't give a rat’s ass about you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and cruel. Page’s dark eyes widened, her bottom lip trembling as Tamlin’s words sank in. A wail tore from her throat, louder and more desperate than before.

Anne’s face twisted with fury, her fists clenching at her sides. “Take it back,” she growled, rising to her feet and standing between Tamlin and the crying child. Her voice had a dangerous edge to it now.

Tamlin unfolded his arms. “I won’t take it back. She needs to hear it. You think lying to her makes it better? Maybe you think your mum is coming back too, huh?”

Anne’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Shut up, Tamlin.”

“The faster she knows the truth, the faster she’ll stop crying. You’ll see,” Tamlin taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. “And maybe, if you stop pretending your mum didn't toss you down into the sewers the moment you were born, you'll feel a whole lot better too."

It was too much. Anne’s temper snapped like a frayed rope. She lunged at Tamlin, fists swinging wildly. “I said, shut up!”

The fight erupted, with other children gathering around them in a circle. Anne tackled the boy to the ground, her fists pounding into his chest and arms with reckless force. Tamlin was quick, though, and managed to roll her off, throwing a punch that caught her in the side of the jaw. Anne grunted in pain but didn’t back down. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, using her weight to pull him down again.

The two of them grappled on the dusty floor, a blur of fists, kicks, and grunts. Anne landed a solid punch to the boy’s nose, and there was a sickening crack as blood began to pour down his face. Tamlin howled in pain, but he didn’t stop. He punched back, hard, driving his fist into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

She staggered, gasping for breath, and in that moment Tamlin shoved her back hard enough that she hit the floor with a thud. Before she could recover, he was on top of her, pinning her arms down as he glared at her, blood still dripping from his nose.

“You stupid bi—” Tamlin’s voice was cut off as the door to the dormitory creaked open, and a sharp, commanding voice echoed through the room.

“What is going on here?”

Sister Petrice stood in the doorway, her wrinkled face a mask of stern authority. She wore the worn, simple robes of a Chantry Sister, her expression hard as her murky eyes flicked between the two fighting children. Anne froze beneath Tamlin, and he scrambled off her, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand as the other children hurriedly scattered.

“You two!” Petrice snapped. “In my office. Now.”

Anne slowly got to her feet, still breathing heavily, and cast one last glare at Tamlin before turning to follow the Sister. Before she exited the dormitory, she gave Page a wide, reassuring smile, but the little girl, still sobbing quietly and huddled on her mattress, didn’t respond, instead hiding her face behind the doll.

The air in Sister’s office was stale and smelled of something sour as Anne and Tamlin were ushered inside. The room was sparse, with only a plain wooden desk, a few old books stacked haphazardly, and a large, rough-hewn statue of Andraste hanging on the wall. Sister Petrice closed the door behind them with a heavy thud, her expression hard and unforgiving.

Anne shot Tamlin a sideways glare, fists still clenched, while Tamlin sneered back, blood crusting around his nose from where she’d struck him. He leaned towards her, as if daring her to say or do something, but she held her ground and remained silent.

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“I don’t care who started it or why,” Sister Petrice stated sharply, cutting off their unspoken argument. “I care only that both of you are guilty of breaking the orphanage’s peace. And both of you will be punished.”

Anne and Tamlin said nothing. They knew better than to protest when Petrice took that tone.

“Roll up your sleeves,” the woman ordered, retrieving a long, thin stick from behind her desk.

They obeyed, pulling their sleeves up to bare their forearms, each knowing exactly what would come next. Their faces were set with grim determination, eyes fixed on a point just beyond the Sister’s shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the other’s presence.

Petrice raised the stick and brought it down on Anne’s outstretched hands first. The impact was sharp, slicing through her skin with a sting that shot up her arms. She bit her lip, but she did not whimper. She didn’t want to give Sister Petrice the satisfaction of a reaction. The stick rose and fell again and again, each strike deeper, sharper, until her skin split and blood started trickling down her hands.

Then it was Tamlin’s turn. His face remained a mask, defiant yet resigned, as the stick cracked down across his hands, leaving angry red welts that quickly bled. He gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply with each strike, refusing to flinch. The punishment was equal, meted out with cold precision, each child receiving their share of lashes until both of their hands were bloodied, raw, and trembling.

When Sister Petrice finally lowered the stick, her gaze was as impassive as ever. “You will ask forgiveness of each other,” she commanded, her voice icy, “and you will give each other a proper embrace, as a sign of peace. Now.”

Anne’s throbbing jaw clenched as she turned to Tamlin, struggling to keep her face impassive. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, the words forced out through gritted teeth.

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed, his lips barely moving as he replied, “I’m sorry, too.”

Sister Petrice watched them with hawk-like attention. “The embrace.”

