Chapter Text
It wasn’t that the walls closed in. Not exactly. They just… lingered too close.
By the time the sun began its climb past midday, Sylvara had already pulled on her boots and slipped from the keep’s rear stair. No guards stopped her—she wasn’t under watch, not officially. And she didn’t look like she was fleeing. Just another woman taking air. Letting the heat of the stone halls melt off her skin.
But the truth was tighter than that. Heavier.
The stronghold was too full—of people, of plans, of eyes she didn’t quite trust. And the way they looked at her now… It wasn’t curiosity anymore. It was caution. Half deference, half doubt. The kind that made her skin crawl.
She didn’t take the main path.
Instead, her boots found the worn track that curved behind the outer garden walls, past a thinning line of trees that led toward the lake tucked just above the village.
The same lake where Solas had kissed her after the Night of Burning Stars. The same place where he had looked at her like she was not just wanted, but seen. The connection to the Fade bled through stronger here. It was beautiful and quiet there. The hush of something ancient that didn’t ask anything from her.
Today, she needed that again.
The path narrowed as she walked, packed dirt giving way to roots and soft pine needles. Her breath came steadier now. Her steps less clipped. But her thoughts refused to fall in line.
So much had changed.
She’d come from a future shaped by blood and defiance. Where she'd rallied armies, defied gods, stared down dragons whose breath turned flesh to ash. She was the tip of the blade. The keystone of the Veilguard.
And now… what was she?
A guest? An interloper? A whispered story at Solas’s side?
Her gaze drifted skyward. Here, the world breathed differently. Everything shimmered—just slightly. The Fade wasn’t somewhere distant or abstract. It was here . In the colors of the trees, in the warmth of the wind, in the wisp that curled beside her shoulder like a loyal shadow. Spirits drifted alongside foxes and songbirds. Magic clung to the very roots beneath her feet. The world was alive .
No wonder he wanted it back.
The Solas of her time had seemed cold. Remote. Brilliant, yes—but untouchable. She’d been drawn to him once, fascinated by his mind, his vision. But that fascination had curdled into hatred when he betrayed her. Twice. She hadn’t thought herself capable of loving him after that. Hadn't wanted to.
And yet… here she was.
This Solas was different. Still guarded, still ancient—but flawed in ways that made him human . Fierce in his love. Reckless in his tenderness. He held her like she was real, like she was his. And worse—he made her want to believe it.
But she remembered the other one too.
If she was honest with herself, the love she felt now carried a quiet thread of guilt. How could she fall for a man who would one day choose destruction over mercy? Who would trade lives for freedom? Who would stand at the edge of the world and still believe it was the right choice?
Maybe that was the part she was trying to understand.
Not just him —but how she could ever love someone who would become that in the first place.
Solas hadn’t fought the Evanuris because he was power-hungry. He had done it because they were tyrants. Because they killed Mythal. Because they killed—
She shook her head, as if to stop herself.
Her jaw tightened. The thought tried to form, but she turned from it. Shoved it down like she had too many times lately.
The trees opened up ahead. The lake shimmered like polished glass in the summer light, its edge ringed with tall grasses and sun-warmed stone. She stepped into the clearing—relief already rising in her throat—
And halted.
There, half-reclined beneath the shade of a leaning pine, was a figure she hadn’t seen in weeks. Months. A shape that belonged to another part of her life. Another rhythm.
Felassan.
His back was to her at first—shoulders relaxed, legs stretched out, greatsword resting beside him like it weighed nothing at all. His hair had grown a little longer, pulled back into a simple knot. He wore no formal scout gear, just light leathers and an easy smirk she couldn’t see yet—but knew was there.
As if he felt her, his head turned.
Their eyes locked.
Time folded.
Sylvara froze mid-step, breath catching hard in her throat. She hadn’t expected him —not here, not now, not without warning. And not after everything .
The last time she’d seen him, his eyes had lingered on the mark Solas left on her neck. A bruise that hadn’t faded fast enough. A bruise that had said everything she couldn’t. She’d wanted to explain. Had tried to. But he’d left without letting her speak.
Now her stomach twisted with the weight of that memory, sharp and sour. Guilt curled tight in her chest, blooming like frost beneath her ribs.
