---

---

The candle needed to be replaced, soon, Cullen thought. Then, he chastised himself with a click of the tongue and a shake of the head - his mind couldn't afford to wander, not when every second mattered. Tired eyes shot straight back to the sheet in his hands. It was a letter asking for more manpower to clean up the dead festering in the Hinterlands. Then, beneath that, were several other notes, asking about what to do about the sustenance of Inquisition recruits who had lost their limbs and could no longer fight.

Perhaps, it might have filled a better man with horror, but all Cullen felt was a festering impatience with the world and with himself. How he wished he could solve all the problems by himself, cut the demons down with naught but faith and a sword, but alas, the pen held more sway in the moment. He took a deep breath and sent the injured soldiers kind words and a promise, as well as a request for patience, choosing instead to direct most of the funds towards those in need of fresh footwear and armaments. This too, was the Commander's job, to bear the burden of guilt without breaking.

After a few signatures, he felt a mild ache well up behind his eyes, deep in his skull. His armor felt much heavier than it; he immediately put down his quill, removed his gauntlets and searched his things for a small, metal box. It was opened with fumbling fingers, revealing a pale salve with a strong, astringent odor. He applied it on his temples and at the back of his neck, breathing in the vapors with a raspy, satisfied sigh of relief.

Then, as quickly as he could, he put on the gauntlets once more and resumed his work. He'd wasted enough time on his pain. Rest would come, soon enough, but not yet. Not in a few more hours.

"Maker, lend me strength," he muttered, leaning against the table.

Cullen wondered how Leliana and her shadows bore their burdens. At least he and the rest of the soldiers had the luxury of fighting out in the open, with loss and glory shown in an honest, forgiving light. They lived and died by their secrets; he could understand why some broke under the strain. To be cast aside and called a traitor, all for a greater cause - this was the fate of a spy. Far easier to die a hero, to have a life remembered for helping others.

"Maker... likewise, lend them strength," added the Commander, remembering again, why he was doing all that was. "Grant us fortitude to fight through the darkness. And forgiveness... for the things we do to reach the dawn."

His thoughts strayed towards the foes the forces had come upon, as information on troop numbers and other such reminders that their enemies were people, too, came into view.

---

---

Bored eyes stared languidly at the minstrel; there was something odd about her voice, something strained. Alba was irritated by it, expecting beauty and vigor, and instead, hearing apprehension. She sighed and turned her attentions back to her mug of what passed for liquor in Ferelden, though swill would have already been far too kind to describe its taste. Everywhere, dullness, as if the impermeable cold had managed to freeze all manner of life out, choking even the spirit.

Still, it would be a waste to throw out what could be used for other purposes. Once the dull voice had finished the tired song, Alba joined the others in applause, making it a point to clap all the harder, before approaching the woman. Of course, she was not the only interested party, but she was the fastest - there was a reason why she had seated herself close, after all.

"Che canto meraviglioso! I am enchanted," she remarked, with a sly smile. "Here. Why don't you quench your thirst?" Alba felt her own thirst rise, and she stoked it with a testing gesture that doubled as an overture of friendship. Her fingers rested upon the minstrel's own as she spoke. "I would-"

"P-please... could you help me?" The stranger's fingers grasped Alba's own with a fierce grip, but the words that came out of her mouth were not at all expected. Neither were they desired, but now, at the very least, Alba could finally forgive her for her terrible song. "There are... a group of bandits. Over there! And... I've already asked for help, but maybe you could-"

The Antivan grimaced and looked about for her crew. She had told them to try and fit in. But then again, who would want to dress in the ugly, mangy furs of Ferelden? They could hardly be blamed.

"Well, signora, I am sorry to say, but you are speaking to the worst of them," replied Alba, a raspy laugh rising from her throat as she fished her hat out from under the table and put it upon her head. "Now... I'd like it if you didn't call my friends bandits, bella."

In response, the minstrel shook her head, her eyes now darting rapidly back and forth to a larger group in the corner of the tavern, some of who had already begun to watch the strained interaction with wary frowns. Alba sighed and stood, hand now upon the hilt of an ornate rapier. It didn't take long for her crew to stand too, fifteen strong, each one of them spoiling for a fight.

Two weeks Ophelia had been camped in the arid desert of the Hissing Wastes, all rolling hills and dry heat. She couldn’t count the number of times she and her companions sat around a dead bonfire, knocking sand out of their boots after a long trek across the endless plains. When their business with the mines had concluded, Ophelia imagined herself jumping with joy when she stepped foot into her home territory, with their ice-capped mountains and frozen lakes. Instead, the frigid wind of the Frostback Mountains nearly sent her into shock.

Pulling her thick leather coat tight around her shivering frame, she caught sight of billowing smoke in the near distance. Lips chapped and blue, she saved her breath and nodded for her companions to follow behind. Where there was smoke, there was heat.

