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1800i-dont-write-fanfiction · 2 days ago

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midsummer night's scheme

The All-Father’s kitchens smelled of spiced wine and charred lamb, all mingled with the near-constant stench of burning bodies wafting up from the laboratories below. Here, a small conclave had formed. Two maids in smudged aprons stood shoulder to shoulder: the first, a red-haired woman with long, thick curls, claiming an air of authority over every piece of gossip worth sharing. The second, far younger and pretty, was from the poorest quarter of Minrathous, with bright eyes that made her look nearly innocent. Opposite loomed two guards, both relegated to a post reserved for those either unwilling or incapable of doing anything more complicated. The first was a round, disagreeable man with a cockney drawl. He let out a cough in the direction of the other, younger, all wiry limbs and restless glances as he wiped a stained cloth across his brow.

Half-turned from the group, a scullery boy laboured over a stack of pots. He listened, of course-- everyone did-- though his expression was the practiced scowl of a skeptic, having found the world a tiresome place from an early age, and was certain it would only grow worse with time. Whispering together in that peculiar register which is meant to be private, sharp little hisses carried through the clatter of ladles. Their faces bent close in a shadowed corner as voices lowered not so much out of discretion as for the pleasure of speaking in hushed tones. For in the week that had just passed, Elgar’nan’s fury had been raised to a tempest, then, most astonishing of all, calmed by the most outrageous of claims: that the former Inquisitor, Herald of the Chantry, slayer of Corypheus, was now said to carry the child of their Lord’s most sworn and ancient foe.

"I’m tellin’ you," the redhead insisted, "the Lord was so furious he shook the stone--"

"Oh, fer Lusacan’s sake," The barrel-shaped man scoffed and looked down his nose at her. "It woz the bleedin’ tower. Towers shake."

"That’s not what I heard. Mara, she works the east wing, was hidin’ in the drapes! If you can believe it," chuckling, "too long-nosed to leave before it started, too scared to run after."

"Your friend’s full o’ piss."

The scullery boy muttered something under his breath in agreement.

"She told me the same!" The younger maid chimed in eagerly, "Swore on her saint’s bones she saw it herself."

Beneath a fringe of long, limp blond hair, the timid guard shifted his weight, eyes darting toward the younger maid with the forlorn hope she might yet notice him. "Aren’t you, I mean, d-don’t you care for the lady, Ms. Emily?"

"The ‘lady,’ is it?" His fellow barked a laugh. "Call ’er what she is, boy: a heretic knife-ear who fancies ‘erself some kind o’ prophet." He spit into the washbasin. "Mark me, that witch ain’t no more blessed than the swine b’low."

"Hush, Bertle," the redhead chided, and, turning back, "Come ‘ere boy, and I’ll tell you what I know."

Even the scullery boy edged closer, though he would later deny doing so.

"She stood there," she recounted, "before Lord Elgar’nan, clutching ‘er belly, trembling, tears in ‘er eyes. Said she’d been visited in dreams--"

"Oh, yes! And once in the flesh," Ms. Emily piped up, gesturing with both hands,"The Dread Wolf’s parting gift--"

"Or final scheme," the scullery boy muttered, still scrubbing.

She sighed wistfully. "How romantic."

The scullery boy wrinkled his nose in disgust as the ladies carried on, painting the tale in vivid strokes: fires flaring in empty hearths, a storm howling through the dining hall, shadows growing like smoke–-

"--and the walls cracked and bled," the redhead finished breathlessly.

"Bollocks. She prob’ly spun it t’save ‘er own sorry hide. I don’t buy a word."

"The signs are all there, if you know how to look," she insisted, glancing nervously toward the doors in case their treason were to be discovered. "She goes pale at breakfast. Can hardly eat a thing."

"Runs off after," Ms. Emily added with a grin. "That’s ‘divine purpose’ for you."

"‘Divine purpose’ my bleedin’ arse," Bertle snorted.

"And the fits!" she continued, "I brought her supper once-- just once; heard her talking, but no one was there. Talking to shadows, like she’s half mad."

"S-shadows?" The young man stammered, color draining from his face.

"Lookin’ for that Dread Wolf, wherever he is. Lord Elgar’nan banished him to the Black City."

"They say he can kill a man in his dreams," Ms. Emily said, not to be dismissed, "They say he's done it before."

“That’s horseshit, girl!” he barked, then laughed, nursing the pint gripped tight in his fist.

"No, I-I was stationed outside when it happened," the young man stammered, edging back into the circle as if it might close against him. "The Lord was… well, the whole tower was rather unstable."

"You jump at shadows, Pam," Bertle huffed.

“My name is Pim--”

"You were there?" Ms. Emily interrupted, "What did she say?"

Pim flushed under her attention. "M-Mara was right. The Herald said he came to her before his ritual." He paused then, hesitating. "I heard Lord Elgar’nan say that the ancient texts speak of, well, children, born from the gods. Just like the legends of old Tevinter."

The scullery boy finally faced his work, drying his hands on his apron. "I’ve heard the stories. Not sure I believe ’em." Then, quieter, "But even from the kitchens, I felt it in my teeth. And it smelled of sulfur."

The maids gasped and shared quick, excited glances. In fact, the boy had no real teeth to speak of, so such a feat was impressive, indeed.

“Felt what, you daft sod?” Bertle squinted over the rim of his tankard, his only remaining eye half-lidded in suspicion.

The scullery boy turned back to his work with a bored shrug.

"That’s it, then," the redhead mused. "My aunt swore she smelled sulfur the day ‘er sister quickened, and the babe came out with a shock of hair like spun gold."

"I’d rub his little heels with rosemary oil," Ms. Emily added earnestly, "My gran said it keeps the bad spirits from settling in."

"Look, I don't know nothing about ancient prophecies and divine children," the scullery boy snapped, scrubbing with an unusual vigor. "What I seen is this: that elf was sick for days before any of this started. Pale as milk, couldn’t keep down more than a crust of bread. Looked more like a woman run ragged than some holy mother."

Lowering his voice: "She's clever, the Herald. Always has been. Played the Chantry, played the nobles, even played the Inquisition…"

"You think she's lying?

He stopped, shrugged, and returned to his work with a frown. Stories are, of course, only ever as reliable as the mouth that tells them, and this particular story had passed through far too many to be of any real repute. In truth, it began, as so many terrible things do, with a god’s ambition.