Felassan blinked once. Then stood. No dramatics. No gasp. Just… rising, like this was normal. Like he’d known she’d come.
“Sylvara,” he said.
Her name sounded so normal in his voice, and yet—
She forgot how to breathe.
Sylvara swallowed. Hard. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her breath shallow.
She hadn’t expected to see him here— gods , she hadn’t been ready. Not with the wind in her braid and sunlight on her face, not with her thoughts still tangled in the aftermath of Viya and the command meeting.
And not after everything .
The guilt slammed into her ribs like a war hammer. It had been weeks. And she’d never said anything. Never got to apologize. Never went after him after the night in the temple. Never offered a word—only fled the moment. Let herself become busy with strategy, with recovery, with Solas’s mouth on her skin and his arms keeping the nightmares at bay.
You should have written. You should have looked for him. You should have done something, her mind spat. But she hadn’t. She’d buried the shame under sex and strategy and the gnawing need to stay strong.
And now here he was.
Her lips parted, words trying to escape in pieces, in fractures. “I didn’t—I wasn’t expecting—Felassan, I...” Her voice cracked.
Ancestors, she thought, I’m cracking.
He just stood there. Arms relaxed. Expression unreadable. No weapon. No accusations. Just... watching her.
That made it worse. If he’d been angry, if he’d shouted —she could have bled that rage into something solid, something she could answer. But this? This silence? This calm? It was worse than fury. It was disappointment she’d earned.
“I mean, I wanted to explain. Before,” she added quickly, words tumbling over one another. “Back at Skyhold. When you came back that night and saw—”
“You and Solas?” he said, tone casual, like they were discussing the weather. “Neck-deep in things I’ll never unsee?”
Her ears went hot and turned pink at the tips. Her cheeks followed. “That’s not—”
“I’m not judging,” he said, holding up a hand. “Well. Not anymore. At the time, I had a moment.”
“Felassan—”
“You two share a room now, don’t you?”
The way he said it—light, observational—struck deeper than if he’d shouted.
Sylvara winced, stomach lurching. “That’s not really—”
He laughed . Not bitterly. Not cruelly. But loud, startled, real—like something in him finally snapped loose and chose to float instead of fall. It echoed off the lake and scattered the birds. She blinked at him, stunned. Half mortified. Half relieved. But mostly thrown.
“Spirits,” he said, raking a hand through his curls. “You’re terrible at apologies.”
“I—!” Her hands flew up, helpless. “I’m trying! ”
“I know,” he said, grinning now, the edge of mischief returning to his face. “And that’s what makes it beautiful.”
She crossed her arms over her chest like armor. It didn’t help. She still felt exposed. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“I know,” he said again—quieter now.
She looked at him then, really looked —and what she saw in his face wasn’t anger, wasn’t pain. It was something gentler. Resigned. And that, somehow, hurt more .
“You don’t… seem mad,” she said, her voice small.
“I was,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Not for the reason you think. I wasn’t owed anything, Syl. Not your body, not your heart. I knew that. Mostly.”
She opened her mouth to protest— to offer something, anything that could make it better—but he shook his head and waved it off.
“Let me say this,” he continued, shifting to lean casually against the tree, like they’d done a hundred times before. “I liked you. I liked you, Sylvara. I thought maybe, in another life—or a slightly less dangerous one—there could’ve been something more than flirting and long looks across the fire.”
Her breath caught.
He went on, voice softer now. “But I think I also built a version of you in my head. One where you looked at me the way you always looked at him—like you were trying not to want him. Like you knew he was dangerous and brilliant and absolutely the last person you should want… and still couldn’t help it.”
That landed like a stone in her gut.
Because he wasn’t wrong. She had looked at Solas like that. Even when she swore she hated him. Even when she spat in his direction and cursed his name and fought him tooth and nail—she’d still watched . Still felt the burn of fascination and want underneath the anger.
“I didn’t want to see it,” Felassan said softly. “Didn’t want to believe it. But looking back… it was always him, wasn’t it?”
She tried to speak. Her voice barely made it past her lips. “I didn’t mean to make it confusing.”
Her hands were clenched now, nails digging crescent moons into her palms.
“You didn’t,” he said, watching her again with that unreadable expression. “I just refused to see what was there.”
