so I decided to give DAO another shot, and apparently my love of death-affinity ladies hasn’t gone anywhere
Summer is two days gone when he leaves her in the graveyard. Autumn hasn’t yet taken firm hold, but the summer bugs and flowers are gone, replaced by a subtle crunch of leaves and a chill in the air.
She’s seven, and he finds her annoying.
Alec promises to count to twenty and then start seeking. On nine, he starts walking away. When he gets to fourteen, he’s nearly shouting, trying to throw his voice so it sounds like it’s coming from the tree he’s meant to be closing his eyes behind.
“Twenty!” he yells, and turns. His feet spin on dew-slick grass as he makes a mad dash out of the creaking cemetery gates to meet his friends by the brook.
Juliette sits patiently behind a cracked, lichen-covered headstone, its inscription long weathered away. She reaches down into the grass, encouraging a ladybug to crawl onto her hand, and doesn’t notice the sun’s slow creep across the sky.
Shadows grow long and the bright silent day shifts into a silent twilight, fog settling just above the ground.
“He’s not coming back, you know.”
She drops the ladybug, letting its now-lifeless shell fall to the grass, beside the corpse of a grasshopper and a cicada. “I know,” she says, looking up at the sheer figure standing before her. “I don’t mind.”
The figure floats backward a bit, perching atop the gravestone across from her. “Most people have the good sense to scream when they see me.”
Juliette pokes at the dead cicada. One of its legs twitches. “Alec says I don’t have much sense.”
“That’s rude of him.”
She shrugs in agreement. “He’s quite rude.” Another poke, another twitch of the leg, and the cicada makes a half-hearted and off-key buzz before it falls still again. She scrunches up her nose at it.
“Try the ladybug,” the figure suggests.
“Alec hates cicadas,” Juliette says, ignoring the figure’s advice. “I was going to put it in his bed.”
The sun finally drops below the horizon and the cemetery shifts into dark shades of blue and purple. Shadows deepen, spreading across the grass like spilled ink. Tiny lights dot the valley below, candles and lanterns and fires from the small village that’s going to turn itself upside down looking for her as soon as her father rings the bell.
Juliette focuses on the cicada, and the figure floats over to her, providing her a small bit of light. “Thank you,” she murmurs, cupping the chitinous shell in her hands.
The grass rustles, and at first Juliette thinks it’s the wind, but her hair doesn’t move, not even the stubborn bits that won’t ever grow long enough to be held back by her braid.
At first it’s just something moving, and then it’s many somethings moving, moving so fast she can see the blades of grass waving even in the darkness. The figure floats up a little, casting its glow wider.
Juliette blinks at the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of cicadas surrounding her. All unmoving, all dead. Still holding the one in her hand, she looks up.
“Most girls have dolls,” is all the wisp says.
“I have dolls,” she says dully. She looks back down at her toys. Focusing as hard as she can, she stares at the cicada in her palms. Distantly, she hears the village bell ring - they’ll find her soon enough, when Alec finally gives in under threat and tells them where he left her. Her eyes narrow and teeth clench. Sweat breaks out on her brow despite the early autumn air, and suddenly - finally - the cicada twitches.
Not the reluctant twitch of before, a real, live twitch. With an irritated screech, it flips over onto its legs. It shakes, as if brushing off a bit of dust, and flies off into the night.
Juliette looks up at the figure, and the moving lanterns in the village below. She pushes herself upward, careful not to crunch any of the husks beneath her feet. “Do you think I can do them all?”
The wisp looks down at the pile of cicadas, then up at her. “I don’t think you can fit them all in his bed.”
She giggles. One by one, the cicadas hum back to life, swarming in a dense, deafening cloud around her. She sends them off, most back to their trees, but a handful into town, toward her house, and in through her brother’s bedroom window. They’ll figure out what to do from there.
“You should go,” she tells the wisp. “They’ll come looking for me soon, and the rest of them have the good sense to scream.”
“Good luck,” it nods. “And there’s plenty more here if you want the practice.” It gestures to the gravestones around them, and then slinks back into the ground.
Lanterns bob up the hill and through the cemetery gates. Juliette puts her hands on the gravestone behind her, feels a deep warmth in the rough stone, and forgets to look properly scared when the adults finally find her.
Kylie wakes up to Micah crying. She groans and rolls over onto her stomach, smushing her face into her pillow. The room spins a bit. “No,” she says.
“Your turn,” Krem says, sounding just as thrilled as she feels.
It is, technically. But she fell asleep a whole two hours ago and also she might still be drunk, or at least well on her way to hungover. Hell if she’s ever listening to Chief’s one more drink, Sparks ever again. This is what she gets for opening her house to the Chargers when the local inn’s full. “Sun’s not up. He’s your kid.”
Krem just groans in response.
Kylie rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling, willing the room to stay put. She’s just about convinced herself that she can stand up, when Micah suddenly stops crying. He coos happily instead.
Never in his six months of life has Micah simply stopped crying on his own.
“Odd,” Krem says after a minute.
“Very.” Hesitantly, she pushes herself upright. Everything goes a little slanted and she shuts her eyes. First thing in the morning, she’s banning mead from the house. Forever.
Slowly, she makes it out of bed and to the door. She cracks the door open, and all the maybe-still-drunk-maybe-hungover melts away at the scene in front of her: Dalish and Skinner sleeping on top of each other on the couch, Rocky snoring softly on the carpet by the fire, Grim passed out slumped in the armchair, Stitches actually underneath the kitchen table.
And Chief in the rocking chair in the corner, Micah swaddled safely in his arms.
Krem sneaks his arm around her waist. “Should we be concerned about the stories he’s telling him?”
Kylie leans back into him, and listens hard for the quiet words Chief’s whispering. She hears spiders and giant and smiles. That story had a wonderful ending. “He doesn’t understand the difference between his teddy bear and your shield,” she says, glancing up at him. “I think we’re okay.”
Chief looks up in the middle of telling Micah about Dalish and the lightning from her bow. He smiles at them. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly.
“Thank you,” Kylie whispers with a smile, letting Krem tug her back to bed.
Not a bad cluster, like the job in Rivain a few years ago,more of a comedy.
It’ll be a good story later, told around the campfire ortavern table, well-lubricated by whatever local brew they’ve managed to gettheir hands on. Remember that time Skinnerhad to wear a dress, and Rocky ended up a breadmaker’s apprentice, and Chief schooledall of us with his druffalo-herding skills?