Balancing on a snowy slope, a brick tavern was teeming with activity; raucous laughter floated through the cracked windows, a faint jingle of music carrying behind. “How did I not know this place existed? Where do their supplies come in?” Ophelia thought out loud. A view of glistening waters and a docked ship provided the answer moments later. She didn’t think it possible for there to exist a body of water that wasn’t frozen over this deep in the mountains, but she supposed that must be the Waking Sea expanding toward the horizon.

Time seemed to freeze the moment she crossed the threshold. At least a dozen men and women, all outfitted in mismatched suits of armor and cloth, were making a beeline for the middle of the room, where a tall, pale-skin figure had trapped a much smaller woman. Ophelia didn’t think twice; a freshly sharpened arrow whizzed through the air, embedding into the wall behind the pale stranger. A warning shot.

“On behalf of the Inquisition, I order you and your men to stand down,” Ophelia’s voice rang out authoritatively. The entire building hushed at the news that the Inquisitor had arrived.

She stalked over to what she assumed to be the leader, her bow still at the ready. Upon further examination, Ophelia gleaned the tell-tale signs of raiders — heavy pouches of clinking gold, yellowed and dried skin from harsh winds, and the abysmal stench that came with a lack of hygiene from being trapped on waters for far too long.

Ophelia tsked at the bandit leader. “Manners, now. Identify yourself, stranger.”

---

A letter by raven arrived early that morning. Curious green eyes scanned the missive within seconds, noting the faint dried bloodstains on the parchment that could’ve meant nothing, but Hyacinth frowned nonetheless. The message was short and clear: Inquisitor Trevelyan would be returning within the week. She sighed and tossed the note to the side. Knowing Lady Trevelyan, within the week could be tomorrow, or it could be four days from now.

She found Leliana first, in deep conversation with Ambassador Josephine who smiled politely, as she always did. Hyacinth never bothered to return the favor. “From the sounds of it, she’s unlocked the Tomb of Fairel. Shall I alert the men at the gates?”

With affirmation from Leliana, the Dalish scout set off and notified the guards to be on the lookout for any sign of the Inquisitor. In a landscape as pure white as this one, it would be hard to miss that shock of raven-black hair wading through the snow.

Commander Cullen was her last stop. With an indifferent nod to the other scouts parading around the battlements, Hyacinth knocked on the commander’s door once and then let herself in. As a nomadic child, shem culture had thoroughly evaded her. The day she discovered some shems even participated in classes to teach such customs had been the day she determined how hopelessly out-of-touch they were.

Even now, Hyacinth strode into the commander’s office without a word and tossed the report on his desk, which was already piled high with unanswered messages and letters. She had no previous dealings with the man. Once or twice, she had stumbled upon him praying in the gardens, having been renovated into a mock Chantry to appease the absurdly devout Inquisitor. But for the most part, she reported to Leliana and Ophelia Trevelyan.

“News of the Inquisitor’s arrival,” she briefed monotonously, no shred of identifiable emotion in her voice.

As a scout, though spy was her true title, she had mastered the art of detachment. In a field like hers, where betrayal and murder were around every corner, she had no interest in involving herself too deeply with anyone. She was sent out on secret, undercover missions for Leliana, often returning with news of an untimely death at her hands, and went about her day masquerading as a requisition scout. Gathering useful materials, furs and ore and the like, or delivering news of troop movements. It was the perfect cover.

---

---

He gave the scout a sharp look, unamused by the unbidden entrance. Then, he noticed her ears; Cullen supposed she wasn't the only elf who didn't know what knocking was for. Some homes in the alienages didn't even have doors. Her face was bare, and he thought her from the city, though the where of it remaining a mystery. That he couldn't tell at all was a testament to the Inquisition's growing success; people truly were coming in droves from all over Thedas to support them in their cause. It granted the Commander some comfort, and eventually, his face softened into something resembling acknowledgment. The thrown report quickly found itself in Cullen's hands, his eyes leaving the scout's face for its words.

"Next time, wait for the command to enter," he remarked, his eyes still on the report, though the weight of his voice made its presence felt in the small room. "And don't throw the report on my table."

The information was satisfactory, with the troops' new practice of scavenging of elfroot in organized searches providing much-needed relief for the struggling healers. There were a few problems with sourcing some ores, but for the moment, iron could do for most of the troops. News of lower morale due to the recent increase of Venatori attacks now made sense, what with the Inquisitor's return - either she had managed to open the Tomb already, or was heavily noticed by them in her efforts to do so.

"Any news on when the Inquisitor is to return?" he continued, as he finally put the report down and signed it. Ink drying, he then turned his full attention upon the elf. "And how are her companions?"

While he now had some measure of faith in their abilities to protect the Inquisitor, each came with their quirks, some of which Cullen found worrying. He hoped that Blackwall's shield was doing it's job, at least, and that Sera's judicious use of arrows and copious expletives would temper Dorian's showy spellcasting.

"While you're here, brief me on the status of your unit. Tell me your name, who you report to, number of injured, anything unusual, and so on." The Commander searched about for his quill and dipped it in ink afresh, ready to take down notes on a letter he flipped - clearly he had no intentions of replying to the message.