She dropped to the grass like her knees couldn’t hold her anymore. Her legs folded under her, arms falling to her lap, as if the apology—the whole conversation—had cracked open something hollowed out inside her.
She’d thought she could move past it. She thought she could carry on without this conversation. But the guilt was still there. Buried beneath her skin. And hearing him say those things aloud only made the truth settle deeper in her bones.
She’d hurt him. Even if he didn’t blame her.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her tunic, knuckles going white. There was still more. Something heavier. Something older. It rose like a tide in her chest—terrifying, necessary.
“Felassan,” she said softly, not looking at him. “There’s something I haven’t told anyone. Not even Solas.”
She swallowed hard.
“You once told me,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “ ‘I wish you would trust me with your secrets. I could help you.’ ”
Her throat worked around the next words. They tasted like fear. Like freedom.
“Well… I think I do. I think I always did. I just didn’t know how to let anyone help me.”
Felassan didn’t respond. He simply looked at her—really looked at her. No teasing smile, no clever remark. Just stillness. Something quiet and solemn in his gaze. His mouth tugged at one corner, not quite a smile but something gentler.
Her voice trembled at the edges, and she dug her fingers into the fabric of her tunic to keep them steady. “Lately I’ve felt… lost. Like I’m trying to stand on ground that isn’t mine. I thought I could carry it alone. That if I just kept going, it would settle.”
She lifted her gaze and looked him in the eyes. His expression was one that told her to continue. His silence was kind. He was listening.
“But I owe you more than an apology. I think part of me needs you to understand—why I looked at Solas the way I did. Why it has always been so complicated.”
Felassan’s brows rose just slightly, his expression unreadable again. But he said nothing. He waited.
“I knew Solas,” she said softly. “Before all of this. Before I woke up here. Not him exactly, but... a version of him. A version who lied, who betrayed everything we fought for.”
She drew in a shuddering breath.
“But even then… I watched him. I couldn’t stop. There was always something underneath the anger. That feeling you saw—that pull—I was drawn to him. Even when I told myself I wasn’t. Even when I hated everything he stood for, everything he did… I couldn’t stop looking. He was brilliant, and terrifying, and so utterly certain . And maybe part of me wanted to understand him. Maybe part of me wanted to change him. Maybe part of me just… wanted him.”
She gave a weak, breathless laugh—half-shame, half-relief.
“I never meant to confuse you. Or hurt you. But I need you to know… the reason it was complicated wasn’t because I didn’t care for you. I did . But there was always this pull to Solas. I’m sorry. It was him. It was always him.”
Her voice cracked at the edges, raw now, but steady.
“I’m not from this time,” she said.
A long pause.
Felassan’s brow arched—only slightly. “Huh.”
She blinked, startled. “ Huh? ”
He blinked back, then exhaled through his nose. “Out of all the scenarios I imagined—time-walking wasn’t even on the list.”
“You’re taking this very well.”
“I’m not taking it poorly ,” he offered. “Which, given everything you’ve just said, feels like progress.”
She huffed a weak laugh, but her throat was still tight. “I don’t even know how it happened. The last thing I remember… there was a Fade rift. A battle. I was stabbed, and then—I was just gone. Pulled through. And when I woke up, I was here. A completely different world.”
Tears burned behind her eyes, hot and sudden.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just let her breathe through it.
She shook her head, trying to pull herself back into focus. “Where I’m from, the Veil divides everything. The spirits, the Fade, it’s all other . Broken. And the Evanuris... They are eventually defeated, well, imprisoned, but they will break free. Solas and I tried to stop them. He tried to break the world to save it. And I—”
Her voice cracked.
“I hated him in my time,” she whispered. “I hated him. He lied. He destroyed things. He hurt and killed people I loved. And still... I think I loved him anyway. I think I was always half in love with him, and that’s what made me hate him more.”
Felassan slowly lowered himself beside her, arms resting on his knees. His brow furrowed—but there was no judgment in his gaze. Only thoughtfulness. Something quiet and real.
She swallowed, gaze fixed on the ground.
“He’s not the same here,” she murmured. “And I’m not… the same either. But the feelings are real. Even if they’re complicated as all hell.”
The wind stirred the leaves above them. Lake mist kissed her skin, cool and grounding.