When the Dread Wolf’s regret sundered the Black City and ancient gods walked again with mortal men, the All-Father’s wrath threatened the world for the second time. Yet there came a moment when even the mightiest powers might fall silent before a desperate plea. In that hour when day warred with night, when Elgar’nan’s maddness burned like a second sun behind his eyes, the former Inquisitor spoke words dangerous enough to reshape the world.

“If it is ignorance you hate, would you still act without possession of the entire truth?”

The faint flare of his nostrils told her well enough she had his attention, though his expression remained fixed in contempt.

Her breath caught. "If you mean to end this now--" She pressed her hand to her stomach, allowing tears to gather at the corners of her eyes. "You must know I carry his child."

Three heartbeats passed.

In the first: affront. Doubt warred in the god's chest like winter battling the first signs of spring.

The second saw servants in scattered corners holding their breath.

The third bore a thin smile, flickering across marble features; the baring of teeth before the strike, an acknowledgment of prey that had revealed something infinitely more interesting than expected. Every nerve in her body screamed warnings as those ancient, terrible eyes dissected her, weighing her words, testing their truth against some inner measure known only to gods.

"You dare make such a claim to me."

The most deafening silence followed, marked only by the echoes of far-off footsteps; the torches bowed inward, sharing in the confidence he claimed. Meanwhile, a pair of servants strained to catch any hint of a syllable.

The warmth of his breath pressed against her cheek. "You truly have no idea what you are saying." Then: "If what you say is true, I should extract this creature from you directly. That would settle the matter rather quickly."

"You speak of legacy, unbound by blood," she said, "You offer protection in exchange for obedience, yet you threaten the very life I carry."

Whether from bitten lips or the metallic tang of fear, she could taste copper on her tongue. Elgar'nan stood motionless, though his eyes could have burned through stone. His face betrayed a fleeting moment of surprise, both at the audacity of the claim and the sheer gall to speak it aloud. Then, just as quickly, a streak of anger flared in turn. His hand flexed once, grasping at a solution that might have easily ended with a lone strike. Yet rage, which had so often served his purpose, struck impotently against the bars surrounding it.

"A child of Fen’Harel." He dulled his fury to a simmer, then took a half-step back.

"Understand this," she pressed, her voice having taken on a sense of authority he seldom encountered from anyone else. He wondered, almost absently, how he might elicit that response from her again. "I do not regard my situation lightly."

Elgar'nan looked as though he were about to speak before pulling himself away, wearing a terrible scowl. He retreated and began to pace.

"You will tell me," he hissed from between clenched teeth, "everything."

Ellana's eyes flickered away, then back, quickening in a manner that might be mistaken for reluctance, though in truth was calculation.

"It is something I have never told another soul," she began, "He had visited me before, though only in my dreams."

"So, you consorted with the Dread Wolf in dreams."

"Brief words and glimpses. Nothing long enough to hold to, until--"

"Yes, yes," he snapped. "You will continue."

A memory surfaced. Not the image she needed, but one that would serve. One she could borrow and reshape. The tremor in her voice, the way her breath caught-- these were real.

"The night before his ritual failed, he bid me to come with him."

Moonlight cut silver paths across dark water. It had rained earlier that day, and the grass was still damp beneath her feet. A breeze sent a shiver through her body, raising goosebumps along her arms and lifting the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

'What is that sound?'

'Listen, vhenan.'

She stopped and closed her eyes. His hand was still holding hers.

The irony was not lost on her, using the memory of Solas pushing her away to craft a lie about him drawing her near. But pain was pain, and her heartbreak stung the same whether born of rejection or separation.

"He took me somewhere important to us both."

Wet air. Cool upon the skin, nearly cold save the warmth of his hand. A waterfall like silver threads tumbling into nothing, flanked on either side by two stone halla whose eyes had kept vigil for an age.

'Then what I must tell you. The truth.'

"We spoke of what we shared, once," she continued, "He was gentle, at first--"

How he'd looked at her before walking away.

Elgar’nan scoffed, "How tedious," and his mouth grimaced with the aftertaste of such predictability that had long defined the Dread Wolf's machinations. Ellana glared.

The careful distance he'd maintained--

"Afterwards, he said he had left me something his people had lost. Something he intended to live on."

As though it might shatter his resolve.

"Ah, you neglect the sordid details." A rich laughter erupted, further bewildering those who waited in the wings. Ellana was, for her part, equally uncertain whether his amusement boded well or ill for her current predicament, and she stood, staring, with her mouth only slightly ajar. He gestured for her to continue.

She cleared her throat and, closing her eyes, recalled all too clearly the sound of his voice as he took the vallaslin, then the anchor. "He only smiled and said it was already done, and that I would understand when the old world was restored."

"He wished for the child to inherit a part of himself. Something meant to endure.”

She watched for the moment when skepticism might soften into something altogether more useful. The rhythm of his footfalls gradually ceased, and he grew still beside the hearth, bracing one hand against the mantelpiece. A subtle buzzing in her ears accompanied the absence of sound.

"Such magics," he said finally, "are not unknown to me." His head turned slightly, not quite looking at but acknowledging her in his peripheral vision.

Indeed, what should have brought relief yielded only more questions. Ellana's brow knit, allowing a sliver of genuine confusion to break her careful facade. His words rang oddly in her mind, tugging at no memory, no context she could name. Yet she smoothed her expression, so he might not mark the lapse. If he chose to drape her deception in his own interpretation, so be it. It was far more advantageous to be the canvas, rather than the subject of his suspicion.

She had no recourse but to feign certainty as she stammered, "S-so you know what this is?”

It was an audacious, impossible claim he wished to dismiss immediately. Yet if it were true-- could even be made true-- a child, bound by blood to his rival; a means not only to break him but to reclaim what he destroyed? Elgar'nan's eyes gleamed with either admiration for the cleverness of his enemy, or eager anticipation for a boon that cunning had unwittingly delivered into his grasp.

A dagger to pierce the heart of his enemy.

He began to pace again. "You would describe a creature born of purpose, conceived through old rites. The binding of spirit to flesh before breath; the seeding of power in the very moment of creation."

"How exactly is that possible?"

"When the first of my people took form, we understood that flesh was both a gift and a curse. Bodies could be destroyed, but a spirit’s essence could be preserved, transferred, reborn."

"Should his body fail," he continued, "Fen'Harel would have a means of return."

Halting beside one of the murals, he traced the stone with an unexpected gentility while inclining toward her. "The Dread Wolf would not squander such an opportunity," He mused. "Foreseeing his ritual might fail, he would seek to preserve his power through other means."

