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Chapter Text

Dawn broke over the Lavellan estate with its usual graceless enthusiasm, birds from the nearby forest overgrowth heralding the morning with their overlapping song. The modest manor house sat nestled between old-growth oaks by a sprawling wood. Honey-colored stones made up the walls and bore what the generous might call the dignified wear of several generations.

Though, lately, perhaps, there had been rather more wear than dignity about it.

"Fenedhis! That blasted chicken's in the house again!" Cook's voice echoed through the halls, followed by the sound of some unfortunate piece of heirloom pottery meeting an untimely end. "Catch it before it ruins my morning bread again!"

Ellana Lavellan, sole heir to House Lavellan and current manager of their trading company, pressed herself against the wall of the servants' passage she’d been hiding in as the chaos swept past—first the chicken, brown feathers flying, then Cook in hot pursuit wielding a wooden spoon—and snickered into her hand.

Such was the normal, wonderful, chaos of her life here.

Ellana tugged her dress free from where it’d caught on a nail in the passage. The muslin was faded now, the purple having shifted closer to lavender with age, and she made a mental node to sew shut the snag. Really, the dress was always in a state of sewing and resewing; had been altered several times to keep up with changing fashions, its original trimming carefully removed and replaced to hide wear at the edges—a common practice among the lesser gentry, though one nobody discussed in polite company.

"My Lady !" Sylaise's voice carried from the main corridor, edged with the particular desperation of a lady's maid whose charge had escaped. Again. "Lady Ellana, please! We must begin preparing for Countess Mythal's ball…!"

Ellana held her breath as footsteps approached her not-so-hidden hiding place. She'd learned these passages as a child, when her father's expectations of a son had given her more freedom than most noble daughters enjoyed. Now they served a different purpose—namely, avoiding the endless preparations for social events she'd rather not attend in the first place.

"The modiste’s coming for your gown’s final fitting," Sylaise continued, her voice moving past Ellana's hiding spot. "And Keeper Deshanna insists we must do something about your hair, My Lady please—"

A crash from the kitchen, followed by more shouting and clucking, provided excellent cover for Ellana's escape. She slipped from the passage into the morning room just as the chicken made another circuit, this time with Cook still in determined pursuit and now with two more maids assisting in the chase. Just a few more steps and she’d be…

"My Lady!" Sylaise's scandalized voice rang out from behind, but just a few more steps and she’d be…

"Lady Ellana, surely you're not thinking of going to the counting house today?

She knew that voice, and Ellana froze halfway to freedom with a wince. Caught.

“Especially not with Countess Mythal's ball this evening?" Blake, their only remaining butler, appeared in the doorway behind Sylaise, his expression suggesting he'd bitten into something sour. "After all, every eligible gentleman of good breeding will be in attendance."

The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. At twenty-three, Ellana was well past the age when most noble daughters were married. The fact that she spent more time pursuing her own dalliances or the uncommon pastime of mathematics was a constant source of distress to her household staff, who had likely spent more time worrying about her marital prospects than she ever had, though none would dare mention it directly to the woman who had taken on managing one of Arlathan's oldest trading houses.

Ellana turned to face them both, trying to project authority despite being caught in the act of escape. "Master Athras is expecting me. There are important matters that cannot wait—"

"More important than your social obligations?" Blake interrupted. "My Lady, you've missed the last three significant gatherings. People are beginning to talk."

"Let them talk," Ellana said, though she knew the weight of his words. In Arlathan's high society, an unmarried woman managing trade routes and business negotiations was considered almost scandalous. Many viewed her focus on the family business as a sign of improper priorities, rather than the necessity it was. "There are new shipments expected today and I’m meant to do inspections of the ships; then the trade council meets next week to vote on the Viscount’s newly proposed changes. If they pass—"

"If they pass, we will weather them as we have weathered other storms," Blake insisted. "But if you continue to absent yourself from society, there will be no one left willing to support us when we need allies."

The 'or suitors' remained tactfully unsaid, but Ellana heard it clearly enough.

She knew what they wanted—for her to attend the ball, to dance and smile and perhaps catch the eye of some wealthy lord who could restore House Lavellan's fortunes through marriage. It was the expected path for a noble daughter, after all. But Ellana had watched too many of her childhood friends disappear into loveless marriages of convenience, their spirits dimming like stars at dawn. She refused to sacrifice herself on that particular altar, especially not when no one was better suited for the tasks at hand than herself to begin with. What man deserved to inherit control of an estate that he had no history with purely because they were a man?

The chicken chose that moment to make another appearance, shooting between them in a riot of feathers with Cook in close pursuit. A cloud of flour marked their passage, dusting Ellana's skirts with white and ruining any chance of avoiding a change of dress before her escape.

"The whole household's gone mad," Blake muttered, brushing at his coat with wounded dignity. His role here used to be respectable. "My Lady, please. At least let Sylaise help you dress properly before—"

But Ellana was already gone, taking advantage of the distraction to slip out the side door and into the sunlight. The morning air carried the scent of early roses from the garden—less elaborate than in years past, but still lovingly tended—mixed with fresh-baked bread from the kitchen windows. She paused only long enough to gather her riding skirts before making her way to the small stable.

"My Lady?" Sam, their lone stable boy, looked up from his work, unsurprised to see her so early. "They're looking for you in the house."

"I know, Sam." She smiled as he automatically moved to saddle her mare—one of only three horses they still kept. "But surely the household accounts cannot wait? Master Athras will be expecting me."

The boy grinned, already leading out her horse, a pretty red mare with ears that pinned back for everyone who wasn’t Ellana herself. They both knew she had no intention of returning until the worst of the ball preparations had passed. As she mounted, another cry echoed from the house:

"Lady Ellana! The modiste is here!"

She urged her mare forward, trying not to laugh as Sylaise appeared in the doorway, waving what looked suspiciously like a ribbon sample book.

"My Lady, please! Not again!"

But Ellana was already cantering down the drive, the morning breeze catching her dark hair as it flew behind her in loose, long waves—which would no doubt scandalize Sylaise even further. The counting house wasn't far, and there she could lose herself in ledgers and trade agreements rather than face another endless discussion of proper deportment and social obligations.

Behind her, the sounds of domestic chaos faded into the distance. She caught one last cry of "That chicken's headed for the parlor!" before the tree-lined lane swallowed all noise from the house.

The numbers didn't lie, though Ellana Lavellan desperately wished they would. She traced her finger down another column of figures. Hoping that, somehow, in the weak morning light filtering through the counting house windows, the totals might reshape themselves into something less dire.

They didn't.

She counted again, her quill moving with practiced precision down each column. Unlike some noble daughters who learned only enough arithmetic for household accounts, Ellana had mastered the complex mathematics of international trade at her grandmother's knee. No error in these calculations could be blamed on mathematical incompetence—which made the devastating totals all the more painful to verify. Third time. Same result. The numbers stared back at her, as immutable as stone.

"My Lady?" The elderly clerk's voice broke through her concentration. Master Athras had served House Lavellan since before she was born, his steady hand recording their fortunes through both prosperity and decline. Now those same weathered hands held another stack of papers she had no desire to see. "There is a a missive about the latest regulations that’s arrived just this morning."

Three ships diverted to the outer harbor last week. Five trade contracts suspended. And now this.

Ellana's quill snapped between her fingers, sending drops of ink spattering across the careful rows of numbers. "Another one?" She didn't bother hiding the bitterness in her voice. "Every time we adapt, every time we find a way to work within his rules, he creates new ones. The Devil works half as hard as this damnable Viscount."

The clerk set the documents on her desk with careful precision. Even that small sound seemed too loud in the dusty quiet of the counting house. Outside, she could hear the distant bustle of the docks—the creaking of ships' ribs, the calls of sailors, the everyday symphony of commerce that had sustained her family for generations. How much longer would those sounds continue?

"Perhaps," Master Athras ventured carefully, "if we were to... adapt more thoroughly to the new ways—"

"Abandon our trading partners of centuries? Leave the smaller ports that depend on us?" Ellana shook her head, reaching for a fresh quill, then for the letter itself. "No. There must be another way. But best I see what new obstacles lay in our path."

The letter was heavy in her hands. Cream-colored vellum sealed with emerald wax bearing the mark of the Viscount and House Fen'Harel—the sight of it alone made her stomach clench. The seal depicted a wolf in profile, head thrown back in a silent howl, surrounded by an intricate pattern of interlocking, wicked, thorns. The level craftsmanship was as high as his station, and his seal tended to evoke equal parts of dread and admiration. Ellana broke the wax with her fingers, and they trembled slightly. Sunshine on the gold leaf of the official letterhead made the page molten in her hands, words burning.

Lord Fen'Harel's handwriting was as precise and uncompromising as his policies—each letter perfectly formed, each rule laid out with devastating clarity.

She read again, pulling the new regulations closer, skimming the elegant script with growing dismay. Just like the numbers in the ledger would not change, neither would these. The latest edict required all trading vessels to submit to additional inspections at designated ports, with hefty fees attached to each inspection. The designated ports, she noted with grim resignation, were all ones where Dalish merchants had traditionally held little influence.

"Have you calculated the impact?" she asked, already running figures in her mind, then on paper. The new quill snapped between her fingers then too, and her hand trembled as she reached for another, doubly aware of the dwindling supply in the drawer. Even such small expenses had to be counted now.

Ultimately calculations were unnecessary though; Ellana could read the answer in the clerk's carefully blank expression.

"No, not yet—you’re the first to open this missive, My Lady, but if the severity of these new requirements are similar to the last, it would not be foolish to anticipate a large reduction in our quarterly revenue, My Lady. When combined with the previous quarters' losses..."

He didn't need to finish.

Ellana could see it clearly enough in the ledgers before her. Five consecutive quarters of decline, each new regulation cutting deeper into their reserves. Their ancient family name still commanded respect in certain, dwindling, circles, but respect alone couldn't pay their contracts or maintain their ships. Or maintain a little manor house.

She stood abruptly, needing to move. The counting house had been her father's sanctuary, and now hers, its walls lined with leather-bound ledgers documenting centuries of trade. Sunlight caught the gold leaf on their spines, and she ran her fingers along their worn edges as she paced.

"My Lady," Master Athras spoke again, his voice gentler now. "There are... rumors."

Ellana turned, one eyebrow raised. The clerk had been with them long enough to know she preferred direct speech to delicate hints.

"Some say Lord Fen'Harel bears a particular... antipathy toward Dalish noble houses."

"Antipathy?" Ellana's laugh held no humor. "Is that what they're calling it now? Five new regulations in as many months, each one specifically crafted to dismantle existing trading practices, crushing those that cannot afford new permitting and baseless modification. That's not antipathy, Master Athras. That's warfare."

She paced the length of the counting house. Once, this room had bustled with activity—clerks recording shipments, traders negotiating contracts, sailors reporting on conditions in distant ports. Now it stood nearly empty, the remaining ledgers and papers seeming lost on the great expanse of polished wood.

A different kind of dust caught her eye: a fine coating of white powder along one windowsill. Salt, carried on the wind from the harbor. Even here, a mile inland, the sea made its presence known. The sight sparked a memory: her grandmother standing at these same windows, teaching her to read the weather in the way the salt gathered, in the particular quality of the morning light.

"The proposal goes before the trade council next week," she said, turning back to Master Athlen. "If it passes..."

She didn't need to finish. They both knew what it meant. The Lavellan trading company had already been struggling to maintain their partnerships in the face of changing times. The war with Tevinter had closed several northern ports. Pirates in the Waking Sea had forced them to take longer, costlier routes. New competitors with faster ships had stolen their more impatient clients. And now Lord Fen'Harel's systematic dismantling of their remaining advantages would destroy what little remained of their business. Each blow alone might have been weathered, but together they formed an overwhelming tide.

She pulled another ledger close, this one older, its leather binding worn soft with use. Her father's precise handwriting filled the pages—he had insisted on teaching her himself, despite the whispers that trade was no business for a woman. " Numbers don't care who reads them, da'len ," he'd said, guiding her small hand as she wrote her first column of figures. Now her own handwriting filled these pages, carrying on his legacy even as others abandoned them. No one had expected much of her when Father died. A woman managing trade routes and negotiations? But House Lavellan had no sons, no other prospects but the girl with the stubborn glint in her eye determined to prove everyone wrong.

Was this how it would end? With her?

She returned to her desk, studying the proposal alongside their latest accounts. Each line was perfectly reasoned. Every argument was diabolically logical, and yet...

Ellana pulled a fresh sheet of parchment closer. "Please, send word to Captain Theron. I want to see the impact of these regulations firsthand before we proceed. And have someone fetch my riding clothes – I'll need to visit Master Tethras afterward. Send word to him as well, if you will."

The clerk's expression shifted to one of concern. "The keeper of contracts? My Lady, surely—"

"There must be some loophole we can use." She dipped her quill with perhaps more force than necessary. "Lord Fen'Harel may consider himself above the law, but even he must answer to tradition sometimes."

Master Athras hesitated by her desk. "They say he cares little for tradition. That he considers older methods… primitive in the advent of the new.”

"Then perhaps it's time someone reminded him that those 'primitive' ways built half the trade routes he now seeks to control." Ellana began writing, her script sharp and decisive. "He may have the power to write these regulations, but that doesn't make them just. And it certainly doesn't make them wise."

The morning light strengthened as she worked, casting long shadows across her desk. Each column of figures told the same story—a proud house being systematically dismantled by laws that claimed to serve progress while serving only to consolidate power in the hands of those who already held too much.

She was halfway through her calculations when a shadow fell across her desk. Looking up, she found Master Athras holding out a sealed letter, his expression grave.

"From House Ralaferin, My Lady."

Her heart sank. House Ralaferin had been their allies for years, their trading partnership old enough to remember when the great crystal spires of Arlathan were still being raised. She broke the wax seal.

The letter was courteous, gracious even, as befit communication between noble houses, even if they were lower gentry such as her own. But beneath it all lay an unmistakable message: House Ralaferin was severing their trade agreements. They cited the changing times, the need to adapt to new markets. They did not mention Lord Fen'Harel's regulations directly, but they didn't need to.

Ellana set the letter down with deliberate care, smoothing its creases as she had seen her father do countless times when receiving difficult news.

The timing truly couldn't be worse—tonight was Lady Mythal's grand ball, where all of Arlathan's nobility would gather. Once, there would have been at least a dozen Dalish houses in attendance. Now, with so many having withdrawn from society or left to other cities where they faced less disdain, she would likely be the only one. The thought of entering those crystal halls alone made her stomach clench, but perhaps...perhaps she could use the opportunity.

"Then it seems our visit to Master Tethras becomes even more urgent."

"My Lady—"

"Please, have my horse readied." She stood, gathering the relevant documents. "And send word to the docks that I'll be inspecting our ships personally this morning, I will need to asses the impact before taking a course of action. I will need to speak with him, make appointment with his office prior to these regulations going into effect, but until I’ve prepared—” Master Athlen’s brows raised. “Are you sure that is wise? “It is not a ploy. Rather I'd like to hear him explain to my face how this proposal is anything but a direct attack on Dalish traditions. Surely..." She smoothed the proposal with careful fingers. "Surely a noble man wouldn't deliberately set out to destroy his own people. There must be some misunderstanding. And if not, if Lord Fen'Harel wishes to destroy us with his regulations, the least I can do is force him to look me in the eye and look the impact on real people while he does it."

The elderly clerk bowed and withdrew, leaving Ellana alone with the morning light and the damning evidence of her family's declining fortunes. She allowed herself one moment—just a short one—to feel the sinking weight of it all. Then she straightened her spine, ignored the anchor on her soul, lifted her chin, and began preparing for battle.

After all, she thought as she gathered her papers, there was a small shred of hope. Viscount Fen'Harel was known for his disdain for those he deemed beneath his station, particularly regarding Dalish traditions, but he was also known for his intelligence. If she could make him understand the impact of these recent policies, show him the facts... that would, at least, rely more on his intellect rather than (what she suspected) was nonexisted empathy.

Perhaps he would understand.

The journey to the docks took her through Arlathan's changing face. Elegant townhouses of cream-colored stone rose on either side. In the last several decades, the style of them had hardly changed, but it was easy to pick out the real, heritage homes amongst the newer construction. In the not so great distance, the domed roofs of setrading houses' backed to the main harbor which bustled with ships bearing sleek lines and linen-white sails. A grey morning stretched before Ellana at the harbor as she arrived, the air thick with salt and the calls of seabirds. Where once their ships had proudly docked alongside the finest vessels of Arlathan, now they were relegated to the outer harbor, their intricately carved prows facing away from the city as if in shame. The morning mist clung to the water, softening the stark division between the bustling main docks and the quieter waters where Dalish vessels now moored.

Captain Theron stood waiting at the end of the pier, his weathered face grim as he watched another of their ships being directed away from its usual berth. Though he wore the formal jacket of a Lavellan captain, the embroidered leaves at his collar were fraying, much like their fortunes.

"My Lady," he bowed slightly as she approached. "I trust you received word of the latest... ah, complications ?"

"If by complications you mean Lord Fen'Harel's newest attempt to strangle us with regulations, then yes." Ellana pulled the papers from her satchel. "Though I'd like to see the impact for myself."

They walked together along the weathered boards, passing sailors who touched their foreheads respectfully. Many had served House Lavellan for decades. She knew their names, their families, the stories of how their grandparents had first come to sail under her family's banner. Each face carried the same worried look.

All of their livelihoods moored here.

"The harbor master delivered the new requirements this morning," Theron said, gesturing to where one of their ships was being inspected. "All traditional modifications must be documented and approved before we can dock in the main harbor. They're now considered 'unauthorized structural alterations' that require special permits."

"The fees for which, naturally, make docking in the outer harbor the only viable option."

They paused to watch as another ship—this one bearing House Ralaferin's colors—smoothly docked in what had once been their primary berth. The irony wasn't lost on her. "How many ships have we had to divert so far?"

"Five this week alone. The outer harbor's deeper, which means more rope, more time, more labor to unload. We're losing half a day's work with each ship, not counting the extra hands needed." He shook his head. "Some of the smaller crews are already talking about seeking work with other houses."

The implications hung heavy in the salt air. Without reliable crews, they couldn't maintain regular shipping schedules. Without regular schedules, they'd lose more contracts. Without contracts...

A commotion drew their attention. One of their smaller vessels was attempting to dock, its crew struggling with the deeper waters and unfamiliar approach. The carved halla on its prow—a Lavellan signature—dipped precariously as the ship fought the current.

"Careful!" Theron called out, but his warning came too late. The ship's side scraped against the pier with a sound that made Ellana wince. Not enough damage to be dangerous, but any repairs would eat into their already strained resources.

"My Lady!" A dockhand ran up, out of breath and clutching a message in a fist. “My Lady, begging your pardon. But this just arrived from the main harbor."

Ellana broke the seal, though she already has suspicions about what the letter would say. The paper was expensive, the ink fresh, the handwriting a flowing sprawl of hateable perfection as it spelled out another blow: formal notice that their docking privileges had been suspended pending review of their ‘compliance with modern safety standards.’

"They aren’t even in effect yet, they can't simply—" she began, but the words died in her throat as she saw another familiar ship approaching the harbor. The vessel flew House Ralaferin's colors, but its cargo would be theirs—or should have been. The latest contract cancellation made suddenly, painfully real.

The parchment wrinkled in her grip. "Three generations of trade between our houses, and… they cast us aside with a politely worded note."

"My Lady..." Theron's voice was gentle.

A sharp crack drew their attention back to the struggling ship on the water. One of the smaller carved pieces had broken off during the docking attempt, its pieces floating in the grey harbor water like broken dreams. The sight sparked something in Ellana—not just grief or anger, but determination.

"Have the harbormaster's office send us a complete list of these new 'safety requirements,'" she said, straightening her spine. "And gather the crew ledgers—I want to know exactly how many families these regulations are affecting."

"You mean to challenge this?"

"I mean to understand it first." She watched another Dalish vessel being directed to the outer harbor, its captain's frustration visible even at this distance. "Lord Fen'Harel claims these changes are about modernization, about efficiency. But efficiency doesn't explain why only Dalish ships are being inspected, or why the approved inspectors are all from houses that have historically opposed Dalish trading practices."

A group of sailors gathered near the pier's edge, their faces drawn with worry. Ellana recognized them all—there was Tom, whose grandfather had first signed on with House Lavellan during the Glory Age; Mari, supporting three children alone since her husband was lost in the Waking Sea; young Finn, who had worked his way up from cabin boy to first mate through sheer determination.

"My Lady," Mari stepped forward, twisting her cap in weathered hands. "We've heard the rumors... Is it true they mean to push us all to the outer harbor?"

Ellana met their concerned gazes. These weren't just employees; they were her people, families who had tied their fortunes to House Lavellan through years of trust and loyalty. "Nothing is decided yet," she said firmly. "But I want you all to know that whatever happens, House Lavellan stands by its own."

"Begging your pardon, My Lady," Tom spoke up, "but standing together won't mean much if we can't make port. The deeper waters mean longer ropes, more hands needed. The younger ones are already talking about seeking berths with houses that can still use the main harbor."

Ellana didn’t flinch, but each word stung sharply. Each lost sailor meant another crack in hard-earned loyalty, another family forced to abandon tradition for survival. But she couldn't blame them. They had children to feed, homes to maintain.

"I understand," she said softly. Then, stronger: "Which is why I intend to fight these regulations. Not just for House Lavellan, but for all of you. We've weathered storms before."

"Aye, that we have," Mari agreed, something like hope flickering in her tired eyes. "And we trust you, My Lady. You've never led us wrong."

The weight of their faith settled on Ellana's shoulders like a physical thing. These were the real stakes—not ledgers and contracts, but lives.

"Send word to the outer settlements," she continued. "I want to know how these regulations are affecting our smaller trading partners. And have someone track which houses are benefiting from our reassigned berths." She paused, watching another non-Dalish ship dock smoothly in the main harbor. "If Lord Fen'Harel wants to dress up persecution as progress, he should at least have to acknowledge who profits from our losses."

The morning fog was beginning to lift, revealing the full expanse of their new reality. Ships that had once proudly borne House Lavellan's colors now huddled in the outer harbor like exiles, while their former allies claimed their abandoned berths. Each splash of water against the pier seemed to whisper of change, of loss, of an era ending.

But perhaps, Ellana thought as she watched her people adapt to their new circumstances with grim determination, that ending wasn't as inevitable as Lord Fen'Harel believed. She had numbers now, proof of the human cost of his policies. And soon, she would have her chance to make him face the consequences of his carefully worded regulations.

"Prepare my horse," she told Theron. "I have an appointment with Master Tethras to keep." She took one last look at the harbor - at the division between main docks and outer harbor, at the physical manifestation of prejudice dressed as progress. "It's time someone reminded Lord Fen'Harel that not all traditions deserve to be discarded, and not all change deserves to be called progress."

Varric Tethras's office in the Records Hall was a study in organized chaos. Scrolls and documents filled every available surface, their carefully labeled spines creating a peculiar sort of architecture. Pillars of stacked contracts and legal texts almost seemed to be forming new columns to support the ceiling above.

"I heard some interesting grumblings this morning. Hm? Another regulation, is it?" Varric raised an eyebrow as he examined the document. "Your friend the Dread Wolf has been busy."

"The Dread Wolf?" Ellana looked up from where she'd been eyeing a book on maritime trade law.

"Lord Fen'Harel's old military title." Varric's quill scratched against parchment as he made notes. "Earned it during the northern campaign, though I imagine you were still young then. They say he could spot a weakness in enemy defenses like a wolf scenting prey—and was just as merciless in exploiting it. Half the noble houses still tremble when he enters a room."

He glanced at the new regulations. "And not just for his sharp tongue. The man has a ruthless way of discovering every vulnerability, every secret, and using them with surgical precision. Still does, apparently."

Ellana spread her evidence across his desk—ledgers, dock reports, the canceled contract from House Ralaferin. "It's not just ruthless. It's systematic. Every new regulation specifically targets traditional Dalish trading methods. The inspection fees alone would—"

"Reduce your quarterly revenue once more." Varric finished, already doing the calculations. "Which, if I'm not mistaken, would make this your fifth consecutive quarter of decline."

She shouldn't have been surprised that he knew. As keeper of contracts and records for the noble houses, Varric tracked the ebb and flow of fortunes throughout Arlathan. "Then you understand why I need to find some way to challenge this before the trade council meets. They’ve already suspending all our docking privileges."

"Sunshine,"—his nickname for her had stuck from her more optimistic days—"challenging Lord Fen'Harel isn't like disputing a routine trade agreement. The man's made modernization his personal crusade. Half the council already supports him."

"Half the council profits from these changes," Ellana corrected, her voice sharp. "I've spent the morning watching ships that have docked in our berths for generations being turned away. Families that have served House Lavellan for centuries are facing ruin. There must be some precedent, some legal framework—"

"To challenge policies that are, technically, completely legal?" Varric sighed, reaching for another scroll. "The problem isn't that he's breaking laws, Sunshine. It's that he's writing them."

Ellana paced the length of his office, frustration building with each step. "But why? Why target Dalish houses specifically? Surely efficiency alone doesn't explain—"

"Ah." Varric's tone made her turn. He was studying her with an oddly knowing expression. "You haven't heard the stories, then. Lord Fen’Harel has made no secret of his disdain for the Dalish.."

"But he is an elf , not Dalish but still one of the People. And what stories?” She frowned. "What do stories have to do with trade regulations?"

"Everything, if you know where to look." He pulled another document from his seemingly endless archive. "Let's just say our friend the Dread Wolf has his reasons for distrusting the Dalish. Reasons that cost him dearly."

Before he could elaborate, a clock chimed somewhere in the Records Hall. Ellana started – she hadn't realized how late it had grown. "Lady Mythal's ball—"

"The party of the season, and the entire Ton will be there, including Lord Fen’Harel, making it the perfect opportunity to confront him directly." Varric's eyes gleamed with sudden interest. "Especially since I've found something that might help even the odds."

He reached into his desk drawer and withdrew an impressive stack of documents.

"I can give you the exact figures showing how these regulations affect more than just Dalish houses," Varric said, pulling out another document. "The smaller ports that depend on traditional trade routes will need to find new suppliers, driving up costs. The established relationships, the trust built over nearly two centuries—you can't replace that overnight without paying a premium. Even Lord Fen'Harel's supporters might balk when they see how these changes will inflate their own operating costs. Make him face not just the human cost, but the impact on his allies' profits as well—pulling the strings on a nonexistent heart will not work."

Ellana gathered the documents Varric offered, her mind already racing with plans. "Then he will listen to reason. Surely once he sees the actual impact—"

"Don't count on reason, Sunshine. Men like him..." Varric shook his head. "They see what they want to see. But at least you can make him look."

As she prepared to leave, Varric called after her, "Oh, and Sunshine? Be careful tonight. Lord Fen'Harel didn't earn his nickname by being predictable or particularly kind."

Ellana clutched the evidence they'd gathered as she hurried through the gathering dusk toward home. She had numbers now, proof of the human cost of his policies. Tonight, she would force Lord Fen'Harel to face the consequences of his carefully worded regulations.

Let him dismiss her as just another backward Dalish noble. By the end of the evening, he would learn that some traditions deserved more respect than his modernization could comprehend.

As Ellana's carriage wound up the familiar drive to the Lavellan estate, the changes in their fortunes were impossible to ignore. The hedges, once meticulously manicured, now grew slightly wild at their edges. Empty stables that had once housed a dozen fine horses now echoed with the footsteps of the lone stable boy tending to her mare. The gardens were still beautiful, but they’d grown wild. There were hardly enough hands to tend to them anymore.

Yet there remained a dignity to their modest home that even encroaching financial ruin couldn't diminish. The stone walls held centuries of history, and the surrounding woods - part of their land since before Arlathan's rise—still offered their quiet strength. Ancient trees lined the approach, their branches reaching across the drive like protective arms, unchanged by political machinations or economic tides.

As she descended from the carriage, arms full of documents from Varric's office, Ellana noticed her maid, Sylaise, hurrying down the front steps.

"My Lady! Thank the Creators you've returned. Keeper Deshanna has been asking for you, and there's barely time to prepare for Lady Mythal's ball—"

"I need to review these documents first," Ellana interrupted, already moving toward the house. "Have tea sent to the library, and—"

"Absolutely not." The firm voice from the doorway made both women start. Keeper Deshanna, Ellana's aunt and guardian since her parents' passing, stood framed in the entrance. Though she wore the simple robes traditional to Dalish nobility, her bearing held all the authority of her position as head of the household. "The ball at Mythal's estate is no common gathering. If you mean to confront Lord Fen'Harel, you cannot afford to appear anything less than perfect."

"Aunt, these regulations—"

"Will still exist tomorrow." Deshanna descended the steps with practiced grace. "But tonight may be our only chance to challenge them effectively. You know how the Ton operates, da'len. Appearance is power. You cannot enter the ball with ink-stained fingers and commerce on your brow. Let us attend to your appearance. The numbers will wait."

Ellana wanted to argue, but years of training in proper behavior warred with her urgency. Her aunt was right, of course. In Arlathan's high society, the cut of one's gown could carry as much weight as the strength of one's argument. They might be losing their fortune, but they couldn't afford to show it – not tonight.

She allowed herself to be led upstairs to her chambers, where preparation for the ball began in earnest. As Sylaise helped her out of her riding clothes, Ellana tried to focus on the documents spread across her dressing table, squinting at Varric's neat notations while her hair was being arranged.

"You cannot possibly mean to review trade documents while I'm arranging your hair," Keeper Deshanna said, exasperation clear in her voice as she watched Ellana attempt to balance a ledger on her knee. "Da'len, please ."

The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows of Ellana's chambers, catching the dust motes that hung in the air. Her bed was covered in discarded gowns—each one examined and rejected for some minor flaw that the Ton's sharp eyes would surely notice. The blue silk had won out in the end, but now came the greater challenge of transforming a lower gentry trade merchant's daughter into someone who could command a Viscount’s, Lord Fen'Harel's, attention.

"These figures could make the difference between—" Ellana began, but the ledger was promptly whisked away by Sylaise.

"The difference between a proper coiffure and a disaster," the maid finished firmly, setting the documents well out of reach. "Now please, My Lady, hold still."

Ellana subsided with poor grace, watching in the mirror as Sylaise's clever fingers wove her dark hair into an elegant arrangement. Each pin had to be placed just so—not too elaborate to seem like they were trying too hard, but intricate enough to show they could still afford the proper help. The politics of appearance were exhausting.

"Tell me again what Varric said about finding precedent," Deshanna prompted, sorting through jewelry options with careful consideration. "No, Sylaise, not that pin—the silver one, with the halla. Let them see our heritage without flaunting it. We want them to like her."

"He found records of similar regulations being challenged, though not quite under these circumstances." Ellana tried not to wince as Sylaise tackled a particularly stubborn section of hair. "But more importantly, he has proof of the disproportionate impact on Dalish houses. If I can make Lord Fen'Harel acknowledge—"

"A man like that acknowledges nothing he doesn't wish to see," Deshanna interrupted, her voice sharp with concern. "You must be prepared for that, da'len. The Dread Wolf did not earn his name through reasonableness."

"That name—Varric mentioned it was from his military days. Do you know the story behind it?"

A silence fell, broken only by the quiet sounds of preparation. Ellana caught her aunt's expression in the mirror—troubled, hesitant.

"There are many stories," Deshanna said finally. "None pleasant. Some say he earned it for his ruthlessness in battle, others for his cunning in politics. All I know is that more men died opposing him than were lost within his own ranks, and all agree that those who cross him tend to regret it."

"And yet here I am, preparing to do exactly that."

"Yes, here, you are stubborn girl," Deshanna agreed, her voice softening as she fastened the delicate halla pin in Ellana's hair. "Because you must. Because someone has to stand against him. But da'len, please—be careful. Better regulations and law decline this house rather than a scandal to marr the good memory of your parents.”

“But if I could just…”

"My Lady, please stop moving," Sylaise pleaded as she attempted to pin another section of dark hair into an elegant coil. "The style must be perfect—"

The next hour passed in a whirl of final preparations. The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows as Sylaise helped Ellana into her formal attire. Each layer had meaning—the delicate shift of finest linen, the stays pulled just tight enough to be fashionable without appearing desperate, the petticoats that must fall exactly so. The blue silk gown itself was a statement: not the flashy new styles favored by trading families who'd grown rich from Lord Fen'Harel's changes, but an older, quieter, elegance.

"The hem must fall perfectly!" Keeper Deshanna instructed as Sylaise made minute adjustments. "The Ton notices everything, so one wrong flounce, one ribbon out of place, and they'll whisper that House Lavellan can no longer afford a proper lady's maid… I won’t have it."

Ellana suppressed a grimace at the thought of Arlathan's haute monde—the ‘Ton’ as society's elite styled themselves, a glittering assemblage of ancient houses who wielded their manners like weapons and their influence like poison. While many young women navigate these treacherous social waters with practiced grace, Ellana had always felt like an outsider, too direct, too practical for their endless games of innuendo and intrigue. Keeper Deshanna would blame her father for that; he’d always wanted a son, and when his sole child appeared as a girl, he felt little choice but to raise her up the same in the image of what that son and heir would’ve been.

Tonight she would have to play their game perfectly, though. There was too much at stake for missteps.

The blue silk gown required careful arrangement to hide its clever alterations. Each piece of jewelry was selected with political consideration—the elegant simplicity of old money rather than the flashy desperation of new. Even her scent was carefully chosen, a subtle blend of crystal grace and elfroot that spoke of forestial memories without overwhelming.

"The carriage will be here soon," Sylaise fretted, making minute adjustments to Ellana's skirts. "Are you certain about the documents, My Lady? Perhaps a smaller evening bag..."

"The documents go with me," Ellana said firmly. "I won't face him without proof."

"Then at least let me press them again. These creases—"

"Are nothing compared to the creases in our fortunes if I fail tonight." But Ellana softened the words with a smile, letting her maid fuss over the papers while Deshanna approached with a final piece of jewelry.

"Your mother's pendant," the Keeper said softly, holding up the delicate chain. "She wore it often at at parties while dancing with your father.”

Ellana touched the pendant at her throat, remembering the day when everything changed. The fever had taken both her parents within a week of each other, leaving their fourteen-year-old daughter to shoulder the weight of House Lavellan alone. Thank the Creators for Keeper Deshanna—her father's sister had left her own comfortable establishment to move in and help maintain the proprieties, ensuring Ellana could spend her last few years of childhood fairly normally before she turned her focus on learning the intricacies of their trading company rather than the thousand social obligations expected of a noble daughter.

"I know, Aunt," Ellana said softly. "But Father always said our duty was to the people who depend on us, not just to our family name."

What would they think of their legacy now? Of their daughter preparing to confront one of the most powerful men in Arlathan?

Ellana caught her reflection in the mirror—bright green eyes like fresh spring leaves, a trait inherited from her mother, set against the olive complexion common to their clan. Her dark hair, when not confined in its formal arrangement, fell in waves past her shoulders though now it was in neat, ethereal braids and curls.

A knock at the door made them all start.

"My Lady?" It was Master Athras. "A message has just arrived from the docks. Another ship has been turned away..."

"It can wait," Deshanna cut in firmly. "Tonight is for bigger battles."

"My Lady," Sylaise offered the evening bag, now filled with carefully pressed documents. "Your proof."

"And your courage," Deshanna added, adjusting the pendant one last time. "Remember who you are, da'len. Our clan no longer wanders the Exalted Planes, but you are still a daughter of House Lavellan, and you go defending her people.”

The distant sound of carriage wheels on gravel drifted up from below. Ellana took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as she had seen her mother do before important meetings. The weight of her house's future settled around her like a mantle.

"My Lady?" The footman's voice called up. "Your carriage awaits."

One last look in the mirror. One last touch of her mother's pendant. One last silent prayer to the Creators for strength.

"Ma serannas," she said softly to her aunt and maid. "For everything."

Deshanna caught her arm as she turned to leave. "Remember, da'len—balls may be a battlefield, but they are also, sometimes… just a ball. It would please me to see you happy more than it would please me to see you victorious."

Ellana nodded good naturedly, though in her mind the two visions of her were synonymous. Gathering her courage along with her skirts. The blue silk whispered against the carpet as she moved toward the door, her head held high.

Chapter Text

Countess Mythal's estate loomed ahead, its towering spires catching the dying light of the sunset and scattering it into a riot of colors. It looked like something out of a dream—massive, glittering, and impossibly grand. Ellana’s modest carriage joined the procession of lavish vehicles winding up the torch-lit driveway, each one more ornate than the last. Tonight, the cream of Arlathan society had gathered for the one of the season’s most anticipated event.

Balls were a common affair in Arlathan, but any event hosted by the Countess were special—ait was a political chessboard. Showing up was as much about declaring allegiances as it was about socializing, and Ellana sighed, knowing that her solitary arrival would not go unnoticed in such a critical arena.

Clopping hooves on crunching white gravel provided a steady counterpoint of thump thump thump to her racing thoughts.

Through the carriage window, she caught glimpses of other arrivals—ladies in elaborate gowns of silk and samite, gentlemen in formal attire cut to mathematical precision. Each group arrived surrounded by their house members and allies, a visual reminder of their social standing. Ellana sat alone, the empty seats across from her occupied only by her evening bag and its cargo of damning, hopefully helpful, evidence.

As her carriage drew closer to the grand entrance, the full scope of Mythal's estate (a palace, really), came into view. Delicate archways connected impossibly slender towers that had stood for centuries, and torchlight made the facets and enraged friezes dance with shadow. It was a masterpiece that made her own, modest, honey-colored home look like hovel.

The line of carriages crept forward at a snail’s pace. Through the window, Ellana caught fragments of conversation from nearby vehicles:

"—Lady Amaranth caught them in the conservatory, can you imagine—"

"—Lord Sommarch turned down another match. They say he called her 'tediously conventional' to her face—"

"—three duels in a fortnight, all over the same widow. I heard the Duke himself had to intervene—"

"—wearing the same gown she wore to the Summerday Ball! As if we wouldn't notice. They must be even more desperate than we thought—"

"—did you hear about House Ralaferin—?"

She forced her hands to unclench from the evening bag in her lap, her fingers leaving slight creases in the fine leather. The documents inside felt heavier with each passing moment, weighted with the responsibility of all those depending on her success tonight. Each slight bump in the road made the papers rustle.

Her carriage finally reached the entrance. A footman in Mythal's silver and blue livery opened the door, offering his hand with politely inclined head.

Ellana descended carefully, mindful of every lesson in deportment Keeper Deshanna had drilled into her. The blue silk of her gown caught the light as she moved, the fabric shimmering like water in moonlight. Each step made the skirts swish softly against the crystal steps, the sound barely audible above the general murmur of arriving guests. The delicate silver embroidery along her hem caught and reflected the warm glow of the entrance lights, creating patterns that danced with her movement.

Once inside, The entry hall of Tarasyl'an Te'las, roughly translated to ‘The Place Where the Sky is Kept’ in old elvhen, always took her breath away. 

The ceiling soared overhead, impossibly high, supported by columns of pure crystal and alabaster that caught and amplified the light into what looked like thousands of little orbs. Each column was cut with mathematical precision, their facets creating rainbows that shifted and changed with every step she took. The effect was dazzling, almost overwhelming—the light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, making the very air sparkle. Ellana liked to think that was by design; Countess Mythal seemed to prefer her guests in a stupor upon arrival, and spared no expense. Even the marble floor beneath her feet was polished to mirror-brightness, reflecting the illumination upward so that even the shadows seemed to glow. 

Conversations quieted as she passed, the rustle of silk and satin marking her progress as other guests shifted to observe her. Their whispers followed in her wake, like leaves skittering across marble floors. The scents of a dozen expensive perfumes mingled in the air, along with the sharper notes of ceremonial incense that burned in crystal braziers along the walls. Each step echoed slightly in the vast space, making her acutely aware of her solitary state among the clustered groups of other nobles.

But let them whisper. Ellana had never allowed it to bother her before.

She circled the edges of the grand ballroom, noting how conversations shifted as she passed. A young nobleman caught her eye and smiled appreciatively at her elegant figure in blue silk—Lord Marcher, if she remembered correctly, whose family had long traded with Dalish merchants. His mother, however, quickly drew him away with a sharp reminder about "maintaining appropriate connections."

"That gown is exquisite," she overheard one lady murmur to another. "House Lavellan always did have impeccable taste. Though I hear they've fallen on difficult times..." The sympathy in her voice carried an edge of satisfaction that made the observation closer to a weapon than a kindness.

Near the refreshment table, a cluster of young nobles reacted to her approach with varying degrees of interest and disdain. One young lady studied her vallaslin with genuine curiosity before being hushed by her companions. A gentleman from a prominent trading house made a point of turning his back—his family had profited considerably from Lord Fen'Harel's new policies, and likely would further should these newest come to pass. Yet another nodded to her with careful respect, likely remembering how House Lavellan's ships had once carried his family's goods through treacherous waters when others wouldn't risk the journey. Yet another group of women scoffed at her shoes, but another stared longingly at the dark and lovely plaits of her hair.

It was a familiar dance of politics and prejudice hidden between pretty lace, where old alliances warred with new opportunities, and traditional respect clashed with modern ambitions, and one she would need to play tonight against experts.

Walking deeper into the estate, the ballroom opened before her, a vast space of porcelain, gold, and light where Arlathan's elite gathered to dance their intricate social patterns. Columns soared to a ceiling painted to mimic the night sky, while strategic mirrors multiplied reflections to a dizzying degree in some far-flung reference to ancient mirror-pools from elvhen past. Musicians played on a raised dais, their instruments crafted from crystal to match the palace's aesthetic. Couples already moved through the steps of a formal dance, their shadows creating complex patterns on the polished floor.

Musicians played on a raised dais, their instruments crafted from crystal to match the palace's aesthetic. Couples already moved through the steps of a formal dance, their shadows creating complex patterns on the polished floor. The air carried the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, incense, and the sharp tang of ambition.

She made her way to the edge of the room, finding a position that offered both a view of the entrance and easy access to the adjacent reception rooms where more serious conversations took place. The documents in her evening bag seemed to burn against her side, demanding action, but she forced herself to wait. In this arena, timing was everything.

Groups of nobles clustered throughout the space, their formations as careful as military strategies. Ancient houses held the prime positions near the center, while newer money gathered at the edges. Marriage-minded mamas steered their daughters into advantageous orbits around eligible bachelors. Trade alliances were negotiated through seemingly casual conversations about the weather. And through it all, servants in Mythal's colors moved like silent shadows, ensuring glasses remained full and appearances maintained.

"Well, well." The cultured voice carried just the right note of practiced surprise. "The last person I expected to see tonight, yet certainly the most interesting." 

Lord Pavus cut a striking figure in a coat of deepest black silk, its high collar adorned with intricate silver embroidered snakes in patterns that marked his Tevinter heritage. The garment was tailored to emphasize his athletic build, nipped precisely at the waist and broadening at the shoulders in a way that spoke of both wealth and taste. A single emerald glinted at his cravat, its deep green matching the rings on his well-manicured hands. His mustache was impeccably waxed, and his dark hair styled with just enough product to appear effortlessly perfect. 

Where other nobles might laden themselves with obvious displays of wealth, Dorian's refinement lay in the exquisite cut of his clothes and the aristocratic tilt of his head. His bearing was so innately noble it made others seem common by comparison, and his words had drawn several curious glances from nearby guests, precisely as intended, Ellana suspected.

"The Ton never changes,” he continued in his approach, coming to her side with a bow of his head, “It’s like an unending performance of the same tragic play, except they all fight over the lead role. That one over there?" He inclined his head toward a lady in a towering headdress that wobbled precariously with every nod. "She’s on her third rewrite of the same soliloquy, and it’s still dreadful."

"Lord Pavus." Ellana couldn't help but smile at his commentary, though she quickly schooled her features. She offered a curtsey appropriate to their relative stations. "I wasn't aware my presence would be noteworthy. And if they are playing the squabbling leads, what role are you playing tonight?"

"Why, the dashing and beloved narrator, of course ." He gestured with his wineglass, his grin widening. "And my dear Lady Lavellan, any breath of fresh air in this stifling atmosphere is noteworthy."

Dorian's smile held genuine warmth beneath its practiced charm. "Ah, the evening was destined to die of terminal tedium—endless gossip, social climbing so blatant it requires pitons—and then, you arrived to breathe life into the corpse." 

His eyes roved shamelessly, taking in the flounced, bustled back of Ellana’s corset and the billowing froth of  lace and brocade about her long legs. 

"Looking absolutely magnificent too, I might add—Dalish watersilks always reminds me of what the modistes in Minrathrous attempt to achieve—and suddenly things become far more intriguing."

"You're too kind," Ellana said carefully, though she found herself warming to his manner despite herself. There was something refreshingly direct about him, for all his polish, even if she could never be entirely sure if the Tevinter Altus was playing a game with her together, or with her as a breakable toy.

"Not at all. I'm rarely kind—asks anyone. I am, however, frequently honest, which is much more rare." He took a sip of wine. "Though I must say, I'm curious what brings you to Countess Mythal's tonight. You've missed the last three major gatherings, by my count. Hardly anyone here this evening expected you to break your long-faring antisocial streak."

Translation: I have been looking for you and have not found you in attendance.

"Perhaps I simply missed the pleasure of such scintillating company? You, I mean, not the over-social, kind, dishonest types that frequent such events."

Translation: You may be the only tolerable person here.

Dorian laughed, the rich sound carrying just far enough to draw the proper amount of attention without appearing to seek it—a skill perfected in countless ballrooms. 

"Oh, I do like you. So much more entertaining than the usual responses of 'the weather is delightful' or 'isn't the silver work in the cutlery divine?' I remember the last truly enjoyable ball I had the pleasure of attending company some years ago. There was that young strapping Baron you pushed into a punch bowl. I do hope you similarly bring that level of entertainment with you this evening."

Ellana winced. “He was a Baronet, not a Baron, and… I assure you, he slipped into the bowl.” 

“Of course, darling.” His eyes sparkled with genuine amusement. "And most importantly, no one has deigned to bother you with tepid attempts at unwanted courting, which I imagine was your design all along. But do tell, to what do I owe this long overdue pleasure of your company this evening? I suspect your reasons are somewhat more complex than a sudden craving for society's dubious charms. Though I am a fantastic to attend any gathering, it is true."

Before she could respond, another ripple passed through the crowd. The string quartet faltered for just a moment—barely noticeable unless one was listening for signs of disruption. Dorian's smile widened fractionally.

"Ah," he said softly. "And here comes the other reason tonight promises to be particularly interesting."

Lord Fen'Harel's arrival created the sort of silence that rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water. Conversations faltered mid-word, dancers missed their steps, and even the music from the band seemed to fade in submission of his presence. 

He moved through the crowd with measured grace, each step deliberate as if stalking prey even though his days of hunting enemy soldiers had ended. Ellana’s eyes went to his face first, to his hair, where the sides were  shaved close, exposing the sharp angles of his skull and the pale curve of his pointed ears, a contrast to the long, sleek cascade that fell down his back. It was a style that eschewed vanity, instead emphasizing the harsh symmetry of his face—the severe cheekbones, the narrow bridge of his nose, and the slight downward tilt of his mouth. Then, her gaze trailed lower, to his clothing. The Viscount’s formal attire, impeccably tailored in shades of deepest green and black, made most other gentlemen's clothes look garish by comparison. No ornate embroidery or excessive decoration—just clean lines that emphasized his tall, lean frame and the aristocratic tilt of his head. There were no gilded embellishments, no embroidery to flaunt wealth, and there was no need: 

Viscount Fen’Harel had commanded legions on the battlefield in chaos, he would command the same awe here through understated silence.

"Well," Dorian murmured beside her, "he certainly knows how to make an entrance. Though I must say, he seems in an particularly stern mood tonight. I do hope you've considered your approach carefully, my dear."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ellana's fingers tightened on her evening bag, the documents inside suddenly feeling both inadequate and absolutely essential. "Though you sound concerned, Lord Pavus."

"Concerned? No, no—fascinated, perhaps. Intrigued, certainly." His smile held a hint of warning beneath its charm. "It's not often someone willingly seeks to bait the wolf in his own den. Though I suppose if anyone could manage it with grace, it would be you."

Before she could respond, Countess Mythal appeared at Lord Fen'Harel's side, every inch the gracious hostess in elaborate silver silk that caught the light like moonlight. Even from across the room, Ellana could see the family resemblance between aunt and nephew—the same aristocratic bearing, the same ability to command attention without seeming to seek it.

"How fortunate," Dorian commented, watching the pair with sharp interest. "Countess Mythal always does enjoy a bit of drama at her gatherings so long it is not at her own expense. Though I doubt even she expects quite the entertainment you're planning to provide."

Ellana straightened her spine, summoning every lesson in deportment she'd ever learned. "What makes you so certain I'm planning anything at all?"

"My dear Lady Lavellan," Dorian's voice held genuine amusement now, "no one, especially a Lady, carries a portfolio of documents to a ball unless they intend to cause absolute chaos with whatever is inside them. It's simply not done in polite society." He raised his glass in a small salute. "Needless to say, I heartily approve.”

Across the ballroom, Lord Fen'Harel was now engaged in what appeared to be a serious discussion with several council members. Even from this distance, Ellana could see how others deferred to him, creating a subtle but clear circle of space around his tall figure. A young debutante attempted to catch his eye and was summarily dismissed with a mere glance.

"Ah, poor Lady Rosewood," Dorian commented, following Ellana's gaze. "Third attempt this season to gain his attention. Though I must say, she lasted longer than most before wilting under that particular look."

"Does he always affect such disdain for company he considers beneath him?" Ellana asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

"Oh no, not at all." Dorian's smile held a hint of mischief. "Sometimes he's much worse. Though I should warn you—" He paused, dark eyes glinting with sudden interest as he noticed something over her shoulder. "Ah. Speaking of warnings..."

"Lady Lavellan." The voice behind her carried the crisp authority of someone unused to being ignored. "How... unexpected to see you here."

Ellana turned to find herself face to face with Commander Cassandra Pentaghast, her formal uniform making her seem even more imposing than usual. The Commander of the City Guard rarely attended social functions, preferring her duties to society's games. Her presence tonight suggested more than casual interest.

"Commander." Ellana dipped into a slight curtsey. "I wasn't aware the City Guard took such interest in social gatherings."

"We take interest in anything that might disturb the peace." Cassandra's direct gaze left no doubt about her meaning. 

"Particularly when certain parties seem intent on causing... disruptions."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Ellana replied smoothly, though her fingers tightened on her evening bag. "I'm merely here to enjoy the hospitality of Countess Mythal's renowned gathering."

"Of course." Cassandra's tone suggested she believed this about as much as she believed in flying nugs. "Then you won't mind if I—"

"Seeker Pentaghast!" Dorian interrupted with perfectly calculated enthusiasm. "I've been meaning to ask your opinion on that fascinating report about the new harbor patrols. Perhaps you'd care to discuss it over here?" He gestured toward a less crowded corner of the room, smoothly inserting himself between Ellana and the Commander.

Cassandra's eyes narrowed, but something in Dorian's expression must have given her pause. "Very well, Lord Pavus. Though we will continue this conversation later, Lady Lavellan."

As Dorian led the Commander away, he glanced back at Ellana with a slight nod toward the opposite side of the room, where Lord Fen'Harel had moved away from his admirers and now stood somewhat apart, studying the dancers with apparent disinterest.

The message was clear: If she meant to confront him, now was her chance.

Ellana took a steadying breath, touching her mother's pendant for courage before making her way across the ballroom. Each step brought her closer to Lord Fen'Harel, the rustle of her silk skirts marking time with her heartbeat. He stood alone now, a glass of wine untouched in his hand as he observed the dancing with apparent disinterest. Up close, his presence was even more imposing—something in his bearing suggested barely leashed power, like a storm contained in crystal.

"Viscount Fen'Harel." Her curtsey was precise, measured to the exact depth appropriate for their relative stations - deep enough to show respect, but not so deep as to suggest submission. "I believe we haven't been formally introduced. I am—"

"Lady Lavellan." He continued studying the dancers, as though the act of turning to face her fully would be beneath his dignity. His voice carried the crisp authority of someone unused to being questioned, each word precisely measured. "Your reputation precedes you."

Something in his tone suggested this was not entirely a compliment. Ellana felt heat rise in her cheeks but kept her spine straight, her chin lifted. Let him dismiss her if he wished—she had not come this far to be deterred by cold manners and colder eyes.

"How fascinating." She allowed just a hint of steel to enter her own voice. "I wasn't aware I had garnered enough notice to warrant a reputation. Though perhaps you're referring to the impact your latest trade proposals will have on traditional merchants? That would certainly explain your reluctance to acknowledge me directly."

Now he did turn, fixing her with a gaze that had made lesser nobles stumble over their own excuses. The full force of his attention was like standing too close to a storm—crackling with barely leashed power and the promise of imminent destruction.

"You presume much," he said softly, dangerously, "to question policies you barely comprehend. Though I suppose that's something of a tradition among your people.”

"My people?" Ellana's fingers tightened on her evening bag. "You and I are both elvhen, my lord. Or have you forgotten that in your rush to destroy centuries of shared heritage?"

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Heritage," he said, the word precise as a blade, "is not synonymous with progress. Though I realize not all are capable appreciating the distinction."

"Is that what you call it? Progress?" She withdrew the first document from her bag, holding it out with steady hands. "These figures suggest otherwise. Your latest proposals would reduce traditional trading revenue by twenty-one percent!"

His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his stance—a subtle tensing that suggested she'd caught his attention. "You seem remarkably well-informed about specific percentages, Lady Lavellan. Though I wonder if you understand the broader implications of modernization beyond its impact on your personal interests."

"Personal?" Ellana took a step closer, close enough to lower her voice while maintaining proper decorum. "Do explain, my lord—what's 'personal' about forcing smaller ports to abandon partnerships that have proven reliable through war and peace alike? What drives you to systematically dismantle trade networks that have weathered every storm? Unless, of course, reliability itself has become some kind of personal affront.." 

She produced another document.. 

"Or should I congratulate you on your foresight? After all, every 'approved' inspector for these requirements seems to have ties to your military campaigns. Such coincidence must be exhausting to orchestrate."

His lips curved slightly, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You speak of reliability, Lady Lavellan, yet I’ve seen how quickly such noble words collapse under pressure. Tell me, how deeply have you studied the duties your house claims to uphold?"

There was something raw in his voice now, something that went beyond mere political disagreement.

Ellana felt her face flush at the accusation. "You mean the contracts we’ve honored without exception? Or the lives we’ve sustained by delivering goods when no one else would risk the venture at great cost? If you have a specific failure to cite, my lord, do enlighten me—"

"Cost?" His barked laugh held no humor. "Do not speak to me of cost, foolish girl.”

Around them, other guests had begun to notice their exchange. Conversations quieted as nobles shifted to better observe what promised to be the evening's most interesting entertainment. Ellana was acutely aware of the growing attention, but she pressed on.

"Truly, what is this is about? Some past loss that you now use to justify destroying livelihoods?" Ellana withdrew another document from her bag. "These figures suggest a rather systematic dismantling of specific trade routes—the very ones that once supplied your military campaigns. Our captains delivered supplies through pirate-infested waters when others refused. We maintained routes that kept soldiers fed and armed. But I suppose such service means little when measured against whatever ghost drives your vendetta."

Around them, the circle of observers had grown. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Dorian, who had returned to the edges of the gathering and was watching with poorly concealed fascination. Solas's expression darkened further at her rebuttal, his gaze hardening into a glare as sharp as a dagger, and he took a step forward, closing the distance between them until he towered over her.

"You speak so easily of service as if you have any idea of what the word even means," Lord Fen'Harel said, his voice a low hiss carrying just far enough to reach their audience, "yet fail to acknowledge how easily duty bends to convenience” Something dark flickered in his eyes. "But then, the Dalish have always been skilled at justifying their failures when the true cost comes due."

The deliberate cruelty of the remark drew several sharp inhales from their observers. 

Ellana’s eyes blazed, her laugh incredulous, a force of heat against the sub arctic chill of the Viscount.

“And there it is, we return to the subject of the Dalish and your perceived failings of an entire group of people. How curious that honoring commitments qualifies as failure. Perhaps, by that logic, betrayal is your idea of progress—in which I must congratulate the Viscount on his most prominent progress in the harbors with what remains of the businesses once housed there. You must be pleased. I suppose honor means little to someone who'd destroy dozens of families to line the pockets of favored nobles. My mistake for expecting honor in a man poised to uplift those beneath him. How foolish of me, indeed, it must be easier to dress contempt as reform than admit you're using your power to—"

"Am I interrupting?"

A new voice cut through their confrontation like a blade. Countess Mythal stood at the edge of their circle, her silver gown catching the light as she moved forward. "Lady Lavellan, why is it that whenever I hear raised voices in my home, I find you at its epicenter? I see I will need to have words with Commander Pentaghast; she should’ve stopped you at the doors coming in with that bag of nonsense. Lady Lavellan, if you are going to squabble like a mongrel, you are welcome to bicker outdoor with the hounds near the stable… though you may remain indoors with your betters should you be able to control your own impropriety.” 

This time, Ellana couldn’t stop the small flinch that overtook her, scolded so publicly and by the Countess herself… Keeper Deshanna would be in fits when she heard. 

“And nephew, a moment of your time, if you please," Countess Mythal added, fixing Lord Fen'Harel with a sharp look.

It was a clear dismissal for them both, and the end to any further conversation. Ellana, with little recourse to do otherwise, dropped into another perfect curtsey, though her hands shook slightly. 

“Of course, my lady. My lord." She straightened, then looking towards the Viscount to meet his cold gaze one last time. "Thank you for the illuminating discussion."

His dismissive bow held all the warmth of a midwinter frost.

As Ellana turned to depart, she was acutely aware of the whispers erupting in their wake. She had said her piece, presented her evidence, forced him to acknowledge the impact of his policies. Yet… somehow she felt like the one who'd lost ground in their exchange.

The aftermath of their confrontation rippled through the ballroom, making waves amongst the guests. As Ellana made her way toward the relative safety of the refreshment table, conversations bloomed in her wake—some whispered, others deliberately loud enough to reach her ears.

"Did you see? Actually confronting the Viscount—"

"Well, what can one expect from the Dalish? No sense of proper—"

"Quite brave, really, even if entirely inappropriate—"

Ellana kept her head high, channeling every lesson in deportment Keeper Deshanna had drilled into her. Each step was measured, her posture perfect, though her heart thundered against her ribs. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her retreat in disorder. Already she could imagine Blake's disapproving frown, Keeper Deshanna's quiet disappointment. They had worked so hard to maintain what remained of their dignity despite their reduced circumstances, and here she had let her temper overtake her sense.

"Magnificent," Lord Pavus's voice carried just the right note of appreciation as he materialized at her elbow. "I particularly enjoyed the part where you essentially accused him of systematic persecution. The look on his face—absolutely priceless. You do realize what you've done, don't you? You've poked the proverbial great bear—or in this case, the wolf. In Tevinter, we call that courage. Here, they might mistake it for lunacy.”

"Lord Pavus." Ellana accepted the glass of wine he offered, grateful for both the fortification and his deliberately casual manner. She took her first, then the second, sips with relish. "I wasn't aware you found economic policy so entertaining."

"My dear, everything is entertaining when presented with sufficient dramatic flair." His dark eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, though something sharper lurked beneath. "Though I must say, you've managed to make quite an impression. Half the room is scandalized, the other half impressed, and all of them talking about nothing else. Even Duke Elgar'nan seems intrigued."

He nodded subtly toward where the Duke stood conversing with several council members, his expression one of careful interest as he observed the aftermath of her confrontation. Elgar’nan’s presence at any gathering was enough to command attention, but here, with only the Royal Family above his own rank, amidst the glittering throng he stood as the silent axis around which the evening turned.

It wasn’t just his title that made him formidable; it was the weight of his reputation. Elgar’nan had spent decades consolidating power, pulling strings from the shadows while maintaining the façade of a disinterested observer. It was said that even Viscount Fen’Harel respected him, or at least minded him—a rare feat for any man, let alone one who rarely raised his voice above a murmur. Still, Ellana felt, that there was something in his manner—the way he watched not just her, but the reactions of others—that made her skin prickle with unease. She noticed him making subtle notes in a small book he carried, his attention seeming to track the reactions of various nobles to the scene that had just played out.

"Wonderful," she muttered. "More attention from powerful men with questionable motives is exactly what I needed."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about Elgar'nan," Dorian said lightly, though his tone carried a warning. "It's our friend the Dread Wolf you might want to watch. He doesn't take well to being challenged, especially in public. Or by the Dalish. Or… likely by a woman. Are you sure you don’t want to go back and trip him into a punch bowl?"

As if summoned by his words, Ellana felt the weight of Lord Fen'Harel's gaze from across the room. He stood with Countess Mythal, apparently engaged in serious conversation, yet his attention kept returning to her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. There was something almost predatory in his focus now, as if she'd transformed from minor irritant to worthy prey.

"You know," Dorian continued, watching the interplay with poorly concealed fascination, "I don't think I've ever seen him quite so affected by someone's criticism before. Usually he simply dismisses opposition with that particularly cutting look of his. He’s quite good at it. But you..." He studied her with new interest. " You actually managed to make him angry. How fascinating."

"Fascinating isn't quite the word I'd choose," Ellana said dryly. "Considering his ability to destroy what remains of my family's business."

The evening seemed to stretch endlessly after that. Ellana maintained her composure through three different dances (all with partners clearly chosen to demonstrate their political opposition to Lord Fen'Harel), two incredibly awkward conversations about the weather (during which everyone carefully avoided mentioning her earlier display), and one particularly cutting remark from Lady Florianne about how "some people simply don't understand their proper place in society."

Through it all, she felt Lord Fen'Harel's gaze following her movements. He had declined to dance himself, instead engaging in what appeared to be serious discussions with various council members. Yet whenever she glanced in his direction, his eyes were invariably already on her, that same unreadable expression making her skin prickle with awareness.

"Don't let him intimidate you," Dorian murmured during a brief respite near the punch bowl. "He's not used to being challenged, especially not by someone who can match his wit. It's good for him, really. I can’t remember the last time anyone laughed at his face like that. Well, apart from me, though that was in private. Here’ I’ve poured you a new glass. Shall we bask in you success?"

"Is that what you call this?" Ellana gestured subtly to where a group of young nobles were quite obviously gossiping about her. She accepted the punch anyway. "Because from where I stand, it feels rather more like social suicide than success."

"My dear Lady Lavellan," Dorian's smile held genuine warmth now. "Sometimes the most interesting things grow from the ashes of proper behavior. This was good. May I be blunt? As soon as you walked through those doors, everyone here tonight was already anticipating a disaster of one manner or another. In that regard, you’ve met expectations, but you’ve neglected to realize the most important thing.”

“... the fact that Countess Mythal called me mongrel?”

“No! Dear girl, no, it is that you left that veritable termagant of a man speechless! He leveled you with the same expression he wore on the field of battle, a Commander , a Viscount, and any one here would’ve tucked their little tail between their legs and fled but not you. Oh no, not you, you wonderful, wicked women. You stood there in your silks and your little shoes with plaits in your hair and looked him in the eye and met him as an equal.”

“I hardly think anyone would consider me an equal to the Viscount, nor was that what I was trying to do—”

“Shhh, shush. I am enjoying the afterglow. Do not ruin this for me. He’ll have a wrinkle in his brow for weeks following tonight.”

Ellana sighed. Unlike Dorian who thrived on dramatics and applause, she… did not. She had come with a purpose and failed so spectacularly, that the position of House Lavellan was likely worse than it had been before she arrived.

“Ah. Frowning ruins the lovely image of you, Lady Lavellan. Another punch or three may lift you into better spirits though… if you are determined to be so downtrodden, now is likely the best time to make your exit. People are more interested in following the Countess and the Viscount now that she has stolen away with him to converse, so there will be less eyes following you.”

He was right, of course. 

As her carriage was called, Ellana caught one last glimpse of the ballroom through the great crystal doors. Lord Fen'Harel still stood with Countess Mythal, their heads bent in serious discussion. For a moment, just before the doors closed, she could have sworn she saw Mythal smile—a sharp, knowing expression that sent an inexplicable shiver down her spine.

The carriage ride home was long enough for proper regret to set in. What had she accomplished, really? Beyond making a spectacle of herself and giving the Ton fresh fodder for gossip, had anything actually changed?

And yet... the memory of Lord Fen'Harel's expression when she'd confronted him, that flash of something raw beneath his careful control, suggested she'd struck deeper than she'd intended. Whether that would help or harm their cause remained to be seen.

One thing was certain: after tonight, nothing would be quite the same.

Chapter Text

Across the Tarasyl'an Te'las Estate, evening breezes carried the scent of roses from the garden through the open windows and into Countess Mythal's private study. Lush and floral, the abstruse fragrance was as fickle as it was fine; a subtle contrast to the lingering heavy perfumes and excitement from the ball still echoing through the halls below. 

Solas stood with rigid posture before his aunt's desk, hands clasped behind his back, expression carved from stone as she examined the ancient document spread before her.

"Nephew, you should know better than to air your grievances in public. Allowing that Lavellan girl, a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world and wholly unallied to this family, to pollute your judgement so thoroughly… as circumstances stand, you are already on the edge of piteous scandal, and you’ve gone out your way to ensure the path ahead will be even more difficult.”

“How do you mean, Aunt?” His voice held carefully measured calm, though something in his stance suggested gathering storm clouds.

Mythal's lips curved into a smile that held more sharp edges than warmth. "There are new developments in the aftermath of your campaign against House Lavellan and the other Dalish houses that still remain in Arlathan. It's quite fascinating, really. While reviewing some older contracts in light of recent events, it was brought to my attention by the keeper of contracts, following his own notification from clause from the bank when a certain account dropped beneath a predetermined threshold, that an old agreement has come into affect.”

She traced one elegant finger down the yellowed parchment, tracing the ink.. 

"A marriage clause, written and sealed by your own ancestor."

Solas went very still. "What?”

“A marriage clause, and one that comes into affect due to your own hand. Under normal circumstance, I should be delighted, nephew, that you are to be married with such efficiency and the annoyance of those vying for your title and estate may come to an end, but the manner of which this is to be is nothing short of a—”

"No." Solas's voice cut through her words like ice. "This is impossible."

"Impossible?" Mythal's smile sharpened, her gaze cutting like a blade. "An interesting choice of words from a man who has made quite a career of achieving the impossible. Tell me, nephew, did you think there would be no consequences to your systematic dismantling of Dalish trade?"

"I have worked within the law—"

"The law, yes. Always so careful about the letter of the law, aren't you? And yet..." She tapped the document meaningfully. "It seems our ancestors were equally careful in their legal preparations."

Solas began to pace, his controlled movements betraying carefully leashed agitation. "This is clearly a fabrication. Some desperate attempt by failing houses to—"

"To what, exactly?" Mythal's voice carried centuries of authority. "To forge a contract that precisely predicts the exact percentage of decline you would inflict? To falsify signatures and seals that have been verified by multiple sources? Do give them credit for more intelligence than that."

"If such a contract existed, I would have known."

"Would you?" Mythal's laugh held no warmth. "You, who has spent years deliberately avoiding your station? You, who vanished after your conscription in the war, whom could only be forced to regard anything related to the Dalish in the Heraldry or in their History? I have no love for the savages, nephew, but you have dismissed your enemy too early, and in doing so, failed to see the opening that you created for them to taint your legacy.”

His jaw clenched. "I will not be manipulated by—"

"By your own actions?" She stood, her presence filling the room despite her smaller stature. "You have orchestrated this situation perfectly, nephew. Every regulation, every restriction, every carefully calculated reduction in their income—you might as well have written this contract yourself."

“I know this to be a scandalous falsehood, as there is no manner of force that could bind me thusly. It is more likely that a jealous house or usurping hopeful has created such a document to create a situation for their own personal gain—”

"Oh?" Mythal raised one perfect eyebrow. "So you believe the contract before you to be a forgery? It is good, then, that I have already summon Master Tethras to speak to you directly and verify its authenticity. Though I warn you, he is apt to find this entire situation absolutely delightful at our mutual expense."

As if on cue, a knock at the door heralded Varric's arrival. The keeper of contracts entered with a knowing grin, already pulling additional documents from his ever-present satchel.

"Your Grace, Your Lordship." He bowed with just the right degree of respect, though his eyes sparkled with poorly concealed mirth. "I took the liberty of bringing the relevant supporting documentation."

"How... efficient of you," Solas said, his tone suggesting efficiency was not the word he truly wished to use.

"The contract is quite specific," Mythal continued, as she gestured for Varric to proceed. "From my understanding of it’s nature, it activates when one house's trading income reduces by more than twenty percent for five consecutive seasons."

"Correct, Countess. The timing of it is… something of a wonder, really. I myself doubted when this first came to my attention from the holding banks, but I have referenced and cross referenced every source. The stars have come into a rare alignment in this scenario, it’s positively occult." Varric added cheerfully, spreading more documents across the desk. "My Lord Viscount, your latest policy would cut House Lavellan's income by exactly twenty-one percent this season, after four previous quarters of decline. These are the exact circumstances designed to trigger this very clause."

"The contract was meant to prevent either house from falling into ruin, back when our ancestors were less deliberate in their choice of allies and more sentimental about the written decrees of sustained fealty," Mythal explained, though Solas's thunderous expression suggested he needed no such clarification. "Your ancestors were quite thorough in protecting their mutual interests."

"Mutual interests?" Solas's laugh held no humor. "The very idea is absurd. I refuse to—"

"Careful, nephew." Mythal's voice carried a warning beneath its silk. "Consider the consequences before you finish that sentence. The contract is ironclad—and your sentiments known. Your own successful efforts to damage the Lavellan business have created the exact conditions specified in the document. Already, your outburst this evening has tongues wagging about your supposed single-minded hate of the Dalish, but this compounded with physical evidence may be more damning than even your good reputation can recover from. You must be careful in your next steps. Refusing to honor it would not only result in significant financial penalties but would damage your reputation as a man of honor. How many of your recent trade reforms rely on that reputation for their support?"

Solas began to pace, every movement tightly controlled. "There must be some alternative. Some legal precedent—"

"Oh, there are several precedents," Varric offered helpfully, producing yet another stack of documents. "All of them enforcing similar contracts. Apparently, your ancestors were quite fond of using marriage to prevent economic warfare, and have included an impressive amount of thought into the design of this accord. It requires marriage between the main bloodlines of both houses. Given that Lady Ellana is the sole surviving heir of House Lavellan's primary line—”

“You cannot be serious—”

“—and conveniently of marriageable age at twenty-and-three, the contract's requirements can only be fulfilled through her union with Lord Fen'Harel. No other arrangements would satisfy the terms. Though, yes, there are, or rather were, stipulations of annulment of contract for those who are already married, which, my Lord, you are not, or if there are egregious gaps in age, which again, there is not as you are only thirty. I could, if you wish, discuss with you the financial ramifications of refusing to abide, however… I must warn his Lordship that even for a man of your stature, the cost will be dear, as you would be held responsible for replacing the lost income for the last five seasons with additional interest…”

"This is absurd," Solas bit out. "I will not be manipulated by some ancient abortion of logic!"

"Contract that you yourself triggered?" Mythal finished smoothly. "Come now, nephew. You are not a child any longer, hot-blooded and foolish as you still are. Tantrums and fits are for those beneath, not for house Fen’Harel. Not for you. Though I am loathe to see this come to pass, you will marry, that young mongrel Lady Lavellen will be your Viscountess, and we will see this matter ended with what dignity can be salvaged.”

The look Solas gave her could have frozen flame.

"I suggest you take some time to consider your position carefully," Mythal continued, unfazed. "The contract's terms are quite clear, and the consequences of refusing them equally so. Master Tethras, I trust you'll ensure all proper documentation is prepared?"

"Already in progress, Your Grace." Varric gathered his papers with obvious satisfaction. "I'll have everything ready for both parties to review by week’s end. Countess, my Lord, good evening."

As the keeper of contracts made his exit, Mythal fixed her nephew with a measured look. 

"Well, Nephew?"

His hands clenched behind his back. "I will find a way to prevent this... vile… arrangement. The contract may be binding, but surely there must be precedent for challenging such an outdated decree."

"And how many fortunes are you willing to sacrifice in that pursuit? How many allies will stand with you when they learn you'd sooner bankrupt yourself than honor your ancestors' word?"

Solas turned sharply toward the window, his profile rigid with tension. "I will not be maneuvered into this marriage. Not by ancient contracts, not by failing houses, and not by you, Aunt."

Dawn the following morning found Solas still hunched in his study at Vi'Revas Manor, surrounded by stacks of legal texts and historical documents. He had not slept. The candles had burned low, replaced twice by silent servants who knew better than to comment on their master's state of dishevelment—his formal jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled to the elbows as he pored over yet another tome of contract law.

"There must be something," he muttered, reaching for another document only to knock over an ink bottle. The black liquid spread across his desk like spilled secrets, staining several pages before he could contain it. His curse echoed in the quiet room.

A knock at the door interrupted his mounting frustration. 

"Enter."

Varric appeared, carrying even more papers. "Good morning, Your Lordship. I received your summons this morning to assist in your further research, though… from the looks of things, it hasn't been particularly good for you thus far."

Solas didn't bother acknowledging the observation. "Have you found anything?"

"Other than more proof that your ancestors were remarkably thorough in their legal documentation? No, not really." Varric set his burden down with careful precision. "Though I did find some interesting notes about the original context of the contract. Apparently, your great-great-grandfather and the then-head of House Lavellan were quite close allies. The marriage clause was meant to ensure neither family could act against the other's interests, or in the event of collapse, that they would sustain each other through union. At the time it was written, both houses had male heirs, so there was little option to join them if there were any hopes of having a heir to continue the lines."

"Allies? How things change."

"Do they?" Varric raised an eyebrow. "The contract's still doing exactly what it was designed to do—preventing one house from destroying the other."

Solas pushed away from his desk, pacing the length of his study. Morning light spilled through tall windows, catching the dust motes disturbed by his movement. The view beyond showed the carefully maintained grounds of the Vi'Revas estate—another old elvhen name deriving from “Path of Freedom”—every hedge and pathway laid out with mathematical precision. Everything in its proper place, under proper control.

Unlike his current situation.

"There must be some precedent for challenging such an outdated agreement. We are not bound from the same archaic laws from the feudal era, the same should be so for this monstrosity.," he said, more to himself than Varric. "You will find some legal framework that—" His hand knocked against another stack of papers, sending them cascading to the floor in a flutter of parchment.

"Careful there." Varric bent to help gather the scattered documents. "If, I may, my Lord, most men would be celebrating the prospect of marriage to a beautiful, intelligent woman with an estate all her own."

Solas's glare could have withered stone, and it nearly withered the dwarf before him. "A woman who publicly challenged my authority, mocked my policies, and demonstrated complete disregard for proper—"

"Proper what? Proper behavior? Proper deference to your position?" Varric's grin widened. "Sounds an awful lot like someone else I know. Someone who's made quite a career out of challenging established systems."

"That is entirely different."

"Is it?" Varric studied him with surprising insight. "When Lady Lavellan first arrived at my office with those trade documents, she reminded me of someone. That same intensity, that determination to protect what's important, regardless of the cost to herself." He paused meaningfully. "Reminded me quite a bit of you, actually."

The look Solas gave him suggested this observation was not appreciated.

“I would suggest you mind your tongue, Master Tethras.”

"Very well, my Lord," Varric gathered his papers with deliberate care, more unbothered than most would’ve been beneath the Viscount’s impressive glare. "By your bidding I will look into this further, however, I should mention—the newspaper announcements will need to be made soon, as will the reading of the banns… though… that will mostly be performative as any objections to the unions will be overruled by the nature of this contract between your families. Countess Mythal is already making arrangements for a formal gathering."

Solas's hand clenched on the edge of his desk. "How kind of her to take such initiative. Now you may leave, Master Tethras."

Only after the door closed behind the keeper of contracts did Solas allow himself to slump into his chair, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. The morning light caught the ink staining his fingers—precise, controlled Lord Fen'Harel, reduced to such disorder by a mere contract. By a mere woman.

The thought of her made his jaw clench. Lady Lavellan, with her sharp tongue and sharper mind, who had dared to challenge him publicly—a Dalish woman presuming to lecture him on anything was as laughable as it was insulting. The very notion was absurd. That she had matched his accusations with evidence only proved how dangerous such people could be when given even a modicum of improper education. She was altogether uncommon, the rumors of her late Father’s untoward instruction of a girl proven true by the stinging, unladylike barbs in her diction. Her defiance, even the way she stood, even her glare, spoke of that particular Dalish arrogance he knew too well.

And now she would be his wife. The word itself felt like ashes in his mouth. A savage in silks, playing at nobility while clawing what value they could from others as if they were deserved. Her kind always chose convenience over duty when truly tested. No doubt she would bring that same willful ignorance into his household, attempting to corrupt his carefully maintained order with her primitive notions of trade and governance…

No. There had to be another way. He reached for another legal text, ignoring the way his hands had begun to tremble with exhaustion. He would find something. There would be some way to prevent this absurd situation from—

His quill snapped between his fingers, sending drops of ink spattering across yet another page of useless laws.

The candles had burned so low, they wax pooled on his desk in dripping white puddles. His evening meal, left by quiet servants, had run cold hours ago.

Solas sat, spent, rubbing at his tables with a hand, surrounded by parchment failures and damnation.

There was, it seemed, no clever trick or tactic, no pincer maneuver, no left flank, that he could devise to escape this ambush.

Three days after the ball at Countess Mythal’s Tarasyl'an Te'las Estate, Ellana sat once more in the Lavellan counting house, surrounded by the familiar comfort of ledgers and trade documents. She had thrown herself into work since that disastrous evening, determined to find some way to challenge Lord Fen'Harel's latest regulations before they could take effect, but time towards the deadline was marching ever faster.

The scratch of her quill against parchment was the only sound in the counting house until Master Athras cleared his throat nervously. "My lady... Keeper Deshanna is here." 

Ellana looked up sharply. Her aunt rarely left the estate these days, preferring to manage household affairs while Ellana handled their business interests. For her to come to the counting house... 

"And Master Tethras as well, my lady," Athras added, his usual composure slipping slightly. 

They stood in the doorway - Deshanna in her formal robes despite the early hour, and Varric carrying his ever-present satchel of documents. Something in their expressions made Ellana's stomach clench. Her aunt's presence alongside the keeper of contracts could mean nothing good. 

"Master Tethras. I wasn't expecting—"

"No, you weren't." Varric's usual good humor seemed tempered with sympathy as he approached her desk. "But recent developments have made this visit necessary." He pulled a document from his satchel, the parchment yellowed with age. “You should look at this, Sunshine.”

She accepted the document with steady hands, though her heart had begun to race. More regulations? Some new policy as the final nail in the heart? The Viscount in his fury could have devised any number of things... As she read, the blood drained from Ellana's face. Not even that devil of a man would've come up with this.

"This can't be real."

"I'm afraid it is," Varric said gently. "The contract is quite clear—and quite binding." His usual humor had faded to something like sympathy as he watched her scan the yellowed parchment, her fingers trembling slightly against the ink-worn edges.

A laugh escaped her, sharp and brittle as breaking glass. "A marriage contract? Written centuries ago by ancestors who never could have anticipated—" She stood abruptly, the movement sending several ledgers tumbling from her desk. "This is absurd.Surely such an outdated agreement can't be enforced."

"Da'len," Keeper Deshanna's voice was soft but firm. "Perhaps we should consider the practical aspects of—"

"Practical?" Ellana whirled to face her aunt. "What's practical about being forced to marry the very man who's systematically trying to destroy everything our family has built? A man who showed nothing but contempt and cruelty to anyone having committed the unforgivable sin of existing in a state other than his preference? Who openly treats anyone he considers beneath him with utter disdain?" 

Her voice cracked slightly. "Who clearly despises everything about us and what we represent? That man is a blight, a horror, he is an executioner of joy and prosperity in the livery of a lord."

"That man will become your husband," Deshanna corrected gently, "and his position could secure our house's future. Think, Ellana. As Viscountess Fen'Harel, you would have the influence to protect our interests from within." 

She hesitated, then added softly, "And… you would be secure, da'len. Whatever his personal failings, he is one of the most eligible men in Arlathan—wealthy, respected, from an ancient lineage. Few matches could offer you better protection or status. Perhaps... perhaps in time, you might even find some happiness in the union. They say he is highly intelligent, well-read... qualities you've always valued in your companions."

Ellana's hands clenched on the document. "And what of my interests? My choices?"

"Sometimes duty presents us with unexpected paths." Deshanna moved closer, her expression softening. "Your parents would have wanted—"

"Don't." Ellana's voice cracked. "Please don't tell me what they would have wanted."

Varric cleared his throat delicately. "If it helps, Lord Fen'Harel seems equally, ah, disturbed by this development."

"Disturbed?" A slightly hysterical laugh escaped her. "I imagine he's furious. The great Dread Wolf, forced to marry a 'backward' Dalish noble of the lowest kind? Barely a member of the gentry? How perfectly mortifying for him. His ears must be burning from the gossip of his own household staff alone."

"The mood there at Vi’Rivas is entirely unique. Viscount Fen’Harel is hardly the sort of man to be unsettled but," Varric's eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement, "he spent all night trying to find legal loopholes. Apparently went through three bottles of ink and several quills in the process."

Despite herself, Ellana felt her lips twitch. The image of the perfectly controlled Viscount reduced to such frustration held a certain poetic justice. He deserved that. And more.

"The announcement will be made at Countess Mythal's estate next week," Varric continued. "All the proper documentation has been prepared. Though I should mention—as I have explained to Viscount Fen’Harel as well—if you refuse to comply… there are consequences. They are different for you as the diminished party, but to refuse his hand and allow the disillusion of House Lavellan isn’t permissible per the contract. Rather, while you may chose not to wed him, Lady Lavellan, you may not stop the merging of Houses. The entire Lavellan estate would be absorbed by House Fen'Harel so that its longevity can be ensured by the more… affluent… party involved and thus ensuring its continuity, but this leaves you with no real authority to protect your people's interests."

The weight of that statement settled over the room. Ellana moved to the window propped both her hands along the sill, leaning heavily to gaze out at the familiar view of their modest grounds. Everything she'd fought to protect, everything her parents had built... all of it balanced now on this impossible choice.

Marry him: be taken over by what had destroyed in the first place.

Refuse him: save House Lavellen in name, but lose what little agency she had left to begin with.

"Da'len." Keeper Deshanna joined her at the window. "I know this isn't what you wanted. But the Creators work in ways we cannot always understand… you know this. They would not have put this path before you without cause. A union between our houses could heal old wounds, bridge divides that have grown too wide. You may find happiness in this, too, in the creation of a family all your own."

"Or this could destroy what little remains of our already small independence," Ellana said softly. Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned back to Varric. "When is the first meeting to discuss terms?"

"Tomorrow afternoon at Countess Mythal's estate. All parties are expected to attend."

"Then I suppose," Ellana said with grim determination, "I have a day to plan our next course of action, and… change into something more appropriate for meeting my future husband."

The bitterness in her voice made Deshanna wince and she was quite sure that Ellana was still scheming, but Varric's eyes held unexpected approval. 

"You know," he said thoughtfully, just for Deshanna’s pricked ears,, "this might be the first time I've actually looked forward to a contract negotiation."

Countess Mythal's formal meeting room stretched long and elegant, its high crystal walls catching the late morning light and scattering it like scattered diamonds across the polished floor. The massive table that dominated the space was carved from a single piece of pale wood, its surface gleaming with generations of careful polish. Tall chairs were arranged with mathematical precision, their positions carefully calculated to maintain proper distance between parties—close enough for conversation, far enough to prevent any hint of impropriety.

Or comfort.

Ellana entered with Keeper Deshanna at her side, conscious of every eye turning to mark their arrival. She had chosen her attire with careful deliberation: a gown of deep forest green silk that spoke of her Dalish heritage while maintaining the current fashion, her mother's pendant at her throat catching the light with each step. Her hair was arranged in simple braids without appearing too provincial. Every detail had been selected to present an image of dignity and composure, regardless of how her heart thundered against her ribs.

Lord Fen'Harel already stood near the head of the table, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the crystal walls. The severe lines of his clothing emphasized the tension in his lean frame, while the high collar drew attention to the sharp angle of his jaw, currently held tight with barely concealed tension. Dark circles beneath his eyes suggested Varric's account of his sleepless night had been accurate. He didn't quite meet her gaze as she took her seat.

Servants in Mythal's silver-and-blue livery moved silently around the room's edges, replacing crystal decanters and adjusting heavy silk curtains with practiced precision. Their presence emphasized the opulence of the setting - from the impossibly delicate glassware to the fresh-cut flowers that must have cost a month of a Lavellan servant's wages. A footman appeared at Mythal's elbow with a silver tray the moment she emptied her glass, while another adjusted the cushion at her back without being asked. The casual display of wealth made Ellana acutely aware of her own reduced circumstances.

Countess Mythal rose, commanding attention without apparent effort. "Let us begin. The terms of the original contract are clear regarding the necessity of marriage, but certain details must be negotiated for modern circumstances." She gestured to Varric, who began distributing documents with practiced efficiency.

"First," she continued, "the matter of residence. The contract stipulates the union must be properly witnessed, requiring a period of cohabitation and proper courting before the wedding. Lady Lavellan will take up residence at Vi'Revas within the week."

"A week?" Keeper Deshanna's voice carried carefully measured concern. "Surely more time is needed to make proper arrangements—"

"The devil is in the details and this contract is quite detailed about timing," Varric interjected apologetically. "Given the current... economic circumstances, any delay could be seen as an attempt to circumvent the terms incurring yet more penalties."

Ellana's fingers tightened in her lap. "And what of my current responsibilities? The people who depend on our business for their livelihoods?"

"You will have sufficient time to manage essential matters," Solas said, his tone suggesting he considered 'essential' to be a very limited category. "Under proper supervision, of course."

"Supervision?" Ellana couldn't quite keep the edge from her voice. Her fingers curled into the silk of her skirts beneath the table, knuckles whitening with the effort of maintaining composure. "I wasn't aware I required a keeper, my lord."

The crystal decanters along the table's edge caught the afternoon light, casting prisms across the polished wood that danced and scattered with each sharp gesture from the participants. She watched one such rainbow skitter across Solas's severe profile as he turned to deliver his response with calculated precision.

"Recent events suggest you require guidance in understanding your proper place," he replied coolly, though she noticed the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes—the only outward sign that her defiance had struck a nerve.

The implied insult hung in the air between them like frost. As if I haven't managed our affairs successfully for years while he sat in his ivory tower passing judgment, she thought bitterly, but kept her expression carefully neutral.

"... and I suppose such confusion is natural, given your uncommon upbringing."