---

---

With her ears still ringing from the arrow's impact against the wooden wall, Alba could only stare at it, confused about where it had come from. Her eyes searched the room for the attacker, and before she knew it, some striking woman was commanding her to cease whatever it was that she had been doing, which was... not all that much, she thought ruefully to herself. The captain's face remained flat for a few moments, the gears of her mind in a whirr, as she considered the whispers around her. Was this one the real deal? If so, then Alba wondered just what it was that made Lady Luck smile upon her today.

"My apologies," began the pirate, as she took off her hat with a small flourish. Then, she gave the accuser a small bow, the graceful action becoming a gesture of sarcasm. "I am Alba, Alba Selvaggio. These people are my friends," she smiled, nodding at the ruffians close by, encircling herself and the minstrel. "We are far from home, you see, and are unaccustomed to the local laws. I trust that you are a voice of authority, but... Creatore... can someone please explain what we have done wrong?"

She grinned at the extravagantly clad man who stood close to the supposed Inquisitor, taking note of his clothing and demeanor. He looked much like the men her mother spoke of, men who thought themselves gods. Then, she noticed a lithe elf too, alongside a metal-clad warrior - more disciples of the imperious beauty?

"If you like, signorina, I can do you one better. We could all sit down, instead," continued Alba, herself returning to her seat, an arm resting on the chair's back as she surveyed the four. Around them all, her crew laughed, the sound terrible and taunting. "You will have to excuse me for not drinking, however. The ale is... not to my taste."

Remembering the previous conversation, however, Alba reached out for the minstrel's hand once more and turned her gaze towards the woman, ignoring Thedas' savior for her.

"A shame... I thought we were getting somewhere. And what was it that you wanted my help with?" She asked with a cold smile, her icy stare affixed upon the minstrel's lips. "Be quick with it. I have a feeling I am about to be shot in the heart this time. But wouldn't you rather be the one to fire the arrow?"

In response, the minstrel squeaked, shrinking in her seat, though her gaze still went wildly about the room. Her eyes held the Inquisitor's gaze, then they would dart to a certain corner, where an unremarkable group of mercenaries all sat together, watching the spectacle that had taken place in this unremarkable tavern. Alba saw this and followed her gaze, shifting ever closer towards the woman. Then, without warning, one of the crew drunkenly spilled ale over a mercenary's boots, and just like that, a barfight began. Raucous yells echoed throughout the tight space, some voices yelling in terror, while others yelled in excitement. People pushed every which way, hands striking where they could - some even holding swords.

Ophelia cautiously regarded the strange woman — Alba, as she identified herself. There was a lack of color, a lack of warmth within the woman that matched the thick tufts of falling snow outside. Silver hair, ice-blue eyes, and pure white skin, her quick-witted words didn’t quite match the sharpness of the rest of her features.

Plastering on a gracious smile, Ophelia beckoned for her companions to sheathe their weapons, even as Sera openly protested at the command. She shot the young elf a pointed look and then returned her attention to what she assumed was a captain of sorts.

“No, my apologies,” she said gracefully, her home training kicking in with the smoothness of her words. “We heard quite a ruckus and worried there may be trouble to attend to. I am Ophelia Trevelyan.” She didn’t bother introducing her companions, silently motioning for them to keep guard at her back should trouble arise once more.

Indeed, the air was quite hostile despite the clear presence of the Inquisition. Alba had a strange way of speaking, both cutting and impassive, her eyes seemed to roam predatorily over to the minstrel, who kept cutting a pleading stare at Ophelia. Without dropping pleasantries, Ophelia subtly tilted her head at Blackwall, just in time for what appeared to be a bar fight to break out.

“Positions!” Her clear voice rang across the room, alerting a couple of mercenaries to her presence. Swiftly kicking the chair out from under Alba, she collapsed to the ground in an attempt to pin the pirate to the ground.

Behind her, she was vaguely aware of Dorian’s flash of green light encasing the group in a protective barrier, while arrow after arrow whizzed from Sera’s direction. She grappled with Alba, coal-black strands of hair falling from their secured position, temporarily blinding Ophelia. Well, her mother would have a fit if she saw her only daughter tussling with a ruffian on the stained, sticky floor of a dingy tavern.

---

Blinking back at the man in astonishment, Hyacinth’s expression swiftly morphed into one of displeasure. Her brows met at the tip of her nose bridge and the corners of her lips drooped in a slight frown. So he was thatkind of leader, the kind that demanded respect without first proving why he deserved it. Titles be damned. She curled her fists at her side, biting the inside of her cheek to stifle the heated words she thought of throwing at him.

He was the commander and to him, she was nothing more than a scout — a little elven servant, so to speak. At least he hadn’t called her a knife-ear, she thought with mild annoyance.

“So many questions,” she murmured then said in a louder tone, “You can call me Hyacinth. None severely injured, save for Fisher whose ego is mildly afflicted after a rage demon sliced him open in the Hinterlands. Bloody fool made the mistake of turning his back while gathering embrium.”