The girl stepped forward, suppressing a smirk as she moved her arm up, making sure her cheek brushed firmly against Tamlin’s broken nose as she leaned in for the hug. She felt him wince, heard the faint hiss of pain that escaped his lips, and satisfaction surged through her. But before she could relish the moment, Tamlin’s arms clamped around her with bruising force, pulling her close in a rough, bone-crushing grip that sent a wave of pain through her sore ribs and bruised stomach. Neither child made a sound, their faces set in masks of forced civility as they held the embrace.

Sister Petrice watched them, her expression unreadable. “You’ll both report to morning prayers an hour early for the rest of the week. Let this serve as a reminder to respect one another and keep the orphanage’s peace.” After a pause, she added her gaze flicking toward the door, “Tamlin, you may go.”

Petrice watched in silence as the boy eagerly let go of Anne and slipped out of the office, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The girl stood where she was, feeling the weight of the Sister’s gaze settle on her, heavy and expectant. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering why she hadn’t been dismissed too. Her bloodied hands stung, but the pain was far from her mind now, replaced by a creeping sense of unease.

The woman moved around her desk, settling into her chair with an air of rigid authority. “Anne,” she began, steepling her fingers thoughtfully, “have you ever given any serious thought to your future? What sort of craft or profession might you take up once you leave here?”

Anne relaxed; this was an easy question to answer. “I want to clean chamber pots,” she proclaimed without a trace of hesitation.

Sister Petrice rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. “For the Maker’s sake, child. That is not a real profession.”

“Why not?” the girl replied, her tone brightening. She leaned forward, her enthusiasm spilling over. “Everyone else hates it, Sister. People feel miserable when they have to do it, but me—I don’t care. I don’t mind it at all. I can clean them without gagging. It’s perfect. Folks will be happy, and I’ll make money. Isn’t that what a job’s for?”

For a fleeting moment, a shadow of incredulous disbelief crossed Sister Petrice’s face. She stared at the girl as though trying to decipher whether she was being serious or playing some kind of joke. But Anne’s earnestness was unmistakable. The Sister shook her head slowly, the lines of her face tightening in displeasure. “Cleaning chamber pots will not secure you a future,” she uttered, her voice hardening, “nor will it bring you any real income.”

Anne opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, Petrice cut her off. “I’ve been watching you, girl. And while your attitude can be… trying at times, I believe you have potential.”

Anne frowned, confused. “Potential for what?”

The woman leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharp and calculating. “I believe you should join the Order.”

The girl blinked, her heart skipping a beat. She couldn’t have heard that right. “The Order? You mean… the Templar Order?”

The Sister nodded. “Yes. The orphanage is struggling, Anne. The donations we receive are not enough to cover our needs anymore. It’s been decided that some of the children who show promise may be sent to the Order. They provide for their recruits—food, clothing, shelter. It would be a way for you to secure a future for yourself and be of service to the Maker.”

Shock washed over Anne, rendering her momentarily speechless. The thought of joining the Templars and becoming one of those iron-clad figures was so far from anything she had ever imagined for herself that she didn’t know how to react. She had never considered anything like that—had never wanted anything more than a simple, quiet life, doing something no one else wanted to do. “The Templars?” she finally uttered, incredulity lacing her voice. “ I’m not—why me? I don’t even—”

"You've got a sturdy build," Sister Petrice interrupted, her tone brisk. "A dull mind," she muttered under her breath, then resumed her usual cadence. "And resilience. With proper training, guidance, and discipline, you could become a fine Knight of Our Lady."

Anne’s head spun. “But…” she began, struggling to find the words. “I’m not—aren’t Templars supposed to be, I don’t know, really dedicated to the Maker and all that? I don’t think I’m—”

“As I said, the orphanage cannot continue to provide for everyone, and the Order needs recruits,” Sister Petrice replied, cutting her off again. “You need to think practically about your future, girl.”

Anne looked down at her bloodied hands, her fingers stinging where the skin had split from the beating. A small, hard knot of defiance stirred within her. “Still, I don’t… I don’t want to be a Templar, Sister.”

A faint frown creased the woman’s brow. "I had hoped you would accept it willingly, but alas, it is not so. To be honest you have no choice in the matter. " Anne bit the inside of her cheek, her mind rebelling even as her body stood still. “The Chantry has done all it can, now it's time for the Order to welcome you.”

Seeing the fear in her eyes, the Sister sighed. "I know that the path of the Knight is a hard one to walk. It demands sacrifice, and it bears sorrow. But it is also a path of honor, and one that pleases the Maker. For that, His light will shine upon you, child."

The girl stayed silent, unable to meet the Sister’s gaze, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. After a long moment, the woman rose, her movements deliberate, and walked around the desk. She placed a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder. "You will leave in a few days."

With that, Petrice stepped aside. Her face was unreadable as she opened the door, ushering Anne to her next step.