She had intended to buy herself time, perhaps even freedom. Yet now it seemed Elgar'nan was constructing such an elaborate scheme that rendered it not just conceivable, but perhaps even probable. Although she had elevated her value exponentially, she too had entangled herself in a fiction that was steadily growing.

Fenhedis.

"If it is as you say, I have no need to convince you further." She ventured, desperate to solidify the notion in his mind.

Naturaly, a shadow of doubt passed over him. The cost of dismissing her, if she spoke the truth, was far too great. And yet, somewhere beneath all that, he was being tricked. Not through force, but something altogether more insidious: a lie that suited him. He smiled as an idea took root.

"I understand now; it is providence." He turned to face her fully, severe in his orientation. "This world shall kneel to blood twice blessed," he proclaimed. For in the realm of gods, belief was the scaffolding of reality. If he chose to accept this as truth, then truth it would inevitably become.

"Elvhenan endures."

She offered no reply. His preference for her silence was palpable.

Soon, news traveled from servant to soldier, apprentice to acolyte, gathering embellishments the way a stone collects moss. Assassins lowered their voices to share what they'd heard from a cousin's friend who served in the Lord’s estate. In cities where Venatori agents lurked, bards composed verses that warned of bad omens to come: ravens circling the fortress for three days without rest; a night bereft of stars; water wells turning to blight in the countryside. Elgar’nans’ commanders forbade such talk among their ranks, of course, yet even they could not prevent their patrols from crossing the hall when passing Ellana’s chambers. For what power might be growing there, under the watchful eye of a god?

Even the Veilguard had heard whispers of the Inquisitor’s capture, though the finer context was, admittedly, a bit muddled. And after the destruction of Minrathous, the fledgling resistance was in no position to mount a rescue mission, let alone storm the sanctum of a god (even if they could find it). Worse still was the matter of Solas, and of the inevitable tantrum he was bound to throw upon finding out. Thus, Neve Gallus, unwilling keeper of this grim intelligence, elected to investigate further before passing it along to one who, for better or worse, had Solas living in their head.

Thus, the desperate did invoke the eternal, and the mortal bound the immortal: Elgar’nan, who had overthrown his own father, had been tricked into blessing his usurper. And she lied to a god, not merely to preserve her life, but to bind him to it.

#solavellan #lavellan #solas #elgarnan #lavellan x elgarnan #datv spoilers #elgar'nan #solas x lavellan #veilguard spoilers #sollavellan

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1800i-dont-write-fanfiction · 20 days ago

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girl dinner

In the hour between midnight and dawn, rain swelled the walls of an ancient fortress until the stones wept a questionable gelatinous substance. Two figures patrolled a set of dark, fetid corridors that reeked of wet limestone, lye, and rotting flesh.

A lanky, low-ranking Venatori recruit now functioning as a guardsman in what he perceived as a deliberate slight walked beside a portly, poor-tempered man who hadn't yet realized his position was an insult rather than any particular show of esteem from their superiors. The keep groaned around them, unable to contain the sounds that seeped down from the laboratory above. Both men had learned not to question the muffled screams, or why the night roster had grown so thin of late.

The first guard’s hands trembled around a tray of rations while the second filled the silence with a series of sour complaints about one "bleedin’ doxy wot pinched me purse an’ me ’eart in one go."

Neither belonged there, really, and had been fairly deemed expendable-- unsuitable for serious operations and thus relegated to watching prisoners while pretending not to notice when their fellows simply vanished.

"Have you seen Markol?" The first asked suddenly, as though the question had been on his mind for some time. Carefully, though not careful enough to mask the tremor beneath his words. "I- I haven't seen him since he took that last batch to…"

"I ‘ere ‘eyre always ‘en need o’more subjects. Maybe even our boys," the second rasped. His voice was a gravel-thick wheeze, every word having clawed past tarred lungs rather than flowed. Consonants grated like flint on steel as vowels rattled in a dry hollow, each breath an asthmatic hiss that scraped the back of his throat. Between sentences, he drew a wet, whistling inhale that was not unlike the sound of a bellows tugging through clogged pipes.

"But I thought... he only had a few injunctions. The captain said--"

"Shot it." The second barked, then doubled with a bronchial cough that spattered flecks of spittle in the direction of his companion. He straightened with a phlegmy rattle. "I don't see no’thin, I ‘on't ‘er no’thin, and neither d’you."

Halting at the final cell, at the edge of the farthest corridor in the lowest dungeon, the lanky recruit slid a tin plate between a set of rust-pitted bars; inside, a ghostly creature curled in the corner like discarded parchment.

He whispered to his fellow as he turned away; "How... how much longer do you think?"

"Not long, any day now. And I'll b’glad t’see th’back of this ‘ole mess."

Fine words have always been used to dress brutality in rhetoric, Ellana knew, though the "chamber" she occupied was no room . Four walls of ancient stone that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, that had absorbed the prayers and curses of countless souls, now bore witness to the methodical breaking of, regrettably, her.

Time moved differently here. Not in hours or days, but in the rhythm of footsteps down the halls and the precise intervals of her jailers. She could not say where exactly she was, and had no recollection of how she got there-- that was the first thing, the simplest thing, yet even that certainty slipped away when she tried to grasp it. Location seemed irrelevant in this space that felt more like being underwater than being anywhere at all. What she did know was that Elgar’nan had somehow managed to persuade the loyalties of the Venatori, who came and went like shadows, leaving behind only the evidence of their passage: a bowl of water and a piece of bread that tasted like nothing and crumbled to dust between her fingers.

Her body had already begun the slow betrayal that comes with deprivation. Her hands trembled when she reached for water, and her mind, despite years of leading armies and swaying nations, had begun to drift like smoke; so much that she found herself having conversations with people who were not there, answering questions no one had asked. She, too, found there was a particular quality to hunger that came, not from the belly, but from the slow starvation of the mind. One may keep sufficiently occupied throughout the day, yet it became far more difficult to ignore when evening =arrived and sleep should follow. Then, it cried out like a wounded animal.

She shifted on the stone floor. Her back protested from having lain on unforgiving ground for so many days that she had long ceased to count them. In fact, it was nearly impossible to tell the day from night, as the place was so dark, and sleep so rare a companion, she could no longer place any confidence in her own perceptions. Not even the Fade could offer sanctuary, for the wards there kept sleep at bay. Now, the physical hunger was a gnawing thing that moved beyond mere want, that left her fearing she were becoming less real with each passing hour. The Inquisitor was fading like morning mist, leaving behind only a ghost of intention.