Fisher, another one of Leliana’s double agents and the one person Hyacinth might’ve considered a friend, had three long gashes on his back. He was immediately sent off the field and replaced by a regular scout. Although Leliana had a large network teeming with assassins and spies of various backgrounds, Fisher and Hyacinth were a rarity, being the only ones to actively work for the Inquisition rather than alongside it.

She had to admit, picking flowers and surveying new regions for the Inquisitor was hardly as entertaining as pure murder and subterfuge, but Leliana had tasked her specifically with keeping a close eye on Ophelia Trevelyan whenever she could. Watch her dishes be prepared, follow up on any outside activity made by her companions — especially Iron Bull, who was a spy in his own right — and overall, make sure no indirect harm came to pass. Whatever happened in the field was another story, entirely.

“I report to the Inquisitor and Sister Leliana, as needs arise. The missive I arrived with, if you have failed to follow the … simplicity of its contents, merely state that Lady Trevelyan will be back within the week. Nothing more and nothing less was provided.”

---

---

To say that Cullen was taken aback was an understatement. He stared at the scout in varying degrees of irritation, then shock, then resigned fatigue. Of course Leliana had sent a spy to work among the Inquisition's forces under his command, it made complete strategic sense. He had to hand it to her, she truly was competent, and no Spymaster would be worth their salt if they went about asking for permission. It must have had some purpose, too, that this particular agent of hers had decided to share this tidbit. He was far too tired to decipher the intention behind the decision at the moment, but if secrecy was involved, then he had to wonder what for. Far easier to ask this one, even if he doubted any real answers would come.

"That's Commander to you," he shot back, unruffled by her defiance. His tone was authoritative, though it was not proud - the voice of a man who was used to the simplicity of order and the enforcement of it. "And... I suppose I won't get any details on your duties, but thank you. For serving the Inquisitor. And Sister Leliana." He tore a portion of the letter he had scribbled upon and handed it towards the elf, waiting for her to take it. The note bore instructions for the bearer to have extra servings of strong ale and hot meals. "Here. I know the supplies have been rationed, but I believe Fisher deserves some relief. The sight of a demon... it makes for sleepless nights. And did you see the attack yourself?" The way his brows furrowed as he said this implied a knowing sympathy, though he did not say much on the subject. "Small mercy it is a rage demon. Fire leaves cleaner wounds, in most cases."

He wondered if she was the type of scout who observed from a distance and kept away, or actively got herself involved in whatever she was watching. Something about her demeanor told him that she was unafraid of conflict, one who solved problems with directness... which was a method that Cullen also preferred. It was imagined common ground, but common ground nonetheless.

"In any case, I'll have instructions made to make sure gatherers always work in pairs, where possible, and increase the drills on stealth. There's not enough shields to go around, and not everyone is strong enough to carry them... but anyone can learn to be less of a target," Cullen crossed his arms and looked at her, curious. "Did she also send you to observe the troops out of suspicion? There is always the risk of it, infiltrators... have you found any, among the troops?" There was an unease in the question, almost as if he didn't want to hear the answer. It was clear that he placed much trust and hope in the forces, in the men and women who were giving their lives to the cause. "The enemy is always looking for ways in, and even if Skyhold is nigh impenetrable, the Inquisition itself is not."

---

---

All Void broke loose, and before she knew it, she was on the floor with a crazed, disheveled woman on top of her. It would have been a great time on paper, but in practice, Alba's head hurt from the impact, and worse, her hat was nowhere to be found. She growled and fought back, rolling to the side and wrenching her limbs free from the hold, before making a quick, but ungainly rise to her feet. Maker, this group was full of surprises - and the Tevene did seem to walk his talk. Or well, the talk his clothes seemed to imply, at least.

She ducked as an arrow whizzed past, barely avoiding a cut on the cheek. Strangely enough, the pirate still refused to draw her sword, despite the flurry of combat that had erupted all around them. Alba had noticed that the Inquisitor did not wield a blade, and so, she felt it dishonorable to draw her own against her in an unserious fight; the self-righteous nobles and leaders alike were precious about their reputation, and Alba deduced that this one would not dare to slaughter her in public without due cause. Likewise, her experienced crew was close enough to provide cover from the worst of the onslaught, and they would live. The good Fereldan villagers here only wanted blood after all, and not death.

"It looks to me that the fight only started when you and your companions got here," she shouted, staring at the four in turn. There was a constant lilt of amusement in her voice as she spoke. "Funny. I thought the Inquisition was here to restore order. Perhaps we have been at sea for too long, and the winds have changed, here?"

Over in the corner, a piercing shriek cut through the din; those who turned to look would see the minstrel, now cornered by the very group she had been pointing out with her eyes. One of them moved an arm, and after a flash of silver, the woman's throat was slit, sending a gush of hot, red blood pouring out over those nearby. As the spectacle made people freeze in horror, those involved made a run for it, breaking windows and pushing their way past the door to escape.

Alba turned and stared at it all, a hand over her heart, shaking her head. She did not lift a finger to help, however, and merely watched, as the poor woman bled out. Her crew merely gawked, too, standing idly by, and many even returning to tables to finish their meals and their ale.