Kylie grasps the wooden slats of the fence and easily scalesthe barrier. She hops down into the druffalo pen – “You know there’s an opendoor…?” Krem says when she pokes him in the side in greeting, and loops his armaround her shoulders – and affects the same slouch as the rest of them. Sheshields her eyes from the bright Antivan sun. “How’s he doing?”
“About ten minutes away from picking them up and carrying themback, I think,” Stitches says. “He’sbeen at it for a couple hours. How’d you do with the law?”
“Undetected,” she says, though it wasn’t nearly as easy shemakes it sound. There was a lot of climbing, and sneaking, and rememberingRocky’s complicated and bizarre instructions. “And missing their choice booze.”
She withdraws the two bottles from her bag – an Orlesian red with a fancy,elaborate gold label. She hands one to Skinner, and pops the cork on the other,taking a swig before she hands it off to Krem. It’s an enormous effort not toimmediately spit out the wine, and she manages to swallow it. Fancy, elaborategold labels don’t equate to good taste, apparently.
“Okay,” Stitches says, “but the plan…?” he waves his handsthrough the air, encouraging her to go on.
Kylie nods. “In about five minutes, their basement willexperience an unfortunate fire, don’t worry.”
“There he is,” Dalish says, pointing.
Five heads turn in unison, squinting at the hill. Sureenough, the Chief’s silhouette appears next to a druffalo. Even at thisdistance, the Chief’s clearly annoyed.
Not angry, just irritated.It’s something in the shoulders, Kylie thinks.
“How many more does he have?”
“Four,” Krem answers. He makes a disgusted sound in the backof his throat and spits a mouthful of wine over his shoulder into the grass. “Thisis vile, Kylie.”
Grim grabs the bottle from him, and Krem gestures for him tohelp himself to the whole thing.
“I know,” she says. “But I looked – there wasn’t any chocolate.Just shit wine and some moldy bread. Figured no one would want the bread.”
Krem kisses her forehead and tightens his arm a little in ahug. He squints at the Chief. “You’re quite good at that,” he says with a smartgrin. “Think you missed your calling.”
Chief gives the druffalo a good thwack on the side, encouraging it to trot a little faster into thepen. “I could fire the lot of you,” he says.
“Yeah,” Kylie says, “but you won’t.”
He glowers at her, and she merely grins widely and blows him a kiss.
With a rude gesture that sends all of them laughing, Chief turns and trudges back up the hill for the next druffalo.
Since I yelled at you once about Sarah, I feel obligated to send you a prompt about her. What about Sarah discovering her magic for the first time?
Later, when she’s older and had some input from her friends, she comes up with a better story - one that’s a little more interesting, a little less unsettling. The details will shift over the years as she figures it out, but the story will always be some form of dramatically saving the idiot neighbor boy from death by bear.
The neighbor boy is an idiot. A very attractive idiot but, fundamentally, an idiot. Tall, several years older than her, tanned in the summer, perpetually-tousled sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes. He works on the farm with his shirt off most days, and Sarah doesn’t mind sitting on the porch mending pant legs and socks so much when he’s out herding the druffalo in the middle of Justinian.
The problem starts when he opens his mouth. He’s not slow or dim - they go to the same Chantry school in the winter months, and he’s capable of reading and writing - he’s just a dumbass (Sarah doesn’t use that word at the time, but borrows it from Margaret one night after they’ve stolen Jorah’s flask and snuck up to the lighthouse and are swapping stories underneath the summer stars). He believes anything anyone tells him, and her older brother has a good go of it for a full year stringing him along with some elaborate tall tale involving Titans, veilfire, and a three-legged mabari.
But he’s cute, and so she tries not to listen when he speaks. She’s three years younger than him, but five cycles ahead in their school workbooks.
When she’s ten, there’s a heat wave and one of the druffalo dies in the height of summer. Everyone else is disgusted by the smell, covering their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs as they figure out what to do with the large, heavy dead animal who didn’t have the decency to die anywhere near anything, but she doesn’t notice it. She stands on the path, out of the way of the men arguing about the best way to deal with the creature now that the heat’s probably ruined the meat, and stares at its lifeless, glassy eyes.
“Where did it go?” she asks Jeremy.
Her older brother shades his eyes and looks down at her. “It’s dead.”
“But it wasn’t always dead,” she points out and flicks a stray blonde curl out of her eyes. “Something inside of it made it alive. Where did that go?”
Jeremy shrugs and wipes his brow. “Stuff just dies.”
They’re down two farmhands that season, and she spends the summer in the blueberry and blackberry bushes, fingertips stained purple for three weeks. But when school starts up in Harvestmere, she finds excuses to leave the tiny room in the back of the Chantry and sneak down to the basement. She once overheard a Sister bemoan the existence of banned books on holy ground.
Snow fully covers the brown, dead grass before she finally finds what she’s looking for, hidden in the corner of a bottom shelf all the way in the back, behind several desiccated rat corpses. She gently moves the dead rats aside, slips the book under her dress and hurries back upstairs before her absence is conspicuous.
She reads the book - Impermanent Death, the Art of Necromancy and a Short History of the Mortalitasi - cover to cover that winter, and as soon as she finishes, she starts again. And again, until she has large bits of it memorized. It stays hidden underneath her mattress, and if anyone notices it missing from the Chantry, no one asks for its return.
Later, when she and Margaret have stolen Jorah’s flask and snuck upstairs to the lighthouse to drink underneath the summer stars, she’ll come up with a better story. It’ll be the Official Story, the one she tells friends and apprentices and junior mages when they ask her, wide-eyed, how her magic manifested.
She’ll tell them that she was running, playing hide-and-seek with the cute neighbor boy (who was nice to look at it, but unbearable to listen to for any length of time greater than three minutes) on a hot, humid summer night when they came upon a bear. This was three years after the dead druffalo, and she’s careful to remind the youngest ones that she was thirteen so they aren’t disappointed at her wave of frost when they only managed meager raindrops. She’ll tell them that she was scared, but the boy was terrified, and that the bear was a mother and they were too close to her cub (she’ll tell them that the bear’s teeth were many and sharp, and the bear’s eyes were beady and focused, and the boy whimpered like a babe in a thunderstorm).