Felassan leaned back on his elbows, eyes turned toward the clouds. “That is, without a doubt, the most romantic, depressing, reality-bending shit I’ve ever heard.”
She laughed.
“I mean it,” he said, glancing sideways. “You’re in love with a man you once hated, who betrayed you in a time that hasn’t happened yet. And somehow, that makes perfect sense coming from you.”
She gave him a look and swatted his arm. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re terrible at apologies. So here we are.”
Her smile came easier this time.
He looked over at her more seriously. “Thank you for telling me. Really.”
“I think I needed to,” she admitted. “Not just because I needed you to understand this thing with Solas. But because I needed someone to know my history. A friend.”
He nodded, once. “You always belonged to a different story, Syl. I’m just glad I got to be part of the chapters I did.”
And just like that, the rift between them—months old, deep as a canyon—softened. Not erased. But stitched at the seams.
Old banter sparked beneath the ashes.
A friend returned.
She stared out over the lake a moment longer, but the silence no longer weighed heavy. It was peaceful now. Shared. Safe. Her hand tightened slightly around her knee.
“There’s more,” she said softly. “I’ve kept so much locked up that it’s starting to feel like I’m choking on it.”
Felassan didn’t interrupt. Just nodded, once, encouraging her to continue.
“The dreams,” she began. “They never stopped. Since the Fade tore me through into this world, I’ve seen her. An elven woman. White hair. Violet eyes. Powerful. Angry. Beautiful. Terrified.”
Felassan stilled. Not visibly, or at least too much. But she noticed the subtle shift in posture. The sharp glint of calculation behind his calm expression.
“I feel her emotions like they’re mine,” she said. “Her sorrow. Her fury. Her betrayal. I dream of standing before the Evanuris, of falling to my knees before someone I hate.”
A beat of silence passed.
Felassan tilted his head slightly. “White hair. Violet eyes. That’s rare, even among the old bloodlines.”
But something in his eyes had shifted. Like he’d stepped a little further back, just enough to study the pattern from afar. And for the first time, maybe, he was starting to see the whole picture.
Sylvara let her breath out slowly and just continued to tell him everything that’s happened.
“There was a survivor. From the village in the south. She looked right at me. And she whispered, ‘She belongs to Him.’ Like she wasn’t seeing me ... but someone else.”
The wind stirred gently across the lake, rustling the leaves. The mist tasted like pine and memory.
Felassan frowned but said nothing.
Sylvara continued to tell him about Mythal coming to her in the prison, helping her escape, telling her that there was something inside her that not even Sylaise could break. How Elgar’nan has spoken to her, in her mind, like I belong to him.
Felassan’s gaze sharpened at that, but he didn’t interrupt.
She shook her head. “I haven’t told anyone. Not Solas. Not Danyla. No one.” Her hand shook a little and she continued, “I feel sick when it happens, I don’t feel in control of myself.”
Felassan nodded slowly, voice quiet. “These are heavy secrets to carry alone.”
They sat together for a while longer, letting time bend and breathe around them. The conversation meandered through dreams, fears, plans. Through grief and purpose. When they finally looked up, the sun had shifted low behind the trees, shadows stretching long across the glade.
“We should go,” Sylvara said reluctantly. “They’ll be preparing for the feast.”
Felassan stood, stretching. “Feels like campfire talk again,” he said, grinning. “Just without the fire. Or the danger of being eaten by Griffons.”
She smiled, brushing leaves from her lap. “Give it time.”
They started back toward the keep, steps easy, laughter rising between them. Heads bent close. Shoulders brushing.
They didn’t see the eyes that watched them from the high stone ledge above. Didn’t see the figure go still. Didn't hear the breath catch in the shadows.
Solas POV
The sun had dipped low, casting Skyhold in molten gold. Shadows stretched long across the battlements, and Solas stood above it all—alone, as he often was, watching the stronghold prepare for the summit.
Below, the courtyard churned with movement. Preparations for the summit were well underway—runners calling orders, servants ferrying linens and wine, guards tightening rotations. The entire keep pulsed with anxious anticipation.
He didn’t care. Not about the feast. Not about the speeches or the alliances they’d try to forge over silver plates and flattery.
His thoughts were elsewhere. Anchored in green eyes and flame-red hair.
Sylvara.