"My, my. Her singing was not at its best, but that hardly warranted death," she remarked, turning to Ophelia. "A shame. I didn't even get her name. But she smelled like lilies. I imagine, now, she must smell more like rust."

A metal-lined boot stomped on her stomach, allowing the pirate captain to slither through her grasp. With a very unladylike groan, Ophelia spit blood on the creaky floorboards, struggling to regain her beatings. She clutched at her aching stomach as her companions fought with a frenzy, striking down mercenary after mercenary. The barfight ended in blood and sweat.

She hardly registered Alba’s comment as the bard’s body collapsed to the ground in a heap. Her voice died in her throat and all went silent around her. Whatever strange riddles Alba was spewing from next to her, Ophelia hardly had the capacity to solve them in that moment. After spending months deciphering Sera’s odd way of speaking, and then Cole as well, she found that she had no patience for yet another riddler.

“Very well,” Ophelia sighed and examined her bow, checking for any damage after the brief stampede that broke out and died just as quickly. “Alba Selvaggio, you and your … company will be coming with us.” She whistled to Blackwall, who was graciously carrying her velveteen knapsack, almost splitting at the seams from how much she had stuffed in the cramped bag.

“I should have rope bonds somewhere under the elfroot vials. Or in the pocket with the paralytic poison. Tie up the captain and round the others up,” she ordered her team. She turned back to the woman, unnerved by her wolf-like characteristics.

This was no place for upholding the frivolities of court behavior. Ophelia often struggled balancing the hardness associated with being the Inquisitor, and the gracefulness of a bred noblewoman. But even she could sniff out the trouble that this silver-haired woman could cause. “We occupy a fortress ahead — I’m sure you’ve seen it as you were docking.” She attempted an assuring smile. “We will, of course, send men to guard your ships while we determine your … future, as it were.”

With Alba’s hands bound and the rest of her crew grumbling at being poked and prodded by Sera, they were set for the short trek to Skyhold. Ophelia couldn’t be too careful; for all she knew, these were raiders from Antiva, judging by the lilted accents, and Josephine would likely have more knowledge on what to do with said bandits.

“You will be relocated to the cells, for the time being, until we have gathered sufficient evidence to determine your innocence. And I should apologize in advance for our dear Cassandra; she means well, believe me.”

---

Hyacinth eyed the man with a sense of shrewdness that would’ve made a lesser man quiver. Yet this one did not buckle, even as she held his gaze like a hawk hunting their next meal. The commander was smarter than he looked; how he managed to glean her true nature of work was beyond her. She supposed mentioning Leliana had been a slip-up on her part, though anyone else wouldn’t have batted an eye at the admission. Not many were fully aware of the true extent of Leliana’s duties, nor were they allowed in on the true identities of her agents.

Hyacinth was no exception to this. Although she was rightfully tight-lipped about her past, she did allow Leliana in on her birth name, the one that she dared not even think about. It had been 5 years since she last used it. With a new life came a new identity and she needed the past to stay right where it belonged — far behind her.

“I was not there to see it … Commander,” she drawled. Already her patience had worn thin with the blond, scruffy shem. Tossing her cinnamon-brown hair over her shoulder, fully revealing her pointed ears and completely bare face, she pulled away from the corner of his bureau.

His questions were neverending and she struggled to hone in on his words rather than drone them out. “The soldiers are the least of our concerns, ser. There have been whispers among the mages, many of them frustrated by their dwindling supply of lyrium, and we have yet to secure a satisfactory deal with the Carta for more resources.”

Drifting over to the door opposite his desk, she jutted her thumb out and gestured to the space behind her. “There have been gatherings in the gardens, near the shrine of Andraste. You might find me in prayer later this evening.” The barest hint of a smirk twitched her lips.

She was not religious. Even the elven pantheon, an assortment of gods that all Dalish clans revered, were not exactly in her good graces. But for the last three nights, she had cloaked herself and blended in with the newly-conscripted mages, roughly half a dozen or so that were clearly on edge with their new treaty terms.

The majority of the mages, nearly 120 of them, were wise enough to keep any complaints to themselves. Hyacinth wondered if the commander, the ex-templar that he was, had any clue what grudges the mages held. “You are a pious man, are you not, ser? I believe you should join me tonight, should you have the time. And if I were you, I would bundle up in a thick hooded cloak.”

She inclined her head, almost petulantly. “Am I dismissed, Commander?”

---

---

His hand was still outstretched, holding out the note of extra rations. Patience drawing thin, he maneuvered past his desk, taking a few long strides to place the paper in the woman's hand. Armor shook and clanked with each step he took, and as he drew close, she would smell the unmistakable scent of acrid herbs and crushed elderflower. The paper crumpled as he closed her hand around it firmly, as if expecting her to throw it back.