She’ll tell them that frost rippled out from underneath her bare toes, crackling across the grass to where the bear rose up on her hind legs with a deafening roar, and she’ll tell them that the bear dropped down to all fours with an earth-shaking force, but walked around the circle of frost to grab her cub by the scruff of its neck (yes, Mari, like a mother cat and its kitten) and lumbered off into the woods.
She won’t tell them about the book - the one in the Chantry or the ones she paid for in scrimped and saved coins earned from mending socks so perfectly you’d never know they had holes - or the dead rats she pondered upon for ages. Or the way the dead druffalo felt still alive somehow, still twitchy, like there was an extinguished spark ready to flare back into life if only someone would breathe on it just right.
And she certainly won’t tell them that she was playing hide-and-seek with the cute neighbor boy on a hot, humid summer night, and tripped over a rock and badly cut her knee against another. She won’t tell that the rock that cut her marked the grave of her youngest brother’s kitten, dead four months. She won’t tell them how her blood shone black in the moonlight and how something underneath the dirt shuddered when she scrambled backward.
After all, the next week the neighbor boy announced his betrothal to a girl the next village over, and the water in her bucket froze solid when she found out.
The templars came three days after. Saddled securely in front of one - the woman with the sunburst tattoos - Sarah didn’t look back as they all rode out, past the fields to the main road. But she did look down, as they passed the rock with her blood on it, now turned brown and hardly distinguishable from mud.
She abruptly looked away, straight up and out to the road ahead, when she saw that the grass was ripped out and the dirt kicked up, like it was freshly-dug, or freshly-abandoned.
Years later, when Corypheus holds her by her wrist and dangles her over Haven’s snow, she’ll look at him and think I have survived worse than you. (A story about Ariadne Trevelyan, from the beginning.) Updates every other Wednesday
Chapter Rating: T
Chapter Summary: A much-needed spot of brightness.
Chapter Warnings: None, actually! There are some vague references to things that have been going on, but nothing explicit.
Thanks to: @thievinghippo, a truly terrific beta, and @bloomingcnidarians, an amazingly awesome cheerleader
Nav: Read chapter on AO3 // Read from the beginning on AO3 // Read from the beginning on Tumblr
The rain’s finally let up, and the sun’s been shining for two days, drying out the mud in the practice field. Ariadne closes her eyes and tilts her head up toward the sky and the warm spring sun. She hasn’t been warm in months, and still isn’t - not all the way, not deep inside. But at least her skin is warm. She takes a deep breath, and returns her gaze to the four apprentices standing - slouching, really - in a very uneven line in front of her.
They’re young, but old enough to know how to form a proper line. She lifts one eyebrow at them and draws her right index finger through the air, silently gesturing for them to straighten the line. Though Maxim rolls his eyes, all four of them shift, shuffling half-steps forward or back to be in line with each other. She raises her eyebrow higher and they all stand up straight.
“Better,” she says. “Now, before we begin. A few questions about the reading I asked you to do. Maxim, put your hand down, I know you didn’t do any of the reading.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been in the library the past two days doing my own research, and didn’t see you once,” she says. He’s good - the best of the four of them by far - but she wishes he’d listen to her lessons a little more, and make up thoroughly false answers a little less; his fake answers sound convincing enough that the others tend to believe him. “And what I asked you to read is in a book you’re not supposed to take out of the library. Callie,” she smiles at the tall gangly girl trying very hard not to look too excited as she raises her hand, “maybe you can explain to Maxim why it’s important to understand Madame Collette’s Four Fundamentals Of Fire?”
While Callie recites the Four Fundamentals word for word, Ariadne squints across the field in the bright sunlight. Everyone’s outside today, small groups and individuals alike; some practicing like they are, others sitting under trees - or even in the direct sun - and studying.
There’s no sign of him anywhere. Edward must have him inside today. Ariadne lets her shoulders relax as much as she can, which isn’t much at all, and returns her focus to Callie. The girl finishes explaining the importance of the fourth fundamental and smirks proudly at Maxim.
“Well done,” she praises. Callie’s smile is wide, and missing a front tooth, and makes Ariadne’s heart swell. A seagull flies overhead, and she decides to adjust her lesson for the day. “A bit of a change in plan today,” she says. “You’ve all seen spell glyphs, yes?” Once they all nod, she continues. “Can anyone tell me anything about spell glyphs?”
Callie again raises her hand. Jacob tries to avoid eye contact, Maxim just looks bored, and Miranda has her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Callie?”
“Spell glyphs are designed to amplify or contain magical power. By channeling mana from the Fade into a series of repetitive symbols, the wielder can better control their mana, allowing them to either increase the power of the spell without also increasing energy used, or to hold power in place until the spell is ready to be cast.”
Ariadne nods. “Exactly. Next time, I’d like you to try to rephase the book into your own words - it’ll help you understand and apply the material instead of just being able to recite it.” Next to Callie, Maxim snickers. Ariadne turns her attention to him for a moment. “The next time you arrive at lessons either as late or as unprepared as you were today, I will have Cora assign you to breakfast kitchen duty for a month. You’d do well to take even half the initiative Callie has.”
Maxim’s shoulders droop, and a twinge of remorse passes through Ariadne’s stomach. She tries not to chastise her apprentices too harshly - they are not the ones who deserve her wrath for the things that happen to her in her bedroom late at night. But Maxim’s lack of discipline is just one more item on a list of things making her life unbearable, and is one of the very few items on that list she can attempt to control, so she swallows down the apology on her tongue.
“I see you all have your workbooks with you today, good. Come with me,” Ariadne picks up her own notebook from where it sat on the grass by her feet, and leads them away from the practice field and toward the sea and the rocky shore.
Climbing over the rocks, she feels her muscles waver and slip. She braces her palm on a rough, rugged tree, catching herself before her ankle twists. She’d been awkward and clumsy when she first came to the Circle, but months of combat training and focus had steadied her legs and balance; coordination has taken more energy as of late, and she’s not such a fool as to think it’s unconnected to him, or the potion she takes every morning. But she steps over the crack between two rocks, determined to stay upright, just like the tree clinging to the rocks despite years of wind and surf.
She looks over her shoulder, making sure that the four apprentices are still following her, and leads them down the rocks to sit on the back steps of the tower. The tide’s out now, revealing crumbling steps covered in seaweed and barnacles - where they once lead and why they were built deep into the ocean, she doubts anyone knows anymore. “Sit,” she says, pointing to steps far above the water line and takes a seat herself on a dry step above the four children.