The moments in one’s life when salvation and damnation wear the same face may only be revealed in hindsight-- such a moment arrived with the sound of clipped steps that fell like hammer-blows to the drumbeat of her own impending headache, and the walls pressed closer, or perhaps she was only shrinking.

She felt the pressure first bloom in her ears, and the kind of dreadful awareness that precedes thunder. The fine hairs on her arms lifted as a shiver traveled across her skin; something unnatural, gathering just beyond sight. As the sound of steps rose, a strange light began to bleed down the corridor. Unsettled, it crept along the floor in advance of him, lapping at the walls. The light did not illuminate so much as distort, for it was not the honest glow of a lantern, but something unwholesome that seemed to feed upon darkness rather than dispel it.

Among her people, his name was not so much sang as it was invoked: Elgar'nan, the All-Father, destroyer, god of vengeance. And what volumes of terror were contained in those syllables? To behold him in the flesh was to finally understand those warnings, whispered around fires in low, uncertain tones. For to look upon him was to gaze into the abyss of divine fury made manifest.

The sight of him made her breath catch as ice filled her lungs.

To her wavering vision, he seemed less substance and more a force of nature masquerading under the pretense of form. Ellana pushed herself to her feet. The cell tilted ominously. Meanwhile, an uncomfortable sweat began to bead on her forehead.

Then, with little more effort than a man might spend brushing dust from his sleeve, he rent the air asunder. Frost descended like a curse, the bite of deep winter that scours flesh from bone. Along the walls, veins of ice bloomed in delicate whirls. The lock crumbled and soot rose where metal had been. The hinges withered and the door sagged, held in place by memory before falling into gaping absence.

"Inquisitor Lavellan," he drew out the syllables, "You are unsightly."

His voice carried the particular warmth that powerful men use when they wish to appear benevolent, costing nothing to give and less to withdraw.

She replied in silence. This was not the visit of someone who expected to be surprised.

"Your accommodations have been lacking. There are those among my followers who retain vivid memories of their former master. A considerable number served under him directly, I understand."

"Why do the Venatori serve an elven god?"

The All-Father's jaw worked silently. He took a step closer. The muscle beneath his cheek jumped once, then twice.

"You know, it is only through my intervention that you draw breath at all. I have been your protector these past weeks." He paused here, having chosen not to address her inquiry. "My Venatori would have your head within the hour, and dear Ghilan’nain has been most vocal about your potential."

What the Dalish revered as the Mother of Halla proved to be something altogether more sinister. The ancient texts they had uncovered while pursuing Solas revealed a being whose appetite for experimentation knew no bounds of decency or restraint. In fact, reports from her agents spoke of laboratories hidden in forgotten ruins where evidence of her work still lingered: bones fused in impossible configurations and remnants of creatures that should never have drawn breath.

"She believes your talents would serve a higher purpose in her work, and yet…"

The implication was something like a bridge half-built over rushing water. He disagreed, yes, but disagreement was such a small word for the silence that yawned between intention and action.

" Lasa em halani ma, da'len," he lulled, "Your gods are not without mercy."

Thrice he had come, like something from a fairy tale, or perhaps the pattern of a breath. Indeed, the very regularity of his appeals suggested either a persistence of character or an obstinacy which was decidedly less so. He had come so close now she could smell the perfume of old blood and magic on him. Ellana stared past, fixing her gaze upon some point beyond the moment, beyond the place, and the reach of his terrible will.

"I am not interested in your help."

His gaze swept over her then with the particular revulsion reserved for beautiful things allowed to wither; not the basest distaste one feels for that which was always ugly, but a deeper offense at witnessing the decay of something once worth beholding.

"How the mighty have fallen," he chided. "You offend me, da'len. Not just with your obstinacy, but this lamentable deterioration, this… " Gesturing toward her with vague distaste, "This is beneath us both."

He spoke with the weight of earnest disappointment, from the confirmation of expectations he had hoped would prove false. She scowled as shame crept up her throat like bile, having thought pride already murdered within her, yet it seemed the corpse retained some stubborn spark of life.

"Offends you?" she repeated. "I'd assumed divine patience immune to such petty sufferings."

A smile touched his lips-- such a smile as winter wears when it spies the last rose of autumn. "You misunderstand, child. This is a gift freely given," and then, quieter, " It would be so very simple to force the matter ."

"Then let us dispense with the illusion that you seek my willing compliance."

"Consider it a peace offering," he replied. "I would not see you so disheveled."

Elgar'nan then moved with the sort of grace which only gods and aesthetes possess in equal measure, in a gesture one might employ to dismiss a tedious dinner companion. Though instead of waving away conversation, he proceeded to rend reality just as Ellana parted her lips to deliver what she hoped would prove a particularly scathing retort. The effect was extraordinary, the material world bore all the substance of parchment when subjected to his impatience. Light spilled through the tear, revealing a hallway of polished marble just beyond the threshold. This hall bore no kinship to any earthly construction, being far too beautiful to have been conceived by mortal minds and too tasteful to have been executed by mortal hands.

"Come. I will have you properly tended."

It was kindness, of a sort-- that of a demon who grooms his prey before a feast, whispering gentle words while sharpening its teeth. Yet the promise of basic dignity exercised a fascination upon her that was almost indecent. Opportunity is the most seductive of sirens, particularly when one is actively dying. For beyond those walls lay the prospect of air that did not carry the stench of filth, and water that might actually clean. And those wonderfully reliable instincts that had been bred into her through generations of survival and subjection shrieked their protests. It was like signing a contract written in a language one cannot read, but which promises, at the very least, superior accommodations. Thus, after weeks of something decidedly worse than discomfort, she accepted his offer.

Stepping through the portal, their footsteps created rhythms that defied the relationship between cause and effect. Sight and sound sometimes preceded the step that caused it, lingering long after they had passed. The passage twisted upon itself, turning and returning until she was certain they had passed the same archway on three separate occasions, though perhaps all wrong things appear alike in the end. Even the stones seemed alive, carved with symbols that writhed and shifted when observed.

Along the walls, murals stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling. In the first, Elgar'nan stood with arms raised toward a blazing sky while his face contorted in rage. The sun recoiled from his wrath as shadow-wreathed hands reached up to drag it from the heavens. The next showed him leading a host of elven warriors against creatures of living stone and molten fury.