Sylvara with her sharp wit and her stubborn defiance. Her fury, her brilliance, her maddening refusal to ever be tamed. She was the spark that lit him and the storm that unsettled everything he thought he knew.
His fingers curled around the edge of the stone wall, knuckles whitening with the force of it. He could still feel her pressed to his side that morning—warm, breathing, whole. But there had been something in her silence lately. Not just grief. Not entirely. Something deeper. Unspoken. It frayed at the edge of her words, darkening the corners of her gaze.
It was a dark quiet that lay within her. Since the village massacre. He had held her, tried to kiss the grief from her skin, make her tremble in his arms—but the silence inside her had remained. There were moments he caught her staring into the distance, jaw tight, hands clenched like she was bracing for something unseen. And he didn't know how to reach her.
And gods, how that terrified him.
Solas’s hand raked through his hair, gripping the strands until it hurt.
He had known from the first moment—before logic, before memory. When she lay in that blood-soaked field, eyes fluttering open after he and Felassan freed Elgar’nan’s slaves. She had looked at him like she already knew him. And something in him had roared to life. A recognition beneath skin and bone. A pull he could not explain, only resist.
At first, he had resisted.
He thought her fire reminded him of someone long lost. A relic of grief twisted into want.
But no.
She wasn’t a memory. She wasn’t a replacement. She was herself.
And still… she was also Velanna.
He should have known. Should’ve seen it from the moment she stood in that field, bloodied and defiant, challenging him at every turn. That spirit, that will. That temper. It had all been there. The impossible way her soul burned. He should have seen it. He just hadn’t let himself believe.
Because the truth was... he had loved her long before he understood what she was. Sylvara with her sharp wit, her relentless fire, her soul that held echoes of a woman long buried and yet—undeniably her own.
He had fallen anyway.
But the truth had come slowly, like water over stone—until he could no longer ignore the shape it carved.
And Sylaise had been the one to finally bring it to light…Velanna lived within Sylvara.
Not a possession. A fusion. Compassion, fury, history reborn in flesh and fire. And she had never known. He hadn’t told her. He still hadn’t told her.
He gripped the stone ledge, knuckles whitening. The secrets he carried pressed against his ribs, heavy as iron. She had asked— why does Elgar’nan want me? —and he had looked her in the eye and lied.
Not with words. But with silence.
Coward.
He wanted to protect her from it. From him. From the truth. From the idea that she was ever his to begin with. Because she wasn’t, she had always been Solas’. Long before he had ever touched her.
He didn’t deserve this second chance. Not with her. Not after all that he’d done. What he would still do, if the time came.
And yet, he couldn’t stop loving her. Not then. Not now.
He’d tried to step aside once, when Felassan first began watching her. When he saw the spark in his friend’s eyes—the same one he feared was growing in his own. He’d tried to be noble, to let the bond between her and Felassan bloom.
But the pull had been unbearable. Like the Fade itself whispered her name to him every time he closed his eyes. The fire wouldn’t die. He needed her. And eventually, he’d stopped pretending otherwise.
And it had nearly cost him Felassan. And now… Felassan was back.
And Solas still hadn’t told him.
Not about Sylvara. Not about Velanna. Not about the truth of why he couldn’t stay away.
He leaned forward slightly, bracing both arms against the stone wall, staring out over the keep as the wind teased loose strands of hair around his face.
He had to tell him. Soon.
But before he could chase the thought further, movement below caught his eye. Two figures rounded the corner of the inner courtyard. Heads bowed together. Shoulders brushing. A sound—soft, unmistakable—carried on the wind.
Laughter.
Solas’s breath caught. It was Sylvara and Felassan.The two of them walked like the weight of the world had lifted. She was smiling—genuinely smiling—and laughing at something Felassan had said. Her hair caught the light like flame, and she leaned in as if there were no space between them at all.
Solas stared.
That expression—that ease—he hadn’t seen it on her in weeks. Not since before the bodies in the village. Before the whispers in her dreams. Before the silence crept in and built walls between them.
She looked… free.
And he hated how much it twisted inside him.
He should be glad. He should be grateful she had someone to confide in. That Felassan—his oldest friend—was still someone she could lean on.
But all he felt was a sick, burning tightness beneath his ribs. Because he hadn’t been the one to pull that smile from her. Felassan had.