“There are standard spell glyphs that you’ll use when you first learn the spell.” She taps her middle finger and thumb of her right hand together twice and then rolls her palm outward and open, casting a small flashfire spell onto the rock beside her. With a little extra push of mana, the glyph glows longer, giving them time to study the pattern within it. She doesn’t need the mnemonic anymore, a directed thought and a pointed finger are enough, but it’s good for the apprentices to see that their magic is held within them, and exists even when a staff isn’t available.
Ariadne waves her hand, erasing the spell. “But, as you learn it and grow stronger, you can modify the glyph for yourself. Yes, Callie,” she addresses the girl, hand raised high.
“Does changing the glyph change the spell itself?”
“No,” she shakes her head, “not unless you want it to, but that’s a good question. Changing the glyph to suit your needs means that you can thread mana through it easier. Faster. You can remember it better because it’s yours.” Pinky to thumb this time, three taps, and another bolt of flashfire hits the rock. “This is mine, it’s a little different than the standard. See the triangles on the inside edge, instead of spirals.”
Jacob squints in the sunlight. “It looks like the Chantry sunburst, in the middle.”
“Yes,” Ariadne says. “Most of mine have the sunburst, somewhere. It’s important to me, and helps me direct my magic. Mari’s summoning spells tend to have symbols from her alienage worked into the pattern, and Margaret’s storm spells use elements from her family’s crest.”
“Bet the Chantry doesn’t like their heraldry in magic spells,” Maxim mutters under his breath.
Ariadne’s saved from having to say anything by Miranda, usually very quiet and still, reaching behind Callie and smacking the back of Maxim’s head with her notebook. Ariadne presses her lips together, and manages to hold back her smile. “What I want you to do today is start to draw patterns that mean something to you. You’ll be using standard spell glyphs when you begin to learn those spells, but I want you to be thinking now of how you might modify them later. And if you can’t think of any pattern or symbol that’s important to you, draw ones that are easy for you, or feel good to draw.”
They open their notebooks and stare at blank pages. Callie scrunches her nose up in concentration, and Jacob immediately begins to draw. Miranda starts and stops her pencil several times, bites on the end of it, and flips to a new page before nodding to herself and starting to draw. Maxim traces designs in the air with his finger, waving his hand across the air as if to erase a line he doesn’t like. Ariadne smiles. She braces her arms behind her and leans backward, opening herself up to the sun.
Waves lap quietly against the rocks and gulls squawk overhead. Pencils scratch against paper, and the sun shines warm in a cloudless sky. A rare sense of peace settles over her. She banishes the thought that it won’t last - of course it won’t, it’ll disappear as soon as the sun starts to set and they walk inside - and tries to relax into the peace.
***
“Ari!” Cora calls after the younger woman as she passes in the hallway. “We’ll finish this in my office,” she says to Octavia, and then catches up to Ariadne where she’s paused beside a window.
Even in the spring sunshine, Ariadne looks drawn; deep hollows beneath her eyes, gaunt cheeks, and ashy skin even paler than usual. She’s been spending a lot of late nights in the library, Cora knows, but when Ariadne turns to face Cora, there’s a shadow crossing her green eyes that speaks of more than just exhaustion and too much research by dim candlelight. Cora’s brow furrows in concern, but she’s asked Ariadne before and received variations of I’m fine, just tired. Ariadne does not respond well to pushing, and though Cora feels like each answer is more and more of a brush off, she’s hesitant to push even harder lest she push her away entirely.
“I received word this morning,” Cora tells her, “your trip to Val Royeaux to visit the Archives has been approved. You’ll leave in two days, and Emelie will escort you.”
“How long?”
The twinge of desperation in Ariadne’s voice is almost even more cause for concern than the dark circles under her eyes. Cora’s eyes narrow briefly, as if she can squint hard enough and see what lies beneath the surface. “Two weeks, once you arrive.”
Tension floods out of Ariadne’s shoulders and she visibly relaxes. “Good.”
Ariadne may not respond well to pushing, but sometimes she needs to pushed. Cora thought Ariadne was getting better in Lily’s absence, but perhaps the beginning preparations for Summerday next month have dredged up memories. “Ariadne,” she says quietly, though they’re alone in the hallway, “is there something wrong?”
“I’m fine, Cora.” She looks out the window, distracted by a passing flock of gulls.
It doesn’t escape Cora’s notice that Ariadne once again avoided her question. “But you would tell me if you were not?” She phrases it like a question, though she intends it as a statement.
Ariadne snaps her focus back to Cora. “Of course.” She smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Cora’s been First Enchanter for over fifteen years, and has well learned when mages are lying to her. But Ariadne’s strung as tight as a lute string, liable to break and close herself off even further if she pushes any harder. Cora nods, schooling her face into her own lie to assure Ariadne that she believes her. “We’ve not officially involved him, but I believe you can trust Brother Tobias to help you. Alexia is with us, though due to her position as Grand Cleric, that’s a very well-kept secret; if Tobias does turn out to be a problem, talk to her.”
“I will. Thank you, Cora. For arranging this.” After a moment, Ariadne looks away and takes a short, sharp breath.
Cora waits, giving her space and time to continue if she wants. “You’re welcome,” she says, when Ariadne says nothing else. “Alexia is leading services at the Grand Cathedral while you’re there. If you’d like,” she says gently, quietly, “I can inform her that you’d like a pass to leave the Spire and attend one morning?”
Ariadne lifts her gaze and meets Cora’s eyes. “I’d like that,” she says quietly. She fidgets with the lyrium ring on her thumb, and her eyes start to shine. She blinks, and then nods. “I’d like that a lot, thank you.”
“Consider it done,” Cora says, offering Ariadne a smile. She lightly sets her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder as she passes and gives her a gentle squeeze. She feels bone far too easily underneath the younger woman’s muscles. Ariadne flinches underneath her touch, a tiny twist away from Cora, and walks in the other direction.
Cora frowns and looks over her shoulder, watching Ariadne walk away. Her bright red hair seems duller when she passes through patches of sunlight, and she’s carrying herself stiffly, like something hurts and she doesn’t want it to show. Enchanters’ robes are tailor-made to fit them, and Ariadne’s hang awkwardly off her shoulders.