Varric cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should move on to the matter of household management. Lady Lavellan will need to understand her new responsibilities—"

"Her primary responsibility," Solas interrupted, his voice carrying the kind of casual cruelty that came from generations of assumed superiority, "will be learning to conduct herself with something approaching propriety. I will not have my household's reputation tainted by the sort of... unseemly behaviors we've come to expect from her kind. Though I suppose one can hardly blame a mouse for not knowing how to waltz, even when placed in a ballroom. This will change. I will not have my household polluted or disrupted by lowly impropriety."

"Impropriety?" Ellana's laugh held a dangerous note. "Tell me, my lord, do you consider all women who think for themselves improper, or only the ones who dare to challenge your assumptions?"

"I consider improper," he replied with the kind of precise, cutting derision that would lesser nobles to tears, "any presumption that elevation in status automatically confers the capacity to understand it. One doesn't expect a child to grasp politics simply because they've been seated at the council table. Though," his lips curved in a smile that held all the warmth of a blizzard, "I conceded that such nuances must escape your comprehension."

“And yet even I can still comprehend that any semblance of ‘elevation’ in a marriage to a Lord such as yourself is vastly outweighed by the damnation for being forced to suffer your company—”

"Children." Mythal's voice cracked like ice, stopping whatever scathing retort was already burning on Ellana’s tongue before she could set it loose. "Need I remind you both that this union will proceed regardless of your personal feelings? Now, regarding the household staff..."

The negotiations continued in this vein for hours. Every point became a battlefield: which servants would accompany Ellana to Vi'Revas, how much autonomy she would maintain in managing House Lavellan's affairs, even the details of the wedding ceremony itself. Each compromise was wrested from reluctant participants with all the grace of pulling teeth.

"The matter of personal funds," Varric said carefully, producing another document. "The contract specifies a suitable allowance..."

"I have no need of an allowance," Ellana said sharply. "My concern is for my people, not personal comforts."

"Nevertheless," Solas's tone suggested he was conferring a great favor, "appearances must be maintained. You will receive a quarterly sum appropriate to your new station."

"How generous," Ellana said, her words carrying the sweetness of poisoned honey. Her fingers tightened imperceptibly on her skirts beneath the table's edge, the only outward sign of her carefully contained fury towards circumstance. 

"Tell me, my lord,” she said airily, “does this largesse extend to the families whose livelihoods you've disrupted, or merely to ensuring I appear appropriately for my role as your... what was the phrase? Ah yes, 'primitive' bride? I imagine it would be no small scandal for me not to appear properly decorative and domesticated for your esteemed social circles."

"You mistake necessity for generosity, my lady. Yes, I expect you to maintain the appearance and deportment befitting a Viscountess. Yes, I expect you to conduct yourself as a proper wife should—with grace, obedience, and submission to your husband's authority. These are not unreasonable demands; they are the natural order of things. Or this another aspect in which I will find you unable to meet even the barest of expectation? Shall we shift the blame of your failings to your limited experience with polite society?"

“I heartily advise his lordship to revisit his many lofty expectations—”

"Speaking of society," Mythal interrupted smoothly, "we should discuss the public announcement. The Ton will expect certain appearances to be maintained."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of legal terms and carefully crafted insults. By the time the final document was prepared for their signatures, shadows had lengthened across the polished floor, and even Varric's usual good humor had worn thin.

"If you would both sign here," he indicated the proper spaces, "and here... and here."

Ellana took the quill first, her signature as precise as her father had taught her. When she passed the pen to Solas, their fingers brushed briefly. She could have sworn she felt him tense at the contact, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

"Well," Mythal said as the ink dried on their signatures, her tone carrying all the warmth of a serpent's regard, "I suppose we must all bear our burdens with what grace we can manage. Do try not to completely disgrace yourself at Vi'Revas, Lady Lavellan. Though given your... background, I imagine even that simple request may prove challenging."

"Certainly, my Lady, it is a wonder how I have managed as I have for so long given the multitudes of my inborn challenges." Ellana ground her teeth and rose, perfect manners masking the storm beneath. "I look forward to demonstrating exactly what I'm capable of. And shall I now call you my dear Aunt as we are to be one and whole family?"

The Countess’ face pinched in a look so disgusted, that even Keeper Deshanna had to hide the escaping laugh in a hand.

Still, across the table things were less amused. Solas's soft scoff suggested he'd already decided Ellana’s capabilities (or rather, that there were likely none to be found) but Ellana was already turning away, eager to escape to the confines of this room, this impending union and stand not within The Place Where the Sky is Kept, but rather beneath its own true blue and free air. Footmen politely opened the doors as she passed, head held high. She had won what small victories she could today, but the long war loomed ahead on the horizon.. Tomorrow would bring new battles, new challenges, new opportunities to prove herself against those who would dismiss her.

Thankfully, the little heathen Dalish savage she was, Ellana was not opposed to a fight.

Let him think her incapable. Let him underestimate her worth. She would show him exactly what she could achieve, even in his gilded cage.

The afternoon sun had begun its descent, but Ellana was still hidden away in the gardens, seeking refuge from the suffocating formality of the negotiations. Whatever remained to discuss Keeper Deshanna and Varric could handle. Her head ached from hours of carefully crafted phrases and thinly veiled barbs. Every detail of her future had been discussed and decided by others—when she would move to Vi'Revas, how her duties would be arranged, what freedoms she would be permitted to maintain.

And those she would lose.

Carefully tended paths winding between elegant topiaries and marble fountains offered her blessed solitude and space to think. She found a secluded bench near a bed of crystal grace, their delicate blooms catching the light like scattered stars against the deepening afternoon shadows. Behind her, a stone wall bore climbing roses—their thorny stems methodically trained into perfect patterns by careful gardeners, each wayward shoot clipped and tied back into submission. Even their scent seemed somehow constrained, rising in careful measures rather than the wild abundance of the roses in her own garden at home.

They’d been over pruned. Like her future, she thought bitterly.

What would they have thought of this, her parents? Her father, who had defied convention by teaching his daughter mathematics and trade instead of merely finding her a suitable match? Who had believed so firmly that duty meant protecting those who depended on you, not just preserving appearances? And her mother, who had balanced dignity with defiance so gracefully, managing their household while still maintaining her own quiet independence?

The flowers swayed gently in the breeze. A wild flower. A Dalish flower. Their blooms somehow thriving despite being transplanted from their native forest homes to this carefully manicured garden. She reached out to touch one delicate petal. Soon she would be transplanted too, expected to flourish in Lord Fen'Harel's carefully ordered world. No more morning rides alone with her mare in a commoner’s linen dress, no more afternoons spent in the counting house puzzling over trade routes and contracts with ink smeared on her hands. Even her time with their remaining household staff would be curtailed, supervised, deemed inappropriate for a Viscountess.

A robin landed nearby, hopping closer to investigate her presence before taking wing again, disappearing over the high garden walls. Free to come and go as it pleased, unlike her. She would be moving to an estate whose very name meant "Path of Freedom," yet would find her own freedom more restricted than ever.

"Well," a familiar voice drawled from somewhere behind her, pulling Ellana from her melancholy, "if it isn't the beautiful and future Viscountess Fen'Harel herself."

"Word travels rather quickly here," Ellana said without turning, recognizing Lord Pavus's approach. "I can only imagine what the servants are saying about the negotiations."

"Oh, the whispers are absolutely delicious. It is a feast of gossip worth not only my time, but my complete attention." Dorian settled beside her with his usual dramatic flair, resting a booted foot on his knee. "The maids are particularly enthusiastic in their descriptions of how you managed to insult both the Viscount himself and render the Countess speechless by claiming her as Aunt. I hear her lips pursed as though she’d licked a particularly sour lemon."

"I'm glad someone finds amusement in my situation," Ellana sighed. "What may I ask has you here at "Tarasyl'an Te'las though? There is no ball scheduled here again for some time."

"Oh, it’s not amusement exactly." He studied her with surprising gentleness. Then he gestured elegantly at their surroundings. "But I shall humor your question. Why am I here? Countess Mythal keeps me around as her 'pet Tevinter'—her words, not mine—officially as a cultural attaché and unofficial reminder that Tevinter's influence extends even here. I provide gossip, fashion commentary, and the occasional bit of diplomatic insight. In return, I enjoy the protection of her patronage and the freedom to be myself without fear of my family's... intervention."

"And… is that where you began your friendship with Lord Fen'Harel?"

"Ah, now that's rather more complex." Dorian's eyes sparkled with renewed mischief. "No, I met him under different circumstances. If I had been just Countess Mythal’s lapdog, he and I would have an entirely different relationship from what we enjoy now. Let's just say I'm one of the few people who can tell him when he's being particularly pig-headed without risking immediate exile. A role I suspect you'll soon be sharing, my dear."

“The man is pig-headed if I so much look at him. You have such high aspirations for me, Lord Pavus.”

“And you will exceed them, I am sure.”

Ellana sighed, deflated in his presence. Where Lord Fen’Harel made her burn high and bright like an angry Pyre, Lord Pavus soothed aches like a salve. Talking to him was easier than it should have been. Despite herself, she wanted to know more of him.

“Enough of me. Do you miss Tevinter at all?”

He paused, taking the moment to think. "Aspects of it, maybe, one always yearns for home, but… overall, no. In Tevinter, certain... obligations are placed upon those of noble birth. Particularly regarding marriage and the continuation of bloodlines. When I made it clear I had no intention of meeting those expectations, my father's response was... less than understanding."

"So you came to Arlathan?"

"By way of the northern campaign, yes. I was officially there representing Tevinter's interests—which provided excellent cover for my rather hasty departure." Dorian's usual polish faltered for just a moment, something darker flickering behind his eyes before his customary charm reasserted itself. "That is where I met your charming future husband, actually. He was... different then, hot-blooded and cocky. The sort of man who'd challenge someone to a duel over a chess match—which, I might add, he actually did once. Quite the spectacle."

He paused, swirling the contents of his glass as if studying memories in the liquid's movement. "He was brilliant even then, mind you, but rather less… ah, the word I am looking for is escaping me, but less ‘refined’. The kind of man who'd loudly argue philosophy until dawn and then show up fresh as a daisy to command troops at first light, while the rest of us mere mortals nursed our headaches and cursed his existence."

"And now?" Ellana couldn't help asking, curious despite herself.

"Now?" Dorian's expression grew thoughtful. "Now he's learned to wield silence like a weapon instead of words. It may be hard for you to believe, but he is much more mature now."

"Lord Pavus, I find that impossible to believe."

"And yet it is so. I give you my word." His smile held a hint of genuine warmth beneath its usual polish. "Though I confess, seeing you cut through his carefully maintained facade reminds me rather nostalgically of those earlier days. You might be surprised to learn you're not entirely dissimilar in some ways—though I'd advise against mentioning that observation to either of you directly. I do value my continued existence."

Ellana, despite her misery, managed to laugh.

“And there she is. I knew you were hiding the real Lady Lavellan somewhere beneath that sadness. Frowning doesn’t suit you dear. And as such, I have decided to give you another gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yes. Me. More specifically, I give you my ear, as well as my esteemed counsel should you need it. And you will, invariably, need it.”

The unusual gravity in his tone made Ellana turn to study him more carefully. His usual polish remained impeccable—from his perfectly waxed mustache to the emerald pin in his cravat—but something in his manner suggested deeper waters than his typical wit might indicate.

“But you’re—you are his friend. Why risk angering him and his displeasure towards you by allying yourself to me?”

Dorian shrugged, nonplussed, but his gaze was deep.

“Curiosity, perhaps. And... let's say a certain understanding of what it means to have tradition, or say contract, become one's prison. Besides, I have security: the stubborn wolf is less likely to bite me than any other, lest he wound his only companion."

Ellana sat with him until the garden's shadows lengthened and a servant appeared to announce her carriage was waiting. As she rose to leave, Dorian caught her hand, pressing it briefly in a gesture that carried more genuine warmth than his usual theatrical flourishes. 

"Remember, my dear—you are not alone. This life is still yours, and you will own him as much as  he does you. Vi’Revas will be your home too, if you let it. And I suspect you'll make it far more interesting than its current occupant expects. For the better." 

His words stayed with her during the quiet carriage ride home, offering a small measure of comfort as she watched the familiar streets of Arlathan pass by. Tomorrow would begin the dismantling of her old life. Today, at least, she had found an unexpected ally.

The week passed in a blur of preparations and farewells. Each morning brought new lists of tasks, new arrangements to be made, new reminders of everything Ellana would be leaving behind. The Lavellan estate seemed determined to show its age during these final days—every creaking floorboard and worn carpet suddenly precious in its familiarity.

Sylaise moved through Ellana's chambers like a whirlwind, sorting through gowns and personal items with the particular efficiency of a lady's maid facing an impossible deadline. "No, no, this won't do at all," she muttered, holding up a morning dress that had seen better days. "You can't take this to Vi'Revas. What would they think?"

"They already think the worst of us," Ellana replied from her desk, where she was reviewing household accounts one final time. "I doubt my wardrobe will change that."

"All the more reason to prove them wrong, my lady." Sylaise set the offending garment aside with a sniff. "Though I don't know how we'll manage to pack everything properly in time. A week's notice! It's absolutely unconscionable. Even common merchant daughters are given more time to prepare for their marriages…"

The sharp scratch of Ellana's quill against parchment was her only response. She had spent every available moment documenting House Lavellan's operations—trade routes, contract terms, shipping schedules, crew rotations. Everything that might be needed to protect their people's interests once she was... elsewhere.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Please, come in."

Blake appeared, looking more careworn than usual. "My lady, Master Athras is here about the ledgers, and Captain Theron wishes to discuss the spring shipping routes. And..." he hesitated, "Cook would like to know if you'll take tea in the garden one last time."

Something in his carefully controlled voice made Ellana's chest tighten. Even their reduced household staff was feeling the weight of these changes. She set down her quill, forcing herself to smile. "Tell Cook I wouldn't miss it. And please, send Master Athras up—these accounts won't review themselves."

As Blake withdrew, Sylaise paused in her packing to study Ellana with concern. "You're working too hard, my lady. Surely some of this can wait..."

"None of it can wait. Once I'm at Vi'Revas..." Ellana's voice caught slightly. She cleared her throat and continued, "Once I'm there, who knows what access I'll have to our records? Lord Fen'Harel made his views on my 'unseemly' business involvement quite clear. I know that Keeper Deshanna will remain but…"

The memory of his cutting remarks during the negotiations still stung. A Viscountess has no business concerning herself with trade routes and shipping manifests. Such matters are beneath her station. As if managing their family's affairs was somehow less dignified than being decorative and silent.

Master Athras arrived with another stack of ledgers, and they spent the next hour reviewing accounts. The elderly clerk's hands trembled slightly as he made notations, though whether from age or emotion was hard to tell. These books had passed through his care for decades—soon they would be relegated to some dusty corner of Vi'Revas's records room, if Lord Fen'Harel didn't simply have them destroyed as "outdated."

"The spring contracts are prepared," Athras said finally, his voice rough. "Though without your signature..."

"I'll sign what I can before I leave," Ellana assured him. "And I'll find a way to maintain oversight, whatever my... whatever Viscount Fen'Harel may think of it. Our people have trusted us too long for me to abandon them now."

A throat cleared from the doorway. Keeper Deshanna stood watching them, her expression troubled. "Da'len, you should rest. There will be time enough for business matters later."

"Will there?" Ellana gestured at the papers surrounding her. It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "Once I'm installed at Vi'Revas like some sort of exotic curiosity? Once I'm expected to spend my days embroidering cushions, painting tables, and pretending I have no thoughts in my head beyond the latest fashions?"

"Ellana." Her aunt's voice held gentle warning. "You know such talk helps nothing. Come, Cook has prepared all your favorites for tea, and the garden is lovely today. You should go enjoy it."

For a moment, Ellana wanted to refuse—to bury herself in ledgers and contracts until she could forget what waited at the end of the week. But the sun streaming through her windows carried the scent of roses from the garden, and she knew her time here grew short.

"Very well." She rose, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled only slightly. 

Dawn broke on Ellana's final morning at the Lavellan estate with a quiet that felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the past week. No sounds of packing filtered through the halls, no urgent messages arrived requiring her attention—everything that could be prepared had been.

Her belongings had been sent ahead the previous day: trunks of carefully selected clothing (Sylaise had won most of those battles), boxes of personal items, and one particularly precious chest containing her father's ledgers and her grandmother's trade journals. Lord Fen'Harel might forbid her from managing business affairs, but he couldn't stop her from keeping her family's records close. Though she had never been to Vi’Revas, she could hardly expect the additional trunk of her belongings would make any meaningful impact on what was rumored to be a sprawling estate.

Ellana stood at her bedroom window, watching the sun rise over the familiar view one last time. The garden below lay quiet, morning dew silvering the roses her mother had planted. Even that troublesome chicken was nowhere to be seen, though she thought she heard its distant clucking from somewhere near the kitchen. For the first time in her life, Ellana regretted not having paid more attention in her tutelage as a child. Many ladies her age could draw, turning ink and charcoal into a pleasing manner of landscapes. Instead, Ellana herself had snuck out to enjoy less than ladylike pastimes such as exploring the nearby forest and tossing mossy rocks into the lake.

But had she stayed, perhaps she could have drawn this place on paper so that it might live elsewhere than just in her mind and heart, tangible and foldable so she could tuck the image beneath her pillow in the evening and dream of home.

A soft knock preceded Sylaise's entrance. "My lady? Your traveling clothes are ready."

The gown laid out was one of her finest—deep lilac silk that would resist wrinkles during the journey, with subtle Dalish embroidery at the cuffs and hem. Her aunt's choice, no doubt, threading the needle between tradition and propriety. Even her arrival at Vi'Revas would be a political statement, it seemed.

"Thank you, Sylaise." Ellana touched the fabric gently. "Though I hardly think my appearance will matter much to—"

"It matters," Sylaise interrupted with unusual firmness. "You go to them not as a supplicant, my lady, but as the heir to House Lavellan. Let them see our dignity, even if they refuse to understand it. It is my wish that they come to accept you as their new Lady."

Ellana's throat tightened. "I don't know what I'll do without you there."

"Oh, my lady." Sylaise's careful composure cracked slightly. "You'll do what you've always done—face whatever comes with grace and courage. Though I wish..." She stopped, blinking rapidly. Her eyes were misty and wet. "Well. Let's get you ready. Your aunt is waiting in the morning room, and Cook insisted on preparing a proper breakfast, contract or no contract, may the Viscount be damned."

The morning passed in a fog of small moments that seemed determined to break Ellana's heart: Cook's tearful insistence that she take one last meat pie for the journey (They'll starve you in that fancy house, my lady, mark my words!), Sam's quiet farewell as he prepared her mare for one final ride, Blake's dignified bow that couldn't quite hide his red-rimmed eyes.

Even that irrepressible chicken made an appearance, darting through the kitchen one last time with Cook in pursuit, though Ellana could have sworn the chase lacked its usual enthusiasm.

Finally, it was time. The hired carriage waited at the front steps—her own small mare would follow later with the last of her belongings. Keeper Deshanna stood ready to accompany her to Vi'Revas, where she would help oversee Ellana's installation in her new household, but first...

"A moment, please," Ellana said softly. "I need to..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but Deshanna nodded in understanding. "Of course, da'len. Take what time you need."

Ellana walked slowly through the morning room, her fingers trailing along the worn edge of the desk where she'd spent countless hours with her father. The wood was smooth from years of use, marked with tiny indentations from where his rings had pressed into it as he guided her hand through her first calculations. The familiar scent of beeswax polish and old papers caught in her throat. Past the parlor next, where the floorboard by the window still creaked—she'd used that sound to warn her when her mother approached during deportment lessons, allowing her to quickly straighten her perpetually slumping shoulders. Even now, she found herself automatically stepping over that board, muscle memory preserving one small piece of her childhood.

From the kitchen came the rhythmic thud of Cook's rolling pin against dough—the soundtrack to countless stolen moments of her youth - punctuated by the sudden indignant squawk of that incorrigible chicken making its final bid for morning mischief. Despite everything, a small smile tugged at her lips. Some things, at least, remained unchangeable.

Her feet carried her to her father's study—her study, these past few years. Morning light spilled through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. The desk where she'd learned her first sums stood empty now, its surface bare except for a single leather-bound volume.

Her fingers traced the book's worn spine. Her father's first ledger, the one he'd used to teach her mathematics and trade. She had meant to leave it behind, to preserve this piece of their history in its proper place, but...

The book slipped into her reticule before she could reconsider. Some pieces of home were too precious to abandon, no matter what her future husband might think of them.

A bell rang from the front of the house—the first warning that they must depart soon to reach Vi'Revas by the appointed hour. Ellana took one last look around the study, committing every detail to memory: the way light fell across the floor, the faint scent of leather and ink, the quiet dignity of a room that had witnessed generations of her family's dedication to their duties.

"Goodbye," she whispered, though to whom—her parents, her home, her former life—she wasn't quite sure.

Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned toward her future. Whatever Vi'Revas held in store, she would face it as her parents had taught her: with courage, with honor, and with the quiet determination that had seen House Lavellan through countless storms before.

Chapter Text

The hired carriage departed Lavellan estate as dawn's first light crept across the eastern sky, bearing Ellana away from the only home she had ever known. Even at this early hour, warmth suffused the morning air, bearing with it the sweet perfume of her mother's roses—a final gift from the gardens she might never see again. Keeper Deshanna sat opposite her in the carriage, occasionally breaking their companionable silence with gentle reminders about proper protocol or whispered prayers to the Creators.

Their journey to Vi'Revas took the better part of four hours, the hired carriage's steady pace marking time along roads that grew increasingly grand as they approached the heart of Arlathan's noble district, though only to pass through. 

As their carriage cleared the city's edge, the manicured estates gave way to rolling countryside. With each mile, Ellana realized with growing unease that the pristine fields, glittering lakes, and even the wild herds of halla roaming distant meadows all belonged to the Viscount. The sheer scale of his holdings was staggering—Vi'Revas was not merely an estate, but practically a small kingdom unto itself.

When they finally turned onto the estate's private road, even Ellana could not maintain her studied indifference to the view that unfolded before them.

The eye was immediately drawn to the Vi'Revas Estate House, which stood on the opposite side of the valley into which the road wound with abrupt turns. It was a large, handsome stone building, prominently positioned on rising ground and framed by a ridge of high, wooded hills. The grounds spread out before it in mathematical precision—each hedge, path, and fountain placed with deliberate intent to emphasize the estate's grandeur.

Ellana sat straight-backed in the hired carriage, refusing to crane her neck like some awestruck country girl despite the impressive sight before her, each turn in the road revealing new aspects of what was to be her future home. 

Keeper Deshanna, seated across from her, made no such pretense of disinterest.

"By the Creators," her aunt breathed, "it's even grander than they say!"

Ellana merely nodded, her fingers finding her mother's pendant beneath her traveling cloak, its familiar contours offering what small comfort they could against the mounting weight of her new reality. The lilac silk of her dress suddenly felt provincial compared to the pristine magnificence before them.

As they drew closer, the true scale of Vi'Revas became apparent. What had seemed merely impressive from a distance revealed itself as absolutely massive up close. The main house rose three full stories, its pale stone facade adorned with delicate carvings that caught the light like frost. Wide steps of white marble led to towering front doors, while crystal windows stretched nearly floor-to-ceiling on each level. Every surface shone with an almost painful perfection, as if the very stone had been polished to mirror brightness. 

Where her own family's modest estate had worn its age with comfortable dignity, this place wore its splendor like armor; polished to gleaming perfection and designed to intimidate.

It made for a pretty prison.

The estate's name—“Path of Freedom" in ancient elvhen—struck Ellana as particularly ironic now. Crystal spires rose at each corner of the main building, their faceted surfaces catching the early light and fracturing it into rainbow shards that danced across the pristine white stone. Even the trees lining the approach seemed carefully chosen and positioned, their branches creating patterns of shadow that shifted with mathematical precision as the carriage passed beneath.

Keeper Deshanna's hand found hers as they made the final approach. "Remember who you are, da'len . Whatever comes, you are still a daughter of House Lavellan."

Ellana squeezed her aunt's fingers briefly before withdrawing her hand to smooth her traveling dress. The lilac silk had indeed resisted wrinkling during the journey, though she felt every minute of travel in the tension between her shoulders. 

The carriage wheels crunched on perfectly raked gravel as they approached the entrance, and as they drew closer, she could see the household staff assembled on the front steps, a sea of impeccable livery arranged with military precision. At their head stood a tall man in a captain's uniform that caught Ellana's attention: golden-haired and handsome, with a bearing that spoke of military training. The Guard Captain, she presumed. Beside him, an older gentleman whose perfectly pressed clothing and proud stance marked him perhaps as the head steward.

Ellana straightened her spine. The footman was already moving to open their door, and she would not show weakness before these strangers who would soon be her household.

The guard captain stepped forward as she descended, offering a bow that was precise in its depth—neither too deep nor too shallow. He cut an impressive figure up close, golden-haired and handsome in his well-fitted uniform, with a scar above his lip that added character to what might otherwise have been too perfect a countenance. More notable was the quiet competence in his bearing, the way his gaze lingered on Ellana for a moment longer than decorum allowed, not unkindly, but as though assessing whether she was yet another burden in his already fraught duties.

"Welcome to Vi'Revas, Lady Lavellan. I am Cullen Rutherford, Captain of the Guard." He said at last, his tone more practiced than worm. Ellana noticed also that his voice carried the slight accent of Ferelden, which was interesting in itself—Lord Fen'Harel clearly valued merit over ancestry in some appointments at least. "His lordship asks that you pardon his absence, as urgent business required his attention elsewhere. I trust your journey was comfortable?"

The carefully neutral way he delivered the message about Lord Fen'Harel's absence suggested the exact wording had been rather less courteous.More telling was how several servants exchanged quick glances at this announcement, their expressions suggesting this was a familiar pattern rather than an isolated slight. Interesting.

"Quite comfortable, thank you." Ellana merely nodded, and she matched his formality with equal precision despite the surreal nature of the situation. "Though I confess, I hadn't expected such a formal welcome."

"You are to be Viscountess Fen’Harel, it is expected that you be greeted appropriately; his lordship insists on all proper protocol being observed." The steward stepped forward, his bow carrying decades of practiced dignity. "Mr. Harrit, my lady. I oversee the household staff. This is Mrs. Mason, our housekeeper." He gestured to a kindly silver-haired woman beside him, who offered a perfect curtsey.

"A pleasure, Mr. Harrit, Mrs. Mason." Ellana noted how the other servants watched this exchange carefully. First impressions would be crucial here. "I look forward to working with you both to ensure a smooth transition."

Something flickered in the steward's eyes; disapproval, perhaps, at her presumption of authority? But his voice remained professionally neutral as he gestured toward the house. "If you'll follow me, my lady, I'll show you to your chambers. Your maid can begin unpacking while we review the household schedules."

"My maid Sylaise will be arriving later this week," Ellana said carefully, watching his reaction. "For now, I'm quite capable of managing my own unpacking."

Horror transformed his features, his eyes widening and lips parting in a manner that would have been comical had the weight of her situation not pressed so heavily upon her shoulders. "My lady . That would hardly be appropriate. I'll assign one of our maids to attend you until your own staff arrives. Perhaps..." He glanced over the assembled servants. "Sera?"

A sharp-featured young woman stepped forward, her livery somehow managing to look rebellious despite being identical to everyone else's, the cut of cloth just so slightly asymmetrical. Her curtsey held the bare minimum of respect required. "My lady."

Ellana noted how several other servants exchanged glances at Sera's selection. Interesting - either Mr. Harrit was unaware of potential friction, or more likely, this was a deliberate choice.

Either way, the household politics were already more complex than they appeared on the surface.

"Captain Rutherford," Keeper Deshanna spoke up, "might I impose upon you to show me to whatever chambers have been prepared for my stay? I find myself rather fatigued from the journey."

"Of course, my lady." Cullen offered his arm with proper courtesy. "Mrs. Mason will attend to your comfort. We've prepared rooms in the east wing for your use during the transition period."

“Wait, Aunt, I will go with you as well—”

“Actually my lady,” Mr. Harrit interrupted, “I must orient you to the house.”

Ellana opened her mouth to protest, but Keeper Deshanna caught her eye with a subtle shake of her head. The message was clear - some battles weren't worth fighting, at least not yet. With practiced grace, Ellana smoothed her expression into one of polite acquiescence.

"This way, my lady." Mr. Harrit's voice carried the faintest hint of impatience.

The entrance hall of Vi'Revas rivaled anything she'd seen at Countess Mythal's estate despite its smaller stature. Crystal and marble combined in soaring archways that caught and amplified the morning light, creating an atmosphere of perpetual radiance. Every surface gleamed with meticulous care, from the polished floor that reflected like a frozen lake to the pristine white walls adorned with carefully chosen art. The effect was beautiful but austere, frigid even, like stepping into a perfect winter morning where even breathing too deeply might disturb the frost patterns on glass.

"The household operates on precise schedules," Mr. Harrit began as they walked, his tone suggesting these were not mere guidelines but sacred texts.Perhaps she should be taking notes. "Breakfast is served from seven until nine in the morning room, unless his lordship requires formal dining. Luncheon at one, afternoon tea at four, and dinner precisely at seven. His lordship does not tolerate tardiness at meals when he is in residence."

They passed through a series of reception rooms, each more impressive than the last. Mr. Harrit detailed the specific purposes of each space, the proper times for their use, the exact protocols to be observed. The morning room was for breakfast and informal callers before noon. The blue drawing room received afternoon visitors of appropriate rank. The music room…

“… though, of course, you'll primarily be concerned with the family wing and the music room. His lordship had very specific the creation of proper areas for the future Viscountess Fen’Harel’s activities..."

"I should mention," Ellana interrupted carefully, "that I do not play any instruments, nor do I draw. Or… paint."

“Then, perhaps…” Harrit looked positively startled, “... you may find in enjoyment in the embroidery of new cushions for the salon?”

“... I am afraid I am not skilled in this either.”

The steward's step actually faltered. "I... see." His tone suggested this was a catastrophic revelation. "Well. Perhaps instruction can be arranged. His lordship is most particular about maintaining proper accomplishments for a lady of your station."

Of course he is , Ellana thought but didn't say. Instead, she simply nodded and allowed him to continue his recitation of rules and schedules that would govern her new life.

They moved on, thankfully.

As they passed his lordship's study, Mr. Harrit's step quickened almost imperceptibly. "His lordship prefers absolute silence in this corridor when he is working," he explained, though the study stood empty now. A maid hurrying past actually crossed to the other side of the hall, her steps deliberately light, so ingrained was the habit of avoiding his notice. “And of course this chamber is restricted for all those but himself.”

Ellana's gaze lingered on the heavy wooden door, curiosity burning in her chest. What secrets did he keep behind that barrier? What evidence of his campaign against her family might lie within? But before she could dwell further on such thoughts:

“And here is the library,” Mr. Harrit announced, opening another set of impressive doors. 

The scent of leather and paper caught Ellana's attention. Unlike the rest of what she'd seen, the library felt almost welcoming. Floor-to-ceiling shelves towered, each filled with books, with comfortable chairs positioned near tall windows, and tables that showed signs of actual use rather than mere display. She could imagine spending time here, at least, and stepped closer to try and peek her hade inside—

“The library is well-stocked with titles his lordship deems appropriate,” Harrit added, his tone implying Ellana might not find much use for them. 

She met his gaze steadily. “I look forward to exploring them,” she replied, letting him see that her calm was as deliberate as his derision.

“Very good. Now, this way, my lady, there is still much I need to show you. And then there are the matters of your schedule…”

Mr. Harrit's list of requirements had been exhaustive - precise times for rising and retiring, scheduled activities throughout the day, approved topics of conversation, even regulations about which rooms she could enter at what hours. Each rule seemed designed to occupy her time with trivial pursuits while keeping her far from any meaningful involvement in the household.

It was exhausting just listening to it all.

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a blur of preparations. After Mr. Harrit's exhaustive tour concluded near three o'clock, Ellana had spent several hours organizing her chambers (which were sumptuously appointed, twice the size of her own suites at home, and as austere as a mourning chamber with both a sitting parlor, bedroom, and its own washrooms), with Sera's reluctant assistance providing more entertainment than actual help. The maid's running commentary on Vi'Revas's many rules had been enlightening, if not entirely proper.

Sera muttered under her breath as she unpacked another trunk, her quick fingers sorting silks from linens with practiced efficiency. The Lady's clothes were fine enough, if simpler than most nobles' frippery, until her hands found something entirely different beneath a fold of fabric, a seam along the side of the trunk. Many nobles had secret compartments in their fancy-business, so what was hiding here? Curious, Sera pulled out what appeared to be riding leathers, butter-soft and dyed the deep green of forest shadows.

"Well now, what's this then?" She held them up to the light, examining the intricate Dalish lacework along the seams. "Proper ladies aren't supposed to have these, are they?" A grin spread across her face as she noticed how the leathers were cut to fit close to the body while allowing free movement. "Oh, you're going to drive his lordship absolutely mental with these, aren't you?"

“ Those,” Ellana said, trying to snatch them away, “—are a secret. I’m not going to stop riding just because someone expects me to be side-saddle in a skirt.”

“Sneaky. I like it.” Sera winked, carefully folded the leathers and placed them in a drawer rather than hanging them with the formal clothes. As she smoothed them into place, she couldn't help chuckling. "Maybe you won't be so bad after all, your ladyship. Anyone willing to scandalize his high-and-mightiness is alright by me."

“Then I’m glad to have your approval; I doubt I will garner much of it here considering how particular the master of the estate appears to be.”

"His lordship's particular about everything," Sera agreed helping to unpack Ellana's books. "No raised voices, no running in corridors, no business conducted at meals—except when he does it, of course. Servants aren't to be seen unless needed. Ladies must be properly dressed at all times. Even the bloody garden's got rules about when you can walk in it."

"Is there anything else I should know? Mr. Harrit gave me the steward's version of Vi'Revas. I'd rather hear the truth of it."

A startled laugh escaped Sera. "Truth? In this place?" She moved closer, dropping her formal posture entirely, hands on her hips. "Ha. You’re funny. Careful what you ask for, my lady . Some might say that's dangerous talk."

"Some might say I'm dangerous." Ellana smiled slightly, pulling out her father's old ledger. "After all, I'm the savage Dalish bride who's come to pollute his lordship's perfect household. Isn't that what they're all whispering?"

"Among other things." Sera's grin turned sharp, almost challenging. "Though if you're looking for gossip about his lordship, you won't find it here. Nope. Not me. Some of us know which side our bread's buttered on."

"And where exactly is that bread buttered? In the kitchens with the rest of the staff, or does his lordship have you reporting directly to him?" Ellana continued unpacking, her movements deliberate as she gauged Sera's reaction.

The maid's expression shuttered slightly. "Don't know what you mean, my lady. I'm just a simple servant, doing my duties proper-like." Her voice dripped with exaggerated deference.

Ellana could read in between the lines of her non-answers: I’m not putting my neck out for you.

“I understand, and thank you for your help.” Ellana moved toward the dressing room, then paused. "You know, Sera, I think I can manage from here. Though I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunities to become better acquainted in the days ahead."

"As you wish, my lady ." Sera's curtsey held just the right degree of mockery to almost be polite, and then she was gone, leaving Ellana to her thoughts and her own preparations until the grandfather clock in the hallway struck the quarter hour before seven. 

Ellana stood before the mirror in her dressing room, studying her reflection with critical eyes. She had chosen one of her own gowns rather than the collection of new wardrobe that filled most of the closet—a deliberate choice that would not go unnoticed. Had these been selected by Lord Fen’Harel? The Countess. The message couldn't have been clearer regardless from whom: her old life, like her old clothes, was expected to be set aside.

Which was exactly why she’d ignored them entirely, instead selecting a simpler gown of a deep green silk that whispered against the floor as she moved, its subtle embroidery of leaves and roses catching the light. She liked to think that it may remind a certain Viscount that she had thorns.

The grandfather clock struck seven just as Ellana finished arranging her hair. She had delayed as long as propriety would allow, but there was no avoiding it now—her first dinner in Vi'Revas awaited. At least Keeper Deshanna would be there, though that comfort would soon be gone as well.

Across the estate, in the kitchen, preparations for dinner continued as normal, though an undercurrent of tension ran beneath the usual bustle. Cook barked orders with more force than usual, while maids darted between tasks with anxious energy.

"His lordship's still at the Countess's estate then?" a young scullery maid asked, arranging silverware with careful precision.

"And thank the Creators for that small mercy," muttered an older kitchen maid, then quickly ducked her head at the housekeeper's sharp look.

The housekeeper's lips thinned. "His lordship's location is not our concern. What is our concern is ensuring everything is perfect for Lady Lavellan's first dinner. You know how his reports from the staff detail every… deviation." Her tone suggested these reports were less about maintaining standards and more about maintaining control, even from afar.

Mr. Harrit appeared in the doorway, his spine impossibly straight. "The Viscount expects his household to maintain all protocols in his absence. Lady Mythal herself—at any time—may visit to assess our adherence to proper standards." The announcement sent another wave of tension through the staff. 

Even while at his aunt's estate, Viscount Fen’Harel’s influence shaped their every movement.

Silver scraped against fine china, the sound sharp as drawn daggers in Vi'Revas's vast dining room. Ellana wondered if Lord Fen'Harel had chosen such an enormous space deliberately—thirty empty chairs between them—just as another show of the disparity between them.

Ellana tried not to let her gaze drift to the empty chairs as she picked at her perfectly prepared pheasant. The room's vastness seemed to amplify every clink of silverware against fine china, every rustle of fabric as she shifted in her seat. Beside her, Keeper Deshanna maintained a brave face, though Ellana could see the strain around her eyes.

"The food is... quite excellent," Deshanna offered, breaking a silence that had stretched uncomfortably long.

"The kitchen staff takes great pride in their work," the servant offered, then added with careful precision, "Though his lordship rarely notices. He dines in his study most evenings, when he dines at all."

"Indeed?" Ellana's tone remained carefully neutral. "One might wonder why he maintains such a grand dining room at all."

"The Viscount often takes his meals in his study when attending to business matters, or dines with his aunt the Countess."

The studied neutrality in the servant's tone only heightened Ellana's sense of isolation. She turned back to her plate, forcing herself to maintain composure, and pushed another morsel around her plate, her appetite dulled by the weight of her situation. "It is disappointing how good it is, I had... rather hoped to be repulsed."

"That old recipe of your mother's?" Deshanna's expression softened. "She always did insist on adding extra rosemary. Said it reminded her of home.”

"I think… it reminds me of home now too. Do you remember the massive potted bush of it back behind the house? The way the cat would lounge in it, then come inside smelling like a trussed hen…" The memory warmed her briefly before the chill of her current reality settled back in. "I doubt such rustic fare would be considered appropriate here."

A servant materialized to clear their barely-touched plates, moving with such silent efficiency that neither woman had noticed his approach. Ellana wondered if they were trained to be so ghost-like, or if it simply came naturally in a house that seemed designed to minimize human presence.

"His lordship prefers a more... refined menu," the servant offered unprompted, though his tone suggested 'refined' meant 'traditional Dalish cuisine need not apply.'

"It is odd," Ellana replied with careful politeness, "that his lordship is not dining with us this evening."

The servant's expression didn't change, but something in his posture suggested disapproval. "The Viscount often takes his meals in his study when attending to business matters, or dines with his aunt the Countess."

"Of course." Ellana's smile remained fixed. "Though one might wonder why he would schedule such matters for the evening his future wife arrives."

" Ellana ," Deshanna murmured, a gentle warning.

The servant shifted almost imperceptibly. "His lordship's schedule is quite demanding."

"So I gather." Ellana turned back to her plate, effectively dismissing him. After a moment's hesitation, he withdrew.

Deshanna waited until they were truly alone before speaking. "You must be careful, da'len . The servants here will report everything to their master, you know how this will sound when he returns…"

"Let them, and let it sound as it does." Ellana set down her fork with precise control. "I refuse to pretend his absence this evening is anything but the calculated slight it is. It is . Not that I would’ve been pleased to see him, but for someone so stuck in rote and rule, they should at least know how rude it is to not even welcome a guest inside."

"But you are not a guest, Ellana. You’re his bride. Which is precisely why you must show it affects you not at all." Deshanna reached across the table to cover Ellana's hand with her own. "You are stronger than his disdain, da'len . Remember who you are."

"A filthy, uneducated, Dalish savage with no remaining family or prospects being forced to marry the man who systematically destroyed her family's livelihood?" The words tasted bitter. "I haven't forgotten."

"No." Deshanna's grip tightened. "You are Ellana of House Lavellan, daughter of a line that traces back to the time before the Dales. Our people survived worse than one prideful lord's prejudice." Her voice softened. "And you have survived worse than this."

“It doesn’t feel like that.” Ellana's throat tightened at the reference to her parents' deaths. "At least then I had you."

"And you still do, even if I cannot stay." Deshanna released her hand to reach for her wine glass. "I will always been near to comfort you, and I will write you many letters so you never need worry about how things are back at the house. Though I must say, this manor here could benefit from some... softening of its edges. That may be a worthwhile expenditure of your time while the Viscount is out."

Despite herself, Ellana smiled. "I'm not certain His Lordship would appreciate my attempts to make his perfect home more comfortable for myself."

"Then perhaps that is precisely why you should do it." Deshanna's eyes sparkled with familiar mischief. "After all, what can he do? Break the contract? You are not a horse bought at auction, if he is unhappy, it isn’t like he can simply give you back . He does as he pleases, Ellana, and so should you."

For the first time since entering Vi'Revas, Ellana felt a genuine laugh bubble up. "Aunt, are you advocating rebellion?"

"I am only suggesting that if one must live in a crystal cage, one might as well make it comfortable." Deshanna sipped her wine. "And perhaps add some traditional Dalish touches. For cultural appreciation only, of course. I know that your good character is above any sort of passive actions to cause irritation to others."

"Of course." Ellana's smile turned speculative. "Though I suspect his lordship's appreciation for our culture is somewhat lacking."

"Then consider it part of your duties as his future wife to expand his horizons." Deshanna set down her glass. "Starting with making this vast mausoleum of a manor feel more like a home."

They spent the remainder of dinner discussing lighter matters—news from home, gossip about distant cousins, memories of better days. But underneath their conversation ran a current of understanding. Tomorrow at dawn, Deshanna would leave, and Ellana would truly be alone in this beautiful, cold place.

When the last dish had been cleared and the final glass of wine consumed, they lingered, neither quite ready to end the evening. Finally, Deshanna rose.

"Remember, da'len ," she said softly. "You carry our strength with you. And our love."

Ellana stood as well, propriety warring with the urge to embrace her aunt. Propriety lost. She hugged Deshanna tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of crystal grace that she always wore.

"I will make you proud," she whispered.

"You already do." 

As they walked the shadowy corridors back to their chambers, Ellana noticed how the servants moved differently in this wing of the house—more relaxed, their whispers a bit louder, their steps less measured. It was as if the very air changed in his absence, though tomorrow it would no doubt return to its usual rigid state. She wondered if he knew how his presence affected his household, or if he even cared.

Sleep proved elusive that night, despite the luxurious appointment of her new chambers. Ellana paced back and forth, the plush carpets muffling her steps as her mind raced with plans and counter-plans. The gentle tick of the mantel clock marked time's slow passage, each second bringing her closer to Deshanna's departure at dawn—and to all the challenges that would follow.

Tomorrow, she would truly be alone. No more gentle guidance from her aunt, no more shared smiles over private jokes, no final barrier between herself and Lord Fen'Harel's cold disdain. The thought sat heavy in her chest, a weight that made even breathing feel like an act of defiance in this perfect, airless house.

She paused at the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. How many nights had she spent in her aunt's study at home, learning the intricacies of trade and diplomacy? Now those lessons would be her only armor in this beautiful battlefield of a house. Remember who you are , Deshanna had said. But who was she, really, without her only remaining family beside her?

A soft knock at her door startled her from her dark thoughts. So soft, at first Ellana thought she’d imagined it. Then it came again, more insistent but still tentative, like the whisper of leaves brushing against the window. Opening it, she found a young man standing there—barely more than a boy really, pale and slight in his too-large livery, with large eyes that seemed to see too much.

"The food was served but you haven't eaten," he said simply, holding out a covered tray. "The kitchen always makes extra scones with honey. They help when sleep won't come."

Ellana blinked, surprised both by his appearance and his oddly direct manner.Who was this young man? "You're very kind, but I couldn't possibly—"

"The scones will go to waste otherwise." He shifted slightly. "And the honey is Dalish. From your family's lands, actually. The kitchen still orders it. His lordship prefers it, though he won't admit it."

That startled a laugh from her. "Does he indeed? I…." She trailed off, then stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. "Thank you, though I'm afraid I don't know your name?"

"Cole." He set the tray on a small table near the fire. "I help."

"You certainly do." Ellana sat, lifting the cover to find not just scones but also a pot of tea, still steaming. "Though I suspect bringing midnight snacks to the mistress-to-be isn't part of your regular duties."

"Regular duties don't help when hearts are hurting." Cole's direct gaze held surprising wisdom. "The house remembers when it was warmer. Before the frost came. Before he forgot how to bend."

Before Ellana could question this cryptic statement, Cole had silently withdrawn, his parting bow endearingly awkward and clumsy, leaving her with more questions than answers. The scones, however, proved excellent, especially with the honey that did indeed come from Lavellan's lands. She wondered if Lord Fen'Harel knew that particular detail, and if so, what he thought about relying on the Dalish for his preferred honey, and the thought of his twisted face upon realization bid her back into a fitful night’s rest.

Her first morning at Vi’Revas arrived with a disorienting absence—no familiar scent of tea brewing, no quiet movements of Sylaise laying out her clothes. Instead, Ellana woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the distant sound of servants moving through halls.

When she rang for breakfast, a servant arrived promptly with coffee.

"Could I have tea instead, please?" Ellana asked.

The servant shifted uncomfortably. "I apologize, my lady, but we don't keep tea in the household."

"No tea at all?" Ellana's brows rose. "Why ever not?"

"His lordship..." the servant hesitated, then continued carefully, "His lordship doesn’t like tea."

The statement carried the weight of doctrine, as if enjoying tea was some kind of moral failing.

Ellana frowned, remembering the steaming pot Cole had brought the night before. Curious that a mere servant boy could procure what was apparently forbidden in the household. Perhaps there were more cracks in Vi'Revas's perfect facade than his lordship realized.

And who hated tea?!

Ellana dressed herself with particular care, choosing a gown of layered pebble grays—one of her own, naturally, rather than the collection provided. Without Sylaise's help, her hair proved more challenging, but she managed to arrange it in a style that was… perhaps acceptable. The overall effect, she decided, studying her reflection, was exactly what she intended: a clear statement that while she might be in his household, she remained distinctly herself.

A knock at her door heralded Captain Rutherford's arrival. "Good morning my lady. If you are dressed and ready, his lordship suggested I show you the estate grounds," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Unless you'd prefer Mr. Harrit's guidance?"

"I would welcome your expertise, Captain," Ellana replied, unable to fully suppress her eagerness at the prospect of exploring outdoors. After yesterday's stifling formality, the promise of fresh air and open spaces called to her like water in a desert. "Shall we begin with the gardens?"

Cullen's posture relaxed slightly, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in her desire to escape the house's suffocating protocol. "The formal gardens would be the traditional starting point," he said, then added with a hint of conspiracy in his tone, "though there are other, less... regimented areas worth seeing as well."

They made their way down the perfectly graveled path, their footsteps crunching against the stones. Endless formal gardens stretched before them in perfect symmetry, each hedge trimmed to identical heights, each flower bed a calculated display of color and form. At the center, a massive fountain dominated the space—white marble and crystal combining in an impressive display of controlled water and light. Multiple terraced levels descended from it, each featuring perfectly maintained topiaries and geometric flower beds.

Where the Lavellan gardens had been a carefully preserved piece of ancient forest, allowed to grow wild and free with healing herbs sprouting wherever they wished, these gardens spoke of nature conquered. Every branch, every bloom, every blade of grass bent to the Viscount's will. Even the small ponds placed at strategic intervals reflected the sky with impossible stillness, their surfaces unmarred by the natural debris that would dare disturb their perfection.

Ellana's heart ached at the contrast. The forest of her barefoot childhood was living poetry—wild and free, each plant finding its own perfect place—this was nature bound in chains. She thought of the herb garden where she'd spent countless hours with her mother, the rosemary bush, the cat… spending time at her side, learning the old ways, the plants growing where they wished rather than where they were told. Here, even the morning dew seemed to require permission to fall

"The gardeners maintain strict schedules for maintenance," Cullen explained, though his tone suggested he found this level of control excessive. "Each flower bed has designated days for care, and walking paths are swept thrice daily."

"How very... efficient," Ellana observed dryly. "I don't suppose there's anywhere one might simply enjoy nature without consulting a schedule?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The wilderness garden behind the east wing sees less supervision. Though I wouldn't mention that to Mr. Harrit. He considers it an eyesore."

Their path took them to the stables, where they encountered their first disruption to Vi'Revas's perfect order. A sharp voice carried across the yard:

"Oi! That's not how we do it here!" A sharp voice carried across the yard. "Just because you're new doesn't mean get to bite me ye get red bitch!"

The speaker was Sera, the rebellious maid from yesterday, currently engaged in a heated argument with Ellana’s own horse while accompanied by a pale young stablehand—Cole, Ellana recalled—who groomed the same feisty horse quietly. The horse, normally skittish with strangers, seemed perfectly content under his gentle hands though it may have tried to snap Sera’s off.

"Ah," Cullen said, gesturing to the pale young man, "this is Cole. He has quite the way with the horses."

"We've met," Ellana said, sharing a small smile with Cole. "He was kind enough to visit me last night."

The revelation that the mysterious midnight visitor was a stable boy surprised her, though it made a certain kind of sense. The stables lay outside the main house's strict protocols, and horses required attention at all hours, though it was still hard to perceive exactly how he’d known of her spiralling thoughts.

Cullen's eyebrows rose slightly. “He visited you... in your apartments?”

"The honey helps," Cole said simply, continuing to brush her mare. "Like home in a jar."

“He brought me scones , Captain. Surely that is not so scandalous that your expression should pinch so tightly.”

"He worries," Cole said without looking up. "About everything. Always has. Wants to help but knows his duty. Loyalty pulls both ways, like reins too tightly held." He stroked the mare's neck gently, and she nickered softly in response.

Ellana studied Cole's profile, unsettled by his words. ‘He’? Was… was he speaking about Captain Rutherford?

Cullen shifted uncomfortably beside her, his usual military bearing faltering for just a moment. A flush crept up his neck as he cleared his throat. "Cole often... speaks without thinking," he said carefully, though his gaze wouldn't quite meet hers. "You needn't pay it any mind."

Sera snorted. "Right, no one listens to the weird one. Next he'll be telling us what the clouds are thinking."

"They're worried about rain," Cole replied seriously, earning an eye-roll from Sera and, surprisingly, a poorly hidden smile from Cullen.

A magnificent black stallion occupied the largest stall, its bearing as aristocratic as its master's. "His lordship's personal mount," Cullen explained. "Few can handle him."

"Except Cole," Sera interjected. "Horse acts like a pampered housecat with him. Right unnatural, if you ask me."

"No one did," Cullen reminded her, though without real rebuke.

Their tour continued through the estate's vast grounds, each location revealing new aspects of its rigid organization. The kitchen gardens were as precisely ordered as military formations. The orangery operated on strict schedules for watering and feeding. Even the chickens seemed to lay eggs according to timetables.

But Ellana noted other things too—the way certain servants straightened when she passed, offering genuine smiles rather than mere deference, while others watched with barely concealed suspicion. She marked the hidden corners where true conversations happened, the quick exchanges of looks that revealed alliances and divisions forming.

The library proved most interesting, not just for its impressive collection but for the subtle ways its organization revealed his lordship's priorities. Books on modern trade practices occupied prominent positions, while traditional texts were relegated to shadowy corners. Yet she noticed signs of recent consultation among those supposedly neglected volumes—perhaps his lordship's dismissal of tradition wasn't quite as complete as he claimed.

"The upper gallery provides an excellent view of the grounds," Cullen mentioned as they passed it. "Though his lordship rarely permits its use for mere appreciation of scenery."

"You’ll be pleased, then, to know that I'm not seeking his permission. There is a saying, I believe: do not ask permission when you can beg forgiveness? If we are caught, you may blame me and my stubbornness—or whatever negative trait he has recently attributed to my person," Ellana replied, earning another of those almost-smiles from the captain. 

"My lady, I cannot recommend..." Cullen began diplomatically, but Ellana was already ascending the stairs, her laugh trailing behind her like scattered pearls. He sighed, duty warring with reluctant admiration, before following. Someone had to ensure the Viscount's future bride didn't break her neck exploring forbidden areas of the estate.

Unfortunately, that had been made his responsibility.

The gallery proved worth the risk. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the valley below in breathtaking detail. Ellana moved to the glass, drinking in the sight of rolling hills and distant forests.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

"It is," Cullen agreed, though when she glanced at him, he was watching her reaction rather than the view. Something in his expression suggested he was reassessing his initial assumptions about the "difficult" Dalish bride.

"We should return," he said finally, regret coloring his tone. "Before Mr. Harrit sends out a search party."

Their circuit eventually returned them to the main house, where Mr. Harrit waited with barely concealed impatience. "Captain, if you're quite finished, her ladyship has duties to attend to."

"Of course." Cullen offered a proper bow. "Though I should mention—the east wing's wilderness garden is particularly pleasant in the early mornings. Should you wish to continue familiarizing yourself with the grounds."

The message was clear—he'd shown her more than just the estate's physical layout. He'd revealed its pressure points, its hidden spaces, its potential allies. Whether he'd done so out of duty or sympathy remained to be seen, but Ellana appreciated the insight nonetheless.

Ellana found herself settled into an uneasy routine. Three days passed in this fashion, each one a careful dance of avoidance and observation. Each morning, Ellana took to walking in the gardens, beginning from a need for fresh air and escape from the suffocating formality of the house. Cullen, duty-bound to ensure her safety (and likely asked by the Viscount himself to keep careful watch), fell into step with her on these walks without ever having been asked—or informed—of her starting to do so. His presence was surprisingly unobtrusive, maintaining a respectful distance while still fulfilling his obligations. If he noticed how she deliberately chose paths that would most irritate the gardeners with her footprints in their pristine grass, he made no comment.

Her attempts to make her chambers more comfortable met with subtle resistance. When she requested Dalish tapestries be hung, they mysteriously disappeared during cleaning, only to be replaced with austere landscapes in heavy gilt frames. The dried herbs she'd brought from home vanished from her windowsill, though she later found them carefully preserved and labeled in the stillroom, filed under "Lady Lavellan's medicinal specimens."

Yet not all the household proved so rigidly opposed to change. Cole continued his nocturnal visits, appearing like a quiet ghost with contraband tea and treats whenever she worked late into the night. 

Ellana spread her father's old ledgers across the desk, comparing his neat columns of figures with the household accounts she'd managed to glimpse during Mr. Harrit's tour. There had to be a pattern to the way Lord Fen'Harel had systematically undermined their trading routes, something she could use to protect what remained of their business. Sleep could wait; understanding was more important.

She hadn't obtained these records easily. 

Ellana hadn't rushed her investigation of the accounting office. Over the first three days, she'd watched the clerk's routine with careful attention: his morning arrival precisely at eight, his tea break at exactly ten-thirty, the way he always locked the door despite the brief absence. More tellingly, she'd noticed how the other servants avoided that corridor during his tea time—a pattern that suggested opportunity.

Her father's insistence on ‘practical skills’ and not just feminine wiles had included more than just business acumen. Sometimes , he'd told her while teaching her about locks, ‘ the most valuable knowledge comes from unexpected places .’ She'd thought he meant trade secrets then. Now, watching the clerk disappear around the corner, she appreciated the broader wisdom of those lessons, though stepping into the stereotype of a sneaking, stealing Dalish simmered in the back of her mind. 

Taking advantage in the laps of security in his lordship’s absence, it’d been easier than it should’ve been to slip inside of the study.

Ten precious minutes of searching had yielded exactly what she needed: correspondence between Lord Fen'Harel and various trade partners, detailed records of systematic pressure applied to Dalish trading routes.

Her hands shook slightly as she replaced everything exactly as she'd found it, but the risk had been worth it. Each page confirmed what she'd suspected: this was no mere business rivalry, but a calculated campaign. Now, surrounded by papers in her chambers, she could begin to understand the full scope of his strategy—and perhaps find ways to counter it.

A quiet knock interrupted her concentration. Hastily covering the most damning evidence with innocuous correspondence, she called, "Ah, I—Yes, please come in."

It was only Sera, come to turn down the bed—though Ellana noticed how the maid's quick eyes took in every detail of the papers scattered across the desk. Since their first meeting, an odd sort of alliance had formed between them. For all her initial hostility, Sera had begun leaving small acts of rebellion in her wake—curtains deliberately askew, flowers arranged in traditional Dalish patterns, tiny notes written in awkward attempts at elvhen script tucked into unexpected places.

One morning, she found the kitchen in barely contained chaos. The cook, red-faced and flustered, was attempting to prepare breakfast while simultaneously arguing with Sera about the proper way to serve elfroot tea.

"It's not proper protocol," the cook insisted, waving a wooden spoon like a weapon. "His lordship specifically banned-"

"His lordship isn't the one drinking it , is he?" Sera retorted, hands on her hips. "Besides, it helps with Cook's boy's cough, don't it? Better than them fancy medicines that cost a month's wages."

Ellana cleared her throat softly. Both women whirled to face her, the cook dropping into a hasty curtsey while Sera merely offered a cheeky grin.

"Perhaps," Ellana suggested mildly, "we might reach a compromise? The elfroot could be prepared in the stillroom, away from the kitchen's regular operations. That way, it wouldn't interfere with the household schedule. An you might consider adding some dried spindleweed; it can help with fever. It’s a Dalish remedy, and I should have some within my stock from the Lavellan estate."

“ Oh , Dalish strangeness in his own home? Yes, the Viscount will love this,”

The cook shot a silencing glare towards Sera before he turned to Ellana, his expression wavered between relief and concern. "But his lordship-"

"Need not be troubled with every detail of household management," Ellana finished smoothly. "The Viscount is, I’m sure, a busy man with more important matters requiring his attention than the contents of the stillroom or what beverages his staff may enjoy. And after all, matters of the kitchen and home fall under my duties, do they not?"

A week ago, such a suggestion would have met with immediate resistance. Now, she noted with interest how several of the kitchen staff exchanged considering looks. The balance of power was shifting, however slightly.

"My lady," Mr. Harrit began stiffly, "while matters of the kitchen and stillroom traditionally fall under the purview of the lady of the house, his lordship has established very specific protocols…"

"Indeed he has," Ellana interrupted smoothly. "And I wonder, Mr. Harrit, does his lordship personally involve himself in the preparation of the snacks and beverages of his staff? Does he perhaps spend his mornings inventorying spices in the cupboards and setting the table settings or menus?"

The steward's mouth tightened. "My lady, that is hardly…"

"The point? On the contrary." Ellana kept her voice light despite the steel beneath it. "The point is that while his lordship may set the broader standards of the household, surely the day-to-day management of such domestic matters falls to those best suited to oversee them. Unless you believe his lordship's time would be better spent discussing the proper steeping of elfroot rather than attending to his business affairs?"

Something flickered in Mr. Harrit's expression—not quite approval, but perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment. After all, a proper household required a proper mistress, even if she wasn't quite the sort he'd expected…

"I... suppose," he said finally, "that as long as the general schedule is maintained, certain... adjustments... might be permitted. Within reason, of course."

"Of course," Ellana agreed pleasantly. "I would never suggest anything unreasonable."

The look he gave her suggested he rather doubted that, but he merely offered a correct bow before departing. Several of the kitchen staff exchanged glances, and Ellana noted with satisfaction how Sera's grin had grown positively wicked.

Later that afternoon, she discovered Cole in the stables again, gently brushing her mare while murmuring something too soft to hear. The horse, normally skittish with strangers, looked positively drowsy under his careful attention with drooping, happy lips.

"She misses home," Cole said without looking up. "But she likes the new apple trees in the east orchard. They remind her of the ones at Lavellan estate."

"Cole, how did you know about—" Ellana began, then shook her head with a slight smile. "Never mind. You seem to know a great many things, Cole."

"I like to help," he replied simply. "The house remembers when it was warmer. Before the frost came. Before he forgot how to bend."

Ellana considered Cole's words as she watched him tend to her mare. Bending—there was wisdom in that. Her father had always taught her that true strength lay not in refusing to bend, but in choosing how and when to do so. Lord Fen'Harel, for all his power, seemed incapable of even the slightest flexibility. His rigid protocols, his unbending rules... perhaps that was why his household felt so cold, so lifeless.

Well, she wouldn't bend to his will either. But unlike him, she would bend on her own terms, adapting while maintaining her core strength. Like the Dalish herbs in her mother's garden—flexible enough to weather any storm, yet impossible to uproot.

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a careful study of the household's operation. Ellana observed the rhythm of deliveries, noted which servants carried messages between which rooms, marked the times when different areas of the house saw the most activity. If she was to survive here, she needed to understand not just the official schedules Mr. Harrit had recited, but the real patterns that kept Vi'Revas running.

She discovered, for instance, that the kitchen maids exchanged gossip during the lull between luncheon and tea, their whispered conversations carrying through the servants' corridors. The footmen maintained their own subtle hierarchy, with the senior staff claiming choice positions near windows or fireplaces while passing messages through the junior boys. 

Even Mr. Harrit, for all his rigid adherence to protocol, had his predictable moments of distraction—precisely forty-five minutes each afternoon when he retired to "review the accounts" (but actually enjoyed a brief nap in his office).

Most interesting were the unofficial paths of communication: a rolled note passed with the morning bread delivery, meaningful glances exchanged during careful choreograph of dinner service, the way certain servants lingered in doorways just long enough to exchange whispered words. Vi'Revas might operate on Viscount Fen'Harel's precise schedule, but beneath that perfect surface ran currents of real life that no protocol could fully contain.

Exhausted from her observations but satisfied with her growing understanding, Ellana finally retired to her chambers as evening fell. There, she found a fresh pot of yet more contraband tea waiting in her chambers, accompanied by a plate of crumbly cookies that definitely hadn't come from Vi'Revas's kitchens. A note in Sera's messy scrawl lay beside them: " Cook's boy's cough is better already. Guess some Dalish strangeness isn't so bad after all ."

Ellana smiled, settling into her chair with the tea. Small victories, perhaps, but they were victories nonetheless. The household was slowly, grudgingly beginning to bend—not breaking, but adapting, like saplings in a strong wind. Even Mr. Harrit's rigid adherence to protocol showed hairline cracks, though she doubted he'd ever admit it.

On the fourth day of her new residence at Vi'Revas, the household's carefully maintained quiet shattered one afternoon as Ellana sat reading in her chambers. A flurry of activity erupted below—doors opening and closing, rapid footsteps, hushed voices calling orders. Curious, she moved to her window just in time to see a sleek black stallion and its rider approach the main entrance.

Even from this distance, Lord Fen'Harel cut an imposing figure. His riding attire only emphasized his military bearing: a perfectly tailored dark coat that showed off broad shoulders, tight-fitting breeches and polished boots. Unlike the elaborate fashions favored by most nobles, his clothes were unwaveringly severe in their simplicity, yet the quality of the materials and precision of the fit marked him unmistakably as aristocracy. A thin sheen of sweat on his mount suggested he'd ridden hard in a rigid, Orlesian seat, though not a hair was out of place in his own precise appearance.

He dismounted with fluid grace, his movements precise and controlled as he handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. The contrast between his pristine composure and the obvious signs of a demanding ride only added to his aura of careful control—even in exertion, he maintained his perfect facade.

Ellana withdrew from the window before he could sense her observation. She had no intention of hurrying downstairs to greet him like some eager debutante awaiting her suitor's return. Let him come to her, if he wished to acknowledge her presence at all.

The next hour brought a steady stream of servants past her door, carrying reports and documents to his study. Their usual silent efficiency had taken on an edge of nervous energy that spoke volumes about their master's mood. Further, the usual household security had been relatively relaxed during the Viscount's absence—perhaps another calculated slight, treating her as if she posed no real threat. Now, with his return, she knew that would change and she'd already noticed the guard rotations increasing.

Their first encounter proved as inevitable as it was uncomfortable. Ellana had been returning from the library, a borrowed volume of trade histories tucked under her arm, when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with him. He caught her elbow instinctively, preventing her fall, then released her as if burned once she'd steadied.

“Lady Lavellan.” 

His voice was low, almost intimate in their sudden proximity. His hand still gripped her elbow, warm even through the fabric of her sleeve, and he himself was still in his riding clothes, smelling of pine and the outdoors and fresh air— 

For a moment, neither moved, his height forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, her pulse quickening traitorously at their closeness.

Then his expression hardened, and he released her as if burned. But Ellana didn't miss how his gaze lingered on the curve of her neck before snapping back to cold propriety.

“Do you ever watch where you're going?”

“Your concern is touching, my lord.” She straightened her skirts, deliberately slow. “Though perhaps if you spent less time lurking around corners…”

"Lurking?" His voice dropped dangerously low as he took a deliberate step closer, using his height to loom over her. "I do not ‘lurk’ in my own home."

Ellana refused to step back despite his attempt at intimidation. The sheer presumption of him, attempting to overwhelm her with his height and presence in his own hallway, as if she were some timid creature to be cowed.

"No? Then what would you call your skill of appearing precisely where and when you're least desired?" She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, too proud to show how his nearness affected her. "Granted, that describes your general presence in most situations..."

Something flickered in his eyes—anger, certainly, but perhaps something else, something that made his gaze drop briefly to her lips before snapping back to properly cold disdain. His hand still gripped her elbow, she realized, the heat of his touch burning through her sleeve.

"I would remind you," he said, each word precise as a blade, "that as my future wife, you might wish to cultivate a more agreeable disposition."

“And I would remind you," she countered, acutely aware his hand still gripped her elbow, "that judging by the state of your gardens, dead plants are the only thing you have the skill to cultivate, and that as your future wife, you might wish to attempt the basic courtesy of announcing your presence rather than charging at me in dark corridors like a beast."

He released her then, though the loss of contact felt strangely like a new form of tension. "Perhaps if you paid more attention to your surroundings rather than whatever schemes you're currently plotting—"

"Oh, but my lord," she smiled sweetly, though her heart raced at how his eyes darkened at her expression, "disrupting your household has become my primary entertainment. Surely you wouldn't deny me such small pleasures? That would hardly cultivate affection between us."

He stepped closer still, until the fabric of her skirts brushed against his legs. "There are other forms of entertainment more suitable for a lady of your station."

She refused to retreat, even as her breath caught at their proximity. "Do enlighten me about these more suitable pursuits. Wait, I know: you are fond of scolding me, and as your future wife I am bid to please you."

His jaw clenched, and she watched the muscle tick there with absurd fascination. "Your mockery does you no credit."

"And yet you inspire it so effortlessly."

They stood frozen in that moment, the air between them charged with something beyond mere antagonism. His eyes traced her features as if memorizing them for future censure, while she fought the urge to smooth the frown from his brow with her fingers.

Finally, he stepped back, though the distance did little to dispel the tension. "Good day, Lady Lavellan.”

"Good day, my lord." She dropped into a curtsey that somehow managed to be both perfect and insulting. "Do try not to lurk behind any more corners. One might question your lordly dignity."

He departed with military precision, his shoulders rigid with barely contained irritation. Only when his footsteps had faded did Ellana straighten her skirts, her fingers smoothing away the wrinkles where his grip had disturbed the fabric.

Foolish, to let him affect her so. More foolish still to enjoy their battles quite so much. She straightened, smoothing her skirts once more, and continued on her way.

They successfully avoided one another for some time longer until Solas found her next in the kitchen gardens, kneeling in the dirt with her sleeves rolled up, consulting with the gardener with a handful of plucked weeds in one hand. Her hair had come loose from its careful arrangement, wisps curling around her face and shoulders in the afternoon heat. She looked more like a common laborer than a future viscountess.

"Lady Lavellan." His shadow fell across her work, voice sharp with disapproval. "I see you've found a novel way to disgrace yourself."

The gardener, an elderly man who'd served the estate for decades, nearly dropped his pruning shears. No one spoke to nobility that way, not even the Viscount to his wayward bride.

She didn't bother standing, merely tilted her head to look up at him. "Someone needs to correct your gardener's staff’s misunderstanding of companion planting, my lord. Unless you enjoy watching your herbs wither from improper placement?"

"My gardens have functioned perfectly well without your expertise."

"Have they?" She rose then, apparently unconcerned with the dirt staining her skirts. "Is that why your kitchen pays triple market price for dried herbs that could grow freely here? Another efficient business practice of yours, I suppose?"

"Your concern for the household finances is touching," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Though perhaps your energy would be better spent learning proper deportment rather than playing in the dirt."

"Do you expect me to be touched that that you consider caring for your staff's wellbeing beneath my station?" Ellana replied, deliberately wiping her hands on her skirts now that he was watching. "I knew you to be an arrogant, prideful, man but I didn't think you were stupid."

The gardener took several hasty steps backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape what was surely about to become a diplomatic incident. No one, in all his years of service, had ever dared call the Viscount stupid to his face.

Solas's fingers tightened into a fist until his knuckles showed white. When he spoke, his voice carried that dangerous quiet that had once made soldiers tremble. "You overstep, madam."

"No, my lord. I simply refuse to step exactly where you dictate." She gathered her basket of herbs, meeting his gaze directly. "Excuse me, I've just found a new patch of dirt to play in."

The gardener's sharp intake of breath followed her departure, along with the distinct sound of Solas's steps striking the ground with barely contained fury. 

Morning the following day brought a fresh wave of tension to Vi'Revas. Ellana had risen early, hoping to explore the library properly before the household stirred. Instead, she found Lord Fen'Harel and his stupid face already occupying the space, his tall figure silhouetted against the morning light as he studied a tome at his desk.

He looked up at her entrance, his expression cooling from surprise to studied indifference. "Lady Lavellan."

"My lord." She refused to retreat, though every line of his posture suggested she was intruding. "I had hoped to familiarize myself with the library's collection."

"Of course." His tone suggested anything but approval. "Though perhaps at a later time? The space is occupied for my use currently."

"I wasn't aware books required scheduled appointments, my lord." She moved to the nearest shelf, selecting a volume at random. "Unless your library operates on as strict a timetable as the rest of the household?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw—the first crack in his perfect composure. "The library is my personal sanctuary, my lady. I would appreciate proper notification before you decide to invade."

Ellana settled into a chair, deliberately opening her book. "You are a disappointing commander if a single woman is an invasion. I was under the impression that as your future wife, I would have equal right to the household's facilities. Unless you intend to restrict my movements entirely? What battle tactic is this?"

His fingers tightened on his quill. "That was not my meaning."

"Then I fail to see the issue." She turned a page with precise care. "Surely we can share a space civilly, my lord? Unless my presence is truly so disruptive to your concentration?"

The silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken challenge. Finally, Solas returned to his work, though the rigidity of his shoulders betrayed his awareness of her continued presence.

They remained thus for nearly an hour, each pretending to ignore the other while hyperaware of every movement, every subtle shift of fabric or turning of pages. The morning light crept across the floor between them like a physical manifestation of their divide.

When the breakfast bell rang, Ellana rose with deliberate grace. "Good morning, my lord. I look forward to our next shared reading session."

His only response was a slight tightening of his lips, but she counted it as a victory nonetheless.

The pattern repeated throughout the day, a careful dance of mutual avoidance that somehow always ended in collision. In the breakfast room, they arrived simultaneously, leading to a silent battle over who would take their seat first, or who would admit defeat and retreat last, ending in longsuffering moments in one another's presence. During her tour of the music room with Mrs. Mason, his voice drifted through from the adjacent study, each word seemingly chosen to carry through the wall. 

When she requested tea in the morning room—having discovered a sympathetic kitchen maid willing to brew it—he appeared moments later, papers in hand, as if summoned by the mere scent of defiance.

"I wasn't aware you conducted business in this room, my lord," Ellana observed, noting how he had positioned himself to catch the best light—and coincidentally block her view of the gardens.

"As master of this house, I conduct business where I please." His tone could have frozen water. "Though perhaps you find the arrangement unsuitable?"

"Not at all." She sipped her tea with deliberate slowness. "Though I wonder if the library might not offer better light for reading those documents. Unless you've developed a sudden interest in sharing space with the lower orders?"

His quill paused mid-stroke. "Your attempts to disrupt the household's order grow tiresome. I can better supervise and—if needed prevent—further schemes created by your hand by being here."

"Oh? And here I thought I was being quite out of the way and prodictive." She gestured to the stack of correspondence before her. "Though I'm pleased to see you've noticed my activities. I was beginning to wonder if anything beneath contracts and ledgers caught your attention."

The scratch of his pen grew more pronounced. "I notice a great deal, Lady Lavellan. Including attempts to dismantle my home brick by brick. You are a guest."

"No, I am not." She set down her cup with a soft clink. "This will soon be my home as well. I would hate to think you might miss any of the... improvements I plan to make."

Their eyes met across the room, neither willing to back down. The grandfather clock ticked away seconds that felt like hours, measuring the growing divide between.

Finally, Solas gathered his papers with precise movements. "Indeed. Though I wonder, my lady, if you might find your... improvements... meet with unexpected resistance."

Ellana's smile held steel.

He departed at a clip, his footsteps echoing through the morning room like distant thunder. Ellana waited until she was certain he had gone before allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction. If he thought to drive her from his spaces through sheer force of will, he would soon learn otherwise.

The true battle came another afternoon in the gallery. 

Ellana had retreated there with a book, seeking solitude after a particularly trying session with Mr. Harrit. She had just settled into her favorite spot—a window seat with perfect light for reading—when familiar footsteps approached.

"I see you've discovered my preferred reading spot," Solas observed, his tone suggesting she had committed some grave social transgression.

"Have I?" Ellana didn't look up from her book. "Then I commend his lordship for his good taste. But may I also remind him that the gallery offers so many other excellent locations?”

He made no move to leave. "You’re not usually in here at this time.”

Now she did look up, meeting his gaze directly. "I wasn't aware I required particular timing to exist in my future home, my lord. Shall we draw up a schedule? Perhaps assign specific hours for breathing the estate's air?"

Something flickered in his eyes—frustration? Amusement? It vanished too quickly to name. "Your wit does you credit, my lady, but—"

"A most surprising compliment from you, Viscount, given your previous assessments of Dalish intelligence." She turned another page with deliberate care. "Though perhaps you'll find we're capable of many surprising things. Reading without supervision, for instance.”

The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Finally, Solas spoke, his voice carrying that careful control that suggested barely leashed emotion: "You seem determined to challenge every notion of what a woman of your impending status should be with the lowliest parts of your actual self. It’s appalling."

"I do no such thing by reading , but if I’m to be accused of challenging those ideals, then I am please to only be challenging aspects which require question." She met his gaze steadily. "Though I wonder—why does it truly disturb you so much to find that I am not the the barefooted, leaf wearing, caricature you expected? That I might actually have thoughts and opinions of my own?"

"What disturbs me, Lady Lavellan, is your apparent determination to disrupt a perfectly functional household for no better reason than spite."

"Spite?" She laughed softly. "Is that what you think this is? How is it that you can recognize spite in others but not in yourself. Tell me, my lord—was it spite that led you to target Dalish trading practices? Or merely contempt?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You know nothing of my reasons."

"Then enlighten me." She gestured to the window seat beside her. "Unless you fear that sitting beside a Dalish savage might somehow taint your lordly dignity? I had no idea your sense of self was so fragile that it could be sullied by something as simple as an unwelcome miasma."

For a moment, she thought he might actually accept her challenge. Something shifted in his expression, a crack in his perfect mask of indifference. But then a servant appeared at the gallery entrance, clearing his throat discreetly.

“My lord, Lady Mythal's messenger awaits in your study.”

“My lady,” he said with cold courtesy before nodding a dismissive bow towards Ellana, and then so departed before she could respond.

Ellana watched him go, noting how his shoulders had tensed, his stride longer than usual. A small victory, perhaps, but she would take what she could get. After all, they had plenty of time to continue their battles—and she was only just beginning to learn the terrain.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of carefully maintained distance, with servants scurrying out of their way as both master and future mistress stalked the halls of Vi'Revas like circling predators, their avoidance almost tolerable until a summons to Lord Fen'Harel's study came precisely at four o'clock, delivered by a tight-lipped Mr. Harrit whose expression suggested he'd been subjected to his master's displeasure at length. 

Ellana took her time responding, pausing to adjust her hair and smooth her skirts—the hem still dusted in Earth from another walk in the gardens just to irritate him.

When she entered his study, she found him standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that seemed deliberately calculated to emphasize his height and bearing. The late afternoon light cast his shadow long across the floor, reaching toward her like grasping fingers.

"You wanted to see me, my lord?" She kept her tone deliberately light.

He turned, and the cold fury in his eyes almost made her step back. Almost.

"Would you care to explain," he began with deadly precision, "why my household schedule has been completely disrupted?"

"Has it?" Ellana settled into one of the chairs before his desk without waiting for invitation. "I hadn't noticed any disruption to your precious timetables."

“Then perhaps you can explain why you've been taking meals with the servants in the kitchen, against all propriety? Or why the maids report you wandering the grounds at all hours, returning with your skirts muddied like some common gardener? Or—" his voice took on an edge of particular disdain "—why you've been reviewing household accounts without my permission and questioning my steward's methods?"

"'I wasn't aware,' Ellana replied with deliberate calm, “that taking an interest in one's household was considered such a grave offense. Though perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. After all, you seem to prefer your authority unchallenged, your servants unseen, and your future wife properly ornamental.”

“You intentionally mistake my meaning—”

“Do I? Then please, tell me. Explain how my presence in the kitchen offends your sensibilities more than the waste in your accounts. Tell me how maintaining proper distance from the servants matters more than their welfare. I'm fascinated to learn which social protocols matter more than actual efficiency when, may I remind you, there are no guests for which to be offended by my supposed social etiquette failings?”

"Your concern for efficiency would be more convincing if you showed equal regard for proper hierarchy." He planted his hands on the desk, leaning forward. "This is about your deliberate attempts to undermine my authority through these thinly veiled insults disguised as charitable impulses."

"Your authority?" Ellana's laugh held no humor. "Forgive me, my lord, but I wasn't aware that dictating every breath your servants take was a mark of proper authority. Unless you truly believe that controlling which tea they drink somehow maintains the natural order?"

"You mock what you don't understand." His voice dropped dangerously. "This household operates on precise—"

"Protocols, yes, I'm well aware." She rose to face him properly. "Your precious protocols that keep everyone in their proper place, that stamp out any trace of individual thought or culture. Tell me, my lord, does it comfort you to control even the smallest details of others' lives? Does it make you feel powerful to know that even the way they fold linens must bend to your will?"

Color rose in his cheeks. "You dare—"

"Yes, I dare." She stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his height or position. "Because someone must. Because these are people, not clockwork figures for you to wind up and set in motion according to your whims. They have traditions, families, needs that your rigid schedules don't account for."

"And you presume to know their needs better than I?" His voice was soft now, dangerous. "You, who have been here barely a week?"

"I know that Cook's boy's cough improved with Dalish tea. I know that allowing the maids to speak their dialects while working actually increased their efficiency because they could communicate more naturally. And I know," she added with particular emphasis, "that your precious protocols haven't prevented Sera from rearranging the library when you're not looking, or Cole from wandering the halls at night."

“You have a sword in your chambers!”

“And what of it?! You have entire suits of armor in the halls! Really, what threat is my one blade, or do you expect me to use it to corner you in some dark hallway?”

“It is improper for that to be in a lady’s chambers, Countess Mythal—”

“Does not live here! She is not a part of this contract! You may bow so low for your aunt that the tips of your ears touch the ground, but I don’t!”

"You overstep once more, my lady."

"Do I? I am to be mistress of this household, am I not? Unless you intend our marriage to be purely ornamental—another perfectly positioned piece in your perfectly controlled world?"

"Our marriage," he bit out, "is a legal necessity, nothing more. Do not mistake it for permission to remake my home according to your superstitious, Dalish-savage, whims."

"Savage?" Now real anger flared in her chest. "Is that truly what you think of me? Of all Dalish? You would consider us savage for maintaining traditions that predate your precious order by centuries. Tell me, my lord, what makes our ways savage? That we value people over schedules? That we remember the old medicines, the old songs, the ways that kept our people alive while nobles like you sat in your crystal towers dictating how others should live?"

She was close enough now to see the muscle jumping in his jaw, to count the faint freckles across his nose that his perfect composure couldn't hide. "You know nothing of me or my reasons."

"Then tell me! I might understand, then!" She gestured sharply at the space between them. "Tell me why you hate us so much that you would systematically destroy our livelihoods, our traditions, everything that makes us who we are. Tell me what the Dalish did to earn such contempt from the great Lord Fen'Harel."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—pain? Memory? But it vanished behind his mask of cold disdain. "I owe you no explanations."

"No? Then I owe you no obedience." She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "You may control this estate, my lord, but you do not control me. Remember that."

"Is that a threat, Lady Lavellan?"

"No, my lord, it’s worse. It is the truth.”

She left before he could respond, her skirts swishing against the doorframe in a final act of defiance. Only when she was safely in her own chambers did she allow her hands to shake, the full weight of their confrontation settling over her like a heavy cloak.

One battle among many to come, she knew. But she had held her ground, matched his cold fury with her own fire. It was a beginning.

A soft knock at her door revealed Cole, bearing his usual evening tea tray.

"The walls remember," he said cryptically as he set down her cup. "They've missed the sound of honest anger. Everything's been so quiet for so long."

Ellana smiled despite herself. "Thank you, Cole. Though I doubt his lordship shares your appreciation for honest anger."

"He's not angry," Cole replied, his pale eyes distant. "He's afraid. You come like the summer and it’s too much. The ice is cracking, and he doesn't know how to swim anymore."

Another day passed, and another knock at her door interrupted her reading. "Enter," she called, expecting Cole with his usual evening visit. Instead, she found Captain Rutherford standing at attention in her doorway, his expression troubled.

"My lady," he said, his formal tone at odds with the concern in his eyes. “I've come to inform you of some adjustments to the household security protocols.”

Ellana set down her teacup. There was something in his careful phrasing that caught her attention. "Certainly, please, Captain, come in and sit.”

Cullen hesitated at the threshold. His voice was carefully tactful. "Perhaps another time, my lady.”

She understood his meaning immediately. Her chambers, though technically proper for receiving household staff during daylight hours, might raise eyebrows at this hour. At the Lavellan estate, with such a small and intimate staff, there had been little need for such a level of propriety, but here…

“Oh, yes of course. Forgive me. Of course. Ah, what sort of adjustments, then?"

"His lordship felt that the usual arrangements were... insufficient for the estate's new circumstances," Cullen explained carefully. "While basic security has always been strict, your position as future viscountess requires additional considerations."

The unspoken message was clear: her presence had changed the equation. What had been adequate to control servants wouldn't suffice for a noble, lockpicking, bride with her own agenda. Had he realized…? But no, she’d been sure to put everything back just as she’d found it…

"And these 'considerations' just happen to restrict my movements?" Ellana asked dryly.

"The measures protect everyone, my lady." Cullen's diplomatic tone couldn't quite hide his discomfort. "Though I acknowledge they may seem targeted. The east wing will be more closely monitored. For your own safety, of course. You'll need an escort should you wish to visit those areas after sunset."

"An escort in a home already patrolled by guard," Ellana replied, matching his neutral tone with a quirked eyebrow. 

"His lordship insists on thorough security, my lady." A pause, barely perceptible. "For all members of the household."

The emphasis was slight, but clear—she was being watched as much as protected. Cullen was, after all, Solas's man first and foremost.

"How diligent of you, Captain. Will that be all?"

"Yes, my lady. Good evening." He bowed and departed, leaving Ellana to contemplate this new development.

She returned to her tea, but her earlier satisfaction had dimmed. The household might be slowly bending to her presence, but she was far from being trusted. And now, it seemed, her movements would be even more closely monitored. 

Yet somehow, Cole continued his evening visits, appearing like a ghost between guard rotations. Ellana wondered if even Cullen's increased security could fully account for someone who seemed to move through Vi'Revas's shadows as naturally as breathing. Or perhaps, she reflected, watching him arrange her tea tray with quiet precision, there were some compassions that simply could not be suppressed.

Mr. Harrit's announcement came late that afternoon: “His lordship requests your presence at dinner this evening.” The message was delivered with the steward's usual precision, but something in his expression suggested this was no ordinary dinner invitation.

“Requests or requires?” Ellana asked dryly.

“It is expected of the Lord and Lady of the house to dine together. At... least occasionally. His lordship was... most insistent.”

Of course he was. After their confrontation in the study, he would want to reassert his control, remind her of her place in his perfectly ordered world. Very well—let him try.

“How considerate of his lordship,” Ellana replied, her smile sharp as cut crystal. “Please inform him I would be delighted to provide him with another opportunity to disapprove of my existence. Shall we say seven o'clock? I wouldn't want to disrupt his precious schedule.”

The formal dinner that evening felt like a another stage of warfare. Ellana arrived precisely on time—the one rule she chose to honor—to find Lord Fen'Harel already seated at the head of the vast table. He rose with mechanical precision as she entered, though his bow held the bare minimum of courtesy required.

"Lady Lavellan."

"My lord." She took her seat with deliberate grace, noting how the servants seemed to hold their breath, anticipating the clash to come. Even the usually unflappable footman nearly fumbled the wine decanter as he poured.

The first course arrived in perfect silence—some elaborate soup that probably had its own rules for proper consumption. Ellana deliberately selected the wrong spoon, watching from beneath her lashes as Solas's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his own utensil.

"I trust," he said finally, his voice carrying that careful control that suggested barely leashed emotion, "that you found some way to occupy yourself today?”

"Oh yes." Ellana settled her napkin more comfortably in her lap. "I've been reviewing the household accounts. Your method of organizing expenses by social rank rather than function creates unnecessary complexity. Five separate ledgers for what could be managed in two." She paused, watching his reaction. "Though perhaps efficiency matters less than maintaining proper hierarchies?"

The soup spoon clinked against his bowl with slightly more force than necessary. "You consider yourself qualified to critique my methods? I wasn't aware that accounting fell within your duties as my future wife, or that you had any semblance of the skill to run an estate like Vi'Revas when you've only your Lavellan hovel to compare."

"Strange, then, that your 'hovel' of a comparison managed its books with half the clerks and twice the clarity." She smiled sweetly. "Unless you prefer to waste resources maintaining separate accounts for each social level? The redundant documentation alone suggests either gross inefficiency or deliberate obscurement. Which is it, my Lord? Are you inept or hiding something?"

"Enough." The word cut through the air like a blade. "I have tolerated your... adjustments... thus far, but do not presume to lecture me on business matters. Your family's declining fortunes hardly recommend your expertise."

Heat flooded Ellana's cheeks. "Our fortunes declined because you deliberately undermined our trading partnerships and blocked our access to established routes! Don't dare pretend it was due to any fault in our methods."