"If you won't take it, give Fisher your share," he explained, finally letting go. "Don't deny him his relief. It should get him back to the field sooner." Cullen then returned to his place behind the mountains of paper, resuming his work as he spoke. When she mentioned the gathering, however, his hands stopped, and he studied her with worried frown. His mouth opened and closed several times, as if reshaping his words repeatedly, the thoughts half-formed. Eventually, he found the right ones, and he spoke with a sudden speed, though his voice was now hushed. "Is this true? But... very well. It is best that I see this with my own eyes."

The Commander felt uneasy at her mention of his piety; was it pious to feel such fear and darkness in his heart when the mages were mentioned acting thus? He had told himself that he would do what was right, but given this, what would be right, if she were telling the truth? He eyed her smirk with some jealousy. Cullen had never been able to care less about anything, least of all, those in his care.

"I will make the time. Make certain that they will not notice my presence," he replied, more for his own conviction than her benefit. With a nod, he levelled with her gaze, conveying a small gesture of trust. "Dismissed, Agent Hyacinth. And let Leliana know of this. I... do not want her to think I am going back on my word. I... believe in the sacrifice of the Templars... but I also sympathize with the plight of the mages. We are all here to do what is right."

---

---

Alba looked on the armored man with pity. All the metal he wore and carried was already burdensome; the pack he lugged around must have felt like an anchor. Her interest was piqued when the poison was mentioned, not expecting the Inquisitor to resort to such dastardly tactics. All in all, Ophelia Trevelyan appeared to be a series of contradictions, packaged in a neat, leathered bundle of righteousness and pomp. For who else but a high-born Inquisitor could decide to take in a pack of pirates, magnanimously offer to watch their ship, and expect compliance as she explained their detention with detached cordiality, as if she were inviting them all to a little festa complete with wine and dancing? The crew howled and groaned all the way, some casting mutinous glances at their captain as they were all forced to follow the Inquisitor like placid little sheep. Despite it all, Alba merely smiled, reflecting Ophelia's cordial manner with an equally poised amusement.

"I see, so this is what passes for hospitality in your lands," said the pirate, with a shrug. "Your people are as cold as the snow. In my homeland, we would ply the prisoners with drink first, at least, before we bring out the ropes. The difference between honey and vinegar, as it has been said." There was no effort made to look innocent, and given Alba's nonchalance, it was evident that this was not the first time she had been placed in this position. "But thank you, Inquisitor, for offering to guard my ship. She is a beauty, is she not?" If Ophelia cared to look at the pirate, she would see a pair of eerie eyes staring back at her with a calculating gaze. "I had heard that the Inquisition has grown in power. But true power cannot be had without traversing the seas."

But quick as the wind, Alba shifted the topic, returning to the matter at hand.

"At any rate, who is this Cassandra? I hope she sees that I mean all the best, too," continued the pirate. "But truly, to waste your time on such a simple crime... and on innocent passers-by... I will have to give an honest account." Her lips lifted, turning the cordial smile into a savage grin. The promise of trouble glinted in her teeth. "Surely, the Inquisitor has more important things to do. I would hate to keep you."

With a great attempt, Ophelia's gracious smile did not falter once. In truth, she could not determine if the woman was playing a role, one who seemingly did not believe in consequences, or if this was truly who she was -- a jest in every sentence she spoke, and yet harboring not even a flicker of emotion in dire circumstances. A woman's throat had been slit in front of her and she did not even blink. Ophelia knew she would implement a request to have the tavern closed as soon as she made it back to Skyhold. An establishment as fickle as that one could not allow to stand so near to her home, or anywhere, really. It was simply barbaric.

"You will be provided a ration of water and stew while in the cells. Should your sentence prove favorable, then you may be allowed in our tavern. Cadot will set you up rather nicely, so I'm told." She hardly found reason to step inside such a place. Bars were not to her liking and she preferred to keep her business away from prying ears. Shifting closer to Alba, who was still at the front of the group, Ophelia took note of the calculating gleam in the woman's blinding stare. It was much like peering directly into the sun and she dropped her gaze a split second later.

"I know little of ships, though I am well-versed in geography and overseas procurement. You need not bother yourself with the Inquisition's status or position." Up ahead, billowing blue-and-gold banners waved at the group from the near distance. Ophelia spread her hands wide as the stone bridge and heavy metal gates appeared soon after. "We are doing quite well, I assure you," she proclaimed confidently, waving away the prisoner's unfettered concerns. Alba may have considered herself to have a silver tongue, capable of talking her way out of sticky situations or attempting to gather information with nothing more than an imploring stare, but as the Inquisitor, and as a woman from a highly-regarded noble family, she could smell the farce a mile away.

How many years had she suffered through the Orlesians silly games, always saying one thing but meaning something entirely different? One wrong move, one incorrect verbiage or phrasing, and you were cast out. She had learned what the quirking of pretty, painted lips signified; could feel the conversation shift with the slant of a kohl-lined eye, or the fluttering of a fan over a heaving, restrained bosom. She knew all the signs and knew when to play dumb. So she smiled coyly at Alba.