In another, Elgar'nan sat upon a crystal throne, dispensing judgment to a line of supplicants that stretched beyond the mural's edge; some groveling, others proud, all awaiting his word. At his side sat a dark-haired woman whose beauty was both terrible and magnificent, whose hand rested on the throne's arm casually: Mythal, no doubt, painted with eyes followed the viewer down the hall. But it was the final mural that gave her the most severe pause, being entirely different from its companions. Here, Elgar'nan was far from the wrathful sun-slayer or the imperious judge as he knelt upon a verdant hillside rendered in soft greens and golds, surrounded by adoring elven children. His hands rested with infinite gentleness upon their small faces, bearing an expression so soft it ought to belong to an entirely different being.

It was a masterpiece disguised as religious art, the careful construction of a mythology designed to reconcile irreconcilable contradictions. Was this how he had been, once? Or how he wished posterity to remember him?

She found herself wondering, despite her better judgment, which version had been the original, if any, and which a carefully constructed fiction. Had the protector hardened into a tyrant, or had the conqueror simply learned to wear tenderness as skillfully as he wore authority? It was the eternal paradox of power: that those who claimed dominion over others invariably justified their authority through proclamations of affectionate stewardship. The destroyer of suns became the gentle father, the wrathful deity transformed into the merciful guardian.

"Where are you taking me?"

In the strange light, his face appeared to shift: younger, then older, then something uncanny. She caught the slight curve of his mouth in profile. "Patience, da'len . All will be revealed in its proper time."

At length, they came to a chamber carved from what appeared to be a single, vast emerald. Steam rose from a sunken pool, reflecting an arched canopy where constellations wheeled in unearthly patterns. Crystal vessels lined the walls, filled with oils that caught and scattered the light.

"We will begin anew," he announced, facing her, "You will dine with me. As equals ."

The last word tasted strange on his tongue.

"Equals." She repeated. "Is that what we are to be?"

"For the span of a meal, yes." He replied dryly. "You can hardly expect me to suffer your current display. There are standards to observe."

Ellana weighed her options, few as they were. She could refuse. Better to rot in that fetid cell than accept his mockery of a dinner invitation. But he would grow weary of her soon enough, and when that patience wore thin, death would invariably come calling. Whether by his hand, or worse, Ghilan'nain's. The latter made her stomach turn. If anyone meant to rescue her, they had missed their opportunity. The slight hope she'd nursed in the dark was all foolishness now: she was quite alone.

Weighing her soul's price against her body's needs, she found both wanting. Stubbornness warred with pragmatism in her breast, each demanding supremacy. The first whispered that death was preferable to submission. The second countered that the dead accomplish nothing. But there it was plainly: refuse, and face certain death in squalor. Accept, and... what? Live to fight another day, perhaps. Or merely postpone the inevitable while her spirit withered by degrees.

Alternatively, she might employ what remained of her rather limited arsenal: her wits, such as they were. But even the illusion of participation was preferable to passive resignation. The second path offered at least the illusion of agency. If he truly intended to treat her as an equal, even temporarily, perhaps she might discover some small weakness, some overlooked detail that could be turned to her benefit. And if not, she would at least face whatever came next clean and fed instead of filthy and starving.

Ellana sighed, looking around the room. "Does this 'peace offering' extend to affording a woman her privacy?"

He raised a brow, nearly hinting at amusement. "Would you prefer I thought of you as a woman, Inquisitor?" His eyes traced the outline of her flesh idly.

"Perhaps not," She replied coolly.

An awkward beat passed.

"An hour." He turned on his heel. The door sealed behind him with the sound of a dying breath.

Ellana approached the pool's edge, watching her reflection break across its surface as she shed her rags. The water received her with heat that bordered on painful, seeping into muscles where tension refused eviction. Tracing over her shoulders and ribs, she frowned at the unfamiliar ridges. Grime swirled away in lazy spirals as she began to scrub.

When she emerged, clean but unsteady, a modest garment had been laid across the bench. A masked guard waited beyond the door and led her wordlessly through corridors that seemed to rearrange themselves with each turn. By the time they reached their destination, she felt faint and paused at the threshold to rest against the doorframe.

The walls of the dining chamber curved inward like the petals of some vast, petrified flower, gleaming with a pearlescent sheen that caught light from no discernible source. The ceiling vaulted so high it disappeared into shadow, though occasionally something like stars flickered in the false heavens. At the center stood a table of polished obsidian. Two chairs faced each other across its reach: one a magnificent throne of intertwined branches, the other simpler but no less beautiful, carved from pale wood with inlaid silver patterns.

Here, too, the walls shimmered with murals depicting ancient glories; the All-Father standing triumphant over conquered realms, elven cities of impossible splendor rising from verdant plains, and always his golden figure at the center of creation. Flames danced in ornate braziers, casting everything in a deceptively warm glow.

The bath had restored some color to her face, but captivity had left its mark in the hollow space beneath her cheeks and the wariness behind her eyes. She took in the absurd grandeur of a table that could seat fifty, yet held only two place settings at opposite ends. This was theater, of course, an elaborate production designed to serve some purpose beyond her current body of knowledge. But if Elgar'nan wished to play at civility, she would oblige so that he might forget, for a moment, she was anything but a willing guest at his table.

Elgar'nan rose, a gesture of courtesy that somehow managed to feel like a threat. "You may be seated."

As she did, the space between them contracted until only ten feet separated them where twenty had stretched before. Her eyes sought deception, finding only that his sovereignty bent substance as easily as light bent shadow.

"A convenience," He explained. Then, looking somewhat satisfied, "You are frightened. That is natural."

Ellana smothered the urge to roll her eyes.

Platters materialized on the table. Fragrant steam rose from dishes that made her mouth water, despite her determination to remain unmoved. Her stomach clenched painfully at the sight.

"Why this hospitality, after weeks in a cell?"

"Perhaps I wished to see if you could still behave as befits your station when treated as such."

"You are committed to this facade."

"For tonight."

She waited, but he offered nothing further. The silence stretched uncomfortably until she felt obliged to break it herself; "Why am I here?"

"Take refreshment. Then, we may speak with ease."

"There is no ease in captivity. Equals rarely keep one another in chains."

"A regrettable misunderstanding on both sides." Elgar'nan examined a grape before crushing it between his teeth. "One that ends, should you prove reasonable."

Ellana took up her goblet, though she made no move to drink. "And what constitutes 'reasonable' to a god?"

"Recognition of truth," his eyes gleamed, and, sensing her apprehension, "Eat, da'len. You are starving ."