"Your methods," he bit out, "are centuries behind the times. The fact that you cling to them out of some misplaced sense of cultural pride only proves—"

"Proves what?" Ellana set down her spoon with careful precision. "That we value relationships built over generations? That we understand trade is about more than mere profit? Or perhaps it proves that we remember what you seem to have forgotten—that commerce should serve people, not the other way around."

The servants moved around them like ghosts, clearing soup bowls and replacing them with the next course. Ellana barely noticed what was placed before her, too focused on maintaining her composure as Solas's cold fury radiated across the table.

"How charmingly naive." His voice dripped condescension. "Tell me, my lady, how has that philosophy served your family? Your precious traditions didn't prevent your estate's decline, did they? Your late father didn't—"

"Do not," Ellana's voice shook with suppressed rage, "speak of my father."

Something flickered in Solas's eyes—perhaps a realization that he'd gone too far, even in his distaste of her. But his pride wouldn't let him retreat. "I merely point out the obvious results of—"

"Of what? Your systematic campaign to destroy everything my family built? Your deliberate targeting of Dalish businesses under the guise of 'modernization'?" She laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "At least have the courage to admit your prejudice, my lord. Stop hiding behind pretty words about efficiency and progress."

"You understand nothing of my motivations."

"Then explain them to me." She leaned forward, challenge bright in her eyes. "Tell me why you hate us so much. What did the Dalish do to earn such loathing from the great Viscount Fen'Harel? Or is it simply that we refuse to bow to your perfect vision of how the world should be?"

The silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken accusations. Even the servants had stilled, watching this clash of wills with barely concealed fascination.

Solas's expression hardened to marble. "Your assumptions about my motivations are as misguided as your defense of outdated practices." His voice carried that careful control that suggested barely leashed fury. “You lack any of the sense or understanding to even begin to appreciate—”

"Is it easier to dismiss me as simple, my lord?" Ellana set down her fork with deliberate precision. "Rather than acknowledge that your 'progress' comes at the cost of destroying other people's lives?"

His expression tightened, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes—something darker than mere anger—but he mastered it quickly. "You speak of things you do not understand." He rose at once, every movement precisely controlled. "If you'll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to."

His bow held exactly the proper degree of courtesy—no more, no less. He departed like a winter wind, leaving a chill in his wake that seemed to freeze the very air in the vast dining room.

Ellana sat alone at the enormous table, acutely aware of the empty chair where Deshanna had sat just that morning. The ache of her aunt's departure, temporarily forgotten in the heat of confrontation, returned with renewed force. She forced herself to take another bite of the exquisitely prepared food, though it tasted of ashes and pride.

A footman hurried past the doorway, no doubt carrying every detail of their clash to Mr. Harrit. By morning, the entire household would know. Good. Let them see that their master's rigid control had finally met its match.

Still, as she sat in that cavernous space, the click of her silverware against fine china echoing like breaking ice, she couldn't quite suppress a shiver. She was Ellana of House Lavellan, she reminded herself firmly. And if Viscount Fen'Harel thought to remake her in his image of proper nobility, he would soon learn the cost of underestimating Dalish pride.

The thought straightened her spine, though it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in her bones. She finished her meal with deliberate grace, each movement a small act of defiance. She would not flee, would not give him the satisfaction of driving her from even this small battlefield.

Only when the last course had been cleared did she rise, her chin lifted in unconscious challenge to the shadows that seemed to watch her from every corner. Tomorrow would bring new battles, new tests of will. For now, she had her pride, her purpose, and the memory of his carefully controlled fury to warm her through the night.

Back in her chambers, Ellana found a letter waiting on her writing desk forwarded by Blake, the familiar seal of House Lavellan offering a bittersweet reminder of home. Her hands trembled slightly as she broke the wax, breathing in the faint scent of crystal grace that always clung to their household's correspondence.

The letter bore good news, at least on its surface. Their remaining trade partners had rallied in support, refusing Viscount Fen'Harel's attempts to pressure them into breaking ties. Yet between the carefully optimistic lines, she could read the strain. How long could they resist without her there to maintain those personal connections her family had cultivated over generations?

She set the letter aside and moved to her window, gazing out at the meticulously manicured gardens below, the evening’s confrontation replaying in her mind. That carefully controlled fury in his eyes, the precise way he'd wielded courtesy like a weapon... There was something personal in his hatred of Dalish ways, something deeper than mere shallow disdain. She'd seen it in that brief flash of darkness before he'd masked it.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending shadows dancing across the walls. They reminded her of the way the servants moved through these halls—always careful, always watching, always constrained by invisible lines of protocol. How many other secrets lay buried beneath Vi'Revas's perfect surface?

Ellana retrieved her father's old journal from her trunk, running her fingers over the well-worn leather. Inside, his neat columns of figures and careful observations had taught her more than just business. They'd shown her how to read people, how to find leverage in unexpected places, how to bend without breaking.

I wish you could see me now, Papa , she thought, touching the page where his firm hand had written their house motto: In purpose, find freedom . He would have appreciated the irony of her situation—trapped in this frigid manor by the very contract meant to protect their family's freedom to exist as they pleased.

Well. If she must play the proper Viscountess-to-be, she would do so on her own terms. Let Lord Fen'Harel think he could reshape her with his rigid protocols and icy disdain. She was her father's daughter, and she'd learned from the best how to turn disadvantage to opportunity.

Reaching for her own journal, Ellana began to write, documenting her observations of the household's dynamics, the subtle hierarchies among the servants, the way information flowed through Vi'Revas's shadowy corridors. Every detail could be useful, every crack in the perfect facade a potential foothold.

Tomorrow would bring new battles, but tonight she had purpose, clarity, and the comforting weight of generations of Lavellan wisdom to guide her. Her father had always said that true strength lay not in refusing to bend, but in choosing how and when to do so.

She smiled slightly, adding a final note to her observations: The Viscount may rule through ice, but ice has its own weaknesses. It can crack. It can melt. And sometimes , she thought, you can simply walk around it.

Closing the journal, Ellana rose from her desk and moved to the bookshelf. Behind a row of leather-bound volumes on proper etiquette—books she doubted Lord Fen'Harel expected her to actually read—she carefully tucked away her observations. Let him think her merely stubborn and proud; he need not know how carefully she studied his household's weaknesses.

She prepared for bed with renewed determination. She might be bound by duty to this marriage, but she would not let it erase who she was. House Lavellan had survived worse than one prideful lord's prejudice. And she intended to do more than merely survive.

Chapter Text

"My lady!" came Mr. Harrit's scandalized voice from the doorway, " What have you done to your chambers?"

Ellana smiled, savoring the horror in the steward's tone as she adjusted the position of her latest acquisition. A fortnight had passed since her arrival, enough time to learn the rhythms of the household and identify her first battlefield: her own suites. And how fitting that she should wage her campaign in the heart of a former general's domain? While Viscount Fen'Harel had commanded armies on blood-soaked fields, Ellana would fight her battles in parlors and chambers, with tapestries for banners and household trinkets for weapons. Some wars, after all, were won not with swords but with a thousand tiny cuts to one's pride.

Mr. Harrit's expression suggested her subtle act of rebellion had achieved precisely the effect she'd intended.

The transformation began with small changes. Books of philosophy and economics now shared shelf space with volumes of poetry. The austere crystal vases that had adorned her chambers—no doubt selected to showcase Viscount Fen'Harel's wealth and refined taste—now overflowed with wildflowers she gathered herself during morning walks in the garden rather an carefully pruned roses. Her writing desk, once pristine, now bore the comfortable clutter of someone who actually used it: letters half-written, books stolen from the library dog-eared and marked with notes, crude sketches of the garden's layout scattered between academia.

Today's addition would be her boldest statement yet. Ellana stood back, admiring the way morning light caught the rich colors of the tapestry she'd just finished arranging. It’d been a parting gift from Keeper Deshanna, only recently delivered when news with news that Sylaise had taken ill and would not be joining her at Vi’Revas as originally planned. Threads of gold and silver spun together to depict a stylized hart through the changing of the seasons, and the tapestry’s embroidered edge bore same design as her own vallaslin. It felt like hers. It felt like home. 

It was precisely the sort of thing that would make Mr. Harrit's eye twitch.

"My lady, I must protest, the Viscount has certain... preferences regarding the aesthetic of his estate."

Ellana turned, offering him her most innocent smile. "He may have the estate, then, but these are my chambers, Mr. Harrit, and not his." She adjusted the hanging slightly, ensuring it was perfectly centered.

The steward's mouth tightened, but he could hardly argue without implying his master intended to deny his future wife basic courtesies. "The Viscount... appreciates order," he said instead, each word measured.

"As do I." Ellana moved to her writing desk, where several more personal touches awaited placement. "Everything in its proper place, Mr. Harrit. A room should reflect its occupant, shouldn’t it? Or am I to be merely decorative myself? No, I think not."

Next, she selected a small bronze telescope, its surface etched with constellations. It had just arrived yesterday from a cousin in the Dales who shared her passion for astronomy, with the accompanying note that simply read so we may still see the same stars. The piece was beautiful, functional, and sentimental; just what she needed for peering into the night sky from her window seat. Its placement on the mantelpiece would be impossible to miss, too. Perfect.

Next, an antique emerald knight’s sword from the nomadic clan’s days found its proper place mounted on the wall above the fire and mantle, and all felt well in the world.

The steward had never looked more pale.

"The household staff will talk," Mr. Harrit warned, eyeing the weapon with evident distress. A woman with a sword. Most uncommon.

"Oh?" Ellana's tone remained light as she stepped back to assess her work. "And what will they say? That their future mistress dares to demonstrate thoughts beyond selecting dinner services? How shocking. I do hope they're seated when they hear of it."

A flash of movement caught her eye—Sera, lingering in the hallway with an armful of fresh linens, making no attempt to hide her delighted grin. The maid had been increasingly helpful lately, particularly when it came to acquiring tools for Ellana's subtle rebellion, which was good because... she needed an ally. Ellana had stopped waiting for her own maid from the Lavellan home in the form of Sylaise’s promised arrival after the third letter came, this one written in a apologetic hand. Sylaise wrote that her place belonged with Keeper Deshanna, that she could not in good conscience abandon the estate while so many tasks fell to so few. I have served your family all my life, my lady, she wrote, and I am needed here more than ever. I wish to see this house safe again, even if it means I cannot follow you. Ellana kept the letter tucked away in her writing desk, the words pressed flat and final beneath a book. 

Mr. Harrit drew himself up, his dignity clearly wounded. "I shall inform the Viscount of these... changes."

Of course he would. The steward's loyalty to maintaining the estate's carefully crafted appearance bordered on fanatical devotion. In his eyes, each of Ellana's alterations was not just a change to the decor, but likely also an assault master himself.

Which it was.

"Please do." Ellana returned to her desk, selecting her next piece with careful deliberation. "I'm sure he'll be fascinated to learn how I spend my mornings. Though I wonder..." She paused, glancing back at the steward. "Does he usually take such keen interest in the decorative choices of his household's ladies? How very... attentive of him."

The steward's face flushed. They both knew Solas's reputation for maintaining careful distance from matters traditionally left to the women of the household. To suggest he should intervene in such decisions would paint him as either overly controlling or inappropriately interested in his ward's private chambers. 

Either way, it would raise eyebrows among the staff.

"Good day, Mr. Harrit," Ellana said pleasantly, turning back to her work. The dismissal was clear, and after a moment's hesitation, she heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Sera slipped in as soon as he was gone, dropping her pretense of working to admire the changes. "Bit of alright, that. Looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, yeah?"

"Propriety is such a delicate thing," Ellana mused, unable to entirely suppress her smile. "One must be so careful not to offend."

The maid snorted. "Right, careful. That why you've brought all this crap in?”

“It’s not crap, these are all wonderful little things in their own way. Misunderstood.” Ellana placed the final piece, a delicate wind chime crafted of brass and crystal, near the window where the breeze would catch it. Its soft melody filled the air with a pleasant counterpoint to the strict silence of the estate. "I like them.”

"Course you do," Sera grinned, flopping into a chair with decidedly un-servant-like familiarity. "You're clever, yeah? Not like the stuffed shirts who think everything's got to be all proper and boring. Saw his lordship's face yesterday when he passed the new tapestry in the hall. Looked like he'd been served a rat at a formal dinner."

Ellana's eyebrows rose. "The Viscount noticed?"

"Notice? He stood there staring at it for ages, all broody-like. Probably trying to figure out if he could ban Dalish art without looking like a complete arse." Sera's grin widened. "Too late for that, innit?"

Sera's laughter echoed down the hallway long after she'd gone, leaving Ellana alone with her small victories. She moved to the window, watching sunlight dance through the crystals of her wind chime, which sang softly in a gust.

For the first time since arriving at Vi'Revas, Ellana felt truly settled. 

Her satisfaction, however, was short-lived. There were other battlefields to attend to, and the morning was still young. The kitchen, she had learned, served as the true heart of any estate. And hearts, like minds, could be won over with the right approach.

The kitchen of Vi'Revas estate was a fortress unto itself, ruled by its cook with an iron ladle and an ironclad schedule. Which was precisely why Ellana chose to arrive during the quiet lull between breakfast and lunch preparations, bearing a leather-bound book and her most disarming smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Thane," she said, hovering at the threshold until the cook looked up from her work. The woman's flour-dusted hands stilled over the dough she was kneading, surprise flickering across her weathered features. Ladies of the house, particularly future viscountesses, did not typically venture into her domain.

"My lady?" Mrs. Thane straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. "Is something amiss with your breakfast?"

"Not at all. I wondered if I might observe your work?" Ellana held up the book. "I've been reading about kitchen management, you see, and I'd like to learn more about how Vi'Revas operates. The facilities here are quite incredible, back at home, ah, excuse me, I mean at the Lavellan Estate, we have but half of your supplies and equipment. You must make the most magical feasts."

"His lordship does not host feasts, my lady," Mrs. Thane said, a note of regret coloring her words.

"Never?" Ellana asked, genuine surprise in her voice. "With kitchens like these? Such waste of talent." She moved closer, lowering her voice. "You must get terribly bored, preparing the same dishes day after day. When was the last time you created something new? Something challenging?"

A flicker of interest crossed Mrs. Thane's face before she could suppress it. "The Viscount prefers—"

"Consistency, yes, I'm sure he does." Ellana traced a finger along the rim of a copper pot. "But surely the staff might appreciate some... variety? I can't imagine they share his restrictive tastes. And wouldn't it be useful to have a few special dishes prepared, just in case important guests visit?"

The cook's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious of this breach in protocol. "I am… not sure this is wise. The household runs quite efficiently as is, my lady."

"Oh, I'm sure it does." Ellana moved to examine the impressive array of copper pots hanging from the ceiling. "Though I wonder if we might discuss some additions to the menu? I have several recipes that—"

"The Viscount has very particular tastes," Mrs. Thane interrupted, her tone brittle.  

Ellana traced a finger along the edge of a pristine work surface. "I notice the spice cabinet is quite sparse."

Mrs. Thane's spine stiffened. "We keep what is needed."

"Of course." Ellana moved to examine the spice cabinet in question, noting the dusty corners of several jars. "Though I can't help but wonder if the staff ever tires of the same flavors. Do you enjoy cooking the same dishes day after day, Mrs. Thane?"

The cook's hands returned to her dough, but her kneading was more aggressive now. "It's not my place to—"

"To have opinions?" Ellana smiled. "No, I suppose not. Though it seems a waste of your considerable talent." She paused, then added carefully, "I had heard you trained in Antiva before coming to Vi'Revas. The markets there must have been extraordinary."

Mrs. Thane's hands stilled again. "You... know of my training?"

"I make it a point to know the people who keep this household running." Ellana moved closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Tell me, do you miss the spice markets? The experimentation? The challenge of creating something new?"

A flicker of longing crossed the cook's face before she could master it. "The Viscount—"

"Need never know," Ellana finished smoothly. "After all, what harm could there be in adding one or two new dishes to the rotation? Just for me? Or perhaps the staff meals?"

Mrs. Thane's resistance wavered visibly. "The budget—"

"I have my own funds," Ellana assured her. "And I have connections to merchants who trade in Rivain's rarest spices—genuine Llomerryn saffron, black cardamom from the northern mountains, even dried dragon's tongue pepper that only grows in the volcanic regions. Ingredients that would make even an Antivan chef envious. All their shipments have come through the harbor on Lavellan transport.

Mrs. Thane's eyes widened at the mention of dragon's tongue pepper. "You can acquire such things?"

"For a skilled chef who knows how to use them properly? Absolutely. I would be happy to."

The cook was silent for a long moment, studying Ellana with shrewd eyes. Finally, she said, "The staff has been complaining about the blandness of the fish course."

"Have they?" Ellana's smile widened. "How fortunate that I know an excellent recipe for spiced cod. Shall I share it with you?"

Ten minutes later, Ellana left the kitchen with an ally and the promise of more interesting meals to come, and the morning's victories, small though they were, had put a spring in her step as she sought refuge in the library. If the kitchen was the heart of the estate, then surely the library was its mind—and what better place to continue her campaign of gentle disruption than among the Viscount's precious books?

She had already begun leaving her mark here in the library as well too. Poetry volumes now mingled with economic treatises. Shelves had been rearranged. Even now, she sat curled in what she'd claimed as her favorite chair—coincidentally the one with the best view of both the door and the gardens—with a novel of extremely questionable literary merit propped open on her lap.

Only the sound of raised voices and hurried footsteps in the hall some time later suggested her peaceful interlude was about to be interrupted. A smile tugged at her lips as she recognized one particular voice cutting through the usual hushed tones of the household staff.

"Lord Fen’Harel, my dear friend!" Dorian's voice echoed through the marble halls of Vi'Revas, causing several servants to nearly drop their burdens. "Where are you hiding your charming bride-to-be?"

Normally, visitors to Vi'Revas were announced with careful propriety, their arrivals timed to coincide with acceptable visiting hours. Dorian Pavus, apparently, considered such things beneath him. His voice carried through the halls like a herald's trumpet, accompanied by the sound of scandalized servants trying to maintain proper decorum.

"Honestly," his voice drifted closer, "you'd think I was some common caller, a vagrant, rather than his lordship's dearest friend. No, no, don't bother announcing me—I know exactly where to find our charming recluses."

Even Mr. Harrit's protests seemed to bounce harmlessly off Dorian's determined progress. Ellana could picture the steward's horror at this breach of procedure, and found herself warming to Lord Pavus even more. She turned her head to the entryway just as Lord Pavus swept into the library like a particularly well-dressed storm. He'd clearly bypassed the formal receiving rooms entirely, treating the estate as though it were his own home—which, given the fondly exasperated looks from the servants trailing in his wake, wasn't entirely unusual.

"Ah! Found you!" He beamed, ignoring the proper protocols of introduction entirely. "Ah! Found you at last. Buried in books like some scholarly moth to flame. Though I daresay you're proving rather more incendiary to our dear Viscount's peace of mind."

"Lord Pavus!" Ellana's face lit up with genuine warmth. After two weeks of careful navigation through the household's rigid formality, Dorian's dramatic entrance felt like a breath of fresh air. "Have you come to rescue me from my tower of solitude?"

“Oh, but I could, my dear one. It is a tempting fairy tale. But alas, I'm afraid this is strictly business; I come bearing tidings from your aunt-to-be, and I must say, the Countess was in rare form this morning." His mustache twitched with poorly suppressed amusement. "Though I must say, the changes you've made to our dear Viscount’s fortress of solitude are fascinating. Is that actually a novel on that table? How delightfully scandalous."

"The library's function is to house books, is it not?"

"Ah, but these books show signs of being read." Dorian moved further into the room, picking up one of her marked volumes. "And not just the dreadfully dull economic treatises he favors. Fantasy. Fiction. Do I see the spine of High in Hightower ? Poetry, even. Be still, my heart! He must be beside himself."

"I wouldn't know," Ellana said dryly. "The Viscount and I rarely cross paths."

"Yes, well, that's precisely why I'm here." Dorian settled into a chair across from her. "Where is my dearest friend the Viscount?”

"I thought I heard the dulcet tones of uninvited guests," came a dry voice from the doorway. Viscount Fen’Harel stood there, one eyebrow raised at his friend's theatrical entrance. "To what do we owe this theatricality, Pavus?"

"The Countess has noticed a distinct lack of proper courtship. Two weeks you've been here, and not a single public appearance together? The gossips are starting to wonder if there's trouble in paradise."

"There is no paradise to trouble," the Viscount said coldly from his position by the window. "Merely a contract to be fulfilled."

Ellana carefully marked her place in her book. "For once, we agree."

"Oh, we're always meant to pretend, my dears. It's what separates us from the barbarians." Dorian's gaze flickered between them. "Though I suspect Lady Lavellan already knew that. She's cleverer than you expected, isn't she, Solas?"

"I have made no expectations regarding Lady Lavellan's cleverness," Viscount Fen’Harel replied, though his tight grip on his chair's armrest betrayed his tension. "Nor do I see why my aunt concerns herself with such matters."

"The Viscount's poorly imagined expectations of me are his own concerns, and are of little consequence," Ellana added, her tone deliberately light.

"Hmm." Dorian's smile sharpened. "You know, the last time someone surprised him this thoroughly, it ended rather badly. Though in that case, the surprise was considerably less pleasant."

" Dorian ." Viscount Fen’Harel’s voice carried a warning.

Ellana caught the deliberate drop of information. And the drop of title. "Oh?"

"Ancient history now," Dorian continued, ignoring his friend's darkening expression with a wave. “And, ultimately, not why I am here. Countess Mythal insists you both begin making public appearances. Proper courting, as befits your stations. Starting with the Royal Gallery exhibition this afternoon, with me , of course, as your chaperone. Come now. It will be fun."

"Absolutely not," Solas said flatly.

"Today—?" Ellana began at the same time.

Dorian's smile widened. "Adorable timing, that."

"I have no intention of parading about like some trained performer," Solas said, his voice carrying that particular edge of aristocratic disdain he wielded so effectively. "My aunt oversteps."

"Your aunt," Dorian reminded him pleasantly, "is Countess Mythal, who specifically instructed me to remind you that your continued absence from society has begun to reflect poorly on the family name. She mentioned something about reconsidering her support of your endeavors if you persist in behaving like, and I quote, ' a sulking child .'"

His brow tightened. "That is—"

"Perfectly within her right as your aunt and social superior?" Dorian supplied helpfully. "Indeed."

"I have urgent correspondence—" Ellana tried again.

"Which can wait. The Countess was quite specific about consequences should you both continue to avoid your social duties.” Dorian examined his nails with careful nonchalance. "Though I'm sure she was merely being dramatic."

Ellana's shoulders stiffened. They all knew Mythal wasn't one for empty threats.

"The exhibition is in three hours, you say?" Solas's voice was colder than freezing.

"Precisely, just enough time for Lady Lavellan to prepare herself and for you to finish glowering at me." Dorian stood, brushing invisible dust from his immaculate sleeve. "Though I must say, I'm rather looking forward to seeing how you handle him in society, my dear. Do try to keep the mayhem to a minimum? A punch bowl incident would be unseemly."

"I make no promises," Ellana said, even as the Viscount muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse in elvhen.

"Splendid!" Dorian clapped his hands together. "I'll return in two hours, leaving just enough time for a fashionably late arrival, and to ensure you haven't both mysteriously developed diplomatic illnesses. A pleasure, as always."

He swept from the room, leaving them in a silence thick with mutual resentment.

"Well," Ellana said finally, closing her book with perhaps more force than necessary, "I suppose I should change into something more suitable for public humiliation."

"Do try not to embarrass the family name too thoroughly," Solas replied coldly.

"Oh? Which family name would that be? The one you've spent months trying to destroy, or the one you're being forced to share with me?"

Their gazes locked for a moment, neither willing to back down, before Solas turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, his rigid posture screaming his displeasure to anyone who cared to notice.

Ellana waited until his footsteps faded before allowing herself a small, vicious smile. If they must play at courtship, she would ensure he regretted every moment of it.

Starting with a new tactic.

Within her chambers, Ellana paused before her wardrobe, considering her approach. A public appearance would set the tone for how society viewed their match—and more importantly, how they viewed her. The Ton could be merciless to those who failed to navigate its complex expectations, particularly regarding arranged marriages. Even those who despised each other privately were expected to maintain perfect harmony in public.

But more was at stake than mere social standing. The Countess's intervention suggested political undercurrents at play. The Viscount’s aunt wouldn't have forced this issue without reason, and Ellana had learned enough about Vi'Revas's complex alliances to know that every public action carried weight beyond its surface meaning.

Her reputation would reflect on House Lavellan as much as on her future husband. If she appeared too provincial, it would confirm every prejudice against Dalish nobility. Too refined, and she'd be seen as having abandoned her heritage to those she’d left behind… what to do?

And then an idea came, and she tore into the wardrobe where the perfect gown waited, one she'd deliberately ignored until now...

As noon light slanted through the windows two hours later later, she descended the main staircase in a gown that perfectly straddled the line between humble provincial elegance and aristocratic fashion, each element chosen with deliberate care. Her hair, usually bound in simple braids during her daily disruption of his household, now fell in lush, loose waves about her shoulders and down the length of her back. The effect was striking—proof that she could, when she chose, present herself exactly as a future viscountess should.

The Viscount, already waiting below with Dorian, looked up at her approach. His reaction was everything she'd hoped for. First startled appreciation, then anger as he realized what her transformation implied. 

She'd spent two weeks deliberately flouting every social expectation, dressing and behaving in ways that emphasized their cultural divide and her utter disdain and now, with witnesses present, she demonstrated that her previous choices had been exactly that: choices. She could play the perfect noble bride when it suited her; she simply chose not to do so for him alone.

Beside him, Dorian's appreciative whistle earned a sharp look from his friend.

"My dear, you are absolutely wicked," Dorian declared with obvious delight. "Isn't she wicked, Lord Fen'Harel? Such a remarkable transformation."

"If you mean she has deliberately chosen to make a spectacle of herself, then yes," Solas replied coldly, though his gaze lingered on the way the silk caught the light. Then his eyes met hers. “I trust that you are at least prepared for the level of decorum expected of us in public?”

“Then perhaps you'd find no fault with my conduct. Though I know you will regardless.”

“You’re learning.”

“To predict your cruelty? I improve daily.” 

The carriage ride proved a study in careful distances, with Ellana and Solas seated opposite each other while Dorian chatted cheerfully about nothing of consequence. Every bump in the road seemed to emphasize the space between them, making it somehow more noticeable than if they'd been pressed together. When they finally arrived, their carriage came to a stop before the Royal Gallery's imposing facade, where marble steps gleamed in the afternoon sun. As they emerged into the light, Ellana noted how Solas immediately put proper distance between them, as if their forced proximity in the carriage had been physically painful. 

Dorian, ever the picture of ease, gestured for them to proceed.

"Shall we?" he asked, mustache twitching with barely concealed amusement. "The whole of society awaits our little performance."

Looking physically pained, the Viscount offered his arm with mechanical precision. "My lady?"

Ellana regarded the offered limb as if it might bite. "Oh, I couldn't possibly impose.”

Several nearby nobles slowed their ascent, openly watching this departure from script. Lord Fen’Harel’s glare was seething.

"I insist.”

“I decline, my lord.”

“You–”

Dorian coughed delicately, drawing their glares away from each other and instead to the small, interested crowd watching their every move. "My dear ones, perhaps we might continue this lovers' quarrel somewhere less public? The steps are becoming rather crowded."

“Take. My. Arm.”

Sighing, Ellana finally accepted the Viscount's arm with exaggerated reluctance, her fingers barely grazing his coat. "If we must maintain appearances."

They ascended together, a picture of proper courtship that fooled precisely no one. Whispers followed their progress, carried on perfumed air and batting fans. Ellana caught fragments as they passed:

"—the Dalish girl—"

"—most unusual match—"

"—surely some scandal—"

Lord Fen’Harel’s jaw tightened with each step, though whether from the gossip or her proximity, Ellana couldn't say. She matched his stride deliberately, refusing to be rushed or pulled along like some wayward child.

The gallery's main hall opened before them, its vaulted ceiling adorned with frescoes depicting ancient battles. Massive windows cast alternating patterns of light and shadow across marble floors, creating an ever-shifting maze of illumination. Various members of the nobility clustered around paintings and sculptures, their conversations a gentle murmur beneath the space's perfect acoustics.

"Now then," Dorian said, positioning himself just behind them, "Where shall we start? There are several new pieces delivered just for this exhibition. I myself am curious about the new Tevinter Imperium pieces, but there is supposedly some rather risque work coming from Orlais, and some questionably sourced artifacts from Rivian.”

“The Tevinter pieces? Are they the murals?" Ellana asked, genuine interest coloring her voice. "I've read they're incorporating some new techniques with mosaic and—"

“It doesn’t matter what new techniques they use,”Solas cut in, his tone clipped and bored. “Mosaics are inherently flawed. Over time, the pieces loosen, the image distorts, and what remains is a fragmented mess of tile.”

Dorian's eyes rolled heavenward with the practiced weariness of someone who had weathered many such monologues. He caught Ellana's gaze and mouthed what looked suspiciously like ' here we go again ' behind his friend's back.

“People come to stare at them here in the gallery to suppose at what the meaning of it might have been,” Solas continued, “but the truth is that they attach their own aspirations to the crumbling mess and then deem to call it ‘art’.”

“The Viscount nurses his opinions on art like others might nurse fine brandy—with great ceremony and increasing potency as the evening wears on.” Dorian said, “I had hoped this venue may be enough to inspire good behavior from the both of you with all the pretty things and people within—and also the distinct lack of an exhibit on weaponry—but it seems we are in for a lecture, Lady Lavellan.”

Ellana's fingers tightened on his arm. "How lucky for us that we have such an expert to guide us. Tell me, my lord, I am curious, what qualifies as ‘art’ under this distasteful lens of you?”

Several nearby nobles turned at her words, fans and conversations stilling to better catch the exchange. Solas's pause was barely perceptible, but Ellana felt the tension in his arm increase.

"I have studied extensively," he replied, each word precisely measured. "Unlike some who form opinions based on only reading."

They paused before a striking landscape of the Dales, other nobles carefully positioning themselves within earshot.Ellana regarded it a moment, recognizing the familiar, rolling hills and rocky outcroppings.

"My lord," Ellana said, "what do you see when you look at this piece?"

"A technically accomplished study of light and shadow," Solas replied, "The artist clearly intended to demonstrate mastery of classical techniques through the handling of the afternoon sun on the cliffs."

“I see something different.”

“I dread to think what interpretation you might offer.”

Ellana rolled her eyes. “I listened to your lecture, now it must surely be your turn to do the same. Now… when I look at this piece, I see home. Or a part of it, perhaps I mean the ‘feeling’ of it. The way the light catches the valley… this is one that is well known, where many clans would camp during summer festivals. And see, there? The ruins? There are those odd little shadows between the columns…”

Solas’s only gave another dismissive glance, seeing nothing but a flawed technique.

“The shadows are children; they like to play hide and seek there. See?”

"You project your own experiences onto the canvas," Solas dismissed. "That was hardly the artist's purpose."

"And why should the artist's purpose matter more than what the work evokes in those who view it? Art lives in the space between creation and observation, doesn’t it? Or do you believe meaning can only flow in one direction?"

Several nearby nobles shifted closer, fans fluttering with interest as Solas's expression darkened.

"Without the artist's intended meaning, you're merely inventing stories to please yourself," he said. "It becomes entertainment rather than art."

“That is very convenient to believe that meaning can only come from authority rather than experience.And what authority does an austere man as you even have to pass judgement on an artist when you yourself contribute nothing with an ounce of creativity?”

“Actually,” Dorian cut in, “Lord Fen’Harel is something of a splendid painter himself.”

Solas's shoulders tensed at the revelation, a flash of something—anger? betrayal?—crossing his features as he shot Dorian a sharp look. His friend merely raised an eyebrow in response, clearly unrepentant about sharing this, apparently, private detail.

Ellana faltered, the revelation catching her off guard. She studied Solas's profile with new eyes, trying to reconcile this unexpected facet with the rigid man beside her. Those long fingers that so often gripped his cane in frustration—had they once held brushes instead? Did that critical gaze soften when faced with a blank canvas? The image was... unsettling, suggesting depths she'd preferred to ignore.

"You paint?" She heard the surprise in her own voice and quickly masked it with practiced disdain. "I... had no idea. Then, my lord, I am excited to see your examples of 'true' art. Are there any of your works on display here?"

His silence was answer enough, but the muscle working in his jaw and the way the muscles coiled in his arm flexed betrayed how deeply her words had struck. A private artist, then—one who created but never shared. How fitting for a man who demanded control over every aspect of his domain.

"My work," he said finally, each word precise and cold, "is not for public consumption."

"How convenient," Ellana replied, though the barb felt different now, weighted with this new understanding between them. "To criticize while keeping your own attempts safely hidden away. Then perhaps your masterpieces hang in Vi'Revas where I've yet to see them, safely tucked away from the public’s aspirations?"

"I do not display my work," he said stiffly.

"Ah, of course not," Ellana's smile was wicked.. "After all, someone might interpret it differently than you intended. How dreadful that would be, to have others find their own meaning in your carefully controlled creation. Tell me, my lord, when you paint, do you stand there to demand a viewer to understand exactly what you meant to convey? But since you do not display them… is it that you fear what they might see instead? I wonder what would be worse, your ‘intent’ or original meaning or whatever supposed truth they might affix to it."

The Viscount’s face twisted into an expression of outright disgust, but for the first time, he’d been rendered speechless. Ellana took great satisfaction in his wide eyes, the parting of his wordless lips. 

"When I paint—"

Dorian's cough barely disguised his laugh as he cut his friend off. "My dear ones, perhaps we should move on to the Orlesian exhibition? Before blood is drawn?"

"Oh, but academic discussion is so enlightening ," Ellana added with poisonous sweetness. "I thought his lordship enjoyed lectures..."

Their forced promenade continued, a delicate dance of barbed courtesy and veiled insults. When the Viscount attempted to guide her past a collection of Dalish art without pause, Ellana planted her feet, forcing him to either stop or risk creating a scene.

"My lord," she said sweetly, "surely we should examine these pieces with equal consideration? After all, they represent an important cultural perspective. My own. Your wife to be."

"I find little value in primitive interpretations," he said, the familiar argument allowing him to retreat behind academic disdain rather than engage with her challenge.

"Very well,." Ellana freed her arm from his grip and moved closer to the display. "I hardly need your ‘learned’ opinions about such things you do not understand anyway. You would recognize themes in a Dalish work the same way you might recognize your own humility; it must be difficult to be such strangers with that facet of yourself.”

A sharp intake of breath from nearby viewers suggested her words had struck home. Solas's expression hardened, but before he could respond, Dorian smoothly intervened.

"Perhaps we should examine the new acquisitions from Orlais? I hear they're quite controversial."

They continued their circuit, maintaining perfectly proper form while trading increasingly pointed observations about art, culture, and tradition. When Solas attempted to lecture on the superiority of classical techniques, Ellana questioned every assumption until his carefully constructed arguments began to fray.

"—which only demonstrates your willful ignorance of matters beyond your limited experience," Solas concluded, his critique of her earlier commentary on elvhen art carrying enough bite to draw blood.

Ellana's lips curved into something that only resembled a smile. As they turned the corner, she deliberately shifted her weight, bringing her heel down precisely on the Viscount's immaculate boot.

His sharp intake of breath drew several curious glances.

"Oh dear," she said, not bothering to hide her satisfaction. "How clumsy of me. Though perhaps if you spent less time looking down on others, you might better watch your own step."

Solas's grip on her arm tightened fractionally. "Perhaps if you paid more attention to your surroundings rather than your opinions..."

Ellana turned to deliver what would undoubtedly be a cutting response, but the motion caused the already-loose fastening at her wrist to come completely undone, her glove slipping awkwardly. Solas made an irritated sound in his throat.

"What is wrong with you? Unable to even manage your own attire–" He caught her wrist with more force than necessary. "Stand still."

His fingers moved to fix the fastening with deft, annoyed precision. Through the silk, she felt the calluses on his fingertips—unexpected on a noble—and the brush of his thumb against her wrist sent an unexpected jolt through her arm. Ellana sucked in a startled breath, suddenly aware of how close they stood, how his height seemed to envelop her in that moment. His fingers stilled at her reaction, and their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, his carefully maintained mask slipped. Something flashed in his gaze—surprise, perhaps, or recognition of the same unwanted awareness that had her pulse quickening beneath his touch—and the gallery's carefully regulated temperature seemed to rise several degrees.

Neither spoke. Neither moved. The subtle pressure of his thumb against her pulse point felt like a brand.

Then his gaze dropped to where he still held her wrist, the sight of his own hands betraying him was offensive. He finished securing the fastening with sharp, aggressive motions, and Ellana snatched her hand back, flustered in a way their verbal sparring hadn't managed to achieve all afternoon. A faint heat bloomed in her cheeks; the loss of contact was almost as startling as that initial touch had been.

"I..."

For once, neither of them seemed to know what to say.

Dorian's deliberately loud cough broke the spell. "Shall we?" he asked, his mustache twitching with poorly concealed amusement. "The carriage awaits."

Their return journey down the gallery steps was a study in confused tension, both of them carefully avoiding eye contact. As their carriage arrived, Dorian's expression suggested he had thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon's entertainment.

"Well," he said as they settled into the carriage, "that was certainly educational. Though perhaps not quite in the way the Countess intended."

The ride home stretched before them, thick with unspoken thoughts and the lingering sensation of skin against silk. Ellana stared resolutely out the window, watching shadows lengthen across Arlathan's marble streets. Each bump in the road seemed to emphasize the charged silence between them, making her acutely aware of his presence across from her. Solas seemed suddenly fascinated by the carriage's opposite wall, his rigid posture betraying his own discomfort.

Another bump, causing their knees to brush. Ellana shifted away immediately, pressing herself closer to the wall, but the narrow confines of the space made complete avoidance impossible. Each inadvertent touch seemed to crackle with the same unwanted awareness as that moment in the gallery.

Dorian, watching them both, simply smiled.

In the servants' hall that evening, the maids couldn't stop whispering about what they'd heard from the footmen who'd attended the carriage.

"Did you hear?" Jenny whispered to Martha as they folded linens. "They argued about art the entire time! Thomas said he's never seen his lordship so worked up in public…”

"Says they went at it like cats and dogs," Martha added with barely concealed glee. "Her ladyship apparently told him he wouldn't know art if it painted itself across his face."

"And when they returned..." Jenny leaned in closer, "she threw those gloves right in the rubbish bin! Right in front of everyone!"

"It's not proper though, is it?" Martha's amusement faded. "His lordship's always been... particular, but he's fair. And she just keeps pushing and pushing. What kind of household will it be with them at odds like this?"

"Better than it's been. At least there's some life in the place now. When's the last time anyone dared even move a candlestick without permission? Besides, his lordship could use someone standing up to him."

"That's all well and good for you to say," Thomas added, pausing as he passed with a tea tray. "You weren't here before. The last time… ugh.” He shook his head. "This won't end well for anyone."

"Hush," Sera cut in, though her grin suggested she was delighted by the gossip. "You know how his lordship feels about talk like that."

"That's just it though, isn't it?" Jenny pressed. "We should be talking about it—When was the last time anyone got under his skin like this? Marcus swears he saw his lordship look at her after she tossed the gloves, looking like he couldn't decide whether to strangle her or..."

“...or?”

“Ah. Probably not or. Probably how he’d strangle her.”

"Jenny!" Martha gasped, but she was smiling too. "Though I suppose it would be one way to stop their arguing."

"Or make it worse," Sera snickered. "She might want to strangle him first. Bet they'd find a way to bicker about that too."

Sleep… again… proved elusive that night. Ellana lay awake in her chambers, replaying the afternoon's events in her head. He was so rude , wielding his undoubtedly expensive education like a weapon, cutting down the works of others with the same ease one might snip a loose thread. He was a painter. He was… firm, but could be gentle when he chose to be. 

The memory of his touch at her wrist returned unbidden, and she pressed her fingers to the spot as if to erase the phantom sensation. It was infuriating how such a simple moment had startled her. Worse still was the knowledge that he'd felt it too—whatever it had been—that brief flash of vulnerability in his eyes before his walls had slammed back into place.

No, this wouldn't do at all. 

She'd allowed him to unsettle her, to make her question her assumptions about him. How dare he have depth beyond the perfectly shallow, hateable man she knew him to be?

In the opposing wing of the estate, and Solas found himself in his study with Dorian, who lounged in one of the leather chairs with his customary elegance, swirling brandy in a crystal glass.

"Your performance at the gallery today was quite something," Dorian observed, swirling brandy in his crystal glass. "I particularly enjoyed the moment where our dear Lady dismantled you while phrasing it under the guise of only philosophy on art. The servants are already whispering about it—really, it is almost frightening how quickly gossip spreads.”

"If you've come merely to mock me, Dorian..." Solas didn't look up from his papers.

"Mock you? Never." Dorian's smile suggested otherwise. "Though you must admit it is all remarkably entertaining. And the tapestries in her chambers? Quite the statement. Though I suppose you wouldn't know, being such a proper gentleman..."

Solas's quill paused mid-stroke. "Do you have a point?"

"Several, actually. First, she's far more clever than you expected. Second, she's winning over your household without breaking a single one of your precious rules. And third..." Dorian leaned forward, humor falling away, "she's not at all what you assumed she'd be, is she? You lecture about artistic intent and true meaning, yet you seem determined to misinterpret the living portrait before you. People, my friend, are rather like paintings—they reveal different depths depending on how willing you are to truly look."

Solas finally looked up, something flickering in his eyes before his mask slipped back into place. "She’s a fiend, not a painting, and what she is , regardlessly, is irrelevant. The contract requires marriage, nothing more."

"Ah, yes. The contract." Dorian took a deliberate sip of his brandy. "Tell me, did your fingers linger on her wrist a moment longer than strictly necessary when fixing that glove? I could have sworn I saw your perfect composure slip."

The sharp crack of Solas's quill breaking echoed in the study's silence.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"No? Strange. I distinctly recall a moment at the gallery where you seemed quite... attentive to her wrist. The look on your face was particularly interesting."

"I was preventing her from embarrassing us both with her inability to maintain proper appearance."

"Of course you were." Dorian's mustache twitched. "Just as I'm sure your constant awareness of her location in any room is purely to prevent social disasters. And your irritation with Cullen's reports about her competence is merely professional concern."

" Dorian ." 

"You know," Dorian continued, undeterred, "she reminds me rather startlingly of you. The same insufferable certainty, the same talent for making even the simplest conversation feel like a siege warfare, and of course, the shared inability to admit when you're being utterly ridiculous. It's like watching a mirror argue with itself.”

Solas’s hand, the same he’d used to fix Ellana’s glove, flexed absently. "That's hardly a compliment."

"But it is . And don’t misunderstand me, it's the very quality that makes you so fascinating. I'd wager she finds you just as maddening." Dorian rose, setting his empty glass aside. "Though perhaps that's why you're trying so hard to maintain your distance. The last time someone surprised you this thoroughly..."

"That is entirely different. You know that. You know too much for your own good." Solas cut in sharply. "Do not speak of it.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Dorian studied his friend's face, noting the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the broken quill as if seeking an anchor. Or a weapon.

"My apologies," Dorian said finally, his tone gentler. "That was unkind of me. But… Solas , you cannot let old wounds dictate your future forever."

"This has nothing to do with the past." The Viscount—only disarmed as the man Solas in this privacy—rose abruptly, moving to the window. The night had settled fully over Vi'Revas's gardens, but he could still make out the new wind chimes Ellana had hung, their gentle song carried on the evening breeze. "She is... disruptive. Willful. She deliberately provokes me at every turn."

"And you rise to the bait every time, my friend. Have you considered that perhaps she's not the only one being deliberately provocative?" Dorian paused, then added carefully, "You went out of your way to destroy her family's livelihood. You nearly freeze the air in a room when you occupy the same space. Worst of all, you treat her as simple when I know you realize that she isn’t. Did you expect her to simply accept that with demure grace?"

"I expected her to see reason. To understand what is expected of us given our… circumstances, as they are now."

"Ah yes, because nothing matters more to you than your duties." Dorian's voice dripped sarcasm. "And this is just that. Another duty. Have you forgotten that she is, also, a person? Tell me, when you first proposed those policies that targeted the Dalish, did you actually consider their impact, or were you simply seeing old ghosts in new faces?"

Solas turned sharply. "My policies are sound, it is not my fault that certain groups with outdated practices must give way to progress."

"Your policies are personal , and we both know it." Dorian rose, moving to stand beside his friend. "The past clouds your judgment more than you care to admit. But she's proven herself quite different from your expectations. She has mine. Unless you truly believe all your assumptions about Dalish nobles could survive that spectacular dismantling of yourself today?"

"She was merely being contrary."

"You know what I find fascinating?" Dorian continued, examining his rings with careful nonchalance. "The way you watch her when you think no one's looking. Not with hatred or disdain, but with... shall we say, intense interest? Particularly when she's arguing with you. One might almost think you enjoy it."

"Don't be absurd."

"Am I? Because I distinctly recall a moment in the gallery when she challenged your views on artistic interpretation, and you looked... well, rather like you wanted to either strangle her or kiss her. Possibly both."

"That’s quite enough."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Dorian grinned. "Come now, Solas. When was the last time anyone challenged you so thoroughly? Made you actually defend your positions rather than simply accepting your judgment as law? Who’s even made the attempt?”

“Other than you? No one.” Solas ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration. "She is impossible. Everything about her—the way she's reorganized my household, her deliberate flouting of proper behavior, stealing the loyalty of staff over scones , those infernal wind chimes at all hours of the day..."

"You haven't ordered any of it removed." Dorian's observation landed like a stone in still water. "Curious, that. The great Viscount Fen'Harel, who once dismissed an entire kitchen staff for using the wrong type of salt, suddenly develops a tolerance for disruption?"

"I simply see no point in engaging with her juvenile attempts at provocation."

"No? Then why did your hand linger on her wrist today? Why do you keep sending your man Cullen to follow on her heels? I hear you’ve even been seen lurking in the window just to observe her morning walks with him.”

“I do not lurk .” The muscle in Solas's jaw jumped. "She is to be my wife. It would be remiss of me not to... monitor the situation."

"'Monitor the situation.' Is her spending time with the guard captain you assigned to follow her a situation? How romantic." Dorian rolled his eyes. "Maker's breath, you're impossible. Both of you. Though I suppose that's fitting—you deserve each other's company, if only to spare the rest of us from your respective stubbornness."

He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "You know, for someone who claims to despise everything Dalish, you certainly spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking about her."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Solas alone with his thoughts and the distant sound of wind chimes.

He remained at the window long after Dorian's departure, watching shadows dance across his carefully ordered gardens. The breeze carried the scent of wildflowers—another of her changes. She'd replaced his pristine rose gardens with a riot of color, claiming the formal arrangements "lacked spirit." The roses had been perfectly suitable, arranged with mathematical precision. These new blooms refused to stay in their assigned places, spreading and mingling in ways that defied explanation or good sense.

Rather like their planter.

Solas turned sharply from the window. This line of thought was dangerous, unproductive. She was a complication to be managed, nothing more.

He didn't sleep well that night either.

Chapter Text

Ellana's fingers traced the edge of the breakfast room doorway as she debated the merits of arriving unfashionably late. The thought of Solas's inevitable disapproval nearly convinced her—but no, she decided. Better to arrive precisely on time and watch him struggle to find fault with her punctuality. She stepped inside, for a brief moment admiring the space itself. The morning room at Vi'Revas was, despite her distaste for its lord, a masterpiece of elvhen architecture, with towering windows that overlooked the sprawling grounds outside, and freshly picked flowers in vases along the walls. The room should have felt warm and welcoming. Instead, the silence that greeted her entrance was as brittle as frost.

Solas already occupied his usual seat at the head of the table, his morning coat a severe cut of darkest blue that emphasized the broad set of his shoulders.A collection of letters lay arranged beside his plate, each of the corners aligned as if he'd used a ruler. He did not look up from the missive in his hands as she entered, though the slight pause in his quill's movement betrayed his acute awareness of her presence. The memory of yesterday's exhibition—particularly that moment with her glove—seemed to hover in the air between them, carefully unacknowledged by both.

With deliberate grace, Ellana selected the chair directly to his left – not her usual place several seats at a distance that prevented physical blows, but one that would force him to acknowledge her if he wished to maintain any pretense of civility. The scrape of wood against marble as she pulled out the chair seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

"Your usual seat is at the other end of the table," Solas said without looking up, his tone carrying the same dismissive note he might use to correct a servant's error in place settings.

"Is it?" Ellana reached for the pot of tea, allowing her sleeve to brush against his papers—a minor transgression designed to infuriate. "I wonder if I should be flattered that you've made note of my seating preferences, though I doubt such a thing is a compliment. One might think you pay rather close attention to my movements, Lord Fen'Harel."

That earned her a sharp glance, his grey eyes darkening like storm clouds gathering, though his expression remained carefully neutral. "One might think you deliberately seek to disrupt the peaceful routine of this household."

"Peace can become stagnation if left unchallenged." She selected a spoon—the wrong one for porridge, she noted with private satisfaction—and stirred her tea with methodical precision. Tea, that, she thought smugly, was now specially ordered for her despite her Lord’s distaste now that the cook had become an ally. "Though I suppose that would suit your preferences. Everything in its proper place, never moving, never changing."

"There is value in order."

"There is also value in adaptation." She took a deliberate sip of tea, watching him over the rim of her cup. "Is that a difficult concept for you? Perhaps it is so challenging for his lordship because it is rather..." She paused, letting the moment stretch, and made a great show of taking in the Viscount’s figure, her eyes sliding down then back up in appraisal. Then she frowned. "... set in his ways."

His quill paused mid-stroke, a drop of ink bleeding into the paper beneath. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, controlled, yet carried an edge that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. "You test my patience, Lady Lavellan."

"Do I?" She smiled, sweet as honey and twice as sticky. "I’ve been told patience is a virtue amongst the aristocracy, and as a man of your stature, one that is expected from you. Is this also a difficult concept for you? In such a case, I am happy to provide you such situations in which you may practice.”

Solas set down his quill with careful precision, finally turning to face her fully. The morning light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes. "Your attempts to provoke me grow increasingly transparent."

"Transparency is another virtue you claim to value," she countered, reaching for a piece of toast. "Though perhaps only when it's others being held to account?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You deliberately misunderstand."

"And you deliberately underestimate." She buttered her toast with rough scrapes of her knife. "Tell me, does it pain you to know that a 'backward' Dalish noble might actually comprehend the complexities of your visions? Or merely that she dares to question it?"

The silence that followed felt charged, like the air before a storm. When Solas finally spoke, his voice was dangerously soft. "You imagine yourself quite clever, don't you?"

She met his gaze steadily, refusing to be cowed. "No more than you imagine yourself quite righteous."

Before he could respond, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Dorian, who swept into the room with his usual dramatic flair. He paused, taking in the tableau before him—Solas's rigid posture, Ellana's challenging smile, the invisible currents of tension crackling between them.

"Well!" Dorian's voice carried a note of delighted scandal. "I see we're enjoying a cozy breakfast. How domestic. That’s good, because I’ve come to warn you that—"

The announcement died on Dorian's lips as carriage wheels crunched on gravel outside. A shadow passed across the morning room's windows - the distinctive silhouette of Lady Mythal's personal transport.

"Shit," Dorian muttered, any trace of amusement vanishing from his features. He turned to them both, shoulders tense. "I had hoped to warn you she was coming."

Solas rose from his chair in one fluid motion, letters forgotten. His earlier irritation had transformed into something sharper, more focused. "Why is she here?"

But there was no time for answers. The main doors opened, voices carried down the hall, and Lady Mythal swept into the morning room like an autumn storm. Her silver-white hair was arranged in elaborate braids, her deep green gown rustling against marble floors. She fixed them each with a calculating look that made the room feel suddenly colder.

"My dear nephew," she said, her smile sharp as cut crystal. "I trust I'm not interrupting anything... important?"

"Aunt." Solas rose smoothly, though Ellana noticed his fingers press briefly against the table's edge. "We weren't expecting—"

"Clearly." Her gaze slid to Ellana, who had remained seated, one hand still curled around her teacup. "Lady Lavellan. I hear you made quite an impression at yesterday's exhibition."

The words carried a double edge that made Ellana's spine stiffen. She set down her cup with deliberate care, refusing to show how the woman's presence unsettled her. "Was that not the purpose of attending, Aunt?"

Mythal's features tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight narrowing of her eyes the only indication of her distaste for the premature familiarity. She turned pointedly to address Solas instead.

"The purpose was to present a united front to society, nephew. Instead, I've received reports of raised voices in public corridors and what some are calling a child’s interpretation of manners. You and your... intended's behavior reflects not only on herself but on this family. A fact which seems to have escaped both your and her notice. And so I have found a solution on your behalf on how to rectify these unscrupulous rumors."

Solas took a step forward. "What exactly are you proposing?"

"Not proposing, dear nephew. Declaring." She settled herself into a chair, arranging her skirts with practiced precision. "You will host a garden party. Here. Seven days hence. The entirety of the Ton will be in attendance, and you will both demonstrate the proper decorum expected of your stations. I will not have whispers of impropriety surrounding this match any longer. The alliance between our houses must appear strong and deliberate, not like some common tavern arrangement."

"Seven days is hardly sufficient time to arrange—" Solas began, but Mythal raised one elegant hand, silencing him.

"I have already taken the liberty of sending the invitations." She withdrew a folded paper from her reticule, sliding it across the table with one finger. "The guest list. You'll note I've been quite thorough in including those whose opinions matter most. Lady Vivienne has already expressed her particular interest in attending."

Ellana watched as Solas picked up the list, his expression growing more rigid with each name he read. The muscle in his jaw ticked—not from anger this time, she realized, but from something closer to resignation.

"And what exactly do you expect us to do at this gathering?" Ellana asked, earning another sharp look from Mythal for speaking out of turn.

"You will do what is expected." Mythal's voice carried the weight of iron beneath its silk. "You will walk together, speak pleasantly to one another, and convince our peers that this match is everything it should be. No arguments. No spectacles. No more embarrassing displays of whatever game you both think you're playing. We wouldn't want anyone thinking this arrangement was anything other than a carefully considered alliance between our houses—I’ve gone to great lengths to conceal the true origins of this union to be,” She turned back to Solas. “The very idea that a Viscount of your standing, nephew, could be maneuvered into such a... hasty, distasteful contract would be quite damaging to the family's reputation. So you will abide by my asks and you will ensure that our good name remains held in the respect we have cultivated for generations. I trust you can manage that much? Or are my expectations of my own flesh and blood unreasonable?"

Solas’s fingers tightened on the paper.

"Consider how it looks," Mythal continued, each word precise as a blade. "The Viscount of Vi'Revas, bound to a minor noble from a declining house. Without my intervention, people might begin to wonder about your judgment, nephew. About your... fitness to manage your responsibilities. Your own household. We cannot have that."

"No... I... Of course, Aunt."

"Excellent." Mythal rose, smoothing her skirts. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I require a private word with your intended."

The request landed like a stone in still water, startling everyone in the room. Even Dorian's customary composure slipped, his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. Solas went absolutely still, tension radiating from every line of his body. Ellana felt her own pulse quicken—the Countess had made no secret of her disdain, had even called her 'mongrel' at their last encounter—what could she possibly want to speak to her about? And in private?

After a moment's hesitation that spoke volumes, Dorian caught Solas's eye and gave a slight nod, following him from the room. The door closed with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. Ellana remained seated, refusing to give Mythal the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.

The Countess moved to the window, watching the gardens below with apparent interest. "You know, my dear, when I first heard of this contract, I assumed you were quite clever—that this had been something designed intentionally rather than stumbled into. A Dalish noble managing to secure such an advantageous match? Really, it is much too good to be true for someone of your standing. I know now that it was my foolish nephew’s own machinations now that have relegated him to this low point, but," She turned, fixing Ellana with a penetrating stare. "... now I wonder if you truly understand the position you're in."

"I understand perfectly well."

"Do you?" Mythal's fingers traced the edge of a curtain. "Because your recent behavior suggests otherwise. You see, while this contract may bind my nephew, your position remains far more precarious."

A laugh escaped Ellana before she could stop it. "Precarious? The contract binds us both equally, we are bound to marry, that is all, what more could you possibly—"

"Oh, you simple creature." Mythal's voice cut through her laughter like a knife through silk. "You think that is where this ends? That you can simply go through the motions, marry my nephew, and continue acting like some wild thing brought in from the woods? No. You see, when one marries into a family of our standing, there are expectations. Standards.” “Respectfully, Countess, those expectations and standards are your own.”

“I think you will find it in your best interest to adopt a more accepting, biddable, mindset to the supposition of your role as Viscountess. And soon.” “I think her ladyship will find that I have no desire to adopt just a lack of agency in my own life.”

“And what of the effect such disobedience will have on the lives of others?”

The threat in those words made Ellana's throat tighten. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Suggesting? Nothing at all. Merely reminding you that your family's standing—what little remains of it—depends entirely on this match appearing legitimate. Your aunt's appointment to the trade council, the continued employment of the riffraff contracted to your ships..." Mythal's smile was gentle, almost motherly. "It would be unfortunate if questions about your suitability led to closer scrutiny of those arrangements. Your aunt's position is even more precarious than your own, after all. It was only through Master Tethras’s meddling that she was even able to secure this last, paper-thin, vestige of control of the Lavellan estate in your absence. Though this, also, is easily rectifiable should you provide me with the proper motivation, Lady Lavellan. One whisper of impropriety, one suggestion that perhaps she gained her seat through questionable means.. and then there is also the matter those filthy sailors you employ.”

Mythal continued, examining her rings with casual interest. "I was surprised by such interesting backgrounds for them. Former Lords of Fortune. Common rabble. Criminals and thieves, refugees from the Qun. Escapees from the Imperium. I wonder how many would pass a thorough investigation of their papers? How many families depend on those wages?"

Ellana's fingers curled into fists beneath the table. The crew of the Dawn Chaser weren't just employees—they were people who'd trusted her family, who'd built lives around that trust.

"My nephew may be bound by contract," Mythal said, her voice soft as falling snow, "but you, my dear, are bound by necessity. Do remember that when you're contemplating your next act of defiance."

"And all of this—this stems from the exhibition?" Ellana forced her voice to remain steady despite the anger burning in her chest. "Threatening my family, my—this hardly seems commensurate with my supposed crimes of impropriety. And I was not alone in my disregard for the expectations so unwelcomly thrust upon me, your nephew made his disdain for me quite clear between his commentary on paintings and sculpture. Should I have simpered and smiled while he—"

"Yes, you stupid thing. Yes. What you should have done," Mythal cut in, "is behave with the dignity expected of your future position. You, an untitled, worthless girl with the luck to snare a man twice your measure, does not argue with her intended. She does not scoff at the words of her betters or stomp around. I imagine it must be difficult adhering to an existence with actual meaning to it, though there are parameters that come along with the enchanted life stolen for yourself by contract, though I hadn’t realized you were too simple to realize even that. I hadn’t even considered that you would be so brutish. All you had to do was arrive, be silent, and leave. Instead, you chose to engage in public spectacle." She moved closer, her shadow falling across the table. "The garden party will be your opportunity to demonstrate that you can, in fact, learn. That perhaps this match, regrettable as its circumstances may be, need not become an embarrassment to us all."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I suggest you consider how many lives you're willing to destroy for the sake of your pride." Mythal's smile remained gentle, though her eyes were hard as steel. "Your aunt sends her regards, by the way. She seemed quite pleased with her new position when I had someone check on her last week. It would be a shame if anything were to change that."

The silence that followed felt like a physical weight. Ellana thought of her aunt's face when she'd received the council appointment following the aftermath of this betrothal, of the sailors' families who depended on steady work, of all the small, precious things that hung by threads she hadn't even known Mythal held.

"And I look forward to this event next week. Garden parties are always a delight," Mythal said, moving toward the door. "Do wear something appropriate. And Ellana?" She paused, one hand on the handle. "Remember that while you may not have chosen this path, you walk it nonetheless. Best to do so with grace, lest you fall from its precipice."

The door closed behind Mythal with a soft click that seemed to echo through Ellana's bones. For several long moments, she sat perfectly still, her tea growing cold before her, the morning sun streaming through the windows as if nothing had changed. As if the world hadn't just shifted beneath her feet.

She had known, of course, that marrying Solas would come with its obstacles, with his hatred mirroring her own. Had even anticipated Mythal's disapproval. But this—this careful dismantling of everything she'd built, every protection she'd managed to secure for her people—this was something else entirely.

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. How proud she'd been of her small rebellions. Moving furniture, wearing the wrong colors, speaking out of turn. Such petty victories, and all the while Mythal had held real power over everything that mattered.

The door opened again, and Dorian slipped back into the room. He took one look at her face and crossed to the sideboard, returning with something considerably stronger than tea.

"I know that look. It’s a common one after the Countess exits a room—I take it the conversation was as delightful as expected?" He poured two glasses, sliding one toward her.

Ellana wrapped her fingers around the crystal, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "She made her position quite clear."

She took a long sip, letting the burn ground her and said nothing for a long moment. Then another sip, since the first hadn’t hurt quite enough just yet.

"Tell me, Lord Pavus, what exactly does one wear to a garden party where one's entire world hangs in the balance?"

Dorian settled into the chair across from her, studying her over the rim of his glass. "Something in a pale, ravishing, pink, I should think. With sordid underthings beneath and an absolutely ridiculous hat. Perhaps feathers or a taxidermied bird atop that." His attempt at levity faded when she didn't smile. "That bad, was it?"

"Worse." Ellana took another drink, closing her eyes. "She has her fingers in everything. The trade council appointment, the shipping contracts... she's been watching, waiting. Like a spider in the center of her web."

"Ah." He set his glass down with a soft clink. "And now she's pulled the threads."

"I thought—" Ellana stopped herself, throat tight. "I thought I was being clever. But she's been ten steps ahead this entire time, hasn't she?"

"Countess Mythal usually is." His voice carried a note of sympathy she hadn't expected. "Though if it helps, I don't think she anticipated you lasting this long. Most would have broken by now."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"More an observation." He leaned forward, his expression unusually serious. "Though it is certainly also a compliment.”

Ellana hummed and took another long drag, letting the flavors settle on her tongue. Drinking spirits for breakfast was likely the last thing ‘the future viscountess’ ought to be doing, but at this early hour with such low hopes, there hardly seemed a more appropriate activity.

“I need… I need this to go well, Lord Pavus,” she said a beat later, steadying herself. “Though I admit, I’ve never attended an event like this. I hardly feel like I know to force myself into the shape being asked of me. Is there dancing? Little frilly cakes? Are we to make like good friends and play pall-mall while discussing our favorite flowers? I… I am… not that woman. I have never been that woman. Will you help me?”

Dorian's expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. "My dear, if there's one thing I excel at—besides my devastating good looks and impeccable taste in wine—it's teaching people how to navigate these treacherous social waters." He reached for the decanter, topping off both their glasses. "And you're already ahead of the game."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because you're aware of what you don't know. Most nobles born to it never question their assumptions, which makes them predictable. Boring." He tapped his fingers against his glass. "We have a week. That's more than enough time to prepare you for the basics. Though I suspect you'll find you're more capable than you think."

"The basics being?"

"Proper garden party etiquette, naturally. How to hold your parasol just so, which fork to use for the strawberries, how to laugh at terrible jokes without looking like you're in pain." His mustache twitched. "And more importantly, how to make it all look effortless while secretly plotting murder."

Despite everything, Ellana felt a smile tugging at her lips. "And what of your other charge? Will you be coaching the Viscount as well?"

"Oh, he knows the steps to this dance. His problem isn't knowledge—it's execution. But that's a challenge for another day." Dorian stood, offering his hand with an exaggerated courtly bow and flourish. "For now, if you are finished drinking away your sorrows, let's start with the basics. First lesson: how to walk across a garden without looking like you're being led to your own execution."

"Back straight but not stiff," Dorian instructed as they paced the length of the library's upper gallery. "Think of yourself as floating, like a leaf on a stream. A very dignified, pretty, leaf. With excellent posture."

Ellana adjusted her stance, trying to mimic his demonstration while avoiding the morning sun streaming through the high windows. "A leaf wouldn't be wearing these ridiculous shoes."

"No, but a future viscountess would." He tsked as she stumbled slightly between the reading tables. "Again. And this time, try not to look like you're planning to throttle someone. Perhaps attempt smiling?"

"I'm not planning to throttle anyone," she protested, then added under her breath, "...yet."

"That! That right there—that's exactly the kind of muttering we need to eliminate." He gestured expansively, nearly knocking over a stack of books. "Save your murderous thoughts for your pillow, like the rest of us."

They practiced until the morning light shifted to afternoon, Dorian's instructions punctuated by increasingly creative comparisons. By the time they took a break, Ellana had nearly mastered what he called "the art of walking like you own everything while pretending you don't care that you own everything."

"Tomorrow we'll work on your tea-taking technique," he announced as they descended the library stairs. "Though for now—" He paused, a familiar gleam entering his eyes as they passed a window overlooking Solas's private garden. "Perhaps a practical application of today's lessons?"

Ellana raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Well, you did master the walk. And his study window does overlook such a lovely stretch of garden..." Dorian's smile turned wicked. "What better way to practice than with an audience?"

"That would be petty and beneath my station," Ellana said primly, then smiled. "Shall we take three turns or four?"

Dorian offered his arm with a grin. "Four, I think. We wouldn't want anyone to question your dedication to proper exercise." His mustache twitched. "And the path beneath his window happens to have the best light for practicing your parasol work."

Ellana accepted his arm, fighting to keep her expression serene rather than victorious. "How fortunate. I do so want to master the proper angle for deflecting sun... and attention."

They emerged into the garden just as the afternoon light turned golden, casting long shadows across the manicured paths. Solas's study window stood open to catch the breeze—a detail Ellana filed away with private satisfaction for future abuse.

"Now remember," Dorian murmured as they began their first turn, "chin lifted, but not so high as to appear haughty. Small steps, gliding rather than walking. And do try to look as though you haven't noticed we're passing directly beneath the window of someone who spent breakfast questioning your table manners."

"I would never," Ellana replied, voice pitched to carry just so. She adjusted her parasol with deliberate grace. "Though since you mention it, what was that delightful thing you were saying about the proper way to address a Viscount's second cousin twice removed?"

"Ah yes," Dorian replied with theatrical enthusiasm, his voice pitched to carry perfectly up to the study window. "Should they have married into a baronetcy, one must always acknowledge the acquired title first, though of course that becomes frightfully complicated if they've been widowed and remarried beneath their station. Such a delicate matter of protocol. Why, just last season, poor Lady Ashworth nearly caused a scandal by using the wrong form of address at a garden party much like this one..."

The scratch of a quill from above suddenly ceased. Below, a gardener pretended intense fascination with a nearby rosebush, while two maids slowed their pace, dustcloths forgotten in their hands. The household had grown adept at finding reasons to linger whenever their master and his intended crossed paths.

"Oh, but you simply must hear about Lord Beaumont," Dorian announced with theatrical enthusiasm as they made their second pass. "Apparently, his latest mistress is actually his wife's cousin's former lady's maid. The same one who mysteriously 'retired' to the countryside last spring with an unexpectedly generous pension."

A shadow fell across the path—Solas had moved closer to his window. Ellana kept her gaze forward, though she could feel his attention prickling against her person.

"No!" Ellana replied, matching his volume with a bright laugh that echoed off the stone walls. "Surely not the same lady's maid who attended Lady Beaumont during her mysterious three-month 'retreat' to their summer estate?"

"The very same! Though I hear the baby has her father's nose, poor thing. At least the current Lady Beaumont had the good sense to arrange the whole thing quietly. Unlike young Lord Trevelyan—"

"Not the duel?" Ellana gasped, delighted.

"Over a game of cards, if you can believe it. Though everyone knows it was really about Lady Carrol’s second daughter. Two shots fired, one ruined waistcoat, and now his mother is trying to convince everyone he's taken up botanical studies in Antiva."

Something that sounded suspiciously like papers being shuffled with excessive force drifted down from above.

"Speaking of convenient exile," Dorian continued as they began their third turn, their voices carrying with deliberate clarity, "have you heard about the Duchess of Ghislain's newest 'ward'? Remarkable how the girl has her brother's exact shade of eyes..."

"And the same unfortunate chin," Ellana added, tapping her parasol thoughtfully against her shoulder. "Though I suppose that's what comes from keeping everything within the same three noble families for generations."

"Speaking of unfortunate family resemblances," Dorian steered them around a particularly lovely fountain, his voice pitched to carry, "did you hear about Lord Blanchard's eldest? Supposedly off studying in Val Royeaux, but I have it on excellent authority that he's actually—"

"Living in sin with an opera singer?" Ellana supplied innocently.

"A composer, actually. And not a very good one, from what I hear. His father nearly had an apoplexy when he found out. Though not quite as dramatic as Lady Tremaine's reaction when she discovered her husband had been funding an entire second household in—"

The scratch of a chair being pushed back echoed from above, followed by footsteps that seemed deliberately heavy.

"Do you suppose," Ellana mused, loud enough to carry up to the window, "that's why so many noble marriages seem to end in such spectacular fashion? All that pressure to maintain appearances while secretly—"

The study door slammed open somewhere behind them. Dorian's grip on her arm tightened slightly, though his expression remained perfectly composed.

"Your timing is impeccable as always, Solas," Dorian called over his shoulder without breaking stride. "We were just discussing—"

"If you insist on behaving like chattering magpies," Solas's voice cut through the garden air with glacial precision, "might I suggest you do so somewhere that isn't directly beneath my window? Unless, of course, you're incapable of containing your idiocy to more appropriate venues, in which case might I suggest attempting to speak at a volume beneath that of a shout?"

"Frivolity?" Ellana finally turned, parasol twirling between her fingers. "I assure you, we're engaged in very serious practice for next week's gathering. Weren't you just saying this morning how important proper behavior would be?"

"There is nothing proper about screeching about scandals like common fishwives beneath my study window."

"No?" She tilted her head, enjoying the way his fingers clenched at his sides. "And what would be the proper volume for discussing Lord Blanchard's son and his, ah, musical preferences?"

The muscle in Solas's jaw ticked. "If you cannot conduct yourselves with even a modicum of dignity—"

"Oh, but dignity is exactly what we're practicing," Dorian interrupted cheerfully. "Would you prefer we discuss something more elevated? Philosophy perhaps? Though I'm afraid Lady Lavellan's thoughts on determinism might prove even more distracting than her gossip. Or, if it is the issue of discussing the matters of others that’s troubling you, my dear friend, I could instead tell her more about our misadventures together, perhaps that time in Rivian when—"

Solas's withering expression could have curdled milk. "That will not be necessary." His gaze shifted to Ellana, who was failing spectacularly at hiding her interest in whatever story Dorian had been about to share. "If you must practice your... limited social graces... I insist you do so elsewhere. Some of us have actual responsibilities to attend to."

"Of course," Ellana said, smiling sweet as poison. "We wouldn't want to disturb your very important work of... what was it again? Staring out the window and grinding your teeth? Deciding which flowers to purchase for this garden party and which flavor of little cakes to serve?"

"My work, which you seem determined to interrupt, involves not only the management of this estate but also the precise arrangements for an event that would normally fall under the purview of the lady of the house." His tone suggested exactly why that duty had fallen to him instead. "The selection of appropriate refreshments, the arrangement of suitable entertainment, the careful balance of other luxuries and arrangements befitting both mine and the Countess’s station—all while maintaining the everyday operations of Vi'Revas and its holdings. Though given your evident priorities, I suspect household accounts and social obligations would bore you compared to idle gossip."

"On the contrary," she replied, twirling her parasol with deliberate slowness. "I find numbers absolutely riveting. Especially when they don't quite add up. Speaking of which, Lord Pavus, didn't you mention something interesting about Lord Blanchard's second set of accounting books?"

Dorian's mustache twitched. "Why yes, now that you mention it—"

"Enough." Solas's voice could have frozen flame. "Remove yourselves from my garden. Immediately."

"Oh dear, have we offended his lordship's sensitive ears?" Ellana's voice dripped honey-sweet mockery. "How terribly inconsiderate of us. One wouldn't want to disturb such a delicate disposition."

"Lady Lavellan," Dorian murmured, though his tone held more amusement than warning. "Perhaps we should continue our lesson elsewhere. The rose garden, maybe? I hear the acoustics there are even better."

"If you think—" Solas started, but Ellana was already turning away, her grip unnecessarily tight on Dorian's arm. Each movement was deliberately measured—chin lifted just so, steps small and gliding as they'd practiced, parasol angled to catch the light perfectly, just to spite him, just so he could see how well she could perform when required. Let him wonder why.

The memory of the Countess's threats burned beneath her perfect posture, and she didn’t need to wonder if her vile nephew would enforce them if she asked. Ellana could hate him—did hate him—and still play this part at the same time. For her family. For the crew members who depended on her. Her smile remained fixed, proper, even as bile rose in her throat.

"You're absolutely right, Lord Pavus." Her voice carried the exact note of gentle breeding they'd rehearsed, though her fingers trembled slightly against his arm. "We shouldn't waste any more of his lordship's precious sensibilities. The strain of enduring our common revelry might prove too taxing for one of his refinements."

She paused, executing a turn that would have made any dance master proud, skirts swishing just so against the gravel. "It simply isn't fair to him. The Viscount is a sensitive man, after all."

Their laughter drifted back through the garden, the perfect volume and pitch for proper ladies and gentlemen, followed by the distinct sound of a study window being slammed shut with enough force to rattle the glass.

"My dear," Dorian said once they were safely out of earshot, "I do believe that vein in his forehead was about to explode."

"Was it?" Ellana asked sweetly, maintaining her perfect posture even now, each step a demonstration of everything he'd taught her about proper movement. Even her mockery was delivered with impeccable manners, exactly as a lady should. "I was too busy practicing my proper garden party deportment to notice."

The days before the garden party unfolded in a delicate dance of lessons and provocations:

On Tuesday morning, Dorian instructed Ellana in the proper way to accept refreshments while standing. "Small sips, controlled movements," he demonstrated, just as Solas rounded the corner to find his perfectly arranged study shelves subtly altered—every book shifted exactly two inches to the left.

Wednesday afternoon saw them practicing the art of graceful seating in the library. "One must appear to float downward," Dorian explained, while through the window they could see Solas discovering his carefully positioned garden sculptures had all been spun slightly east.

"I don't understand," Ellana said during Thursday's planning meeting, her voice a study in wide-eyed confusion. "Could you explain again about the table arrangements, my lord? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch it the first three times." Across the table, Dorian suddenly developed an intense interest in his tea cup, shoulders shaking with poorly suppressed mirth.

By Friday, the household staff had developed an informal betting pool on their master's patience. Mrs. Thane swore she saw him actually snap a quill in half when Ellana conducted her fifth "practice walk" past his window, this time demonstrating to Dorian the proper way to use a fan while discussing the weather. Very loudly.

"The key to success," Dorian advised on Saturday morning, adjusting Ellana's posture as they rehearsed receiving lines, "is to make everything appear effortless." In the background, Solas could be heard demanding to know who had rearranged his collection of rare manuscripts by color rather than subject.

"I'm only trying to learn," Ellana protested innocently when confronted, her newly perfected curtsy making the statement seem almost believable. Almost.

Sunday dawned in waves of controlled chaos. The scent of beeswax and fresh flowers warred with brewing coffee and fresh-baked pastries, while servants' footsteps echoed against marble like scattered raindrops. In the kitchen, someone dropped a tray with a clatter that made Ellana wince—the day's first casualty, but surely not its last.

Ellana stood at her bedroom window, watching the gardeners below make their final adjustments to the grounds. A week of lessons sat heavy in her mind: how to laugh without seeming crude, how to walk without seeming aggressive, how to exist in a space without disrupting its carefully maintained order. Her fingers drummed against the glass, remembering Dorian's constant corrections about fidgeting.

Beyond the manicured lawns, the lake's surface caught the morning light like scattered gems. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine simply walking into those cool depths rather than facing the afternoon ahead. Drowning might be preferable to spending hours pretending to be the perfect noble bride, especially under Countess Mythal's watching eyes.

Especially while on his arm the entire time.

A knock at her door heralded the arrival of Sera, her arms laden with what appeared to be enough fabric to dress a small army. "Your fancy person clothes, m'lady," she announced, dropping everything onto the bed with considerably less care than the dressmaker probably intended. "Though if you ask me, might be easier to just fall in the lake and be done with it."

"Don't tempt me, I’ve been considering it." Ellana turned from the window, eyeing the elaborate gown with something between resignation and dread. "Has his lordship emerged yet?"

"Been up for hours, hasn't he? Prowling about like a hound that's lost its favorite toy. Heard him correcting the flower arrangements himself, if you can believe it. Moved every single bloom on the main table three times, he did. Nearly made poor Jenny cry when she suggested adding more baby’s breath to the centerpieces."

"Of course he did." Ellana ran her fingers over the gown's delicate fabric—pale pink, as Dorian had suggested, with silver threading that would catch the light just so. "And how many servants has he reduced to tears over the table settings?"

"Only two so far, but the day's young yet." Sera began laying out the various components of the outfit with surprising efficiency, if not gentility. "Though Mr. Harrit's got a proper bet going that someone's going to drop a tray before noon. Ten silvers says it'll be right in front of his lordship's study."

From somewhere below came the sound of raised voices—something about the proper angle for placing name cards. Ellana closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself for what promised to be a very long day.

"Speaking of his lordship," Sera continued, attacking Ellana's hair with more enthusiasm than skill, "you're supposed to meet him in the morning room to review your grand entrance or some such nonsense. Lord Pavis's orders, that is—he’s conductin’ a bit of a hostile takeover of the event. Said something about 'coordinating your performances.'"

"Hostile takeover?" Ellana winced as Sera tugged particularly hard at a stubborn curl. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Well," Sera grinned, visible in the mirror's reflection, "seems his lordship was being particularly pissy about the music selection—all classical stuff, proper boring, right? Stuffy. So Lord Pavus just... sort of... took over. Started giving orders left and right, changed half the arrangements, brought in his own musicians. They’re better, of course, but you should've seen his lordship's face when he found out. Like someone had force-fed him a cup of that tea you like."

Another crash echoed from downstairs, followed by what sounded suspiciously like Dorian's voice cheerfully overruling someone's objections.

"Heard him tell his lordship that if he wanted to avoid complete social disaster, he'd best step aside and let someone with actual taste handle things." Sera secured another pin with unnecessary force. "Course, he said it much fancier-like, but that was the gist."

"And the Viscount actually listened?"

"More like gave up after Lord Pavus started explaining exactly why the original flower arrangements were 'criminally pedestrian.' In detail. For twenty minutes." Sera began the complicated process of lacing Ellana into her stays. "Though if you ask me, his lordship was just happy to have someone else to blame if it all goes tits up. And it will, I hope."

The morning ritual of dressing proceeded with its own pomp and circumstance. First came the thin chemise, then the stays pulled just tight enough to create the proper silhouette without restricting breathing—a mercy Ellana silently thanked Dorian for insisting upon. Over that went the petticoats, each layer adding volume and shape to what would become the final presentation.

The gown itself was a masterpiece of understated elegance: pale pink silk that seemed to shift between rose and pearl depending on how the light caught it. The empire waist emphasized her figure without being scandalous, while the delicate silver embroidery along the hem and neckline caught both light and wandering eyes. The short sleeves puffed delicately at her shoulders, ending in bands of the same silver embroidery, leaving her arms bare in the latest fashion. The effect was both innocent and daring—exactly the sort of gown a young bride-to-be might wear to a summer garden party.

"Hold still," Sera muttered, working on the seemingly endless row of tiny pearl buttons down the back. "Whoever decided these were a good idea needs a kick in the head."

Ellana's dark hair had been arranged in elaborate curls, some pulled up with silver pins while others were left to frame her face artfully. A matching ribbon threaded through the style completed the picture of a proper lady that had taken the better part of an hour to achieve.

"There," Sera stepped back, admiring her work. "Proper fancy prison clothes, all done up. Even his lordship can't complain about this, though he'll probably try."

Another crash from downstairs made them both wince. "Speaking of his lordship..." Ellana smoothed her skirts, checking her reflection one final time. The woman in the mirror looked every inch the noble bride-to-be, perfectly controlled and composed. Only her eyes—her silvery vallaslin—betrayed any hint of rebellion or unwelcome otherness.

"Right then." Sera handed her a pair of delicate gloves. "Off you go to your morning room meeting. Try not to strangle each other before the party starts—Lord Pavus's got money on you both making it at least to tea time, but I’ve wagered you’ll make it longer."

Navigating the manor's stairs in full formal dress required all of Dorian's lessons in graceful movement. Ellana descended carefully, one gloved hand trailing the bannister, while below her the controlled chaos of preparation continued unabated. Servants darted past with fresh flowers and polished silver, barely pausing to bow or curtsy in their haste.

Through the west window, she caught a glimpse of workers arranging chairs on the lawn, their movements coordinated like dancers in some complex performance. The morning light painted everything in soft gold, making the scene look deceptively peaceful from a distance, like a ballet even, of ribbons and moving parts..

A burst of Dorian's laughter echoed from somewhere near the kitchens, followed by what sounded like Mrs. Thane declaring something "absolutely unacceptable." Ellana smiled despite herself. At least someone was enjoying this circus.

The morning room door stood partially open, sunlight spilling across the marble floor in long strips. Ellana paused just outside, smoothing her skirts one final time and squaring her shoulders. A week of practice in proper deportment, and still her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird.

"You might as well come in," Solas's voice carried from within, dry as autumn leaves. "Unless you intend to spend the morning lurking in doorways."

"I don't lurk," Ellana said, stepping into the room with deliberate grace. "Though I seem to recall you claiming the same, despite evidence to the contrary."

A flicker of recognition crossed Solas's features—remembering, no doubt, their earlier confrontation when they’d collided into one another in the library that first week.

The Viscount, Ellana noted with no small amount of irritation, was blindingly handsome today. He stood by the window, fitted in a dark blue frock coat fitted perfectly to his shoulders, tall and proud, with his hair spilling over one shoulder and down the expanse of his back. Worse, his ivory waistcoat was embroidered with subtle silver threading and a single flash of pale pink, that complemented her own gown's details, in the form of his necktie. All Dorian's work, no doubt.

"Your memory serves you well," he replied dryly, angling himself to face her fully. "Though I wonder if it extends to remembering the importance of today's performance."

Of course she hadn’t forgotten the Countess’s threats—ones she suspected that her nephew would be more than happy to carry out at her first command like an obedient dog. No, she hadn't forgotten—couldn't forget—exactly what was at stake today. Every carefully practiced smile, every measured step would determine not just her future, but the lives of everyone who depended on her family's precarious position. She would behave and play the part in front of the Ton.

But it didn’t mean that she had to be kind to him in private.

"Did you expect me to forget?" She moved further into the room, and her skirts whispered against the marble. "Or were you hoping I might conveniently develop amnesia before the guests arrive?"

The muscle in his jaw ticked—a familiar tell that she'd come to watch for over the past week. "Shall we review the requirements for today's charade, or would you prefer to continue demonstrating your wit until our guests arrive?"

"By all means," Ellana said, moving to take a seat near the window. "Let's review how we're to convince the cream of society that we're a love match rather than a contract signed in spite. It has been some time since you have enthralled me with a lecture, my lord, though the consequences of failure have already been made quite clear to me."

Something shifted in Solas's expression—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps, or suspicion—but it vanished quickly. "Lord Pavus has prepared a schedule," he said instead of addressing her implication, pulling a folded paper from his coat. "We are to greet guests together at the garden entrance, then separate briefly for the initial refreshments. After which—"

"We reconvene for a perfectly choreographed stroll through the rose garden," Ellana finished, having memorized Dorian's instructions. "Where we'll demonstrate appropriate affection through meaningful glances and the occasional brush of hands, or even the occasional coquettish whisper, in regular intervals. How terribly romantic."

"If you find the prospect so distasteful—"

"Oh, I find many prospects distasteful, my lord, but I would prefer you not pretend to have a care for my tastes. Let us just be done with this as expediently as possible.”

Solas's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. "On that, at least, we are in agreement." He consulted the paper again, though she suspected he'd memorized it as thoroughly as she had. "The musicians will begin at precisely two o'clock—"

"Assuming they haven't all quit after your morning critiques of their positioning," she couldn't help but interject.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "As I was saying, the musicians will begin at two, signaling the start of the garden tours. We are to lead the first group, demonstrating what Lord Pavus calls 'comfortable familiarity without impropriety.'"

"Yes, he was quite specific about that part. No heated arguments about philosophy or accusations of barbarism today. I dare not hope you are capable of such a thing, but we shall see." She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. "Though I'm curious—exactly how does one demonstrate 'comfortable familiarity' with someone who can barely stand to be in the same room?"

"I imagine we'll manage the same way we've managed everything else," he replied, his voice carrying an edge of ice. "Through gritted teeth and mutual necessity."

“Really, my lord,” Ellana drawled, “it is a wonder how the ladies of the Ton do not simply swoon in your presence, you have such a lurid way with words.”

"If you're quite finished—"

"Oh, but I haven't even started. Shall I practice my adoring gazes at you now? I've been told that I still look more like I'm plotting murder than contemplating matrimonial bliss."

The door burst open before Solas could respond, Dorian sweeping in like a perfectly tailored whirlwind. "Ah, good! You're both here and neither of you appears to be bleeding. This is off to a better start than I had hoped." He paused, taking in their respective positions and expressions. "Though… I see we're still working on appearing madly in love rather than madly homicidal. It’s not ideal, but I appreciate the small steps towards progress."

"Dorian—" Solas started, but was immediately cut off.

"No time for protestations, my friend. The first guests will arrive in less than an hour, and we still need to work on your smile. It currently suggests 'considering tax legislation' rather than 'besotted bridegroom.'" He turned to Ellana. "And you, my dear, need to stop looking at him like you're calculating the exact force needed to push him through a window."

"I would never," Ellana protested with exaggerated innocence. "Calculate, that is. Spontaneity has its merits."

"Charming," Solas muttered.

"Now, now," Dorian clapped his hands together. "Let's practice your entrance. Solas, offer your arm to your lovely bride-to-be. Ellana, do try to take it without looking like you're being offered a poisonous bit of fruit."

They moved into position with all the enthusiasm of cats being bathed. Solas extended his arm with rigid formality, while Ellana placed her gloved hand upon it with deliberate lightness.

"Better," Dorian circled them like a particularly fashionable vulture. "Though you both look about as relaxed as statues. Lord Fen’Harel, unclench your jaw—you're escorting your intended, not facing a firing squad. Lady Lavellan, darling, remember what we practiced about angling your body slightly toward his? Yes, like that, but perhaps with less… pointy bit of elbow into his side. A smidge less loathing in the eyes, too."

"I don't know what you mean," Ellana said sweetly, though she adjusted her stance. "This is my naturally loving expression."