Cora stays rooted in place, watching the empty hallway long after Ariadne has disappeared. Something is definitely wrong, and if the shadows haven’t lightened when Ariadne returns, she’ll push a little harder.
***
Riding for most of the day doesn’t help the dull ache between her legs, but she’d swiped a handful of pain potions before they left. After two days, with a pain potion snuck at breakfast and lunch and a healing potion at night, Ariadne’s able to ride without clenching her teeth against the pain. The sun’s warmth even sinks deep into her skin, warming her muscles and bones and heart, and with the distance between her and Christopher increasing, she feels more and more like herself.
She stayed awake almost the entire first night, watching the moons and stars crawl across the sky while Emelie snored softly in her own bedroll beside her. Halfway to Kirkwall, they were a long way away from him, but three and a half months have taught her to be scared. Still, she woke refreshed, despite falling asleep out of sheer exhaustion only shortly before dawn.
Three days into the journey, she’s even a little hungry again. Her feet are steadier beneath her, and her stomach doesn’t turn quite as much.
When they make camp beside the road on the fourth day, she sits next to the fire, watching wind blow through the wildflowers. Spring has long made it to Ostwick, and she’s sure the same purple wildflowers are growing beside the tower like they always do, but she can’t remember seeing them yet this year.
“Ari?”
Emelie’s voice pulls her away from the flowers and she looks up at the templar. “Yes?”
“Are you okay? You were staring at those flowers like you’d never seen them before.”
She nods and takes a sip from her cup; the water’s cold and clear and fresh. Though she’s free of him for the next two and a half weeks, she won’t be free once she returns. “Lost in thought, that’s all.”
Tell Emelie.
But he’s right - no one will believe her, not now, not after she’s let this happen for three months. The time to tell someone was three months ago, when snow still covered the ground and the only flowers were in paintings. If someone would’ve listened at all.
***
Tobias, it turns out, is as trustworthy and helpful as Cora imagined. The dust, on the other hand, is a problem. Ariadne sneezes three times in rapid succession.
“Bless you,” Tobias says, from the ground below her.
“Thanks,” she sniffles. She keeps one hand on the ladder and wipes her eyes with the other. “You said the translation was up here?” With both hands firmly gripped on the rickety ladder again, she lifts up on her toes to get a better look over the shadowed top shelf.
“No,” he says. “I believe the index is in that box over to your left, and the index will tell us where the translation is.”
Ariadne scoffs and looks down at Brother Tobias. “You need a better cataloging system, Tobias.” What he needs is a cataloging system of any sort, but he’s convinced that the system in his head is good enough. He’s too kind a man for her to truly argue.
“Is there or is there not a box to your left with a stack of index parchments?” he says with a smile.
She sneezes again. “There is indeed a box.” Against her better judgment for something that’s been sitting uncovered and abandoned on the top shelf of a library for an unknown number of years, she sticks her hand in the box. “With parchments, though whether they’re indexes or not I can’t tell - it’s too dark up here.” With a great heave, she drags the box over to her and lifts it up. She passes it down to Tobias.
When the box is securely in his grasp, she lets go of her end and descends the ladder. With both feet on the floor, she exhales. She doesn’t mind heights, but the ladder is very tall and very old. She picks up the lantern Tobias left sitting on the first shelf, and follows him out of the stacks toward the tables where there is more light, and less dust.
Ariadne pushes her sleeves up, eager to dig through the box despite her doubts on Tobias’s memory.
“Ariadne,” he says, his voice full of concern as she lifts a bound stack of parchment from the box, “what happened?”
She follows his gaze to her left wrist, and goes completely still.
In all her efforts with the ladder and the box, and several ladders and several boxes before that, the leather wrap around her wrist had loosened and shifted down her arm. The ugly greenish-yellow bruise stands out angrily against her pale skin, the perfect shape and place for someone’s grip.
The bruises are constant now, without much time to fade before he hurts her again. Away from his tight grasp for several days, the pain’s abated and she’s noticed them finally beginning to heal - both on her wrists and the rest of her body. Examining the bruises on her thighs this morning as she dressed in front of the mirror, she’d also noticed that she could count nearly all of her ribs. She’d turned away from the mirror and finished getting dressed without it.
Tell Tobias.
She thinks of the younger ones - Miranda and Callie and Greta, and the even younger ones still under Mari’s watchful eye, all going to grow up with him in their tower. And she thinks of her friends - Margaret and Mari and Joanie, and even Sarah, though she’s in Nevarra most months now.
If his eyes are on me, they are not on someone else. She’s not there right now, but he knows she’s coming back.
She swallows, hard. She has two weeks before she has to return to him.
“Knight Enchanter training involves a certain amount of combat,” she says with a small, forced smile. “I let my opponent get too close.”
He frowns, clearly disbelieving her. “I thought Knight Enchanters used swords.”
“Primarily,” she says, careful to keep her tone conversational. “But a longsword is no use if someone steps in closer than its reach. Hand-to-hand fighting is not my preference, but learning it is necessary.” She doesn’t tell him that she’s been trained in hand-to-hand combat since she arrived at the tower at thirteen, and she doesn’t tell him that she’s been trained in staff fighting since a year after that. The last time she allowed someone in a sparring match to get that close was a month ago and it was intentional - a demonstration with Liselle for the apprentices.
He nods, his belief swayed. “Is that the parchment we’re looking for?”
Ariadne tucks her hair behind her ear and swallows hard. The bruise is hideous and she wants nothing more than to shove the leather back over it and tug her sleeve all the way over her hand and hide the mark from sight. Combat bruises are nothing to be ashamed of, though, and nothing to hide - especially on someone training to be a Knight Enchanter. She’ll cover it up later, when Tobias isn’t watching her quite so intently.
She looks down at the stack of parchment. The ink on the yellow paper has faded nearly beyond recognition, but she can still make out enough words to know that it’s an index. She tugs at the twine holding the stack together, and the frayed thread comes apart in her fingers. Carefully, lest the parchment be as fragile as the twine, she looks through the first few pages. “You know, I believe it is. You are never allowed to die, Brother Tobias,” she says with a genuine smile, “or else the contents of the Archives will be a mystery to all generations who come after you.”
***
Vivienne, it seems, is not subject to the same rules as the rest of them. She’s temporarily in Val Royeaux on “court business,” staying at the Spire “to appease sensibilities, though not my own,” and in the same breath as insulting the porridge served for breakfast, she asks if Ariadne would like to spend the day with her, shopping.