And even if Solas would never admit it aloud—not to Gavrin, not to Danyla, not even to himself—he felt it.
Jealousy.
Sharp. Cold. Possessive.
Solas clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists against the stone. He would not spiral. He would not descend into jealous folly like some untested youth with a broken heart.
She was his. Not in the way a man claimed a possession—but in the way a soul recognized its other half. And yet… he couldn’t breathe when she looked at someone else like that. Couldn’t think when he remembered what it was like to have her breathless in his arms, moaning, whispering, ‘ You burn them out’.
But he hadn’t been the one to make her laugh like that.
His throat worked around the ache rising inside him. He turned away from the ledge, breath ragged, fists unclenching only when he forced them to. The storm inside him pressed against every bone. He needed to speak with Felassan. He needed to tell Sylvara the truth.
He needed to be better than this spiral of silence and jealousy and guilt.
But all he could do—for now—was watch her disappear into the corridors below, with the man who had once called him brother.
And pray he hadn’t already lost her.
The room smelled of bergamot and lavender oil. A shallow bowl of water steamed softly beside the vanity, forgotten as the final touches were made. Sylvara sat still beneath the quiet hands of a servant, gentle and precise, threading the last piece of filigree through her hair. The metal glimmered like moonlight caught in spun silver, weaving through copper waves and resting gently along the elegant frame of her vallaslin. Mythal’s sigil glinted along her cheeks and forehead in the firelight, a quiet, divine echo of a goddess long fallen and never forgotten.
The dress fit like water poured over golden glass. A gossamer gold drape, delicate as breath, shimmered over her frame in sheer layers—less armor, more reverence. She looked like a statue carved for worship, a relic of something half remembered and wholly dangerous.
And still, Sylvara was quiet. Composed. Distant.
She wore the gown because Solas had asked her to stand beside him. Because he had told her, weeks ago—raw and uncertain in their bedchamber—that she gave him strength. Because when he faced the leaders of the rebellion, he wanted her there.
So she let the servant finish the hairpin’s placement. She let the silk slide across her skin like a second, fragile armor. And she said nothing, even when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed just outside the chamber door.
Solas swept into the room in a flurry of layered cotton and leather, already unfastening the shoulder clasps of his robes as he muttered about scouting reports and intercepted supply lines. He didn’t see her at first—his eyes were on the hooks by the wardrobe, where the rest of his attire waited, pressed and gleaming under golden trim.
His mind was still tangled in the image of her— not now, not here, but earlier. Outside. With Felassan.
Their heads bent together. Her laughing. Not the tired, weary sound he’d come to know in the long shadows of grief—but something lighter. Effortless. Carefree.
The thought had burrowed deep beneath his ribs like a splinter he couldn’t reach. It ached with every breath.
Sylvara sat quietly at the vanity, her wisp glowing faint and steady beside her as the last of the hair ornaments were fastened into place. A silver-threaded comb pinned one side of her tumbling red curls, while golden filigree shaped like vines shimmered beneath the light, catching the movement of her breath.
She didn’t say a word as he moved about the room in practiced rhythm—removing bracers, folding sleeves, scrubbing a hand over his face to clear the day’s tension. But even as he tried to settle into routine, something inside him stayed taut. Wired.
His brow furrowed with thought, trying to focus. “Danyla says the northern patrols haven’t reported in, but Merek thinks it’s just the fog—”
It wasn’t until he turned to retrieve his tunic that his eyes landed on her fully.
Everything stopped.
She rose from the vanity like a vision conjured from a dream too dangerous to name—gowned in gossamer gold that clung to her like starlight, embroidered in patterns that whispered of goddesses and rebellion. The neckline swept wide, revealing skin he’d kissed, begged forgiveness against. Her shoulders bare, her jaw strong, her gaze distant.
It hit him all at once—the unbearable beauty of her, the memory of her laughter not meant for him, and the crushing weight of every secret he hadn’t yet told her.
His breath hitched.
“Sylvara,” he said, her name breaking over his tongue like prayer
And in that moment, all his brooding, all his guilt, all his tightly leashed protectiveness surged dangerously close to the surface.