"Your naturally loving expression looks remarkably similar to the one you wore before rearranging his entire library by color."

"That was a gesture of affection," Ellana replied, maintaining her innocent smile. "I thought his lordship might appreciate a more... artistic approach to organization. He is, as you said, a rather splendid artist himself in the privacy of his own chambers and mind."

"The only thing artistic about it was the creative string of elvhen curses it inspired," Dorian observed. "Now, let's practice your conversational poses. You'll need several for the garden tour—something to suggest intimate dialogue without appearing scandalous."

Solas's arm tensed beneath her hand. "Surely we don't need to—"

"Oh, but we do." Dorian positioned himself behind them, physically adjusting their stances like a painter arranging models. "Ellana, lean in slightly when he speaks—yes, like that. Solas, for the love of all things holy, stop looking like she's about to bite you."

"The day is young," Ellana murmured, just loud enough for Solas to hear.

"I saw that smirk," Dorian warned. "Less 'predatory cat' and more 'delighted fiancée,' if you please. And Solas, when she makes these little quips—which we all know she will—you're meant to look charmed, not like you're mentally calculating the interest cost of breaking the contract."

"When she speaks," Dorian continued, ignoring their matching expressions of distaste, "you must lean in slightly, as though her every word fascinates you. No, Solas, that's your 'enduring a particularly dull council meeting' face. Think less political obligation, more romantic anticipation."

"Romantic anticipation," Solas repeated flatly.

"Yes, like you actually want to hear what she's saying. And my dear—" Dorian turned to Ellana, finding her mimicking Solas's stern expression behind his back. "Do stop that. Though I must say your impression is remarkably accurate."

A knock at the door interrupted what promised to be a scathing response from Solas. Mr. Harrit appeared, looking distinctly harried. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but the flowers for the entryway have arrived, and they're... well..."

"If they've sent purple instead of white again, I shall have words with that merchant," Solas began, but Dorian was already moving toward the door.

"I'll handle it," he announced. "You two continue practicing looking like you don't wish to murder each other. Remember—the first carriages will begin arriving in less than an hour, and Lady Mythal's will undoubtedly be among them."

The mention of Mythal's name dropped like a stone into still water, rippling through the room's atmosphere. Ellana's fingers tightened involuntarily on Solas's arm, before she dropped her hand from it completely the moment Dorian disappeared, taking a deliberate step away. The morning light caught the silver threads in her gown, making them shimmer like frost—appropriate, given the chill that had settled over the room.

"Well," she said, smoothing her skirts to settle her hands, "I suppose we should both prepare for our grand performance. I, for one, intend to give the Ton exactly what they came to see."

Something in her tone made Solas turn to study her, his brow cocked in mock curiosity. "Oh? Are you sure you’re feeling quite well my lady? It is not typical for you to do anything to please anyone but yourself. And what exactly do you think they came to see?"

"A perfectly matched couple, of course. The very picture of aristocratic propriety." Her smile felt sharp enough to draw blood. "Isn't that what we've been practicing for?"

Before he could respond, the distant sound of carriage wheels on gravel cut through the tension. Early arrivals, no doubt eager to witness whatever spectacle the day might bring.

"Shall we begin our charade then, my lord?" Ellana asked, voice honey-sweet poison once more. "After all, we wouldn't want to keep our audience waiting."

Outside the main house, the gardens of Vi'Revas had transformed into a stage set for their performance. White canopies billowed in the afternoon breeze, offering elegant shade to the perfectly arranged seating areas. Musicians tucked discreetly among the rose bushes filled the air with gentle melodies, while servants in formal livery moved through the gathering crowd with trays of champagne and delicate refreshments.

Ellana stood beside Solas at the garden entrance, her hand placed just so upon his arm, exactly as Dorian had instructed. Each arriving guest was greeted with practiced warmth, their pointed questions about the "charming" engagement deflected with carefully rehearsed responses.

"Lady Lavellan, how delightful to see you settling into society so... naturally," Lady Vivienne's smile could have cut diamond. "One would hardly guess at your more rustic origins."

"You're too kind," Ellana replied, feeling Solas's arm tense beneath her fingers. "Though I find myself fortunate to have such an accomplished guide in my intended." The words tasted like ash, but her smile never wavered.

"Quite the change from the exhibition, wouldn't you say?" someone whispered none too quietly behind them. "Perhaps she can be tamed after all."

Dorian, circulating nearby with suspicious timing, chose that moment to interrupt. "My dear Lady Vivienne, you simply must see the new arrangement in the rose garden. Quite revolutionary—I insisted on it myself."

As he led the formidable lady away, Ellana caught his subtle wink. One performance down, countless more to go.

The afternoon wore on like a beautifully choreographed dance, each step measured, each interaction calculated. The gardens hummed with the controlled chaos of high society—pastel colored ladies drifting between refreshment tables, their gowns rustling against marble paths, while gentlemen in perfectly tailored coats gathered in small clusters to discuss politics and trade. Servants in formal livery weaved through it all with laden trays while canopies billowed in the afternoon breeze, and scattered laughter mixed with music.

Parasols dotted the crowd like exotic flowers not unlike those in the gardens themselves—Lady Montilyet's deep gold silk matching the embroidery on her cream muslin gown, while the Duchess of Val Chevin's dove grey creation complemented her silver-streaked dark hair and rouge-touched cheeks. Young debutantes fluttered by in their whites and pale pinks, eyeing the more established ladies' elaborate headdresses and jewels with poorly concealed envy. The gentlemen provided a darker backdrop in their fitted coats and crisp cravats, though a few younger lords had dared brighter waistcoats that caught the afternoon sun.

Ellana's cheeks ached from maintaining her serene smile as guest after guest offered thinly veiled observations about her "transformation" into proper society.

"You must be so grateful," Lady Pembrooke simpered, fan fluttering, "to have found someone willing to elevate you into proper society."

"The Viscount is indeed generous," Ellana replied, the words honeyed even as her fingers tightened on Solas's arm. She felt his answering tension, the slight shift in his posture that suggested he was actually enjoying her discomfort.

"Though some lessons," he added smoothly, "take more time than others to truly sink in."

Dorian appeared as if summoned, champagne in hand. "Speaking of lessons, it's time for the garden tour, is it not? Our hosts have prepared quite the enjoyable experience."

The gathering crowd followed them along paths where climbing roses spilled over ornate trellises, their heavy blooms nodding in the afternoon breeze. White gravel whispered beneath delicate shoes as they approached the ornamental lake, its surface scattered with water lilies that opened their faces to the sun. Marble benches had been positioned to capture both the shimmer of water and the cascading terraces beyond, where flowers bloomed in carefully orchestrated waves of color—purple delphiniums rising behind pure white phlox, golden yarrow swaying beside deep blue salvias.

The air hung thick with mingled perfumes: the sweetness of roses, the sharp green scent of freshly cut grass, the earthy undertone of warm soil. Butterflies danced between the blooms, their wings flashing like jewels, while bees hummed lazily from flower to flower. Somewhere nearby, a fountain's steady music provided a gentle counterpoint to the hushed conversations of the nobility, its spray catching rainbows in the afternoon light.

Ellana could feel dozens of eyes watching their every move, waiting for, hoping for, any crack in their facade.

"Perhaps," Solas began as they led the group, his voice carrying just enough to reach their audience, "my lady might share what she’s learned about proper noble gardens since arriving here. Though I imagine they're quite different from what you're used to."

He had no idea how right he was.

For once, Ellana didn't immediately reach for a barbed reply. Instead, her gaze drifted over the manicured paths and perfectly positioned blooms, something softer crossing her expression that had nothing to do with rehearsed demure responses.

"At home," she said quietly, almost forgetting their audience, "things are… very different. The gardens grow as they choose. We plant them, yes, but not in these rigid lines. The flowers mix together as they will—elfroot climbing alongside crystal grace, prophet's laurel finding its own way through the undergrowth." Her voice carried a touch of wistfulness. "We, ah, excuse me—the Dalish believe in walking beside nature, not through it. Our garden paths aren't laid out beforehand or paved like this—they form naturally, from the ways people or animals choose to move among the growing things, following the ley lines of game trails. There's, to me… a very powerful sort of beauty in watching how the land itself decides what thrives where, which flowers reach for each other, the sun, and across the spaces between."

She felt Solas's slight start of surprise at her genuine response. When she glanced up, something unexpected flickered in his eyes; a moment of real interest quickly replaced by calculation. Of course—he would think this another performance, another carefully crafted piece for their audience. The thought stung more than it should have.

"How charmingly rustic," Lady Pembrooke's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "Though surely you must prefer these more... civilized arrangements now?"

Several nobles tittered, but others appeared genuinely intrigued. Lady Montilyet was even taking notes with her little gilt notebook.

"There's wisdom in both approaches, wouldn't you say?" Dorian interjected smoothly. "Nature and nurture, each with its own beauty."

But Solas was still watching her with that strange expression, as though trying to decode some puzzle she presented. When he spoke, his tone held a different kind of condescension—not merely dismissive now, but almost disappointed. "Beautiful perhaps, but impractical. There is little meaning in a mess, especially when the weeds creep through flowers. One cannot simply let things grow wild."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Ellana opened her mouth to respond, but movement in the crowd caught her attention—guests began to disperse across the grounds, their curiosity about the couple's interaction temporarily sated by the tepid exchange they'd witnessed. The party began to drift apart naturally, some drawn to the refreshment tables, others to examine particular flowers or appreciate the lake view. Lady Pembrooke, however, lingered, her fan working overtime in the afternoon heat.

"I must say, Lady Lavellan," she announced with practiced delicacy, "how pleasant it is to see you in such fine spirits today. One hardly recognizes the same troubled young woman from seasons past. I haven’t seen you sneer even once." She tapped her fan against her palm. "It is quite refreshing that you’ve finally come to abide by the proper mandates of the Ton; really I had never thought you capable with the unfortunate learnings of the Dalish restraining your progress. It is a shame that despite your progress, your face will always be marred, for you are remarkably pleasing to the eye now that you’ve been polished.”

Ellana's fingers tightened on Solas's arm, each word striking like individual barbs. The vallaslin on her face seemed to burn under Lady Pembrooke's scrutiny. Stay calm, she thought to herself, recalling her aunt, of the families she employed. Stay… calm… she is baiting you. Her smile remained fixed, perfect, even as bile rose in her throat. This was the price of protection; standing here, silent, while this woman reduced generations of tradition to barbarism. The irony that Solas likely agreed with every word only made it worse.

"...I… hear that… your gardens are also quite polished, Lady Pembrooke," she managed with careful courtesy through her teeth. "Perhaps you'll tell us about them at the next society gathering."

Only after the woman had drifted away, visibly pleased with herself and her supposed victory, did Solas speak, his voice dropping lower, meant for her ears alone. "A masterful performance. Though I find myself curious at this dramatic shift from what I suspect is your true nature.”

Ellana’s voice was thin, tired even, as she looked out over the gardens. Anywhere but his face. “And what do you suppose that true nature is, my Lord?”

"If I were to judge by your previous behavior," Solas replied, steering them toward the lake's wooden dock where they might speak without being overheard, "I would say your nature tends toward deliberate provocation and willful ignorance. This sudden civility is suspicious."

"Perhaps I've simply learned to appreciate the benefits of proper cultivation," Ellana echoed his earlier words with bitter sweetness. "Isn't that what you wanted? Everything neat and ordered, every wild thing pruned? Like your garden?"

They reached the end of the dock, the water gleaming below them. A few guests watched from a distance, but none close enough to hear. The wooden planks creaked slightly beneath their feet, afternoon sun warming the weathered boards. Ellana snapped open her fan with a dainty flick of her wrist—exactly as Dorian had taught her—using it to shield her sour expression from the watching crowd.

"What I want," he said, voice lowering dangerously, "is to understand why now. After weeks of making this household—of making my life—as difficult as possible, you suddenly decide to play the perfect noble bride today? You’ve never curbed yourself in public, never cared about the fallout from your crass actions, you have never failed to attack in response to lines of questioning about the Dalish, and yet you’ve shrunken yourself into something resembling an actual lady today and I want to know why. What changed? What new scheme of yours am I to be subjected to?"

"Resembling an—" She pivoted to face him fully. "Is that what you think this is? Another way to vex you?"

"Isn't it? For weeks you've done nothing but challenge every rule, question every tradition, rearrange every detail of my home purely to provoke me, as if your reason to exist is to illicit suffering. You've made your disdain for everything I represent perfectly clear. The books, the gardens, the daily schedules, the stinking herbal teas in my pantries—nothing has been safe from your particular brand of chaos."

"Because everything here is artifice! It is a falsity, a mask of a life disguising as a mausoleum!” The words burst from her like birds taking flight. "And now you have the gall to stand here and accuse me of pretense when I share one honest thing about myself? When I dare to suggest that perhaps there might be beauty in something other than your rigid, narrow worldview? You stupid man."

"Honest?" His laugh held no humor. "After everything you've done, you expect me to believe that anything that comes out of that foul mouth of yours is sincere?”

"Am I not playing my role? Isn’t that enough?”

“Not when you are up to something.”

“I assure you my lord, I am not. I am being sincere. I—”

“You are a menace. I would willingly celebrate, my lady, would it be that you actually were a fraction of the woman in the garden speaking of flowers, but cannot suspend my disbelief of you when I understand that all that you do is for your own selfish gain. The only thing I don’t understand is what has you acting so odd today.”

“I—”

Behind them, she could hear the murmur of the party continuing, the clink of glasses, the measured laughs of proper society. She froze. Stay calm. Her heart pounded in her ears. She had to… stay calm.

I suggest you consider how many lives you're willing to destroy for the sake of your pride.

"You understand nothing," she cut him off, fury making her voice shake. Her chest felt too tight, each breath shorter than the last. The wood creaked beneath them, the water lapping below like a temptation. He was too close, his presence overwhelming every sense until she could barely think past the thunder of her own pulse.

"Step away from me. You don’t understand anything, nothing about me, nothing about why I—"

"Why you what?" He advanced, his shadow swallowing hers. "Please, enlighten me to these new tactics for your torture, for I refuse to believe that a creature like you is so immediately trained—"

She didn't let him finish. With one swift movement, born of fury and frustrated truth, Ellana planted both hands on his chest and pushed. There was a moment—just a fraction of a second—where their eyes met, his widening with genuine surprise, before he lost his balance and toppled backward into the lake with a spectacular splash.

Shocked gasps erupted from the shore. Ellana stood frozen, realizing what she'd done, as Solas surfaced in a spray of water. From the dock, she could see the flicker of astonishment his eyes, the split-second struggle to process the absurdity of what’d just happened, and for a long moment, he simply stared up at her, water streaming down his face, looking as though someone had rewritten every law of nature he'd ever known. Never, in all his years, had anyone dared to…

He’d known she was volatile, sharp-tongued, quick to challenge at every turn—and still, somehow, he’d underestimated her. How absurd of him. How very like her.

"Viscount Fen'Harel!" Lady Pembrooke's voice cut through the stunned silence as she hurried down the dock, others following in her wake. "That savage girl—she pushed—"

"I slipped."

The words seemed to surprise Solas as much as everyone else.He treaded water, still staring at Ellana with an unreadable expression. A lily pad stuck to his shoulder. Her world tilted sideways. Why would he lie? After weeks of cataloging her every transgression, her every failure to meet his exacting standards, why would he protect her from this? He should be reveling in this, sumptuously pleased by the inevitability of her disaster.

"But my lord, I saw her—"

And then, to everyone's astonishment, the Viscount began to laugh. It started small, a chuckle that seemed to catch even him off guard in its presence, its unstoppable escape, before building into something uncontrollable and genuine that transformed his entire face.

"I'm afraid," he managed between bursts of poorly restrained, nearly hysterical, snickers that bubbled out of his chest, "I was too distracted by my intended, her mouth, her mind, to watch my step properly." His dark blue coat clung to his shoulders as Dorian helped pull him onto the dock, water streaming from his clothes, refuse and leaf matter sticking to his britches. "Perhaps next time, I will remember that I am only safe to admire her on more stable ground. And not to doubt her sincerity."

The gathered crowd shifted uncertainly, caught between scandal and social obligation. Lady Pembrooke's fan worked overtime as she clearly tried to decide if she'd actually seen what she thought she had. Ellana stood rooted to the spot, mind racing. Was this another game? Some new strategy she couldn't fathom? Or had she somehow stumbled into an entirely different reality where Solas found humor in being pushed into lakes?

Solas peeled off his soaked jacket, handing it off to a footman; whatever decorum he’d had at the beginning of the event was surely now lost. His sleeves were sopping and soaked, dripping pond water onto the boards of the dock and his pristine boots were likely ruined forever. The afternoon sun caught the droplets in his hair like crystals, and Ellana found herself suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how the wet fabric of his shirt clung to the lean muscles of his shoulders. It’d gone nearly transparent, and despite all reason, her eyes lingered, staring, then quickly looked away when she realized Dorian had noticed her notice.

The glint in Dorian's eye suggested he'd noticed far more than just her wandering gaze. He stepped forward, producing a handkerchief from his own jacket. "My dear friend, perhaps we should get you dried off before you scandalize the entire Ton with this display."

"Yes," Lady Pembrooke interjected, still fanning herself furiously. Her eyes were pinned to the translucent slip of fabric across the Viscount’s abdominals.. "Though I must say, my lord, your... affection for Lady Lavellan must indeed be… profound, to find such humor in your predicament."

Something dark flickered across Solas's face—too quick for most to catch—before being masked by that same harsh amusement. His laughter had an edge to it now, like ice cracking, quietly, coldly, furious.

"Indeed." His eyes found Ellana's, and though his smile remained, there was a warning in his gaze that made her pulse jump. "My intended certainly keeps me on my toes. Or off them, as the case may be."

A ripple of uncertain laughter spread through the crowd. Ellana felt caught between mortification and a growing sense of dread. His apparent good humor was a facade, she realized too late—astonishment turned into another mask, this one crafted to save them both from scandal even at his own expense. The muscle in his jaw ticked as water dripped down his neck, betraying the undercurrents he was barely containing.

"Though perhaps," he continued, each word precise despite his disheveled state. Solas raked his finger through wet hair, sliding the dripping locks away from his face, "we might continue the party somewhere slightly less... aquatic? I imagine the canopies and their refreshments would be quite agreeable at this moment." The suggestion carried the weight of a command, and the crowd began to disperse, though not without backward glances.

From across the lawn, Ellana watched as Dorian fussed over Solas beneath one of the white canopies, maintaining an impressive air of not caring at all about what had happened.. Solas had stopped laughing by now, his expression carved from stone as a footman attempted to dry his hair with a linen cloth. The muscle in his jaw hadn't stopped ticking since they'd left the dock. He looked like his head might explode at any moment.

And… then it got worse.

Within the space, the crowd parted like waves before a ship, and Ellana's blood ran cold. Lady Mythal—when had she arrived?—glided across the lawn, her silver-white hair gleaming in the afternoon sun, her deep green gown rustling against the grass. She took in the scene before her—her nephew's soaked clothing, the whispers behind fans, Ellana’s relative position as far away as possible in a nondescript corner, and the way the other guests seemed to be simultaneously drawing closer while maintaining a careful distance.

"My dear nephew," Mythal's voice carried across the garden, "I see I've missed the entertainment. What’s happened?" Her gaze swept over his dripping form before landing on Ellana with the weight of a winter frost. "Do enlighten me."

Ellana glanced at Solas once more, fascinated by the vein leaping in his throat. She had never before seen a man so clearly pushed to his limit but clinging to his good sense. Feeling not a little apprehensive at the impending explosion between him, his aunt, and herself though, she took a prudent half step behind a convenient garden statue.

She didn’t like to think herself a coward, but self-preservation was another matter entirely.

Dorian stepped forward before the silence could hang too long. "Countess Mythal, how—yes, how delightful to see your ladyship. As the Viscount has already explained, he found himself rather... captivated by his intended’s lovely face whilst taking a turn about the garden and docks." His tone suggested nothing but earnest approval.

"Captivated enough to fall into a lake?" Mythal's perfectly arched eyebrow suggested she found this explanation lacking.

"Love makes fools of us all, does it not?" Dorian continued cheerfully, as though completely missing her skepticism. "One moment he was hanging on her every word, the next—splash! Though I must say," he added with a conspiratorial smile, "isn’t it wonderful to be so enamoured? Ah, young love.”

Several nearby guests nodded, apparently relieved to have such a romantic version of events to repeat. After all, what could be more appropriate than a nobleman so entranced by his intended that he forgot to mind his footing? Lady Pembrooke's fan had slowed its frantic pace, though her expression suggested she was still deciding whether to contradict this account.

Mythal's gaze slid from Dorian to her nephew, then to Ellana, who fought the urge to shrink under that calculating stare. "How... charming. Is that really what happened, nephew?"

Solas, still dripping with pond, managed to sound alarmingly regal with his frigid “Yes.”

Oh dear. Ellana’s heart thumped hard in her chest again.

"Though perhaps, dear nephew, you might consider conducting future conversations with your intended somewhere less hazardous to your wardrobe."

"Indeed." Solas's voice remained perfectly pleasant, though Ellana caught the sharp edge beneath it. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I should change into something more... appropriate for hosting."

"Of course." Mythal dismissed him with a wave. "Lord Pavus, I trust you can ensure our guests remain entertained in his absence?"

"My dear Countess," Dorian's eyes sparkled with barely contained mischief, the pet Tevinter envoy called upon for his true purpose, "nothing could bring me greater pleasure. Now, who would like to hear about the time I met a Tevene baronet who’d nearly set fire to his manor whilst trysting with another lord’s daughter? Of course you do. Now, this all occurred in Minrathous where a distinctly handsome young…"

As Dorian wove his tales, drawing the crowd like a master puppeteer, Ellana made the mistake of meeting Solas's gaze across the lawn. His expression had settled into something terrifyingly calm, like the surface of deep water hiding a riptide. In that moment, she knew with absolute certainty that while she might have won this skirmish, she had likely just started a war.

That evening, the door to Solas’s study was slightly ajar when Ellana arrived, lamplight spilling into the darkened hallway. She'd changed out of her party dress, but hadn't bothered trying to sleep—they both knew this conversation was inevitable. Still, she hesitated at the threshold, watching Solas where he stood by the window. He'd changed as well, but his hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends.

"I wondered if you’d come here," he said without turning, his voice still carried an edge, though it was lacking its usual level of severity. “And if you did, if it’d be to shout at me. Or if I’d have to go and find you, and shout myself.”

"You’re not shouting now," she said, her voice similarly even despite the circumstance. Ellana stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "I notice you've chosen to position yourself well away from windows."

He didn't turn, but she caught the slight shift in his shoulders—not quite tension, not quite amusement. "A prudent precaution, given recent events."

"About that—" she started, then stopped, unsure how to continue. How did one apologize for pushing someone into a lake while simultaneously refusing to regret it?

"Yes?" Now he did turn, and Ellana felt her breath catch. In the lamplight, with his usual austere bearing somewhat softened by blatant frustration and exhaustion, he looked... different. More real, somehow. "About your attempt to drown me in front of half the nobility of Thedas?"

"I wasn't trying to drown you," she said, then winced at how defensive it sounded. "I just... wanted you to stop talking."

"Ah." He moved to his desk, putting the solid barrier of mahogany between them. "And naturally, physical violence seemed the most reasonable solution."

"You called me a creature." The words came out quieter than she intended. "After everything else today, after watching me smile and bow and scrape for hours, you still—" She stopped, remembering Mythal's threats. "Never mind. I suppose I should thank you for lying to your Aunt."

Something flickered across his features. "Yes, about that performance of yours..." He traced a finger along the desk's edge, not quite meeting her eyes. "You've never cared about appearances before, or the opinions of others, however, today you... you were convincing. Earnest. I find myself still curious about the sudden change in your behavior."

"Do you? I thought you'd already decided it was just another scheme of mine."

"Was it not?"

"No. But does it matter?" She moved closer to the desk, noticed how he tensed slightly at her approach. "You lied to protect your reputation as much as mine. We both know how it would look—the savage Dalish bride attacking the refined Viscount. Though I admit, I didn't expect you to laugh."

His fingers stilled on the desk. "Neither did I."

The admission hung in the air between them, unexpected and uncomfortable. Ellana shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how close she'd moved to the desk, how the lamplight caught the angles of his face.

"I suppose," she said carefully, "we should discuss how to proceed from here."

"Should we?" His voice had gone quiet, almost careful. "You've made your feelings… quite clear. Multiple times. Most recently with considerable force."

"And you've made your opinion of me equally clear." She meant it to sound sharp, but exhaustion had worn down her edges. "Though I noticed you didn't correct Lady Pembrooke about being 'captivated' by me."

His jaw ticked. "Would you have preferred I tell the truth? That my intended is a willful, impossible—" He stopped, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "This isn't productive."

"No," she agreed, taking a step back. "It isn't."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like storm clouds. Finally, Solas spoke, his voice returning to its usual controlled precision.

"Tomorrow, we will return to our usual arrangements. This... incident need not change anything."

"Of course not." Ellana turned toward the door, ignoring the strange twist in her chest. "Though you might want to avoid standing too close to any bodies of water in my presence."

She thought she heard something like a suppressed laugh, disbelieving as it was, as she left, but she didn't turn to check. In the morning, they would be enemies again. Best not to dwell on moments of almost-understanding in the night.

Chapter Text

Please also see this AMAZING drawing of the Viscount Fen'Harel by Burloire!

"I heard he laughed."

"Impossible. The Viscount never laughs."

"Well, he did yesterday. Right after she pushed him in."

"She did not push him. He slipped."

"Oh please, just like the incident with the tea service last week was an accident?"

"Hush! She's coming."

The whispers followed Ellana down the hallway as she made her way to breakfast, each servant suddenly finding something terribly important to dust or polish as she passed. A maid's cloth moved in frantic circles over the same spotless surface, while a footman became intensely fascinated by a perfectly straight portrait that apparently required lengthy adjustment. She might have found their attempts at discretion amusing if she hadn't been painfully aware of the growing stack of notes and calling cards accumulating on the silver tray by the door.

Word of yesterday's garden party had spread through Arlathan society like wildfire in dry grass. The morning's post had brought the expected flood of thank you notes, each sealed message carrying carefully worded observations beneath their polite gratitude. Lady Pembrooke's distinctive lavender stationery had arrived first—her flowing script expressing appreciation for such novel entertainment while hoping that 'certain unfortunate incidents might be attributed to high spirits rather than other influences.'

Lady Montilyet's note was, to Ellana’s surprise, genuinely warm, thanking them for the lovely afternoon and expressing particular appreciation for Ellana's insights about Dalish gardens. It reminded me so much of the wild beauty of the Antivan countryside, she'd written. Perhaps we might discuss such natural designs further at my next salon?

A particularly thick envelope bore the Ghislain seal—no doubt filled with elaborate thanks while making thinly veiled references to "quaint" customs and "rustic charm." A thin missive from Duke Elgar’nan was simply a polite apology for not being able to attend due to business. And there, beneath the growing pile of social obligations and barely concealed gossip, lay a letter sealed with green wax: House Mythal.

That one, Ellana decided, could wait until she'd at least had tea.

"My dear friend!" Each word carried down the hallway like a herald's announcement. Dorian swept around the corner, his hand pressed dramatically to his chest, rings catching the morning light as he managed a bow that somehow mocked the very concept of bowing. His eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth as he took in her disheveled appearance. "I see society has been busy with their correspondence. Lady Blanche's letter arrived while I was breaking fast—she seems particularly concerned about the state of your intended's wardrobe."

"How thoughtful of her." Ellana managed a small smile, though it felt stretched thin. "I don't suppose you'd care to help me compose responses? You seem to have such a talent for making insults sound like compliments."

"I do. But alas, I'm afraid I must return to the Countess's estate this morning. Duty calls. Though I did want to see how you were faring after yesterday's... excitement." His eyes sparkled with poorly suppressed mirth. "You've managed to make quite an impression on the Ton; no one will be forgetting that party for a long time to come when so few can claim to have seen the Viscount crack quite so spectacularly."

"Quite literally cracked," Ellana muttered, falling into step beside him. "Though according to the official story, he merely slipped while admiring my... what was it?'"

"Your mouth and your mind, if I recall correctly." Dorian's mustache twitched. "Despite the splash the whole ordeal made, I do believe it’s rather improved your standing with certain circles. Lady Montilyet was positively aflutter about the 'romantic tension' of it all."

"Romantic?" Ellana nearly choked. "He called me a creature, Lord Pavus."

"Dear girl—call me Dorian for god's sake— and did he? I must have missed that part while watching him try not to drown." He paused outside the breakfast room door, his expression growing more serious. "Though speaking of our dear Viscount, he's been in quite a state this morning. I passed him in the library earlier—I don't think he's slept."

"Planning my imminent demise, no doubt."

"More likely composing responses to his own stack of correspondence. The Ton does so love their letters." Dorian straightened his already immaculate cravat. "Though I should warn you, several of our more... traditional nobles seem to have taken this as confirmation of their worst fears about Dalish propriety despite Lord Fen’Harel’s own explanations. Lady Pembrooke was particularly vocal about 'worrying tendencies' as she left for her carriage yesterday."

"Of course she was." Ellana's fingers curled into her skirts. "I don't suppose anyone's mentioned how he provoked—" She stopped, remembering Countess Mythal's threats once more. "Never mind. It hardly matters now."

Dorian's sharp eyes caught her sudden shift. "Curious. You know, for someone who allegedly shoved a lord from a dock just yesterday, you seem rather... subdued this morning."

"Subdued?" Ellana forced a lightness she didn't feel into her voice. "I assure you, I'm merely pacing myself. The day is young, and there are so many more opportunities for scandal ahead."

"Speaking of scandal—" Dorian broke off as the breakfast room door opened, revealing Solas already at his usual place, a veritable fortress of letters and papers arranged around his plate. He looked up briefly, eyes meeting Ellana's for one tense moment before returning to whatever document had captured his attention. His fingers never strayed to adjust his cravat, never tapped against the desk, never betrayed a single restless movement as she settled into her chair. Only the quill trembling slightly between his fingers suggested her presence affected him at all. The breakfast table had become a battlefield of careful movements she reached directly for the bread, bypassing the silver tongs laid precisely beside the basket. The butter knife scraped loudly against the toast, and she noted with satisfaction how the sound made the corner of his eye twitch.

The dark shadows beneath his eyes that suggested Dorian's assessment of his sleepless night was accurate.

"Lord Pavus," he acknowledged without looking up again. "I trust your carriage is prepared for your return to my aunt's estate?"

"Yes, though I'm almost sorry to leave. The entertainment here has been remarkably..." Dorian's eyes darted between them, "...well, remarkable. I will be languishing in my boredom at Tarasyl'an Te'las with only the Countess and her alarmingly prudish staff for my company."

“You insinuate that you haven’t slept with every willing warm body in her service already, but we both know that is a lie.”

Solas appeared to be in no mood for his theatrics, his usual decorum traded for a scathing, dry wit that aimed for the jugular.

“My lord,” Dorian gasped, feigning hurt, “what a foul tongue you have in the morning. I love it. But while we’re sharing surprises, you've done a lot less dancing naked in the moonlight than expected in these years I’ve known you.”

“Tevinter lore about elves remains accurate as always.”

Ellana blinked, surprised at the easy familiarity in Solas’s tone. For all his sharp retorts, there was an unguarded warmth here, a glimpse of something she hadn’t seen before, and the easy, barbed, familiarity between them revealed a side of the Viscount she hadn't witnessed before, one that had an edge of humor and gave as good as he got.

It was... unsettling to realize he was capable of such genuine connection.

“I wanted to see you make flowers bloom with your song, just once, Viscount Fen’Harel.”

Ellana could only stare at the two of them. “I can't believe the way you two speak to each other.” “My lady, I assure you, we are having a perfectly civil conversation.”

Dorian nodded. “It's true. I've heard worse from the gardener back home in Tevinter. Ah. And speaking of things I’ve heard, I was wondering if you've read Lady Blanche's rather passionate concerns about the effect of lake water on Orlesian silk. She's penned quite the treatise on proper fabric maintenance."

"I'm sure the Viscount has more important matters to attend to," Ellana said sweetly, taking her seat at the opposite end of the table. "Though if he'd like, I could recommend several excellent methods for removing pond scum from fine clothing. The Dalish have such extensive experience with natural elements."

The quill wobbled, then slipped between Solas's fingers, sending a drop of ink splattering across one of his precious letters as it fell from his grasp. Without a word, he pushed a small stack of correspondence toward her end of the table. "Your responses to these will need to be reviewed before sending," he said, voice clipped. "We wouldn't want any misunderstandings about yesterday's events to persist."

“Already false misunderstandings about how your staring at me made you lose your footing?”

Solas's head snapped up, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I believe my exact words of my diversion were that I was... distracted by my intended."

"Yes, by my mouth and my mind, as Dorian recalled to me this morning,." Ellana smiled sweetly while reaching for the tea pot. "And pray tell, my lord, are you on stable enough ground now where you are safe to admire me?"

"So long as I am at least an arm’s length away, I see no threat I cannot manage—and I see your talent for provocation remains undiminished by yesterday's excitement, Lady Lavellan."

"As does your talent for—"

"Children, please," Dorian interrupted, though he looked thoroughly entertained. "Much as I'd love to stay and witness round two of whatever this is becoming, my carriage awaits. Try not to drown each other before I return? At least wait until I can watch."

"No promises," Ellana muttered into her tea cup.

"I heard that." Dorian paused at the door, his expression softening slightly. "Do try to remember you're both supposed to be creating a united front for society. Perhaps consider saving the attempted murder for after the wedding?"

The word 'wedding' sent a chill down her spine. She'd managed, somehow, to treat their impending marriage as an abstract thing—a distant future easily ignored. But Dorian's casual mention made it viscerally real again. Soon she would be bound to that proud, infuriating man. The thought sat like lead in her stomach.

The door closed behind Dorian with a soft click, leaving them alone with their mutual antagonism and the growing pile of correspondence. Solas returned to his letters with rigid focus, while Ellana pretended complete fascination with her toast. The silence stretched between them like a drawn bow.

Finally, without looking up, Solas spoke. "I trust you'll be discreet in your responses to our guests. The story has been established."

"Of course," Ellana replied, carefully buttering her toast. "Though I notice you never actually denied being distracted by my mouth."

The ink bottle rattled dangerously as Solas set it down with more force than necessary. "I said what was necessary to maintain propriety after your impulsive action. I suggest we finish breakfast in silence.”

"As my lord wishes. Though do try not to stare too much. I'd hate for you to fall into your porridge."

Several days after the garden party incident, the grounds of Vi'Revas had settled into an uneasy quiet. Guard Captain Cullen Rutherford made his usual dawn patrol, boots crunching against gravel as he checked the estate's perimeter. The morning mist still clung to the gardens, making the ornamental lake—now infamous among the household staff—look almost ethereal.

He'd just finished reviewing the night watch's report when movement near the stables caught his eye. A figure in a dark riding habit slipped between the shadows of the courtyard, moving with the kind of deliberate stealth that immediately drew his attention. His hand went to his sword before he recognized Lady Lavellan's distinctive gait.

Years of military service had taught Cullen to notice details others might miss. The way a person moved could tell you as much about them as their face—sometimes more. Lady Lavellan moved like a hunter, graceful like a halla, light on her feet despite her noble upbringing, always aware of her surroundings. It was one of many things that set her apart from the usual nobles he guarded, who tended to float through life expecting the world to accommodate them.

This was the third morning this week he'd spotted her heading to the stables at this hour, well before any proper lady would consider beginning her day. Most noble women who rode did so in the late morning or early afternoon, properly accompanied and usually in groups. They certainly didn't saddle their own horses in the pre-dawn light, nor did they ride alone without escorts or companions.

Even more concerning—or perhaps concerning wasn't quite the right word—was her choice of attire. The dark riding habit was merely a cover for what lay beneath: practical riding leathers dyed the deep green of forest shadows, fitted close to allow free movement while maintaining a… Dalish… interpretation of modesty. Her hair was braided back in intricate plaits, secured with the distinctive knotwork Cullen now recognized.

Stable hands had mentioned she preferred her own tack as well, brought from the Lavellan estate and in her trunks, rather than the elegant side-saddles usually used by ladies.

He'd caught a glimpse yesterday morning as she'd mounted her mare of that tack—a lighter saddle lacking the ornate pommel and high cantle of Orlesian design, with stirrups meant for quick mounting and dismounting. Even the reins bore patterns of Dalish design worked into the leather, though she rarely seemed to use them, guiding her mount primarily with subtle shifts of weight and pressure from her knees. And… worse… that riding habit hiked up, revealing the length of her legs once more, the confident press of them about her horse…

Duty warred briefly with discretion. On one hand, Lady Lavellan wasn't technically breaking any rules. The stables were part of her future domain, her mare from the Lavellan estate was there, and no one had explicitly forbidden her from riding. But the timing, the solitude, the decidedly un-noble approach to horsemanship, and the… riding leathers...

The Viscount had been very clear about being informed of any unusual patterns in his intended's behavior. Though after the lake incident, Cullen wasn't entirely sure if this fell under security concerns or personal interest. He'd noticed how Solas's gaze tended to follow Lady Lavellan across rooms now, though whether from suspicion or something else, he couldn't say.

He found Solas already in his study, despite the early hour. Dark circles under his eyes suggested another sleepless night—those had become more frequent since the garden party. The Viscount looked up from his papers, one eyebrow raising at Cullen's appearance.

"Captain Rutherford. I trust there's a reason for this early morning visit?"

Cullen shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how this might sound. "My lord, I believe it's my duty to inform you that Lady Lavellan has been... riding."

"Riding." Solas's voice was flat.

"Yes, my lord. Alone. Before dawn. In..." Cullen cleared his throat, "...trousers."

The Viscount was very still. "Trousers."

"Dalish riding leathers, to be precise, my lord. And she's using her own tack; she must’ve brought it from the Lavellan estate. The stable hands say she's quite skilled, actually. Handles her mare like she was born to it."

"And… how long has this been occurring, Captain?"

"This is the third morning I've observed it personally, though the stable hands suggest it's been happening since shortly after her arrival. She's quite... discrete about it. Takes different paths each morning, varies her timing slightly."

"Like someone used to avoiding detection," Solas observed, his voice carrying an edge.

"Or someone who simply enjoys exploring different trails," Cullen found himself saying, then wondered why he felt the need to defend her. "The stable master says she always returns before most of the household wakes, and the mare is always properly cooled down and tended to."

"I see." Solas set down his quill with careful precision. "And you felt this warranted immediate attention because...?"

"It's irregular, my lord. A noble lady, riding alone, without escort..." Cullen paused, then added, "In trousers. And given recent events, I thought perhaps..."

"Yes, you've mentioned the trousers." There was definitely a note of something in the Viscount's voice now. "Tell me, Captain Rutherford, in your professional assessment, is she actually doing anything dangerous?"

Cullen considered this carefully. "No, my lord. If anything, she's quite sensible about it. Checks her tack thoroughly, stays within the estate boundaries, keeps to well-maintained paths. It's just..."

"Unconventional?" Solas supplied. “At this point that seems to be the expected standard for her, to flout convention.”

"Indeed, my lord. Though..." Cullen hesitated, weighing his next words carefully. "When I investigated further, the stable master mentioned something else that might be relevant."

"Yes?"

"Her mare—the one she brought from the Lavellan estate. She's a magnificent creature, but the stable hands are terrified of her. Bites anyone who comes near, kicked three different grooms last week alone. But with Lady Lavellan..." Cullen shook his head in amazement. "The beast follows her around like a devoted hound. They've even seen her riding without a saddle or reins, just guiding the mare with her knees while they race across the pasture."

"A Dalish mount," Solas said, and something in his voice suggested this detail meant more than Cullen understood. "And she rides without any safety considerations? Alone on the trails?"

"No escort, my lord. Though she seems to know what she's doing.”

Solas rose from his chair, straightening his coat with precise movements. "You say she rides at dawn?"

"Yes, my lord. Usually takes the eastern trails, though today she seemed to be heading toward the forest path."

"Very well." There was a strange intensity to Solas's expression now. "I believe I shall have to observe this behavior myself."

Cullen blinked. "My lord?"

"A noble lady riding alone is inappropriate at best, dangerous at worst. And given Lady Lavellan's... recent demonstrations of impulsive behavior coupled with her proximity to disaster, direct intervention seems prudent."

The words were perfectly proper, yet Cullen couldn't shake the feeling that the Viscount's motivations went beyond mere propriety. There was something almost eager in the way he moved toward the door.

"Should I arrange an escort, my lord?" Cullen asked, following Solas into the hallway. "The household guard could—"

"That won't be necessary, Captain." Solas's stride was purposeful as they descended the main stairs. "I am perfectly capable of handling one wayward bride. Have my horse readied for tomorrow morning."

"Of course. Though if I might suggest..." Cullen trailed off as Solas fixed him with a sharp look.

"Yes?"

"Lady Lavellan has proven quite... perceptive. Just yesterday, she spotted one of my guards following her at a distance through the gardens—had him thoroughly flustered trying to explain why he was suddenly so interested in pruning the same rosebush for an hour. And the week before, she managed to lose two of our best trackers when they were meant to be discreetly monitoring her movements through the estate. If you intend to assess her riding habits, you might want to consider a less direct approach."

"Are you suggesting I skulk about my own estate, Captain?"

"Not at all, my lord. Merely noting that our guest has proven herself quite skilled at avoiding unwanted attention. If you truly wish to understand what she's doing out there..."

Solas paused at the bottom of the stairs, considering. "You believe she would alter her behavior if she knew she was being watched."

"I believe, my lord, that Lady Lavellan has shown a particular talent for doing exactly the opposite of what's expected of her. Especially when directly confronted."

The morning sun had barely begun to warm the stable's weathered boards when Cole appeared, silent as a shadow, a small covered basket in his hands. Ellana was already there, brushing down her mare after their ride, the early morning exertion still glowing in her cheeks.

"You ride to remember," Cole said by way of greeting. "Hoofbeats like heartbeats, wind in your hair."

Ellana smiled, unsurprised by his presence. Of all the servants at Vi'Revas, Cole was the only one who seemed to move as quietly as she did. "Good morning to you too, Cole."

He set the basket down on a nearby hay bale. "Cook made honey scones, but not with your honey. She says they’ve got a different sort now. But I brought some anyway." He produced a small jar from his pocket. "It tastes like sunshine and secrets."

"That's because the bees visit different flowers in the forests." Ellana gave her mare's neck a final pat before joining Cole at the hay bale. "Even when people keep them in box hives, they ultimately roam where they will, find their own paths. But… they still come back to the hive."

"Like you do." Cole's pale eyes were knowing. "The paths change each morning, but they all lead to the same place. Away."

"Not away," Ellana corrected gently, accepting a still-warm scone. "Just... elsewhere. For a little while. You know, Cole… the Dalish believe the early morning belongs to the spirits, that time between the stars set and the sun rises past the horizon. That's why we ride then—to share the paths with them, to remember we're guests in their realm."

Cole's eyes brightened. "Yes! They whisper in the leaves, watch from the shadows. Most people can't hear them anymore, too busy building walls and rules and reasons. But you still listen."

Her mare nickered softly, nudging Cole's shoulder. Unlike most of the stable hands, she'd accepted him immediately.

"She knows you're different too," Ellana observed.

Cole absently offered the mare a piece of his scone, then the entire thing. "She likes that you understand. That you don't try to make her be something else."

"Unlike some people in this household?" The words came out sharper than intended.

"He builds walls because he's afraid of what might happen without them." Cole's voice took on that distant quality that always made Ellana wonder just how much he really saw. "Rules like armor, tradition like a shield, but sometimes shields keep things in as much as they keep things out.”

"Cole..." Ellana sighed, breaking her scone into smaller pieces. "We shouldn't talk about him."

"But he's there, in your thoughts, like leaves caught in a stream. Anger and curiosity swirling together." He tilted his head. "You wonder why he laughed that day by the lake. And after."

The honey suddenly felt too sweet on her tongue. "I wonder why he does a lot of things. Cole—"

"The scones will get cold. And you should finish your breakfast," Cole added, already moving toward the door. "Today is good. But tomorrow..."

He paused, pale eyes distant. "Tomorrow will be different."

Before she could ask what he meant, Cole disappeared like morning mist, leaving only the half-empty basket and lingering scent of honey-sweet scones. The sun had climbed higher, warning her it was time to return to the estate before the household fully woke.

"I didn't realize the Viscount of Vi'Revas employs his stable hands as spies. One wonders what other duties you've reassigned in pursuit of proper order"

Ellana hadn't meant to speak first, but the words escaped as Solas's shadow darkened the stable doorway, making the already close stable feel suddenly smaller. The morning had dawned clear and crisp, autumn's first breath touching the air. She'd arrived earlier than usual, having already changed into her riding leathers. The soft leather boots, laced tight to mid-calf, made no sound as she moved through her familiar routine—checking the special padding beneath her saddle, adjusting the straps. Her mare watched with patient understanding, so different from the highly-strung warmbloods favored by the nobility. The horse's compact frame and sure-footed stance spoke of generations of careful breeding for forest paths rather than parade grounds.

She kept her attention on the girth strap she was adjusting, refusing to give him the satisfaction of turning around. Though she couldn't see his face, she felt his gaze track her movements, noting how her riding leathers fit rather than the propriety of wearing them.

"My staff merely perform their duty in reporting unusual activities," Solas replied, frost edging each word. "I found their reports intriguing, and so came to investigate with my own eyes."

“Did you?” Ellana caught her mare's mane, planted one foot in the stirrup, and swung up in a single fluid motion. Before Solas could do more than blink, she'd turned her mount toward the door. "Unfortunately, I have no time for investigations this morning. I'm sure you can make detailed notes about my impropriety in my absence."

She urged her mare forward, forcing Solas to step aside or be trampled. His startled expression as she passed was almost worth the lecture she'd undoubtedly face later. For a moment, that perfect composure cracked, his eyes widening as he realized she meant to simply leave him standing there like a common servant.

"Lady Lavellan!" His voice carried after her as she emerged into the dawn light. "This is hardly—"

But she was already cantering across the yard, her mare's hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones. Behind her, she heard the rushed preparations as stable hands scrambled to ready the Viscount's stallion. Someone shouted about proper escorts and safety, but the words were lost to the wind as she took the eastern trail at a gallop.

The morning air stung her cheeks as they flew past the formal gardens, her mare's stride eating up the ground between the manicured paths and the wilder trails beyond. Only when they reached the tree line did she ease back, letting her mount settle into a leisurely trot. Dew sparkled on the grass, caught in the first rays of sunrise. The simple pleasure of the morning settled over her—no rules, no lectures, just the gentle rhythm of hooves and the whisper of wind through leaves.

Her satisfaction lasted precisely three minutes before she heard the approaching hoofbeats. Her mare's ears swiveled back, recognizing the stallion's powerful stride. Of course he wouldn't let this go.

The trail ahead split three ways. The left path led to the old oak, the right to the stream crossing, and the center wound deeper into the woods. She had perhaps seconds to decide before he caught up, and so selected the center path, where ancient trees loomed overhead and morning mist still clung to their twisted roots. The trail here disappeared into shadow and reappeared in patches of gold where sunlight broke through the canopy. No neat cobblestones or carefully planned routes—just earth and stone that required a horse to think, a rider to feel.

The hoofbeats behind her grew closer. Her mare's ears flicked back again at the sound of the stallion's breathing, heavy but controlled. Through the trees she caught glimpses of a dark blue coat, of silver thread catching morning light. She kept her pace steady, refusing to acknowledge his approach even as his mount drew alongside hers.

"I assume," Solas's voice carried forward, rich with that particular bite she expected, "that this childish display has some purpose beyond simply proving your lack of manners?"

"Oh, several purposes." She kept her eyes forward, watching the path ahead rather than his no doubt disapproving expression. "Avoiding tedious lectures, enjoying my morning ride in peace..."

The trail narrowed, forcing them to ride single file for several strides. Branches reached across the path like grasping fingers, requiring them to duck and weave. Her mare knew this route well, picking her way through the obstacle course of nature with sure steps. Behind her, she heard the soft grunt of surprise as a branch nearly caught Solas across the chest.

“Perhaps my Lord would prefer to turn back to smoother paths more suited to his riding ability?”

"If you wished to test my riding ability," he said when the path widened again, drawing his stallion level with her mare once more, "you needed only to ask."

“I can ask things of you?” She let her mare dance sideways, putting space between them as they emerged into a shaft of sunlight. Dew sparkled on the leaves around them, turning the forest into a cavern of green and gold. "My lord is most generous this morning indeed—and acting quite out of character. I wonder what it is that you’re scheming.”

"Judging by your habit of running away like there’s something to hide, I should be more concerned about your machinations," he guided his stallion through a narrow gap between two trees as it tossed its head, "Tell me, does everything you do require such secrecy, or only the things you know I'd forbid?"

"Forbid?" The word tasted like poison. She ducked under another branch, letting her mare pick up a fraction of speed. "I am not one of your servants to command."

"No," he said, voice cutting through the morning air as he closed the distance, always a half-pace behind and encroaching nearer. "You're merely the woman who will bear my name, live in my house, and apparently make a mockery of everything that represents. Tell me, do you practice finding new ways to undermine this arrangement, or does it come naturally?"

She laughed. "Poor Lord Fen'Harel, saddled with such an unsuitable bride. It is such a shame that your reputation is so fragile that a single person may reduce it to rubble."

The path curved gently right. Their horses continued their matched stride, hooves falling into the same rhythm despite their riders' antagonism.

"You think this is about reputation? Your deliberate provocations, your constant defiance—"

"My refusal to bow and scrape?" She cut him off. "Does it hurt your pride to know you can't control me, or just your sense of proper order?"

"You think so little of me?"

"I think exactly as much of you as you've shown me. Every criticism, every correction, every attempt to remake me into something more suitable—"

"If you would cease behaving in such an unseemly—"

"Like what?" She twisted in her saddle to face him, her mare never missing a stride. "A savage? A criminal? Something beneath you?"

"If you would listen for once—"

"I've heard enough." She turned forward again, leaning low over her mare's neck. "I don't need your permission, your supervision, or your company."

Ellana dug her heels into her mare's flanks, and the horse leaped forward, switching from easy trot to full gallop in a single stride. She heard Solas curse behind her—a sharp, crass, elvhen word she hadn't expected him to know—as his stallion surged to follow.

Trees opened up before them, the trail widening into a natural galloping track. She bent low over her mare's neck, feeling the powerful muscles bunching and stretching beneath her. Solas's stallion drew even with them, its longer stride matching her mare's quicker steps. Ellana rode forward in her saddle, her style a stark contrast to Solas's rigid Orlesian seat—though she noticed with some satisfaction how he began adjusting his position to match hers as the path grew more challenging. Where his stallion powered through the terrain, her mare danced through it, responding to the lightest pressure of her knees while leaving her hands free, as if she might need to reach for a bow at any moment.

Morning mist still clung to the forest floor, swirling in their wake like scattered dreams.

The only sounds were thundering hooves, rushing wind, and their own harsh breathing as they tore through the forest. Ellana glanced over her shoulder as branches whipped past, sunlight flashing between leaves inbursts of distortion, then focus—the arch of his stallion's neck, the flash of his coat against the green shadows, the way his hands looked sure and steady on the reins. The Viscount was leaned forward in his saddle, all pretense abandoned to speed. His hair had come completely loose, streaming behind him like a banner. The rich scent of moss and morning dew filled her lungs with each breath, mixing with leather and horse sweat and something distinctly masculine from the rider beside her.

He was infuriatingly handsome, even now.

"Is running away your solution to everything!?" he shouted over the thunder of hooves.

"Only from tedious company," she shot back, though her heart wasn't in the barb. She was too distracted by the transformation beside her. Gone was the rigid Viscount with his perfectly pressed clothes and carefully measured words. The transformation startled her more than she cared to admit. Each time she thought she had taken his measure, he revealed another facet that defied her expectations. The wind had brought color to his usually pale cheeks, and there was an almost boyish energy in how he leaned into each turn, his hair whipping free in the wind, and his formal jacket straining across his shoulders.

"Your form is atrocious," he remarked as they thundered around a bend, though she caught him adjusting his own position to mirror hers.

"So assured for a man whose seat seems less secure than his principles," she retorted, even as she admired the steady comportment with which he guided his stallion through a narrow gap between two ancient oaks. Their branches reached overhead like gnarled fingers, forcing them to duck in perfect unison.

The approaching curve looked impossible at their speed—the path twisted between two massive trees, their trunks scarred by centuries of weather and wear. Barely wide enough for one horse, let alone two racing neck and neck. The sensible choice would be to slow down, to yield, to let one pass first.

Neither of them slowed.

"Reckless savage," he accused. His words were nearly lost to the wind, carried away by their thundering pace, and his lips curled into a snarl that showed his teeth, but she heard laughter underneath the words.

"Pompous aristocrat," she countered. Her mare's hooves struck a patch of harder ground, the impact traveling up through her bones as a cocksure smile broke free despite herself.

They curved around it together, so close his stallion's shoulder brushed her knee, the heat of him palpable even through layers of cloth. The forest blurred around them, all green shadows and golden light, the earthy perfume of crushed leaves rising from beneath their horses' hooves.

Ahead, the path split around a massive fallen log. Without warning, Ellana veered toward the right path, then sharply cut left at the last moment. Her mare, light and nimble, darted through the narrow gap between log and tree. Solas's stallion, already committed to the right path, was forced to pull up short or risk collision. She heard his sharp curse fade behind her as she gained several lengths.

His startled oath dissolved into genuine laughter—just as it had at the lake—and the sound sent an unwelcome thrill down her spine.

"Two can play that game, my lady," he called. As the path curved along a steep embankment, his stallion suddenly surged forward, cutting inside her line so closely she had to pull her mare wide or risk being forced into the slope. The movement was precise, calculated—and completely ungentlemanly. He guided his stallion with the confidence of someone who had spent years mastering horsemanship, likely long before his time in military service and not just learning it as a noble accomplishment. Each shift of his weight telegraphed his next move. Ellana found herself struggling to anticipate him still, and the Viscount shot her a look of pure satisfaction as his mount drew even with hers again.

"I thought nobles considered such tactics beneath them," she taunted, breathless with outrage and something dangerously close to delight.

"And I thought Dalish were supposed to be clever," he retorted, but there was no bite in it.

“Oh you vile creature—”

“Of course, my lady, a man should match his wife—.”

To her horror, she found herself laughing too.

Ellana glanced sideways; she found him watching her with an expression that made her breath catch. His eyes were bright with excitement, all pretense stripped away by speed and wind and aggravated challenge. For just a moment, she glimpsed an actual young man beneath the Viscount's mask—arrogant and brash and achingly alive. There was a shift in her chest, a moving piece on a board to a game she didn't dare name.

"I am impressed,” he called out between pants, “your Dalish mare has stamina. Though I expect she'll tire soon."

"Unlike your overly-bred stallion?" She leaned lower, urging her mare faster. "Such delicate creatures, just like their masters."

Solas's only response was a sharp nod toward the distant meadow. "To that oak," he called over the thunder of hooves. The challenge was clear—the massive tree that stood sentinel at the meadow's edge, beyond the stream crossing ahead.

The forest path blurred around them as they pushed faster, branches whipping past close enough to steal breath. Their mounts moved in perfect synchronization, matching stride for stride despite their different breeding. The realization that they rode as one disturbed her more than Ellana cared to admit.

They burst from the forest into warming sunlight, the stream glittering ahead like scattered diamonds. Their horses' hooves struck water simultaneously, sending crystalline drops flying. For just a moment, Ellana caught their reflection—two riders moving as one, formal and wild, control and freedom merged in morning light.

The meadow opened before them, tall grass rippling in the morning breeze. Ellana gave her mare her head, feeling the surge of power as the horse lengthened her stride. Beside her, Solas's stallion matched pace, its longer legs eating up the ground. Their breath came in harsh pants now, the thunder of hooves drowning out everything but the rush of wind.

"Your form still needs work," he managed between breaths, though she noticed how he'd yet again adopted her lower position.

"Teach me then," she shot back, immediately regretting the words as his eyes darkened at the challenge.

She risked another glance sideways and found him watching her, his usual mask stripped away by speed and competition. The sight made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with their pace.

Movement caught her eye—a grouse exploded from the underbrush in a thunderous burst of wings and sound, the sudden violence of its flight startling in the morning shadows. Her mare saw it too. The horse's ears pricked forward, her stride faltering for just a moment. In that instant of distraction, Solas's stallion surged ahead, taking advantage of the brief hesitation. His triumphant laugh carried back to her on the wind.

"Is that surrender, my lady?" The words were barely audible over the thundering hooves.

Ellana pressed lower against her mare's neck, refusing to dignify that with a response. The oak loomed closer with each stride, its ancient branches spreading wide. They were nearly matched again, neither willing to yield, when a second grouse burst upward directly in front of them, its wings beating the air like thunder.

This time, there was no recovering from her mare's startled reaction.

Her mare reared, forelegs pawing air as her hindquarters lost purchase on the damp grass. Time slowed to crystal clarity—Ellana felt the sickening shift of weight, saw Solas wrench his stallion sideways, and heard his sharp curse.

Her mare's hooves struck ground again at an awkward angle, and momentum did the rest.

The world tilted. Impact drove the breath from her lungs as she hit the grass, tumbling hard across the dew-soaked ground. Her shoulder struck first, then her hip, each point of contact sending shocks through her body. She rolled to a stop face-down in the grass, ears ringing with the thunder of retreating hooves as her mare bolted toward the treeline.

"Ellana!"

Solas's voice seemed to come from very far away. She tried to push herself up, but her arms shook with the aftermath of adrenaline. Grass rustled nearby—boots striking ground, rapid footsteps approaching.

"Don't move." His voice was closer now, tight with… was that concern?. She felt his presence at her side, then his hands were on her shoulders, gentle but insistent as he helped her turn over. "Where are you hurt?"

She blinked up at him, momentarily stunned by the intensity of his expression. His mask of cold propriety had completely shattered, replaced by naked worry that made him look younger and broken open. Strange, she thought as her mind churned through confused torrents, the arrogant snarl was… preferable to this.

Their faces were close enough that she could see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, count the tiny freckles scattered across his nose that she'd never noticed before.

"I'm fine," she managed, though her voice came out breathier than intended. "Just... startled. Winded."

His hands moved over her with careful precision, checking for injuries. She found herself distracted by the warmth of his touch, even through layers of clothing.

"My mare," she said, partly to focus on something other than their proximity. "She'll be—"

"Already heading for the stables," he interrupted. "She knows her way home." His hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to examine her eyes. "Follow my finger."

"I told you, I'm fine." But she followed the movement of his finger anyway, if only to avoid meeting his gaze directly. "Though I suppose this is what comes of racing with you.This is truly a victory for you though, isn’t it? I'm sure you're delighted to have something new to lecture me about.

The Viscount actually growled—a low sound that did absolutely nothing to help her composure. "So this is now another fault of mine? Because clearly I orchestrated this entire situation, including that bird, just to prove a point. I shouldn't be surprised that you'd twist my concern into—"

He broke off as she tried to sit up, his arm sliding behind her shoulders to support her. "Careful."

She opened her mouth to retort, but a twinge in her shoulder made her wince instead. His expression darkened.

The world spun slightly again, and Ellana found herself leaning into him more than she'd intended. He was very warm, she noticed distantly, and his riding jacket couldn't quite hide the solid strength beneath. This close, she could feel his heart racing, whether from their ride or her fall, she couldn't tell.

"Can you stand?"

"Of course I can—" She tried to push herself up, but her legs felt distinctly unsteady. His arm tightened around her waist.

"Must you fight every gesture of basic courtesy?”

"Must you treat me like a child who's fallen in the garden?" She said, her legs trembling traitorously.

"Ah yes," his hold tightened just slightly to counterbalance them both, "because children regularly gallop through woods at dawn wearing..." his gaze swept over her riding leathers with pointed disapproval, "...whatever this is meant to be."

“This is perfectly good riding attire! There is nothing so scandalous about it to draw your ire, I—” She tried to wrench away from him, but her legs betrayed her, buckling beneath her weight. The Viscount’s arms caught her before she could fall, drawing her firmly against his chest with an expertise that suggested he'd been anticipating exactly such an attempt.

"Must you be so determined to injure yourself further?" Exasperated, Solas’s grip remained steady, neither loosening nor allowing her the space to try another escape. “Stubborn woman. My horse is just beyond that rise. You'll ride with me."

"I most certainly will not—"

"Would you prefer I carry you back to the estate?"

The mental image of arriving at Vi'Revas in Solas's arms made heat flood her cheeks. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

Ellana scowled at him, but the look in the Viscount’s eyes were steely, promising that he'd have no qualms about slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of grain if she forced the issue.

The idea of being carried back in such an undignified manner made Ellana’s face burn hotter.

"You are insufferable," Ellana muttered, but allowed him to help her to her feet. Her head spun slightly at the change in position, and she found herself gripping his arm tighter than she'd intended. His other hand settled at her waist, steadying her.

"So you frequently remind me." He adjusted his grip as she swayed. "Though at present, I believe I'm being rather accommodating."

"Is that what you call this?" She gestured vaguely at their position, trying to ignore how solid he felt against her side. "I suppose next you'll claim this entire morning was some elaborate plan to demonstrate your... accommodation."

"If I'd planned it," his voice dropped lower, nearly a murmur against her ear, "you wouldn't have fallen before I’d bested you."

Something in his tone made her pulse skip. She turned to look at him, a sharp retort ready on her lips, but the words died as she realized just how close they were. His eyes had darkened to storm-gray, and she could feel the slight tremor in the hand at her waist.

A distant whinny broke the moment. Solas's stallion stood waiting where he'd left it, watching them with what Ellana could have sworn was judgment.

"Come." Solas guided her toward his mount. "The sooner we return, the sooner you can be rid of my insufferable presence."

"I don't need your help to walk."

"Of course not. Just as you don't need my help to mount, I assume?"

Ellana glared at him but didn't protest when he helped her into the saddle. She had enough pride left to manage that much on her own, at least. What she wasn't prepared for was the moment he swung up behind her, his chest pressing against her back as he reached around her for the reins.

"This is entirely unnecessary," she said, hating how breathless she sounded. "I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Of falling again? I think not." His arms bracketed her sides as he gathered the reins, effectively trapping her against him. "Now, shall we continue arguing about your capabilities, or shall we return to the estate before the entire household wakes to witness your triumph over propriety?"

For once, Ellana decided not to argue.

The ride back was torture.

Ellana sat rigid in the saddle, acutely aware of every movement as Solas guided his stallion along the path. Each stride brought another point of contact—his chest against her back, his thighs bracketing hers, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair near her ear. The morning air had grown warmer, but she couldn't blame the heat in her cheeks on the weather.

"You're too tense," he murmured, his voice entirely too close. "You'll make yourself sore."

"I'm perfectly fine." The words came out sharper than intended, brittle with the effort of maintaining composure.

"So you keep insisting." His hands adjusted on the reins, the movement bringing his arms closer around her waist. "Though your spine suggests otherwise. You're not used to riding double."

"I'm not used to being handled like a child."

"Then perhaps you should avoid acting like one." He said, but there was less frostbite in his tone. "I say that realizing that I should be grateful you haven't yet attempted to throw me from the saddle."

"The day is young, my lord."

His soft exhale might have been another laugh. The sound vibrated through her, and she fought to suppress a shiver. His laugh at the lake, in his office, astride his horse and racing her against the sun—it shouldn't be allowed, Ellana thought, no, the Viscount should never laugh like that, it was too much near having a sensation and feeling associated with the sound. She wanted neither from him, needed neither from him.

They rode in silence for several moments, the only sounds their mount's steady breathing and the soft crunch of hooves on the path.

"Your mare," he said finally, "she's Dalish stock.”

“We’d already established this.”

Solas clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Lavellan-bred?"

"Yes." Ellana was grateful for the change in subject. "From my father's bloodline. They're known for their spirit."

"Among other qualities." There was something knowing in his voice. "I noticed she responds to knee pressure alone—no need for reins. A warrior's mount, allowing the hands to be free."

"My people have always been warriors and hunters." She couldn't keep the edge from her words. "A Dalish horse knows how to move beneath a hunter with a bow, how to hold, how to chase through underbrush, how to—what am I saying? These are all things you'd rather I forgot. Since you already know how things are meant to be."

His silence felt weighted.

When Solas spoke again, his voice was quieter. "There are many things I would understand rather than know, Lady Lavellan.”

Before she could process that statement, movement ahead caught their attention. Through the dappled morning light, Captain Rutherford's distinctive red cloak blazed like a warning flag as he led a small search party along the main path. Of course—someone must have seen her mare return riderless.

"Well," she said with forced lightness, "it seems your household's efficiency extends to rescue parties."

"Indeed." Solas's arms tightened fractionally around her as he guided his stallion onto the wider trail. "Though I expect this will provide fresh fodder for the servants' gossip."

"Worried about your reputation, my lord?"

"Hardly. Though you might consider yours."

"Because being seen with you will somehow improve it?"

He made that sound again—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Being seen returned safely might, at least, counter some of the more colorful speculation about your activities."

The search party had spotted them now. She saw Cullen's expression shift from concern to surprise, then settled into that careful neutrality he used as his shield against household politics. Several of the stable hands exchanged meaningful glances at the sight of their proper Viscount astride his stallion with the Dalish lady before him—her practical leather breeches and boots a sharp contrast to his formal attire, her braided hair coming loose from its intricate plaits. The two styles of riding literally merged in one saddle, though neither looked entirely comfortable with the arrangement.

"My lady," Cullen called, spurring his mount forward to meet them. "We saw your mare return alone and feared—" He broke off, gaze moving between them. "Are you quite well?"

"Perfectly fine, Captain," she replied with all the dignity she could muster while pressed against the Viscount's chest. "Though your concern is appreciated, thank you."

"Lady Lavellan had a minor mishap," Solas supplied, sliding past the truth as quickly as he’d done at the garden party. "A startled grouse. No serious harm done."

"I... see." Cullen's eyes lingered on Solas's arms around her waist. "Shall I send for the physician?"

"Should she desire one, though I think it is not necessary based on my own assessment." Solas's voice carried that edge of command that made servants scurry. "You might have someone prepare a hot bath in Lady Lavellan's chambers, however. For the bruising."

Heat flooded Ellana's cheeks at his casual mention of her bath. She felt more than heard his quiet amusement at her reaction, the slight tremor in his chest where it pressed against her back.

"Of course, my lord." Cullen turned his mount, gesturing for the search party to do the same. "We'll ride ahead and make the arrangements."

They watched the party disappear around the bend, hoofbeats fading into morning birdsong. Ellana was acutely aware that they were alone again, and that Solas had made no move to adjust their position despite the wider trail.

"You're enjoying this," she accused quietly.

"Enjoying what, precisely?" His voice was carefully neutral, but she felt the slight hitch in his breathing. "Your continued defiance of every social convention? The inevitable gossip this morning will spark? Or perhaps—" his hands tightened fractionally on the reins, "—you think I take pleasure in your discomfort?"

"Don't you?"

He was silent for several strides. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower, almost intimate. "What I take pleasure in, my lady, is an entirely different matter."

The words sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. Before she could formulate a response, the trees opened up to reveal Vi'Revas's manicured grounds. Already she could see faces at various windows, servants pausing in their morning duties to watch their approach.

"Well," she managed, striving for lightness, "I suppose this will give them something new to whisper about."

"Let them whisper as they will. We shall give them ample cause for speculation, at the very least." There was something almost possessive in how his arms tightened around her as they approached the stable yard. "Though I expect you'll find some way to make today's gossip seem tame by comparison before the week is out."

"Is that a challenge, my lord?"

His soft huff brushed her ear. "Merely an observation. Though if you're seeking challenges..." He let the words trail off as they reached the stable yard, where what seemed like half the household had gathered to witness their return.

Solas dismounted first, his movements fluid despite the morning's exertion. Before she could protest, his hands were at her waist, lifting her down with embarrassing ease. She meant to step away immediately, to put proper distance between them, but her legs felt unsteady from the ride. His hands lingered at her waist, steadying her.

"I trust," he said, pitched for her ears alone, "you'll find your way to your chambers without further incident? Or shall I escort you there as well considering your inability to function as a normal person?"

The heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with exertion now. "I believe I can manage the rest of my morning without your... assistance."

"Debatable." He released her slowly, as if uncertain of her balance. "Though I suppose we'll have plenty of opportunities to discuss your riding form in the future now that your route and habits are known."

She turned to glare at him, but the look in his eyes made the words die in her throat. Something had shifted between them during that mad race through the woods, some barrier cracked or crumbling. The realization was as terrifying as it was thrilling.

"Good day, my lord," she managed, and fled before he could respond.

Ellana slammed her chamber door, her breath coming in harsh pants. The wool of his coat scratched against her neck—another reminder of his insufferable need to play the gallant lord, saving the day and his dainty, foolish woman.

Did he think that made him better than her?!

She yanked it off, hurling it toward her bed with enough force to scatter her pillows. The garment landed in an elegant heap of fine fabric, managing to look as arrogant as its owner even lying there.

Her fingers clenched, remembering how he'd insisted on helping her dismount in front of half the household, as if she were some fragile ornament. She rubbed her hands against her thighs, trying to scrub away the lingering irritation of being managed, controlled, handled like a child who couldn't be trusted to walk unassisted.

No. She was not going to let him occupy any more of her thoughts.

She paced the length of her room, her boots striking the polished floor with sharp, angry steps. Everything about him was a study in contradiction—cold moment, racing through the woods and burning the next. Every time she thought she had his measure, he revealed another facet that defied her expectations. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

Ellana’s gaze fell on his coat again. She should send it back with a servant. That would be the proper thing to do, and wasn't that what he was always insisting upon? Instead, she left it lying there like a battle flag on conquered ground, refusing to touch it again.

She'd have someone return it tomorrow. Or the next day.

Or never.

She growled in frustration, stalking to her dressing room. She needed a bath. A very cold one—if only to wash away the morning's indignities.

Chapter Text

Dear Cullen,

I trust and hope that this letter finds you well in Arlathan. Here on the other side of the world, otherwise known as Ferelden, Branson's children grow more rambunctious by the day—-little Sarah has taken to climbing trees in her new dress, much to her mother's despair. She reminds me of you at that age, though I doubt you were quite so fond of ruining your clothes.

As for our game, after much contemplation, I move my knight to threaten your queen (see my sketch below). You have my permission to weep and beg for mercy should it please you; four weeks is quite the wait to suffer when your defeat is inevitable. Perhaps you’ve thought of something clever, though I should remind you that I’ve already planned three moves ahead, just as I did when we played with carved turnips as children.

The harvest looks promising this year. South Reach has had good weather, and the farmers speak of bumper crops. I know you care little for such matters now, guarding your Lord’s grand estate, but I thought you might like to know home still prospers.

Write soon, dear brother. And do tell me more of the changes in your household. Your last letter mentioned a new lady taking residence—-surely there must be more to share than that? I know little of the courts of Arlathan or its elves, so if you must be so far from home and family you may at least expand our isolation with a more lurid account of this stately affair and your new mistress.

Your loving sister,

Mia

Cullen sat at his small desk, fingertips tracing the chess board Mia had drawn. His sister's familiar handwriting—neat, swirling, aggressive—-brought with it a flurry of memories from an old life. Pieces of him remained there in the soil, rooted like a weed, and grew despite the distance. His thoughts drifted to broken fence posts, a wooden sword, that half-rotten carved turnip chess set, and eternally scraped knees.

Mia’s knight was a problem, and not once he’d easily solve before writing his next letter in return, but it would need to wait. The dawn had barely touched down on the rolling greens and polished stone of the estate, and duty called.

He folded the letter carefully, tucking it into his coat pocket before donning his polished breastplate.

When Cullen began his morning inspection, his thoughts spun in a lazy swirl. Check the estate boundaries. Mind the guard posts, note the general air of the grounds. He pondered Mia’s Knight. And then there was Lady Lavellan.

Last week, the return of Viscount Fen’Harel and Lady Lavellan astride the same steed had the entire household buzzing, and even now servants buzzed like curious bees about their mistress's disheveled appearance, the press of her legs against saddle and stirrup, and their lord's uncharacteristic attentiveness to her teetering balance rather than barbed insults. The hive was well fed with gossip, and this was why such an early hour suited Cullen at present—it's quiet allowing him to move through the estate's carefully ordered world before the household stirred to life. His boots clicked against the marble floors as he made his way through the eastern wing, noting with approval how the guards snapped to attention at his approach. After years commanding Fereldan troops through mud and rain, the estate's pristine halls still felt foreign, though he couldn't deny their beauty.

Ten years in service to Viscount Fen'Harel had taught him every shadow and corner of the estate. He had earned his position through merit rather than connection, rising through the ranks of the Fereldan army before catching the Viscount's attention during the northern campaigns. The position had offered not just advancement but salvation—a chance to rebuild himself away from the temptations that had nearly destroyed him in Ferelden. Solas—though Cullen never used his given name aloud—had offered him command of the estate guard, citing his exemplary record and, more importantly, his reputation for unwavering honesty.

For a decade, life at Vi'Revas had followed its measured rhythms, each day marked by the careful orchestration of servants' duties and nobles' schedules. The Viscount was an exacting master but a fair one, his standards evident in everything from the precisely polished silver to the immaculate arrangement of fresh flowers that appeared each morning in the reception rooms. Then Lady Lavellan arrived, and with her came a subtle defiance of these carefully maintained customs that even Cullen's meticulous planning couldn't anticipate.

Where once he had maintained strict schedules for guard rotations and servant movements, Lady Lavellan's unpredictable habits forced constant adjustments—a challenge that both frustrated and intrigued him. She might be found discussing household accounts with the steward at dawn, or walking the gardens well past dusk, despite all expectations about appropriate hours for a lady's movements. Her tendency to visit the kitchens, speaking directly with the staff rather than sending requests through proper channels, disrupted the careful hierarchy he'd established. Even the library—traditionally silent and orderly—now occasionally echoed with her quiet laughter during visits from Lord Pavus.

He paused by a window overlooking the gardens, remembering the day she first stepped from her carriage.

Cullen had expected someone more reserved, perhaps; the noble ladies he typically encountered were practiced in the art of calculated smiles and careful words. Instead, he had found himself greeting a young woman whose direct gaze and forthright manner reminded him of his own sister, though he doubted Mia had ever caused half as much upheaval in a household.

That first impression had only strengthened over the weeks that followed. He'd watched her navigate the household with a grace that belied her reputation. When the kitchen maid's mother fell ill, Lady Lavellan had not only provided traditional healing herbs but had personally instructed the cook in their preparation. When young Thomas, one of the stable boys, was caught stealing, she had intervened before his dismissal, discovering that the boy's sister was ill and helping arrange proper care for the family.

These were not the actions of someone concerned only with tradition and status. They spoke of a deeper understanding, a wisdom that went beyond the superficial trappings of nobility that so many in Arlathan's court prized.

The sound of approaching footsteps prompted him to turn. "Report," he said, addressing the young guard who had appeared at his elbow.

"All quiet through the night, Captain. Though..." The guard hesitated. "Sera spotted Lady Lavellan in the east wing library again before dawn," the guard reported.

Cullen suppressed a sigh. After yesterday's incident with the horse, he had hoped she might show more caution. The sight of her in Dalish riding leathers had caused quite a stir among the staff—though he had to admit the practical attire suited both her skill and determination better than the restrictive side-saddle habits society preferred. Still, Lady Lavellan had proven remarkably resilient to suggestions about her safety, whether they came from him or the Viscount himself. Even if Viscount Fen’Harel hadn’t chased after her, any other number of things could cause Ellana’s mare to throw her and she would’ve been alone, injured, and with no one knowing to search for her.

"Did anyone accompany her?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"No, sir. She dismissed the servant who offered to escort her."

Of course she had, though there was hardly concern for injury inside the library. Hopefully. It was hard to anticipate anymore.

In the weeks since her arrival, she had systematically dismantled every attempt to constrain her movements. Guards? Dodged and lost in the hedge maze. The Viscount himself? Artfully demeaned at every possible chance. She navigated the estate's halls alone despite convention, and had somehow managed to win the loyalty of half the household staff... including, Cullen admitted privately, himself.

It was hard to dislike someone who so doggedly held to their own identity despite the sweeping tide.

The change in the household was undeniable. Sera, once quick to mock anything "elfy," would even defend Lady Lavellan should someone speak against her. Cole, usually so withdrawn, sought out her company in the gardens, sharing quiet conversations that seemed to leave them both smiling.

In the weeks since her arrival, she had proven remarkably resilient to suggestions about her safety, whether they came from him or the Viscount himself.

"Captain?" The guard shifted, drawing Cullen's attention back. "There was something else. The steward's been requesting more access to the records room lately. For the quarterly accounts, he said."

Cullen nodded. The steward often made such requests during quarterly accounting. "Granted, keep me apprised of any changes to the usual routines."

"Yes, sir." The guard saluted and departed, leaving Cullen to his thoughts.

The morning sun had fully cleared the horizon now, painting the corridor in shades of amber and gold. Soon the household would properly stir—servants hurrying about their morning tasks, the kitchen preparing breakfast, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Lady Lavellan would emerge from the library with ink-stained fingers and that look of fierce concentration she wore when pursuing some new line of inquiry.

The sight always left him… oddly unsettled.

In his years of service, he had observed countless noble ladies affecting scholarly interests—poetry recited in manicured gardens, philosophy discussed over delicate teacups. Lady Lavellan's dedication struck a different chord. She approached her studies with the same intensity he had once seen in battlefield strategists, her small desk in the library becoming a command center of sorts, strewn with documents and trading ledgers as she still yet strove to manage the Lavellan estate from afar in conjunction with her aunt.

As she no doubt searched for some method to keep the Lavellan estate and business separate from her upcoming nuptials, at which point her lord husband would own them, which was the normal manner of things.

It was... concerning, he told himself, how she defied convention so openly. A lady of her station should maintain distance, and leave such matters to her future husband's steward. Yet he caught himself marveling at her dedication, the way she sought to understand every aspect of the estate she would one day help manage while doggedly defending her own holdings. Even the Viscount, for all his initial disdain, had grown quiet when Cullen reported finding her asleep at her desk one dawn, her fingers stained with ink and her notes revealing an astute grasp of complex calculation and negotiations.

Such contemplations ill-befitted his station, he knew. His role was to observe and protect, not to form opinions about his future lady's disposition. Still, watching her transform the household through small acts of defiance and genuine care, he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps—

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He turned, expecting another guard, only to find Viscount Fen'Harel himself striding down the corridor, his expression unreadable as always.

"Your morning report, Captain?"

"All quiet through the night, my lord." Cullen offered the brief assessment without elaboration. The household's daily routines, even Lady Lavellan's early rising, hardly warranted mention unless they posed a security risk.

The Viscount nodded, though his gaze lingered on the library door farther down the hall. A slight tension in his jaw suggested he was already aware of his future wife's location—whether through the normal rhythms of the household or his own observation, Cullen couldn't say.

"The grounds?"

"Secure. Though..." Cullen hesitated, this detail worth mentioning, "there have been reports of unfamiliar riders along the estate's northern boundary. Nothing concerning yet, but I've doubled the patrols in that area."

"Keep me informed of any changes." Solas's tone was clipped, businesslike. "I'll be in my study this morning should anything require my attention."

Cullen watched his lord's departure, noting how Solas's steps slowed almost imperceptibly as he passed the library. The morning sun caught the silver threading in his formal coat, a reminder of the carefully maintained image the Viscount presented to the world. An image that seemed increasingly at odds with the quiet changes taking place within his household.

The Viscount disappeared around the corner, and Cullen descended the main stairs toward the estate's entrance hall. His thoughts turned to the note that had arrived yesterday afternoon, delivered by one of trusted lieutenants of one of his contacts—a brief message requesting an early morning meeting. Cullen had read it between guard rotations, the familiar sight of stylized horns on the seal bringing back memories of their campaigns in the north. As the leader of a prominent mercenary company that protected merchant caravans throughout Arlathan, the Iron Bull's intelligence network often proved invaluable. While their paths rarely crossed now, Bull never sent word without good reason.

Sunlight streamed through the high windows as Cullen reached the entrance hall, where a familiar shadow darkened the doorway. Iron Bull's massive frame filled the space with the same commanding presence Cullen remembered from their campaigns in the north, though the mercenary captain had exchanged battle-worn armor for a merchant's finery. The well-cut leather coat and properly tailored breeches did little to diminish his warrior's bearing or the keen intelligence in his remaining eye.

"Commander," Bull greeted him with a slight nod of the head, "Or is it Captain now? Nice promotion. Much cleaner work than our days up north."

"Captain," Cullen confirmed, shaking the offered hand. "Though I didn't expect to see you in person. Your note mentioned concerns about the northern trade routes?"

"The kind of concerns better discussed privately," Bull replied, his single eye sweeping the hall with practiced assessment. "Got somewhere we can talk?"

"My office. This way." Cullen led him toward the eastern wing, noting how Bull moved with surprising grace for his size, taking in every detail of their surroundings. Whatever had brought the mercenary captain to Vi'Revas estate, Cullen suspected it was more serious than his usual riff raff.

His office, a modest room tucked away from the estate's grander spaces, reflected the practical nature of his position—neither quite servant nor noble, but something carefully in between. Maps lined the walls, and a polished desk held neatly arranged reports. The morning light filtering through tall windows caught the brass fittings of his military medals, displayed not out of pride but as a reminder of the costs of negligence.

Bull settled into the room's sturdiest chair, which still creaked beneath his weight. His eye moved from the maps to the medals, then to the fresh guard rotation schedules on Cullen's desk. "Nice setup. Very organized. But then, you always were particular about order, weren't you, Commander?"

"Captain," Cullen corrected mildly, though the old title stirred memories of rain-soaked battlefields and hard-won victories. He remained standing, a habit born of countless military briefings. "And order has become more crucial than ever, especially with recent changes in the household."

"Ah yes, the future viscountess." Bull's tone was carefully neutral, but his eye glinted with interest. "Word travels about that one. Quite the stir she's causing in certain circles."

"Lady Lavellan conducts herself with all the necessary composure of a lady of her standing," Cullen responded, perhaps too quickly. Bull's knowing look made him add, more measured, "Though she does present unique… challenges. On occasion."

"Always diplomatic." Bull leaned forward, his expression growing serious. "But we're not here to discuss household gossip. I’m not much for the lives of fancy nobles or their melodrama; I've been noticing patterns along the northern trade routes. The kind of patterns that make my Ben-Hassrath training itch."

Cullen's jaw tightened. Bull never invoked his intelligence training lightly. "Tell me."

"Our mercenaries have been monitoring the trade routes between several of the noble houses, including Vi'Revas, and the northern territories," Bull said, his casual tone belied by the intensity of his gaze. "At first, the pattern seemed typical—scattered bandit attacks, the usual risks to merchant caravans. But there's something deliberate about it."

Cullen moved to the maps on his wall, fingers tracing the familiar routes. Each line represented not just trade paths but the lifeblood of estates like Vi'Revas. Strange, how his military training had prepared him to defend silk shipments and tea consignments rather than territory.

"Deliberate how?"

"The attacks are too precise." Bull joined him at the map, his bulk casting a shadow over the carefully inked pathways.

"They're targeting specific caravans—only those carrying goods marked for certain estates. And here's the interesting part: the attackers vary. Sometimes they present as common highwaymen. Other times..." He paused, watching Cullen's reaction. "Other times, they bear distinctly Dalish markings."

Cullen frowned, studying the marked trade routes. "The Dalish don’t raid."

"At least not in recent decades, yes, but this was recovered from one of them." Bull withdrew a small token from his coat—a clan marker in the form of a belt buckle. "Look at the craftsmanship."

Cullen took the marker, turning it in his hands. The metal work was good, the edges crisp and unmarred by wear. Too perfect for something meant to be worn by a supposed highwayman. "New."

"Exactly. No scratches, no weather damage. Like it was made yesterday." Bull's eye narrowed. "And the attacks themselves—the 'Dalish' raiders hit caravans as if they didn't know Dalish trading patterns. Made amateur mistakes no clan would make."

Cullen thought of Lady Lavellan bent over her ledgers in the library. The timing with her arrival at the estate was... curious, at least. "You think these incidents are connected?"

"I think there are no coincidences in trade wars, Captain. But I need more evidence before I'm certain of anything. And there's more. My contacts report unusual movement of goods through the city—luxury items, documents, things that suggest someone's preparing for a significant event. Or planning to create one."

"I'll need to inform the Viscount," Cullen said, though the words tasted bitter. More complications, more threats to the delicate peace he'd worked so hard to maintain. "But first, tell me everything you've observed. Every detail, no matter how small."

Bull nodded, settling back into his chair. "Hope you've got fresh tea, Commander. This could take a while."

"Captain," Cullen corrected again, but without heat. Some battles, he'd learned, weren't worth fighting. He pulled the guard rotation schedules closer, ready to take notes. "Start with the first attack. When exactly did this pattern begin…?"

The morning had stretched toward noon by the time Cullen and Bull left the office, their discussion having covered every detail of the trade route disruptions. As they approached the Viscount's study to inform him, the sound of voices carried through the corridors—one precise and cold, the other carrying an edge of barely contained frustration.

"—cannot simply ignore these decisions indefinitely." The Viscount's voice held that particular strain of patience that suggested it was wearing decidedly thin. "Whether we find this situation agreeable or not—"

"Oh, shall we discuss what we find agreeable?" Lady Lavellan's laugh carried no warmth. "Since you raised the subject, I find none of this agreeable. Not the flowers, not the guest list, not how you’ve declined the presence of clan musicians, and certainly not your continued attempts to drag me deeper into the pageantry of this affair—"

Cullen halted at a discrete distance from the study door, Bull following suit. Through the gap, they could see Lady Lavellan standing near the window, a bundle of papers crushed in her grip.

"My lady, not only will I drag you, I will tie you to the altar if you continue to act like a stubborn farm animal. And no. Absolutely not. I will not have Dalish music at my wedding," Solas said, his voice sharp with finality.

"Your wedding?" Ellana turned from the window. "Strange, I thought I was required to be there as well. Oh, unless—pray tell, have you found a more suitable bride to condemn to this fate? That I would find most agreeable, and heartily give my congratulations."

"If only I could substitute you with any other living woman. I am no less enamoured by the prospect of binding myself to you, seeing that is no doubt the beginnings of a long life of aggravations, my lady, though you might at least do me the courtesy of not disturbing my papers while you argue."

"Does it bother you?" She touched another stack, watching his jaw tighten. "Having things out of their proper place? Touching your things?"

"What bothers me is your persistent need to disrupt everything you touch."

"Perhaps if you weren't persistent about being a stick in the mud, I wouldn't feel compelled to test your limits."

"Your opinions on my limits were neither requested nor required." Solas's tone could have frozen flame. "We could’ve already been finished by now. Yet here you are, disrupting my morning for no other reason but spite. What will it take for you to realize that society demands certain appearances be maintained by the both of us. They are important."