Ariadne’s only in Val Royeaux for another week, and she’s still not found anything for Cora, so she shouldn’t. But she’s not seen any of the city since she arrived besides the Spire, the Archives, and the streets between them, and even she can’t spend two straight weeks doing nothing but research; her shoulders and back are a mess from so much reading. Emelie happily gives her permission and tells her to have fun. Shortly after breakfast, Vivienne ushers her to the front doors of the Spire, out into a light drizzle, and into a waiting carriage.
“My seamstress is across the city,” Vivienne explains, “and this weather is dreadful.” She turns, gives the address to the driver, and they depart, no templars in tow.
It’s strange. Ariadne’s been surrounded by templars since she was thirteen. Even when they weren’t in sight, they were near. Vivienne appears exempt from constant templar supervision through some blessing of the Empress, and even though Ariadne has Emelie’s permission, she still feels a little like she’s breaking the rules.
Vivienne points out landmarks along the way, various shops (some she prefers, some she refuses to set foot in, her tone strongly suggesting that Ariadne do the same), an alleyway with a hidden market on alternate Saturdays, buildings of some historical importance. Ariadne listens quietly, and lets Vivienne’s melodic voice wash over her. There is no tower in this carriage, no Circle, no impossible research task, no Christopher invading her nights.
She can’t remember the last time she was this calm, or the last time her body didn’t ache with tension. Or the last time she had fun.
The carriage pulls up at a curb, and Vivienne shakes her head when Ariadne moves to exit. The driver opens the door for them. Vivienne thanks him for his service and, when his brow furrows, assures him that Duke Bastien has taken care of payment. Ariadne wonders who the Duke is, and what kind of relationship Vivienne has with him that he’s paying for her carriage rides; another mystery, like the ease with which Vivienne travels throughout Thedas.
She carefully exits the carriage after Vivienne, her feet steadier underneath her than they have been in a long time. The rain drizzles on them only for a moment before they enter the unassuming building with deep forest green awning.
“Ah, my dear Vivienne!” A short, stout woman with graying hair sweeps into the atelier’s foyer. Her Orlesian accent is thick and sharp, but clear.
“Madame Heloise,” Vivienne says with a smile, voice as smooth as ever. She bends down so she and Heloise can greet each other with kisses on each cheek.
“Oh!” Heloise says, startled to notice Ariadne standing slightly behind Vivienne. “And who is this?”
Vivienne steps aside for introductions. “This is Enchanter Ariadne Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle. She is in Val Royeaux on a personal research trip through the Archives - isn’t that right, my dear?”
It isn’t, and she suspects Vivienne knows that, but she smiles and nods. “Yes,” she says, and offers Heloise her hand.
“Oh,” Heloise says, surprised, and then takes Ariadne’s hand in a limp handshake. “I’d nearly forgotten about Free Marches customs. Come, come in, the both of you,” she turns, leading them into a room in the back, with a hand-painted sign reading private standing beside the door. “Vivienne,” she says as she walks, “I was up all night when I heard you were coming, I have some new designs I think you will absolutely love.”
“Oh, my dear, you shouldn’t have. I ought to have given you more warning.”
“Nonsense,” Heloise says, gesturing for the two of them to sit on any of the couches or chairs circling the main fitting area. “You are one of my finest and most loyal customers. You deserve nothing but the most original creations.”
Ariadne sinks into the plush velvet couch. She feels like she should feel out of place here, a little dirty and a little awkward, like she isn’t shiny enough for Val Royeaux and needs to sit still lest she get her fingerprints on something pretty for someone important.
But she doesn’t feel out of place. Heloise’s assistant brings her a glass of crisp champagne just like she does for Vivienne, and, after discerning that Vivienne is here for a ballgown for an All Soul’s gala in Nevarra, Heloise turns her attentions solely to Ariadne.
“And you, my dear? What can I design for you today?” Her voice is genuine and kind, the same she used with Vivienne while discussing fabrics and necklines.
Ariadne shakes her head. “Nothing for me today,” she says, pushing a hint of apology into her voice. Everything in the shop is exquisite, but even if she had money to buy any of it, she’d have no place to wear it. “I’m simply keeping Lady Vivienne company.”
Heloise nods and claps her hands together. “With your needs in mind, I will leave you two to enjoy yourselves, and return with designs and samples.” She gestures to a long, low table below the window, filled with delicate and mouth-watering food, and then disappears into another room, her two assistants in tow.
While Vivienne places a small assortment of cheeses and fruits onto her plate, Ariadne stares at the selection. Except for holidays, Ostwick’s meals tend to be simple; flavorful and filling, but everything is simple - there are no apple pastries shaped like roses, and though there’s cake on birthdays at the Tower, it certainly isn’t miniature cakes with extravagant decorations. She places a large chocolate-covered strawberry onto her plate, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, picks up a tiny cake covered in glittering white icing, with a small candy lemon on top. Its white paper crinkles in her fingertips and she carefully sets it on her plate.
Ariadne can’t help but ask once she settles back into the couch. “All Soul’s in Nevarra?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. She has friends who are necromancers, and she adores them, and she also adores All Soul’s, but the idea of spending All Soul’s in a country with a place called The Grand Necropolis is unappealing, to say the least.
Vivienne nods. “It is being thrown by a branch of the Pentaghast family, whose youngest son is courting one of the Empress’s cousins. I don’t particularly see the point in celebrating the dead in a land where they tend not to stay dead, but the Empress is attending, and thus so shall I.”
Waves gently lap at the docks outside as rain continues to patter down. Ariadne cuts into the cake with her fork, revealing two layers of pale yellow cake with lemon curd between them. She takes a bite and her eyes flutter shut. Bright, tangy, sharp lemon fills her mouth. The soft, spongy cake tastes faintly of lemon, and she’s pleasantly surprised to find that the pure white icing is raspberry.
“How is Ostwick, Ariadne?”
She stops chewing, and the lemon turns to ash on her tongue.
Tell Vivienne.
She swallows. “The same as ever.” Her voice shakes, and any hope of Vivienne not noticing is dashed when the older woman tilts her head, and her eyebrows knit together in concern.
“My dear, is everything alright?” Vivienne asks softly. Heloise closed the door to the workroom behind her, but still Vivienne keeps her voice quiet, so no one can overhear.