Indeed, she was, and found herself unable to resist temptation entirely. Meanwhile, the All-Father observed her progress with a sort of quiet attention that might have proved complimentary under ordinary circumstances. There was something almost proprietary in his regard, as if her compliance afforded him a species of satisfaction she found more unsettling than his intensity.

When she had taken sufficient fare to satisfy the demands of both hunger and civility, though not enough to appear overly eager, she hoped, Ellana set down her goblet and awaited his word.

"You look much improved," he observed with a patronizing sort of approval. "One might almost reconcile you with the tales."

She frowned. "What do they say?"

"They say you were chosen by a human prophet: an elven savage who stumbled into consequence and stolen power."

" I stole nothing ." She spat back, all heat, all pretense of polite restraint abandoned.

Unphased, he glanced indifferently before selecting another grape and rolling it between his fingers. "Tell me how one ascends so quickly from obscurity."

"Necessity."

"Necessity." He lingered upon the syllables, then turned his gaze upwards and smiled. "I commend the strategy. To transform crisis into opportunity requires vision." He leaned forward with renewed interest, "To command the loyalty of the fearful, to secure the hearts and minds of those who ache for authority-- ah, that requires something far rarer."

"The Breach threatened the entire world."

"Necessity reshapes us all, Inquisitor. I would know what semblance you assumed before."

"No one important."

His expression remained serene. And Ellana, perceptive in ways that served her well, could not suppress the impression that beneath the unruffled surface pulsed something far less benign. Whether a flicker of hunger or predation, she mistook it first for sincere curiosity.

"Indeed. Continue."

He was charming in the way a snake might be. It was the easy assurance in his tone, the subtle warmth that did not quite touch his eyes, which only mildly disarmed her. She hesitated, caught between instinct and the slow-growing certainty that he wished for her to be disarmed.

"You know that I am Dalish. My clan roamed the Free Marches." She replied haltingly, at first. Yet his small courtesies-- a slight nod, a glint of approval-- encouraged her, as a tutor might coax a reluctant student. By then, she had begun to eat and drink almost absently.

"I learned much during my time with the Inquisition; more still from Solas."

The product of ten years’ careful practice in separating sentiment from strategy allowed her to speak about him with detachment, so long as conversation did not wander into more intimate territory. Elgar’nan, it seemed, could not. Perhaps after a millenia of imprisonment by Solas’s doing, he had circled back into rage, for a subtle glow flared about him. The heat of it was visible in the tense line of his shoulders, and upon speaking, his voice carried what could only be described as the verbal equivalent of a sneer.

"And what did the Dread Wolf teach you?"

With a faint, rueful smile, "For all our pride, there is much my people got wrong."

"History falters," he snapped, "It is the nature of memory to distort. Your people alone yet hold the knowledge of your true gods. In that, they have not erred."

"Indeed," she replied, not without irony, "the Dalish have erred in many things. We believed our gods noble, yet under your rule, the People were chattel. That, too, was part of what we lost."

Elgar'nan nodded calmly, unruffled; he had foreseen this from the first. "Another convenient distortion. My people chose to devote themselves to me. They placed their faith in the future I set before them. Tell me, Inquisitor, of the devotees who laid down their lives for your cause. Tell me of the faithful who flocked to your banner, prepared to die at your command with a single word ." ‘

He leaned forward as his voice dropped to a confidential register. Only then did she realize how the table had drawn closer, and of how imperceptibly near he had come at some moment in their exchange. " Those who called you blessed, chosen by their god . You cannot possibly understand all that Elvhenan was. You judge it through the lens of your own age"

"And the vallaslin? I never enslaved those who followed me."

"Marks of devotion," he replied cooly. "Your people had the right to choose whom they would give their lives, just as mine."

Ellana took a sip of wine. His gaze tracked the movement.

"The Great Deceiver keeps to his many fictions." He lifted his hand to brush the thought aside. "Worry not. Your people-- my most faithful shall be among the favored when my reign is restored."

" Your faithful?"

"I am the All-Father," Elgar’nan returned firmly. "It is my duty to shepherd the People. They are mine, as they have always been."

She elevated a single brow.

" Solas said you would have destroyed the world," she replied, emboldened by drink and surveying the feast with renewed curiosity. A pleasant warmth had begun to bloom across her cheeks and settle most agreeably in her stomach.

"Lies!"

The word erupted from him with such terrible force that the dishes trembled. "Spoken from a traitor's tongue."

"He said he was trying to save his people."

"From prosperity. From order, from purpose!" His voice cracked like a whip, sending with it a gust that swept through the chamber. "The world his Veil," and he spat the word like a curse, "created in my absence has robbed the People of all he claimed to protect."

Despite herself, she found his theatrical display of passion rather fascinating to observe. The chamber pulsed gently around them.

"What do you say, then?"

The darkness receded slightly. Elgar'nan's shoulders relaxed by a fraction. "Eat."

She reached for an apple.

He continued: "We ruled as stewards of the People."

"You’re referring to the Evanuris?"

"Yes," he replied, brimming with unmistakable pleasure. "My family. My children, each brilliant in their own way."

"They were truly your children?" She inquired with some skepticism, biting into the fruit. The juice escaped as she did, tracing what would have ordinarily been a mortifying path down her chin.

"They were mine in every way that mattered," He replied, "Not all born of my flesh, but shaped by my guidance. Raised up under my protection."

"Solas spoke only of their cruelty."

Elgar’nan’s laughter rolled across the chamber like thunder on a warm night. "The Dread Wolf has always seen what he chooses." He continued, "Andruil was fierce, but she understood that survival requires strength. Her hunts sustained the People for centuries. Sylaise brought comfort and healing to even the humblest servant."

His expression grew distant then, touched with something approaching nostalgia. "June's creations stand when all else has crumbled. Artifacts of such beauty and function that your modern smiths weep to behold them."

She inclined her head. "And what of Ghilan'nain?"

"The youngest of my kind: gifted beyond measure. She understands, as few do, the sacred duty of creation. To shape life is to become responsible for it. You cannot fathom what Elvhenan was; so magnificent that its ruins still eclipse your greatest achievements."

"Elvhenan fell," she pointed out bluntly.

His fingers tightened around his goblet until his knuckles turned white. "What I made, I made eternal. What bears my name shall never fade. Though my children scatter like ash, ash can be gathered."

The wine had rendered her thoughts pleasantly fluid, and so she found herself assessing his words with curiosity rather than her customary, and frankly well-earned, skepticism. "Was there not terrible inequality?"

"Elvhenan bore countless wonders and terrors. A civilization at its zenith contains both, inevitably." He took a deliberate sip of wine. "But I suspect Fen’Harel painted you a selective picture."