"Then by all means, maintain them alone, if they are so important to you. I'm sure you'll choose flowers that properly reflect your exacting standards. No wildflowers, of course, too provincial." She turned from the window, her composure cracking just enough to reveal genuine anger beneath. "After all, isn't that what you've wanted? To reshape everything Dalish into your notion of proper society?"

Bull shot Cullen a look that managed to convey both surprise and appreciation. Cullen could only offer a slight shrug in response. He'd learned weeks ago that Lady Lavellan's ability to transform seemingly trivial domestic discussions into pointed political commentary was as impressive as it was inconvenient.

"What I want," Solas replied, each word precisely weighted, "is irrelevant. As, it seems, are the basic courtesies of completing necessary arrangements for an event neither of us can avoid."

"It is fitting." Ellana's smile held no warmth. "Our first point of agreement: the mutual understanding that this is an obligation to be endured rather than a union to be celebrated. Or that I have any care for your desires. With that in mind, then, perhaps calla lilies?"

“... those are for funerals and mourning.”

“Precisely.”

Cullen cleared his throat, loud enough to announce their presence before the tension could crystallize into something worse. Both Solas and Ellana turned, their expressions smoothing into polite masks with practiced ease, though the air between them remained sharp enough to cut.

"My Lord, my Lady," Cullen said, stepping into the doorway. "I apologize for the interruption, but there are matters requiring your immediate attention."

Solas's gaze shifted from Ellana to his visitors, though Cullen noted how the Viscount's attention drifted back to her like a compass finding north. Even if it was only to glare.

"Captain Rutherford. And...?"

"The Iron Bull, my lord." Cullen gestured to his companion. "Commander of the Chargers mercenary company. They protect many of the merchant caravans along the northern trade routes. We served together during the northern campaigns."

Bull offered a slight bow, seeming to fill the study with his presence. "An honor, Lord Fen'Harel."

"I trust this interruption carries sufficient weight to warrant it?" Solas asked.

"The northern trade routes have seen some concerning developments," Cullen said. "Bull brings reports that require your immediate attention."

"Lady Lavellan, if you would excuse us—" Solas rose from behind his desk, drawing himself to his full height. His fingers stilled on the document's edge. "I would prefer to give these matters my immediate attention."

"Actually," Bull interrupted, "the lady's insight into Dalish trading practices could prove invaluable. These patterns suggest familiarity with routes known primarily to clan merchants."

Solas straightened behind his desk, his fingers pressing against the polished wood. "These matters concern estate security. Hardly appropriate topics for a lady's attention."

Bull withdrew the buckle from his coat. He'd barely set it on the desk when Ellana stepped forward.

"May I see that?" Without waiting for permission, she picked up the clan marker.

"My lady," Solas's voice carried the same warning tone he used for particularly stupid servants, "this is not—"

The silence in Solas's study stretched as Ellana held the forged clan marker. Her fingers traced the lines with practiced familiarity, her frown deepening.

"These markings are wrong," she said simply. "The tributary lines flow in the wrong direction, and this section here is incorrectly drawn. Though I'm sure my expertise is unwelcome here."

Cullen watched the muscle in Solas's jaw tighten. The Viscount clearly wanted to dismiss her, but doing so would mean ignoring potentially valuable information—a fact that appeared to irritate him almost as much as her presence.

"How significant are these errors?"

"They're basic elements of clan markings. Any Dalish craftsman would know better." She set the marker down on Solas's desk.

Solas's fingers drummed once against his desk—the only outward sign of his internal struggle. The evidence before them suggested something more organized than simple banditry.

"The attacks targeting Dalish caravans," he said, addressing Bull while pointedly ignoring Ellana's presence, "you mentioned they followed a pattern?"

"Yes, my lord. Always during the third week of the month." Bull's single eye narrowed thoughtfully. "Started noticing it about two months back. Same story each time—raids that look Dalish, but the tactics are all wrong."

"Wrong how?" Cullen asked.

"Dalish traders know the routes, the timing. These attacks..." Bull shook his head. "It's like they're trying too hard to make it look Dalish."

“Are any of the attacks on Dalish stock by other Dalish?”

“Not that we’ve seen, my lord, no.”

Solas rose from his desk, moving to study the map on his wall where Cullen had marked the recent patrol routes. "And you're certain about the timing?"

"The Chargers don't make mistakes about these things, my lord."

The room fell quiet as they considered the implications. Ellana studied the clan marker again, her expression troubled.

"Keep watching the routes," Solas finally said. "I want to know the moment anything changes."

Bull nodded and rose to leave. "Come on, Captain. Let me show you where we've positioned our scouts. Might help with your own patrol rotations at this estate."

"Actually, Mr. Bull, I would have a moment, if you would." Ellana's voice held none of the tension that had marked her earlier exchanges with Solas. She turned to Bull with an easy smile. "The Chargers protected House Sabrae's caravans last spring, didn't they?"

"It’s just Iron Bull, my lady. And that we did," Bull confirmed, his single eye gleaming with interest. "Nasty business with those raiders near the western pass. Your own father used to advise their trade routes, if I remember right. Met him a few times during the negotiations years back; sharp man, knew every hidden path from here to the northern shores."

"The old hunting trails," Ellana said with proud glint in her eyes. "They're rarely marked on outsider maps. You worked with my father?"

"No, but that intel still saved us a hell of a fight. Wish more nobles had that kind of practical knowledge." Bull's approval was evident. "Speaking of which, I’ve heard more than a few interesting rumors about a certain young Dalish upstart who may or may not’ve tried to drown her intended at a party…"

Solas watched this exchange with growing displeasure, noting how Ellana's usual sharp edges softened around the mercenary captain. Was it because of her uncommon exposure to such kind of folk in the harbor? It was true that the Lady Lavellan spent more time there than any ball or gentry event, so her experience with the more unpolished folk vastly overextended past her time with nobility. Her laugh at Bull's next comment held none of the cold politeness she reserved for their own conversations. Clearly she saved all her malice for such occasions with special zeal. She reserved her sharpest edges, it seemed, solely for their own encounters.

"Captain Rutherford," Solas said, his voice cutting through their discussion. "Perhaps you might accompany The Iron Bull to survey these routes yourself. If any attack sites are within reasonable distance, a firsthand assessment would prove valuable." He turned to Bull. "I trust you'll find suitable compensation for your time spent agreeable?"

"Always do, my lord." Bull's grin suggested he caught the subtle dismissal beneath Solas's courteous tone. "Come on, Commander. Daylight's burning, and I've got stories about the northern campaigns that'll make your hair curl."

"Captain," Cullen corrected. He remained standing, years of military briefings making the posture automatic. Though trade route security lay beyond his duties to Vi'Revas estate, the implications for both his Lord's interests and Lady Lavellan's remaining family holdings made the matter worth investigating.

The tension in the room shifted as they prepared to leave. Where Lady Lavellan had shown easy warmth with Bull—and even, Cullen had to admit, a degree of comfortable familiarity with himself—her exchanges with Solas crackled with barely contained hostility. Even now, she turned from them with the rigid posture that seemed reserved solely for her interactions with her future husband.

Their ride proved less enlightening than hoped. The countryside bore the usual signs of banditry—disturbed earth where wagons had veered off course, scattered debris from hasty raids—but nothing to distinguish these attacks from the dozens Cullen had investigated during his military service. Bull's network of informants painted a concerning pattern, yet, without concrete evidence, they could do little but maintain vigilance. Bull's tales of the northern campaigns filled their ride home—stories of mutual acquaintances, battles long past, and the subtle politics of mercenary contracts. Yet even these familiar reminiscences couldn't ease Cullen's growing unease about the pattern taking shape along their trade routes.

It was likely nothing of importance, though old habits died hard, and his disquiet remained.

Thankfully, there was very little that a good meal could not soothe.

Following the ride with Bull and his departure, Cullen set out to seek such a thing out, and the servants' dining hall remained quiet at this hour, caught between the lunch service and evening preparations. Cullen often took his meals here rather than alone in his quarters; the privacy of a quiet room had an odd way of falling short of an erratic servants' dining room or even the kitchen itself. Today he found Sera already at table with Cole, while Mr. Harrit occupied his usual place at the head, his position as steward marked by a slightly higher chair.

"There's the Captain, back from his ride," Sera said, pushing a bowl of stew toward him. "Heard you went all the way to the north road with that big mercenary fellow. Bit of a brute, ain’t he? What’s a straight laced duddy like you doing with his type?"

"Mind your tone," Harrit warned, though without much force. "The Captain's business is his own."

Cullen accepted the bowl with a nod of thanks. "It’s alright. I know the Iron Bull from before my time here at Vi’Revas, and he always brings with him solid information—though I wouldn't mind knowing how you learned of our destination so quickly, Sera. You also have a knack for intelligence."

"Oh, Thomas saw you both heading that way," Sera grinned. "Right before her ladyship snuck out for a ride."

Cullen sighed into a bite of stew. Of course. Sneaking out to ride when the guard captain was similarly out… smart, if not frustrating.

"Has she resumed then?" asked Harrit, attempting to sound merely dutiful rather than curious. "After the incident, I mean."

"She still rides each day," Cole offered softly, breaking his bread into careful pieces. "But she's not alone anymore. He follows, watching, waiting. She pretends not to see."

“Oh? He went with her then?”

Cole nodded.

"His lordship's taken to riding more frequently," Cullen clarified, noting how even Harrit leaned forward slightly with interest. "Though… Lady Lavellan seems particularly skilled at finding paths that take her in opposite directions."

Sera snorted. "Bet that goes well."

"Three times round the east paddock yesterday," Thomas added, slipping into an empty seat. "Her ladyship just kept riding in circles till his lordship gave up and left."

"Thomas," Harrit's tone sharpened. "That's enough gossip about your betters."

But Sera was already grinning. "What I wouldn't give to see his face. All proper and lordly, watching her just ride round and round..."

"It is not our place to speculate," Cullen reminded them, though the mental image did quirk his lips into a small amused smile.

"She hums while she rides," Cole said. "Old songs about halla and forests. They remind her of home."

A brief silence fell over the table. Even Sera's usual sharp humor softened at this observation. Cullen focused on his stew, thinking of Mia's letters about homesickness during her first years of marriage.

"Well," Harrit cleared his throat. "The stables, at least, are better for the exercise. Both mounts need the attention, and her ladyship has a good eye for horse flesh."

Coming from the steward, this qualified as high praise indeed.

The conversation turned to other matters—the upcoming quarter's accounts, a loose shutter that needed fixing, speculation about when the first frost would arrive following the end of summer and beginning of fall. But Cullen caught Sera and Thomas exchanging knowing looks when Harrit mentioned the household seemed more "lively" of late.

After his meal, and feeling somewhat pacified, Cullen returned to his own quarters for a time. He still needed to write a reply for Mia’s letter. And to handle her knight, a problem that had him thinking through the moves in his head… and without a solution, even by the time the afternoon gave way to evening in measured degrees, like a sigh of relief after holding proper posture too long. He glanced out his window, watching shadows lengthen across the formal gardens. A few late roses still clung to their stems, refusing to acknowledge autumn's approach.

He saw that Lord Fen'Harel's study light still burned, as it often did at this hour. But lately, Cullen had noticed his lordship's own rounds expanding, crossing paths that inevitably led past the library. If asked, Solas would claim simple oversight of his household. Yet there was something in the way he lingered, in the careful attention he paid to every detail of those encounters, that spoke of deeper currents.

Cullen understood such currents all too well. They pulled at him too, though duty anchored him safely to his post. Better to focus on his rounds, on the familiar path that would carry him past both study and library. Past the silent dialogue unfolding between their occupants, whether they acknowledged it or not.

His evening rounds beckoned. The estate grounds were different after sunset. Moonlight silvered the carefully tended paths, and the evening air carried the lingering warmth of the day's sun from the stone walls. His boots crunched softly on the gravel as he made his way through the formal gardens, marking the changing of the guard at each post.

He almost missed her at first—a pale figure seated on one of the stone benches near the ornamental pond. Lady Lavellan's head was tilted back, seemingly lost in contemplation of the stars scattered across the clear night sky. No chaperone, no maid in attendance. The impropriety of it made him hesitate.

"You needn't lurk in the shadows, Captain," she said without turning. "I promise not to push you into any fountains."

"I—-ah. Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable." He stepped forward. "It is only that it is rather late for the gardens, I had not expected to see you here at this hour."

Or anyone, actually.

"So I've been told. Repeatedly." A trace of weariness colored her usual sharp tone. "Though I suspect you're too much a gentleman to physically remove me from my spot."

"I would never presume, my lady." Cullen remained standing, hands clasped behind his back. "Though I am obligated to note that solitary wanderings at this hour are... unconventional."

"Conventional." She gave a soft laugh. "Everything in this estate must be conventional, proper, ordered." Her fingers traced idle patterns on the stone bench. "Tell me, Captain, in all your years here, has there ever been a genuine threat to anyone's safety in these gardens?"

"No," he admitted. "Though that may be precisely because we maintain such vigilance."

"A fair point." She shifted on the bench, making room in a clear invitation.

It was also, clearly, a terrible idea: unchaperoned and alone, should wandering eyes find them like this, both Cullen’s employment and the Lady Lavellan’s reputation were in jeopardy. In normal circumstances, a situation like this would never be allowed to come to pass. In normal circumstances, Cullen would straighten his spine and insist, no, order she go back inside and alert the Viscount.

He hesitated, weighing duty against decorum. This was, without question, absolutely beyond the boarders of propriety to remain here, but… to… refuse her… while it would align with every social expectation…

Lady Lavellan’s moods were as mercurial as they were challenging. No typical dealings seemed effective against her. His lordship would not thank him for souring her temper. Surely, Cullen thought, if he stayed, the Viscount might understand…?

After a moment's hesitation, he accepted, maintaining a respectful distance.

The fountain's quiet music filled the silence between them. From this angle, the estate's windows glowed like distant stars, each light marking some late task or duty being attended to. Even now, the machinery of Vi'Revas turned in its precise, measured way.

"May I ask you something, Captain?" When he nodded, she continued, "How long have you served at Vi'Revas?"

"Ten years, my lady."

"A considerable time." She turned her attention from the stars to study him. "What drew a human military officer from Ferelden to serve as Guard Captain at a noble elvhen estate in Arlathan?"

"Lord Fen'Harel offered the position after the joint northern campaigns. His reputation in military circles made it an honor to accept." Cullen kept his tone measured, professional. "The transition from battlefield to estate proved less difficult than one might expect. Both require discipline, attention to detail…"

"And does the Viscount's love of order stem from his military background as well?"

"The estate's management predates my arrival, my lady. Though I confess, it suited my own inclinations well enough."

"I imagine my inclinations are quite troublesome for your own, then," she said, her eyes finding his own. "My morning rides, for instance.”

Cullen stilled, suddenly feeling rather pinned under her gaze.

“I heard that his lordship came to find me that morning following a security report. Am I to assume that was one of yours? And now you’ve discovered me here.”

"I…”

“Will this also be reported and therefore despoiled by his company tomorrow evening?"

“… My duty requires that I maintain the estate's security, my lady," Cullen said carefully. "Including the safety of its future mistress."

"And what of my independence? My right to walk my own gardens without constant observation?" She turned her gaze back to the stars. "I hardly think it too much to ask, even in a household where even the roses must bloom according to schedule."

"The Viscount's concerns for your safety are not entirely misplaced." Cullen straightened, his military bearing reasserting itself. "A fall from horseback with no witnesses, no immediate aid..."

"I have been riding since before I could walk, Captain."

"Your skill is not in question. But even the finest rider may meet with an accident." He paused. "The staff would be devastated should harm come to you. They have grown quite fond of their future mistress."

"The staff?" Her voice carried a note of gentle challenge. "Not their lord?"

"It would be presumptuous of me to speak to his lordship's feelings on any matter."

"Yet you spoke of his concerns mere moments ago." She rose from the bench, smoothing her skirts. "Fear not, Captain. I shall return to my cage before the hour grows too scandalous. We would not want tomorrow's report to require multiple pages."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"My lady," Cullen stood as propriety demanded. "If I have given offense-"

"Not at all. You perform your duties admirably." She took a step toward the path to leave.

Cullen watched her start to withdraw, remembering how his sister Mia had once chafed against their family's restrictions after their parents' deaths. He'd been so young then, so certain that rules existed only to be followed. Now, with years of experience tempering that youthful absolutism...

"My—my lady—-”

This was a mistake. He knew it. The words fell out of his mouth anyway.

“—-the hour it… it is in truth not so very late.”

She paused, turning back. "Captain?"

"If you wished to remain longer," he found himself saying, "I could—ah, I could amend my rounds. Do a more… intensive review of these gardens for a time before continuing on. With a guard present, there could be… less… cause for concern. Though it is not entirely proper."

Ellana's eyes widened slightly. "That is... unexpectedly kind, Captain. Though I would not wish to place you in an awkward position with your lord."

"Vi'Revas draws more attention than you may be accustomed to, my lady. There are those who would consider the future Viscountess an appealing target." He paused. "But that does not mean you must be confined. A guard's presence satisfies both safety and social requirements."

"A clever solution." She studied him with new interest. "I had not thought..." She stopped, then tried again. "You surprise me, Captain Rutherford."

He surprised himself.

His fingers tightened on his sword hilt, a nervous habit from his earliest days of training. Ten years of following every rule, filing every report, maintaining every boundary. Yet here he stood, suggesting... what exactly? Extra patrols just to allow a lady her moment of stargazing? It struck him as foreign as the way his pulse quickened when she smiled. Both required careful consideration, preferably from a proper distance.

And what certainly required more consideration: Cullen’s stark lack of regret for making the offer in the first place. He forced his fingers to relax their grip.

"I have found that duty sometimes requires some… base… understanding as well as vigilance. I will not claim to have mastered that, but I try." He gestured to the bench. "The stars are particularly clear tonight."

A genuine smile touched her lips.

"They are indeed." She returned to her seat, and looked him over with an appraising eye. "Do you know the constellations, Captain?"

“Only a few, my lady,” Cullen said, inextricably caught when Ellana did take to the bench once more. The roses cast dappled shadows across the garden bench, their unpruned canes draping like a bower overhead. Lady Lavellan sat beneath their arch, moonlight catching the clasp of a silver necklace about her neck, flashing on the ink on her cheekbones to turn the delicate vallaslin around her eyes to strands of starlight. A cool breeze stirred the climbing vines, sending a shower of late petals drifting around her shoulders, and he had to turn his gaze away. "Though I would not object to learning more."

”And I would not object to a willing student. Will you sit with me, Captain?”

Her smile was devastating. He was in danger.

The stone bench was cool beneath him as Cullen settled at its far end, measuring the distance—-close enough to speak quietly, far enough to prevent any… anything.

"Then allow me to point out Corona Borealis. See there?" She traced the pattern with one elegant finger. "The crown of stars..."

Her voice lifted as she traced each star pattern, her hand following the paths she said her father and mother had traced for her countless times before. The stiffness in her shoulders melted away, replaced by a slow, sumptuous flow of movement. This was an indulgence to her, to hold a cherished memory, and then share it. When she mentioned the Andruil’s Bow, he found himself pointing to a different cluster.

"In Ferelden, that one’s called the Broken Cart," he said. "Farmers watch it turn through summer nights, marking time until harvest."

She leaned forward, following his gesture. "And that bright star there—-what do your people call it?"

"The Soldier's Eye." He watched her trace the new pattern. "Though I prefer your crown of stars."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"The Broken Cart," she repeated softly, testing the foreign name. "Your farmers must be more practical than our poets."

A petal drifted onto her shoulder. Without thinking, Cullen's hand lifted to brush it away. He caught himself, fingers curling back to his side. Such familiarity was unthinkable.

"My sister used to tell me the old tales," he said, too quickly. "On winter nights when the snow was too deep for father's cart to reach town. She would say the gods broke the wheel themselves, to keep us home where it was warm."

"And did you believe her?"

"I was young enough to believe anything she told me." The memory softened his voice. "Though I preferred the stories of great battles written in the stars."

"Of course you did." Her laugh was quiet, intimate in the darkness. "And now? What stories do you see up there, Captain?"

I see danger, he thought, watching moonlight silver the curve of her cheek. The night was too gentle, the shadows too kind. He should end this now, escort her inside, return to his duties.

"I see..." He cleared his throat. "That… I have delayed longer than I intended, my lady, and the rest of my rounds await."

"So they do." But she made no move to rise, her face still turned to the stars. "Tell me, Captain, do you… truly believe anyone lies in wait to harm me here? In these gardens? There are people who would relish in my downfall, yes, but you seem to believe that there is a risk of actual physical harm."

"Such a thing will never be allowed, my lady. But you must know that Vi'Revas attracts levels of scrutiny and attention your family's estate never did. There are those who would..." He stopped, aware he had already said too much.

"Use me to strike at Lord Fen'Harel?" The moonlight caught her profile as she turned to him, catching a sharper edge to her face. "I’ve considered that. It seems a great insult to me, really, that my best use may be in perishing to blemish the reputation of a man that I would—-under any other circumstance—-would quite enjoy seeing blemished."

Her words carried an edge of bitterness that made him want to argue, to tell her what he had observed these past weeks. But that way lay greater danger still.

"As I said, such a thing will never be permitted to pass. You have my word, my lady. Now, the paths are well-guarded," he said instead, standing, “but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not see you safely to the door."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Ellana rose, brushing stray petals from her skirts. "Very well, I suppose I can behave for a single instance since you’ve gone out of your way to indulge me. I’m not sure how I feel about it, Captain; you are uniquely gifted in making your surveillance feel friendly.”

"My lady—"

"No, forgive me. That was unkind." She shook her head. "You showed me a kindness tonight I had not expected. I should not repay it with spite."

They walked in silence through the moonlit gardens, their shadows stretching long across the gravel paths. At the entrance to the east wing, Ellana paused.

"I realize that I forgot something. Thank you, Captain Rutherford," she said, her expression softening. “It… has been some time since I’ve been able to speak with someone else here so openly.”

Something in her candor made him glance down. In the silver-washed darkness, he saw not the defiant lady who challenged her lord at every turn, but a young woman far from home, trying to carve out some small space for herself.

"The stars will be clear again tomorrow night, my lady," he said. "And I find my evening rounds often take me through the eastern gardens."

She met his gaze, a small smile touching her lips. "Then perhaps we might continue our astronomy lessons. I would enjoy hearing more about Ferelden's interpretations of the constellations."

"I will need to learn more myself, then, to have such interpretations to share with you."

He bowed, watching until she disappeared inside before resuming his rounds, though his eyes often turned upwards for the rest of the evening.

The quiet hours between rotations was always an odd one. They had been especially odd since the other evening.

Cullen shed his formal coat and polished breastplate, leaving him in just his linen shirt and well-worn leather breeches in an attempt to relax. Paradoxically, being bared usually only served in putting him more on edge and ill at ease than before.

Fresh parchment lay before him on the small desk on the far wall from his bed. This, his third attempt at writing to Mia, was little better than previous iterations apart from fewer scratched out lines. The failed attempts lay discarded in the small waste basket and crumpled on the floor, all evidence of his struggle to frame this peculiar request.

Dear Sister,

I trust this letter finds you and the family well in South Reach. Your last correspondence about Branson's children brought welcome cheer to my duties here.

He paused, tapping his quill against the inkwell. How to phrase this without inviting Mia's relentless questioning? Ink dotted the corner of his sleeve, and he absently rolled it back, revealing forearms tanned from hours of training in the yard.

I write to ask if you recall any of Father's teachings about the night sky, particularly star patterns, their use, and tales associated. The Broken Cart, for example, has recently become pertinent, though I find that I have forgotten most if not all of the others. Any details about Fereldan constellations would be most welcome, especially those visible during autumn months.

Cullen grimaced, knowing this sudden interest would spark his sister's curiosity. But pride stayed his hand from scratching out the words again. He had faced down armies; surely he could weather Mia's inevitable teasing…

He grimaced.

But perhaps not.

A clock chimed the quarter-hour somewhere in the estate's depths, the sound drifting through his open window along with the scent of late blooming flowers. Soon he would need to don his uniform again, resume his role as the estate's stern Guard Captain, and she may once again be out there gazing upwards, but for now—

Estate matters continue much as usual, though—

He stopped, considering how much to share about the household's recent changes. Better to say nothing than risk his sister reading between the lines.

—I find myself with new duties that make studying the night sky particularly relevant.

Time to seal this letter before he wrote something he'd regret. Mia would likely mock his newfound astronomical interests regardless, but at least she might share their father's stories.

P.S. - Move my bishop to d4. Let's see how confident you remain about that knight of yours when your queen's flank lies exposed.

A rap at his door made him straighten instinctively. "Quarter hour to rotation, Captain," called one of his guards.

"Acknowledged," he replied, already reaching for his formal coat.

Several days later, Cullen accompanied Lady Lavellan on her morning walk through the gardens, all too aware of the study window looming above them. The morning dew still clung to the lavender borders, releasing their fragrance as her skirts brushed past. Small sprigs of crystal grace and embrium wound through her dark hair today, catching the early light. Nearby, gardeners moved methodically among the flowerbeds, their tools clicking softly against the stone paths as they worked to tame unruly hedges and weeds. A housemaid paused by the far trellis to adjust a drooping vine, glancing briefly in their direction before returning to her task.

It was good that they were here, Cullen thought, they were witnesses. Buffers. That evening, alone , in the garden was danger. Walking at her side now, in the sunlight, with the rest of the estate staff milling about shielded her from scrutiny.

More importantly, it reminded him of his place on the board, and the delicate boundaries between the white and black tiles that separated pawns from queens.

She pointed out various herbs she'd discovered growing wild among the formal beds. Wild things, she called them, a pleased, affectionate lilt to her voice. And also old friends. Shh, you must promise me you won't tell the gardener you've seen them.

He promised. He wondered how many more secrets she'd give to him, and how many she'd ask him to keep.

"And this one," she said, touching a growing sprig of elfroot, "can be brewed into a tea that eases headaches."

He leaned closer to examine the plant, noting how the leaves curled at their edges, the flatter, broad portions always turned towards the sun. "The Fereldan army uses it in field medicine, though I didn't know about the tea."

Her laugh at his observation drew his attention upward, where he caught a glimpse of Lord Fen'Harel at his desk, his stern profile outlined against the window glass. The Viscount appeared absorbed in his work, yet something in his rigid posture suggested otherwise.

Cullen stepped back slightly, maintaining a more appropriate distance as he cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should continue our tour of the eastern gardens, my lady."

“Oh? Is there something there?”

“I have it on good authority, that another smattering of your old friends may be growing by the lilacs.”

As they walked deeper into the gardens, the prickle of awareness on the back of his neck told him the Viscount's attention still followed their progress. Cullen kept his posture straight, his steps measured.He did not offer her his arm. There was no reason for him to feel uneasy. He had done nothing wrong, after all.

But he couldn't quite convince himself that was entirely true.

Chapter Text

Solas stared at the same line in the quarterly accounts, reading without absorbing a single number. The crisp parchment crackled beneath his fingers as sunlight spilled through the study windows, turning the ink to liquid gold which made it difficult to focus on and—

Movement in the gardens below drew his attention once again. Lady Lavellan walked beside Captain Rutherford, her dark head bent toward some plant or another as she pointed out its features. The captain listened with evident interest, his head inclined forward to listen while the rest of him maintained a careful distance apart that somehow only emphasized the way in which their easy familiarity pass the void between.

She was smiling at him. Again. First with the Qunari mercenary, now his Captain of the Guard. Both men seemed to find her company agreeable, despite her stubborn refusal to any semblance of decency or social expectation. The woman who requested funeral flowers for their wedding, who wore weeds in her hair, who climbed back onto her horse after that fall without a moment's hesitation (despite the soreness he knew she had to feel from the impact), who argued every point as if it were a battle to be won as if she were a Commander herself. Even Lord Pavus—his friend!—had taken a liking to the horrid girl, and their cackling laughter echoed from the library during his visits in a way that suggested nothing less than supreme delight.

And yet these men of reasonable status and accomplishment smiled back at her, as if her obstinance were somehow charming rather than exhausting.

The numbers blurred on the page before him. Solas pushed the ledger aside, irritated by his own distraction. These accounts required his full attention—several entries from the northern trading posts showed inconsistencies he couldn't quite—

He recognized her laugh as it drifted up from the gardens. His fingers tightened on his pen.

"My lord?" The steward’s, Harrit’s, voice interrupted his thoughts. "I've brought the shipping and trade manifests you requested."

Solas straightened in his chair, gesturing for the man to enter. "Yes, thank you. Set them here." He indicated a space on his desk, deliberately turning his back to the window. "I trust everything is in order?"

"Well..." The steward hesitated. "I noticed Lady Lavellan has been reviewing many of our records lately. She's quite... interested in the estate's affairs."

"Has she." The words came out flat.

"Yes, my lord. She's been particularly focused on the trade accounts. I thought you should know, given her unique situation with the Lavellan holdings. I… still find her father's decision to will her the business outright... unusual."

"As was her choice to maintain direct oversight rather than appointing a male relative as manager. Even now her Aunt of all people is overseeing the business." Solas's tone carried no approval. The Lavellan trading company represented generations of careful building, yet she insisted on managing it herself—no doubt searching for ways to keep it separate from his own holdings after their marriage despite coverture.

She existed, currently, in a strange state of limbo. Coverture held that no female person had a legal identity, and as such, upon birth any daughter was covered by her father’s identity, and then, when she married, by her husband’s—at which point they became one under the husband’s greater mantle, and as a symbol of this subsuming of identity, women took the last names of their husbands.

Ellana’s father was dead. She was not yet his Viscountess Fen’Harel. She was her own (infuriating) self for the moment, and seemed hellbent on sustaining her perpetual resistance to the natural order of things.

Solas's jaw tightened. "I see."

"Of course, it's not my place to question, but—"

"No," Solas cut him off. "It is not." He reached for the manifests, noting how the steward's hands twisted nervously at his sides. "That will be all."

The door closed behind the steward with a soft click. Solas opened the first manifest, comparing its figures to those in his ledger. The disparity jumped out immediately—shipments recorded but never received, dates that didn't align with his own carefully kept records.

A shadow passed his window. He looked up despite himself, watching as Captain Rutherford escorted Lady Lavellan toward the eastern gardens. Her voice carried fragments of conversation about medicinal herbs.

Solas returned to his accounts, forcing himself to focus on the numbers before him. But each inconsistency he found only raised more questions, and none of them had anything to do with the woman in his gardens.

Or so he told himself.

As he distracted himself from further distraction with work, the afternoon light shifted across the desk, casting longer shadows over the growing spread of ledgers and manifests. Each new document only added to his irritation—the inconsistencies multiplied like rats in a cellar. Shipments marked as arriving from Wycome that should have originated in Markham. Quantities that didn't match between manifests and receipts. Dates that failed to align with the seasonal trading patterns he'd established over years of careful management.

He rubbed his temples. The household bells rang for the change of afternoon guard shifts, marking yet another hour spent circling the same questions. From his window, he watched the evening staff begin their duties: lamps being lit in the main hall, fresh flowers carried up for the dining room. Captain Rutherford crossed the courtyard below, speaking with his lieutenants as they arranged the night watch.

No sign of Lady Lavellan since this morning.

The thought arose unbidden, unwelcome. He blinded himself to it with yet more audit as the inconsistencies were more tolerable than her indignity.

When the dinner hour arrived, Solas considered sending his regrets. The accounts demanded his attention, yet custom insisted he maintain certain appearances. He descended to find her seat empty—apparently she'd requested a tray in the library.

"The Lady Lavellen sends her regrets,” the butler informed him, and Solas felt a pounding behind his temples, “She's been there since late afternoon, my lord, and requested several volumes from the trading archives."

Of course she had.

The silence in the dining room, at least, was familiar and comfortable. Solas ate quickly, his mind still caught on the ledger's mysteries. The numbers refused to settle, like sand shifting under his feet. Something in the pattern nagged at him, just beyond his grasp.

The library, then. He would check the estate's older records, searching for similar discrepancies in past years. And if Lady Lavellan happened to still be there... well, the library belonged to the estate. To him.

He ignored the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Dorian, asking why he felt the need to justify his own movements in his own home.

The library door stood ajar, lamplight spilling into the darkened hallway. Solas paused at the threshold, arrested by the scene before him. Lady Lavellan had commandeered the central table, backed by mahogany shelves that reached upward toward elaborate crown molding and brass-tipped ladders that leaned against the stacks. She’d surrounded herself with stacks of leather-bound ledgers and loose papers, and her hair had begun to escape its pins, dark strands falling across her neck and the deep green of her dress as she bent over the documents. She'd discarded her gloves somewhere—no doubt draped carelessly over a chair and forgotten.

Several empty tea cups, their dregs long since gone cold, suggested she'd been at this for hours, and they’d left rings on the polished wood that would no doubt horrify the maids.

She didn't look up at his entrance. "If that's another cup of tea, please just leave it. Though I wouldn't object to something stronger at this point."

"I'm afraid I don't make a habit of serving drinks to anyone, my lady, and especially not something as foul as tea."

Her head snapped up at his voice. "Lord Fen'Harel." She straightened, though she made no move to clear the papers spread before her, poised above them like a war table. "Come to ensure I'm not mishandling your precious records?"

"These are my family's archives. I need not justify my presence." He crossed to one of the shelves, scanning the spines. "Though I admit to some curiosity about what could demand such dedicated attention from my future wife."

"I admit some similar curiosity as to how you could fathom any situation in which I am not dedicated to the management of the Lavellan holdings. They are, after all, mine to manage despite your efforts to sink the business like a ship in the harbor." Her quill scratched against parchment as she made another note. "I assume your interest now is in snatching this away as well?"

"I assure you, my interest lies solely in—" He stopped, catching sight of the manifest she was examining. "That document. Where did you find it?"

Something in his tone made her pause. She studied him for a moment, then turned the paper so he could see it better. "Your steward was kind enough to provide copies of shipments crossing Lavellan trading routes. I am reconciling several irregularities."

"Irregularities," he repeated. The dates matched those he'd been examining all day. "Show me."

"I think not." Ellana gathered the papers closer, shielding them from his view. "These are Lavellan accounts, and you've made your opinions on our business practices quite clear."

"If you've found irregularities in shipments crossing my trading routes—"

"Your trading routes?" She laughed, sharp and cold. "The northern passage belonged to the Dalish long before you decided to—"

"To what? Implement standards? Establish order? Someone must, since your family insists on running operations like a—"

"Do not finish that train of thought, I am well aware of your opinions on my people and myself and I do not care. Do you know how disappointing that is? The disenchantment of a Viscount that could uplift others but instead deigns to crush them beneath his lordly heel? You are an incorrigible brute, and I—I am astounded by the depths of your ignorance."

"And I am equally astonished that you managed to muster the faculties for thought at all."

She was upset. He didn’t care.

Solas braced his hands on the table, leaning forward. "Now show me those documents."

"So you can further undermine what remains of my family's business? I think not."

"Lady Lavellan." His jaw clenched. "I have spent the entire day examining inconsistencies in my own accounts. Inconsistencies that, I suspect, align with what you've found there."

She stilled, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"The Markham shipments. Third week of last month. Compare them."

For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then, with evident reluctance, she pulled a document from her stack. "The silk shipment?"

"Yes."

"Marked as arriving in Wycome, but—"

"The quantities don't match the manifest?"

Her fingers tightened on the paper. "How did you know? That's not possible." She shuffled through her papers. "Unless... what were the total manifested quantities?"

"Eight hundred and forty-two bolts of silk, divided across three carriages."

"No." She didn't even look up from her calculations. "That's wrong."

"I assure you, I checked the figures myself."

"Then you checked them incorrectly." Her quill flew across the page, numbers appearing in neat columns. "Markham's looms can't produce that volume in a single shipment. The maximum capacity of their largest weaving house is seven hundred and twenty bolts per quarter, divided into six shipments of one hundred and twenty each." She turned her calculations toward him. "The manifested quantity you quoted would require nearly five weeks of continuous production. They simply don't have the capacity."

Solas stared at her figures. The math was flawless, each step precisely documented. "How do you know Markham's production capacity?"

"My lord, I am a woman. I know the sentiments others hold for my position in my family’s business, and I know that a great many would prefer it reallocated elsewhere—which is why I know every detail of our trading partners' operations so that that control cannot be taken from me by baseless accusations of inadequacy. You have the luxury, my lord, of such mistakes as a man, and you have little fear of rumor. I am not the same, and I earn these responsibilities through my efforts, not my name or my sex. Numbers don't lie, my lord, even when people do." She tapped the page. "... and, if what you are telling me is true, then someone is indeed lying. Padding these manifests, and doing it rather poorly if they didn't account for basic production limitations."

He found himself reassessing her yet again. "Then we should—"

"Compare the full accounts?" She finished, then seemed to catch herself, as if remembering their usual antagonism.

"Yes," he said, equally reluctant. "We should."

She began gathering her papers, movements sharp with agitation. "This… alliance… between us now for the moment will have no bearing on my low opinion of you."

"I would never assume such a thing." He watched her stack the documents with military efficiency. "Nor should you expect any change of my estimation of you. But someone is interfering with both our interests, and I would know why."

"Both our interests?" Her laugh held no humor. "Since when have you considered Lavellan interests—any Dalish interests—as anything but an inconvenience to be eliminated?"

"Since someone decided to make me look the fool in my own accounting house." He held the library door for her, a gesture she ignored entirely as she swept past him. "After you, my lady."

The walk to his study felt longer than usual, their footsteps echoing in the quiet halls. Estate servants who typically bustled about their evening duties seemed to have found urgent business elsewhere, no doubt sensing the crackling tension between their lord and future lady.

Solas's study remained exactly as he'd left it, ledgers spread across his desk in careful arrangement. He moved to light additional lamps while Lady Lavellan surveyed the room, her expression suggesting she'd rather be anywhere else.

"The Markham records are here." He indicated a stack of leather-bound volumes. "Though I suspect we should start with—"

"The quarterly summaries." She was already moving toward his desk. "If someone's manipulating shipment manifests, the discrepancies will compound in the larger accounts." She paused, hands hovering over his carefully organized papers. "Unless you'd prefer I not touch your precious records?"

"By all means." He gestured to the desk, voice dry. "Since you have never before shown care for my preferences before, I see no reason to start now."

She ignored his tone, already pulling volumes closer. "We'll need the seasonal averages for comparison. And the route schedules—timing discrepancies often reveal larger patterns." Her fingers traced down columns of numbers. "These notes in the margins... your calculations?"

"Yes."

"They're wrong."

"I beg your pardon?"

She didn't look up. "You've carried the wrong digit here, and here. It throws off the entire quarterly balance." Her quill made quick marks. "Though that's not the only problem with these numbers..."

"Show me." The words came out more clipped than he intended. She slid the ledger toward him, and he leaned over her shoulder to examine her corrections. The flower in her hair proved distracting, as was her general proximity. He stepped back.

"Your mathematical errors are minor," she said, arranging papers with methodical precision. "But these larger inconsistencies... someone has been very clever. Look here." She laid out three documents side by side. "The individual shipment records appear correct until you compare them to the quarterly totals. But it's not just about numbers. These dates..."

"What about them?"

"The timing is wrong for the seasonal routes. No Dalish merchant would schedule deliveries during—" She stopped herself. "Well. The schedule makes no sense for anyone who actually understands northern trade."

"Unlike myself, you mean to say?"

"I didn't say that." Though her tone suggested she'd thought it. "But since you mention it, had you bothered to consult those with experience in these routes rather than simply seizing control of them—"

"I am not here to debate past decisions, my lady."

"No? Then why are you here? Because someone is making you look foolish?" Her fingers drummed against his desk. "Or because you've finally realized you don't know as much as you think you do?"

He placed both hands on the desk, mirroring her stance. "I am here because someone is stealing from my estate. An estate that we will, in fact, share should you not try to murder me or kill yourself in your future escapades prior to taking our vows. Unless you'd prefer to continue arguing while they succeed?"

Their eyes met across the desk. For a moment, neither moved. Then she reached for another ledger.

"Fine. But I'll need more light to compare these figures properly. And more tea."

"I thought we'd established my opinion on tea."

"Yes, well, and I thought we'd established my opinion on your opinions, yet here we are." She didn't look up from the ledger. "Shall I ring for it myself, or are you just going to stand there and glower?"

He rang for tea, if only to stop her needling. While they waited, she continued to sort through the ledgers, creating neat stacks with a system he couldn't quite follow. Her efficiency was... not entirely irritating. The scratch of her quill against parchment filled the silence between them, punctuated by the occasional rustle of turning pages or the distant chime of the estate's clock marking another hour slipping away.

"These date back six months," she murmured, more to herself than him some time later. Ellana had since moved and laid claim to his heavy oak reading chair, pulled it close to the desk, and she’d curled herself into faded velvet upholstery like she belonged there, while an armillary sphere in the corner of the study cast intricate shadows across the Antivan carpet beneath her feet.

"The pattern starts small. Easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. But here—" She pulled another document forward. "The discrepancies grow larger, bolder."

"As if they were testing boundaries."

The pattern was familiar to him—reminiscent of his military days, when enemy scouts would probe defensive lines, each small incursion designed to test for weakness. Start small, gauge the response, then press harder where the resistance was weakest. He'd seen entire campaigns lost to such tactics, when commanders failed to recognize the pattern until it was too late.

"Exactly. A few bolts of silk here, a miscounted shipment there. Then entire carriages begin to vanish from the records." She tapped her quill against the page. "Someone with intimate knowledge of both estates' operations."

"You have a theory?"

"Several. None pleasant." She took a sip of tea, grimacing at the temperature. "These discrepancies don't just affect our estates. They're designed to create conflict between—"

She broke off as voices carried from the hallway. Captain Rutherford's distinctive tone, speaking with the night guard.

They both straightened, aware of how this scene might appear: papers scattered across his desk, her chair drawn close to his, the casual intimacy of sharing tea while working into the evening hours. Their chairs screeched against the floors as they pulled apart at speed, just in time for the study door to open.

"Lady Lavellan." Cullen's step faltered in the doorway, taking in exactly what Solas had just imagined. His lord and lady bent over the same desk, surrounded by scattered papers, a shared pot of tea between them. "My Lord. I... apologize for the interruption."

"Not at all, Captain." Solas straightened. "Your evening report?"

"Yes, my lord." Cullen's eyes darted between them again, clearly struggling to maintain his usual professional demeanor in the face of this unprecedented cooperation. "Though if this is an inconvenient time..."

"It's not." Ellana began gathering papers. "I should retire—"

"Stay." Solas's command surprised them all, himself included. He modulated his tone. "These discrepancies may have security implications. The Captain should be aware."

She settled back into her chair, though her spine remained rigid. "Very well."

"Security implications?" Cullen moved farther into the study, his posture shifting from confused to alert.

"Someone has been manipulating trade records." Solas indicated the spread of documents. "Both estates are affected."

"Both estates?" Cullen's eyebrows rose. "Then perhaps the patterns along the northern routes..."

"What patterns?" Ellana and Solas spoke in unison, then shared a look of mutual irritation at their synchronicity. “There was more than just the raids the Iron Bull brought to your attention?”

Cullen cleared his throat. "There have been... irregularities in merchant caravan movements. Routes altered without clear cause, guard rotations changed without proper documentation."

"When did this begin?" Solas asked.

"Approximately six months ago." Cullen's gaze fell on the ledgers. "The same timing as your accounting discrepancies?"

"Yes," Ellana confirmed. "Though I suspect we've only uncovered the surface of this deception."

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, the implications settling ominously. Finally, Cullen spoke.

"My lord, my lady... if someone is coordinating efforts to undermine both estates—"

"Then they have resources," Solas finished.

"And patience," Ellana added quietly. "Six months of careful manipulation, building toward something larger."

Another shared glance between them, this one without antagonism. Cullen watched this civil exchange with barely concealed amazement.

"Captain," Solas said, "this investigation must remain private. Report anything unusual directly to me, no matter how insignificant it may seem."

"Yes, my Lord." Cullen hesitated. "And... the usual evening patrol reports?"

"Can wait until morning." Solas returned his attention to the ledgers. "Lady Lavellan and I have more records to examine."

"Of course." Cullen bowed slightly, backing toward the door. "My Lord. My Lady."

As the door closed behind him, Ellana reached for another ledger. "He looked as if he'd seen a ghost."

"The captain is not accustomed to seeing us in agreement."

"Are we in agreement?" She raised an eyebrow. "I am not accustomed to this either. Should I check the windows for flying pigs and additional impossible things?"

"I prefer to verify the accuracy of these numbers first." He settled back into his chair. "Unless you'd rather waste time with pointless metaphors?"

"Oh, so now you're concerned with wasting time? After spending months trying to dismantle my family's business?"

Their familiar antagonism settled back into place, comfortable as a well-worn riding glove. But something had shifted, however slightly. They worked through the next set of ledgers in relative peace, their barbed comments lacking their usual venom.

Neither mentioned this change.

The candles burned lower as the evening stretched, wax dripping onto the hardwood floor. Solas found himself reading the same line repeatedly, the numbers blurring before his eyes as the familiar, exhausted, throb in his temples returned. Across the desk, Lady Lavellan's quill moved slower, her usual sharp attention beginning to waver.

"These shipping routes," she said, stifling a yawn. "They all pass through—"

"The northern archives." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where Varric maintains the official records as keeper of contracts."

"We need to compare these against the original contracts." Her head drooped slightly before she caught herself. "First thing tomorrow, we should—"

"You should sleep." The words came out softer than intended. He corrected his tone. "You're of no use to this investigation if you can barely read the numbers before you."

"I'm perfectly capable of..." She trailed off, blinking at the document in her hand.

"Clearly."

She straightened in her chair. "Perhaps if you hadn't spent so many hours being insufferable, we'd have finished sooner."

"I? Insufferable? Need I remind you who insisted on checking my calculations three times?"

"Need I remind you they were wrong twice?"

Her retort lacked its usual bite, undermined by another poorly concealed yawn. Solas found himself noticing the shadows beneath her eyes, the way her hair had completely escaped its pins now and flowed openly down past her shoulders to the narrowing of her waist. Candlelight reflected oddly on her vallaslin, drawing his eye to trace their lines and paths. She looked... softer, like this. Less the sharp-tongued adversary and more...

He pushed the thought aside. "We'll visit the archives tomorrow. The records will still be there in the morning."

"Mm." She made a noncommittal sound, her eyes drifting closed. "Just need to finish this page..."

He should argue. Send her to bed. But exhaustion had worn his own edges smooth, soft, and there was something almost peaceful about working in shared silence. So he let her continue, returning to his own ledger as the candles burned lower.

It wasn't until he heard the soft thump of her quill hitting the desk that he realized she'd fallen asleep. Her breathing had deepened, evened out, face pressed against the leather-bound volume she'd been studying.

With a sigh, Solas stood, moving around the desk. He should wake her, send her to her chambers. It would be the proper thing to do. Instead, he found himself studying her face in repose, free for once of the defensive armor she wore in his presence. Or the frown she typically reserved just for him. A tendril of hair had fallen across the open page, the dark strand stark against the creamy parchment. Another strand of hair fell across her cheek, out of place and easily something that could be brushed back behind a tipped ear.

He did not.

He could leave her here. Let her wake with a stiff neck and aching back. It would serve her right for being so stubborn, for understanding nothing, and assuming everything. Or he could wake her, face her irritation at being caught in a moment of vulnerability, and she would fabricate some new offense to hurdle at him from her viper's tongue. Or...

With a muttered curse at his own foolishness, Solas carefully gathered her into his arms, and her skirts cascaded about her legs in waves of deep green silk where they draped over his wrist. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, her head falling naturally against his shoulder. The scent of crystal grace filled his senses.

She weighed less than he expected, fitting against him differently than she had that day on horseback. Then, she'd been rigid with pain and pride, refusing his support even as circumstances forced her to accept it. Now she curved into him, pliant with sleep, one hand curling unconsciously into his shirt. Ellana’s shawl had slipped, exposing more of one shoulder where her sleeve had shifted, and he forced his gaze ahead, ignoring the way her breath warmed his neck with each quiet exhale.

As her intended, he alone could move through the estate with her like this—asleep, alone, asunder—without scandal. This still felt sordid.

The implications of that thought were best left unexplored. Instead, he focused on navigating the quiet halls, past the night guard's station where Cullen's raised blond eyebrows spoke volumes, up the grand staircase where a maid quickly averted her eyes.

Her chambers lay in the east wing, where morning light would stream through tall windows. He'd given her these rooms himself, though he'd never actually entered them. Now, pushing open the door with his shoulder, he found himself noting details: books scattered across every surface, their leather spines catching the moonlight streaming through tall windows. A half-empty inkwell perched precariously near the edge of a mahogany desk, surrounded by scattered quills and fragments of sealing wax. A telescope in the window, half a dozen poorly sketched attempts of drawing a cottage by the wood, and the emerald knight’s sword above the mantle.

Dalish tapestry. Wildflowers in a Dalish vase. A Dalish quilt spread across the footboard of the bed. Dalish. Dalish.

The Dalish and their feeble, twisted, excuses and backward tradition. Their ineptitude. Their jokes of honor and duty. Their wretched ink masks. Their promises. All lies. All damned.

He wished he could forget.

Solas arms tightened fractionally before he caught himself. She shifted in her sleep, and for a moment he saw her not as the stubborn thorn in his side, but simply as she was: young, determined, fighting her own battles. Something uncomfortable twisted in his chest.

The space felt lived in, claimed. Invaded. Like she'd carved out a piece of his estate and made it entirely her own, claiming it by force.

Just as she'd done with his household. His staff. Hadn’t the Dalish taken enough of him? Was there yet more to break open?

Madness.

He laid her on the bed as carefully as he could, but she stirred, fingers tightening in his shirt. For a moment he stayed there, bent over her, caught between duty and something dangerous he refused to name. Then her hand relaxed, and he straightened, stepping back into safer territory.

Frowning, he reached for the Dalish quilt and draped it over her without touching her again, retreating to the doorway where shadows felt more familiar than this strange, unwelcome, intimacy.

She would wake in the morning having no memory of how she arrived here. Better that way. Let her assume a maid had helped her to bed, or better yet, let her wonder. He had no desire to discuss this moment, to hear what cutting remarks she might craft about his presumption, or whatever misunderstandings she would manufacture from it to create new lies.

Such was their—her—skill.

Solas closed the door quietly behind him, nodding to the guard stationed in the hall. The walk back to his study felt longer than usual, each step carrying him farther from that room with its wildflowers and broken oaths and the woman who had somehow wound herself into every corner of his carefully guarded world.

The ledgers still lay scattered across his desk where they'd left them. He gathered them methodically, restored order to the chaos she'd left in her wake. Tomorrow they would visit Varric, and she would no doubt find new ways to vex him with her presence. He could at least be grateful for the predictability.

Things were simpler when the enemy were predictable.

Morning. He rose with the same inevitability as the sun, with or without reveille

Solas stood at his chamber window, watching dawn paint the estate gardens in shades of gold and shadow. His private quarters within the heart of Vi'Revas were a sanctuary few ever glimpsed—and those who did might be surprised by what they found there.

The bedroom itself was a study in contrasts. Orlesian silk sheets draped across the massive bed, an indulgence he allowed himself after years of military cots. Medallions from old campaigns hung beside a wolf's jawbone on one wall, while delicate crystal decanters caught morning light on a side table. A leather-wrapped journal, worn from use, lay beside an empty wine glass.

But it was the salon that truly reflected the man behind the Viscount's stern facade. Easels clustered near tall windows, each canvas in various states of completion. Paint spatters marked the wooden floor despite careful cloths laid down to protect it. One wall bore rough sketches—landscapes, studies of light and shadow, the occasional figure caught in motion. The scent of oils and turpentine lingered beneath the morning air drifting through open windows.

In one corner, partially hidden by yet more canvas, was a small table with a drawer. Within sat a letter that he didn't need to read anymore. The words within, burned painfully onto psyche, were not remembered but rather a wound. It was easier with it tucked away in the drawer along the words had burned themselves into his mind, along with other things best left in shadow.

"Islanil." Solas kept his gaze on the window as his valet

emerged from the adjoining dressing room—a chamber connected to Solas's private quarters where the man maintained the Viscount's wardrobe and kept his own sparse quarters, as all gentlemen's valets did. It was an awkward arrangement at first, but years of military campaign (when Islanil had served as his batman before rising to one of the highest positions a male servant could attain) brokered no solutions but to form an understanding. Solas Fen’Harel was a private man. A viscount had no privacy. Islanil knew which tasks his Lord would yield to another's hands and which he would not.

“Of course, my Lord,” nodded, already moving to the prepared clothing. Each piece had been brushed and pressed in the early hours before dawn, chosen with the care of one who'd spent years learning his master's preferences. Dark colors. Simple designs. Solas stood still as Islanil buttoned his waistcoat, adjusted his collar, secured each element of his attire. The ritual transformed him almost, stripping away the man who painted in the dawn hours with nutty smelling linseed oils and pigment, and never dared show a single soul the final work. Layers of clothing hid his skin and scars. By the time Islanil secured his cravat in a crisp knot, only the Viscount remained.

The household stirred to life as he descended for breakfast, servants moving through their duties in the quiet way he required. His study needed attention after last night's... irregularities. The ledgers waited to be organized, the tea service removed, all evidence of their shared investigation wiped away.

The night guard's report lay open beside his coffee when he noticed the hour. Later than his usual rising. Islanil would have woken him earlier, but after the events of last night... well, a valet's discretion was his most valuable trait. The delay disrupted his schedule, and the Archives still waited. The contracts demanded examination, though the thought of sharing close quarters with Lady Lavellan again—

"My lord." Captain Rutherford appeared in the doorway, his face arranged in careful neutrality. "Lady Lavellan asks if you still intend to visit the Archives today."

So she was awake.

"Yes. Have the carriage prepared." Solas set aside his barely touched coffee. "And Captain—"

"Sir?"

"Your report mentioned unusual movement along the eastern wall last night."

"Just a suspected fox, my lord. Though..." Cullen hesitated. "Lady Lavellan was quite safe, I assure you."

Solas fixed him with a level stare. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Of course, my lord." Cullen's face remained admirably blank. "The carriage will be ready within the hour."

He found her in the library rather than his study, already surrounded by the documents they'd need. She wore a deep blue dress and had, apparently, relocated her abandoned gloves. Ellana's hair was arranged with more care than usual, and she'd even curled a shawl about her arms looking more demure and like a lady than he knew her to be capable of.

The transformation still unsettled him. Since the ill-fated garden party, there’d been no answer as to why she’d suddenly become more biddable for public appearances. Gone was the woman who wore muslin dresses about the estate and rode astride in breeches. In her place sat this carefully composed figure, every fold of her shawl arranged to project the image of a noble lady apart from the small, tight frown on her face.

It made no sense. She who had thrown him into a lake, threatened to drown him in porridge, now playing the role of proper society wife? No. There was something else at work here, some game he couldn't quite grasp. The change had been too abrupt, too complete to be genuine. What had sparked this sudden concern for appearances? And why did it leave him so uneasy? Why did she appear even more so?

He didn’t ask, this time.

She didn't look up at his entrance.

"I trust you slept well, my lady?"

"Well enough." Her tone revealed nothing. "Though I don't recall retiring to my chambers. The last thing I remember was reviewing those trade manifests in your study."

"How mysterious." He moved to the window, watching the carriage being prepared below.

"Indeed." She gathered another stack of papers. "Your household staff is nothing if not efficient at managing such things."

He could feel her studying his back, measuring his response. Let her wonder. He had no intention of acknowledging—

"My Lord?" A servant appeared at the door. "The carriage is ready."

"Thank you." Solas turned from the window. "Shall we, my lady?”

She swept past him, papers clutched to her chest like armor. "Yes, let’s. I am eager to put this matter behind me and distance between us.”

Their eyes met briefly as she passed. Something flickered in her expression—uncertainty? challenge?—before her usual mask of cold civility slipped back into place.

The day ahead stretched long before them. A carriage ride into the city, hours at the Archives, all while maintaining this careful dance of pretense. At least Varric's presence would provide some buffer against... whatever this was.

"After you, my lady," he gestured to the door, careful not to touch her as she passed.

Her scent caught him anyway, wildflowers and memory.

Madness. All of it.

The carriage waited in the courtyard, polished to mirror brightness. Captain Rutherford stood beside it, overseeing the final preparations with his usual thoroughness.

"My lord, my lady." He opened the carriage door, revealing the dark leather interior with its silver fittings. "I've arranged for additional guards to accompany you into the city."

"Is that necessary?" Ellana asked, though she directed the question to Cullen rather than Solas. The morning sun caught the silver detailing of her dress and made the fabric shimmer like deep water.

"Given the discrepancies we've uncovered, I believe caution is warranted." Cullen's tone stayed professional, though his concern showed in the slight furrow of his brow. "And, as of—it is still expected for a chaperone to attend such outings. That is my function for this trip. Furthermore, the streets can be unpredictable..."

"I grew up not very far from those streets, Captain." She accepted his hand into the carriage, ignoring Solas completely.

Solas followed her inside, the leather seats creaking beneath his weight. The space suddenly felt impossibly small—bare inches separated their knees, and the enclosed darkness made every breath seem louder, more intimate. This had been more bearable with Lord Pavus between them as mediator. She turned to the window, chin lifted, every line of her posture suggesting she'd rather be anywhere else. A patch of sunlight caught her profile, turning loose strands of her hair to aurum.

The carriage lurched into motion, wheels clattering against cobblestones and the gentle sway of motion shifted them closer, then apart, like waves on a tide, and leather seats grew warmer in the morning sun, filling the small space with the rich smell of polish and wealth.

"I trust you remember the way to the Archives?" Her voice dripped ice, at odds with the golden morning light playing across her features. "Or shall I provide directions?"

"I am quite familiar with the location, my lady."

"Of course. How foolish of me to suggest otherwise. You know everything about everyone's business, after all."

He caught the double meaning in her words. "Not everything, it seems."

She turned from the window then, eyes flashing. The sunlight caught the green in them, making them spark like storm clouds. "No. And it is good to hear you admit it. You surprise me, my lord, I’d thought you were incapable of admitting a wrong.”

"There are many surprising things of late." He met her gaze steadily, watched her pupils dilate slightly in the dim interior. "I have my own thoughts of things I would hear you admit out loud, though, now that I know of your propensity for violence, I shall keep them to myself.”

“Then there is hope yet that you can be well trained.”

"Well trained?" His laugh held no humor. "Like a hunting hound?"

"Oh no, my Lord. The hounds are still vastly more agreeable."

The carriage rolled through the estate's eastern gate, leaving the manicured gardens behind. Here the road wound through woodland, and sunlight filtered through arching trees. The change in terrain made the carriage sway more pronouncedly, forcing them to brace themselves or risk sliding closer together.

Neither spoke as they passed near the spot where her horse had thrown her weeks ago. The memory hung between them like smoke—her rigid spine pressed against his chest, his fingers white-knuckled on the reins as they rode double. Now she sat equally straight, though whether from that same pride or this new, calculated public persona, he couldn't say.

The woods gradually thinned, giving way to the outlying farms and settlements that marked the approach to Arlathan proper. Already he could see other carriages on the road ahead, their occupants no doubt noting the Vi'Revas crest with great interest. Society would be alive with speculation by afternoon.

"We'll be seen," she said quietly, almost to herself. “Is it too much to ask that you refrain from calling me a ‘creature’ while I perform for the Ton?”

He studied her profile. "Was that your breaking point for your facade at the garden party?"

Something flickered across her face—too quick to name, gone before he could catch it to analyse. "It will be your breaking point, I assure you my Lord, should you decide a similar attempt of derision moving forward.”

"I have no desire to be thrown, pushed, shoved, or dragged into the first convenient fountain or gutter you happen to see while we are out today.”

“Good. So we understand one another.”

“Not at all.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Finally, Arlathan rose before them in tiers of white stone and gleaming spires, its ancient architecture softened by morning mist rolling in from the harbor. As their carriage joined the steady stream of traffic flowing through the city gates, the sounds of urban life replaced woodland quiet: merchants calling their wares, carriage wheels on cobblestones, the distant cry of gulls from the harbor district.

The Archives stood in the heart of the old city, its marble facade overlooking the grand square where noble carriages deposited their occupants for morning business. Already the steps were busy with clerks, merchants, and members of the Ton conducting their affairs.

"Remember," Solas said as their carriage drew to a stop, "we are here to examine records, not air our grievances to all of society."

"How thoughtful of you to remind me of my purpose, my lord. I had quite forgotten. I was too busy thinking of convenient gutters and fountains for you to explore. Or, perhaps more befitting your station, the harbor? I would be delighted to escort you there.”

He scoffed. She sneered.

But when Cullen opened the door, she accepted Solas's offered arm with gentle composure, her smile fixed and pleasant as they descended to the cobblestones. Whispers followed their progress across the square. The Viscount and his Dalish bride-to-be appearing together in public would feed gossip for weeks.

The Archives' great doors opened, and their footsteps echoed off marble in sharp staccato, each click amplified by the soaring ceiling until it seemed an entire regiment marched behind them. Cool air carried the familiar scent of paper and ink, old leather and dust. Their footsteps echoed on marble floors as a clerk directed them toward Varric's office until they found him at his desk, surrounded by his usual organized chaos of documents.

"Well, well." Varric's eyebrows rose at their joint appearance. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit? Don't tell me you've finally decided to play nice with the Viscount, Sunshine?"

"Hardly." Ellana withdrew her arm from Solas's as soon as privacy allowed and as Cullen guarded the door. "We require access to the original trade contracts for the northern routes, both those of the Lavellan estate and… whichever ones he has amassed."

"Both of you?" Varric's gaze shifted between them, noting their proximity, the tension in their postures. "Now this I have to hear."

"Someone has been manipulating records," Solas said. "We need to compare the original documents against recent manifests."

"Together?" Varric's grin widened. "Should I alert the city guard that we might need riot control, or can you two manage to share a reading desk without bloodshed?"

"Master Tethras." Solas's tone was glacial. "The contracts, if you please."

"Of course, of course." Varric rose, still smirking. "Though I have to say, this is the most entertaining morning I've had since Lady Montilyet's tea party ended with Lord Pavus in the rose bushes."

The Archives stretched deeper than its facade suggested, a labyrinth of both printed and handwritten knowledge contained in towering shelves and narrow passages. Their footsteps echoed against marble as Varric led them through the maze, past rows of leather-bound histories and scrolls tied with faded ribbons. The air grew cooler, heavy with the musty sweetness, almost vanilla, smell of aging paper and ink.

Ellana walked half a step behind Solas, her skirts whispering against the floor. The close quarters forced a proximity neither seemed comfortable with, but there was nowhere to retreat.

"I have to ask," Varric's voice carried back to them, his amusement evident even in the shadows between shelves, "what exactly brought you two to this unlikely alliance?"

"Discrepancies in the manifests," Ellana said.

"Irregularities in the accounts," Solas said simultaneously.

They shared a look of mutual irritation at having spoken together.

"Fascinating." Varric's shoulders shook with poorly suppressed laughter as he unlocked the vault door. "And here I thought it would take an act of divine intervention to get you two working together. Turns out all it needed was some creative bookkeeping."

The vault itself was smaller than expected, though its walls stretched upward into shadow. Brass handles of the filing cabinets caught the lamplight like cat's eyes in the gloom, cool and smooth beneath searching fingers. Varric moved with practiced ease between the shelves, pulling volumes seemingly at random.

"No, no, no… not that one. Ah. Here we are. Northern trade routes, dating back fifty years." He set a stack of leather-bound volumes on the reading desk. "I assume you'll want to start with the most recent?"

"The manipulation began approximately six months ago," Solas said, reaching for a volume.

Ellana's hand caught the same book. "Which is why we should examine the previous year's records first, to establish the pattern of—"

"If you're suggesting I don't know how to conduct a proper investigation—"

"Children." Varric's voice cut through their brewing argument. "Perhaps we could focus on the actual problem? Unless you'd prefer I leave you alone to settle this with violence? Though I should warn you, bloodstains are terribly difficult to remove from original documents."

They both withdrew their hands from the volume.

"Now then." Varric pulled up a second chair. "Show me what you've found so far. And try to remember—the other clerks get nervous when they hear shouting from the vault."

Varric pulled two more chairs to the desk. "Let's see what you've brought me."

Ellana spread out their collected documents while Solas arranged the original contracts for comparison. They worked in tense silence, careful not to brush hands when reaching for the same papers.

"Here." Ellana pointed to a manifest. "The silk shipment from Markham. The quantities are impossible given their production capacity."

"Ah." Varric studied the numbers. "And how did you come by that particular insight, Sunshine?"

"Because unlike some, I actually bothered to learn about our trading partners rather than simply—"

"The point," Solas cut in, "is that someone has been deliberately falsifying records. The question is why."

"Why indeed." Varric's usual humor faded as he compared documents. "Though I'm more interested in how. These manifests bear official seals, which means..."

"Someone with authority is involved," Solas finished.

"More than one ‘someone’." Ellana pulled another document forward. "Look at the routing changes. They'd need cooperation from multiple ports to redirect shipments without raising alarms."

Varric's quill scratched across his notepad. "And these discrepancies, they affect both estates?"

"Yes." Solas leaned forward, shoulder nearly brushing Ellana's before she shifted away. "Though the pattern suggests—"

"The pattern suggests someone trying to create conflict." Ellana's voice held an edge. "Making it appear as if Dalish traders were violating regulations while simultaneously—"

"While simultaneously making it appear as if my estate was targeting Lavellan holdings specifically." Solas went still. "Creating the perfect conditions for..."

He broke off, but Varric was already nodding. "For your marriage contract to activate. Well, well. Someone's been playing a very long game."

Ellana's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.

"These seals." She tapped the documents. "Every manipulated record bears official stamps from multiple ports, proper signatures, correct formatting..."

"Someone who knows the system intimately," Solas agreed. "And has authority within it."

Varric set down his quill. "You know what's interesting about forgeries? The best ones are mixed with legitimate documents. Makes them nearly impossible to track." He pulled a leather-bound ledger from his desk. "We've had dozens of clerks accessing trade records in the past six months. Hundreds of requests for copies. Some legitimate, some..." He shrugged. "Well, who can say?"

"There must be some way to trace—" Ellana began.

"In theory? Sure. In practice?" Varric gestured at the towering shelves around them. "Welcome to the Archives, Sunshine. Where every noble house in Arlathan stores their secrets, and everyone has a perfectly legitimate reason to be here."

Their eyes met across the desk, mutual understanding passing between them for the first time. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to hide their intentions in plain sight.

Which meant nothing was what it seemed at all.

Someone was making him look the fool in his own house. The thought burned like acid, caustic and burning, as they emerged from the Archives' shadows into harsh morning light. Manipulation layered within manipulation—trade routes altered, documents forged, authority undermined—all designed to force this exact situation. And all under his nose! Solas’s grip tightened unconsciously on Lady Lavellan's arm, drawing a sharp inhale from her.

"My Lord," she hissed through her perfect society smile, eyes flashing, "if you wish to maintain our facade of civility, perhaps consider not bruising me in public?"

He loosened his hold immediately, jaw clenched. "... My apologies."

"I don’t require or care for your apologies. Only mind your touch, or I shall be compelled to return the favor." Her words carried enough venom to fell a horse, though her expression remained placid. And then that, too, broke, with a weary sounding sigh. “This… has become quite the dreadful tangle. My only consolation is the hope whoever is behind this enjoys watching you slowly discover what the Dalish have known all along—that you are not nearly as clever as you believe."

The urge to respond burned his tongue, but already he could see Lady Pembrooke watching from across the square, her fan moving in the subtle patterns that would spread this morning's gossip through half of Arlathan by teatime. They had appearances to maintain, no matter how his blood boiled.

"My dear Viscount Fen'Harel!"

Dorian's voice cut through his dark thoughts. His friend emerged from behind a fruit seller's cart with his usual flamboyant wave and walk, and Solas felt Lady Lavellan's fingers tighten against his arm.

"Lord Pavus." The words came out clipped. Just what this morning needed. "I wasn't aware you were in the city today."

"Neither was I, until Mythal required my presence for her latest political theater and I was forced to make myself unavailable for performance." Dorian swept into an elegant bow before Lady Lavellan, his eyes sparking with interest at their shared tension. "Though I must say, the city's entertainments have vastly improved since my arrival, and doubly so now that I see you. What brings you both to the Archives? Don't tell me you're actually… my goodness, are the Lord and Lady truly out courting of their own accord?"

Solas felt Lady Lavellan's pulse jump where her wrist pressed against his sleeve.

"We are here today with a… mutual understanding and a temporary alignment of interests," he said carefully.

Lady Lavellan's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Like two ships unfortunately caught in the same storm. Though I admit I am eager to unmoor myself from this sinking dreadnought."

"How poetic." Dorian's gaze moved between them, cataloging every detail of their strained civility. Without warning, he signaled to a flower seller across the square. "And I see you’re returning to your carriage? No. That won’t do. You can't possibly return to the estate so early—think of how it would look."

Solas wanted nothing more than to return to his study at Vi’Revas, rip off his collar, and set to work unravelling the gnarled web of deception that had ensnared them both. Instead, he watched Dorian purchase a small bouquet of nonsensical colors and petals to present to Lady Lavellan.

"Society expects a certain level of public courtship," Dorian continued, clearly enjoying himself, "and really you, my Lord, should have beaten me to this act. You have appearances to maintain, especially after that delightful scene at the garden party. No, I haven’t forgotten, no, I suspect the Ton never will. Why, I heard Lady Briala speculating just yesterday that the lake incident was merely a lover's quarrel while Lade Pembrooke—who is still eyeballing us this very second—maintains that it was a most horrific and disfiguring attempt on the Viscount’s life."

Lady Lavellan's spine went rigid against his arm. Through his sleeve, Solas could feel the slight tremor in her fingers—anger or something else, he couldn't tell.

"Lord Pavus…." He kept his voice low, warning.

"Come now, a walk through the merchant district would do you both good. I insist. The weather is perfect for it, and so is my attire. All that is missing is a beautiful lady on my arm." Dorian offered his arm to Lady Lavellan's free side, effectively trapping them in public view as they became a linked trio. Lady Lavellan took Dorian's arm with her free hand, leaving Solas no choice but to maintain his position at her other side. The three of them began a slow promenade through the square, like actors in some elaborate, awful, stage play.

The spectators, twittering gossiping canaries in their little frilled dresses and bird’s wing fans, were equally awful.

"There now," Dorian said cheerfully, "isn't this pleasant? Almost like civilized people. And look—there’s a newly opened café that’s meant to be quite charming near the fashion district. We simply must take refreshment there. The Lady Lavellan looks positively parched, and, after all, what better way to spend such a lovely morning than watching my dearest friends attempt not to murder each other over little frilly cakes? Oh! And of course, there’s the modiste as well, Lady Lavellen you would look fetching in this lavender satin I saw, don’t you want to spend the Viscount’s money? Come now, let me help you select something for the upcoming gala…"

Solas caught Lady Lavellan's slight smile at that, and his sense of dread deepened considerably.

Chapter Text

Dorian escaped Tarasyl’an Te’las on the pretense of important business and political errands in the city.

Not that he meant to do any such thing—the Countess’s endless political maneuvering exhausted him, and he’d rather face Tevinter’s entire Magisterium, his father, and the worst half of Arlathan’s miserably dressed gentry than spend another morning watching her spin her web of schemes from her salon. She collected advisors like others collected art, displaying them at opportune moments to remind everyone of her influence. Being her “pet Tevinter” was useful, but maker’s breath, it grew tiresome.

So. Escapes.

Today in Arlathan’s merchant district, the morning air carried the first hint of autumn crispness, and market stalls displayed their early harvests in riotous color. It was odd, Dorian mused, how Arlathan’s nobles could stroll past these stalls with such indifference, as if the labor that filled their larders and lined their pockets were beneath their notice. In Tevinter, people would openly covet such displays of wealth or coldly calculate them. Here, it was all polite smiles and veiled glances, a dance of decorum and death wishes that hid as much as it revealed. He adjusted his coat, acutely aware of how his foreign cut stood out amidst the local fashions. An outsider, always. Though, he supposed, that gave him the advantage of seeing the cracks in the pretty façade from that outside perspective.

He took a moment to admire the way sunlight caught the gilt lettering above shop windows while mentally composing his apologies to the Countess. My deepest regrets, my Lady, but I found myself unavoidably detained by...

Dorian, captivated by a new fascination, forgot all about his previous, unimportant, concerns. He paused at a fruit seller’s cart, considering the baskets of produce. The merchant artfully arranged his wares—blood-red apples and golden pears in stacked pyramids, bruise-black plums nestled in fresh, sweet-smelling straw. Everything arranged to catch both light and coin… rather like Arlathan itself, he mused. The city presented its best face to the morning sun: white marble and crystal spires rising above cobblestone streets with tended window boxes that spilled flowers down the faces of tall stately townhouses, gilded carriages delivering elegantly dressed nobles to their morning calls. Every detail was just like the market stall with its shiny produce: look at me! See how expensive and refined I am!

He hummed, passing the fruit seller by in favor of finding something more interesting than plums, and paid little mind to the performance all about him. Dorian knew better than most how appearances could deceive. Behind those pristine facades lay a web of ambition and intrigue that would make even Tevinter nobility pause. At least in Tevinter, the daggers came from the front.

A commotion near the office of archives drew his attention. Nobles of any meaningful note rarely visited the district this early, yet a small crowd had gathered to watch—ah. Now this was interesting. He would recognize the Vi’Revas carriage anywhere. What was it doing outside the Archives?

Movement caught his gaze, and then, just off to the side and up the marble steps, Viscount Fen’Harel emerged into the morning light, and on his arm… Lady Lavellan herself, looking every inch the noble bride-to-be in deep blue silk with a certain Captain Rutherford following at a proper distance just behind like a good hound. Their body language spoke volumes—tension in every line of Solas’s shoulders, while Lady Lavellan maintained the waifish, unhappy posture of a woman who’d rather be anywhere else. Yet they moved with intentional synchronization, as if they’d been practicing this performance back at the estate even in his absence.

If it wasn’t so strange to see, Dorian suspected he’d have felt a twinge of pride.

She wasn’t trying to claw his arm off. He wasn’t grimacing as if a sword had run him through. Their heads inclined towards one another to whisper—to whisper!—to one another and Lady Lavellen even smiled. This was entirely new, a very nice touch, even though her eyes flashed like daggers. Gone was the woman who’d shoved his friend into a lake to swim with the pond scum. In her place stood an ideally proportioned and poised society bride, though Dorian noted the slight tremor in her fingers as she adjusted her shawl.

Something had shifted between them, a new weight in the air of their combined tempests, and besides that, Dorian understood the Viscount well enough to notice the tension in Solas’s jaw, the way his fingers grazed Lady Lavellan’s sleeve, and how she recoiled. Now this simply wouldn’t do. Particularly not with Lady Pembrooke and her gossiping friends watching from across the square, fans fluttering in the elaborate patterns that would spread word of this appearance through half of Arlathan’s drawing rooms by teatime.

If they intended to keep up this pretense, and it was obvious they did, given their public appearance together, they would need assistance. And if there was one thing Dorian Pavus couldn’t resist, it was an opportunity to meddle in his friend’s affairs. Especially when it might delay his return to Mythal’s suffocating hospitality for an even longer stretch of time.

Adjusting his cravat and summoning his most charming smile, Dorian stepped into their path. “My dear Viscount Fen’Harel!”

The look that crossed his friend’s pinched face was worth every moment of Lady Mythal’s inevitable displeasure several times over.

And now here they were, the three of them linked arm-in-arm like characters in some absurd theatrical production. Lady Pembrooke’s fan moved faster, and Dorian could practically hear tomorrow’s gossip taking shape: The Viscount and his Dalish bride, accompanied by that scandalous Tevinter lord...

Delicious.

“Really, my friends,” Dorian said, steering them toward the fashionable quarter and the cafe he’d previously mentioned, “I have to wonder what had the pair of you emerging from the Archives with such haste. Whatever business brought you there must be fascinating, though surely it needn’t be conducted at such a clip through the streets? Where’s your sense of occasion?”

“Lord Pavus—” the Viscount began, his tone carrying a warning edge.

“No, no, I insist. Actually, I demand my Lord. What will society think? The Viscount, rushing his beloved through the streets like an errand to be completed rather than a courtship to be savored?” Dorian affected an exaggerated look of dismay. “I simply cannot allow it. It cannot stand.”

“And Lord Pavus was correct, I do find myself rather parched,” Lady Lavellan added, her innocent tone at odds with the gleam in her eyes. “And I am told that Lord Pavus always knows the most fashionable establishments; it is an agreeable prospect to explore his recommendations rather than return so quickly.”

Dorian noted how she leaned slightly into his arm, her enthusiasm barely masked beneath her entirely fake, entirely charming, demure expression. After weeks confined to the estate with only Solas for company, she must be desperate for different conversation with someone with the ability to actually… have a conversation with.

“The agreeable nature of such a diversion is one up for debate, and may I remind you that we have pressing matters to attend to that affect…” Solas tried to interject, but trailed off, seemingly catching himself before divulging more. Dorian, of course, noticed.

“That affect…what? Hmm? My, my, my Lord. One wonders at the secrets you keep, and now share, with the Lady Lavellan. But once more, I am afraid I cannot allow your expedient retreat. The battlefield of public opinion is not one you can so easily ignore. Is it so hard to demonstrate proper attention to your future wife? I had thought you a greater, more capable man.” Dorian’s smile was relentless. “Think of poor Lady Pembrooke’s nerves if you don’t. She may fly away with that fan soon with all that pathetic fluttering.”

Solas’s jaw worked silently, his gaze moving from Lady Lavellan’s barely concealed anticipation to Dorian’s determined smile to the gathering crowd of onlookers. Each second of hesitation seemed to pain him physically until finally his shoulders dropped in resignation. It was a rare defeat and only won with shrewd tactics: Dorian on his left, Ellana on his right, and society all around to complete the pincer maneuver. The Viscount recognized a losing battle when he saw one, and only then did he turn to Captain Rutherford with a resigned look on his face.

“Captain, perhaps you’d see to the carriage arrangements? Lord Pavus seems determined to... meddle with our social obligations.”

Cullen barely concealed his relief beneath his polite nod. He’d been trailing them just behind from a respectable distance like the well trained hound he was. “Of course, my Lord. I’ll ensure everything is prepared for your return.” He stepped back, clearly more comfortable overseeing security than navigating the intricacies of society’s gossip mills.

“Do give my regards to the horses,” Lady Lavellan called after him, earning a tiny smile from the captain and a barely suppressed sigh from her outflanked betrothed.

“Excellent. And now, with no further escape attempts or excuses… the café is just ahead,” Dorian said, steering them past a gaggle of honking of merchants arguing over silk prices like irritated geese. The morning market swelled around them as they walked, a tide of silk and silver that parted before the Viscount’s approach. Merchants called their wares from beneath striped awnings—fresh bread still steaming in woven baskets, flowers arranged in copper buckets that caught the sun. A confectioner’s shop filled the air with sugar and spice, while nearby a milliner displayed bonnets trimmed with autumn ribbons. Carriage wheels clattered against cobblestones, punctuated by the sharp clip of horses’ hooves and the rustle of taffeta as ladies navigated the crowd.

“So, as I said, this establishment only opened in the last month,” Dorian continued, guiding them through the press of morning shoppers. “A penny for admission—including refreshments! Though the real draw is the conversation, you know. Artists, philosophers, and enough intellectual pretension to fill the harbor with poetry and poorly considered thought experiments. All the rage among the younger set.” He paused, glancing between his companions with poorly concealed delight. “It is the ideal place to find or begin a good rumor. Which the two of you are in desperate need of. Follow my lead, and we’ll have the Ton convinced that you’re both besotted fools by sundown, and you may consider this battle of public opinion won.”

The Viscount’s expression suggested he’d rather face another, actual, military campaign than continue this forced promenade. But Lady Lavellan had already spotted the café’s gilt-edged windows, and her step quickened despite her composure. The motion pulled them all forward like ships caught in a current, with her at the vanguard of their little naval formation until a carriage sped past, forcing their trio to press closer together. As they caught her between them, Dorian felt Lady Lavellan stiffen, though her serene expression never wavered. Solas’s hand moved automatically to steady her, then withdrew as if burned.

My my my.

Upon arrival, a footman rushed to open the door, bowing deeply as the infamous trio approached, his arm sweeping in welcome as they stepped inside where the café’s interior unfolded in tiers of gilded excess—Small clusters of Arlathan’s fashionable youth occupied lace-trimmed tables, heads bent over steaming cups. Ostensibly, they discussed poetry and philosophy—but if their sudden hush was any indication, fresh scandals held far greater allure: affairs, duels, hidden love-children of the elite. And now also the unexpected arrival of the Viscount and his Dalish bride-to-be. Along the back wall, too, a veritable aviary of peacock-feathered hats bobbed near a pianoforte where a young woman played Scarlatti with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Dorian sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of Antivan roast cutting through the cloying sweetness of vanilla cakes—sweet things that always served to remind him of his own cutting place amidst Arlathan’s saccharine society.

A gaggle of debutantes near the window turned their fans in perfect synchronization to shield their whispers, though no doubt already noting the linked arms and the exact shade of the Viscount’s jacket. Cleverly, the proprietor arranged the tables, creating the illusion of privacy while ensuring that the right audiences could properly overhear and dissect every conversation. Dorian could only admire and appreciate the tactical brilliance of it.

“Ah, the Madame’s table is free,” Dorian said, noting how conversations dimmed as they passed. He guided them toward a prime position near the window, where morning light streamed through colored glass, and where passers-by could sneak surreptitious glances.

A waiter materialized at Solas’s elbow seconds later, bowing so deeply he nearly upset a nearby tea service. “My Lord Viscount! We are honored by your presence. I would be delighted to bring you a selection of our finest petit fours and pastry. Pray tell me, my Lord, what refreshments would you prefer?”

“A strong cup of coffee, unadulterated.”

“And for the lady?” The waiter turned to Ellana with another flourishing bow. “Perhaps something sweeter? Our drinking chocolate is imported directly from Antiva.”

“Tea, actually, if you please. With honey, should you have it.” Her smile remained fixed as Solas forced himself to look amiable as he pulled out her chair, the gesture bringing him close enough that the edge of his coat brushed her skirts. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, the perfect tableau of a bride-to-be accepting her betrothed’s courtesy. Only Dorian caught the minute rigidity in her shoulders as she sat, or how Solas’s fingers flexed against the chair’s back before he released it.

“Drinking chocolate for me. And a platter of your fresh fruit tarts would not be amiss. The ones with berries atop custard?” Dorian added, settling into his own seat. “The morning is too lovely not to indulge and celebrate.”

“Are we celebrating something in particular?” Solas asked dryly.

“Is not the excellence of each other’s company enough of a worthy cause? Though I am reminded of another lovely moment...” Dorian’s eyes sparkled with mischief, for he’d already concocted a terrible plan to stir the pot. “My Lord Viscount, I admit that I’m still not recovered from that verse you read to Lady Lavellen the other day—Dryden, was it?—in the rose garden? Beneath the arbor and… ah, apologies, my Lord, I forget myself. I shouldn’t mention such private moments in public.”

Three ladies at the next table leaned closer, their morning pastries forgotten. The eldest, wearing a bonnet at least five seasons out of date, whispered something that made her companions titter behind their gloves. The sound drew Solas’s attention, his shoulders stiffening imperceptibly.

“You mistake the poet,” Solas said, seamlessly adapting to Dorian’s fabrication. “It was Blake I selected for the occasion.”

Their refreshments arrived with impressive speed, accompanied by an elaborate tower of delicately crafted pastries, and Dorian hid his smile behind his cup. The Ton would be buzzing with speculation by nightfall—the Viscount reading poetry to his bride in secluded gardens, their heads bent together over verses about love and longing…

“Blake?” Ellana nearly forgot to play along for a moment in her surprise. “Ah, yes, I remember now. The poet who writes of souls in chains and the corruption of innocence. Such a choice for a garden reading.”

“You seemed to appreciate The Garden of Love well enough at the time.”

“I appreciate all his Lordship’s fine selections, though the choice surprised me.”

“For what reason?”

“The Garden of Love speaks of gardens turned to graves, of gates shut with rules and prohibitions. The priests in black gowns walking their rounds… it paints such an atypical romantic picture for an afternoon stroll.”

“Now, now,” Dorian interjected, claiming another fruit tart. “My Lady, you must forgive the Viscount. Not all men study poetry with such dedication. The attempt alone—the sight of him kneeling before you on the arbor bench! A supplicant to a Goddess!—speaks volumes of his regard.”

“I did not kneel—”

“Oh, you mustn’t be embarrassed, my Lord! It is an honor indeed to kneel at the feet of one’s true love, even if you did select the wrong rhyme for the occasion…”

“And what, pray tell, would you have selected for the occasion then, Lord Pavus? No doubt you’d have recommended something more florid and ostentatious?”

“Perhaps. Am I similarly besotted to this person I am reading to as you are with Lady Lavellan?”

Solas’s scowl was barely hidden by a slow, pointed, sip of his coffee. “Yes.”

“I hardly think such a depth of emotion is possible, though there are some Antivan verses I quite like. But what about you, my Lady? What verse would you select for his Lordship to demonstrate your affections for him?”

“Blake, again, I should think.”

”Ah…. I… see,” Perhaps this sort of fabricated courting hadn’t been the best choice for these two, after all. “More graveyard imagery, then? Am I missing some great and romantic allure of death that’s transpired between the two of you?”

“Were I the sort to argue, Lord Pavus—”

Solas scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, were you the sort.”

Ellana scowled and kicked at Solas’s shins from beneath the table, hiding the motion in smoothing her skirts while he in turn hid a hiss of pain in another deliberately slow sip.

“As I was saying, if I wished to play the devil’s advocate, I might say that the absoluteness of a state like death might be a good basis of metaphor for a powerful and indomitable love. It does not bend, it does not stop, it simply is and man is left at both love and death’s mercy.”

“And so the inevitability of undoing is to be admired? Such a thing is romantic?”

“Does not death keep and cherish all things life gives? But that is beside the point. I think... if I were to choose something, to truly pick something fitting I…”

Ellana paused, and Dorian watched her from across the pyramid of tea cakes, her figure all at once thoughtful as she gazed down into her tea where her reflection painted the surface.

“Never seek to tell thy love,’” she recited, eyes distant. “‘Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move, Silently, invisibly.’”

Anyone would’ve thought she was speaking of love. It was rather well played, really, and a twinge of pride swelled in Dorian’s chest.

Dorian watched the ripples from her words spread through their not-so-subtle audience. Such a clever choice. The verse hung between them like a silken noose; ostensibly decorative, lethally functional. This was, at first glance, a love poem for their public performance like this sham of an outing was, but one that, beneath the surface, was more about silence and invisibility than love itself. A bride’s shy declaration—a quiet love needing no words or proof—is all an eavesdropping noble would hear; the true message, however, lay beneath: that love forced is no love at all. Just like the farce of their betrothal. Well read as he was, and with a sumptuously expensive education, even without knowing the poem itself Dorian hedged that the Viscount could catch her truer meaning.