The lie comes so easily now that the truth is what seems false. “Yes.” She takes another bite of cake, and it tastes of lemon again, but not as bright as it was.
***
Ariadne sits on the end of the the pew beside Emelie. The white marble of the Grand Cathedral arches high above them. Stained glass windows shine brilliantly in the morning sun. Every seat in every pew is filled, and the murmurs of low conversation echo throughout the large nave. Emelie reaches up and tucks her short dark hair behind her ear; the sunburst on the back of her hand almost seems to glow in the diffused, bright light of the Cathedral.
“I’ve never been here before,” she whispers to Ariadne.
“I was here a few years ago,” Ariadne whispers back, remembering sitting on a pew with only a few others scattered around her, listening to choir practice. Everything was so much brighter then. Those memories are hazy, like everything else before he came into her life. “I didn’t get to see services, though.”
A hush falls over the parishioners, and Ariadne looks forward, to the altar.
“I have faced armies with You as my shield,” a woman’s voice says, booming through the silence.
Grand Cleric Alexia steps out of the shadows of the cloisters, and turns to her audience. “And though I bear scars beyond counting,” she pauses and stands at the head of the center aisle, back ramrod straight, hands at her sides. Filtered sunlight glitters behind her, and she almost seems to glow. She holds the silence for a beat longer, her audience in rapt attention. “Nothing can break me, except Your absence.”
Ariadne swallows. She’s said those same words more and more over the past weeks, though in shaky and hushed whispers, not with Alexia’s strength.
A moment of complete and utter silence passes, not even a cough, or the creak of a pew, or a shuffle of a foot. And then a soprano begins to sing from the choir stalls above.
“Shadows fall, and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come.”
Tears spring to Ariadne’s eyes and she bows her head as the rest of the choir joins in. Their voices mix with the first woman’s, creating something at once more beautiful and more sad than Ariadne’s ever heard. Their voices carry through the white stone of the cathedral, and she feels the words wrap around her.
There’s a brief pause at the end of the first verse and then they all stand to sing. She blinks, and tears fall even as her voice joins the others. She’s been singing the Chant since she was a child. Even on the steps of the Chantry, freezing and ignored, she sang loud and strong. But her voice shakes today and catches in a painful lump in her throat.
She swallows the lump down and sings anyway, though the tears keep coming. “Bare your blade, and raise it high. Stand your ground -”
It suddenly hurts too much and she has to stop, though the entire congregation continues to sing around her. Hot tears stream down her face and her shoulders shake. Oh, Maker. I would never question your will. But please - please - I want him to stop.
Suddenly Emelie’s arm is around her shoulders, and she leans into the templar’s silent support. She takes short, labored breaths, and tries to stem her tears. If she doesn’t, she’ll break right here and there’s too much hurt inside of her. She might not be able to pick up all the pieces.
“...for one day soon, the dawn will come,” the soprano finishes the last note alone. Her voice seems to hang in the air.
Ariadne wipes at her cheeks, tears under control for now. Emelie briefly tightens her arm, and Ariadne nods in silent thanks and pulls away.
“And the armies of Andraste raised their voice, singing a hymn of praise to the Maker,” Alexia says in the empty silence that follows. Her voice is softer now, quieter, but no less passionate. “And feared no more. And Andraste went apart to seek the Maker’s wisdom for the battle to come.” She holds the crowd in silence for half a moment longer.
Emelie doesn’t see Octavia fall. She’s at the front, fighting back to back with Liselle on the tower’s stone steps, hilt so slick with blood she can barely keep hold of it. She compartmentalizes, packs the blood away for later - she doesn’t recognize any of the templars who fall to her sword, but she’s been at Blackrock Tower a long time. People grow, people change, she remembers a small boy in training with her at Wycome, before she was placed at Ostwick. They’re both much older now, he’d have grey in his beard.
She steps over a body, his helmet knocked over by the fall. Blood trickles from his open mouth into his bushy beard. She doesn’t look close enough to see if there’s grey.
The Order knew what they were facing, and sent a regiment large enough to take them all down with ease - but the Order hadn’t counted on the mages.
(There’s irony in that, somewhere. She’ll find it eventually.)
They fight through fire and ice and lightning, wild storms and resurrected soldiers. Joanie and Quentin are terrors on the field, whirlwinds of magic and fists and knives, barreling through anyone in their way. A giant spider and a wolf fight back to back, just like her and Liselle, underneath the trees beside the rocky shore. A templar across the field explodes, and she looks up, catches Daniel on the balcony, Sarah beside him; smoky, oily purple smoke oozes out of Sarah’s staff, forming a skull as it growls over a group of templars. Low murmured chanting cuts through the clang of swords and cries of pain, and Emelie knows everyone’s instincts about Samuel were right - he draws on the spilled blood soaking the once-green courtyard and sends waves of pain and insanity through the soldiers still wearing the Chantry standard.
Liselle shouts and Emelie ducks, dodging a blow to her head that Liselle counters with a fist to the woman’s nose. She twists out from under the two, now tangled in a brawling fistfight Liselle was born for, and stands up just in time to see a templar withdraw his sword from Ferdinand’s side. Ferdinand falls to his knees at Michael’s feet, clutching the gushing wound, and she’s known Michael since they were both ten years old and she’s never seen that much hate and anger on his face. The templar goes up in flames so hot they burn white.
Michael bends down, and lifts up Thomas, the newest and youngest apprentice who has no business at all being out of his dormitory - the templars must have breached the stairwell, Mari wouldn’t let any of the apprentices out of her sight otherwise - and pushes him up into a tree. She watches the boy climb up and up, hidden high in the branches.
Michael turns and she catches his eye, and she knows the exact moment he gives in and lets his rage take over. He throws his hand out and she feels the tingling of a barrier fall upon her, and then he’s gone - ball of fire in one hand, staff in the other, and suddenly five archers in a row behind her scream. She gags against the scent of burned flesh that joins the scorched earth and blood and ozone.
When dusk finally falls, so does the last enemy templar.
The Great Hall is converted into an infirmary, Ruth and Joanie shouting out orders as anyone able brings them potions and tonics and herbs. Esther and Andrew carry Marcus’ lifeless body out of the tower - he was leading the second line of defense, and they’ve at least put a sheet over his body to hide the wound, but blood soaked through - and Emelie closes her eyes as they pass her.
From Knight Lieutenant to Knight Captain to Knight Commander, all in a month. She pushes her hair out of her face.