"And the slaves he freed? The uprising he led?"

A dismissive flick of elegant fingers. "So he would have you believe. He plucked content households from their duties and called it mercy, pried loyal servants from roofs that sheltered them for generations and put them to war. My people lacked for nothing, who were guarded from hunger and plague, yet he whispered into their ears that bondage wore another name. A thousand years of loyal service, unmindful, untroubled-- shattered in the span of a single speech."

"And you believe they were truly content?" She regarded him flatly.

"From his lips, every maid and stable-boy pined for revolt. In truth, they wept for lost hearths while he preened over their ‘liberation.’" Elgar’nan’s voice darkened by a shade. "The Wolf called that mercy: I call it vanity writ upon the bones of a contented people. But Fen’Harel has always possessed a remarkable talent for casting his own treachery in the most favorable light."

"You’re saying his rebellion was a means to an end?"

"Indeed. When suspicion had devoured every last root of loyalty, he revealed himself no supplicant of the court, but a god-in-wanting."

"Solas? A courtier?"

"Oh, he was tireless in his deception. By night, he strolled our loggias, praising Sylaise’s healers for tending ‘the innocent wounds of needless labor.’ At dawn, he lingered among Andruil’s hunters, lamenting that their trophies were ‘the spoils of compulsory valor.’"

The Wolf, Elgar’nan insisted, had been a rake of the first order: laughing in poets’ salons one night, sowing whispers of sedition in marble corridors the next, all the while styling his seductions as virtue and betrayals as liberation. She endeavored to image him in such a position: draped in velvet, sauntering between nobles as he conspired to topple the ancient world.

Solas, who set his coattails on fire, gliding about in brocade?

Solas, whose pack had held more books than clothes?

Solas, who snorted when he laughed, flashing courtly smiles as shrewdly as he bartered pretense for patronage?

Surely not . The idea set her shoulders shaking. Despite the relative severity of her dinner companion, she found herself seized by the trembling sensation taking hold at the corners of her mouth. She pressed a hand to her lips, hiding a grin that the wine made ever harder to subdue, even as she nodded along to Elgar’nan’s grand indictment.

"Forgive me," she managed, "but I've seen him burn soup."

He bristled as all warmth fled from the chamber. The walls cracked as hairline fractures began to race across their surface, and the constellations overhead flickered and died, plunging half the room into shadow.

"I see that you mistake this for entertainment."

The elegant chamber, the fine food, the carefully cultivated atmosphere of civilized discourse fell away like stage dressing, leaving a hostile truth she had been foolish enough to neglect: she dined not with a man, however powerful, but with something that had shaken the very pillars of the earth when he was new.

"I had thought to treat you as an equal," he hissed. "Perhaps I was mistaken in extending that courtesy."

The stories her Keeper told by firelight came flooding back: tales of beings who had commanded the elements, who had reshaped mountains in passing and carved rivers with their own displeasure. Yet even as panic threatened to overwhelm her, some deeper instinct stirred. She had navigated the treacherous waters of court, had faced down demons and dragons and countless other monsters. This was different, certainly; infinitely more dangerous, but still, at its heart, a negotiation. And she had not survived this long by cowering at the first sign of danger.

"I beg your pardon."

He paused, having expected her to cower. The terrible cold emanating from him began to recede.

Ellana did not bow her head, for abasement would only cheapen the gesture. "If I laughed, it was less at you than myself, for recognizing that I have too often found treachery in places where trust was expected."

A long, weighted silence followed. Ellana held it without flinching, offering him neither protest nor outright apology. That attentive composure, that small show of restraint, seemed to please him as the predatory cast of his expression eased. At length, Elgar’nan drew a breath and allowed the glacial brilliance in his gaze to thaw, though only by the smallest degree. A faint, ambiguous curve touched his mouth.

The modern world offered so little in the way of stimulating company. He found the mortals of this age were boringly uniform in their reactions, so tiresomely predictable, and here, finally, was something approaching a substantive exchange. She was, at the least, amusing.

"Your levity," he said at last, "while diverting in its naivety, betrays a profound ignorance."

Yet there was no wrath in the remark exactly . He had found her answer both disarming and unexpectedly pleasing, perhaps even intriguing.

He leaned back in his throne, his fingers tracing the carved armrest as he adopted the confidential tone of old secrets shared. "We were not always enemies. Once, I believed his betrayal born of principle rather than jealousy."

"Jealousy?"

"The Wolf was elevated beyond his station by Mythal’s favour alone. I have seen it before. Such promotion breeds bitterness: a resentment that festers like poison."

She traced the rim of her goblet. "Was their bond so singular?"

He huffed. Another pause followed.

"I had presumed Fen’Harel’s affinities were common knowledge among those who served him," he replied. The assessing gleam in his eye made plain that her ignorance opened, for him, a fresh avenue of advantage.

"I did not serve him."

"He has no use for those who do not. The Dread Wolf knows only favor where it serves him and indifference where it does not. Until indifference turns to expedience."

He allowed the judgment to linger a heartbeat, then inclined toward her again. "What has the wolf told you? Speak plainly, da’len. I would hear every particular."

The inquiry was decidedly more exposition than revelation.

"About Mythal? Surely you know more than I--"

He purchased her silence with a single raised hand as a new sharpness stole into his tone, "Do not fear to offend me with half-truths; it is ignorance I despise."

Ellana considered the circle her fingertip traced still, looking for wisdom at the bottom of the goblet. "He said that she cared for her people."

It sounded, in the echo of the vaulted chamber, childishly insufficient.

"So Mythal’s lapdog adorns himself in loyalty to the bitter end." A laugh softened the harsh lines of his face. "The Wolf has ever been selective in his attachments. Even more in what truths he shares with those he claims to value."

Ellana’s brow knit, equal parts scepticism and reluctant curiosity as she spoke through gritted teeth: "If there is a truer history, I invite your correction."

"Ah, at last, a mind unbarred," he purred, lifting his goblet in a silent toast. "Very well, da’len . Attend, and I shall grant all that you desire: truths spoken plain, unmarred by omission or regret."

She nodded. He rose in a slow, unfurling and began to pace in listless, theatrical strides.