A small, unfriendly, smile played at Solas’s lips as he leaned forward. “Such a tender verse from my fierce bride. I had expected you to select The Tyger.”

“Because you think of yourself as ‘burning bright’?” Ellana’s eyes sparked, eternally doomed to rise to his challenge, though her voice remained honeyed for their audience.

“Not at all. I merely note your preference for words, and likely poetry, with sharper teeth.”

“While you prefer verses about gardens and gates.” She stirred her tea, unimpressed, and the few remaining tidbits of leaves swirled like the gathered whispers around them. Several more onlookers had joined their initial audience, their attention sharp as thorns. “Tell me, my Lord, why did you select The Garden of Love? Is Lord Pavus right in thinking you simply found a sweet sounding title and hoped for the best?”

A dandy in canary yellow waistcoat abandoned all pretense of reading his broadsheet, quizzing glass raised like a playwright studying actors. Even the Scarlatti devolved into irregular chords as the player strained to hear. Solas’s mouth twitched. “I found the theme of paradise lost rather apt.”

“Lost, or locked away behind rules and prohibitions?”

“The notion is hardly more grim than the thought that death is a sweet lover. Is that a Dalish mindset? You have such fascinating and quaint interpretations, my dear. What if I told you I picked just that poem so that I might hear more of your opinions on it. I have, as you may remember, been rather distracted by that sharp mouth and sharper mind. And now I suppose I must add your dainty foot beneath this table to the growing list of things that batter my focus. My position remains precarious whenever you are near.”

Ellana, heat blooming in her cheeks, drew breath for what promised to be a cutting response—perhaps another kick beneath the table out of spite—only her gaze suddenly swept over their growing audience, seemingly triggered into remembering her own rather precarious positioning between houses and independence. There were many eyes on them now. A scene here would incite gossip that would burn through Arlathan like wildfire. She’d already kicked him, and there was no guarantee that hadn’t already tipped the scales. Ellana’s spine straightened, shoulders squaring, but instead of delivering the blow, she set down her teacup with an anticlimactic clink of porcelain.

“Dearest,” she said, her voice dropping to a demure faux velvet that made even Dorian straighten in his seat. Ellana’s knuckles whitened around her teaspoon. “Actually, I think we should discuss lighter topics. It would not do to bore our companion with literary debates.”

Ellana’s shoulders curved inward, her eyes finding sudden fascination with the tea leaves swirling in her cup. The fierce woman who’d matched verses with Solas moments ago vanished beneath a veneer of docility. A perfect painting of appropriate submission that struck false as a brass coin. Ellana was not, and likely was not capable of, backing down from an argument with her intended, and just moments ago she’d matched the Viscount verse for verse, wit for wit. Now she arranged her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl at lessons.

“That’s quite… diplomatic of you, my Lady.” Solas’s cup halted halfway to his lips, his gaze fixed on this newfound docility.

“It serves no purpose to argue in public.” She selected a pastry, each motion deliberate as a chess piece advancing across the board. “After all, what benefit could I gain from winning such a debate?”

The word ‘winning’ carried an edge beneath its sweetness that drew Dorian’s attention. He glanced between his companions, marking how the earlier spark had vanished from her eyes, replaced by this hollow performance of deference. Even more telling was how Solas’s fingers tightened on his cup, unused to such easy victory.

“Benefit?” The cup clicked against its saucer. “Since when has that ever factored into your decisions to challenge me?”

“Since it is not my wish to risk further offense.” Ellana raised her teacup, but Dorian noted how she did not drink. “Should we not discuss more pleasant matters while out with a friend? The weather, perhaps? Or the latest fashions from Val Royeaux?”

Solas’s brow furrowed. “You’ve never cared for fashion.”

Or, Dorian noted, the Viscount’s offense.

“And you’ve never asked me if I had a care for fashion, or spoken to me about the topic prior. Besides, there is a noticeable difference in couture, I have noticed, outside of the district and the Lavellan Estate and high society in Arlathan proper.” Her smile remained fixed, porcelain-bright and brittle. “True, normally I would take no small amount of glee deconstructing another’s small minded and uninformed opinions, but I am reminded that proper manners and conformity bring their own rewards, in a way.”

Her words struck an odd note, out of tune and sour. It was a note and song that Dorian recognised from his own social songbook—not quite submission, then, but acquiescence. Dorian recognized the particular twist of her lips, too, the same expression she’d worn after that unfortunate private audience with Mythal at Vi’Revas. The Countess’s web of threats clung even here in sunny, fine places rather than in the gloom where they belonged. The silk trapped her; she couldn’t flee or fight back without endangering her remaining family. Poor dear. Dorian pushed another small tidbit of cake and custard her way, watching as she sank into her ‘public’ role with rigid determination, though her knuckles whitened around her teacup. What had she asked him before with those big doe eyes and brandy on her tongue? Tell me, Lord Pavus, what exactly does one wear to a garden party where one’s entire world hangs in the balance?

Meanwhile Solas watched her, his own cup forgotten, like a general discovering his battle plans had suddenly, inexplicably, changed. Or a scout had brought him a faulty report. Was that a disappointed curl to his lip? The Viscount frowned and opened his mouth to speak—

“My dearest Lady Lavellan.” Dorian leaned forward, his rings catching the light. This conversation needed to be steered back to safer waters before they could be run aground and sink, “If you’ve a mind for couture, then you must allow me to assist with the selection of your wardrobe for the upcoming gala. I, too, care for the magical effect that a curated wardrobe can inspire on others, and the bounty of rewards found in beauty. And I know just the modiste.”

“Which gala?” Ellana asked.

“Lady Montilyet’s autumn gathering. Surely you’ve heard? The entire Ton will be there.” At Ellana’s blank look, Dorian’s eyes lit with delight. “Oh, this is marvelous—I get to be the bearer of such news. Her soirées are legendary, and this year’s promises to exceed even her usual standards.”

“I had not heard of it,” Ellana said.

“Then we must visit Madame Ghislaine at once. Her establishment lies just around the corner, and her latest shipment from Orlais arrived yesterday.” Dorian rose, adjusting his cravat. “Come along, both of you. The salon grows crowded after the lunch hour.”

The streets had filled with morning shoppers as they exited the café, and the trio of them wove through the lingering shopping crowd until they arrived at a gilded sign that announced “Madame Ghislaine’s Modiste” just above a shop window where mannequins draped in silk and lace gazed imperiously at passersby through the glass. Inside, the salon stretched into an opulent chamber where mirrors multiplied light from crystal sconces and assistants bustled between displays of ribbons or fabric bolts stacked like library scrolls.

“Ah, Lord Pavus!” Madame Ghislaine swept forward, her silver-streaked hair elaborately coiffed. Her silk gown rustled as she dipped into a curtsey. “What a pleasure—and Viscount Fen’Harel! Lady Lavellan!” Her eyes gleamed with barely contained excitement at such notable patronage and notable profits to be made.

“Madame.” Dorian kissed her hand. “I hear you’ve a shipment from Orlais?”

“But of course! Marie, the amber silk from Val Royeaux, if you please.” She clapped her hands and a junior assistant hurried to fetch the requested fabric. “Though perhaps the emerald would better suit her Ladyship’s complexion...”

“The amber first, I think,” Dorian said. “And then perhaps that divine gold tissue I see over there?”

Solas had drifted to examine a display of cravats, though Dorian noted how his gaze kept returning to where Madame Ghislaine was now draping lengths of shimmering silk beside Ellana’s face.

“See how it catches the light?” Dorian murmured to Ellana. “Like fire under moonlight. Perfect for an autumn gala, wouldn’t you agree?”

In Tevinter, Dorian had learned early in life that fashion served as armor and weapon both. The right coat could deflect scandal, while a precisely chosen color might strike more decisively than any blade. Pockets were good for hiding secrets. Women wore dresses like armor and cut each other down with satin and lace blades. Here in Arlathan, where the Ton’s judgment cut as sharply as any northern wind, Ellana would need every advantage and a collection of pretty, fitted, weapons of her own. The amber silk shimmered as Madame Ghislaine draped it. A bold color that demanded attention and did not hide, majestic and burning bright, that would make it impossible for anyone to dismiss the woman wearing it.

“It is... lovely,” Ellana said, her fingers brushing the silk with unusual hesitation. The triptych mirror fractured Ellana into three women: left reflection stiff in borrowed silk, right all wildfire eyes and bitten lips, center—a stranger stitching both halves with golden thread. Dorian inclined his head, pleased. In this, he’d have her at the apex of the social pyramid by dessert courses at any event.

“The cut must be modern,” Madame Ghislaine declared, already sketching on parchment. “Something to honor both houses—perhaps hints of traditional Dalish embroidery along the hem? But subtle, very subtle...”

“Or perhaps not so subtle,” Dorian suggested. Through the mirror, he watched Solas abandon his pretense of examining cravats. “Because I have a vision, ladies, and I’ve selected a poem for you, Lady Lavellan.”

“One of your preferred Antivan verses?”

“Not at all. Blake, of course.”

“Ah. Have the Viscount and I poisoned your mind with the romantic allure of graveyards and death? Or have you selected something more befitting of me in The Chimney Sweeper?”

“Hardly. No for you, my Lady, there was only one poem to fit, of course: Tyger Tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye, dare frame thy fearful symmetry?” Dorian helped to drape, swatting away the assistant’s hand when he disliked the flow of fabric. “You are a woman of two worlds, after all, and that duality begs to be celebrated. Or feared, if you prefer. Designed perfectly as you are, and different, deeply unsettling to those who know that they’re less. Madame Ghislain, I should like the embroidery to be here… and yes, here, so it catches the light. The Lady needn’t, shouldn’t, hide her heritage. The right design might celebrate it instead—imagine the thread catching candlelight, patterns that reveal themselves only when she moves...”

“The cost—” Ellana began, but Dorian caught the slight furrow in her brow. His eyes flicked to her current dress with latent understanding. It was beautiful and lovingly maintained, the repairs subtle over years of use. The Lavellans had never been a rich house.

“Will not be a concern,” Solas said, moving from the cravat display. “Whatever Lord Pavus and Madame Ghislaine deem appropriate for such an occasion shall be provided. I make no overtures to understand or care for the nuances of fabric and stitching.”

Madame Ghislaine’s eyes lit at this carte blanche, and she turned to her assistants with renewed vigor. “Marie! The lace as well. And the matching silk—no, the deeper shade. Quickly now!”

Fabrics, each more luxurious than the last, outflanked and surrounded Ellana. Her expression remained fixed as the modiste’s assistants held different combinations against her skin, but Dorian noted how her fingers stilled when they brushed against particularly fine swatches.

Through the mirror, Dorian caught Solas watching Ellana as Madame worked, his own features impossible to read.

“The measurements will take some time,” Madame Ghislaine said. “Perhaps my Lord would prefer to return later?”

“I think not,” Solas replied, his tone clipped. “We shall wait.”

Dorian settled into a velvet chair near the fitting platform, ostensibly absorbed in examining fabric swatches while watching his two companions. The modiste and her assistants bustled around Ellana with pins and measuring tapes, their chatter filling the air, but his attention remained fixed on the subtle interplay unfolding before him.

Solas kept to the window, all ice and pride. Even so, his gaze followed Ellana’s reflection as if mapping dangerous territory—especially in those brief moments when he thought no one watched. She caught his eyes in the mirror once, twice, each time looking away as if burned.

Neither of them spoke. Not that they needed to; a look, much like a garment, could speak volumes if you understood the language.

“I believe we have everything we need,” Madame Ghislaine announced. “Unless my Lord wishes to see more samples?”

“No,” Solas said, already moving toward the door. “I trust the matter is well in hand.”

As they stepped back into the sunlit street, Dorian noted how quickly the pair put space between themselves, as if the shop’s close quarters had wound some spring too tight. Yet they still moved in unconscious tandem, matching each other’s pace while pretending not to notice.

Truly, Dorian mused, they were their own worst enemies in this little dance of theirs. And what a dangerous dance it was becoming. Dorian had spent enough time in Mythal’s web to recognize when strings were being pulled, when players were being maneuvered into position like pieces on a chessboard. The Countess never moved without purpose, and her interest in this match between houses made him distinctly uneasy. Add to that the unlikely alliance of both the Viscount and Lady Lavellan this morning visiting the archives and keepers of contracts… well. The last time he’d seen Solas this focused on documentation, it had ended with three regiments deployed and a general’s resignation.

Yet here they all were, playing at afternoon tea and dress fittings while intrigue simmered beneath the surface. Dorian adjusted his cuff links, a habit born of years hiding unease beneath polish. The Viscount was many things, but never careless with his time. Whatever had drawn them to the archives must be significant indeed.

“I believe our social obligations should be at last concluded,” Lord Fen’Harel said. “Unless Lord Pavus has additional plans for our edification?”

“I had rather hoped we might visit the new bookshop just down the way,” Dorian began, twirling his snake’s-head cane. “I’m told they’ve several volumes from Tevinter’s Black Divine era—scandalous heresies bound in dragonhide. Perfect for light reading en famille, and given our earlier literary discourse...”

Solas’s mouth thinned. “We will decline. An admirable suggestion, were it not for—”

“My Lady? Ellana?” Dorian steadied her, noting how Solas’s arm jerked forward instinctually before locking behind his back.

“A momentary dizziness,” she said, rallying with a brightness as brittle as spun sugar. “I assure you, I am fine though… the day has been long. I think that the bustle of this morning has, in no small measure, unsettled my nerves. Perhaps I might ask my Lords for a small indulgence? The harbor air would steady my nerves. And, if my memory serves, the Lavellan imports were due this morning at the docks. As his Lordship insists on overseeing all estate affairs...” Her gaze slid to Solas, sharpening. “...surely that extends to shared interests now?”

Dorian bit back a smile, recognizing the particular gleam in her eye. Their little bird wanted to check her cage’s remaining locks, it seemed. Asking this way, too, was a masterstroke, really. Solas couldn’t refuse without appearing neglectful, not with members of the Ton’s gossip-hungry flock still watching from the milliner’s window across the street or eavesdropping from the curb.

“Captain Rutherford would greatly prefer—” Solas began.

“—that you indulge your betrothed’s delicate health?” Dorian cut in. “Delightful. I do adore the way you dote on her, my Lord. Lead on, my Lady.”

Their carriage ride to the harbor offered little in the way of conversation. Solas stared out the window with the intensity of a man composing a particularly scathing letter, while Ellana’s fingers traced a sample square of amber silk bundled in her lap. Dorian, ever the diplomat, filled the silence with observations about the latest gossip and curiosities—though he suspected neither companion was truly listening.

Upon arrival, Captain Rutherford remained with the carriage while the trio went forth. The docks sprawled like a gout of ink on Arlathan’s gilded edge, and were alive with movement. Stevedores hauled crates, fishwives haggled over catches still flopping in their brine, and sailors shouted in half a dozen languages while they heaved crates marked with Lavellan’s halla crest both on and off of ships in their berths. This was as far as physically possible from the rosy, chic cafes and cobbled streets of the hightown half of the city. Ellana’s arrival was met with familiarity as she stepped over coiled ropes and past seagull waste, the hem of her dress and slippers scuffed by salt and sawdust. Dockhands straightened and grinned, some tipping their caps in greeting.

Solas, however, received no such warmth.

A merchant paused mid-transaction when he noticed the Viscount’s approach. His lips thinned as he executed the barest nod of deference before returning to haggling over freight costs. A dockhand unloading crates marked with the Lavellan crest, who had just smiled at their returning Lady, hesitated before bowing to the Viscount—not out of reverence, but reluctance. Another, older man, wiping sweat from his brow with a faded kerchief, muttered just loudly enough to be heard, “Haven’t seen his Lordship down here before.” His tone was dry, edged with something that was not quite hostility, but certainly not welcome.

Solas did not react outwardly, but Dorian, ever perceptive, caught the brief flicker of calculation—realization—before his features smoothed into indifference.

The murmurs followed them as they moved through the docks.

“Well, look at that,” a dockhand muttered, arms crossed as he watched Solas pass. “The Viscount’s found his way down to the docks. Maybe he’s here to tell us why the ‘efficiency mandates’ cut half my crew’s wages.”

“Or why the tariff hikes mean my brother’s ship is still stuck at port,” another added darkly.

Dorian arched a brow at one particularly bold remark, glancing sideways to gauge Solas’s reaction. The Viscount’s expression remained neutral, but his gaze flicked toward Ellana. She, notably, had not received a single cold look since their arrival. Quite the opposite—they expected, even welcomed, her presence here.

Solas’s fingers twitched slightly before clasping behind his back. If Dorian were a crueler man, he might have enjoyed the moment more.

“You are remarkably well-liked here,” Dorian observed, feigning casual conversation as they approached the Lavellan shipments.

Ellana exhaled softly. “Because I was here before this engagement. These people know me.”

She did not say And they do not know you, but the words did not need to be spoken.

Solas remained silent.

“Ah, well.” Dorian twirled his cane idly. “It seems you are a ruler more accustomed to policy than presence, my Lord. I imagine such a thing must be a novelty for you.”

Solas shot him a warning look.

Dorian merely smiled, then noticed a crate split open, revealing frayed Qunari spice sacks. “Ah. A pity. These look past salvageable. Your ancestors’ trading partners must be rolling in their graves.”

“My grandfather traded with Par Vollen before it was fashionable,” Ellana said coolly. “He called their peppercorns ‘tiny grenades of flavor.’”

“Grenades and gaatlok do have a certain zest,” A shadow detached itself from the harbor fog like a prow materializing from storm clouds—a man of such formidable stature Dorian half-expected the dock boards to groan in protest. If the eyepatch weren’t enough, a bull’s-head earring glinted beneath one ear—tasteless, even by Tevinter standards—and his linen shirt strained impressively over a chest that likely doubled as a ship’s figurehead.

Wonderful, Dorian thought sourly, a Qunari mercenary. Just what this day needed.

“Viscount Fen’Harel, Lady Lavellan.” the stranger inclined his head with a casualness that bordered on impertinence. His gaze swept Dorian with undisguised curiosity. “I was wondering when our paths might cross again. And… you’ve brought… who is this?”

“I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, though now I assist the Countess Mythal in Arlathan. How do you do?”

“Iron Bull,” the Qunari said, and his single-eyed gaze swept Dorian. “Boss of the Chargers, occasional nightmare to Orlesian merchants, and you must be the ‘Vint I keep hearing about, eh? Heard you drink Magister’s brandy like it’s water.”

“Charmed,” Dorian said, centuries of Tevinter-Qunari hostility making his smile particularly sharp out of instinct alone. The mercenary captain’s sheer size was offensive enough—no one had the right to fill space quite so thoroughly. “And it is Black Divine wine, actually. Distilled from grapes stomped by virgins.”

“So what brings the Viscount and the esteemed Lord Pavus all the way down here? I didn’t think nobles liked getting their shoes dirty.”

“Yes. Well. I wouldn’t have expected to find one of your kind monitoring these trade routes,” Dorian said, watching dock workers haul crates marked with various noble houses’ crests—Lavellan’s halla, naturally, but also the rearing lion of House Valmont and others he recognized from Mythal’s endless political discussions.

“You’d be surprised what noble houses will pay for reliable protection these days. Though I suspect you already know plenty about buying loyalty, working for the Countess.” The Iron Bull’s laugh echoed across the dock boards, drawing startled glances from passing sailors who clearly weren’t used to seeing such an imposing figure in animated conversation with the gentle class.

Ah. So the brute had teeth and wit. And excellent intelligence networks, apparently. How deliciously inconvenient.

“Master Bull, this seems rather far from your usual hunting grounds with The Chargers,” Ellana observed, her tone light but her eyes sharp as she glanced between the loaded cargo and Bull’s surveillance of the harbor traffic. “What brings you this way?”

“Thought I’d see for myself what’s caught my lieutenants’ attention. Krem’s got theories about some of the recent trade route disruptions.”

“More Disruptions?” Solas’s voice carried that particular edge Dorian recognized from war councils past. The same note that had once preceded cavalry charges and strategic retreats.

“No, my Lord, the same that we’ve discussed previously, and nothing worth ruining such a lovely morning promenade. The trail has gone cold this way.” Bull’s massive shoulders rolled in what might have been a shrug. “We are still monitoring the raids along the trading routes but then I realized… those are only the ones we see on land. Between villages and cities. There are other territories and methods that might be exploited, especially now that the balance of things with the shipping houses have been unbalanced.”

“Unbalanced?”

Iron Bull gave both Solas and Ellana a pointed look. “The Lady of the Lavellan estate, I’ve learned, was here nearly every day prior to a certain engagement. People notice absences. Some might see it as an opening. Though… enough of that, I can tell that the Lady is eager to take in the state of affairs here.” He gestured toward the maze of warehouses and waiting ships. “I shouldn’t keep you from your business here.”

“Actually,” Ellana said, her tone brightening. “Master Bull, would you care to accompany us? If you are here to gather information on the operations of trade here, I may be able to assist as I take in the current affairs.”

Dorian watched the easy familiarity between them with raised brows. Iron Bull’s presence was an oddity—a Qunari mercenary navigating Arlathan’s merchant elite with the ease of a born noble. It was the sort of paradox Dorian couldn’t help but admire, even as it set his teeth on edge, and the mercenary captain clearly knew his way around both docks and nobility—a dangerous combination worth noting. Iron Bull towered over their small party, his presence as imposing as the merchant ships looming at anchor. Dorian adjusted his sleeves, then his brummel, the silk a poor shield against the unfamiliar assault of fish-gut stench and dockhand man-sweat.

Their unlikely group moved deeper into the dockyard’s chaos, and Dorian picked his way between hemp ropes thick as a man’s arm, grimacing as his Antivan leather boots encountered yet another suspicious puddle. The salt air played havoc with his carefully styled hair, and he dreaded to think what the constant spray was doing to polished buckles. Every breath brought a new offense to his sensibilities—rope hemp, brine, unwashed sailors. Utterly barbaric. Why on Earth would Ellana want to be here willingly?

She moved through this chaos like a fish returning to familiar waters, her skirts gathering dock dust as she wove between shouting stevedores and mountains of cargo. Even Solas appeared caught off guard by this shift, his gaze following her with the intensity of a man discovering an unexpected chapter in a book he thought he knew by heart.

They rounded a stack of crates marked with the Lavellan halla, and a burly dockhand touched his cap as they passed.

“Lady Lavellan! We weren’t expecting—” His weather-beaten face split into a genuine smile. “It’s good to see you back, m’Lady.”

“Master Hayes.” Ellana’s entire bearing transformed, her more submissive ‘for-public’ mannerisms falling away like a discarded cloak. “I see that my Aunt had the refurbishments completed in my absence. How is the new pulley system performing?”

“It is a much needed improvement, my Lady, however there is a flaw within it. I could show you?”

As Hayes led them toward the wharf, Dorian hung back slightly, his attention divided between Ellana’s lively exchange and Bull’s observant silence. The mercenary captain’s single eye missed nothing—the crates being loaded, the men at work, the precise movements of the pulley system. And, actually, neither did Ellana’s, as the dockhand brought them to the base of the hoist.

Ellana’s eyes lit up as she examined the intricate machinery, her fingers tracing the polished wood and iron appreciatively, already with infinitely more interest than what she’d had with imported brocade at the modiest. “It’s magnificent, could you show me how—”

“Of course, m’Lady,” Hayes said, “Here, let me show you—”

Before he could finish, the pulley system groaned under the weight of a fully loaded crate, the counterweight jerking out of alignment by mere inches—small enough to go unnoticed by an untrained eye, but enough to throw the entire mechanism off balance if left uncorrected. The ropes shuddered, the crate swinging awkwardly midair.

Ellana reacted before anyone else.

“Hold!” she called, her voice cutting through the morning bustle. The dockhands obeyed, halting the system as the crate tilted dangerously, and she stepped forward, already scanning the mechanism.

“Lady Lavellan,” Solas began, stepping forward with a clipped tone, “this might be a matter best left to those trained in… such tasks.”

“I am trained,” Ellana countered, already crouched near the pulley. She tapped the wood, detecting the notch.

“Aye, it’s true my Lord,” one of the nearby sailors offered, “and it is the Lady Lavellan that ordered this unit for us. Though it may not be the sort of thing a highborn gentleman such as yourself may be familiar with.”

For a moment, the Viscount bristled—Dorian saw it in the tightness of his shoulders, the set of his jaw—but he said nothing more, evidently aware he’d walked into a conversation where he held little authority.

“The counterweight’s off balance. Look there—see how the rope is dragging unevenly against the guide?”

Hayes frowned, following her gaze. “Damn. You’ve got sharp eyes, m’Lady. That shouldn’t be happening.”

Ellana crouched, running her fingers along the mechanism before exhaling sharply. “It’s catching on an untreated notch in the beam. The tension is too high—if you keep this up, it’ll grind through the rope in a matter of weeks.”

She turned, her gaze locking onto one of the younger dockhands. “Joss, is it? Grab me a file and some resin.”

The man hesitated, looking toward Hayes for confirmation.

“You heard her, Joss,” Hayes said, nodding.

Joss hurried off, returning with a file, which Ellana took without hesitation. She set to work smoothing the rough wood, her hands practiced as she worked the groove down to an even surface. Dorian cast a sidelong glance at Solas and found the Viscount visibly torn between protesting Ellana’s decidedly unladylike position—crouched on the damp planks, a file rasping against wood like a common carpenter—and acknowledging that she clearly knew what she was doing.

“That beam looks unstable,” Solas said, voice low and uneasy. “I’m sure I can have a proper mechanic see to it rather than you struggling like this.”

Ellana scoffed. She rolled her eyes and kept at her filing. “I’m sure you would love to see to things here, but as it stands, the Lavellan business is beyond your grasp and I intend to keep it that way; I’ll not accept your funds, not that they would even be necessary. The beam need not be replaced so long as… ah, see? With the notch removed, this should reduce wear, but we’ll want to reinforce this entire section soon,” she said a moment later, “preferably with iron, if you don’t want to be doing this again in a few months. I shall send word to my Aunt to place the order for the materials immediately.”

Ellana stood and wiped the fine dust from her fingers. “Now—shift the counterweight slightly left and retension the rope before resuming the lift.”

The dockhands complied, and when the pulley resumed operation, the crate lifted smoothly this time with no wobble in sight. Ellana stood back, satisfied, while a wave of relief passed through the onlookers.

“Much better.”

Hayes whistled low, shaking his head in admiration. “You always did have a sharp eye for this, m’Lady. Your father would’ve been proud.”

“That was… a simpler solution that I realized.” Solas admitted. He stepped forward, his earlier protest seeming to linger in the air. “You’ve done this before?”

“My father passed when I was fourteen, my Lord, I have done a great many tasks for the management of this business both within and beyond the counting house for nearly a decade since.”

A momentary stiffness left the Viscount’s posture. He adjusted his gloves. “I—see.”

Beside him, Iron Bull let out a low chuckle. “She’s got the hands for grease and the head for numbers. That’s rare. Not many nobles can manage both.”

“Indeed,” Dorian said, his tone carefully placid. “Though I suspect her talents have been sorely underappreciated in certain circles.”

Bull chuckled, a deep rumble that carried over the noise of the docks. “Underappreciated talents tend to make themselves known eventually. Usually in the most inconvenient ways.”

“Spoken like a man who’s made a career of being inconvenient,” Dorian shot back, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Occupational hazard,” Bull agreed. His gaze shifted to Solas, who stood slightly apart, his posture stiff as he watched Ellana inspect the new pulley system. “Though I’m not the only one who seems to be causing trouble around here.”

“Lady Lavellan!” Another, younger, dockhand called out, waving from near the merchant vessels. “Come see what we’ve done with the new rigging system you suggested!”

“The standard rigging? Or the back-stays? But yes, I should like to see both—did the new orders of coir rope come in?”

“Yes, m’Lady, along with coils of manila. Mind the boards though—morning tide’s left them slick,” one worker warned, and Ellana adjusted her path towards a nearby moored ship without breaking stride, clearly familiar with the dock’s daily rhythms. When she reached the ship’s side, she removed her gloves and set the thin, white lace of them down on a nearby crate and turned so that one of her hands gripped the ladder to climb upwards and aboard..

“My Lady,” Solas said, voice sharper than he intended. “Surely you don’t intend to—?”

“I do,” Ellana answered. Without waiting, she climbed onto and up the ladder nimbly. “Though there is no need for his Lordship to follow, such tasks are not suited for the Viscount, I am sure.”

“Nor the woman to be my wife,” Solas made a halting gesture, as if to stop her, then stopped himself. Dorian could practically see the thoughts racing behind those narrowed eyes: orders, cautions, an entire arsenal of reasons why a Viscount’s fiancée shouldn’t be hoisting herself onto a freighter’s rigging.

“Are you determined to vacillate between these extremes of personality? Sipping tea and honey with diplomatic deference one moment and then footling about in shipyards the next?”

“There’s no Ton to impress here, my Lord. Just my men.”

The dockhands deferred to Ellana, and Solas likely recognized the pointlessness of resisting. Dorian recognized the frustrated confusion on his face, too.

Another rare defeat. But oh, wait, was he—?

Solas lingered at the foot of the ladder for a second, one hand curling around the wooden rungs as though weighing his next move. The ladder was sturdy enough. That was not the issue. From Dorian’s vantage, it looked like the Viscount couldn’t decide whether to hold his ground and maintain his station or scale the ship after his fiancée to maintain his pride.

“My Lord, she really doesn’t need any assistance—” one dockhand began, but Solas shot him a withering glare.

“Step aside,” Solas said curtly.

Ellana, half-turned up above, glanced down from the rail. Their eyes met, and something like exasperation flickered across her face before she resumed her inspection of the rigging, making a point to ignore her intended.

Maker’s breath, he’s actually going up, Dorian mused, biting back a grin. Goading the Viscount into doing things he didn’t want to be doing was a favorite pastime of his own, however… becoming a spectator for someone else’s machinations was quickly becoming a new and pleasant diversion. Ellana was doomed to rise to challenges and arguments. Solas was doomed to fall down from his high horse when his pride or abilities were called into question. The Viscount planted a polished boot on the first rung, then the next, each movement slow and deliberate—every inch the commanding officer unhappily forced into a footman’s duty.

“You needn’t trouble yourself, my Lord,” Ellana called, her voice echoing down the ladder. “This is only a quick inspection.”

“I’d rather see the situation personally, my dear,” Solas replied, his voice tight.

“As you wish,” Ellana said, more quietly.

Dorian couldn’t resist stepping closer, half expecting to see the proud Viscount slip on sludge on the ladder. Iron Bull arched a brow, clearly amused.

At the top, Solas halted, eyeing the precarious walkway. He took in the salt-stained boards, the reek of fish, and a coil of rope that threatened to snag his coat. Ellana’s stance—poised, fully at home—only underscored how far he was from his usual realm.

“Well?” she prompted, a faint challenge in her tone. “You are here. Here is the situation. What is your appraisal? I am surprised to learn that his lordship is also knowledgeable about ship’s rigging and knotwork.”

Dorian could make out Solas’s glower from below, the set of the Viscount’s shoulders, rigid with stubborn pride, as though the man refused to admit he was wildly out of place. This was worth risking scuffed boots for, apparently: proving his bride-to-be wouldn’t overshadow him in front of her own people. Did he know anything about this sort of set up?

“The Viscount seems determined to prove something,” Dorian murmured to Bull below, though he kept his voice low enough that neither Ellana nor Solas could overhear. “I… can’t quite recall if he actually has experience in such things."

“Better hope his boots hold out,” Bull chuckled, crossing his arms. “Or that he’s not too proud to catch himself on the way down.”

As the two above continued to bicker and look over the shrouds, then the top-span and their voices grew faint, Dorian glanced back to the Qunari at his side. “I don’t suppose you spend much time around the docks, Master Bull?”

“More than you’d think.” Bull’s massive shoulders rolled in what might have been a shrug. “Ships need protection the same as caravans. Pirates don’t care much for proper introductions or the gentle treatment of precious cargo.”

“How dreadfully uncivilized of them.” Dorian’s rings caught the morning light as he gestured. “I imagine even pirates might pause at the sight of you.”

“Pirates are magpies,” Bull said with a chuckle, letting his gaze roam over Dorian’s elaborate attire. “They’ll snag anything that gleams, whether it’s a chest of gold or a well-placed brooch. Any pretty thing, really. You should be careful should you go to sea.”

Bull’s low voice and laugh drew Dorian’s attention despite himself—deep and rich as aged whiskey or Tevene cognac. Maker’s breath, was the brute actually trying to be charming? To flirt?

More concerning: was it working?

“What a terrible shame, then, that I have so much worth stealing.”

Bull made a low, considering sound. “Mmm, indeed, you do.”

…Well.

Dorian had expected a tease, perhaps a smirk. Flat agreement was, frankly, an ambush. No hesitation, no embellishment—just fact, delivered with a weight that settled far too comfortably in the space between them.

He refused to let that show.

“Well,” Dorian recovered smoothly, fussing with his perfect cuffs. “It’s a good thing I keep my valuables well-guarded.”

Bull’s single eye flicked over him—slow as a rolling tide, assessing with a kind of lazy certainty that made Dorian’s skin prickle in ways he absolutely did not have time for.

“You sure about that?”

It wasn’t a challenge. Not quite. But Dorian felt it all the same. A slow draw of attention, a moment stretching just a fraction too long before Bull turned back toward the ship, as if the conversation had not just become something else entirely.

Dorian exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Dangerous man, he thought, not for the first time.

More annoyingly—interesting man.

He clicked his tongue, smoothing a gloved hand over his coat as though brushing away something intangible. “Well, as thrilling as it is to be appraised like a particularly fine Imperium pearl, I do hope you’ll forgive me if I prefer my admiration less… acquisitive.”

Bull only grinned. “Can’t help it. Some things are worth looking at. Were I pirate, you’d be stolen immediately.”

“Should I be flattered or worried by that assessment?”

“Depends on whether you enjoy attention, and the situation. You don’t seem the type to shy from it, but attention can be a dangerous commodity,” Bull said, his gaze sweeping the docks with practiced ease. “Take our friends up there. I take it that the Viscount’s never set foot here before today, but now he’s climbing rigging just to prove a point. Makes people notice. Makes them wonder why.”

“You sound positively suspicious, Master Bull.” Dorian twirled his cane idly. “Do share your theories. I do so enjoy a good bit of speculation.”

Above them, Ellana’s voice carried down, sharp with exasperation. “My Lord, if you’d just—the knot needs to be—oh, for creator’s sake, let me show you.”

“I am perfectly capable of—” Solas’s protest cut off abruptly, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a curse in elvhen.

“Problems, my Lord?” Dorian called up, unable to resist.

“None whatsoever,” came the clipped reply.

A rope end dangled down, swaying gently. Bull caught it with surprising delicacy for hands his size. “Rigging’s loose,” he observed mildly. “Someone should see to that.”

“Someone is attempting to,” Ellana’s voice drifted down.

A pause. A creak of wood. Then a thud.

When at last Viscount Fen’Harel and Lady Ellana finally descended to the dock, the Viscount bore undeniable signs of an ill-advised engagement with the ship’s tarred ropes. Tar stains, signs of a difficult struggle, marred his usually immaculate coat, and a curl had escaped his carefully styled hair. By contrast, Lady Ellana appeared pristine, save for a single errant streak upon the cuff of her sleeve, as if grime itself had thought better than to linger. She cast one last fond look at the rigging before turning to address the gathered dockhands.

“Master Hayes, ensure the new system is properly tested before the evening tide. I’ll have my aunt send word about those reinforcements we discussed.”

“Of course, my Lady.” Hayes touched his cap, shooting a barely concealed smirk at the Viscount’s disarray.

“Well,” Dorian said brightly as they made their way back toward the waiting carriage, “this has been thoroughly entertaining, but I believe we’ve imposed on the harbor’s hospitality long enough. The Countess will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”

“Quite,” Solas said stiffly, still attempting to brush tar from his sleeve and only succeeding in spreading it farther.

“You’ll survive her disappointment,” Ellana said, a hint of her earlier spark returning. “After all, you were accompanying her favorite project and his reluctant bride on important social obligations. That should count for something.”

“My darling Lady Lavellan, you underestimate the Countess’s capacity for creative displeasure. Though I suppose watching his lordship climb rigging was worth whatever cutting remarks await my return.” Dorian’s rings caught the morning light as he gestured. “Do give my regards to the estate. I shall visit soon, assuming I survive my immediate future.”

“The estate would welcome your company,” Ellana said, then added, “As would I.”

“Of course you would. I am a delight. And so you shall have the delight of my company when I am next available.”

Solas handed her into the carriage with rigid courtesy, his own expression masked. “Until next time, Lord Pavus.”

“My Lord,” Dorian bowed, perfectly calibrated to be just this side of impertinent. “Try not to acquire any more tar stains before your next social engagement.”

The Viscount’s withering look was entirely worth it.

The carriage door closed with a definitive click, and Captain Rutherford gave a quick nod before mounting his horse to follow. Iron Bull’s presence remained solid at Dorian’s shoulder. “Interesting pair,” the mercenary captain observed.

“Quite.” Dorian watched the carriage disappear around a corner, considering all he’d witnessed today. The tail-end of that Archives visit, their time at the cafe, stolen glances with the dressmaker, and now this glimpse of Ellana in her element juxtaposed against Solas being out of his own for once. More importantly, he’d seen how Solas watched her during that display: surprise warring with calculation, as if recognizing an unexpected piece on his mental chess board.

“The Viscount doesn’t strike me as a man who enjoys surprises,” Bull said, as if reading Dorian’s thoughts.

“No, he rather doesn’t. Though perhaps a few surprises would do him good.”

Behind those pristine facades lay a web of ambition and intrigue, Dorian had mused earlier, watching fruit sellers polish their wares to a deceptive shine. Now, as the harbor bells tolled the hour across water and stone, he couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets lurked behind today’s performances. The Countess collected advisors like art pieces, yes, but Dorian collected secrets like rare vintages: best savored slowly, best shared selectively.

“Do you need an escort back to Tarasyl’an Te’las?” Bull’s question cut through his reverie.

“Trying to protect my virtue, Master Bull?”

“Just offering. Or, if you prefer, there is a tavern nearby and I could show you something better than Black Divine wine. Real Qunari spirits would put it to shame.”

“Impossible.” Dorian considered the invitation, weighing dignity against curiosity. “Though… very well. Fine. You have twisted my arm. It would be rude to refuse such gallant concern for my welfare. Or my appreciation of wine. Though I warn you, I have an expensive taste and low tolerance for unsatisfactory conversation.”

“Funny,” Bull said, falling into step beside him. “So do I.”

And if his afternoon took an unexpected turn with a certain mercenary captain... well, that was rather the point of escape, wasn’t it? To find something real beneath all that polish and shine.

Chapter Text

The water had grown cold, but Ellana couldn't bring herself to leave the tub.

She had dismissed her maid an hour ago, preferring solitude to hovering attendance. Now she traced idle patterns in the lavender-scented water, watching ripples disturb the surface of her bath. The copper tub, a massive thing that had probably served generations of Fen'Harel's family, gleamed in the early morning sun that crept in from the nearby window. After so long, steam had long since ceased rising from the water, though droplets still clung to the painted screen that shielded her from the rest of her chambers.

Her thoughts, like the water, refused to settle completely. These past few days at Vi'Revas were disconcerting. She was disconcerted, ever so slightly ill at ease and off balance, as though the manner in which gravity held all things to the Earth had abruptly changed its angle, leaving the world askew… only nothing had changed. She was still here, apart from her aunt, still unspeakably misplaced for her role-to-be, and still engaged to the man who’d tried to bring her own family to its knees for a killing blow. Cole still brought her scones and sweets at night, and she still, occasionally, spoke of stars with Cullen in the garden when the rest of the house slept. Sera still thought her Dalish tapestry was the ugliest thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Solas still maintained his habit of watching her when he thought she wasn't looking.

But that, too, felt off.

Before, both at the ball and when they’d met for the second time at Tarasyl'an Te'las, the Viscount’s gaze always held a vague sort of derision—a resignation not unlike that of a baker for an unwelcome pantry mouse or other offending lower creature. Lately, though… that, too, had shifted. Now when the Viscount’s eyes, while still glacial and unfriendly, met hers instead of denigration, there was something… ever so slightly less sharp, edging towards considering.

Though it always disappeared immediately upon being perceived.

She'd caught glimpses of it—the askew expression of his regard—first at the modiste when he'd agreed to the expense without argument, and next in the way his gaze had followed her at the docks as she'd climbed the rigging. Ellana huffed out a small laugh, just for herself, and lolled her head back against the rim of the tub to stare upwards at the ceiling. Of course, when asked if she really needed to be the one to climb ladders and ropes and file hoisting systems in the filthy shipyard, she’d said yes, but it was also, of course, a lie. Hayes could’ve tied the knots. Joor could’ve done the filing. She’d done those things because she wanted to and because she wanted to spite her fiancé.

Never in her wildest dreams had Ellana imagined that Lord Fen’Harel would follow her up the ladder and down into the grime, his pride wounded but his curiosity evident. Stupid man. Arrogant man. The memory of his barely concealed frustration, standing on the decking with that stiff, wide-eyed expression seconds before he slipped and fell onto the boards (nearly landing face-first in the fresh tar) brought an unbidden smile to her lips.

Since when did thinking about him make her smile? Yes, this was because of his misfortune, but it still set what, Ellana realized, was a dangerous precedent.

Dangerous like his unexpected laughter after she'd shoved him into the lake rather than the fury she'd expected and the way he’d covered for her rudeness by claiming he'd fallen. Even during her ill-fated morning ride, though he'd joined uninvited and arguably caused the fall, he'd shown genuine concern when her horse threw her, helping her ride back pressed against him rather than letting her walk in shame. Slivers of… not quite kindness, not quite goodwill, but undoubtedly well-intentioned regard made it harder to maintain her hatred of him with the same fierce certainty. She thought, at least, that she could always count on the Viscount for a cutting remark or insult to her competence; this would restore her familiar, safe antipathy toward him.

What was more concerning was how easily he adapted when proven wrong at the harbor about the pulley.

Instead of arguing, like she knew he would, he’d just… listened.

“That was… a simpler solution that I realized.”

And then he just looked at her. It reminded her, almost, of the way he’d stooped over the desk in his study when they checked the shipping ledgers, or in the Archive with Master Tethras, with an indomitable, cataloging look to his eye. Then, it’d been fine. At the harbor, the intensity shifted; he pointed the lens at her, and this was more unsettling than any previous dismissal because now he felt like he was evaluating her as a resource or asset he hadn't properly assessed on first inspection.

Ellana closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind of these unsettling thoughts, and forced her mind to wander elsewhere.

Ellana sank deeper into the water with a frustrated sigh, letting it lap at her collarbones. Lavender oils in the bath mingled with the faint residual perfume of the rose petals Sera had scattered atop the surface earlier, creating a heady aroma that clung to the damp air. She felt a little like a tea bag, oversteeped and soggy, which was not an altogether unpleasant sensation as heat and floral perfume sank through her skin to the soul beneath. There were several bars of fragrant soap to choose from in a little dish beside her, some sort of Antivan bathing ‘milk’ in a glass jar, and a few other assorted goods that Ellana wasn’t sure exactly what to call. Vi’Revas, as unbalancing as it was, remained opulent at all times. This level of extravagance would have been unthinkable at the Lavellan estate.

She tried not to feel guilty for enjoying the sumptuous washroom more than the smaller, more familiar one at home.

By the time her maid returned, her fingers had long since pruned, pale and wrinkled against the copper.

"Oi! You planning to turn into a fish in there?" Sera's voice carried through the wood. "Come now, My Lady, up and out with you already. It’s been hours, it’s cold, you’re going to catch cold at this rate and I’ll have to try not to laugh at you while you recover—”

In private, Ellana allowed—even welcomed—Sera's informal manner. She laughed, sending ripples across the water. “Try? You’d actually try?”

“For a little while, anyway. Not long. You deserved to be laughed at if you get sick from sittin’ in a bath like a fool.”

“Right, right, I’m getting out. Sera, can you bring my clothes for the day out and onto the bed?”

As Ellana rose from the bath, water streaming from her limbs, the cool air struck her skin with an unexpected bite. She reached for the silk dressing gown near the screen and wrapped it around herself. It hung damply to her skin as she moved past the screen and back into the main salon of her chambers, where Sera had already laid out her things for the day on the bed.

"Cook's made those little honey cakes you like," Sera said, gathering Ellana's hair to begin pinning it up. "Though you'll miss them entirely if you don't hurry. His Lordship's already been down to breakfast."

“I take it that the Viscount also has a sweet tooth then if the cakes are in danger?”

“He’s a fiend for frilly little cakes, but you didn’t hear that from me.” Sera’s fingers worked quickly, twisting Ellana’s dark hair up into a few simple braids that turned in on themselves, leaving only a few flyaway wisps to frame the slope of her neck. She turned next to the bed and picked up one of the pieces there. “You also didn’t hear from me that this contraption has a nickname.”

“Oh?”

“The laundresses call this one the ‘divorce corset’ on account of the… thing… here in the middle that separates your tits. Keeps your Ladyship’s neckline nice and full.”

“My what?”

"Oh hush, don’t go acting like I’ve offended your fragile sensibilities. It’s not like I haven’t seen your tits either since I’ve been helping you dress and with your baths." Sera brandished the corset like a weapon, held it up to her own chest, and took great handfuls of her own chest through the fabric, pressing upwards to demonstrate. "Here, look at it. Big gap right down the middle, innit? Keeps ‘em apart, divides the assets. Like a divorce, see?"

Ellana snorted, laughed, then immediately tried to look like a proper lady and not a little girl laughing about breast jokes.

“They’re all anyone’s staff is talking about these days. Divorce corset this. Suicide neckline that. Ridicule bags and strangulation cravats—”

“Have I missed something as of late? What’s the world come to that these are the things people are calling their clothing? And—and, Sera, my goodness, what is a suicide neckline?”

“Oh you’ll see. You’ll be wearing a gown with one for dinner this evenin’, My Lady. A certain Lord Pavus had several trunks of clothing sent over just this morning. Now… for the morning and your sneakins about… I imagine you’ll want something more comfortable than that or wet drapery, yeah? Here, I’ve got you a nice muslin dress and some nice warm stockings…”

Sera continued to make Ellana laugh as she helped her to dress, which even with ‘simpler’ wardrobe choices like this morning dress always managed to become a production. After slipping off her silk dressing robe (and laughing again about her fragile sensibilities once more), then came smallclothes, then the loose slip of linen that made up her chemise, woolen stockings, flouncing petticoat, and finally the divorce corset itself. Ellana stood at the footboard of the bed and held onto one of the wooden posts for balance while Sera’s fingers made quick work of the hooks and laces that traced her spine. Only when she’d finished the laces came the muslin dress, which was a deep navy blue.

Sera clapped her hands together as she took a step back, looking Ellana over both up and down with a pleased nod. “There, all sorted, with everything in its place. And, hah, held in place.”

Ellana rolled her shoulders once, adjusting to the tight bite of the corset beneath the gown. “And this is the latest fashion? I… it’s hard to say if I appreciate the sensation of it, regardless of the effect.”

“Could be worse. You could be wearing one of them monstrosities the Orlesians in Val Royeaux wear. Feathers, lace, a bit of whale boning up in all your sensitive bits.”

“Um. No thank you.”

“You Dalish have a few funny monstrosities too, of course. No offense, of course, My Lady. Those skimpy riding leathers of yours for one thing, and what’s with those leg… wrap things I’ve seen?”

“They’re wrappings for the calves, Sera. Back when the Dalish were still nomadic, many would wear them to keep from chafing on long rides.”

“But you lot aren’t nomadic now, haven’t been for a long time.”

“No but… they’re still ours,” Ellana smoothed her hands down her skirts to straighten out the material, “And they’re hardly as strange as some of the fashions in Arlathan these days. Did I hear you mention ‘wet’ drapery?”

Sera’s responding grin was blinding. “Wet and nearly see through. Would you rather be wearin’ that for dinner this evening, My Lady?”

After laughing out an ‘absolutely not’, Ellana let Sera finish with the rest of her clothing for the morning, then left her chambers. All corners of Vi’Revas hummed with activity as she made her way from the upper floor and down the grand stairs to the lower floors. Laundresses in their uniforms bustled past with fresh linens, several footmen carried trays, and beyond the far corridor she could hear the clatter of the kitchen preparations. Looking out the window nearest, she could make out the figure of Captain Rutherford making his usual circuit of rounds, his coat collar turned up against the light drizzle falling from the sky.

She felt a pang of envy at his sense of place and purpose—always exactly where he needed to be when it was most needed. How he had known, always seemed to know, when she had slipped outside in the evening to stargaze likely stemmed from his iron-clad sense of duty to maintain the safety of those who lived at Vi’Revas, but the way he’d known that she needed someone to speak with—about anything other than life here, or duty, or responsibility when his life revolved such things—was a puzzle she’d yet been able to solve.

Last night he pointed out several new Fereldan constellations: The Frostback, the Griffon’s Wing, the Shield of Highever. She’d laughed and admitted that she didn’t know the Dalish name for some of them, and instead taught him three new ones that she did know. He’d smiled, eyes soft, and repeated them one at a time. Adhal, Harellan, Din’an Bor’assan.

The words sounded misshapen and odd on his tongue. She liked them anyway, since he was trying, and only noticed the way he’d fought to tear his eyes away from her once it was time for her to sneak back inside.

That look on his face, what it meant, she hadn’t solved yet either.

Two housemaids curtsied as they passed her by, arms full of fresh flowers for the day’s arrangements.

Ellana smiled. There was a healthy smattering of weeds—Dalish wildflowers—in the mix, and this seemed to please the maids too.

She walked past the dining room, following the smell of fresh bread and coffee to the smaller, less formal breakfast parlor near the kitchens, and while Ella had missed the Viscount’s earlier visit, the sideboard still groaned with covered dishes keeping warm over spirit lamps. Cook appeared almost immediately, her apron dusted with flour.

“Good morning, My Lady!” she said in that warm, lilting Antivan accent, and gestured to a footman to prepare a fresh place setting for their mistress to be. “His Lordship has already taken his meal, though I’ve kept plenty warm. And not to worry, there were two batches of honey cakes this morning, so your portion is quite safe and sound. I have them toasting for just another moment so they’re nice and warm for you; they’ll be out shortly. I’ve put several of the spices you provided to good use as well, particularly in that quiche there.”

Ellana murmured her thanks and settled into her seat, savoring the smell of the perfectly made hot meal before her—another luxury she tried not to feel to guilty about. Most days at the Lavellan estate, breakfast was little more than toast and butter with marmalade, served with Dalish tea or (if they were feeling particularly indulgent) coffee. Though it was improper to do so, Ellana had always taken the meal in the company of her aunt, Sylaise, and even Blake on occasion. With Vi’Revas’s impressive coffers, the meal was more indulgent even allowing for hot cream and sugar to be added to the coffee alongside quiche, pork, and even morsels of imported chocolate.

Hot honey-cakes arrived just a few minutes later, and were, of course, just as delicious as promised. Ellana ate one, then two, and while she reached for a third, the head steward Mr. Harrit, a ledger under his arm, stepped into the room with a polite bow of his head. He was, as always, distant if not proper, with an unreadable expression, though this morning seemed to regard her with an altogether new glint to his eye.

“My Lady.” He offered a straight-backed bow, “if it is convenient, I’ve been asked to go over the day’s household matters with you and take your requests for the upcoming orders. His Lordship thought it best that these matters be turned over to you in anticipation of… your upcoming union.”

Ellana balked, her eyebrows raising. “He… did he truly ask that?”

“Yes, My Lady. I am assured that your grasp of mathematics is sufficient enough for the task.”

That had her expression dampening to almost a glower. Sufficient enough? As if she were not the one finding all of the accounting mistakes of merit? Surely this new allowance of responsibility was, in actuality, another way that he might later find new complaints to levy against her.

“I can only hope so, Mr. Harrit. Please, do go on, then.”

He nodded, good-natured and pleasant, then proceeded to list the to-dos and concerns: the wine merchant was expected, new candles needed ordering, and the northwest chimney was leaking smoke again.

“For the wine merchant,” Ellana said, tapping her finger thoughtfully against the edge of her teacup, “Which one is it?”

“One of My Lord's contacts in Rivain, My Lady.”

“Ah, the Bahadur family?”

“Just so, My Lady. Their quality is unmatched.”

“I’m not so sure, Mr. Harrit. The Bahadur family is well known, absolutely, but renown is hardly a reason to spend more than what’s necessary. I have my own contact through the Lavellan estate, a merchant from Ostwick, where their cost is likely half of that which one might find from the Rivaini supplier, and I wager none would notice the difference in quality. Mr. Harrit, were I to give you the appropriate information, would you establish an account with them? Place an order for three cases of the red blends—no, make it four. A significant sum is still remaining, even with a larger quantity.”

Harrit’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he made a note in the ledger without comment.

“Then for the matter of the candles, make an order this time of the beeswax sort rather than tallow. It burns cleaner, though it is also more expensive. We can allocate the remaining funds from the wine purchase there, and given the quantity needed for an order for an estate the size of Vi’Revas, it should need to be a bulk order. We can negotiate a discount with the chandler in Cloverton—I will write the letter myself if need be.”

Harrit nodded again, thought this time there was a flicker of something else in his gaze—approval, perhaps, or surprise maybe. “Very well, My Lady. And the chimney?”

Ellana sighed, leaning back in her chair. What did she know of architecture and chimneys and such things?

“For that… it is a more pressing matter indeed, isn’t it? And not one I feel adequate enough to make sweeping decisions with. We should send for a representative from the masonry guild to make an inspection as soon as possible. Are you able to make that request on the estate’s behalf and make note in the accounts?”

“Of course, My Lady,” Harrit said, closing the ledger with a soft thud. “That appears to be all urgent matters, then. Would there be anything else, before I take my leave?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Harrit. You’ve been most thorough.”

With a final bow, he excused himself, leaving Ellana to finish her meal in relative peace.

Once she’d finished, she rose from the table to leave the cleaning to the footmen, and returned once more to the halls. With it raining outside, it was hardly the sort of weather for an enjoyable walk out in the gardens. Her mare would hate conditions like this for a ride. So… she would need to find a different diversion for the day.

A book seemed the perfect escape for the occasion, she thought, turning on her heels to head down the corridor until she reached the heavy doors to the library. She pushed one open, and the hinges groaned in protest.

Inside, he was already there, seemingly with the same idea.

Solas sat in the farthest corner of the room in an armchair between marching lines of shelves, his back to the windows, an open book in one hand, and his chin propped on the fist the other. He didn’t look up as she stepped inside, his focus entirely on the pages before him. Nearby, the fire in the small hearth had burned low, its embers glowing so faint now that they were almost dead after hours of burning. How long had he been here? All morning? All of the evening before?

For a moment, she considered leaving. She could come back later—find some diversion for a time and then return—and thus avoid whatever confrontation would be born of them sharing any sort of proximity. And so I plan my behavior around his own? The stubborn, prideful part of herself was disgusted at the thought of retreat. Confrontation was an old friend. Ellana stepped inside and let the latch of the door click shut behind her.

That sound was what finally drew the Viscount’s attention, and he looked up, intense eyes meeting her own.

“My Lady.”

“My Lord.”

Ellana kept her spine ramrod straight and moved to the shelves on the opposing side of the room, leaving a wide valley of flooring between them. This section was mostly made up of various encyclopedias and atlases, their leather bindings pebbled beneath her touch as she perused the spines. Following the perfunctory greeting between them, there was now also a wide valley of silence.

She surprised herself by crossing that void first.

“What are you reading this morning, My Lord?”

The Viscount, looking surprised to be asked at all, did not answer right away. Instead, he snapped the book shut, and his long fingers obscured the gilt title on the leather cover.

“I’m afraid it is nothing of great sense or wisdom,” he said, and Ellana watched as he rose from the chair and moved to slide the book back into place on the shelf in its own appropriate section, which was… that was odd. That section was predominantly creative works and fiction. His voice drew her back from wondering too long. “And yourself? Am I to understand that your first thought in the morning is to read… codices on the Nevarran Grand Mausoleum?”

Ellana huffed, and realized that, yes, that was exactly the book she’d picked up from the shelf.

“I… find the architecture most interesting.” She flipped the book open, landing on several diagram-like illustrations of column construction and flying buttresses with meandering, long-winded passages about their superiority to the ‘regular’ sort of single arches. What… ever… that meant.

“Naturally,” Solas said, his tone as dry as the pages in her hands. “While you are here, though, reading about Nevarran apse and transepts, you should know that Master Tethras has sent word; he will be arriving later today.”

“Oh, is… is he coming with news about the forged documents?”

“Perhaps, his missive gave no additional context other than that he would be coming. I assume you will want to take part in this guest call when he arrives?”

“Naturally,” she said, mimicking his blithe tone from earlier.

“I’ll have a maid fetch you when he arrives, then. The study will afford us privacy for our discussion.”

He stepped away from the shelves and began to cross the room to the door. The Viscount didn’t turn to look at her again, but his pace slowed for the briefest moment as he reached the door, and Ellana wondered if he might turn then, and say something more.

Instead he pulled at the ornate handle and stepped out into the hall, leaving her alone in the silence of a room full of words.

Ellana stood there a moment in his absence, still clutching the codex against her breast, until curiosity’s pull forced her across the divide and across the room. Colorful books lined the shelf in another neat line, before her, and there, on one of the higher ledges, was the smallish leather-bound book that the Viscount had returned. Standing on tiptoe to reach it, Ellana pulled it down, and brushed her fingers across the embossed title: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

She flipped it open, eyes skimming the pages.

… Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence…

For what reason would he be reading this? Ellana snapped the book shut at once, feeling heat in her face. Glancing at the cover, again, she saw a familiar name. Blake, again, and all at once she wondered if this was perhaps a studious attempt to find flaw in their debate of poems back at the café, some preemptive stocking of his mental armory with which to attack with later.

Why else would he have hidden it?

The sound of footsteps made her jolt, and Ellana scrabbled back on tiptoe to push the book back into its slot on the tall shelf just as the hinges creaked open. If he came back and saw her—

Only it was just one of the maids, her arms laden with fresh logs for the dying fire in the hearth.

Ellana forced a natural-looking smile to her face, fingers tingling. “Good morning.”

The maid nodded her head forward respectfully, eyes downcast, “Good morning, My Lady. Shall I fetch you some tea for your reading if you plan to stay in the library for some time? It is getting rather chilly lately.”

“Oh. Yes, something black if you please.”

“As My Lady pleases,” she responded, “Allow me just a few moments to stoke this, and I’ll be back shortly with a tray for you.”

Ellana felt frozen there, pretending to select a poetry book, while the maid fussed first with the ash in the hearth then replaced the logs, arranging them with an iron poker as new flames started to lick at the wood and radiate heat. Then, as the maid left to brew tea, she finally allowed herself to sink into the armchair Solas had just vacated. The velvet, she noticed a moment too late, still smelled like him.

She noticed a moment later that knowing the Viscount’s scent, that this lingering bergamot to the air was his cologne, was perhaps more alarming than knowing he was reading poetry into the dark hours of night and into pale morning.

Some time after the maid returned with a silver tray laden with tea service, Ellana was still trying to let herself fall into the first novel she’d plucked from the shelves. It was hard to be drawn into the fictional, sordid tale of poison and political machinations when there were growing parallels to her own life considering recent developments. Printing-press words blurred on the pages, and her thoughts always wound back to the unsettling realization that someone had been playing a very long game befitting any novel villain—and one that used her like a chess piece to simply be moved about the board.

She was just about to give up reading entirely when a soft knock at the door signaled Mr. Harrit’s arrival, and he stepped through the threshold into the library with another polite nod, identical to the one he’d given in the breakfast parlor. “My Lady, Master Tethras has arrived. You may find him in the study with his Lordship.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harrit. I’ll join them directly.”

The door to the study was slightly ajar when she arrived, and Ellana could hear the low murmur of male voices inside, one more cajoling than the other.

“I assure you that she will be here, I’ve sent for it. Your insistence that we wait, however, to discuss the matters at hand only takes away time that I could otherwise be using to act on whatever finding’s you’ve brought.”

Varric sounded unbothered. “Patience, Lord Fen’Harel. This affects the both of you equally. She deserves to be here.”

Pushing the door open, Ellana found Solas standing stiffly by the window, his eyes pinned to the horizon, with his hands clasped behind his back, and Varric sprawled in a seat by the desk with a spread of documents before him.

“Ah, there she is,” Varric said, rising to stand and bow his head as Ellana entered, “It is good to see you again, My Lady. You’re looking well, Sunshine. And you’re just in time. I’ve found a few things that the both of you might find interesting.”

“What did you find?”

“You tell me. Take a look at this, Sunshine,” Varric grinned and picked up a manifest, handing it over to her. “This first one is a documented policy change that exempts purchases from these select merchants from certain trade tariffs. It was approved by a trade official who’s been—if you believe the rumor mill—angling for a promotion… which is why these select merchants are all known to be some of the Countess Mythal’s favorites. I can’t tell you if she asked for such a thing or if they’re just trying to win her favor, but regardless, it’s added more pressure to the Dalish merchant houses since it allows these privileged ones to sell goods cheaper than anyone else. Your family’s profits have taken a hit because of it.”

Varric tapped another sheet on the desk, “And then there’s this—a contract with an Antivan merchant king that seems unusually favorable. It was approved by Councilor Dedrick, who’s been vocal about strengthening ties with Antiva. This contract redirects shipments to Antivan ports, bypassing Dalish traders altogether.”

“So not only are Dalish merchants losing out to Countess Mythal’s favorites, but now we’re being cut out of entire trade routes?” Ellana’s jaw tightened, and she reared to face the Viscount with a glare, “I always knew that your policies against the merchant families were always skewed against the Dalish in particular, but this is an entirely new level of repugnancy—”

“Excuse me?” Lord Fen’Harel turned from the window, already seething. “My Lady, I am a Viscount and not a member of the council, I can hardly be held responsible for tariff policy—”

“But you and your aunt the Countess should be held accountable for your parts played! Additional, expensive, inspections, all the delays for approvals for aravel-style vessels, fees upon fees upon fees, have cost more than any house should be expected to pay. The pair of you must be thrilled with this outcome; you’ve made it impossible for us to compete.”

The Viscount’s expression remained impassive and, frustratingly, devoid of anything that might resemble empathy. “You attribute too much influence to my Aunt and I, My Lady. This inability to perform of yours and the other Dalish houses is hardly a conspiracy, rather the natural consequence of the long-standing resistance of adapting to modern markets and falling out of favor with the court.”

Ellana’s voice rose, frustration boiling over. “Falling out of favor—you have some nerve, Ser, to suggest that when I know well and good that it is your own and your aunt’s prejudices that have poisoned the court and the minds of those with no ability to think for themselves, why the financiers break contract to demand payment in full, why the land is snapped up for purchase with hardly a warning—”

Varric coughed, cutting off the explosion sure to come, and raised a hand up placatingly. When he spoke, his tone was deliberately light. “If I might, My Lord, My Lady… as much as I’d love to sit back and watch this unfold, there is actually more that requires your attention. Save your arguments for later.”

The dwarf picked up another roll of parchment. “This document has the Duke Elgar’nan’s personal seal on it to authorize a new silk route through Tevinter. The date is from six months ago.”

Ellana frowned, examining the parchment. “I don’t see what’s odd about that. The Duke is well within his authority to sign off on trade routes.”

“He is,” Varric agreed, sitting back down to lean in the chair. “Except the Duke was in Orlais when this was signed. For the entirety of that month. This was signed here in Arlathan.”

Solas moved closer from the window, too, standing close to peer over Ellana’s shoulder to scrutinize. “This doesn’t appear to be a forgery.”

“Because it’s not. That’s his actual seal. I had three different contacts verify that. Which means someone had access to it while he was away. Someone who knew he’d be gone—and for how long—unless the Duke has the ability to be in two places at once”

“By using legitimate seals… it makes sense that there’d be a lack of scrutiny.”

“Exactly. Do you remember what I said? That the best forgeries are mixed in with legitimate documents? Depending on how you look at this, it could be either. If the two of you hadn’t brought this to my attention at the Archives, no one would’ve even known to look in the first place. The troubling thing, to me, is that there may well be more of these documents, but as you can see—”

The Viscount grimaced. “They are impossible to identify as forgery unless one already knows where, and when, to look for such a thing. I doubt that there is a detailed accounting of all the Duke’s movements at all times to cross reference.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“But surely the Duke would notice some new trade route that he himself did not authorize? That is hardly something a person can simply miss.”

“Perhaps. It’s no great secret that he is a busy man, though, and he delegates some level of his authority to trusted staff much like you do yourself, Lord Fen’Harel.”

Ellana pursed her lips, thinking. That… was true. As of this morning, such authority over some of the estate orders and needs had even been delegated to her.

Varric continued. “It may be possible that he’s authorized the use of his seal in his absence, though, technically, such a thing is expressly forbidden in the gentle class. That being said… I don’t believe this to be the only case. There are other documents with seals from different officials ranging from the order of new cobblestones for streets to merchant contracts with other nations that appear to have been signed while ‘they’ were otherwise occupied. This is not an isolated case.”

Solas’s brow furrowed. “If these documents are signed with legitimate seals, it suggests someone with significant access—not just to Elgar’nan’s seal, but to the archives themselves. The question is whether this is a single individual or a network of conspirators.”

Varric nodded. “Exactly. And if they’re this thorough, they’ve likely covered their tracks well.”

“Could the tariff exemption and contracts with Antivan-controlled ports also be these… almost forgeries?”

Varric leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “They could be. In fact, I’d wager on it. The tariff exemption and the Antivan contract both follow the same pattern—documents that look legitimate on the surface but are designed to benefit certain parties at the expense of others. And in this case, the expense of the Dalish, which only compounded the overall losses required to activate that fun marriage-clause of yours. That is to say, Sunshine, based on what I’ve found… it’s possible that the marriage contract may not have activated at all without outside meddling, even with the Viscount’s policies being skewed against your people.”

Ellana’s hands tightened on the edge of the desk, her mind racing. She swallowed down bile. If not for the greed of some unknown conspirator, there might’ve been a life free and clear from betrothal.

And the Viscount. Ellana glanced at Solas, standing stiff as a board with cold, flashing eyes. The only thing out of place on his face was the crooked curl of his lips, caught between a scowl and another emotion closer to startle.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of you speechless before. Hm. But as interesting as that is, let’s focus on the problem at hand shall we?”

Ellana forced herself to look away from Solas, shoving aside the unsettling feelings his presence stirred. She turned back to the desk, her fingers tracing the edge of the forged trade route approval. There were more important things at hand than however she—or he—felt about each other right now.

“Varric…” she said, “What about—I am wondering about another factor to consider. Assuming that someone, or a group of conspiratorial someones, has access to both the seals and the archives… what safeguards exist to prevent the replacement of original documents?”

Varric leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Not much, Sunshine. If they’ve got the access, they’ve got the means. The only thing stopping them is being caught red-handed.”

“And we’ve already found discrepancies in both the Lavellan and Fen’Harel accounts—I cannot speak on the Viscount’s behalf, but the errors within are not the sort I would make in my own accounting. That… has me concerned that there may be someone that is replacing original documents with backdated versions. I know those ledgers are outside of what you maintain at the archives, but even so the contracts that you keep surely must pass through several hands until they arrive at your office?”

“Depending on the route and staff, dozens.”

The Viscount’s eyes narrowed towards her. “What are you suggesting?”

“... that… I think it pertinent that we secure original documentation moving forward. We don’t yet know who or how these forgeries are being made, or to what end, but if we were to make copies moving forward and store them—secretly—apart from the other half, we could have a clearer path to follow. Of course we are only able to do so with the items from our own houses…”

“I will see to it personally that we secure what we can within our own ledgers,” Solas said. He pursed his lips, considering a moment, and by his side one hand flexed into a fist, then back again. It was the only clear sign of his unease. “And… as for the rest, I will… speak with my Aunt about the matter of the tariffs.”

Varric leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “Well, looks like you’ve got your hands full. I’ll leave you to it—though I’ll be keeping an ear out for updates.”

Ellana straightened, her hands smoothing the edges of the documents as she glanced at Varric. “You’ve been a great help today, Master Tethras, thank you. It is a long carriage ride back into town, though. Would you prefer to stay here for the evening? It would be a delight for you to join us for dinner, and it is the very least we can do after all this.”

It was the very least, Ellana thought, she could do to avoid further confrontation between her and her future spouse. Varric made for a well intentioned, effective, buffer.

Varric chuckled, shaking his head as he rose from his chair. “Tempting offer, Sunshine. but I’ve got business to attend to. However I admit,” he added with a grin, “I do hate that I will miss the show—dinner with the two of you must be a lively affair.”

Dinner was not lively—it was frigid.

Much like it had during their first meal together, the formal dining room at Vi’Revas felt more like a well decorated arena rather than a place to break bread. Even the stern-looking ancestors that lined the walls seemed to disapprove of the awkward silence that hung over the meal at the table. Warm candlelight flickered in the crystal chandelier above, casting gold light over the table but doing little to thaw the icy atmosphere between the two diners.

Ellana sat at one end of the table, her back straight and her expression dour. She’d changed for dinner—something that still didn’t feel quite right in that it created double the amount of laundry for the staff but was common practice amongst the noble houses above her own—and Sera had helped her into one of the gowns Lord Pavus had sent ahead. It was a creation of angry, stunning, red silk that matched the intensity of her dislike for the man sitting across from her. It also had a cut so daring that instead of the suicide neckline Sera had called it, it almost felt apt to call it a manslaughter dress for it appeared like the Viscount would rather die than actually look at it, or her, for any prolonged period of time.

Considering her general opinion of him, and the general opinions he held with his aunt for the Dalish, this was more than agreeable.

Still, she knew the dress was lovely. The expensive fabric hugged her figure in an elegant drape, the low cut drawing attention to her collarbone and the swell of her breasts, the dark tone of her skin. She looked beautiful, and she knew it, which only made her hate the dress more since she was only wearing it for him of all people.

Across the table, the Viscount cut an equally striking figure in his own formal dinner attire. He looked handsome, and Ellana hated that she noticed.

They barely spoke, the silence broken only by the occasional clink of silverware against fine china and the soft, uncomfortable, footsteps of the footmen as they moved between courses. Ellana picked at her food, her appetite stifled by the tension in the room. Solas seemed equally disinterested in the meal, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the rim of his half-empty wine glass.

It was during the third course—a roasted pheasant with a sauce that Cook would be devastated to know Ellana barely tasted—that a guard arrived. He was young, one of the small coalition of them that minded the home, trim in his uniform with a sword on his hip. He stepped into the dining room, his boots echoing against the polished floor, and bowed sharply to Solas.

“My Lord,” he said, his voice tight and urgent, “there’s been a report of smoke rising from the tenant lands. Captain Rutherford is assembling men to investigate.”

The Viscount set down his wine glass. “Smoke? Where?”

“Near the western fields, My Lord. It’s faint, but visible from the watchtower.”

Before Solas could respond, Cullen stepped into the room, his coat dusted with the faint sheen of rain, and his face was set in grim determination.

“My Lord,” he said, his voice clipped but respectful, “I've arranged the guard detail thus: half our forces will maintain estate security while I lead the remainder to investigate. The watch stations will remain fully manned.”

Solas leaned back in his chair as he considered the situation. “Fire is unpredictable and dangerous. Take more men than you think you’ll need. It would be better to have too many and not need them than too few and regret it.”

Cullen hesitated, his jaw tightening as if he wanted to argue, his very nature seemingly against the idea of leaving less at the house than what’d he’d take along, but he nodded. “As you say, My Lord. My Lady.”

As he turned to leave, his eyes lingered on Ellana for a moment longer than necessary, an odd look in his eye—a concern, perhaps, or a warning, or the dress—but it was gone before she could decipher it. The younger guard bowed again, and followed him out.

Neither dared break the quiet after Cullen left.

Ellana toyed with her fork, chasing a bite of pheasant across the plate. The western fields… Ellana tried to picture the map she’d seen of the lands and holdings of Vi’Revas. While the Viscount’s estate wasn’t the largest or most grand of the noble houses of Arlathan, there was much to be said for the size of his landholdings overall, and few could boast for more desirable conditions of forest, valley, and even water with the river. The western fields. That, if she was remembering, was where some of the poorer tenants on the Viscount’s land lived. If the fire spread, they’d lose everything.

And the guards. And Cullen. She knew him to be as capable as he was kind. Fires, though, were unpredictable—both on land and at sea, they’d cost more lives than money could burn.

Solas surprised her by attempting conversation. “There is no need for your worry, My Lady. That area is tenant lands and fields, yes, but they are spread apart and several of the structures are unoccupied. It also may be nothing—some ill advised bonfire, a wedding celebration, a stray spark from a hearth. I trust the Captain to manage it.”

Ellana glanced towards the window. It was dark out, and she couldn’t make out smoke against the sky. “How far are the western fields from the manor?”

“A half-hour’s ride. Why?”

“There is no great reason, I am merely curious.”

The Viscount tilted his head to the side, calculating. “You are not worried about the fire. You are worried about the tenants.”

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“No. I’ve sent my best men to assist them.”

“And your men? Do you worry for them? For Captain Rutherford?”

“I suspect not as much as you do, My Lady.” Solas’s jaw tightened a fraction. “And your concern is… unnecessary. You do him little credit with it.”

“Perhaps you do not do him enough credit by willingly sending him to danger without a second thought.”

“And what, pray tell, does the Lady Lavellan know of danger? Of sending men to their graves?” The Viscount sneered, his expression turning cruel, “Tell me, My Lady. How would you, in your expert opinion, ask a man to die on your behalf? Do you think they would because you bat your eyes and say please? No. You would rather they stay and abandon the needs of those they serve, don’t you? Foolish girl. You think too poorly of those around you—the Captain is a man. He will do what must be done because it must be done. He is honorable and knows his duty. To think you are unable of even giving him the good grace of your confidence is staggering.”

Fire licked at her insides. Her tongue felt molten. “May I ask, My Lord, why you are here, then, if the men are out serving your tenants?”

“Because, dearest, you are to be my wife. I, regrettably, only serve you.”

Ellana’s mouth opened, then closed. Open. Closed. For once, words didn’t come.

They lapsed back into silence.

The footmen returned with the next course, a delicate pastry that neither of them touched.

Following an uneaten dessert, finally, Ellana was able to part ways with her fiancé. She made her way to the study under the guise of making the first of the duplicate copies for safekeeping, and didn’t listen when Solas told her what diversion he’d avoid her with in turn.

That was hours ago, now, and her back was beginning to hurt from hunching over the desk.

Ellana leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head while holding fast to her note-taking quill. This late at night, the cold didn’t so much nip at her as it did bite, and so glanced at one of the study windows, left slightly ajar to let in the fresh air and the sound of rustling branches from beyond the panes. Weary, she pushed herself up from the desk, skirt shushing over the floor as she crossed the room. Pulling a heavy draped curtain aside, she reached for the cool brass of the latch, and pressed the window shut with a soft thud. Absently, she let the curtain fall back into place and returned to the desk to flip through the ledgers once more.

Her mind wandered as her eyes glazed over the pages. Who benefitted from these machinations? The Viscount had no need for such subterfuge; his disdain for her and the other Dalish families was overt. The Countess Mythal was the first other person that came to mind who might have the appropriate level of threat and force to alter trade routes and policy to their whim, and while she, too, made no secret of her dislike of the Lavellans, she did at least appear to value the good standing of her nephew. Was there something advantageous for her behind the timing of this unwanted marriage clause? She’d seemed discontent enough about it at their 1st meeting…

Some other noble from court then? Or, perhaps, not at all—there were powerful merchant kings in Antiva, could they, perhaps, be trying to disrupt the market for… for…

Ellana couldn’t think of a viable reason to do such a thing.

She had just dipped her quill back into the inkwell when she heard a gentle, disobedient click. Ellana’s hand paused mid-stroke, and she glanced back over her shoulder towards the window where the curtain was fluttering. The latch? It must’ve come loose and open again. She sighed, setting the quill back down to rise and set it straight again, and then she could ring for Mr. Harrit to come stoke the fireplace.

This time, she gave the window a firmer push to ensure it stayed shut. Outside, the breeze had picked up and a few of the branches knocked against the side of the manor. Ellana lingered there for a moment, smelling a kiss of smoke from the air. From this distance, she couldn’t see the smoke from the reports, and especially not in the darkening evening, but she could almost imagine the faint sound of Captain Rutherford and his men’s voices carried on the wind as they investigated the reports of fire.

Hopefully, they would all return safely, and soon. Sighing, she turned back away from the window and—

A man stood two paces before her, in between her and the window. A hood obscured his face, pooling his features in shadow, but the glinting blade in his hand flashed like a warning star in the candlelight. He was relaxed, the dagger dancing through his fingers with an easy twirl.

“Don't scream, my Lady. The guards are occupied elsewhere. I have no wish to harm the servants, but I will if they interfere.”

Ellana froze, stepping backwards out of reflex only to hit the curtain on the window. Was—was that an accent? It was one Ellana knew, immediately—musical, lilting—but the name never came as alarm roared beneath her skin. Her eyes darted to the door, and the man huffed out a laugh.

“Running would be unwise.” His head tipped to the side, and Ellana could make out the ghost of an amused smile beneath the cowl of his hood. His voice was low. Conversational. “Had you not heard the latch, it’d already be over. My apologies for this disturbance.”

He bowed, formal and polite, twirling his blade with flourish. Ellana felt sick.

“I will make it up to you with a painless death,” he reassured, as though offering a gift rather than a threat.

“If you intend to kill me,” she said, sounding less stern than she’d like and more afraid than she’d realized. Her eyes flicked to the fireplace, unlit and cold, then the tools next to it. A poker, a shovel. Both too far. The inkwell on the desk. Too small. Behind him. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of the curtain behind her. It wasn’t much, but could she use this to…?

“...at least have the decency to tell me why.”

“Because I am paid to, mia signora, it’s as simple as that.”

Before the words had even fully left his mouth, he moved. Ellana barely had time to react as the dagger flashed again, its edge slicing through the air towards her. She clawed at the curtain, fingers scrabbling against the velvet, and yanked down. The heavy fabric tore at the corner and dragged the iron curtain bar down with it, tumbling down atop them both in a deadly mess of violent velour, that was just enough of an issue to engulf her attacker in the fabric, tangling both his blade and arm.

“Braska!” the assassin snarled, voice hardly muffled by the curtain as he slashed it free.

Ellana darted round him, past him, and picked up the first thing within reach that might be a weapon—a weighty and costly bronze elk statuette from a bookshelf—and hurled it at her attacker with all her strength.

It struck his shoulder, sending him back with a staggering grunt.

She moved again, lunging for the fireplace tools, and snatched up the iron poker. Before the assassin could fully recover, she swung it at him, the blow only deflected by his quick reflexes, the metal of the poker clashing against his dagger with a loud clang!

“Enough!”

He feinted right, then struck left, the dagger grazing her forearm and palm. Ellana hissed but swung again, driving him back, then again but household tools never stood a chance against trained expertise. He was on her in an instant, a hand clamped on her wrist to bend her arm back to the point of pain, forcing her to drop the poker to thud against the floor, then pinning her against the wall so hard it rattled the mantle. The blade was already against her throat.

“It didn’t need to be like this,” he huffed, breath hot against the shell of her ear, “I would’ve been soft with you. Now you die like any other gutter knife-ear.”

“Let go of me!” Ellana slammed her head back, catching him in the nose with a satisfying crack. His grip loosened just enough for her to twist, though the blade at her throat bit deeper—

The door crashed open with a deafening bang.

Snapping his head toward the sound, the assassin’s grip loosened for a split second. It was all she needed. Ellana drove her elbow into his ribs, twisting free just as the Viscount charged into the room with all the furious pressure of a storm.

Lord Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, did not hesitate. Solas crossed the space in two long strides and lunged at the assassin with his full weight, driving them both backward into the desk. Papers scattered. An inkwell shattered. The wood creaked under their combined weight as they grappled, a violent tangle of limbs and would-be death blows.

The assassin’s blade flashed toward Solas’s throat, barely missing as they wrestled for control.

Solas caught his wrist and drove a knee up into the man’s stomach, forcing out a wet grunt of pain.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

Ellana scrambled away, hitting the wall as she clutched her injured arm, then dove for the fallen poker. If she could just get behind the assassin while he was focused on Solas—

Twisting, the assassin cracked an elbow against Solas’s temple, turning his head with a sharp crack of force, and the Viscount staggered back. The assassin dove, snatching up his fallen blade.

In an instant, though, Solas recovered and was on him again, his hands like iron as he grabbed the man by his shirt and slammed him back against the desk so hard that the wood creaked and threatened to splinter. The assassin drove the blade up and stabbed at Solas's side once—twice.

Solas's face contorted as the blade sank between his ribs, but instead of releasing his grip, he pulled the assassin closer, slamming their bodies together with a groan. Blood ran hot between them, staining black leather and linen alike. From her place against the wall, Ellana could hear each ragged breath tear from the Viscount's throat and see the way his jaw clenched against agony.

The assassin snarled, teeth bared like an animal, and drove his shoulder into Solas’s chest, using the momentum to drive them both back, hurling into the nearest bookshelf. Books toppled off the shelves along with a ceramic vase that shattered against the floor. Shards of ceramic skittered across the hardwood, covering the ground in razor-edges. Solas's fingers tangled in the assassin's hood, yanking his head back before slamming it into the corner of a shelf. Once. Twice. Three times. Four—until the man slumped to his knees.

“Who sent you,” The Viscount snarled, malice dripping from every word. “Tell me and you’ll die now, rather than later when I have you hung, drawn, and quartered.”

The assassin wheezed out a laugh, his face broken, and spat out a hot gob of blood onto the floor to join the growing puddle.

Shouts erupted from the corridor below. The sound of boots thundered on wooden floors, accompanied by the clatter of weapons and armor.

The assassin's head snapped up, blood streaming from his temple. In a move born of desperation, he twisted and rammed his shoulder into Solas's wounded side. The Viscount's grip faltered as fresh blood soaked through his shirt in an awful bloom of rose red.

It was enough—the killer tore free and lunged for the window, glass shattering as he crashed through it just as Cullen burst into the study, sword drawn.

"My Lord! We returned and the steward heard signs of a scuffle, are you—" Cullen's eyes swept the scene: the broken window, the blood-streaked floor, Ellana pressed against the wall, and Solas standing rigid by the ruined bookshelf.

"Captain Rutherford. The Lady Lavellan is injured, see to her immediately. Call for a physician,” Solas's voice remained steady despite his growing pallor. He pressed a hand to his side, and there was a wet gush of blood from between his fingers, oozing both through his shirt and jacket. “Have your men search the grounds. He can't have gone far."

"Yes. We are already securing the perimeters, but My Lord…”

The house was awakening around them. Servants' voices echoed through the corridors. Footsteps pounded up and down stairs. Someone screamed.

“The fire was likely a distraction,” Solas said, this time straining the words through his teeth. He faltered backwards, and caught himself against the desk, leaving a bloody handprint on the polished wood.

"Lord Fen'Harel!" Ellana moved toward him, but Harrit appeared in the doorway with Islanil and two more footmen, blocking her path.

"My Lady, please," Harrit said, gesturing to one of the maids hovering anxiously nearby. "Sera will help you to your chambers while we tend to his Lordship."

As Sera began to lead her away, Ellana watched Cullen catch Solas's arm when the Viscount's strength finally began to fail.

"My Lady, come away now," Sera said, pulling her arm more insistently.

"No! You cannot—" Ellana fought against Sera's grip. Cullen lunged forward as the Viscount swayed, catching him before his knees could buckle entirely beneath him. "He's hurt—no—please, let me stay with him!"

Joined by another maid, Sera guided her firmly toward the door, Ellana’s feet dragging across the floor, away from the sight of Solas finally slumping against Cullen's support, his legs having finally given out.

“Solas!”

Chapter Text

Stinging antiseptic bit into Ellana, drawing a sharp hiss from between her clenched teeth. Sera worked over her injuries with an uncomfortable, uncharacteristic silence, dabbing at the gash along her forearm where the assassin's blade dragged across flesh. The wound on her arm wasn’t horribly deep, but it was long—dragging in a sprawling, ugly line from wrist to elbow—but it seemed determined to continue seeping blood, staining the cloth Sera pressed against it a violent crimson. The slice on her palm was the same.

They would both scar.

For a crazy, hysterical moment, the idea of that almost made her want to laugh. Ellana, who had always hated wearing hand-me-down court gowns, who always avoided wearing gloves unless out in public, who preferred the feeling of skin against the world and the air instead of a dainty barrier of lace. Ellana, bare armed and barbarous, the Dalish heathen daring to press her bare fingers against the delicate porcelain of a teacup. Ellana… scarred and stricken, visibly damaged. As if she didn’t already have enough flaws to mark her even more of an undesirable…

Why did that hurt? Ellana felt a tremor in her arm, a shake in her bleeding palm. A thousand terrible, tiny things were more important. She didn’t care about a scar. She didn’t care that there was blood on her dress or in the study ruining the rug.

She wasn’t damaged. She wasn’t—

"You need to hold still, El—My Lady," Sera murmured, catching herself at the last second. Her fingers were gentle despite their calloused tips. "Quit squirming, or I’ll need to tie you down to the bed, I’m almost done with this one."

Ellana nodded, unable to find her voice for the moment and perched on the edge of her four-poster bed, fingers gripping the embroidered coverlet while Sera knelt before her on a low ottoman, medical supplies spread across the Orlesian carpet.

Her throat ached. Was that from screaming? From being grabbed? Would there be a bruise there, too, from grappling hands? Her eyes back drifted down to her lap where her dinner gown—a gift from Dorian, already ruined. Dead in a single evening. That striking, defiant creation of red silk with a cut to fell lesser men—lay in ruins. The silk was crushed and tattered in places, stained in others. Tears in the bodice let in the cool air and she shivered, shook, battling the falling adrenaline and chill.

She flexed her injured hand, watching the shallow cut across her palm reopen slightly with the movement. It should have hurt more than it did, but the pain seemed distant, secondary to the roaring in her ears. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.

Beyond her tightly shut chamber doors and the guards posted just outside, the once tranquil Vi'Revas had transformed into a hive of kicked, angry hornets. Boots thundered along corridors. Urgent, high-pitched voices barked orders. Servants whispered in frightened clusters. Each time footsteps approached her door, Ellana's heart leapt painfully against her ribs, anticipating news—any news—of the Viscount's condition.

"My Lady, you need to keep still," Sera said, more firmly this time. "You're only making it bleed more."

