The letter arrives in a fine envelope, emblazoned with the symbol of the Inquisition and sealed with a matching pad of wax. The paper it is written on is thick, bearing another watermark to match the envelope. The handwriting is clear and careful—Dhavihal took pains to ensure as much, even as her control slips further and further away. (Although the address is clearly someone else's handwriting, that of one Josephine Montilyet.)
To His Majesty Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, Warden of the Fifth Blight
From Her Worship Dhavihal Lavellan, Inquisitor of the Second Holy Inquisition
I bear grim tidings as well as good news from Adamant Fortress. I am sure you have heard much of it already, but knowing of your history with the Grey Warden Order and one Loghain Mac Tir, I thought something from me personally was only appropriate.
The Grey Warden Order had long been stationed in Adamant Fortress in Orlais' Western Approach. The Inquisition troops stormed it a few days ago, as I'm writing this, and discovered that a Tevinter Magister by the name of Livius Erimond had manipulated Warden-Commander Clarel and the Wardens in her charge. Many Wardens had already fallen to the blood magic he encouraged them to commit, but we were able to save many, as well. In the end, Warden-Commander Clarel died in defiance of Livius Erimond, giving her life in service of the Order and in defense of her people.
What I write next will seem unbelievable, but I describe it only to best explain the fate of Loghain Mac Tir.
Some members of the Inquisition's forces found ourselves within the Beyond itself. We traversed the foreign landscape, finding it both entirely new and eerily familiar. An enormous and unfathomably powerful malign spirit named Nightmare greeted us there, and when we came face-to-face with it, we knew there would be no way for us to defeat it. Loghain Mac Tir bravely faced it alone as the rest of us fled from the Beyond altogether.
Truly, we have no way of knowing what has become of him. It is possible he managed to subdue it, but it is just as likely that he fell to it. Either way, he is lost to us now.
Normally, this would be the end of one of my letters to a—well, I shall not say "loved one," as I am given to understand there will be little love lost for you as a result of Loghain's demise. Regardless, this would normally be the end. However, I am also writing to request a private audience with you.
After celebrating our victory at Adamant Fortress, the Hero of Ferelden imparted to me some knowledge she said would be of interest to you that she received from Loghain Mac Tir. I confess I do not know you well, but I believe that the knowledge she has shared with me would not only be of interest, it is in fact imperative that you know it, sooner rather than later. But it is something I believe you ought to hear in-person.
By the time you read this, I will be well on my way to meet you. I hope that I will be welcome when I arrive. I'll try to leave most of my army at Skyhold, so that we aren't mistaken for occupying anything.
Cordially,
Inquisitor Dhavihal Lavellan
Alistair has read the letter so many times that the parchment has become more the texture of cloth at the creases, after all the folding and unfolding. It puzzles him, how anyone could confuse him with someone who gives a solitary, singular damn about the fate of Loghain Mac Tir.
He has entertained the notion that his being married to Anora Mac Tir has muddied the Inquisitor's impressions. Even then, though, he'd think perhaps the concern about Loghain's fate would be directed to Anora directly. But the letter is to him, and not his Queen. He's checked. Several times.
And then... like a knife, like poison hidden in the ink, they've slipped in the mention of her. For what purpose? What could the Hero of Ferelden possibly have learned from Loghain that she'd want shared with such urgency? And why couldn't she share it herself.
Still. There's hardly anything to be done about it; by the time he's reading it again, they've announced the Inquisitor's arrival at the city gates. He had hoped some vain hope that the Inquisitor might bring the Grey Warden of note with her; but nobody reports a sighting.
He is conflicted when the doors open. Should he stand to greet the Inquisitor? Eamon tells him to remain seated. But when the Landsmeet Chamber doors bang open and the woman strides in, her head held high, he feels the itch to stand. His legs shift, and his boots scrape against the stone.
"Lady Inquisitor," he greets, and feels rude as his ears redden. "I can only hope that this meeting will be less... exciting than our last."
And involve less mages. Though, he notes, she's a mage. Okay. Less Tevinter mages, at least.