"Fen’Harel played a dutiful consort to Mythal before your people’s legends first drew breath…"

His presence gathered the torchlight as each flame leaned forward in admiration of its master. Tapers guttered and tapestries fluttered, yet these lesser spectacles were consigned to a peripheral haze as the room receded to a painted backdrop. Colours beyond his silhouette bled into sepia, while the fine edge of his profile remained in perfect clarity: the bridge of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and the faint, self-satisfied lift at one corner. The features lent him the aspect of a statue come to life, entirely uncanny by mortal standards. Now and again his hand carved the air in a languid flourish, punctuating a word, a pause, a sigh.

"He painted us as tyrants, setting us against one another for millennia until trust became a luxury we could no longer afford. Only when we had been sufficiently weakened by his machinations did he reveal his true nature."

The hem of his mantle brushed against gilt tesserae as he halted before an inlaid mosaic sun, coming to face her fully. "You, too, have known that treachery firsthand," he drawled, "You were made an instrument, as I was made an enemy."

"Perhaps he influenced the Inquisition, but I was no puppet." She scowled.

"My poor child," he chided in false pity, "how deftly he played upon the finer strings of your nature. He knew full well that a heart engaged is a mind disarmed."

The cup was suddenly too small for her hand; she set it down, flexing tingling fingers until sensation returned.

A low sigh threaded from his throat, and the tension that had held him eased like a slackened bow-string as he pivoted back across the mosaic. Resuming that measured circuit, the quiet tap of his heels against marble kept the rhythm of their conversation a slow heartbeat.

"You are not the first of my People to be led astray by Fen'Harel's clever tongue."

Actually, his tongue had been less clever and more industrious, if verbosity counted as a skill. But as for practical applications? Let it suffice to say his tongue was exceedingly proficient.

The four walls separating this chamber from the next blurred further into a gentle haze. Still, its contours could not compete with the bright, intrusive clarity of memory; it was his diligence-- merciless, meticulous-- that flooded her face with heat. She set the goblet aside, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her temple.

"It is hardest to number a lover among one’s conspirators. Fen'Harel destroyed my world for petty revenge and wounded pride," he went on, low enough to ruffle the hush between them, "Whatever noble tale he spun you is false."

She forced her gaze up, letting lashes rise like a reluctant curtain.

" That is why you believe he will come."

A crescent of teeth gleamed. "He will come for vengeance, as he sees it. He will come because his nature allows nothing else. But as you said before: not for you."

The wine turned bitter on her tongue. Only now did she grasp that warmth enough to coax confession demanded haze enough to muffle alarm. In that reflection lay the evening’s unspoken thesis: what is offered as a comfort may yet distil to poison, if poured by an adept hand.

"On the contrary, you will have no need for his intervention."

She regarded him with narrowed eyes. "And why would that be?"

"Have I not welcomed you as an equal? Provided you with sustenance, comfort, the luxury of a proper bath?" He spread his hands in a gesture of openness. "A father does not harm his children without cause, and you have given me none.

"And what exactly requires such tender coaxing?"

"Ah, clever girl."

Elgar’nan allowed the hum to vibrate for several heartbeats before he moved again, beginning almost softly: "Fen’Harel no longer contents himself with petty rebellion. He will shatter this world, as surely as he did mine. You have seen what a single rift makes of a village; multiply that by every horizon."

"I've spent years trying to stop him and failed at every turn," her voice edged with frustration. "What makes you think I possess some power that has thus far eluded me?"

"My child, you do yourself a disservice."

His hands descended onto her shoulders. When had he moved behind her?

"You and I," he continued, his voice dropping to the intimate tenor of shared secrets, "we are not so different. We have both wielded power that others could only dream of. We have both stood at the center of great events and bent the world to our will." His breath brushed the nape of her neck as he continued, " You are indispensable. The Chosen of Andraste, a respected authority in the South. The information your Inquisition has gathered alone makes you valuable beyond measure."

She huffed. He continued, "I would sooner win an ally than crush a martyr."

The Chantry had cast her as their blessed instrument; the Inquisition, with equal facility, had transformed her into their symbol. Even Solas, and here her heart contracted, had regarded her with the same calculating eye. Always and ever a collection of useful attributes. She was so tired of being reduced to her utility, so ill of powerful men explaining to her what she was worth to them.

" Enough ." Ellana wrenched herself free from his grip and spun to face him. "I am not a symbol for you to manipulate, nor some convenient figurehead to parade about. Speak your demands plainly, and I will decide whether they merit my consideration."

"Serve, and you purchase amnesty: for yourself, and the supplicants still gathered under your banner. Defy me, and Ghilan’nain’s curiosity will find occupation. She craves subjects; I, merely results."

"You’re suggesting I join you or die?" The question came out flat and edged with growing frustration.

Again, the explosion was instantaneous: with a snarl of rage, he swept the chair aside, sending it crashing against the wall with enough force to shatter its delicate filigree. Ellana stumbled against the table's edge, dishes clattering and wine spilling as she braced against it.

"You foolish wench," he spat, leaning forward until his face hovered inches from hers. "You swat at the hand that feeds you. You would squander the very breath I permit while wasting away what little of my time you’re worth."

His hands had curled into fists at his sides. A slight quiver ran through his voice as his perfect features took on a strained quality, and, searching his face for whatever had made him so suddenly volatile, Ellana came to an equally sudden clarity.

Ah, she realized with some glee, these are the fevered calculations of a being who found himself with fewer options than he had anticipated. Hopefully.

Alas, whatever flicker of satisfaction had crossed her face, however briefly, however carefully concealed, had not escaped his notice.

"You test my patience beyond its limits," he raged. "I will not be kept waiting."

And then, like all great ideas, it came upon her without ceremony; a whisper in the night, a spark in the shadows that begged to be fanned into flame. A lie, but an audacious one, spun from desperation and gilded with enough plausibility to possibly be true. If he planned to kill her, as she suspected he soon would upon discovering her intelligence to be more smoke than substance and her scattered Inquisition of scant value, what harm might a single lie do? One that, if successful, would no doubt cascade into a web of increasingly precarious fabrications, and yet…

"I understand," she replied, unblinking.

A muscle pulsed at his jaw. His breath came in small huffs that rattled with heat. She noticed a dark strand of hair that had slipped loose across his brow. When he leaned closer, torchlight carved cruel hollows beneath his cheekbones and set his eyes ablaze.

"If that is the case," he snarled, words spooling through clenched teeth like steam escaping a vent, "you will choose your next words wisely."

The luxury of repercussion was decidedly a burden her future self would bear, should she live to see it, and Ellana had no time to spare her pity. Steeling herself, shaping every flicker of fear and tremor in her voice, she devised to give him a theatre so compelling that even the stars might weep.

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