"No, what I cannot do is—No, Sera, I cannot abide this idleness," Ellana said, though she made no actual attempt to rise. Her limbs felt peculiarly disconnected from her will, filled with lead and too heavy to bear. "The Viscount—"

"Is being tended to by a proper physician, while you’re stuck with me. He’s in much better hands than you are right now; I’m not good at this mending or medicine business, but I’m still givin’ you the best of me. And you’re making it harder with all this fussing! So be still!" Sera dipped a fresh cloth into a basin of water tinged pink from previous cleansings. "You'll be no help to anyone if you go swooning about the corridors bleeding all over the carpets."

“I don’t swoon.”

“No, you fight back like a proper Valkyrie, M’Lady, but this isn’t a problem you can bash over the head with a poker, either.”

Ellana opened her mouth to reply when a sharp knock sent them both jumping, and the door swung open to reveal a stressed footman, his face drawn with exhaustion. "Begging your pardon, My Lady. The Captain asked me to inform you that the search of the grounds continues, but there's been no sign of the attacker. He believes the man likely had a horse waiting, it is… likely that he’s left the grounds of the estate, though the guards will continue to search—"

“M’Lady you need to sit still—”

"And the Viscount?" Ellana interrupted, leaning forward, messing up Sera’s bandaging for the third time. "His condition?"

The footman hesitated. "The physician is still with him, My Lady. I… there is no further update that I am able to share."

The door clicked shut behind the footman. Ellana's shoulders sagged as she exhaled. A flurry of footsteps hurried past in the corridor, followed by the distant sound of doors opening and closing in quick succession.

"I know you’re worried, but… you’re going to get an infection unless this is cleaned and closed, My Lady. I can’t mend the wound the way a physician might, so you’ll need to wait as best you can until he can tend you next,” Sera said, examining the wound on Ellana's arm. "I am begging you, be still so I can at least wrap it properly until then.”

Ellana nodded absently, her gaze fixed on the door. When she closed her eyes, she was back in the study, Solas striding through the door and then lunging between her and the assassin. He had not hesitated—not for a single heartbeat. The Viscount, who never made secret of his outright disdain for the creature he was bound to wed, had thrown himself into the path of a blade meant for her throat without a moment's hesitation.

Why?

Sera was wrapping a new, clean linen around her forearm when another series of footsteps approached, heavy and purposeful. This time, Ellana didn’t rise, but only because Sera physically prevented her from doing so. The footsteps continued past her door, however, drawing away down the corridor.

"They’ll come with an update when there is one, I promise. Wounds like that... they take time."

"They take lives," Ellana whispered, remembering the way the Viscount's blood had soaked through his fine shirt, how pale his face had grown in those final moments before they'd dragged her away.

Sera's hands stilled. "He's stronger than he looks, and too stubborn to die from something as ordinary as a knife. You know he’s a hardheaded fool. If he hasn’t gotten the last word, it’s not over."

Ellana almost smiled at that. Yes, Lord Fen'Harel was indeed stubborn, absolutely the most obstinate man on the planet, as obdurate as he was hateable. He fit nicely into the neat, categorized, box in her mind as the world’s most despicable man, a spouse sent unto her live divine comedy. Or punishment. He invaded her life, her rides, her head with unwelcome regard and poetry. He was cruel and small minded, rude to the extreme, bending privilege and the protocols of society to his benefit with little care for who would be stomped on beneath his boots. His hands were gentle when he’d taken her wrist to fix her glove.

He was confounding. The thought of him alone made her jaw clench, teeth grinding, and Sera might’ve thought the tension in her came from pain, but no—this was tight, unwelcome, uncomfortable conflict, tugging at the edges of her opinion to hold the open vat of confusion open and exposed to the air just like the gash on her arm. It was the way he regarded her like an insect, an unwelcome pest at the garden party, then called her name like he cared when she was thrown from her horse. Two versions of the same man that couldn't possibly coexist.

It was the way he was likely dying in the other room.

She hated him. He hated her. It was natural law.

She was worried for him, now, tingling and all consuming, and altogether more startling than her hate.

And… she had seen death before. Men died on merchant vessels for all manner of reasons—sailors who'd seemed hale one moment, then slipped away in the night from wounds that had appeared minor. Sailors sometimes survived the initial injury only to slip away days later, their skin hot with fever, their breathing growing shallow until it simply stopped. Men who had been laughing at breakfast were being committed to the sea by dusk. The physician's cautious words offered little comfort.

"There," Sera said, tying off the last bandage. "All patched up. You should rest now, My Lady."

"You can’t truly expect me to sleep," Ellana protested, even as exhaustion dragged at her limbs. She rubbed at her face with trembling fingers, pressing down with the pads of her fingers where the pressure was worst. Her sigh escaped through the gap of her shaking palms. “I can barely slow my mind down enough to think, I fear that I may never sleep again. I turned and he was just there, Sera, I didn’t hear anything, and then the Viscount…”

"Then don’t sleep, but at least lie down, Miss. I'll stay with you, and no one will creep up behind, especially not with the Captain in the state he’s in now. And you can't stay in this, My Lady," Sera said, gesturing to the ruined gown. "Come now, arms up. Let me help you, that’s it."

Ellana compiled without argument, too exhausted to do anything but let her maid boss her into something resembling wellness. Sera worked efficiently, unlacing the back of the ruined dress and easing it carefully over her injuries. The silk clung in places where blood had dried, pulling at her skin.

"Sorry," Sera muttered as Ellana winced.

The nightgown Sera slipped over her head was simple linen, cool against her feverish skin. Ellana sank back against the pillows, the clean, soft fabric a small comfort in a night devoid of any others.

Sleep would not come, she was certain of it.

"Why would he do that?" she murmured, not realizing she had spoken aloud until Sera replied.

"Do what, My Lady?"

"Risk himself like that, for me. He didn’t—he didn’t have a weapon. Anything to protect himself with. Instead he just ran in with his bare hands, the fool, that stupid man, why would he…”

"Don't ask silly questions," Sera said, settling into a chair beside the bed. "He did it because you needed doing for. Same as anyone would. Well, maybe not anyone. Most nobles I know would sooner push you toward the knife than step in front of it themselves. And you stop being foolish yourself, My Lady, actin’ like it's a surprise that anyone would want to help you. Stop this nonsense."

Outside, the estate continued its restless vigilance. Guards called to one another from the gardens, from the corridors, on the roof. Doors opened and closed. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied. And somewhere within these walls, the Viscount fought for his life because he chose to place himself between her and death.

Ellana closed her eyes against the sting of unexpected tears, her wounds aching in time with her heartbeat. The events of the evening replayed behind her eyelids.

"Sera," Ellana said, her voice small in the quiet room. "Would you... stay beside me? Just for tonight?"

Sera hesitated, surprised by the request that crossed the all of boundaries between them.

"Not really proper, is it?" she said, though she was already moving toward the bed.

"No," Ellana agreed. "But I don’t care about that right now. And you never do.”

“‘Cause most of its rubbish anyway.”

The mattress dipped as Sera lay down atop the covers, close enough that Ellana could feel her presence, and eventually she must have drifted into an uneasy, faint imitation of sleep, for when she next opened her eyes, pale morning light filtered through the curtains. Sera still lay beside her.

The chamber door creaked open after a soft knock, revealing Mr. Harrit. Creases in his clothing and shadows beneath his eyes, which spoke of a sleepless night, marred his usually polished appearance.

"My Lady," he said, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Sera sprawled out and asleep on the bed before his professional demeanor reasserted itself, sliding down over his face like a mask. "The physician wishes to speak with you regarding Lord Fen'Harel's condition."

Morning light revealed what the night had done to them both. The night had left Ellana's nightgown rumpled and her hair a tangled nest against the pillow. Bandages on her arm had shifted during her restless sleep, revealing angry red edges of the wound beneath. She didn't care. Her bare feet touched the floor before Harrit had finished speaking.

"Is he...?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

"He lives, My Lady," Harrit assured her quickly. "Though the night was... difficult. I came to bring you to him, and the physician, though I will wait outside while Sera helps you to change—"

"There is no time for such formalities," Ellana muttered, reaching for a shawl draped over the nearby chair. She wrapped it hastily around her shoulders, covering the thin nightgown. "Pray, take me to him at once."

Harrit made a sound of protest. "My Lady—"

But Ellana was already at the door, the Orlesian brocade of the shawl catching on her bandages, her unbound hair falling around her shoulders. She barely registered the cool floor beneath her bare feet. Harrit huffed and puffed to catch up with her, caught between a brisk walk and a jog. Ellana barely turned to look at him, her eyes fixed down the hall.

"How bad is it, truly?"

"The physician will explain everything, My Lady. But... perhaps you should prepare yourself."

She kept walking, through one wing and into another—before, it seemed fitting that Solas put her in the chambers farthest from his own since they preferred to be apart whenever possible. Now…. now she was only frustrated. Ellana's steps faltered at the end of the first corridor though.

Through the open study door, she glimpsed two footmen rolling the massive rug into a tight cylinder. Dark stains marred the rich pattern—rust-colored blooms across cream and gold threads.

The younger footman caught her eye, then quickly looked away. The rug shifted in their grip, partially unrolling to reveal the worst of the damage. Her palm throbbed at the sight. She watched, frozen there a moment, until they carried it away. The floorboards beneath showed pale and scrubbed raw against the polished wood.

“My Lady…” Harrit said, fidgeting uncomfortably.

She turned and walked on.

Outside the Viscount's chambers, Captain Rutherford stood guard. His uniform was rumpled, the rust-brown stains of last night’s blood on his jacket stark against the fabric. Shadows circled his eyes like bruises, his posture remained rigid. Cullen’s gaze flickered briefly to her bandaged arm before returning to the middle distance, his jaw clenching and unclenching to chew back whatever it was he wanted to say.

"Captain," Ellana said, "Were you here all night?"

“I… of course. Someone should be.” His voice was gravelly, worn thin by lack of sleep, and Ellana caught the faint tremor in his hands as he adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. Should be. Just like someone should’ve been here, at the estate, to assist during the attack, even though there’d been no way to know in advance. There was a hollow emptiness to him, Ellana noticed, as if all the warmth of the man had been drained out through his skin. Here stood the Captain of the Guard before the doors of his Master, who…

It wasn't his fault. Solas had told him to go and investigate the smoke, he was only following orders. Yet guilt radiated from him like heat from a forge.

The Captain is a man. He will do what must be done because it must be done. He is honorable and knows his duty…

She couldn’t imagine the guilt he must feel, and stopped herself from offering comfort—Cullen was unblemished but wounded all the same, and she could see in him that raw, bleeding guilt that platitudes could not bandage.

“Have you slept at all, Captain?” she asked, though the answer was obvious in the shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

“I will make time to rest later,,” he replied, his gaze flickering to her bandaged arm. “My concern now is for the Viscount and… and for you. You should be resting, My Lady, after what you’ve been through….”

“I’ll rest when I know what’s happening,” Ellana said firmly, though the exhaustion tugging at her limbs made the words harder to speak than she cared to admit. “Mr. Harrit’s brought me to speak with the physician.”

Cullen hesitated, then nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. "After you, My Lady.”

She moved past Cullen, bare feet silent against the polished floor, and pushed open the heavy door to Solas’s chambers. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the morning light, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and blood. Ellana's gaze traveled briefly around the unfamiliar chamber. Orlesian silk sheets—now rumpled and stained with sweat—draped the massive bed. Her eyes caught on medallions from old campaigns hanging beside what looked like a wolf's jawbone on the far wall, all mementos of a life she knew startlingly little about.

The physician, a wiry man with a pinched expression, stood by the bed, his back to her as he examined Solas while Islanil stood nearby with a grim expression.

Harrit followed her in, silent for once, while Cullen lingered in the doorway.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” Ellana said, her voice louder than she intended. The physician turned sharply, surprise flashing across his face before he schooled his features back to calm.

“My Lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “I wish we were meeting in less dire conditions; I am Dr. Marchand, and… I must offer you my apologies for not having come to you for your own injuries, the night has been difficult, and…”

Ellana barely heard him. Her gaze drifted to the bed, and her breath caught in her throat. Solas lay still, his face sickly pale against the white sheets, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths that wheezed painfully through chapped lips. A bandage wrapped around his torso, already showing a faint pink stain where blood had begun to seep through, and his brow was damp with sweat despite the chill in the room.

“Will he live?” she asked, her voice steady even as her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“The wound was grave,” the physician said carefully, moving aside to let her approach. He adjusted his bifocals with a hand, and used a handkerchief to polish the lenses. “The blade narrowly missed his lung, but the blood loss was significant. I managed to stop the bleeding quickly by cauterizing the deeper portions, and I was able to clean the wound with alcohol which should help, but he is fighting a fever now. He is asleep, at last, with the laudanum, but my lady… I must caution you to remain grounded in your expectations, it is still much too soon to say for certain.”

“Cauterized? But if he’s only just now fallen asleep…” Horror dawned on Ellana’s features, and dread prickled up her spine. “He was awake for this procedure?”

“He consented to this, My Lady,” Dr. Marchard said matter-of-factly, as if that might have abated what searing pain it must’ve been. “Now, I recommend bloodletting to balance his humors. The excess of blood and heat must be addressed before the fever worsens.”

“No,” Ellana said firmly, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice. “We—no. I know enough that bloodletting will only weaken him further. He’s already bled too much. We cannot—”

Dr. Marchand drew himself up stiffly. “I assure you, My Lady, this is the prevailing medical practice for such dire conditions. Without it, the fever could overwhelm him.”

“I do not doubt your expertise, Dr. Marchand,” Ellana interrupted, “but I have seen too many sailors lost after bloodletting following injuries at sea. Their bodies cannot recover the blood loss, and they simply waste away. I won’t allow you to do the same to him here for a wound ten times as grave.”

“Won’t allow…?” The physician’s voice rose slightly, his composure slipping. “My Lady, I appreciate your concern for your betrothed, but as you are not yet his wife, this is hardly your decision to make. Is there another, more senior relative I can speak with? No? Only the Countess? And… ah, yes, she is a distance away in her own manor. I see.” He glanced at Cullen standing in the doorway, clearly hoping for support. Cullen remained impassive, his eyes flat.

“Surely you don’t suggest we do nothing?” the physician asked, his voice tight.

“Not at all,” Ellana replied, moving closer to the bed. “We continue with the poultices and dressings you’ve recommended, and you can show me how to mind them. I can also reach out to the clans in regards to some herbal remedies that will help fight infection and bring down the fever without bloodletting.”

“Clans? Ah. So these are Dalish remedies, I presume?” Dr. Marchand’s tone held a small note of disdain.

“Yes,” Ellana met his gaze unflinchingly. “Dalish remedies. The same that have kept countless of my people alive for generations without taking a knife to someone already ill.”

“The Viscount has opinions on Dalish pseudoscience.”

“The Viscount’s opinions are wrong, and I should prefer he live long enough to acknowledge as much.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. Cullen cleared his throat.

“I support Lady Lavellan’s judgment in this matter,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen too many good men lost to excessive bleeding, whether from their wounds or from the physician’s knife. She is the Lady of the Estate, if not in law, then in name enough.”

Dr. Marchand glanced at Cullen, who gave a slight, reluctant, nod.

Ellana stepped closer to the bed, her gaze fixed on Solas’s face. He looked so different like this—vulnerable. Once, she’d thought his arrogant smirk the most detestable thing in the world. Now, she knew that no, it was this, this almost peaceful, statue-like expression on his face, that he might only be sweetly sleeping apart from the pain etched into his features and the rasp of wet-air.

“I will send word to the clans, as I’ve said, but in the meantime what can I do to help?” she asked, turning back to the physician.

“Dear girl… if you will not allow me to balance his humors, there is little to do now but wait and pray. A knife gives a quick injury, but a slow recovery—this will take time. Rest and proper care will be his best allies in the battle ahead,,” the physician said. “He’ll need someone to tend to his wounds, change his bandages, and ensure he takes his medicine. I’ve prepared poultices and dressings—honey and turpentine to prevent infection, more laudanum for the pain. Master Islanil has already offered to assist, but…” He hesitated, glancing at Ellana. “This task is better split across more than one devoted to his care so that you may also find time for rest and sleep. I suggest taking shifts.”

Ellana nodded before he could finish. “I’ll do it.”

The physician looked relieved. “I’ll leave the supplies here and return this evening to check on him. If his condition worsens, send for me immediately.”

“Of course,” Ellana said, though her attention was already back on Solas. She barely noticed when the physician left the room, Harrit and Cullen following close behind.

For a moment, she stood there in silence, the weight of the room pressing down on her. Then she moved to the chair by the bed, sinking into it with a quiet sigh. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the sheet, and… she hesitated.

Because, dearest, you are to be my wife. I, regrettably, only serve you.

As an insult, it’d left her fuming at the dinner table. Poor Viscount Fen’Harel, duty bound to protect and defend his little unwanted wife. Was she meant to pity him? In that moment, she’d wanted to stab him herself, with a tiny fork or even a soup spoon to make it hurt. Now… she… wasn’t sure what she wanted, more confused than ever. The only thing she knew, besides the fact that he hated her as much as she hated him, was if he was bound to serve her, then she, too, was bound to serve him in return, and in that there was an insidious, proper, form of reciprocity that almost made sense.

She took his hand in hers. His skin was warm—too warm—and she could feel the faint tremors that ran through him even in sleep.

“You stubborn man,” she murmured, her voice soft. “You could not help but complicate matters, could you? You reckless, insufferable, incorrigible man…”

There was no response, of course, but the sound of his breathing—shallow but steady—was enough to ease the tightness in her chest, if only a little.

“You must forgive the Viscount,” Islanil, who had been standing quietly in the corner, clasped his own hands neatly in front of him, said to break the quiet. “He has ever been a willful creature, though he conceals it more skillfully now. You may not have recognized him in his youth; hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight.”

Ellana glanced up at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “I assure you, I can picture that with ease. He fights me constantly. I doubt we’d have survived one another. And… please, no apologies. I realize that in all my time here at Vi’Revas, I’ve never actually been able to speak with you, Master Islanil.”

“I am usually kept occupied attending to Lord Fen’Harel’s needs,” the valet said with a slight incline to his head, “... and, My Lady, it is just my nature to keep to myself. I suppose that is why the Viscount keeps me close, ultimately. I have served him for many years now.”

“Have… you ever seen him through something like this before?”

“No, My Lady.”

Ellana sighed, deflating slightly, and the quiet returned to the chamber.

Islanil lingered for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked at Solas. “Though, I knew better than to underestimate him. And I think, if I may be so bold as to say it… he would not be displeased to have a beautiful woman fretting at his bedside instead of a wrinkling man like me. If you’ll permit me, I’ll take a brief rest now that you’re here, My Lady. It’s been a long night, and I’ll need my strength to care for him properly later in the evening.”

Ellana nodded, appreciating the exhaustion in his eyes. “Of course, Islanil. Rest while you can. I’ll stay with him.”

Islanil bowed slightly, a gesture of gratitude more than formality. “Thank you, My Lady. Call for me if you need anything.” He turned and left the room with quiet steps, leaving Ellana alone with Solas.

Alone with him. It’d happened a few times between them now, though most often there was a chaperone. Cullen lingered just outside the door, she knew, despite his promises to rest.

Through a partially open door on one wall of the bedroom, she glimpsed what appeared to be a connected salon filled with easels clustered near tall windows, canvases in various states of completion with splashes of color and blocked out shapes over sketches. It smelled like seed oils and turpentine, the scents mixing with all the odors of medicine and fever enough to make the head spin. Paint spatters marked the wooden floor visible through the doorway.

Actually, Lord Fen’Harel is something of a splendid painter himself.

Dorian’s voice smoothed over the memory of the three of them at the Gallery exhibition, teasing first and then definitely angling to spark an argument between Ellana and the Viscount for his own amusement. She had, of course, taken the deliciously offered bait and goated the Viscount with it—mocking his meaning, his purpose, his truth, anything she could sink her dainty claws into at all to prick and annoy as much as she was pricked and annoyed to be forced into his orbit.

She remembered the pinched twist to his expression, the outright disgust, and for the first time she’d lowered him to a loss for words. She’d taken great satisfaction in his wide eyes and startle, a fierce predator frightened, even if only for a moment, by the rabbit it thought harmless. And now… all those secretive works, the things he held higher and most true, were only a few paces away across the room.

Here was a man she didn't know at all. There were all of his closely kept truths in varying stages of wet paint.

The Viscount was asleep, although barely, and there was hardly a person that would dare to think to stop her from simply… standing. Crossing the space into the parlor to look, as long as she pleased, at whatever works she found within, and assign whatever foul, crude, savage interpretation to highborn artistry that she liked just because she could, and just because she knew it would twist him again to be deliberately misunderstood.

Solas groaned, drawing her attention back in an instant.

His face was pinched with pain, even in sleep. Ellana reached for the basin of cool water on the bedside table and wrung out a cloth, gently pressing it to his fevered brow. How strange, she thought, dabbing the cloth across his temples, to be reaching out to him willingly, gently, like this. Theirs was a relationship of stomped toes and sneaky elbows into ribs. They did not like each other. They did not soothe and comfort, they did not… look… at each other’s face’s like this, up close and unguarded.

Ellana caught herself staring at the severe angles of his face. They looked softer like this, smoothed out by fatigue and vulnerability instead of the haughty disdain he usually wore. The strong line of his jaw relaxed in sleep, no longer clenched in irritation at her presence. His cheekbones, high and sharp, cast subtle shadows beneath them in the dim light. The furrow that typically resided between his brows had eased, making him appear younger, less burdened. His lips, usually pressed into a thin line of disapproval when addressing her, were slightly parted as shallow breaths passed between them.

Had she ever been able to just... look at him without him glaring back? Frowning, Ellana tried to bury the thought, and the need, to take advantage of the opportunity. His long, elegant fingers twitched against the sheets, perhaps fighting battles even in his dreams.

"There," she murmured, smoothing the cloth across his brow one more time. "That should help with the fever, and this…"

She adjusted his pillows with careful movements, lifting his head slightly to ease his labored breathing. The hair at his crown was damp with sweat, and sticking to his skin, with several of the longer locks apart from his shaved sides threatening to tangle against the curve of his neck. Heat flushed up into Ellana’s cheeks, and she glanced back over her shoulder towards the door. Surely no one would find it inappropriate if…?

Ellana bit down on her lower lips, eyes sweeping back to Solas, his closed eyes, the dark lashes over pale skin, then to the would-be knots. It would be more inappropriate to leave them there. With her fingertips only, she swept them away from the hollow of his throat.

"You'd find this terribly amusing, wouldn't you?" she said softly, sinking back into her chair, still blushing. "The savage Dalish playing nursemaid. Fumbling around you like a child. You'd have some cutting remark ready about my presumption to touch you, I’m sure. I’m grateful that you’re not awake to see me making a fool of myself."

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the only response to her words.

"... and… perhaps it is because you are asleep, that I feel like I can say this. I… am… so angry with you. What were you thinking? Rushing in without a weapon, without a plan without—ugh! And—worst of all—how dare you make me want to thank you for doing it at all," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Though I can't imagine why you did it considering you’ve made the depth of your loathing no secret." She dabbed at the perspiration on his neck, careful not to disturb the bandages. "How am I meant to repay something like this? Did you know I never could? Part of me thinks this was all some clever ploy, and that you’re preparing to trick me into something nefarious. The other part of me thinks… that sounds rather a lot like how you think of me, even when I’m trying my best. What a mess we make."

Her gaze drifted again toward the salon and its half-finished canvases.

"I promise not to look at your paintings," she said, returning her attention to his face. "It is the least I can do. I’ll wait until you're awake and can show them to me yourself. Though I suspect you'd rather burn them than share them with me." A wry smile touched her lips. "Consider it as motivation to recover quickly."

She took his hand again, and didn’t linger on why she did at all. Instead she talked to him. About the ruined dress, about Sera’s terrible bandages, about bloodletting and the things that her aunt used to make when she was unwell. Dalish berry cobbler is the thing any sick, or sad, person really needs. I’ll ask the cook to make you one when you wake. I’ll tell you it's some Ferelden recipe, and you’ll adore it. She minded his bandages. She fussed with his blankets. She sat there for what felt like hours, her thumb tracing absent circles on the back of his hand, until the door creaked open again and Sera poked her head in.

“My Lady,” Sera said, her voice unusually quiet. “You’ve been here all morning and afternoon—Cook’s about to pitch a fit. You need to eat, and I’ve brought fresh bandages for your arm.”

Ellana glanced at Sera, then back at Solas. “Leave the bandages. I’ll be along shortly—ah, that is, can someone sit here with him? Islanil is surely still resting, and if Cullen is still minding the door then he is in even worse shape than I..”

“Mr. Harrit shall attend him," Sera said, dropping off a folded pile of fresh linens. "So don't make me drag you out of here, My Lady. You’re no use to anyone if you collapse.”

Ellana almost smiled at that. “I shall be quite well, Sera. Go take a break yourself for a while; you’ve been caring for me all evening and I’m sure you’re been helping still this morning… so go spoil yourself. This is an order from your Lady, directly.”

Sera rolled her eyes but left without another word, the door clicking shut behind her. Ellana turned back to Solas, her gaze lingering on his face. For the first time since the attack, she felt a small flicker of hope. He was stubborn, as Sera had said. Too stubborn to die like this.

She squeezed his hand gently. “You’d better not prove me wrong.”

Chapter Text

Inside the command tent, Solas leaned over the table, his gloved finger tracing the ridge sketched in charcoal that marked the northern pass. Maps sprawled out before him, vellum edges curling under the weight of iron markers. Canvas walls billowed with each gust of cold mountain wind, slipping through the seams to shake hand-drawn battle plans and bluster tallow candles. Commander Fen’Harel’s high-collared uniform coat, marked by its distinctive pins, remained crisp despite weeks of campaign living, unlike the rest of him: the hollows beneath his eyes had deepened, there was a strain roughened his voice. When was it that he’d last had a fitful sleep? A moment of actual rest? This northern campaign had been grueling, with hard-won victories and bitter setbacks in equal measure... But now, maybe, there was an opportunity to nip further pushback before it could grow into another several months of battle. They had the advantage—but only if they could hold the high ground.

"We hold the high ground here," Solas said, his voice cutting through the low murmur of voices in the tent. "If we secure the northern pass, the valley is ours. The Venatori will have no choice but to approach through the lowlands, where our archers can cut them down."

Felassan tilted his head. "A risky play, Commander. If the Venatori break through, they’ll have the high ground—and we’ll be the ones trapped in the valley."

"And that," Solas said with a faint smile, "is why I’m entrusting it to you."

Felassan grinned, leaning casually against the edge of the table. "You’re asking me to hold the most dangerous position on the map. Should I be flattered or insulted?"

"Be whatever you like," Solas replied, straightening. "Just make sure the pass holds."

"Such confidence in me," Felassan said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I’d almost think you care, Commander."

Solas shot him a look composed of equal parts of course and how dare you make me acknowledge this again.

Years of shared history lay behind that exchange—from their days as young recruits when Solas had found Felassan, a commoner from an unremarkable family, outperforming the sons of nobility at every exercise. While other officers from prominent houses had purchased their ranks, Felassan had earned his through merit alone, climbing slowly through the ranks without family connections to smooth his path… unlike Solas himself who had risen in equal measure to his aptitude and both merit and the privileges of his house. He was a Fen’Harel. His lot was not to take orders in the back rank of a battalion.

But Felassan. Felassan was destined and doomed to obscurity and mediocrity as foot soldier.

Or, at least, he would have been had he not proven himself a hundred times over. But despite his brilliance on the field, Felassan's advancement had stalled repeatedly until Solas directly recognized his value and appointed him directly to his command staff, elevating him above his station.

A decision that had raised noble eyebrows but proven itself correct in every subsequent campaign. "Don’t make me regret this."

Felassan’s cocksure smile promised he wouldn’t.

The tent flap swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. Theron strode in, his uniform a spectacle of ostentation; braid embroidery curled along the cuffs with silver pins gleaming on his lapels. Further ornamentation in the form of stitched thread in a spiderweb of vine that matched his vallaslin stretched over one shoulder. He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted his own importance.

"Captain Theron," Solas said, his voice cool. "You’re late."

"Apologies, Commander," Theron replied, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I must have overslept. The cold weather makes it difficult to rise early."

Solas acknowledged him with a nod too brief to be respectful. "We were discussing the defense of the northern pass. You and Lieutenant Felassan will hold that position tomorrow."

Theron's expression tightened, the hint of distaste poorly concealed in comparison to Solas’s own shrouded distaste. The other elf’s commission, granted through backroom favors and bribes, made a mockery of every officer who had earned their post, dirty Dalish money buying him rank without the experience to justify it.

In the three months since joining the campaign, he had managed to avoid any significant combat, always finding reasons to be elsewhere when danger threatened. Theron’s gaze swept over the map, his expression pinched. "The northern pass? Is that wise, Commander? Dividing our forces when we could consolidate our position here. And surely my time and experience would be better served in the—”

Experience? He had none. Solas bit back a snap by grinding his teeth.

Unlike most Dalish houses, whose influence had waned over generations, the Therons clawed their way into growing prominence through their silk trade—a venture both profitable and divisive: by undercutting traditional merchants and courting foreign buyers, they’d earned the Council’s ear… and the resentment of their peers, transforming the lowly house within a single generation—just long enough to purchase a son a captain's commission without the merit to warrant it.

"Your time and ‘experience’ are needed here in the northern pass, as you’ve been informed. This is not a request." Solas said, reining himself in. "Or do you believe yourself incapable of following direct orders, Captain?"

Theron's jaw tightened, but he offered a stiff nod. "Of course not, Commander. My unit will form up and be ready at dawn."

His ‘unit’ barely deserved to be called such a thing. It was a loose collection of predominantly Dalish volunteers—sons of merchant families loyal to House Theron, hastily outfitted and given just enough training to look competent on parade. Many had never seen real combat. A few had, but only under protection. It was not a formation Solas would trust to hold a gate, let alone a pass… which was why, although he could not entirely restructure the unit to his liking, he was able to insist on several first and second lieutenants.

For a pass, it would be sufficient; even a smaller, less capable force could defend against a more experienced or larger one so long as they exploited the terrain. The northern pass would cut down on maneuverability, forcing the Venatori into a funnel that could be picked off by musketfire just so long as they maintained a minimum of force and prevented breaches.

As the Captain departed, Solas watched the ornate, over-polished- pins on the Captain’s lapels. It wouldn’t be too outlandish of a thought that the man was only late this morning out of vanity, perhaps enjoying his own reflection in the shine of buttons and buckles in his uniform, rather than realizing the actual responsibility and weight of the station that his family’s maneuvering had placed him in.

Felassan lingered, his lean frame perched on the edge of the map table, and drummed his fingers there. "You take no small pleasure in prodding our dear Captain.”

"I take no pleasure incompetence, you mean," Solas replied, and there was a bitter taste on his tongue; three months of watching Theron parade his position while shirking every duty that involved genuine risk. "Whether our nepotism-favored Captain can deliver remains to be seen."

Felassan's grin widened, but there was a flicker of concern in his violet eyes. "If Theron fails, it's not just his head on the line—it's ours."

"I'm aware," Solas replied, his gaze fixed on the map.

"His family has purchased the ear of three Council members. They've invested considerable wealth ensuring their son returns with medals, not wounds." Felassan lowered his voice to a nearly conspiratorial hush. "They'll claim you set him up to fail if anything goes wrong."

"I've set him up to succeed, if he's half the officer his commission claims. And if he is isn’t, better to have his incompetence close so that it can be corrected rather than let him blunder elsewhere. You will be my eyes in the pass, Felassan." Solas traced a finger along the inked ridge of the northern pass again, frowning. "But if we don't hold this position, the Venatori will flank us. We'll lose the valley, and this campaign will drag on for months longer than it needs to."

Felassan sighed, pushing himself off the table. "You’re the Commander. I’ll follow your lead—even if it means babysitting Theron."

"Your confidence is inspiring," Solas said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

Felassan clapped him on the shoulder as he headed for the tent flap. "You know I won't let you down."

Solas looked up, meeting his friend's gaze. "You never have."

"So then try to rest, Solas," Felassan said, dropping title now that they were in private. “Maybe live a little bit. You deserve to have fun occasionally. I mean more than once every few years.”

"After this is over," Solas replied, the promise ringing hollow even to his own ears.

“... and might I ask one last question, Commander, just why it is that you’re entrusting this important juncture to someone whom you clearly hold in such dazzlingly high esteem?”

A glower.

“Because even I, occasionally, must take and enforce orders that I may not align with. Captain Theron is to receive a defensible position for which he can crow over later once we return.”

“Ah. So I am going along with him as an insurance policy to ensure the Council’s darling has that success. I see.”

“You have the rare burden of my trust in your abilities—and you will see that this operation goes as intended. Smoothly.”

“Of course, Commander,” Felassan said, winking as he snapped to mock attention with a hand to his chest.

When Felassan had gone, Solas remained standing before the map.He traced the line of the northern pass again, his fingers lingering on the marker that represented Felassan’s unit. Pressure from behind his eyes bloomed, throbbing in time with his breathing. At least the tent was quiet now, the low murmur of voices replaced by the distant sounds of the camp—the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the rhythmic tread of soldiers on patrol. Solas closed his eyes for a moment, letting the exhaustion and his discomfort wash over him. He couldn’t afford to rest, not yet. There was too much at stake.

His chest ached.

When he opened his eyes again, the map blurred before him, the lines and markers swimming in and out of focus. He blinked, forcing himself to concentrate. The northern pass was the key. If they could hold it tomorrow, they could end this campaign. Before he’d seen the march of oncoming armies, bad as a starry eyed cadet, Solas had always imagined these fights, these honorable and necessary trading of life for territory, as taking place in slow motion: lines of toy-soldier men loading, shouldering, firing, then re-loading their muskets beneath layers of thick woolen uniform while some boy kept time with a drum. It took time, the marching was on beat, and each reload needed time to reset and re-aim before the next bullet could fly. He’d read books about how exhausted troops were after battles, and had always assumed it was the logical result of that metronomic action, the monotony of hours under the sun doing one thing well.

Now he knew better.

A boy could never imagine the true toil. These soldiers fought furiously, swiftly and continuously—load, aim, reload. They may be flanked. It may come to swords. Often, at the end, it even came to fists and strangulation in the mud while cavalry thundered past, hooves crushing broken bodies and bones deep into overtrodden muck.

Dawn tomorrow would mark the end of this evening's tenuous calm. In a way, the battle had already begun. The camp's practiced routine carried an undercurrent of tension—men cleaning weapons with excessive care, conversations dropping to whispers and resuming with forced laughter, eyes darting to the darkness beyond the perimeter. In the mess tent, portions went half-eaten; in the barracks, seasoned veterans polished already gleaming boots. No one spoke of what awaited them, but every man felt it—that familiar tightness in the chest that preceded bloodshed.

They were well prepared. By reports, too, their own numbers outmatched the Venatori’s lingering holds and men that still clung to the land. If they moved as a unified front, there was startlingly little that he could imagine that would lead to defeat.

And… in some detached part of his mind, Solas thought that was hardly comfort enough.

Soldiers scrambled into formation, boots striking hard against frozen ground, coats flaring as the distant call of horns signaling movement on the not-so-distant horizon. Solas stood at the edge of the command tent, his sharp eyes scanning the field. The first rays of dawn cast long shadows across the valley, but the stillness of the morning was already shattered by the sound of marching boots and the occasional bark of orders.

A scout darted into the tent, breathless. "Commander!" he gasped, snapping to attention with a hand to his chest. "Initial reports confirm enemy movements. The Venatori are advancing from the eastern foothills and the northern pass. They’ve split their forces."

"Numbers?"

"At least three hundred at the pass, maybe more, Commander. The rest are massing in the east."

"Good," Solas said, though his voice carried no relief. "Captain Dareth, deploy your sharpshooters to the eastern ridge. Hold them there until my signal. Captain Maren, reinforce the southern flank—I won’t have them slipping through. And send word to Felassan. Tell him the northern pass is his to hold."

The captains acknowledged their orders with curt nods before dispersing. Solas turned to the map table, his fingers hovering over the marked positions. The battle plan was sound, but plans rarely survived first contact.

Neither did many men. The field itself was a storm of shouts and cracking musket fire. Hisses of black powder shushed between sharp ringing, screaming, steel where sabres met at close quarters. The air reeked of blood and black powder. Misery. The groans of hundreds of dying men.

Metallic iron, the tang of blood, clung to the back of Solas’s throat, and he stifled down the need to cough.

He moved between the command tent and the front lines, issuing orders with a calm that belied the chaos around him. Early reports came in—successful skirmishes, enemy advances repelled, the eastern ridge holding firm.

But then, as the sun climbed higher, a runner arrived from the northern pass. The young soldier’s face was pale, his voice trembling. "Commander, Lieutenant Felassan sends word. The Venatori are pressing hard, but we’re holding. However, Captain Theron…"

Solas’ gaze snapped to the runner. "What about Theron?"

"He’s requesting permission to withdraw from the pass.”

The tent fell silent. Even the distant sounds of battle seemed to fade as Solas’ expression hardened. "To withdraw," he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "And for what reason?"

“He…” The runner’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darting to the map table as if it might save him from the storm brewing in Solas’s direct gaze. "Sorry, Commander, he did not—it is not my place to question the rationale of an officer…”

“Has there been some great change in the pass?”

“N-no, not to my knowledge, Commander.”

“Then deliver this message to Captain Theron,” Solas stepped closer, his presence like a thundercloud. "He will hold his position at all costs. If he abandons the pass, he abandons his commission—and his honor—and I will run him down with the rest of the lowlives and enemies of the crown that remain on the field. Is that clear?"

The runner nodded frantically. "Yes, Commander."

"Good. Now go.”

Solas remained standing before the map, his fingers tracing the line of the northern pass, but his mind was already racing ahead—to the reinforcements he could muster, the positions he could redirect. The pass was the key, and Theron’s incompetence may still yet turn it into a gaping wound.

When the messenger departed, Solas resumed his pacing, the soles of his boots muffled against the packed earth of the tent floor. Dispatches arrived at intervals—creased, blood-smeared, hastily scrawled—and he read each one in silence before dictating orders to his adjutant, who transcribed them in shorthand. Another officer stood by with the seal and wax, ready to send them out again on horseback.

Outside, the sky had turned a gunmetal grey, thick with smoke and cloud. The reports of musket and cannon fire had grown more frequent—closer. Still, he remained here. Not on the line. Not where men bled for the strategies he laid out in ink and death, weighing the cost of lives against political lines. Thus far, he’d been correct: the Venatori were vastly outnumbered and clung to their dwindling strongholds and passes. Their deaths would, likely, earn him some measure of renown after the battle came to an end.

‘Wardog,’ they called him. The ‘Dread Wolf’. The one with a cape stained red in enemy blood.

The titles and accolades meant little—Solas did not crave bloodshed. But each decision he made bore enough heartsblood to fill lakes. Every volley fired, every order to advance or hold—those were his choices, carried out by men he trusted.

He hated the waiting. The trusting. The knowing.

He hated that blood was red regardless of who was doing the bleeding. Many of his own men, even in victory, would not live to see tomorrow’s sunrise. He reached for another report, already knowing what it would say. Casualties. Displacement. A request for direction. He read it anyway, then stepped outside to survey the field through his spyglass, noting the shifting lines of men, the flashes of gunfire, and the officers on horseback directing movements. An aide approached with fresh intelligence gathered from prisoners, which Solas reviewed before sending instructions to the artillery battery positioned on the eastern ridge. Good. The pressure there was working, as were the other units in the west. So long as Captain Theron held the northern pass…

A distant crack split the air—louder than before. A cannon, or something worse. The ground trembled beneath his boots as another volley tore across the valley. He watched as a plume of smoke blossomed behind the western treeline.

For a few seconds, Solas said nothing. Then he lowered the spyglass and handed it off.

“Mark that impact site,” he told his aide. “Confirm if it was ours or theirs.”

Men were falling by the dozens now—he could make them out, shrinking and collapsing as if the world itself had exhaled and decided they were no longer needed. In reality, he had been the one to dictate their placement on the board. One regiment’s banner vanished behind a ripple of movement, and another line shifted to meet the breach.

Officers wheeled their horses sharply. He saw a captain dismount, then take up a fallen soldier’s musket. Solas didn’t know the man’s name, but he’d remember the shape of it: straight-backed, steady under fire.

The sky had darkened further. Smoke drifted low across the field, hugging the ground like a second fog. Somewhere, a signal drum stuttered and failed. A few beats later, another took its place.

Time passed. More dispatches arrived. More commands went out. The lines moved. Sometimes forward, sometimes not.

Suddenly, another messenger stumbled in, his face pale and his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Commander—" he managed, before doubling over, clutching his side, wheezing for air.

Solas’ gaze snapped to him, his voice sharp. "Speak."

"The northern unit—" the messenger gasped, "they’ve abandoned their position! The Venatori are pouring through the pass!"

A cold fury settled in Solas’ chest. "Captain Theron?"

"Gone, Commander. No one knows where."

Solas’ hands clenched into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking. "And Lieutenant Felassan?"

"Still holding the line, Commander, but he’s outnumbered and losing ground fast."

For a moment, the tent was silent, the weight of the news pressing down like the oppressive push of an incoming stormcloud. Then Solas turned to the map, his mind already calculating. "Captain Maren!" he barked, and a blond officer stepped forward, snapping to attention. "Take your unit and reinforce the southern flank. If the Venatori break through, they’ll try to circle around. Hold them there at all costs."

"Yes, Commander."

"Lieutenant Viren, gather the reserves. We’ll need them at the pass."

"But Commander—" the lieutenant hesitated, "the reserves are meant for the final push. If we commit them now—"

"If we don’t hold the pass, there will be no final push," Solas snapped, his voice cutting like a blade. "Move!"

The lieutenant saluted and hurried out, leaving Solas alone in the tent—save for the messenger, who still stood trembling by the entrance.

"Go," Solas said, his tone a singular degree softer but no less urgent. "Find a medic. You’ve done your part."

The messenger nodded, relief flooding his face, and stumbled out.

"The rest of you, with me." He snatched his saber from the table and strode out of the tent, his officers falling into step behind him.

The reinforcement column moved with urgency, their route taking them along a narrow ridge trail that generations of soldiers had traveled before. Light cavalry led the way, scouts ranging ahead to secure the path. Solas rode at the center of the formation, his mount picking its way over ground churned by countless hooves and boots. The men marched in four-deep files, bayonets fixed, their expressions grim beneath the regulation shakos that marked their regiment's proud, honorable, history.

Many were young. Many were unafraid.

Most that were young and unafraid believed most ardently in what most in Arlathan believed in wartime from the comfort of their homes: It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.

At a creek crossing, Solas noted the remnants of an older battle—a weathered stone marker commemorating the fallen from the Blessed Campaign, nearly forty years past. His father had fought there as a young lieutenant. Now his son commanded an army over the same contested ground.

And then his father had died in the Breach Campaign, likely buried beneath the rubble still in some godforsaken field in the Imperium, never to return.

The northern pass loomed ahead, a dark gash between steep mountainsides. Solas's mount labored beneath him, foam speckling its neck as they climbed the winding path. Behind him, the reserve units struggled to keep pace, their boots striking the pebbled ground in a rhythm that matched his thundering heartbeat.

As they crested the final rise, the scene that greeted them stole the breath from his lungs.

The pass had become a slaughterhouse. Bodies—most in Arlathan uniforms—lay scattered across the ground, their blood pooling in congealing puddles. In spring, this pass and valley were full of flowers used in perfume making; now it was filled with the stench of sweat and bile, rocky outcroppings serving only to bounce back the guttural cries of the wounded and the sickening crunch of steel meeting bone.

He caught a glimpse of a soldier stumbling through smoke, his mouth wide, hands clawing at his face, his neck. For a breathless instant, it looked like the man was drowning in the air itself and—and he was. A sword protruded from his ribs. His lungs were filling with blood. Another crash of cannon and smoke and erupting dirt into the air. A broken satchel spilled letters across the mud, ink bleeding into the wet earth. A discarded drum lay crushed underfoot.

Through gaps in the smoke, Solas could see the remnants of Felassan's unit forming a last defensive line, vastly outnumbered by the Venatori forces pressing close. Of Theron’s Dalish unit, there was no sign. They had fled with him—whether out of loyalty or fear, it hardly mattered.

None remained to answer for their absence.

"Form up!" Solas commanded, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "First and second companies, left flank! Third and fourth, right! We'll close like a vise and crush them between!"

As the reserves fanned out behind him, Solas searched the battlefield, his eyes straining through the haze. Where was Felassan? Had he already fallen? The thought sent ice through his veins. Surely not, the crafty fool was probably—

Suddenly, a cannonball struck the ground nearby, the explosion throwing Solas from his mount. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Dust filled his mouth. The horse was dead, glass eyes staring at nothing. Pain erupted in his chest. It was hard to—he couldn’t—fighting through the spasm of his diaphragm, all he could breathe was ash. The only sound was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, muting the screams and steel until all that remained was a strange silence as shadows raged war above his head. Smoke, limbs, the sky—nothing quite in focus.

For a single, endless, terrible moment, the world spun—smoke, screams. Nothing else. He pushed himself up, his ears ringing, his vision swimming.

And… then he spotted him. A lone figure surrounded by three Venatori soldiers. Less than 20 meters away.

Even from a distance, Solas could make out Felassan’s face: twisted in a snarl, his lips drawn back, teeth bared like a cornered animal. The vallaslin curling around his eyes was flecked with blood spray. His uniform was torn, his left sleeve hanging in tatters, and a deep gash marred his cheek. His chest heaved, clearly exhausted; he was like an animal. A wolf of war.

Felassan—Lieutenant Felassan, Solas reminded himself, not a footsoldier, not expendable—tightened his grip on his sword. The Lieutenant’s body was taut as he gripped his blade, ready to swing. He was hemmed in on three sides. Just beyond where Solas stood, deep in the middle ground of the sprawling fight, him, a knot of bodies locked in violent deadlock momentarily blocked Solas’s view as they crashed past.

But when the interruption to his line of sight cleared, he saw Felassan swing high—and then heard the cut off scream and heavy thump of a new corpse to feed the dirt as it fell. Another swing at another attacker, and a Venatori soldier staggered away with the impact and fell to the ground, his torso was drenched in blood; blood gurgled out of his chest like a flowing spring.

Even outnumbered, Felassan fought with the ferocity that had first caught Solas's attention years ago. He was a fool to have worried.

"Captain Maren!" Solas called, and the blond officer appeared at his side. "Take command here. Execute the pincer movement on my signal."

"Commander, you can't mean to—"

But Solas was already rushing forward on foot, drawing his saber. He would not watch from afar while Felassan fought for his life.

The battlefield blurred around him—screams, the clash of steel, the acrid stench of gunpowder—as he charged. A Venatori soldier turned, raising his musket, but Solas's blade found him first, the man crumpling with a choked cry. Another enemy lunged from the side, and Solas twisted on a heel, allowing him to drive the pommel into the attacker's face.

Just ahead, Felassan had dispatched the last of his trio of his opponents only to have them replaced by two more from the ranks that spilled out the broken defenses. The Lieutenant was tiring, his movements growing slower, a dark stain spreading across his side where a blade had sliced through his jacket.

"Lieutenant!" Solas called, his voice carrying over the clamor. He was almost to him now.

Felassan's head jerked up, his eyes widening in recognition. A brief smile crossed his blood-spattered face. “Took you long enough, Commander!”

Solas was mere steps away when it happened.

A Venatori soldier feinted, drawing Felassan's parry, while the second circled behind. Felassan, aware of the trap but too exhausted to counter both, made a desperate lunge at the first opponent.

His blade found its mark, sinking deep into the Venatori's chest. “Come on, you can do better than that! You almost had me—”

From behind, the second soldier's sword plunged through Felassan's back, ripping through muscle and sinew to burst through his sternum dripping with gore and crimson.

The taunting smile had not quite died from his face, but Felassan’s eyes widened in shock. His body jerked, his saber slipping from his fingers as he crumpled to his knees.

The Venatori yanked his blade free, preparing to deliver a final blow.

Solas’s voice shattered the din of battle, a sound more animal than human, as he charged forward. He rushed, saber raised, and brought it down upon the Venatori soldier with such force that the man's attempted parry shattered, the blade continuing through flesh and bone.

The enemy fell, but Solas barely noticed. He was already on his knees beside Felassan, cradling his friend's head in his hands, dragging him into his lap. Felassan jerked once in Solas’s arms, then again, his body spasming like a dying fish. Blood bubbled from his lips, then poured, then gurgled.

"They di-idn’t take the pass. I—I told you I wouldn't let you down," Felassan managed, his voice miserably wet between gasps. His violet eyes were already growing distant.

"And you never have," Solas replied, voice thick, “Nor will you once you’ve recovered from—this. You’ve… all is well. All is well, the reserves are here. We will hold the pass and—escort you back to camp for a— medic—"

His head whipped up. All about them was death. There were no field medics here, no supplies, not even a clear path to carry the wounded back to camp—

Felassan’s hand found Solas’s wrist, his fingers slick with blood—his own? The soldiers? Whose—and his chest hitched, a wet, rattling sound escaping his lips. "Don't," he wheezed, what might’ve been a laugh dissolving into a choke. "We both already know.”

He didn’t, he didn’t, such a thing—the end, it was unknowable.

In the distance, Solas was vaguely aware of Captain Maren's voice bellowing orders, of the reserve units engaging the Venatori forces, pushing them back through the pass.

“No, no, Felassan…!”

Not when the tide was turning, when he could hear the trumpets leading reserve men forward—forward men, forward!—and the clambering stomp of retreat now that minimum force applied back to the natural vice of the pass. It was meant to be simple. An untrained force could take on entire armies at such a bottleneck. Even Theron and his men…

… Theron and his men.

“I will kill him for this,” Solas whispered, hot tears streaking from his cheek and falling from his lip.

“Solas. Ho…ow… about you just… live… a li…ttle more? For the—both—of—u-us.”

With a sputtering, drowning, choke, Felassan jerked again. His hand slipped from Solas's wrist, falling limp to the blood-soaked ground. His chest stilled, the faint rise and fall of his breathing gone. Solas stared at his friend’s face, frozen in an expression that was neither peaceful nor pained—just empty. The battlefield faded around him, the sounds of battle muffled and distant. The world itself was pausing to mourn.

He was frozen. Felassan’s body was still warm against him, but the blood that was leaking onto his legs and chest cooling. Violet eyes were open and unblinking, pupils blown wide and unseeing.

This shouldn’t have happened. This wasn’t meant to happen. Had Theron not abandoned his post and taken the men, had he sent a second unit, had Solas sent someone else to die here like a wretch, had he—

—had he done a thousand other things.

I let you down.

“Commander!”

The voice snapped him back to the present. Captain Maren stood a few paces away, his face pale and smeared with grime but resolute. “The Venatori are retreating. Lord Fen’Harel. We’ve secured the pass and….”

Solas nodded, the rest of the words fading to static in his ears. His own throat was too tight to speak. He set Felassan’s body gently on the ground, swiped a hand to shut his eyes, and rose to his feet, his movements stiff, as if he were moving through thick, murky water.

Retreating. Not defeated. There was. Still. Work. To. Do.

“Ensure the wounded are tended to,” he said, voice as empty as the corpse in the dirt behind him. “And find Theron.”

They will say this was noble, he thought, steeling thought and soul to the cry of war and rising sense of rage. Death. The Venatori would have it, and so would Theron, just as Felassan did now. Arlathan would rise. They would still call this a victory. They would still say that this death was good, that this blood paid for heroes to win the day. They would believe the old lie.

They will not even remember his name.

In the months that followed, victory after victory was carved into the northern provinces. The army marched under banners bloodied and unbeaten. They called him the Dread Wolf—not just behind his back, but in songs and field diaries, in taverns where veterans boasted of following his command. Every stronghold that resisted fell. Every enemy line broke. The campaign was declared a triumph.

And no one—no one—wanted to hear a discordant note beneath the fanfare.

Not about Felassan.

Not about the pass.

Not about the cost of a handful of good men.

Back in Arlathan though, at Solas’s urging, a tribunal was held in a fortified garrison far from the front. The room was cold, windowless, stone-lined, with a panel of judges in muted military regalia seated behind a long oaken table.

Solas stood at attention, uniform pressed, expression void of emotion and unreadable. Theron stood opposite him, no longer in command dress but draped in the ceremonial vestments of his house—dark blue with silver threading, his vallaslin freshly re-inked and even expanded.

Clearly this performance required a pristine mask of piety.

"I had no choice; I acted upon urgent intelligence,” Theron said, his tone carefully rehearsed and sickeningly sincere. “I received word that a member of my own clan—my own blood—was in mortal danger behind enemy lines. You must understand, for the Dalish, our bonds of kinship are sacred. To turn away would have been a betrayal of everything I was raised to believe. My honor, no, my tradition demanded I go.”

A pause followed, not silence. The scratch of a quill. A cough. The scrape of a leather boot across stone.

One of the tribunal members—General Alvar, an older Arlathan elf who had served with Solas’s father—glanced toward Solas. “And yet in leaving your post, Captain, seventeen soldiers died in the gap you were assigned to hold.”

Theron bowed his head. “A tragedy. But unavoidable. I did not make my choice lightly. I had the utmost faith in the Commander that he would still be able to hold the pass. And to our great fortune, I was right.”

Solas said nothing now. He had already said everything in his written statement. He knew the words would be weighed and discarded.

The verdict came swiftly, and with it, the explanation that made the outcome clear.

In the days after the hearing, the Theron family launched a relentless public campaign. They decried the tribunal’s tone as culturally insensitive. They accused the military hierarchy of disregarding Dalish heritage. They cited ancient rites, real or fabricated, to justify Theron’s withdrawal. Council members with ties to the silk trade repeated those claims with well-placed sorrow. A reprimand would suffice, they argued, the honorable Captain was in a lose-lose situation caught between his post and his clan. Stripping his commission would be an affront to an entire culture.

The battle was won, surely there could be leniency.

Theron was issued a formal censure and reassigned to a less visible post in the capital. No more than that.

Justice, like so many things in Solas’s world, had been negotiated out of existence.

The grave was simple. A stone, a name, a date.

Felassan had no family present to mourn him—none who dared, anyway. Solas visited alone, arriving without escort, unannounced, and bearing no flag.

He crouched beside the marker, fingers trailing along the carved letters.

"You should have had more than this," he said quietly. "You deserved more."

The wind answered. Dry leaves scattered over the hilltop. Nothing else.

He remembered Felassan’s laugh. The rasping, blood-choked echo of his last words. The feel of his body cooling in Solas’s arms.

What did it even mean to live? Much less more?

Bitterness settled like frost in his chest.

Later still, Solas returned to court—not as Commander Fen’Harel, but as Viscount Fen’Harel, newly named successor to his family’s seat in the northern provinces even though he was not directly Countess Mythal’s heir. There were other prospects in the family she could’ve chosen, though none could boast to be a wardog of such excellent pedigree.

The war was over now. If there was to be another, let it be when he was old or already rotting. Others could march now.

He carried the shards of himself to Vi’Revas, which was not his childhood home or even a home now despite it being his by gift of the Royal Family for his notable service. He carried his memories, too, and feeling. But it was not grief. Not yet. That would come later, in solitude, in dark moments when he expelled nightmares on canvas in flesh ochre pigment and bleeding terra rosa to stain a ground of raw umber.

For now though there was only resolve.

The young Viscount drafted the first of many position papers aimed at restructuring the military’s promotion protocols. With his Aunt’s full backing, he could do that now, and they would listen. If Theron could pay to make his way, then so could he, Solas supposed. It hardly seemed to matter who was crushed in the name of his justice. He changed many such systems in the military. And then others. On council oversight. On cultural exemptions. On the reclassification of noble militias.

On trade. On import. On shipping.

The policies were lauded as balanced, judicious, forward-thinking.

But in his heart, he was already done trusting the Dalish. Their honor, their traditions, their pleas for exception—none of it had held when it mattered. Theron had damned a regiment for the lie of being bound to his kin.

So they could all drown together now.

His vow was made quietly, whispered just to himself without ceremony, that no Dalish lies. Their cowardice, their irresponsibility, would sway him into mistake again. He would not allow their selfishness to rot out what remained which was good. If he had only—

—had he done a thousand other things.

He studied the silk trade routes with more intent than he had ever examined battlefield maps.

Within five years, the holdings of House Theron dwindled.

Once buoyed by lucrative silk contracts and carefully…nurtured… council relationships, began to wither under the weight of the new reforms. The reclassification of noble militias stripped them of their private guard. Trade regulations undercut their dominance in the textile markets. And the new oversight committees made patronage all but impossible to hide. Their influence eroded.

They held their name still, but not much else. No one mentioned the former Captain in polite company anymore.

A year later, after the penultimate crash of Theron’s house and his unseemly reassignment, the former Captain was found dead in a rented room above a dockside tavern in the small town of Valen, penniless and bloated from drink. The death certificate cited liver failure. Rumor said he had tried, drunkenly, to write a letter to the Crown the night before. No one bothered to retrieve the body for burial.

Solas heard the news in passing in addition to some noteworthy scandal about some other Dalish house rising in renown.

He visited Felassan’s grave again that week. The stone was unchanged, the name still shallow from rushed carving. He stood there for a long time, hands in his pockets, coat collar turned against the wind.

No catharsis. No vindication.

Only quiet. Only the sound of wind through dead leaves. Only the hollow shape of grief he no longer had room to name.

The wind scattered leaves across Felassan’s grave again, and Solas watched them tumble, weightless and uncaring, before everything tilted.

His knees buckled.

Pain bloomed in his side, sharp and wet and present. The same pain as before. His chest ached. What memory was this?

No.

Not memory—now.

He gasped, eyes flying open to darkness. The grave was gone. The battlefield. The stone. He was somewhere else, prone and on his back and burning alive inside his skin. The world stank of laudanum and sweat, close and cloying. Something warm pressed against his ribs—bandages, soaked through. His breath rasped in his throat, each inhale scraping against fire. Shapes shifted at the edge of his vision. Curtains, maybe. A basin. A figure.

A figure by his bed.

He blinked. The light behind the figure flared, haloed. A silhouette. Familiar. Vallaslin curling about the eyes.

“Felassan,” he rasped. His voice cracked like dry parchment. “You—how—you died?”

The figure leaned closer. Said something that rushed past his ears.

It wasn’t him.

“Theron,” he muttered next, face twisting into a snarl. “Liar. Coward.”

The shape didn’t answer. It moved. A hand—was that a hand?—touched his shoulder, cool and steady.

He flinched away, too weak to resist even against such gentle assault.

“Don’t—don’t touch me. I will never forgive you and your kin.”

The figure's posture changed—a slight stiffening, perhaps hurt or surprise. He didn’t care. It withdrew, but didn't leave. Instead, it settled beside the bed, a patient sentinel. Through the fog of fever, he caught a glimpse of eyes—fierce, determined, nothing like the coward's he remembered. Dalish.

But… different.

The realization hovered just beyond his grasp.

Then he was falling, backward, inward, into the dark.

“Don’t—don’t leave me again.”

The fever took him to sleep just like the battlefield had taken his soul.

Merciless.

Total.

Gone.

Chapter Text

The very first and very faintest rays of thin dawn had barely touched the windows when Islanil entered the Viscount's chambers, carrying a small tray laden with a servant’s breakfast: coarse brown bread, a lump of hard cheese, and a pewter mug of small beer gone faintly flat from the journey up the servant’s stairs, all meant to be eaten quickly and without fuss in the earliest hours. It was most certainly not the appropriate fare for the future Viscountess, and Master Harrit would no doubt take issue as Head Steward of Vi’Revas, but in his many years of service to Lord Fen’Harel as his personal valet, Islanil had learned that sometimes, to do his duty, that meant ignoring what was appropriate and relying on what was effective.

He paused at the sight before him—his Lord’s chambers were thick with the smell of lamp oil and laudanum, and all the heavy velvet drapes were drawn half-open to admit the gray dawn. On the escritoire by the window, the silver inkstand had not been touched in days. And… then there was Lady Lavellan: slumped in the chair beside his master's bed, her head nodding forward as she fought sleep. Three days this way. The Lady was not resting well, not eating well, and the rich, sumptuous food from the kitchens for proper meals either went ignored or turned her anxious stomach. The simple stock of the serving glass might fare better where extravagance had failed.

"My Lady," he whispered, setting the tray on a side table. "I've brought your breakfast."

Ellana jolted awake, disoriented for a moment, her body stiff from where she had slumped in the chair. She relaxed when she recognized the valet's kindly face.

"Thank you, Islanil." Her voice was hoarse with fatigue. She glanced at Solas, still deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling with soft, labored breath.

"It is time for you to rest, my Lady." The valet's tone held gentle reproach as he arranged the breakfast things—toast, mug, cheese. "Eat this, then return to your chambers. I will watch over him for a while."

She hesitated, fingers brushing the bandage on her own arm where the assassin's blade had caught her. "His fever—"

"Has broken twice already, and will likely do so again. But you'll be no use to him if you collapse from exhaustion." Islanil's eyes were kind but firm. "Go. Sleep. I promise to send for you if there's any change."

“This sounds rather oddly like you ordering me about, Islanil. For Lord Fen’Harel’s own valet, that is surprising behavior considering his own… rigidity.” Ellana nibbled at a piece of toast, more to appease the valet than from any real appetite. Even this little bit of food sat heavy in her stomach, her body too tense with worry to properly digest anything. “... and what hour is it? You’re here quite early for your turn and our changing of the guard. I… I think, under different circumstances, I would think it was because he demanded your labor at all hours, but I think that not the case now that I’ve come to know you in a small way. You’re very loyal to him.”

“And those he cares for. My Lady, it is because I am loyal to him that I am not loyal to etiquette where it does not serve the ones I wish to serve,” Islanil said softly as he checked Solas's bandages. “You have shown yourself to be the sort to do the same, which is why I will break from my role once more: eat that, and go rest, my Lady. All will be well, I assure you, and I will let the staff below know that you will be sleeping in through the proper breakfast hour.”

“But—”

“Have pity on this old man’s heart, my Lady. Worrying about one is difficult enough, I hardly think anyone at Vi’Revas will manage when both its Lord and Lady are in peril.”

Ellana swallowed hard, unsure how to respond to such unexpected kindness from the staff. From one of the Viscount’s own closest staff.

After a few more bites, she rose stiffly from the chair. "You'll send for me if—if there is anything."

"Of course, immediately," he assured her.

Reluctantly, Ellana gathered her skirts and stepped out into the corridor. The morning hush of Vi’Revas was already broken by routine, and servants moved like shadows along the halls, some with baskets of fresh linens, others bearing tools and buckets. As she passed the entrance to the study on the long walk back towards her own chambers, two footmen were finally dragging out the ruined rug—the once-fine Aubusson now stiff with bloodstains. Another pair followed behind, lifting a damaged escritoire between them followed by a bloom of foul smelling lye and wood polish from where fresh boards were being hammered into place to replace those darkened beyond repair.

Darkened by… blood. Her own. His.

Ellana swallowed down the strange feeling, stroking at the bandage on her arm, and kept walking. Outside the tall gallery windows, she could see Captain Rutherford standing at the edge of the reflecting pool with a cluster of guards. His uniform coat was buttoned wrong, the hem stained with mud from walking rounds in all weather at all hours. Exhaustion pulled the trim line of his shoulders down. The bags under his eyes were as dark as bruises. Every time she’d gone to try and speak with him, too, he was busy, reinspecting some part of the manor, supervising a change to guards, or otherwise torturing himself in some new method she hadn’t yet realized.

Despite her best efforts, the man seemed singularly determined to absorb all blame into his bones.

And as much as she wanted to shake him, remind him that they were all tricked, it… would need to wait. Just a little bit longer. Just until she had a few hours of sleep, perhaps.

By the time she reached her chambers in the east wing, Sera was already waiting with a steaming bath. The maid’s usual irreverence was tempered by concern as she helped Ellana out of her rumpled morning dress… which was also, simultaneously, last night’s evening dress.

"You look like death warmed over," Sera muttered, unwrapping the bandage on Ellana's arm with surprising gentleness. "Can't keep going like this."

"I'm fine," Ellana lied, sinking into the hot water with a barely suppressed groan.

"Course you are. That's why you've got shadows under your eyes dark enough to say you smeared boot black there."

The bath helped, as did Sera's redressing of her own wound. Clean and wrapped in a linen banyan trimmed in faded brocade, Ellana finally allowed herself to collapse onto her bed as birds began to sing into sunrise. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.

… and it felt just as instant that urgent voices pierced her dreams.

"Lady Lavellan! Lady Lavellan, you must wake up!"

She opened her eyes to find both Sera and Cole hovering anxiously by her bedside.

"What is it? Is it the Viscount? Has his fever—"

"No, my Lady," Cole interrupted, wringing his hands. "It's the Countess Mythal. She's coming up the drive—now—she'll be here any moment!"

"Maker's breath, Lady," Sera cursed. "We need to get you dressed. Properly dressed! Now! Up, up you get."

Sleep vanished completely as Ellana tumbled from bed, her senses suddenly alert to every detail around her—the watery sunlight streaming through half-drawn curtains, the distant clatter of carriage wheels on the estate's gravel drive—and Sera’s hands were already pulling Ellana to her feet.

“Eyes open, legs moving. That’s it."

"How much time do we have?" she asked, wincing as her bare feet touched the floorboards, still cold from the night despite the coal scuttle having been emptied and relit at dawn. Her muscles protested after days of sitting vigil in that unforgiving chair.

"Minutes only," Cole said, his voice tight with anxiety. "Mr. Harrit said the riders bearing her standard were spotted at the crossroads not fifteen minutes past."

"Minutes? Sera, I can’t—" she began, but the maid cut her off with a wave of her hand.

"Don’t start with the ‘I can’t’ nonsense. You can, and you will. You’ve faced down assassins and snooty nobles before, yeah? This is just one more battle—except this time, you’ve got to win it looking like you’ve not just crawled out of a ditch. Easy peasy in comparison if you ask me.” Sera yanked open the wardrobe doors, the hinges releasing a high-pitched protest that matched Ellana's own internal distress. "You'll need something proper for receiving the Countess. Not too formal—you'd look like you were trying too hard—but nothing sloppy either…Right, this one. Wait, no, too dull. This one—Maker’s breath, who even wears this much lace? Ugh. Ah, here we go. This’ll do.""

Ellana rushed to the window, peering down at the immaculate gardens below. From this height, she could see the staff hurrying across the lawns, straightening ornamental urns and brushing invisible dust from the stone benches.

"Enough window gawking, M’lady, on now, quick. No time for modesty! Strip that off, the Countess is practically at the door. Here, arms up. Good girl. Now, don’t fidget while I do the laces…"

The next several minutes passed in a blur of activity. The gown slipped over Ellana's head, cool silk settling against her skin as Sera's nimble fingers worked at the fastenings.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice still scratchy with sleep.

"Don’t thank me quite yet. We’ve still got to do something about this mess," Sera said, gesturing to Ellana’s hair with a hand. She grabbed a brush and began tugging it through the tangles, "Honestly, you’d think you’d been wrestling a bear, not sleeping for a few hours."

Ellana winced as the brush caught on a particularly stubborn knot. "I feel like I’ve been wrestling a bear."

“There’s a bear with a name in the Frostbacks,” Cole said as he hovered nearby, picking up discarded items and placing them carefully away. "They’re good luck there. Maybe we should get a Hold-Beast.”

Ellana had learned not to question Cole's peculiar insights. “Maybe next time, Cole.”

“Right, right, and next time maybe the Bear can do the greetings,” Sera echoed, rolling her eyes but with a hint of amusement in her voice. “Right now, we’ve got a countess to deal with, not bears. Sit. And don’t move.”

Ellana obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the bed as Sera gathered her hair into a loose bun and pinned it in place with quick, practiced movements. The maid stepped back, tilting her head as she assessed her handiwork. “Not bad, all things considered. You’ll do. Now, shoes… shoes… where are your shoes?”

“Over there, by the wardrobe,” Ellana said, pointing, and Sera retrieved them, then knelt to help her into them, “Thank you, Sera, I—”

“Blah blah, thank me later if you must,” Sera said, standing and dusting off her hands. “You’re as presentable as we’re going to get on such short notice. Now, go. And remember: shoulders back, chin up. You’re the future Viscountess, not some mouse skittering about in the shadows.”

Ellana moved quickly through the upper corridor, skirts brushing the polished floorboards. A footman at the stairwell stepped aside with a bow, but by the time she crossed the threshold of the receiving room, the Countess was already waiting.

She was late. At her own receiving room door.

"I was wondering when you would condescend to grace me with your presence, Lady Lavellan."

Countess Mythal's voice cut through the receiving room like a perfectly honed blade, stopping Ellana in her tracks before she'd fully crossed the threshold. The Countess stood by the tall windows, a regal silhouette against the morning light, her silver-streaked dark hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure that framed her sharp features.

"Pray forgive my delay, Countess," Ellana executed a perfect curtsy, though her muscles protested the movement. "I came as soon as I was informed of your arrival."

"Did you?" Mythal's eyes narrowed, studying Ellana with a penetrating gaze that seemed to strip away pretense. Her lips curved faintly in what some, less informed soul, might have mistaken for a real smile. "You look rather the worse for wear, my dear girl.”

Heat rose to Ellana's cheeks, but she refused to look away. "As my Lady is surely already aware, recent events have been... most trying."

“A diplomatic way to put it.”

Before Ellana could respond, Master Harrit appeared at her elbow, and dipped forward in a bow. "Refreshments have been prepared in the morning room, my Lady, Countess. If you would follow me?"

The morning room, with its cream-colored walls and delicate gilded moldings, seemed designed for whispered conversations, and sunlight sparkled where it hit the polished tea table. A silver teapot, footed and engraved with the Vi’Revas crest, released the faintly floral aroma of Dalish Blackthorn—a rare, imported blend Ellana recognized as one of her own favorites.

Countess Mythal settled into a chair, its silk upholstery rustling softly against her dress as she removed her gloves one finger at a time, revealing hands as pale and unblemished as polished ivory. "I wish to see my nephew."

It was not a request, but neither was it the sharpest cut Countess Mythal could have offered. Ellana nodded her head and poured the tea, steady-handed. "Of course. He is still recovering, and his fever has lessened since yesterday. I’m sure his valet is, at this very moment, making ready his chambers for a visit so that you may see him."

Mythal accepted the cup without drinking. Her posture eased back into the chair, while Ellana remained standing for the moment, hands gently clasped at her front. The choice was understood by both women without being named. Authority seated itself where it pleased, and in Vi’Revas, as in every other house touched by the Council, it followed bloodlines before it followed contracts.

"Good, for I will not stay long," Countess Mythal said. "The staff may see me here, and they will talk regardless, but it will give them the correct words to use when they do. This is a fragile time for his house and for my nephew: whoever has orchestrated this attack on his life I am sure would be most pleased to hear that his aging aunt has swooped down to his bedside in his hour of weakness. Such rumors should not be allowed to take root. They will see my worry as opportunity. Just as… hm.”

Ellana chewed at the inside of her cheek as the Countess’s eyes swept over her from top to bottom, taking in the subtle, nearly involuntary shift in her weight. She felt her lingering on the slight shadows beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders dipped ever so slightly under the weight of exhaustion. It was the smallest concession to discomfort after too many nights spent in chairs beside a sickbed.

“I will be frank with you, girl,” she said after a moment of tense pause. “I had rather expected you to have fled Vi’Revas at your first opportunity with half of the household’s finery tied on the back of a carriage at first light following the attack. It is something of a surprise to find you still here, attending the aftermath.”

"I am well aware you think poorly of me, Countess, but you might yet grant me a little credit. Your nephew saved my life at great personal cost and injury; whatever our differences may be, I could not—" Ellana caught herself, and exhaled the anger through her nose. She forced the rest of words through stiff, though calmer, lips, "—I would not abandon him to suffer alone. My Lady, the Viscount placed himself in mortal peril for my sake. He and I may never be on warmer terms, just as I doubt you and I shall ever share any sentiment beyond the bounds of your earlier warnings, and threats towards my family, but I am hardly the villain you suppose me to be."

The Countess scoffed. Ellana pressed on.

"And I do not expect you to believe a thing that I say to you now either; I do not say any of this in the hopes that you may actually listen. Both you and your nephew are the sort to place your faith in deeds rather than the protestations of the Dalish heathen in your midst. I have attended to what required attending. I would trust that shall suffice for the present as there are more pressing and more dire things in motion than your dislike of me."

"I… yes, I suppose you have. You have kept the household upright, which is admirable and should be commended,” The Countess sighed, finally allowing herself a sip of tea to hide the wince that followed the sliver of praise. “But that is hardly enough—you must do more than this. His tenants will need reassurance soon. His allies will expect responses to inquiries. You have little time to take on the role before it will be assumed that you already hold it."

"My concern lies with his recovery, Countess."

"It cannot be only for his health. My nephew would not have risked himself for you if he thought otherwise." Countess Mythal set down her tea and lifted her gaze to the window where sunlight pressed against the tall panes without warmth. "Whether you intended it or not, you are not merely the woman bound to him by an old contract. You are now part of his public identity, Lady Lavellan. To shirk these responsibilities would unravel the threads of his influence—a damage that will linger long after his wounds have healed. You are aware, I presume, that the staff have already begun to defer to you in his absence. They have done so quietly and without instruction, but it is happening nonetheless. The steward, the housekeeper, even the gardeners and the outer guards. You may think it a small matter, but these small matters become habits, and habits become expectations. You are no longer merely a guest of Vi’Revas, a Lady awaiting her wedding day and the proper order of things. The moment my nephew fell from that blade, you ceased to be as you are."

"I am… aware of your nephew’s title. Though I… Countess, even had things gone in the proper order, I had not thought to take so great a role in your nephew’s household," she said carefully. “Least of all without his agreement."

"It no longer matters what you thought." Countess Mythal said with a dismissive wave, "His household will not wait for him to wake before making their judgments. Nor will the Council or Court in Arlathan. I can hardly assume control of the estate myself while purporting that all is well. The Dalish liken themselves to the halla, is that not so? Then the Ton of Arlathan are wolves: if they sense disorder—if they perceive weakness—they will act on it with ferocity." She paused, watching Ellana with the same cold calculation she had shown at the ball weeks ago. "Some already are."

That, Ellana thought grimly, was likely true, and not solely in the sense the Countess intended.

A discreet knock at the door interrupted them. Islanil entered with a respectful bow. "Forgive the intrusion, my Ladies. I must beg pardon for the delay; I have finished attending to Lord Fen’Harel, and if you are ready, a brief visit would not overtax him as he rests."

Mythal rose immediately, her teacup abandoned without a second thought. "Then we shall go to him at once."

"We, Countess?" Ellana asked, surprise evident in her voice as she stood.

"Were you not paying attention? You are the Lady of this house, its mistress, until the Viscount resumes his rightful place. Look sharp, girl, unless you would prefer to appear a half-wit. Escort me to my nephew at once, lest I come to regret the fragile truce I extend to you.”

Only mildly baffled, Ellana followed both the Countess and Islanil back through the corridors of Vi'Revas, up the stairs, past the tall windows, and towards the Viscount’s chambers. The Countess walked with the confidence of one who knew these halls intimately, while Ellana matched her pace a half-step behind—close enough to appear united to any observing eyes, yet maintaining the subtle deference that protocol demanded.

"Has he taken any nourishment today?" Mythal asked Islanil as they rounded a corner.

"A little broth at dawn, my Lady, when there was a brief moment of lucidity.”

"And the wound?"

"Clean, with no signs of putrefaction. The assistance of Dalish poultices Lady Lavellan prepares each evening has proven most effective."

“Dalish what?” Mythal's gaze flickered briefly to Ellana, something unreadable passing across her features. "I… and the physician has agreed to this… abortion of medicine? Indeed? How... open minded of him. You… you do this each evening?"

“Yes, my Lady.”

They reached the Viscount's chambers, where Islanil opened the door, bowing once more as the two ladies filtered past. Inside, sharp tinctures and medicinal herbs gave way to the subtle perfume of fresh lavender and cedar, strategically placed about the chamber by the valet's attentive hand. The Viscount himself lay propped against a fortress of pillows, his complexion wan but no longer bearing that deathly pallor which had so marked the preceding days.

His eyes were shut in sleep, chest rising and falling in sickly rhythm, each breath carefully drawn and released with a wheeze. Even in repose, a faint crease marked his brow—the sole betrayal that, despite his stillness, his mind granted him no sanctuary from whatever thoughts pursued him.

The Countess’s gaze roved over the room, noting the chair positioned near the bedside, the book of poetry left open, the neat array of tinctures, cloths, and the faint green stain of poultice residue on the bandage edges. Her eyes narrowed fractionally.

"So. You have done more than just sit idly making your little policies, I see. You’ve carved out an area of your own territory, it would appear.”

“I…”

“Hush.”

Countess Mythal’s scrutiny lingered a moment longer before she swept past Ellana to stand over the bed, where a slight change in the Viscount’s breathing drew both their attentions. His chest rose sharply, a small sound of distress escaping him as his head turned restlessly against the pillow. The Countess’s gloved fingers brushed the edge of the coverlet, straightening it with a critical eye, then adjusted his position. Lastly, she reached for Solas’s collar where it had twisted beneath his chin and tugged it gently into place; the first truly gentle gesture Ellana had seen from the formidable Countess.

"He was always careless with such things," the Countess murmured. "Even as a child. Always running from one crisis to another, shirt askew, books under one arm, dirt on his sleeves. I…”

She trailed off. In that moment, with her guard momentarily lowered, Ellana glimpsed something beneath the Countess's imperious facade—genuine concern, perhaps even tenderness.

Then the Countess glanced sideways, and her mask was back up. "I may disapprove of your method, girl, but I am not so petty as to not recognize the result. My nephew is alive and breathing, and… if these… odd poultices are to thank, then you have my gratitude."

Ellana inclined her head, unsure whether it was a compliment or a simple observation. "Thank you, my Lady."

"My thanks to you are not lightly given, Lady Lavellan. But they are owed." Countess Mythal paused, fingertips briefly resting against the coverlet near her nephew’s wrist. "You have spared me from greater grief than I had expected to suffer this season."

The Countess turned back to her, all softness evaporated. "Now. Do you have any suspicion who ordered this? A Dalish house, perhaps? Some misguided vengeance for past slights?"

"No, my Lady. I am certain no Dalish faction would risk such action. But there have been… other troubles. There have been attacks on the trade lines, and…" she ventured, "forgive me, my Lady, I am unaware of what has been spoken between you and your nephew, but I too will be frank. There are falsified ledgers…. patterns of cargo being rerouted through third parties, masking the true destination of goods. Some of the implicated warehouses are tied to noble houses who now stand to gain from the new trade regulations. It was a coordinated effort. We believe it was meant to undermine both House Fen’Harel and House Lavellan, as well as the standing of other Dalish houses, though we’ve yet to figure out why. Are you aware of any such goings on?"

"I am aware of many things," Mythal replied. "Enough to know that you suspect I am the author of certain recent disturbances. I will tell you plainly: I am not. If I meant to ruin you, you would have no household left to command. You would not be standing here in my nephew’s home. Just as those who are responsible for this, as soon as I find them, shall have no homes to return to when I am finished burning them to the ground."

"I see." Ellana inclined her head.

Mythal straightened, drawing herself back to her full height. "I would have some time alone with my nephew now. You may attend to your other duties."

It was a dismissal, but not an unkind one. Ellana nodded, recognizing the olive branch being extended, however slight it might be.

"Of course, my Lady. Should you require anything—"

"I shall manage," Mythal interrupted, but without her usual sharpness. "Go. Rest. You have earned it."

As Ellana reached the door, she glanced back. Mythal had taken the seat beside the bed—Ellana's seat—her posture regal even in this moment of vulnerability as she kept watch over her nephew. Their eyes met briefly across the room, an unspoken understanding passing between them: whatever stood between them, whatever conflicts remained unresolved, they shared one thing in common—concern for the man who lay between them.

Ellana closed the door quietly behind her.

That night, after the Countess’s departure, Ellana sat in the chair beside Solas’s bed, a book open in her lap, its pages illuminated by a nearby smattering of candles. Several more sat in a neat stack within easy reach. On a normal night, she would have retreated back to the now-familiar confines of the library or even her own chambers to read, but tonight… the Viscount was still feverish and ill.

Why that meant she had to stay, even when there were willing staff, was something she tried very hard not to examine in herself.

The leather-bound collection of Elvhen poetry had been a fortuitous discovery three days prior both because it satisfied her need for something light in a time of heavy stress and because… she had discovered something odd within the worn pages. Some of the margins were filled with annotations writing in neat, flowing scrawl. Each note revealed a scholarly mind, translating phrases and adding context to verses, adding tidbits of thought and further reflection beneath underlined prose.

Writing in a book was odd when she considered the cost of them—leatherbound, good rag paper made from linen, gilded edges… and this particular text, Bowle’s Fourteen Sonnets, was imported which further drew up the price when she considered transportation and tariff.

No servant would dare deface a volume of such cost. Even without recognizing the hand, though she had come to know this particular style of flick and stroke of ink, she knew the annotations must be his.

It wasn’t too odd, she thought, for the Viscount to read poetry. Rather, she already knew it to be the case, having seen him in the library reading Blake. They’d debated before, too, about graveyard loves and tygers but that had seemed more out of his desire to spite him rather than an enjoyment of verse. These sonnets had remarkably little, less than nothing, to do with her, and instead the collection fell back on reflections of ruins, of paintings, and the slow wearing away of time. Is this what he enjoyed to read?

She tried to picture him, curled up in a chair, perhaps with his boots off and his jacket loose, sinking into the pages with soft eyes and hair spilling over one shoulder. Maybe he would tap the quill to his lips as he parsed through the lines, muttering a verse under his breath to feel the way the words fell from his tongue, and then scribble out some note to himself. Maybe he read like she did: laying down in a sprawl atop the cushions with a little tea-tray of shortcake biscuit to nibble on within lazy reach, the book pressed flat or held aloft overhead so the text could tumble down like rain. Maybe he was like her, too, in that he liked to read things about—

Ellana caught herself, and shook her head to fling the absurd idea elsewhere. She frowned down at him—sleeping, breathing, resting on his little throne of pillows on his bed, and doing little more than existing—in her displeasure that he might ever inspire a thought of symmetry between them. Him? Like her? Absolutely not. The austere, controlled Viscount doing anything as carefree as sprawling across furniture was about as likely as fogbows or parhelia. Like frost fairs or a surprise shower from the Leonids, like blue moons or… or…

… or… any other number of highly improbable, nearly impossible things that almost never happened.

Ellana snapped the book shut, troubled with the realization that almost never wasn’t quite the same as absolutely never, and she could not sit here with any certainty that there would never be parts of her that mirrored him, or that he would never be unlike her. Worse, she was ill-equipped to know the likelihood because her fundamental understanding of him was so flawed.

For all her months at Vi'Revas, what did she truly know of the man whose home she occupied, whose name she would soon bear?

Ellana glanced at his sleeping form, the proud features now slack with illness. Without the sharp edge of his contempt, without the rigid posture and cutting remarks, he looked remarkably normal, almost softened.The mystery of his selfless act hung between them, unanswered: why had he shielded her from the assassin's blade? Surely if he truly despised her as he claimed, creature that she was, as every interaction between them suggested, he could have simply let her… die. The marriage contract would have been nullified, his obligation ended. He would have been free with hardly a black smear to his name.

But… he’d thrown himself into battle, rather run into the direct path of danger, twisting his body to violence with hardly a hesitation or a pause.

It made no sense if viewed through the lens of their mutual antagonism.

… Unless... he was as honorable a man as he was a detestable one. The thought settled uncomfortably in her mind, disrupting the carefully built and curated narrative of disdain she had constructed around him. A dishonorable man would’ve left her to down in scandal at the garden party, would’ve left her where she lay to finish their race when she fell from her horse, would’ve simply waited another minute to let the assassin’s blade find its happy home in her heart. All of those choices would’ve better served him than the difficult alternative of going out of his way to preserve her interference in his life, and.. then, Ellana wondered, if he was in fact an honorable man with a level of integrity that superseded his own personal gain… then… perhaps his campaign against Dalish businesses stemmed from something more complex than simple prejudice or hatred. Perhaps there was depth to him she hadn’t seen yet, that she’d refused to see, ignoring the prose of his person simply because she’d been so decided on hating the subject of him as a whole.

It was a troubling notion. She had spent these months nurturing her loathing of him like the wildflowers she’d seeded in the rose gardens, finding comfort in the clarity of their shared enmity. If she admitted he might be honorable—might possess qualities worthy of respect—what other assumptions might crumble under scrutiny?

And what would that mean?

… did… he enjoy music? Did he prefer the mountains or the sea? Had he loved someone before? What memories haunted his feverish dreams, and who was Felassan? The questions multiplied, each one a reminder of how little she truly knew of the man whose life had become so inexplicably entangled with her own.

What if he never woke up, and she never got to ask?

Muttering a Dalish curse, she glowered at the man one last time before flipping the book back open, and traced an accusing finger across one of his annotations, the ink long dried but the impression of his thoughts still vivid on the page. Here was evidence of a contemplative mind, one that savored the beauty of language and meaning and of crumbling stone structures and fields of flowers and… and... it seemed at odds with the cold, calculating lord who had systematically undermined her family's business, who had regarded her with such disdain at every turn. Here were answers, in part, to the questions she’d never asked, and slowly, a picture of a man entirely unlike the one before started to take residence in her mind.

Then a sudden restlessness from the bed drew her attention. Across the bedsheets, the Viscount’s fingers twitched then clawed, pulling at the linens. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts, each breath whistling slightly at its peak. Beneath closed lids, his eyes darted back and forth. Dreaming? Another nightmare?

“Lord Fen’Harel, it’s alright, just—one moment—”

Ellana abandoned her chair and set the book aside, floorboards creaking beneath her slippered feet as she approached the nearby basin. Water splashed over her fingers as she submerged the cloth, wringing it until it no longer dripped. Then she snatched up the bottle of laudanum and its little silver spoon.The tincture was already prepared, its dark liquid rippling faintly in the candlelight. Once back at the bedside, Ellana slid an arm beneath his shoulders, and lifted him as gently as she could manage.

"Just a little now," she murmured, easing the spoon to his lips. He resisted at first, head shifting weakly against her hand, but when she touched his chin and coaxed his mouth open, he yielded. The laudanum stained his tongue as she tipped the dose forward.

"There," she said. "That should ease the worst of it."

As he swallowed, breath hitching, she lowered him back into the pillows and reached for the damp cloth, candlelight painting copper shadows across his face, highlighting the unnatural scarlet blooming beneath his pallid skin. Droplets scattered as she pressed the cool, damp linen to his temple.

“There, shh,”

His reaction was immediate. A low sound escaped him—something between a groan and a whimper—that raised the fine hairs along her arms. His fingers scrabbled against the sheets, seeking purchase where there was none. When she touched his shoulder to settle him, his eyes snapped open, the gray irises bright and unseeing. His hand snapped around her wrist.