"You will meet Cassandra momentarily. Forgive me, but the bonds will not be removed until after your talk with our Seeker. I will not be present if that concerns you." As they stepped through the open gates, the guards blinked in a moment of confusion but immediately recovered. They had been expecting a party of four, not a party of ... well, a dozen and a half, at the very least. Ophelia stopped the taller woman in her tracks, tilting her head in unbidden interest. "Should you have any issues, take it up with the cell guards." With a curl of her fingers, Blackwall was at her side in an instant, still shouldering her hefty bag while the others drifted off to their respective posts. "We will meet again soon, Alba. Whatever story you spin, let it be a good one."

---

A deep frown etched into her otherwise impassive features as Commander Cullen marched over and thrust the rationing sheet in her hand. She jerked away on instinct, surprised at the warmth in his touch even through his thick wool gloves. She shoved the paper deep into a spare pocket of her leather breeches. Her shift for the day would soon be over, and she made a mental note to stop by Fisher's cot in the infirmary tower, something the Inquisitor had erected not even a fortnight ago.

"I harbor no great love nor hatred towards mages and yet ... I am concerned about the possibility of mutiny," Hyacinth admitted as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, one palm outstretched on the door behind her. "Well, in any case, I should like a second opinion before involving the Inquisitor in their mess." She shook her head, dropping her gaze from the too-stiff soldier before her. "Perhaps next time she finds herself stuck between a rock and a hard place, she will consider other opinions and not implement a decision based on what feels right to her." This time, Hyacinth did roll her eyes. As capable as Ophelia Trevelyan might be, her decision-making skills were not quite up to par. Were Hyacinth in charge, the mages would not have been considered an option -- no, she had half a decade to learn just how volatile mages were, and she was no exception to that rule.

First, however, she would notify Leliana of her whereabouts that night. Not that she expected anything of note to happen tonight: more complaining, likely, with the boldest ones declaring their intent to show the world their true power which signified no real action, as usual. "When the sun goes down, meet me near the pavilion in the gardens. The others will form around the altar so we will stick to the shadows. See you then, Commander."

She grinned once, almost feral, and dipped out of his room. Fisher was only two doors down. Hyacinth ignored the other scouts littering the walls, stopping momentarily to deposit the rationing sheet with the healers. As she expected, Fisher was in deep slumber, flipped on his stomach to avoid irritating the open wounds on his back. With a grimace she quickly exited and found Leliana last, notifying her of the small group of mages gathering in the courtyard at night. "I suspect nothing beyond talking shall occur, but I will update you nonetheless." She failed to mention Commander Cullen would be joining her. Had he not inquired on unsavory business and troop morale, she would have continued to attend the late-night rendezvous alone; but he, along with the other advisors, had standards to uphold. He needed to see with his own eyes how his people were faring.

---

---

Cullen was both relieved and alarmed to hear that even some of those among the ranks felt the same way he did about the Inquisitor's decisions. As he watched the elf leave, he strove to reassure himself with the idea of Ophelia being so unpredictably, irrationally charitable that the enemy is kept constantly on their toes, unable to guess the Inquisition's next move. Unfortunately, it also kept him and the rest of the advisors on their toes, ready to clean up any messes that good intentions caused. Now, this unplanned evening excursion was one of these efforts. The Commander finally allowed himself to lean against the wall, shaking his head at how he'd managed to create more tasks for himself. It had to be seen, though, by none other than himself. Though Templar and Templar recruits were no longer bound by their previous oaths, Cullen knew all too well that it took more than that to break free from such clean lines.

Give all that he'd seen and lived through, he couldn't help but feel a spark of anger and disappointment at the mages who lowered themselves into mutiny. Hadn't the Inquisition given them a safe place to hide while the world tears itself apart outside? With each piece of armor he removed, he did not feel the burden decrease. Instead, the combined weight of worry and resentment ate at him, even while he strove to stem the flow of thoughts in his mind. Only a prayer could quell the darkness in his heart, and he mouthed off to the Maker all the way, whispering each word of the Chant as if it were a curse upon his own sins, as he walked to meet Hyacinth at the courtyard.

Eventually, he'd reached the courtyard, the shadows of night transforming its simple tranquility into a garden of secrets and intrigue. Cullen made sure the hood upon his head was high enough to conceal his features. His eyes flitted about, waiting for the crowd to gather, though he hoped against hope that there would be none, and that Hyacinth would be mistaken. But Leliana's spies were very rarely wrong, in the end.

Considering his options, the Commander decided to stand at a shadowy corner where he supposed he would be able to hear most of the whispers, though it would also cut off his best chances of escape. All too well, he was reminded of how mages didn't need anything but their intentions and a focused mind to deal death to those who stood against their magic. Right now, all he had was a dagger, with his longsword being far too large to be hidden effectively under his disguise.

---

---

It was a wondrous fortress, far beyond anything Alba had ever seen before. Her mouth opened in excitement, ears already ringing with the sound of imagined coin. There had to be chestfuls of them in such a place! Little matter that their entryway into riches would be through the dungeons. Alba determined that she and her crew would get their share. After all, it seemed that they had quieted their grumbling, now that they began to see why Alba had been keen on getting caught.