She sidesteps Callie crying over Greta’s body and puts a comforting hand on the young girl’s shoulder. Callie looks up at her, eyes red and swollen, and wipes at her cheeks with bloody fingers. “I couldn’t find Ruth in time,” she sobs.
Emelie kneels beside her and draws her into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Callie nods and holds the hug a moment longer before pulling away to look back at Greta. She pushes Greta’s blonde hair out of her eyes.
Emelie stands, muscles weary, and steps around tables and bodies, trying to stay out of the way as she makes her way toward Ruth. There’s one person she hasn’t seen yet, one person who should be here, and the lump in her throat grows larger and harder the longer she doesn’t see her face.
“Where’s Octavia?” she asks, when Ruth pulls away from her patient to wash her hands.
Ruth slows, rubbing her hands together in the basin, staining the water pink. She dries her hands and then looks up at Emelie. “I’m sorry,” she says. It’s nearly a whisper, but those two words cut through all the noise and chaos around them.
Rage billows up inside of her like she saw on Michael earlier, only this time the battle’s over - there’s no one to take it out on. She swallows. “What happened?” Her voice is barely louder than a breath.
“An arrow,” Ruth says quietly. She points to a covered body on the floor beside the stairs. “We laid her over there.”
Emelie nods and feels her world start to crack and slip away from her. She kneels beside Octavia’s body, aware of but not caring about all the eyes on her, or the way the activity in the Hall seems to have halted. She pulls the sheet back, and Octavia looks almost peaceful. There’s an ugly arrow wound to her throat, but she looks calm in death, which makes Emelie even angrier. Octavia should be furious that she’s dead. But she takes a deep breath in and a slow breath out and slips the lyrium ring off of Octavia’s finger and onto her own.
“I love you,” she whispers, trailing her fingers across Octavia’s cool cheek. She lays the sheet back over her dead partner and stands. There’s a rushing noise in her ears, louder and louder and louder, and she walks away, up the stairs.
She stops in Edward’s office - it’s hard not to think of it as Edward’s, though it belonged to Marcus for a month and now, technically, it’s hers - and removes the key from where he keeps it in his desk. A second stop, in Cora’s office - Ruth’s now - for the other key, and she walks the rest of the way up to the tiny room at the top of the tower. She misses the two of them, can’t help but think how much easier this would be if they were here. But they had to run, not just for their own lives - as strong a force as the Order sent to enact the Right of Annulment, it would have been double had Cora and Edward still been here.
With a deep breath, she uses both keys to unlock the door.
Cora never allowed phylacteries to be transferred, and the room is full of shelves with small labeled vials. Emelie used to wonder how Cora managed that, but it’s obvious now - she was meant to send hers to Hercinia, and Adelaide meant to send hers here. The two of them simply lied. So much strategy, so many years of planning, so many lies told, all to be thrown away by an impatient apostate in Kirkwall.
She lets the door close silently behind her. The vials are chronological, and she finds Octavia’s easy enough. She holds it up to the magicked torchlight. Blood glitters ruby red inside. She slips it into her pocket.
She wanders through the shelves and picks up a phylactery at random. Ariadne’s. She wonders if Ariadne’s okay, if she made it out of Kirkwall or if she’s lying dead in the streets like bodies lie in the courtyard here. She hurls the glass against the wall. The broken glass tinkles as it falls, and leaves a smear of blood on the stone wall.
It’s not enough. It’s not loud enough, big enough, strong enough. She’s alone now and the rage is rising up in her too fast and too much to push away - she doesn’t have a living target, but she can still do some good with her destruction. She’d be a fool to think the Order won’t try again, that the Chantry would give up that easily.
With a sweep of her arm, all the vials on Ariadne’s shelf shatter against the floor. Another shelf, and another, and then with a roar she pushes a whole shelf over into the wall.
She doesn’t stop until every vial, except the one safe in her pocket, is destroyed. She’s surrounded by blood and broken glass and none of it will bring Octavia back. Nothing can and nothing will, and no matter how much she loves the Chantry - she loved Octavia more, and her blood is on the Chantry’s hands.
She wipes at her cheeks, surprised to find them damp with tears, and walks out of the room, back and shoulders ramrod straight. Octavia’s phylactery is heavy in her pocket, her ring warm and tight around her finger.
They’ll hold a ceremony in a day or two, but they can’t wait too long - news of their survival will reach the Chantry soon, and the Order will try again. They were prepared today, but they can’t survive another attack. This is her home, and she can’t bear to leave it behind, can’t bear to leave Octavia behind, but vengeance and grief will come later - it is time to run.
Her trust in him isn’t a question. Her trust is a strong, unshakable thing. She trusts him to watch his templars, she trusts him to protect her mages.
She trusts him in her bed. They’d both be in a world of trouble if anyone found out, but she’d undoubtedly be in more - he’d be demoted, probably moved to a different Circle, but she’d be made Tranquil without question.
But when it comes to this, the plan she and Adelaide formed when they were teenagers in this very tower, the groundwork they laid when Gregoria arrived, the agents they’ve gathered and coin they’ve saved and favors they’ve curried - in this, Cora doesn’t trust easily. Edward isn’t the enemy, and she loves him and she trusts him, but he is a templar. He is sworn to serve the Chantry and uphold the Chantry’s laws, and here she is, plotting to dismantle everything.
There’s a letter from Adelaide, ash by now in the fireplace of her quarters. Hidden amidst a friendly letter, First Enchanter to First Enchanter, was a confirmation. An end to a conversation she and Adelaide have been having for five months, scattered amongst fragments in letters and hushed whispers at holiday celebrations. They need templar support - as much as they might like to believe otherwise, they cannot do this on their own - and only Edward is close enough, with enough power and influence to help the way they need.
He reaches across the table and covers her hand with his. “Are you alright?”
Cora smiles and tilts her head. He’s put away his armor for the night, off duty in a simple linen tunic and trousers. She likes him in armor - she likes him in anything, and nothing - but prefers him like this, relaxed. He’s Edward, just Edward. There’s no ser or Knight Commander, he’s just the man she loves. The candlelight casts warm highlights on his dark skin.
He is Edward, but he’s also Knight Commander Edward de Brassard. As much as she wants to forget that, she can’t.
But that’s also why she needs him.
She trusts him, without a doubt. She has to. She withdraws her hand from his and takes a sip of her wine.