Her hands curled around the back of the chair, but she said nothing. There was a flush at her cheeks, the soft bloom of heat rising in response to his stare. She tugged lightly at the edge of the fabric near her ribs, as if trying to ground herself.
She tilted her head, studying him with something unreadable in her eyes. “Is it too much?”
He stepped toward her slowly—carefully. Like she might disappear if he moved too fast. His eyes never left hers, drinking in every detail. The curve of her collarbone. The glint of firelight in her hair. The way she watched him now, like she was unsure of her own reflection.
But he was certain. Of her. Of this.
He shook his head—slow, awed. Not like a denial. Like a vow. “No,” he whispered. “Even perfection feels small in your shadow.”
Sylvara looked down slightly, not shy but not used to being seen like this. Not as a weapon. Not as a storm. Just—woman, beauty, fire. And it gutted him that she didn’t see herself the way he did.
When she glanced back up at him, her smile was quiet. “You’re only saying that because I’m not in leather.”
“I would say it even if you were in rags,” he murmured, already closing the distance, because it’s true. Because no one sees you like I do.
She turned to face him fully, something softer moved behind her eyes. She crossed the room as he began changing, slipping into the tunic and fastening the dark clasps at his shoulder. He moved with muscle memory, but his mind raced, distracted by the image of her leaning into Felassan, laughing like the weight of the world hadn’t touched her.
She moved to meet him at the sash, her fingers replacing his without a word. She adjusted the drape, smoothed the fold, tied the knot with quiet precision. He could feel her breath on his skin. Could still taste that distant, haunting laugh that hadn’t been meant for him.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, glancing up through her lashes as she finished securing it.
His hand caught her wrist before she could pull away. Gently, but with intent. Mine. He lifted her hand slowly, deliberately, and pressed his lips to the fluttering pulse beneath her skin.
His gaze never left hers.
“We shouldn’t linger,” he said, voice rough and intimate.
“Then don’t start something we’ll finish late,” she murmured, mouth gazing at the sharp edge of his jaw.
But Solas did start something.
He cupped her face in both hands, worshipful and desperate all at once, and kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. Tongues met. Breath caught. The fabric of their finery wrinkled beneath grasping hands. Her body molded to his and his groan escaped raw when her nails dragged across the back of his neck. He pressed forward before he could stop himself, hunger overriding reason.
She fisted the front of his tunic, dragging him impossibly closer, and gods help him, he wanted to tear it off and have her—now, consequences be damned.
When they broke apart, she was breathless, flushed, smiling like she hadn’t in days. And it struck him like a blade to the ribs—
She hadn’t smiled at him like that in days. She hadn’t laughed like that with him in days.
The sight had twisted something in him, low and sharp and shameful.
Not because he didn’t want her to be happy—but because that happiness hadn’t come from him.
A flicker of doubt stirred, unwelcome. What if there was still something there? A spark between them he couldn’t see—or worse, that she hadn’t told him about? He knew better than to doubt her. He knew who she chose—had felt it in her kiss, in the way she clung to him in the dark, in every whisper, I’m here. But Felassan had always seen her clearly. And for a time, she had looked back.
And the thought of losing her—even to someone he loved as a brother—was unbearable.
The thought turned bitter in his chest.
No. He shut it down, jaw tightening. Felassan wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t come between us. Still, the ache lingered—guilt curled behind his ribs like smoke. For thinking it. For fearing it.
Because the truth was simple and far more dangerous. Solas didn’t doubt Felassan. He doubted himself. He was the one keeping secrets. About Velanna. About Elgar’nan. He was the one who let her walk around without telling her why they watched her so closely.
And yet she was here. Beside him. Choosing him.
He didn’t deserve it.
“If we don’t leave now,” she warned, “I will drag you to that bed and ruin that very fine tunic.”
He leaned his forehead to hers, still panting, voice a husky murmur. “Let them wait.”
Let the whole world wait.
She smoothed her gown, fingers trailing down the front to re-straighten the gold belt. Then she stepped back with a quiet exhale, her voice a low tease. “Come on, Fen’Harel. You can’t keep your allies waiting.”
He reached for her hand. Her fingers laced together with his like a warding spell.
And Solas, the Dread Wolf, the rebel, the fool who had once thought himself beyond such things, held on like a dying man clinging to light.
“Together,” he said simply.
She squeezed once. “Always.”