“No, don’t—you—you—Felassan—”

“You’re dreaming, my Lord,” Ellana said, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. There was that name again! The mattress dipped when she leaned against it, fighting the downward drag of his grip to remain standing. “It’s Ellana Lavellan, I’m Ellana, my Lord, and you’ve been taken by fever. I swear, I’m not here to harm you.”

His unfocused gaze drifted across her face, seeing something—or someone?—beyond her. Gradually, his breathing deepened, the frantic rise and fall of his chest slowing to something approaching rhythm. Though sleep reclaimed him, his fingers remained locked around her wrist like a vice.

“... L..ady Lavellan?”

She nodded, “Yes, I’ve been… you’ve been asleep for days now, Lord Fen’Harel.”

His chest heaved, releasing a long and weighty exhale. Solas’s eyes fluttered shut with a wince, lucid enough to feel the pain of breathing for the first time. “You,” another wince, breath hitching, “were injured in the attack, you… your arm…”

“I am fine, I assure you, my Lord, it is you that is the one in need of worrying,” she said, her fingertips brushing his shoulder with the lightest pressure to guide him back onto the mattress. His body resisted for a moment, muscles taut with tension, before he yielded, sinking into the softness of the bed. She reached for the damp cloth on the bedside table, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. Gently, she pressed it to his brow, the water leaving faint trails as it trickled down his temple. “And you need to be still, your wound is healing but still fragile, I don’t want it to open.”

His breathing steadied, though his hand remained locked around her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. She hesitated, her gaze flickering to his face—pale, drawn, but less frantic now. The fever still burned in him, but the worst of the nightmare seemed to have passed.

“I’ll fetch a fresh cloth,” she murmured, her voice low and steady. She began to pull away, her fingers brushing his as she tried to loosen his hold.

"No! No, stay," he rasped, the words barely audible. His hand was still looped about her wrist, pleading now. "Lady Lav… Ellana, please."

Ellana froze, stricken by the sound of her name from his lips.

Parhelia. Fogbows. Frost fair and the Leonids. Blue moons.

They all seemed infinitely more likely things than her name on his tongue, the hitch to his breath, the vulnerability of please.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, her hip to his thigh where it lay beneath the sheets.

“... I’ll… I’m here. I’ll stay. You’re safe.”

The Viscount grimaced, hand flexing in its grip once like he wanted to argue, before finally allowing himself a moment’s respite, panting through whatever wave of anguish was upon him. The laudanum was quickly doing its work now, sucking away the pain before it could multiply at the cost of his lucidity.

Ellana waited until the furrow between his brows had smoothed before reaching awkwardly for the book back on her abandoned chair with her free hand. The binding cracked softly as she opened it.

"I… think this is a book you rather enjoy,” she murmured, turning to the first page, and found his annotations waiting. Some sonnets seemed more pondered over than others. Perhaps they were more loved, too? “Would you like if I read to you, my Lord? Some familiar verses might quiet your dreams. Ah… this one… it seems that you read this one in your travels, it reminds you of a river here within the grounds of Vi’Revas. How about that one?”

Ellana cleared her throat, heart thumping unhelpfully in her chest as Solas kept her wrist—and hand—captive in his own. Facts, figures, and mathematics were always a strong point, but reading poetry out loud had never been her greatest strength… perhaps, though, in his dazed state, Ellana might be lucky enough that the Viscount might not remember this particular private reading.

“O Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile,
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile)
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet…”

As far as sonnets went, it was a pretty one: a weary traveler finding rest and peace beside a friendly sort of brook, and where complex phrases caught her tongue, his marginalia guided her—elegant script flowing along the page edges. The candles guttered in their holders, shadows stretching like cats across the walls. Outside, night pressed against the window panes, stars pricking tiny holes in its fabric. Ellana's voice dropped to a thread of sound as the hours unwound, words blending into a continuous stream as she moved from one sonnet to the next, even long after sleep had claimed him once more, and their fingers had intertwined; a tether binding adversary to adversary.

Ellana woke with a start, her neck cramped and her back aching in protest. Birds were singing outside, ushering in the morning, and for a disorienting moment, she couldn’t place where she was until the stiffness in her spine and the warmth beneath her hand brought it back—the sickroom, the bed, Solas. She slept here more often than her own room now. The book of sonnets had slipped from her lap during the night and now lay open on the floor, its pages splayed like fallen wings against the polished boards. 

More alarming was the fact she had slept beside him, her hand still entwined with his atop the coverlet.

Carefully, she worked her fingers free, wincing at the dull ache in her joints. Solas remained deeply asleep, though his breathing was deeper now, steady and sure. His fever seemed to have broken properly during the night too; his skin no longer burned with unnatural heat and his features had relaxed into something that resembled genuine rest rather than the pained, ruined, unconsciousness of previous days.

Ellana stooped to retrieve the fallen book, brushing imaginary dust from its binding before setting it on the nightstand. She straightened her rumpled dress—yesterday's dress again, now creased beyond salvation—and attempted to smooth her hair, which had escaped its pins almost entirely.

"Good morning, my Lady."

The quiet voice from the doorway made her jump. Islanil stood with another breakfast tray, his expression politely neutral, though Ellana thought she detected the faintest hint of amusement in the valet's eyes.

"Islanil, I—I must have dozed off while reading," she said, feeling an inexplicable need to explain herself, even as she wondered why she should feel embarrassed at all. She was merely attending to the Viscount in his illness, as any proper... what? Wife-to-be? Adversary with a truce? Reluctant nurse?

"Indeed, my Lady. You've been most attentive, and I am most thankful for it." He set the tray down and moved to adjust the curtains, letting in more of the morning light. "His Lordship appears to be improving. His color is much better today."

Ellana pressed the back of her hand to the Viscount's forehead, confirming what her eyes had already told her. "The fever has broken, I believe."

"That is excellent news." Islanil busied himself with tidying the medical supplies that had accumulated on the bedside table. "I should inform you that Lord Pavus has arrived and is waiting in the morning room. He was most insistent on seeing either you or His Lordship as soon as possible."

"Lord Pavus? Here? Now?" Ellana glanced down at her wrinkled dress and disheveled appearance. "Not—goodness no not again; I'm hardly presentable to receive visitors. Why is it that guests always descend when I am least ready?"

"At the very least, it would appear that you are more rested on this instance, my Lady. I took the liberty of having Sera prepare a fresh gown in your chambers; she awaits you there." The valet's expression remained impassive. "I believe Lord Pavus mentioned something about 'not caring if you appear in sackcloth and ashes, so long as he receives news of his friend without further delay.'"

Despite herself, Ellana felt her lips twitch toward a smile. "That does sound like Lord Pavus."

"If I may say so, my Lady, it would perhaps be wise to attend to yourself before receiving him. I will ensure His Lordship is properly cared for in your absence."

She nodded, casting one last glance at the Viscount’s sleeping form. Something in her chest twisted unexpectedly at the thought of leaving him, even though logic dictated that Islanil was more than capable of attending to his master as he had done for years.

"I'll return after speaking with Lord Pavus," she said, moving toward the door.

"Of course, my Lady." Islanil bowed slightly. As she reached the threshold, he added, "I am sure the Viscount would enjoy your company, he appears more at ease lately when you’re near.”

Ellana paused, uncertain how to respond to this observation. Finally, she inclined her head in acknowledgment and stepped into the corridor, trying to ignore the warmth that crept up her neck at the valet's words.

She found Sera waiting in her chambers, as promised, with a basin of steaming water, clean linens, and a simple morning gown in a shade of deep forest green laid out on the bed.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Sera quipped, eyeing Ellana's disheveled state. "Spent the whole night in that chair again, did you? Your back must be killing you."

"Good morning to you too, Sera," Ellana said, allowing the maid to help her out of yesterday's gown. "And… um… yes. The chair. Yes. My back is thoroughly displeased with me."

“Why are you sayin’ it like that? Was it not the chair?” Sera asked, eyes narrowing as she helped Ellana into the fresh gown, fussing with the laces. Next was her hair, which she deftly gathered the loose strands into a simple but elegant-enough arrangement.

Ellana remained silent, unwilling to pursue this line of conversation further. Her mind was already tangled enough without adding Sera's observations to the confusion or pressure. Besides, she had Dorian waiting for her, and that would require all of her wits about her.

"There," Sera said, setting the last pin in place. "Not my best work, but you look like a proper lady again, it’ll do. And you can always play the pity card, I suppose, considering what you’ve gone through.”

"Thank you, Sera," Ellana said dryly. "That will be all."

The maid sketched a mock curtsy before heading to the door. "Lord Fancy-Pants is waiting in the receiving room.”

… which, of course, is not where Ellana found the man. One did not keep a certain Dorian Pavus waiting in a boring little receiving room, after all. He’d taken it upon himself to move into a different one. Dorian Pavus stood by the window of the same morning room where she’d taken tea with the Countess the day prior, one shoulder leaning against the frame as he gazed out over the gardens. At her entrance, he turned, and Ellana was struck by the genuine concern visible beneath his carefully maintained veneer of nonchalance.

"Lady Lavellan," he greeted her with a shallow bow. Despite his elegant attire—a spencer coat of midnight blue-black with gold embroidery in the imagine of twisting Tevene snakes that would have been ostentatious on anyone else—there were signs of haste in his appearance: a slightly crooked cravat, hair not quite as meticulously styled as usual. "Ellana. Dear wretched girl. I was beginning to wonder if I'd be left to wither away in this charming little prison of a waiting room forever."

"Lord Pavus," she replied, inclining her head. "Forgive the delay. I was attending to the Viscount."

“Dorian,” he reminded her, and Dorian crossed the room to her, gloves already forgotten in one hand, and took her hands in his free one, squeezing, and then pulling her into an altogether startle of a genuine bearhug. “I’m sure I’ve scolded you before for that. Call me Dorian. How dare you be formal with me when you nearly died, I swear I would’ve come sooner had I been able to get around the Countess, you poor thing—”

“I’m fine, Dorian,” Ellana assured him, her voice muffled against his shoulder. No one had embraced her like this since—Deshanna? Her own parents? It certainly wasn’t the sort of things well behaved Lords and Ladies did with one another, it was especially not the sort of thing an unmarried man did to a betrothed woman in another man’s home. Still, she allowed herself a moment to sink into the embrace just the same though, melting into the first genuine scrap of affection and soft-landing after days of strain. When he finally released her, she stepped back, smoothing the folds of her gown with hands that betrayed none of her exhaustion. “The wound is healing well enough.”

He released her quickly when she winced and at the reminder of her own injury.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to cause you pain, but—darling—your arm—” He snatched her arm by the wrist, and Ellana huffed out a small laugh. Was that the way of things now? Strange men seeking out her wrist of all things? Dorian’s eyes narrowed as he inspected her sleeve, the bandage, the skin he could see. “Healing well enough? You make it sound like a scratched knee and not a grievous stab wound. Honestly, Ellana, you've borne trials that would unman the stoutest general, and here you are, standing as though you’ve just returned from a leisurely stroll.”

"It really is nothing," Ellana said, self-consciously touching the bandage beneath her sleeve. "A minor injury, barely worth mentioning compared to—"

"Compared to the Viscount nearly getting himself killed?" Dorian finished for her. "Yes, I received the hastily scrawled message from you, delivered by a half-dead guard. 'Assassination attempt. Solas gravely wounded. Come at once.' Hardly descriptive, my dear. I've been half-mad with worry."

"I'm sorry," she said, truly meaning it. "But—things are well. They will be well; He's... improving. The fever broke last night, properly this time. The wound was deep—too deep—but clean. If infection doesn't set in again, I believe he will recover. I really should’ve written you properly, I apologize Lord—Dorian. There's been little time for correspondence."

"So I gathered from your appearance. No offense intended, but you look as though you've been through a tempest on one of your shipping vessels." He gestured towards the doors a pair of chairs positioned near the window. "Shall we walk together? You can tell me everything, and I promise to refrain from further embraces until you're fully healed. Or there are some chairs, if you are taxed, we can sit."

“Walking, please,” Ellana said, surprised to hear the begging warble in her own voice.

“Quite. You’ve been cooped up in this house for days, and I refuse to let you wither away like some tragic heroine in a novel. A Dalish girl locked inside a home? Absurdity. Allow me to find you some trees, proper weeds, and other sunshine-outdoor fare that is better suited to a Lady of your distinction. The gardens await, and I suspect fresh air will do you more good than any physician’s tincture.”

He offered his arm, and Ellana took it gratefully, allowing him to escort her through the corridors and out into the sunlit gardens. The air was cool but refreshing after days spent in the sickroom, and Ellana found herself taking deep breaths as they strolled along the gravel paths.

"Now, permit me the honour of escorting you," Dorian said once they were well away from the house, "and tell me everything."

And so she did. She described the evening of the attack—how she had been working late in the study, going through ledgers that might prove connections to their suspicions about trade discrepancies. How the shadows had shifted and revealed a… figure. How fast he’d been, fast and silent. How she hadn’t heard anything at all until it was far too late. How Solas had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and near dashed the life from him with his bare hands.

"He took the blade meant for me," she said, her voice catching slightly. "I still don't—Dorian I have gone back to that moment in my head over and over, and I can’t… he had no cause or need to do that."

"Protecting someone is all the cause or need that someone like Solas requires, Ellana.” Dorian finished, his brow furrowed in thought. "I realize that the two of you have been on less than ideal terms since you’ve met, and I cannot… entirely excuse many of his actions, but I do know him well enough after all these years to say that inaction would never be a possibility for him.”

They had reached the reflecting pool, where Captain Rutherford had stood earlier that morning. Now it was empty save for a few fallen leaves drifting on its surface.

"I've never seen such violence," Ellana admitted quietly. "The blood... there was so much of it. And after, when he fell, I thought..." She swallowed hard. "I was certain he would die. And… what troubles me most is how deeply that possibility affected me."

Dorian squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm. "Ah, the inconvenience of discovering you might care for someone you're determined to dislike. I'm, unfortunately, familiar with the sensation."

"I do not care for him," Ellana protested, perhaps too quickly. "I simply... I cannot reconcile the man who has so persistently thwarted my family's and other Dalish businesses, who has made no secret of his hatred, with the man who would risk his life to save mine. It makes no sense."

"The Viscount rarely does," Dorian said with a wry smile. "He's a mass of contradictions wrapped in expensive tailoring and insufferable pride."

They turned down a path bordered by late-blooming damask roses, their scent still lingering in the air despite the advancing season.

"He spoke a name during his fever," Ellana said carefully. "Felassan. He seemed... distressed. Do you know who that is?"

Dorian's steps slowed, and Ellana felt a subtle tension in his arm beneath her hand.

"I know of him," he said after a moment. "A friend of Solas's from his military days. They served together in the northern campaigns against the Venatori."

"And?"

"And he died. That's... really all I know for certain." Dorian's expression was uncharacteristically solemn. "Solas doesn't speak of it. Not to me, not to anyone. Whatever happened there is a wound he guards more fiercely than the one currently threatening his life."

They walked in silence for several paces before Ellana spoke again.

"I've been reading to him," she admitted, unsure why she felt the need to share this. "Did you know he read poetry? I found some books in the library with notes in the margins—his thoughts, his observations. It’s all very soft. It's... strange to see that part of him."

"The scholar beneath the Viscount?" Dorian smiled. "Yes, few people know that side of him. He keeps it well hidden behind that icy exterior, not that I blame him. To survive the Ton I would argue that it’s necessary to develop an outer self to wear like armor."

Finally, they reached a small stone bench and took to sitting there, one of Ellana’s slippered feet nudging down at the gravel. “Could we… pray, excuse me. I realize you are worried about the Viscount as he is also your friend, but would it be selfish or improper if I ask about other things? I… my world is feeling rather narrow as of late. Dorian, how are you, tell me about—you. Whatever you will.”

“Asking me to talk about myself, are you?”

“I apologize if I’ve offended—”

“No! Not at all, more people should. I’m a fascinating subject,” Dorian's expression brightened, a flash of genuine pleasure crossing his features. “And if it helps you to talk about me then it is certainly the least I can do. Gods know I can do little else of actual use to you. Now. Since you've asked, I've been occupying myself with a rather interesting... consultation."

"Consultation?"

"Yes, with that mercenary captain I met at your harbor. After we went for tea and cakes and poems and pretty dresses? The Iron Bull." Dorian's fingers drummed lightly against his knee. "An absurd appellation, of course. After you and Solas departed in the carriage that day, he offered to escort me back to Tarasyl'an Te'las."

Ellana's lips curved into a knowing smile. "And did he?"

"Not... precisely." Dorian smoothed an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. "He made so bold a claim as to suggest Qunari spirits might put even Black Divine wine to shame. Naturally, I couldn't allow such heresy to stand unchallenged."

"Naturally," Ellana echoed, amused by his feigned indignation. "And how did that go?"

"Surprisingly well. The man is... intriguing. Beneath that mercenary exterior lies a remarkably astute mind; he seems the right choice to be the one investigating these raids on the trade routes, and…." Dorian's voice took on a softer quality. "... he introduced me to his company—The Chargers, he calls them. A rather eclectic group: a dwarf with an alarming crossbow, an elven archer who barely speaks but never misses, and this enormous Qunari who treats them all like family."

"You sound impressed," Ellana observed.

"I am, rather unexpectedly. Rather alarmingly." Dorian glanced at her with surprising candor. "At first,spending time with him was contained to only an ill-considered night after drinking. Then there was a second time, and then… I don’t know what’s happening anymore to be honest. I suspect neither does The Bull, though he also has the luxury of not needing to know or care. In Tevinter, such... diversity would be unthinkable. Differences are threats to be managed, not strengths to be celebrated." His expression softened. "It's been refreshing to see an alternative approach."

"And the spirits? Did they live up to their boast?"

"Maker, no," Dorian laughed. "Absolutely vile. I suspect it could strip the varnish from a man-of-war.. But..." he tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the bench, "the conversation made up for it. He’s also introduced me to a game called 'Wicked Grace.' Tevinter has nothing like it—all our games involve elaborate chess variations and end with at least one person poisoned."

"Did you win?" Ellana asked, grateful for the return to lighter topics.

"Not even close," Dorian admitted with a rueful smile. "I lost quite resoundingly. Though in my defense, it's difficult to concentrate when one's opponent seems constitutionally opposed to shirts or jackets or… buttons."

"I see, and so his exposed bosom is therefore the source of your ruin" Ellana said, unable to suppress a smile at the slight flush that crept up Dorian's neck. "And do you plan to continue these... consultations?"

"Indeed. Certainly." Dorian confirmed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "For investigative purposes, you understand. The man has connections throughout the city that could prove useful. As the Countess’s pet Tevene, it is, after all, my job to mingle."

Dorian stood, offering his hand to help her rise. "Which reminds me—I brought something that might help with those dreary evening vigils."

"Oh?"

"A truly excellent bottle of the Imperium’s finest Madeira wine. Aged thirty years and smooth as silk." He winked. "Medicinal purposes only, of course. I've heard it does wonders for a patient's recovery."

"And for their caretakers?"

"Even more so for them." Dorian's smile was warm and genuine. "So much so, that I think you and I should go to the Viscount’s bedside, open the bottle and take a dose this very evening at his side just to spite him into waking up to have some of his own. If that doesn’t work, then we could creep into that library and find some books with scandalous Orlesian poetry that would make even the most hardened courtier blush to read aloud since it sounds like he enjoys the pastime. Either it will speed his recovery through sheer indignation, or it will give him something to truly be ill about."

For the first time in days, Ellana felt a genuine laugh bubble up from her chest. "You're terrible."

"I'm delightful," Dorian corrected, offering his arm once more. "And more importantly, I'm here. Use me freely as you need, Lady Lavellan. This is what friends do.”

As they began their walk back toward the house, Ellana felt a swell of gratitude for this unexpected friendship. In Dorian, she had found not just an ally, but someone who understood the complex web of emotions she was only beginning to acknowledge.

"Dorian," she said quietly, "would you consider staying at Vi'Revas for a time? I know it's much to ask, but..."

"My dear, do try to keep up," he replied with surprising gentleness, "I had already decided to impose myself upon your hospitality before even arriving this morning. My bags are being unpacked as we speak. You will have to run me off the property yourself, Ellana, should you want me to leave but I warn you that I am no easy prey."

Relief washed over her. "Thank you. I... I could use a friend here."

"And you have one," Dorian assured her. "Though I warn you, I am a terrible nurse. I complain most incessantly and have no patience whatsoever for the sick room. But I excel at providing witty distractions and pouring excellent wine. I’ll show you shortly."

As they rounded a bend in the path, they encountered Cole kneeling by a flower bed, carefully gathering small objects—a few rocks, a shiny bit of a lost button—into a basket.

"Hello," he said without looking up. "I'm collecting things for the Viscount's room. Colors help when the darkness presses too hard."

"Good morning, Cole," Ellana greeted him. "This is Lord Pavus. He'll be staying with us for a while."

Cole glanced up, his pale eyes taking in Dorian with that peculiar, penetrating gaze. "You're his friend. You worry. The mask slips when no one's looking."

Dorian blinked, clearly taken aback. "I... yes, I suppose that's accurate enough."

"Cole has a gift for... insight," Ellana explained.

"I see," Dorian said, looking at the young man with newfound interest. "Well, Cole, I hope your talents extend to finding the best Benedictine and Chartreuse in Solas's collection. I suspect I'll need that as well before this visit is concluded."

Cole tilted his head. "Second shelf of the cabinet in his study. Behind the books about ancient ruins. He keeps it there because looking at the old stones makes him think too sharply. Alcohol makes it go fuzzy again.”

"...Remarkable.”

Dorian managed after a pause, clearly unsure whether to be impressed or alarmed.

Cole, satisfied, gathered a few more small treasures into his basket—blue glass from a broken bottle, a button polished smooth by passing fingers. "I'll bring these up before supper."

Then, as if sensing some unfamiliar weight settling back onto Ellana’s shoulders, Cole added quietly, "Things will steady. You have help now."

Dorian arched a single, fine dark brow. "Indeed you do. Between the child oracle, the sharp-tongued maid, and myself, I'd say the Viscount's household has never been in stranger—or more capable—hands."

Strange hands did make for a more capable household.

A full week had passed since Dorian's arrival at Vi'Revas, and with the fresh air of good company things finally seemed to be improving. She was sleeping better. Solas continued to improve. Cullen, though still clearly wracked by grief, was at least eating meals once more. It was Sunday now, and a few rays of sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains of Ellana's study—for it was indeed becoming her study, a transformation that had occurred so gradually she'd scarcely noticed it happening. The small writing desk near the window, once bare and unused, now bore the evidence of her temporary stewardship: neat stacks of correspondence arranged by urgency, ledgers marked with colored ribbons, and a silver letter opener engraved with the Vi'Revas crest that Islanil had presented to her three days prior.

"For the Lady's convenience," he had said, his expression betraying nothing beyond the perfect decorum of a servant who had served the estate for decades. Yet Ellana had caught the subtle approval in his eyes when she'd accepted it with appropriate gravity.

She turned her attention to the latest stack of letters that Cole had delivered shortly after breakfast. The growing pile of correspondence was becoming a daily challenge, each envelope a harbinger of the political ripples expanding outward from the assassination attempt.

The morning's post included a note from Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, whose City Guard had doubled their patrols near all noble estates. A flurry of invitations—thinly veiled excuses for the Ton to satisfy their curiosity about the attack—had followed, alongside newspaper clippings sent by "concerned" acquaintances, each one more sensational than the last.

VISCOUNT FEN'HAREL GRAVELY WOUNDED IN MIDNIGHT ATTACK

DALISH BRIDE-TO-BE SUSPECTED IN PLOT AGAINST FAMED REFORMER

ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT LINKED TO TRADE COUNCIL DISPUTES?

The last one made Ellana's jaw clench. She set it aside harshly, knocking over a small bottle of ink in her haste. With a muffled curse, she quickly righted it before damage could be done to the polished surface of the desk.

"Those writers have never met you," came Dorian's voice from the doorway. He leaned against the frame with his usual brand of casual elegance, though the narrowing of his eyes betrayed his own distaste of the headlines. "If they had, they'd know you're far too clever to attempt something so gauche as assassination. Poison would be much more your style."

Despite herself, Ellana smiled. "Good morning to you too, Dorian."

"Is it?" He crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite her desk. "I've had three letters this morning from Countess Mythal demanding updates on her nephew's condition. Three! As though I haven't been sending daily reports to Tarasyl'an Te'las. The woman is relentless. Yes, I am here as her spy, of course I am, but I am also here for me because I want to be here for you."

"She cares for him," Ellana said, surprising herself with the defense. "In her way."

"Her way being the preservation of political influence and familial power, yes." Dorian sighed, running a hand through his immaculately styled hair. "How is our patient this morning?"

"Better. Stronger. Islanil let me know that he managed a full cup of broth last night and was lucid enough to complain about its quality, which is rather comforting in its own way. Now that he is awake more often, I’ve taken a step back to allow him greater privacy. I doubt he’d be comfortable knowing how… well. He doesn’t seem like a man who enjoys being in a vulnerable state around others." This last part she delivered with a wry twist of her lips. "The physician says the wound is healing remarkably well. We may even catch a glimpse of him leaving his quarters by next week."

"Thanks largely to your persistent care and those heretical Dalish poultices, no doubt." Dorian's expression softened with genuine appreciation. "You've been... extraordinary, Ellana. Few would have shown such dedication to a man who has been, let us say, ‘less than gracious’."

Ellana brushed aside the compliment, uncomfortable with its implications. "I… it is the least I can do."

"Is it? I am infinitely curious about what a concentrated effort then, and not the barely required minimum, would be." Dorian raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. Instead, he gestured toward the papers on her desk. "Any news of substance amid the gossip?"

"Perhaps." She pushed forward a letter bearing the seal of the keeper of contracts, Master Tethras. "Master Tethras confirms what we suspected about those falsified shipping manifests. The documentation trail leads to several warehouses controlled by yet more nobles, though it's difficult to pinpoint cause and effect since it is all cleverly masked through intermediaries.”

"Hardly surprising," Dorian scoffed. "Ambition and avarice are hardly rare commodities among the Ton."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Cole stood in the threshold, his slight frame almost lost in the doorway's shadow.

"The Viscount is asking for you," he said, eyes meeting Ellana's. "He says it's important."

Ellana rose quickly, then paused, smoothing her skirts with suddenly nervous hands. "He’s—so is he fully awake? Did he... specify which of us? He knows Dorian is here, so—"

"You," Cole replied simply, inclining his head towards Ellana. "Just you."

Dorian's eyebrow arched with undisguised interest. "Well, well. Consider me intrigued."

"It's likely about estate matters," Ellana said, though the flush rising to her cheeks betrayed her uncertainty.

"Oh, undoubtedly," Dorian agreed, his tone suggesting exactly the opposite. He gestured toward the door with an elegant wave. "Or perhaps he simply wishes to thank his unexpected guardian angel. Regardless, don't keep His Lordship waiting on my account."

"Don't be absurd," she muttered, though her pulse quickened traitorously.

As she moved toward the door, Dorian called after her: "If he's insufferable, remind him that gratitude wasn't fatal the last time I checked."

The walk to the Viscount's chambers seemed both interminable and far too brief. Ellana paused outside his door, straightening her spine and taking a steadying breath. This was the first time he had specifically requested her presence since regaining consciousness. For all her time spent at his bedside, they had exchanged only a handful of words, most of them murmured in the hazy realm between fever and sleep.

What would he say now, clear-eyed and lucid?

She knocked softly.

"Enter," came the reply—hoarse but unmistakably his.

Ellana stepped inside. Solas was awake, propped against the pillows, his expression difficult to read in the half-light. A ledger lay forgotten at his side. He studied her with the same sharp focus she remembered from healthier days, though fatigue dulled the edges.

"You asked for me, my Lord?"

"I did."

He hesitated, as if weighing the distance between them with more care than his words.

"Please—sit."

Ellana crossed the threshold, the door falling shut behind her.

Chapter Text

Ellana crossed the threshold, the door falling shut behind her.

The Viscount’s private chambers were familiar to her now after so many evenings and hours spent inside, wrapped in the paint-smell of oil and sickness. At some point, she’d become comfortable here. Surrounded by campaign medallions and sparse appointments, flanked by the jaw-bone of a wolf and an entire private gallery barely-hidden behind a wooden panel divider. The sound of birds that lived in the tree near his windows was familiar. The color of his blankets, the way crystal decanters and medicinal vials on the side table caught the light was familiar.

The man sitting up with his back bolstered by cushions, however, was not. He was awake, and that alone was enough to startle her rabbit’s-heart to thump out an additional, anxious, beat against her ribs.

Viscount Fen’Harel’s face had lost the slackness of sleep, and the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones no longer softened by the haze of laudanum. His dark hair fell in loose strands against his forehead and across the hollow of his slick throat, damp with sweat, and the pallor of his skin made the shadows beneath his eyes stand out like bruises. His shirt, a linen and loose one Islanil had helped to change him into, hung open at the collar, revealing the edge of the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. His hands fisted in the blankets, flexed, and with an exhale Ellana watched him force them to relax, fingers twitching in complaint as though being soft was more difficult than being stiff.

But most of all it was his eyes that hooked her—clear now even despite the lingering fog of pain and medication, the pale grey of them fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel as though he’d already cataloged every detail of her expression, every shift in her posture in these short seconds alone… and in that time, he’d weighed her, measured her, and found her wanting.

Ellana moved toward the chair beside his bed, the very same that had been her usual post during the long nights of his recovery, but paused when she noticed it had been moved. The faithful vigil chair now sat relegated to the far wall beside a carved walnut escritoire. In its place, an armless fauteuil with gilded legs stood at a measured remove: a seat for a guest, not a nurse. Beside the bed, her book of poetry was on the floor, pages flopped open and floundering against the hardwood.

The… this… this message was unmistakable.

Stiffening her spine, Ellana settled into the re-appointed chair, arranging her skirts with care just for something to do with her hands. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire from the hearth on the far wall and the distant sounds of the household going about its morning routines. Sunlight filtered through the half-drawn damask curtains, casting long shadows across the polished floorboards that cut both of their figures into bands of darkness and stringing bright.

"I must thank you," the Viscount said at last, flexing his hands again. His voice was hoarse, smooth and polite words undercut by a pained roughness. "For your stewardship during my illness. Islanil informs me you managed the household admirably."

Was… that all? Ellana blinked, lips parting only to snap back shut. The formal distance in his manner stung more than she cared to admit… so she wouldn’t. “You owe me no gratitude, my Lord,” she said instead. Ellana glanced again at the bandages peeking above his shirt collar, the shallow rise of his chest. He had saved her life, ultimately. What thanks could he possibly think to owe her for paying for her safety with his disfigurement? Her fingers closed on the chair’s arm. “You… you appear much improved.”

‘I am glad to see it,’ didn’t quite make it past her lips.

“The fever’s passed and finally broken for what I am told may be the last time, and there is no infection. I’m told that is your doing.”

“I didn’t do much. Islanil—the physician—there were always others nearby.” She paused, picking at a thread along her sleeve. “How are you feeling?”

He shifted uncomfortably, jaw working. “Alive. Alive, though little more than that at present. You have my gratitude.” His eyes flicked to her arm, where the bandage peeked beneath her cuff, and fixed there. “And—your arm. I see that your injury was not a figment of my nightmares, then. You truly were hurt.”

She pressed her palm over the wound, feeling heat beneath the linen. First gratitude and now… now was he concerned? Bizarre. Unthinkable. Even the tone of his voice was alien. Surely this had to be the laudanum. Ellana’s rabbit heart kicked again. “It is nothing—a trifle, a scratch, compared to your injuries. I assure you I am quite well and past any pain.”

His mouth tightened, but he said nothing more on that point.

She tried to find some neutral ground. “You haven’t eaten. Shall I ask Islanil to bring you something?”

“Not now.”

A long breath passed between them. Ellana let her gaze stray to the forlorn poetry book on the floor, the half-empty glass on the side table. The space between them felt as wide as it ever had.

She set her shoulders. “I… ought thank you for what you did. You saved my life. Thank you, my Lord.”

The Viscount looked away, eyes shuttered. “That was my duty.”

Her jaw clenched, but she let it pass. “Duty aside, you were not obliged—”

“My Lady, if you would,” He said, cutting her off, “Now that I am restored to my senses, I require a full account of the evening’s events—from the beginning, if you please."

“You don’t remember?”

“Between my recollections and what I dreamed here in this sickbed there are areas of… lesser confidence. If I am to act, I must be sure. I trust you will provide an honest account”

Ellana straightened in her chair. The request sounded oddly formal, as though she were testifying before a magistrate rather than speaking to the man whose life she had helped preserve.

"I was working late in your study, reviewing the ledgers we had discussed. The hour was past midnight when I heard—or rather, did not hear—movement behind me. The assassin was upon me before I realized the danger."

"And then?"

And then. Ellana’s mind caught on the memory: her head wrenched down, the assassin’s arm tight around her throat. She remembered the press of the blade, the heat of blood, the moment she twisted free as the study door burst open. The Viscount was more maelstrom than man, driving her attacker back in a whirlwind of blood, scattering papers, and broken glass. And then.

“Lady Lavellan?”

"... You arrived. There was a struggle between you and the assassin." She kept her words steady, though the memory of blood and violence threatened to intrude. "The man was skilled, but you overcame him."

"I see. And what role did you play in this struggle?"

The question was asked with deceptive casualness, but Ellana recognized the trap being laid. She lifted her chin. "I—moved to defend myself and you as best I could, when he stabbed you I wasn’t sure how best to be of use, and so armed myself in the moment."

"Defended yourself. And me." His knuckles whitened where they gripped the bedsheets. "With what, pray, did you arm yourself with?"

"A poker from the fireplace. But, my Lord—”

The Viscount cursed under his breath, profane and entirely unlike himself, and the silence that followed was deafening. When Solas spoke again, his words carried a chill that made the brisk autumn air seem warm by comparison.

"It appears that was not a part of my nightmares either then. Allow me a moment to understand this fully: while I was engaged in mortal combat with a presumed trained assassin that had orchestrated an attack that subverted my best guards, you—a lady of gentle birth of no great physical stature who had already been wounded—saw fit to arm yourself with basic household implements so that you might… join the fray?"

"The man had a blade at your throat, you can’t be serious to believe my actions excessive considering—"

"The man had training, skill, and murderous intent! And you, in your infinite wisdom, decided the appropriate response was to wave about a fire iron like some common tavern brawler?"

Ellana's temper flared. "Would you have preferred I fled? Left you to face him alone?"

"Yes! Yes, by the Creators El—Lady Lavellan, I would have preferred you show some measure of sense!" He struggled to sit straighter, his face paling with the effort. "You could have been killed. Do you comprehend that? Actually killed, not merely inconvenienced or frightened, but dead!"

"As could you!" The words burst from her before she could stop them. "Did you expect me to simply stand by and watch while you bled to death in your own study? What manner of person do you take me for?"

"A person with an ounce of common-sense and the way of the reality of the world!" he snapped. "A person, a woman, who understands her own limitations and does not attempt to compensate for them with reckless heroics."

"Reckless heroics?" Ellana rose from her chair, her hands clenching at her sides. "You speak to me of recklessness when you threw yourself bodily between me and an assassin's blade?"

"I am a trained soldier—"

"You are a man recovering from near-fatal wounds inflicted while protecting someone who, by your own repeated assertions, you can barely tolerate." Her voice shook with suppressed emotion. "Do not lecture me about sense and the way of the world when your own actions defy every principle of logic!"

Solas fell silent, his breathing harsh in the stillness. When he spoke again, his voice was low and tightly reined with control.

"My actions were born of duty and honor. Yours were born of foolish sentiment and feminine hysteria."

For a moment, Ellana could only stare at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she fought to contain her fury. There was a poker near the hearth in his room, much like the one from the study that fateful night, and for a moment it was painfully tempting to reach for it so that she could, perhaps if she was lucky, beat the man to death with it now that he’d recovered enough to be conscious for the experience.

"Feminine hysteria," she repeated, her own voice gone deadly quiet. "I see. And what would you call your decision to risk your life for someone you loathe and think so little of? To nearly be killed in your own home and bleed out atop the Aubusson in the name of defending a savage creature so beneath you in the first place? ‘Masculine Idiocy’?”

"I would call it fulfilling my obligations as a gentleman—"

"Then I would call my actions fulfilling my obligations as a person! As just a person with the common sense that my life is no more or less important than another’s based on my heritage, my status, or my sex! How dare I, for shame, that I even spent a moment of my time to worry that you—" Ellana cut herself off and stood up abruptly, the chair screeching across the floor as it pushed back. "You. You, Viscount Fen’Harel, are my nightmare. Forgive me for forgetting that my sentiments, that you might have acted with the barest fragment of care and that I wanted to act in kind, are beyond your comprehension as a mere man. I will not err again."

"Lady Lavellan—"

"No." She turned back to face him, her dark eyes blazing. "You have made your position abundantly clear, my Lord. I shall endeavor not to burden you with my foolish presence in future. I trust Islanil can manage your care without subjecting you to further feminine interference."

She reached for the door handle.

"This conversation is not concluded."

"It is for me, unless you want to drag yourself out of that bed and hobble yourself at my heels to continue it, for I am leaving." She did not turn around. "Rest well, my Lord. I shall ensure your recovery proceeds without any further interruption from my quarter."

With that, she swept from the room, leaving Solas alone with his ledgers, his pride, and the hollow victory of having thoroughly alienated someone who had just started to hope.

Two days had passed since she’d last spoken to the man that was to be her husband, rotten thing that he was, and Ellana had thrown herself into the mechanics of living with the sort of desperate precision she once reserved for ledgers during the worst of her family's financial straits. She rose at dawn to ride her horse with two guards posted on their own mounts at her flank, then returned to review correspondence over breakfast, walked the grounds with whatever guard Captain Rutherford had assigned to the task, attended to household matters with Master Harrit or the Cook, and retired to her chambers before the evening meal until Dorian would coax her back out with the promise of Orlesian sweets or more Madeira wine. It was a routine designed to avoid proximity to anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions or offer unwanted sympathy.

Most particularly, it was designed to avoid the Viscount, or even his mention, entirely.

It was good that he was kept to his own miserable chambers and bed, she thought, it was all that much easier to daydream that he did not exist. Dorian, too, helped with that with his constant stream of distraction in the form of stories, Tevene card games, strolls about the estate to toss stones into the lake, and going to great lengths to disguise his visits across the dividing line of the manor to visit that-man-who-should-not-be-named.

But days passed, and change was ever constant.

Servants and estate staff gossiped and traded rumors for chore duties. Currently, word had filtered through the household that the Lord Fen'Harel had requested assistance leaving his chambers. Then another so that he might attempt to step outside and try to walk the grounds for the first time since his injury. Maids whispered about it in hallways, and even Master Harrit had mentioned it by accident during their morning review of accounts, his tone carefully nonpartisan but his eyes watchful. Ellana had responded with equal detachment, only inquiring if whether the Guard Captain thought it necessary additional security measures were needed for his outdoor excursions, then promptly busied herself with examining the quarterly wine inventory.

She refused to care whether the man could walk or not.

His wicked tongue had survived this ordeal without lasting damage. Why not his legs? And if they didn’t, why should she care any more than she had already misplaced in his direction?

"Lady Lavellan," Master Harrit said as she closed the final ledger of household expenses, "if I may offer assistance with these or any other accounts, you need only ask for reprieve. They represent a considerable burden for one person."

Ellana glanced up, surprised by the gesture. The Head Steward had been unfailingly correct in his interactions with her, but this was the first time he'd offered anything approaching actual kindness.

"Thank you, Master Harrit, but I find the work... soothing. It helps to have something to occupy my hands and mind."

He inclined his head with understanding. "Of course, my Lady. Though should you change your mind, please know the offer stands. At any time."

After he departed, Ellana remained in her study—for it had indeed become her study, though she tried not to examine that transformation too closely. Through the window, she could see a cluster of guards near the reflecting pool. Captain Rutherford, Vi’Revas’s Captain of the Guard, stood among them, his uniform coat buttoned correctly today, though his posture remained plagued by the same sleepless rigidity she’d come to notice in the days following the attack. He glanced towards her window, once, then tore his eyes away. That, too, was something else she’d noticed.

He was avoiding her just as ardently as she was avoiding someone else.

Every time she'd attempted to speak with him over the past days, about anything, he'd found urgent business elsewhere or manufactured it on the spot, anything from inspecting the walls of the wine cellars, reviewing patrol schedules, to even consulting with the groundskeepers about potential security vulnerabilities in the garden maze. It was becoming painfully clear that avoiding her had become his primary occupation.

The sun was setting by the time Ellana made her way to the dining room, coaxed out once more, where Dorian waited with his usual impeccable timing and a bottle of wine already opened.

"You look positively domestic," he observed as she settled into her chair. "Busy all day again? All this accounting does suit you; quite the industrious lady of the manor."

"Someone must manage things."

"Indeed. And how fares our invalid? Still issuing impossible demands and breathing fire at all who dare approach?"

Ellana sawed at her roasted duck until silverware smacked against the porcelain of her plate.. "I wouldn't know. I've had no occasion to speak with the Viscount since our last... conversation, nor do I plan to allow myself the misfortune of speaking with the man ever again moving forward."

"Ah." Dorian swirled his wine thoughtfully. "I’d rather hoped that after a week calmer heads might have prevailed. Are you quite sure you’re not a pair of Tevene nobles? Perhaps my own parents? Hm? No? My parents managed entire decades with barely a civil word between them. Of course, this is Arlathan, and you are neither a shrew nor remotely as tiresome as my dear mother. So how long do you truly plan to intend to maintain this delightful game of mutual avoidance under one roof?"

"It's hardly a game, I am perfectly serious about hating him until the end of my days!” Ellana swatted at him, “The Viscount has made his position abundantly clear—my presence is a burden he suffers out of obligation. I merely grant him what he claims to desire."

"His wishes, or is it your wounded pride we are discussing now?"

The question struck too close to home. Ellana set down her knife with a clack. “And what pride could I possibly have in this horrible place? In this situation?”

“Pride in surviving, to start. Not just that assassin, but surviving the expectation of what this place, the Countess—or even he—might demand of you. That is no small thing. I see you frowning, so if not that, then at least pride in your work and in how you hold this household together while half its lords and captains lose their wits. In your stubborn insistence that a Lavellan answer to no one’s pity, not even her own. Or, and I think this one is most important… you should take pride in your compassion, Ellana, whether you’d name it or not. You watched over a man who makes a virtue of driving everyone away. You could have done far less and no one would have blamed you.”

"Does that even matter?" Ellana snapped, more viciously than she’d ever spoken to Dorian before, all her pent up-hurt and vitriol spilling out in the wrong direction, at the wrong person, but unable to be held back, acrid and stinging bile on her tongue.. “Does it matter, or are you just here to play at being needed, so you don’t have to face your own solitude at Tarasyl'an Te'las?

Dorian, to his credit, only blinked, and his eyes only softened. Pity. Understanding.

"Ah. Now that did sound a little like something my mother would say. And it matters to me a great deal, Ellana,” he said, “And for all his abominable manners, I rather think it matters to him as well. I… I must apologize. I worry about you. You know I do. I had hoped that in my coming here I might be able to alleviate at least your solitude but if my conversation has begun to grate, if my presence is only adding to your burdens, or if I am wearing out my welcome, please do banish me. I promise not to take offense—well, not too much.”

"No!" Ellana said quickly, nearly knocking over her glass of wine as she snatched out to grab Dorian’s ringed hand. “No, no please, do not leave me. I—th-that is... your company has been most welcome, Dorian. I don’t know what’s come over me, I am sorry for what I said, I did not mean—"

"I know you didn’t, and there is no offense between good friends. But I can see the toll all of this is taking on you." His expression softened with genuine concern. "Perhaps a little solitude would do you good this evening? I might inflict my presence on our patient and subject him to my wit until he pleads for mercy"

"Dorian I know this has hardly been easy on you either, you’ve been dividing your time between us. Reading to him, playing chess, listening to his complaints about… everything… that I do…”

"Someone has to. The man becomes insufferable when left to his own devices." Dorian's smile was fond despite his words. "Still, I confess my loyalties are stretched thin between you both—neither of you is fit to be left unsupervised, as you well know."

The kindness in his voice made something tight in Ellana's chest loosen unexpectedly. "I would... yes, perhaps some solitude would be beneficial tonight. If you truly don't mind."

"My dear girl, I would welcome any opportunity to torment Solas with more detailed accounts of my ongoing… vigorous… consultations with a certain lummox of a mercenary captain without having to maintain proper decorum befitting of a lady that I hold in the highest esteem, such as yourself."

Despite herself, Ellana felt her lips twitch toward a smile. The first in days. "Your discretion in my presence is noted and appreciated."

"I am nothing if not considerate of delicate sensibilities." Dorian stood, his dressing gown trailing after him as if even the fabric had learned to follow his lead, and arranged himself to best effect. "Enjoy your evening, my dear, wicked, Ellana. And do try not to brood too extensively. Brooding appears to be a national pastime in this household, and frankly, it's becoming epidemic. Melancholy is spreading through this house like the plague, and I would rather not be its next victim."

The moment Dorian’s steps faded, Ellana rose from the table, unable to bear the thought of four walls and stifling candlelight. She needed air, needed space, so she turned her back on the house and walked straight into the waiting dark, with one of Captain Rutherford’s appointed guards jumping up from his position along the wall to follow her there. Outside, moonlight silvered the gravel paths beneath her slippers, and the evening air still held the day's warmth against her skin. Expansive formal gardens stretched before her, their carefully tended beds now transformed by shadow and starlight into something softer, more forgiving than their daylight precision. A few wandering vines of her own messy wildflowers crawled along the edgework and statues, stretching upwards along the pedestal of a feminine figure of ancient Elvhenan, nude apart from the carved wisps of fabric about her hips, and it pleased her to see her own wildness reaching out to that of the past even in a place like this.

Her guard maintained his watch from a respectful distance, a moving shadow that paralleled her route without intrusion, which she appreciated. Alone enough would work for tonight, and… the worser, sicker, miserable parts of herself reminded that her savior from the last ill-fated evening alone would not be coming to any rescues this time. Her independence would need to bend, for now, to safety and… it was large enough in the gardens, beautiful enough with what flowers bloomed in this chill of autumn yet, to ignore the presence of another for the moment.

As the roses gave way to other flowers, it was the smell of chrysanthemums that drifted on the cool breeze, mingling with the crisp promise of approaching winter. Not long from now, this entire garden would turn to slumber and cold, blanketed by a thick cover of snow with each twig and branch lovingly encased in ice. For now, the turn of the season was still a whisper in the color of the leaves, slowly fading from green to auburn splendor. It would change then, again, from golden hues of fall to frost, then spring once more when things would be reborn anew.

She wandered, imagining what she, what he, what life at Vi’Revas would be like come then. Would that also be reborn or… or… was she really going to be silently hating this man forever? The house was certainly big enough to avoid him for such a time frame.

Or at least Ellana hoped that to be the case.

Her steps carried her inevitably to the lonely stone bench near the ornamental pond, the same seat where she and Captain Rutherford had once shared astronomy lessons. How long ago had that been now? Long enough that they’d still been able to speak somewhat freely—back when their conversations had flowed like the gentle music of the fountain, when he had pointed out Corona Borealis and she had taught him of Andruil's Bow. It’d been nice. He’d been nice.

Somehow, in not dying, in surviving, she’d also gone and alienated someone who’d gone out of their way to care for her. Only… she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d done to earn his indifference and avoidance. And it wasn’t as though she could speak of such things with Dorian, despite how much she may have wished to.

Dorian was her friend, but he was also the Viscount’s. And Captain Rutherford was… a man.

A man that was not her husband, that she had no business seeking out in evening gardens to talk about stars with, regardless of how innocent her intentions or the desperation for some sort of friendship in a difficult place. Rumors like that would ruin what might be left of her as it already stood, but really, Ellana wondered, how much worse could things be?

Above, stars scattered across the clear night sky like scattered diamonds. Ellana sat and tilted her head back, trying to recall the names he had taught her—the Broken Cart of Ferelden farmers, the Soldier's Eye that marked… was it harvest time? It was hard to focus, her mind too restless.Thoughts tangled in the complications that had grown between them like unpruned roses.

The fountain's quiet music filled the silence, but tonight it brought no peace. She missed her own gardens, the old trees, the wayward pines and undergrowth back at the Lavellan estate. There, she would not sit on a bench. No, she’d have kicked her slippers off and climbed, hauling herself onto a thick branch, the very same one she’d sat before with her mother when she’d learned the stars in the first place, with rough bark beneath her hands and sap sticking to skin. She’d breathe in the smell of trees and rot and sky and dirt and let her eyes close, drifting, just a small thing in a very large, very soft, forest.

… this garden here at Vi’Revas was no forest, despite her efforts to turn it wild.

When she finally made her way back inside, the estate had settled into its evening rhythm. Maids moved through the corridors, their footsteps muffled on polished floors. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting dancing shadows against the walls, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the faint sound of Dorian's laughter drifting from the direction of the Viscount's chambers.

The sound made her chest tighten unexpectedly—friendship, warmth, the easy companionship she had lost elsewhere. She was… happy… for Dorian, though, and tried to focus on that and not the nettle sting that was still stabbing at her chest.

It was then that she saw him.

First just the shock of lion’s mane gold hair and then the rest of his figure; Captain Rutherford moved alone through the main corridor, his evening patrol taking him past the very spot where windows overlooked the gardens she had just abandoned. His steps were slow and heavy, each footfall echoing on the candlelit stone. His uniform coat was slightly rumpled, the pristine military bearing she remembered now softened by continued exhaustion. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his eyes remained fixed downward with the particular intensity of a man avoiding his own thoughts.

For a moment, Ellana considered simply passing by. Dorian had suggested she be left alone, and it did feel nice to be near no one, owing no one conversation. And besides, the captain of the guard had been successfully avoiding her for days now, a dance of altered schedules and strategic retreats. Who was she to deny his isolation when she sought her own? There was something to be said for maintaining that comfortable distance, for preserving what little peace they had both managed to construct.

Wasn’t there?

But Ellana’s eyes caught, then snagged, on something in his posture, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he moved as though walking through thick and cold water. He was hardly sleeping, she knew that much from servant gossip. And now, judging by appearances… he was hardly caring for himself either. This was a man drowning, being hauled out to deeper depths by current. When did avoidance become something more dangerous?

Feminine hysteria be damned. She would not leave this man, too, to suffer.

Instead of continuing toward the stairs that would carry her safely to her chambers, Ellana stepped directly into his path and joined the fray of his melancholy.

Captain Rutherford glanced up, startled, and for a moment seemed frozen between standing straighter and taking a step back. The candlelight caught the exhaustion in his eyes, the lines of strain around his scarred mouth.

"My Lady," he said stiffly, though he couldn't quite meet her gaze.

"Captain Rutherford." She kept her voice level, though something inside her rebelled at the formality.

Hadn’t they been friends?

"I hope I'm not interrupting your rounds."

"Not at all, my Lady. Is there... do you require an escort to your chambers? Or…? Apologies, I can see if there is someone from the interior rotation who may be able to assist with whatever it is that you require."

The offer was made with scrupulous politeness, but she heard the wariness beneath it. When had they become strangers to each other? When had simple conversation become this minefield of careful phrases and averted eyes?

"I require an explanation," she said, more brusquely than she'd intended. "And an end to this ridiculous avoidance."

"My Lady, I'm not sure what you mean—"

Ellana folded her arms, feeling the stiff linen of her sleeve beneath her palm. "You know perfectly well," she said, her voice brittle with frustration. "You have been avoiding me. I have not seen you, truly seen you, since the attack and it is because you have been going out of your way to be scarce of my presence. I would have thought we were at least friends enough for honesty. You… you vanish every time I try to speak with you. Am I to blame for this new distance? If you judge me for what I did, or failed to do, then say so. The Viscount made his opinion plain enough! Perhaps you share it and relieve me of this worry—or is it that no man in this house, save Cole or Lord Pavus, can stand my company any longer?"

Captain Rutherford’s jaw tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the flagstones. For a moment the rigid soldier’s bearing slipped, revealing a man worn thin on all fronts.

His hands found one another at his back, then unclasped just as quickly. “My lady, I… that is not—” He faltered, eyes fixed on some point behind her shoulder. “You have done nothing to earn my displeasure. The fault lies with me. I…”

“You what?”

Captain Rutherford took a step back. Ellana took a step forward, not allowing him to slip away.

He looked everywhere but at her. At the candlelit sconces, at the distant portraits on a faraway wall, at his own boots. The floor. “I should have been there. In the house. If I had not left despite the concern with the tenants, if I had trusted my instincts, perhaps, rather than chasing smoke in the fields—”

He shook his head with a pained exhale, struggling for words. “It was my duty to keep you safe. And yet—” His shoulders hitched in a silent sigh. “You nearly died. Both of you. I was miles away putting water to an abandoned building. I—my entire purpose of being here is to ensure the safety of the Viscount and of you, my Lady, and I have failed most profoundly, I…”

“But you haven’t failed, both of us still live and breathe and—”

“And nothing, my Lady! I have failed, and it was only in the aftermath that I arrived, in time to see you bleeding. I… forgive me, I have not known how to face you since."

Ellana's chest rose and fell rapidly, her hands clenched at her sides so hard that her nails bit at her palms. The corridor walls seemed to lean inward, trapping them between flickering sconces and heavy shadows.

"Captain—Cullen…” She stepped closer, and he retreated once more until his shoulders tapped at the wainscoting on the wall, and she closed the gap, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Do you believe I blame you for that night?"

Cullen's shoulders drew tighter, flinching away from the sound of his name on her lips. "Should you not? I was charged with your protection, and I—"

"You were following a threat to the estate. You were doing your duty." The words came out sharper than she intended, frustration bleeding through Ellana’s composure. "What you were not doing was abandoning us to play at cards or chase after some chambermaid! You acted on intelligence, on what appeared to be a genuine concern for the safety of everyone under this roof. The Viscount even bid you leave, that assassin deceived us all—how could you have foreseen such cunning?"

“I should have. I know better.” He finally looked at her then, his amber eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something that might have been hope. "My Lady—"

"And I..." Ellana's voice caught slightly. She pressed her lips together, steadying herself, and squared her shoulders. "I have been angry, yes… even at you, but not from a place of blame. I do not blame you, I blame myself for being drawn into these machinations, at the situation that placed both the Viscount, myself, and everyone at Vi’Revas into this path of danger, and I… I… have been… I have been lonely without your friendship. There, I've said it plainly. Are you satisfied? If you tell me now that your kindness to me was solely to contain my wanderings within your periphery and secure boundaries, then I beg you tell me now so I can be rid of this hurt."

"You have my… blast it, you have friendship, my Lady, however misplaced I assure you that it is. You have always had it. I am unable not to give you anything that you would ask, I…” Cullen seemed to catch himself there, mouth snapping shut. He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it more disheveled. “I did not know how to face you after seeing you hurt, knowing it happened on my watch. The guilt of it has been… If you can forgive my absence, know that I remain at your service. My loyalty has never faltered"

Ellana felt something tight in her chest begin to ease, and her grip on her sleeves slackened. "There is nothing to forgive. But I would ask something of you."

"Anything."

"Stop lurking in the shadows and be my trusted guard, and friend, once more. And… perhaps you might walk with me to my chambers instead of fetching someone else? I find I am not quite ready to be alone with my thoughts just yet."

An exhausted sort of relief flickered across Cullen's sallow features. "Of course, my Lady."

They walked together down the candlelit corridor, side by side and silent. The quiet between them was different now, and instead of the strained avoidance of recent days, it leaned closer towards the unexpected companionship they had once shared.

"Will you rest tonight?" Ellana asked as they reached the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor and her chambers.

Cullen paused, his hand resting on the bannister, and chewed his bottom lip. He was debating with himself, and seemingly losing the argument. "I... perhaps later. There are still rounds to complete, and—"

"Captain. When did you last sleep more than an hour at a time?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Sleep has been... difficult, my Lady. Every shadow could hide a threat, every sound could mean—" He shook his head. "I know it is not rational, but I cannot seem to quiet my mind enough to rest properly."

"Then I shall not press you to rest. But I will thank you for watching over us all—over me—like a faithful guardian. You know… you may laugh, but you remind me a little of a constellation.”

“A… a what?”

"Yes," Ellana nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "In Dalish lore, there is one called the ‘Halla’. I’m sure you can imagine what it looks like… a broad smattering of stars in the shape of twisting antlers. And, according to the old stories, it appears brightest at times of trouble, its gaze protecting the People through darkness and uncertainty. Elders tell children that as long as the Vigil is visible, no harm shall come in the night, for the guardian stands awake while others sleep. I apologize, I don’t recall if we spoke of this one before, but… lately it is the one that comes to mind for you when I think about the night sky.”

“... no, my Lady.” He stared at her, clearly caught off guard by the comparison. In the flickering candlelight, something shifted in his expression—a vulnerability that his military bearing rarely allowed to surface. Cullen cleared his throat, his hand moving unconsciously to rub the back of his neck. "I... that is… I am hardly deserving of such a comparison, my Lady, but I... Thank you. Truly, I…."

The moment stretched fumbling and awkward. Ellana could see he was struggling with how to properly respond, all words and part of his sense seemingly lost.

"I shall endeavor to live up to your constellation's example," he finally managed, straightening his shoulders to stand back at his full height. "And I promise to keep vigilant watch over your chambers tonight." His eyes flicked briefly toward the opposite wing. "And the Viscount's as well, of course."

"Thank you, Captain Rutherford."

"Cullen," he said suddenly, then looked almost surprised at his own words. "When we are... that is, in moments such as these, I would not mind if you continued to call me Cullen. If that would be acceptable to you, my Lady. If it is not so improper a request?"

Ellana felt a small, genuine smile warm her features. It was improper, but all things considered… there was little harm in kindness. "It would be more than acceptable. And in such moments, I would not mind if you called me Ellana in return."

He bowed with a spastic jerk, a touch of bright color rising to his cheeks. "I could—no. Never. Thank you, my Lady. Forgive me, I cannot—”

"It’s all right. Goodnight, Cullen."

As she ascended the stairs to her chambers, Ellana felt the weight on her shoulders lighten slightly. One thing, at least, had not been entirely lost in the wake of violence, and she’d not misunderstood at least this man.

Behind her, she could hear Captain Rutherford's footsteps resuming their steady patrol, moving away down the corridor to continue his endless watch. Like his namesake constellation, vigilant even when no one was looking.

"I require wine and sympathy, in that order," Dorian announced as he swept into Ellana's chambers without ceremony, pushing past her and into the parlor with a bottle tucked under his arm.

“You—Dorian, I am indecent!”

With a grumpy huff, stormy grey eyes gave a slow, tired once over from Ellana’s bare feet, past her ankles, and up the modestly rumpled linen shift nightgown with its embroidered flower cuffs and drawstring collar, to her bed-head hair, then back down again. The embers in the grate glowed low. It was well past midnight and there was nothing exciting happening in this chamber.

Dorian scowled. “Hardly. You look positively saintly, disgustingly virginal even, in that sack. Remind me to buy you something better, from Val Royeaux, in the morning. Then we shall burn that.”

Ellana’s cheeks burned and she stumbled to speak, and her hands snapped to cross over her chest. He’d never been quite so brazen with her before. She realized, with a small twist of surprise, that she preferred it to politeness. Still she snapped back at him. “I am in nothing but my night-rail, you—you incorrigible beast.”

“I have heard worse. If you mean to scandalize me, you’ll need to show considerably more leg.” Dorian scoffed, making himself quite at home already. “And if you haven’t noticed, so am I, and I doubt either of us has greater designs to see what is beneath that layer despite how fetching you look right now all starry eyed and pink for me, so are you planning to continue your barking at me or are you going to sit down and share this red?”

She wore only her night-rail and stockings, Dorian in his own silk banyan and loose linen shirt, slippers askew, his hair every bit as wild as hers. Had this been any other man in Arlathan, it would have been a scandal. Perhaps it already was. Ellana wasn’t entirely sure anymore—

—but Dorian had dropped everything at Tarasyl'an Te'las to rush to Vi’Revas in Ellana and the Viscount’s hours of desperation, and if he needed to drink in his bedclothes in her bedroom during the witching hours, then… then… she would give it to him.

“I… a tall glass, please.”

Another scoff, and this one was actually offended. Dorian produced two glasses from his coat that he’d presumably stolen from some storage closet along his way here. “Of course. Now do be seated. I am in desperate need of your pointed ear for listening, and your sharper tongue to cast aspersions on my enemies, should I require it. Our patient has been particularly insufferable today, and I'm in danger of throttling him with his own bedsheets."

Ellana rubbed at her eyes, having been half asleep when she first heard ringed fingers rapping at her door. Her dark hair was a plaited mess, the farthest thing from a Lady, though Dorian was hardly looking much better, and she noted the genuine exhaustion beneath Dorian's usual theatrical flair. She came, and sat as bid, watching as Dorian’s own dressing gown, made of some imported midnight blue silk with braided piping, hung open over his nightshirt, the fabric catching the candlelight as he also flung himself into the nearest chair.

"What's he done now?"

"About time you asked!”

Dorian frowned as he filled both glasses with the elegance of long, if questionable, practice, then thrust one into her waiting hand, then snatched up his own. “That fool insisted on reviewing security reports while standing at his desk for two hours, despite Islanil's vocal—and my own extremely vocal—protests. When the man finally collapsed back into his chair, he had the audacity to glare at me as though it were somehow my fault. I threatened to drag him to his own bed to rest properly if he was going to continue being a child, and when he did remain as petulant as a toddler, I made good on my word. I may be a pretty thing, Ellana dear, but I am a strong one when need be. And then, of course, he tried to escape. So I threatened to stay the night, and Islanil brought me my change of clothes. I stayed with that termagant, in his bed, listening to all his complaints and worries and woes until he finally fell back asleep and then… it was horribly quiet in there, and my mind has been spinning since. Wine seemed the only reasonable response."

Ellana nodded, pretending any of that made sense. "You… You and the Viscount make a curious pair. I thought he might heed you, if anyone. Has he always been so—difficult?"

"He bloody well should listen to me! I am the only one he hasn’t forcibly ejected from caring about him as of late! And I’ve known that insufferable egg since just before the war ended, I suspect, though it's gotten worse since the attack. He cannot bear to appear diminished, even among friends."

"Oh, that’s right… I remember you saying that you met him during the war?"

"Yes, by way of the northern campaign. I was sent officially for Tevinter’s interests, before ever I joined the Countess. It was a different time, Ellana—I scarcely recognize myself in those days, and Solas even less so. We hardly have enough wine in the entire manor to discuss what caused such a change, I am afraid. But… he was… different when I first met him. Hot-blooded and cocky like a proper little lordling, and then after… well, he is the creature that you’ve come to know him as. Back then, in the beginning, we served together, though 'knew' might be too generous a term initially. I found him insufferably arrogant, a tactician who saw only chess pieces where there were men. He thought me a frivolous Tevinter dandy playing at soldiering."

Dorian's slow spreading smile held genuine fondness. "We were both half right. It wasn’t until after a skirmish where—"

Before Dorian could tell his story in full, there was another rap at the door. Dorian and Ellana shared a look, eyebrows raised. The pair of them, in their evening underthings, sipping midnight wine if anyone saw them—

“I’m coming in now, alright?” Cole, ignorant to the panic inside, pushed the bedroom door open with little fanfare and slipped through the threshold with his usual impeccable timing, bearing a tray laden with Dalish honey cakes and tea service. He was, despite the hour, not wearing his bedclothes but his usual uniform as though he’d expected such a task at this time of night.

"Lord Dorian needs sweet things when he's worried about his friends," Cole announced, setting the tray between them with endearing concentration. "And the Lady Ellana hasn't eaten enough today."

"Cole, you marvelous young man," Dorian said, examining the offerings with appreciation. "How do you always know exactly what's needed?"

Cole's face lit up with pleasure, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. "People get sad when they're worried. Sweet things help with sadness."

As Cole arranged the tea service, Ellana found herself studying his earnest expression. "How do you know Dorian is worried?"

"Well… it's partly because he makes more jokes when he's frightened," Cole replied matter-of-factly. "Like when he left Tevinter and didn't want anyone to know he was scared. Or when he watches the Viscount try to walk and pretends he's not afraid his friend might fall. It’s also partly because he mutters such things in the hall as he’s walking from place to place."

Dorian nearly choked on his wine. "I'm not—that is, I hardly—"

"You are," Cole said gently. "But it's a good worry. The kind that means you love someone. Friends should love one another, it’s good. Oh. More honey for your tea?"

Dorian cleared his throat, clearly flustered by such direct insight into his motivations.

"Tell me about the war," Ellana said, partly to rescue him from Cole's uncomfortable accuracy. "How did you become friends? You said it all changed in a skirmish?"

"Necessity," Dorian replied, grateful for the change of subject. "We found ourselves trapped in a field hospital under siege—thirty-six hours with wounded soldiers and enemy forces closing in. Nothing builds friendship quite like shared terror and exhaustion."

"The Viscount was there as a medic?"

"Oh no, can you imagine? There would be enough dead on both sides to stop a war in a single day—they should consider his malpractice as a tactic in future campaigns, really. No, he was there as the ‘Dread Wolf’, come now, Ellana dear, I know it is late but this is a very full bottle and I will need you to keep up. The Viscount had come to extract what wounded he could with his men before the position fell." Dorian's expression grew distant. "I expected him to take the mobile soldiers and leave the rest of us, especially anyone from the Imperium, to die. Instead, he stayed, which was… miraculous. His men helped tend wounds, shared rations, and the Viscount himself told terrible jokes to keep morale up."

Cole nodded sagely. "He's always been good at protecting people, even when it costs him."

"Especially then I would wager," Dorian agreed. "By the time relief came, despite my being Tevene, vastly more intelligent, and incalculably more charming, we had discovered we rather liked one another despite our mutual shortcomings. After the war, he invited me to Vi'Revas. Said he needed someone around who wasn't afraid to tell him when he was being an ass."

"And do you? Tell him when he's being an ass?"

"Frequently. Though he's been particularly immune to reason lately." Dorian glared toward the door, as though he could see through the walls to his friend's chambers and send his ire back in that direction.

“Lord Dorian finds the Viscount quite handsome when he is stubborn,” Cole observed cheerfully, sending Dorian into a fit of coughing and spraying wine across the carpet.

"Cole!"

"It's true. You told me about Tevinter one evening, after you and the Viscount had taken brandy, and that men appreciate strong jawlines and aristocratic bearing, especially when they're being difficult." Cole's expression remained perfectly innocent. "I think that the Viscount thinks you're handsome too, so don’t fret.”

“I—as he should, as should anyone that has eyes, but that is hardly the point—”

And then, from somewhere in the corridor outside came the unmistakable sound of Sera's delighted cackle, followed by rapidly retreating footsteps.

Morning again, and after one of her better nights of rest in recent memory, Ellana rose along with the early sun to steal moments of private quiet in the garden before even the guards, before Dorian, before Cullen, before Cole or Sera or anyone else might think to search for her. Her gown clung to her shins while she dressed in the pale, early light, hands working by habit as she tied the ribbons and stepped into her slippers. She slid the window open. Damp, autumn air brushed her cheek and she drew in the cold, holding it until the heaviness inside her chest began to loosen.

No one stopped her as she moved down the servants’ stair and out into the morning. Outside, the garden greeted her with dew glittering on every leaf, and the early sun’s gold crested and bloomed across the garden's elegance like a flower of its own burning sort, radiant and splendid. Her slippers made almost no sound as she crossed the gravel path, tracing a familiar route past rows of orderly hedges and clusters of bright asters that refused to die back for winter.

Last night she had circled these same paths, seeking calm and finding none.Today, though, she had Dorian and late night giggles in her nightclothes, she had Cole, she had her naughty Sera, and she had her guard captain confidant once more. Today would be different. She could feel it, she would make it so, even if that meant climbing the stone bench and tucking herself among the tangled branches overhead like a wild thing herself, back in her own gardens and peace.

Ellana rounded the tall hedge that bordered the eastern section of the garden and—

—stopped abruptly, tucking into the edge of the boxwood, fingers brushing against the waxy leaves. Around the bend, beside a marble statue of the elvhen maiden, Viscount Fen’Harel stood upright, his shoulders taut beneath a coat of dark blue.

His tall frame was silhouetted against the crisp morning light. And the cloth of his jacket pulled tightly across his back, straining at the seams each time he adjusted his weight. One hand clutched a polished ebony cane she hadn’t seen before, his knuckles bone-white with the effort of remaining upright. His other hand hung at his side as if bracing, fingers twitching with each careful, uncomfortable, step forward.

She… she should not be seeing this.

Ellana shrank back, the hedge pressing against her spine, unwilling to announce her presence. She should leave—retreat to her chambers or find another path to walk—but her knees locked, and she could not look away. Viscount Fen’Harel, so endlessly composed and strong, like he was another statue of Elvhenan carved from marble rather than a mortal, now moved like a man twice his age. The garden seemed to shrink around him, every branch and stone holding its breath as he forced his body to obey.

A few paces off, Islanil hunched near a patch of violets, bending low as if intent on the soil. He did not spare a glance for his patient, though his eyes tracked every tremor in the Viscount’s steps. His performance fooled no one.

"You needn't hover like a nursemaid," the Viscount said. His words came out clipped, brittle against the stillness. "I am perfectly capable of standing upright without supervision."

"Of course, my Lord," Islanil replied, not moving any further away. "The soil here requires attention before the first frost. Most fascinating properties."

The Viscount did not answer, but his scowl said enough on its own. His breath escaped between clenched teeth, puffing like a cloud against the air. He moved again, favoring his right side, opposite from where the blade had skittered between and over his ribs, and the lines around his mouth drew tighter.

How painful, she thought, must it be to move when every part of one’s self was necessary for balance. Even laying down, breathing must’ve been agony, the torn and sliced muscles moving constantly.

Ellana watched as he took another step forward, the muscles in his jaw tightening with suppressed pain. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, never glancing at the house or the servants who sometimes watched him from the windows. The memory of his body gliding through the ballroom, how people parted before him like lambs before the shepherd, when she’d first seen him flickered through her mind, but here, every step was a slow negotiation, the ground won inch by inch in an entirely new sort of battle for dominance.

From the manor doorway, a young maid appeared with fresh linens, only to be hastily shooed away by the housekeeper when she spotted the Viscount. Other servants glanced from windows, their curiosity poorly concealed. None approached, recognizing the invisible barrier the Viscount had erected around himself.

Ellana’s chest eased, the sharpness inside her giving way to something less brittle and began to soften at the edges. It didn’t dissolve entirely, and it wasn’t quite forgiveness, not even sympathy—no, his words had cut too deeply for that—but it shifted, making room for something more complex. She… understood at least in part, the sense of this moment, seeing him plain and stripped of the armor he wore so easily in every room. She understood pride and its sharp edges all too well. The need to stand unbowed when everything conspired to bend or break.

The Viscount turned, sunlight catching his profile and casting his face stark. For a breath, Ellana saw no Viscount at all—only a warrior holding a position he refused to surrender, wearing a coat as stiff as a cuirass. The formal stiffness of his blue jacket suddenly struck her not as vanity but as armor—each button and fold a defense against vulnerability. He was, after all, a soldier before he was a Viscount. Perhaps this was how he'd always faced adversity: standing as tall as possible, dressed for battle even when the enemy was his own failing body.

"Ellana? What a delightful surprise!"

She startled at Dorian's voice behind her, her hand flying to her throat. Her pulse thudded against her palm.

Dorian stepped into view, his expression brightening with amusement when he caught her standing half-concealed by the greenery. His coat, a deep green cut to flatter his broad shoulders, shimmered faintly at the cuffs where silver thread caught the light. Crisp linen showed at his collar and wrists, the fabric spotless and edged in careful embroidery. His boots had been buffed to a mirror shine; even at this hour, not a hair on his head stood out of place. A sapphire glinted at his cravat, drawing attention to his face—a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth, his eyes sharp beneath dark brows.

“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you, but I am surprised to see you here before my self. You see I may have promised a few pastries if someone alerted me the instant our esteemed Viscount braved the outdoors. And here you are, Lady Lavellan, already on the scene.” He followed her gaze, lips twisting in private understanding. “Ah. And there he is. Our invalid has ventured forth.”

Ellana stepped from her hiding place, warmth gathering along her cheeks. “I was… taking the air.”

“Behind a hedge?” Dorian’s brow arched. He gestured toward a bench beneath a stand of climbing roses. “Come, let us not lurk in the shrubbery like guilty schoolchildren. Sit with me a moment before I join him. He’ll scowl, but I promise he enjoys the company more than he pretends.”

Ellana let herself be guided to the bench, the old stone cold beneath her skirts. They sat together, Dorian watching as Solas inched his way along the path, each movement measured, deliberate.

“This is the first day he’s managed more than the distance to his window,” Dorian murmured, his gaze softening. “He refused help, of course. Three servants offered; the third nearly resigned after the response he received.”

Ellana’s hands twisted the hem of her sleeve. “He is… recovering well?”

"Physically? Yes, remarkably so, considering the depth of the wound. As for his temper—well, that remains as charming as ever." Dorian let out a quiet sigh, fingers combing through his hair. "I've seen him in dark places before, but this… not that I can hardly blame him. It has been dark for all of us, as of late. I nearly lost two best friends that night, you know. When I arrived to find both of you—Well. Suffice it to say, I have not slept particularly well since. Seeing you both out and about is, perhaps, the best medicine for my fool heart at the moment."

The admission pulled Ellana’s head up. "Two best friends?"

"Hush, don’t act so surprised, you already know I adore you. And I know you adore me, so why play coy? Though, yes, it is remarkable how quickly you've become essential. Wicked girl." Dorian managed a small, true smile, then gave her a sideline look. "Though I suspect you would rather not claim friendship with the other injured party at present."

"He made his opinion of me quite clear," Ellana's lips pursed into a thin line. "My presence is a burden he tolerates out of obligation. My actions are born of 'foolish sentiment and feminine hysteria,' if I recall correctly."

“I heard about that exchange.” He hesitated, then added, “Not his finest hour.”

"Has he had finer ones?"

Rather than taking offense, Dorian laughed. "More than you might imagine, though he guards them jealously, almost like he does the fine whiskey." He glanced toward Solas, who had paused near a flowering bush, one hand braced against a stone plinth. "You see, even the mighty must sometimes stumble through the rosebushes. The difference is whether they acknowledge the thorns or pretend they're immune to being pricked."

Ellana blinked. Rosebushes? What did that have to do with anything?

"... And the Viscount?"

"Has spent a lifetime pretending." Dorian's voice turned serious. "The attack frightened him more than he'll admit; not for only himself, but for you."

Ellana scoffed. "If that were true—"

Dorian shook his head. “It is true. Think, insufferable girl. That’s why he lashed out. Fear rarely flatters any of us. Solas has never learned the shape of vulnerability.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching as the Viscount took another step, his face tightening with pain.

“I should go,” she said, voice low. “He came here for solitude, and I… I know what that costs. I also have come to hide in this garden, on numerous occasions, I may still hate him, but I can… I can at least share.”

“Very generous of you, my Lady.” Dorian nodded. "And I should join him before he exhausts himself trying to prove he needs no assistance." He stood, adjusting his impeccable attire. "He may not deserve your compassion or patience, Ellana, but I thank you for it nonetheless. The fool is dear to me."

As Dorian crossed the path toward the Viscount, Ellana stood. Her feet carried her toward the house, but she turned, unable to help herself. The marble statue loomed, her carved face empty and unchanged beside her husband-to-be’s laboring figure. The stone would endure every season unmarked. The man at its side fought for every step.

And beyond him, Dorian approached with an easy smile, calling out some jest that made Solas's lips twitch despite himself. The affection between them was evident even at this distance—a friendship that had survived war and peace alike.

Ellana let the door close behind her. The memory of sunlight on stone and the hard-won dignity of the Viscount’s walk lingered as she climbed the stairs, something unfamiliar threading through the ache inside her chest. And… there was a spark of unwelcome wonder, despite herself.

Perhaps there was something worth knowing in the Viscount after all, something beyond the cold disdain he showed to the world. Something that inspired loyalty from a man as discerning and wonderful as Dorian.

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Ellana turned away, leaving the two men to their morning jaunt, her mind crowded with contradictions. The statue would remain unchanged, its marble perfection immune to time. But they were people. They would struggle, and they would, inevitably, change.

Even now, there was something shifting within her heart.

Four days had passed since Ellana's reconciliation with Cullen in the candlelit corridor, and three from when she’d seen her husband-to-be in the garden. And though time supposedly healed all wounds, the awkwardness between herself and the Viscount had only deepened. They moved through the estate like opposing magnets, each careful to occupy spaces the other had vacated. She caught glimpses of him through open doors, or heard the echo of his cane along the tiled corridors, but they managed to avoid each other with the awkward precision of servants forced to share a narrow stair. At meals, or when they gathered with Dorian or Master Harrit for business, they spoke in tones so measured that even Sera grew silent and watched the silverware as if waiting for someone to snap a knife… or throw one.

Dorian bore the burden of their mutual avoidance with increasingly theatrical sighs, flitting between chambers like a diplomat negotiating a fragile ceasefire. His patience wore thin. He moved through the estate with a drama that bordered on pantomime, dropping sighs as he entered rooms and muttering about "stubborn children" and "noble idiocy" when he thought no one listened. His wit no longer stung; instead, it rattled in the gaps left by Ellana and Solas’s silent contest.

Tonight, Ellana waited until the hush of midnight before venturing from her chamber. The witching hour, and no doubt the Viscount would be asleep since he rose so early. She drew her dressing gown tighter, the fabric cool and stiff against her wrists, pulled on a thick robe the color of sunset, and lifted a candle. The stair creaked as she descended, but the house offered no protest. At the library, a slice of gold cut across the dark hall—someone had left the door ajar.

Ellana stopped just outside the threshold, the cool floors pressing through her slippers. Her free hand curled against her ribs. The hush at this hour pressed in from all sides. The last time she wandered the estate at night, she’d found only panic and pain—her shoulder still remembered the ache from being thrown to the ground, and her mouth the copper taste of fear. She shifted her grip on the candle, watching the edge of lamplight flicker across the corridor. For a moment, her body threatened to carry her back upstairs.

But she took a breath, kept her shoulders square, and stepped forward, pushing the door open to pause at the threshold. Viscount Fen'Harel sat in her usual chair by the fireplace. Candlelight played across the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows that emphasized the hollow beneath his cheekbones. He wore no jacket, only a linen shirt loosened at the throat. His cane leaned close, angled within easy reach. A book lay open in his lap, his head bowed as if he had been reading the same line for some time.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then his pale eyes lifted from the page, meeting hers across the room, then fell back to the page.

"There are other chairs," he said mildly, not looking up again.

His indifference was palpable. Infuriating. It was—it was…!

Unexpected.

She loathed him. He loathed her. Why on Earth was he being accommodating?

Ellana’s hand tightened around her candle. The sensible choice was to leave again. To go back upstairs, or sit on the window seat in her own room. But that meant backing down, and wouldn’t he be so smug about that? Sending her off on her merry way again? There was a trap here at play, a nefarious plot of some sort, and he would punish her for falling into it.

So instead of leaving, she tipped her head forward and said, “Thank you, my Lord.”

Basking in his startle, Ellana crossed the carpet, every step pressed into the thick pile, and selected a book from the nearest shelf without reading its title. She slid into the seat across from his, arranging her gown over her ankles and setting the candle beside her on a low table. The book in her hands read “Principles of Ancient Commerce,” the gilded spine dulled by age.

The fire popped. She turned a page, eyes trailing the same sentence until the words bled together. Ellana's eyes traced the same paragraph three times before the words began to register. Something about trade routes through the Hinterlands, the regulation of seasonal markets… When she glanced up, Solas had reached for another volume, smaller, its leather a deep shade of blue. He thumbed through it, lips parted in a faint frown, then set it on his knee and returned to his first book.

Minutes gathered in the hush. Ellana found herself attuned to every sound: the brush of paper when Solas turned a page, the low whistle of his breath when he leaned forward, the muted clink of his cane as he shifted his weight. The estate beyond the door felt impossibly far, and the strange quiet in this room began to settle her.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Ellana's neck began to ache from holding her head at the same angle, but she refused to adjust her position. She peeked at him. The Viscount seemed entirely absorbed in his reading, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Ellana looked away from him again.

Forty minutes.

“The taxation schemes outlined in that treatise never worked as intended. Too many opportunities for graft, too few officials willing to oversee them.” The Viscount said suddenly, and Ellana’s head snapped up to find him glaring at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The volume you're reading." He nodded toward her book. "Magister Rorona's work on ancient commerce across the Imperium and Arlathan. He advocates for a system of progressive taxation based on trade volume, but fails to account for the administrative burden such policies would create."

She glanced down at the page. Indeed, a complex chart of percentages and trade classifications spread across both pages. "You're familiar with this text?"

"Do you think I buy books merely to decorate the shelves? No. I've read it several times. Rorona had innovative ideas, but little practical experience with implementation." He paused for a long moment, then added as an afterthought, "What do you make of his proposals?"

The question seemed genuine, without the cutting edge that usually sharpened his words. Ellana considered her response carefully, and forced herself not to ask if he was high from his pain medications for speaking to her so casually.

She turned a page of the book in lap, her hands steadier now. “Thus far, I think that he is right, in theory. Those who profit should pay more, and the burden should fall more heavily on those who profit most from trade. But the system he describes would require endless oversight, and the opportunities for bribery would be difficult to contain… The number of officials required to assess and collect such varied taxes would be considerable.”

"Precisely. And the opportunities for corruption would multiply accordingly." The Viscount leaned forward slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured side. "A simpler system, perhaps a flat percentage with exemptions for essential goods, would achieve similar ends with far less bureaucratic entanglement."

“Defining necessity becomes its own battle.” Ellana leaned forward too. “Food and medicine, certainly. But what of clothing? Is a child’s coat essential? What about the tools that earn a tradesman his living? Where does necessity end and luxury begin?”

“In Tevinter, the list changes every year, and even seasonally.” His eyes softened, a faint amusement crossing his features. “Exemptions multiply in proportion to the influence of the petitioner.”

Ellana frowned at the text, her thumb pressed to the edge of a chart. “Then the burden should shift to the claimant. Require evidence of need, not categories of goods.”

He looked up, the shadow under his eyes stark. “You would have tax officers investigate the private affairs of every house?”

She shook her head, a wry line tugging at her mouth. “Not every citizen. Only those claiming exemptions or those who seek special treatment. It would be no more intrusive than a merchant’s audit, and the scrutiny might curb abuse. And, yes, it would require more initial investigation, but might prove more efficient than cataloging every possible item of commerce.”

"The administrative burden remains significant. And what of privacy? Few people welcome scrutiny of their personal affairs, even for favorable taxation."

"True," Ellana conceded. "Though I would argue that those seeking public assistance through tax exemptions have already surrendered some claim to privacy in that regard. The alternative is to let the rich claim poverty, and the poor pay for their own bread twice over.” She closed the book, the snap echoing between them. “I have seen enough of both.”

“Yes, very well, but what about…”

Their conversation moved in fits and starts, growing easier as the minutes slipped past. Solas’s mind ranged wide; he drew examples from distant cities, obscure histories, the fine print of legal cases that never reached the court. His knowledge was encyclopedic. Vexing. The man was frustrating. His theory was strong, but his math was weak. Ellana answered with practical details—what she had learned in the market, at her father’s desk, in arguments over bills that threatened to shutter her house’s last hope.

At one point, Solas studied her. "You speak as one with personal experience of tax assessment. You… have done this yourself, then?"

"Every noble house must navigate such matters," Ellana replied carefully. "Though some navigate them more successfully than others, despite pressure and prejudice from external forces beyond our ken."

Something flickered in his expression—understanding, perhaps, or recognition. He did not press the point.

He did not press her.

"Have you read Leliana's treatise on modern commercial law?" he asked instead.

"I haven't had the pleasure."

He rose from his chair with obvious effort, one hand braced against the armrest, and moved to a high shelf. The blue book fell from his lap, pages splaying open as it hit the floor. He paused, looking down at it with what might have been embarrassment.

Ellana set aside her own volume and retrieved the fallen book, noting the title as she straightened: "A Collection of Classic Poetry, Third Edition." She handed it to him, their fingers brushing briefly as he took it.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Poetry?" she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

His jaw tightened slightly. "Is that so remarkable? It helps to read verse before sleep. Therein, like your ledgers, there are patterns in words. Patterns calm the mind.”

“But you hate poetry, you hated—”

“I dislike Blake. You never asked what I enjoyed.”

That stilled her for a moment. Ellana sat back in her chair, humbled for a breath, and the image of Solas—rigid, reserved—now colored by the presence of poetry at his side hung behind her eyes.

“What do you enjoy?”

“Shelley.”

“Oh. Do you have a favorite line?”

He hesitated, then recited with a far away expression: “‘Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay, Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.’”

Ellana stared at the blue cover, and heard the rest of Ozymandias in her mind. It was in his voice.

“I… had not imagined you the type.”

“I am not sure there is a type to appreciate such a thing,” he said quietly. “We all have need of order, sometimes, or the reminder that whatever great things we accomplish in a life are small in the expanse of time.”

“... May I see that book?”

Solas paused, considering a moment, then passed it over.

They read in parallel after that, each caught up in their own book but alert to the other’s smallest movement. When the clock on the mantle struck three, Ellana startled. The fire had sunk to embers; the library, warm with the breath of candle and smoke, felt smaller than before.

"I should retire," she said, though she made no move to close her book.

"As should I." Solas glanced toward the windows, where the first hint of pale light touched the glass. "Dawn approaches in mere moments."

She stood, returning her volume to its shelf. Solas stayed seated, fingers resting on the cover. She crossed to the door, her hand curling around the knob. “Thank you,” she said, eyes on the shadows in the hall. “This has been… I… good night, my Lord.”

He huffed out a laugh, a rarer sound than nearly any other. “I fear it is already morning, my Lady.”

“Then good morning, my Lord.”

“Yes. Quite. Good morning, Lady Lavellan.” His head dipped in acknowledgment. “The library is open to you at any hour.”

She left, her pulse uneven, the blue book’s title still echoing in her mind.

She slept in late, and Cole brought sweets. She walked the gardens with Cullen, then played a Tevene version of Poker with Dorian and Sera until the blonde elf had stolen more coins than her salary in an entire year.

And then evening.

The next night, when the clock neared midnight, she entered the library once more and… found him already waiting. Thump-thump, her rabbit heart kicked.

They exchanged no greeting, only a nod.

She claimed the chair that had, somehow, become hers.

He turned another page.

The Viscount did not apologize for their earlier arguments—perhaps lacking the tools to form those words in the first place—nor did she ask him to risk opening herself up to a new wound. Neither of them possessed the skill, or perhaps even the language, for easy vulnerability. Yet they stumbled into this unsure, odd truce. The new routine slipped into place, feeling both natural and strange: two people who claimed to barely tolerate each other, sharing the quiet hours between night and dawn.