"Forgive my presumptions, Inquisitor. Of course, yes, you are doing very well indeed," said the pirate, her smile darkened by greed. "I do look forward to our next meeting." The rumors of the Inquisition being an untrained and impoverished force was a pack of lies and intentional misinformation, she realized.

"Whatever story I tell, you can be certain of one thing - I am keen on writing myself into yours," continued Alba, raising her bound hands and making a funny little gesture with the fingers she could move, as if she were holding a quill and scribbling in the air. Then, she stopped, and stepped closer towards Ophelia, drawn back only by those who maintained the Inquisitor's security. "And be forewarned: I tend to write in blood, Inquisitor."

The threat warranted a rough transfer to the cells, with each one of them thrown in with disgust and outrage, the crimes of pirates known among many. Alba herself nursed a few bruises she had sustained, though she seemed not at all disturbed by the rats nor the smells. No, what worried her the most was the stripping of her sword. It was an ornate piece, easily worth a small fortune on account of its exquisite craftsmanship. So she stewed in the cell, awaiting the one who would no doubt torture her.

“What have you done now, Inquisitor?” Cassandra huffed the moment a council meeting was called, late into the evening. With Leliana and Josephine taking up their rightful position on either side of the oversized mahogany bureau, Cassandra had filled the last spare seat, usually occupied by Commander Cullen. Ophelia decided she would inquire about him later.

“It was purely coincidental, I assure you.” Ophelia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, meeting each of their concerned stares with a confidence that didn’t quite match her shaky words. “We stumbled across this old inn — how it balanced on that steep slope, Maker only knows — and it was freezing outside, so we entered as one does. And what would you know, a whole ship of pirates and raiders filled that place.” Ophelia clucked her tongue. “A fight broke out, a woman died, and we left with the culprits. They await their destiny in the holding cells, may Andraste have mercy on their souls.”

After her rambling speech, not once stopping for breath, the others displayed a mix of reactions. Josephine, bless her heart, stifled a smirk whereas Leliana hyperfocused on the yellowed, cracked map pinned down to the table. Only Cassandra seemed wholly unamused, a quirk of one brow betraying her irritation with Ophelia.

“And you did not … exacerbate said fight?”

Ophelia pouted indignantly. “Of course not!” She protested, throwing her hands in the air like a child who’s been denied a tin of imported chocolates. “I was an esteemed lady as always. I did not even have to restrain Sera this time.” With a furtive glance at Leliana, who had finally shifted her expression into her usual neutral one, Ophelia sighed deeply.

“Okay, perhaps our announcement as the Inquisition had something to do with the following commotion. But —“ She stuck up one manicured finger, pausing for effect, “Now we have saved the seas and coastal towns from those ruffians. Cassandra, would you —“

Her reply came abruptly. “No. You will lead the investigation. With all due respect, Inquisitor, this is your responsibility now. The throne is yours and now you must wear the crown, no matter how heavy it may be.”

And so it was, Ophelia thought glumly as she perched her bottom on the uncomfortable stone and metal chair, more of a bronze bench than a proper throne. When this trial was over, she’d have to see about getting a replacement. “Bring the prisoner forward.”

---

With the sun nearly set, Hyacinth donned a thick brown cloak, keeping her long hair loose underneath the hood to conceal her too-long, too-sharp ears. Not that it really mattered; elves and humans alike meandered the gardens, each of them wearing robes in various shades and styles. Some were fur-lined to combat the chilly Skyhold air, others were silk or cotton linens.

She easily sidestepped a city elf, marked by his unremarkable plain face, just as her own. He sneered at her but she pushed through the crowd, much larger than it had been two nights prior. That was to be expected, but the mass seemed to have doubled in size. This did not bode well, not at all.

“You stick out like a sore thumb, do you know that, Commander?” She breathed out to the stiff shadow in the shrubbery, his stance giving him away as one of a soldier, not a fellow mage. “We might have to report on this. They are multiplying far too quickly.”

With the group now encircling the gilded statue of Andraste, Hyacinth strained her ears to pick up on the murmured conversations. Crouching low, she darted from bush to bush, unbothered that she likely resembled a crab as she used her open palms to support her weight while crawling on the dewy grass. She had left Cullen a few paces behind — without proper training, the training that only a seasoned assassin such as herself would have, he would make far too much noise and she preferred he clung to the shade. He would be more of a witness than anything else on this night.

“They’re holding out on us, I tell ya!” One woman exclaimed from the center of the horde, too short to be seen but loud enough that her booming voice carried across the grounds. “I seen them dwarfs carting a dozen wooden crates in here just last week! And what is inside of them, do you reckon? OUR lyrium!”

Hyacinth’s eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets. Yes, they had been receiving weekly lyrium shipments, that much was true. But the reality was that their supplies were dwindling; less and less was being imported each month. The cost was only rising and the Inquisition was struggling to cut a deal to satisfy both parties. If they weren’t able to secure a contract soon, there would be no lyrium to distribute whatsoever within the next month or two.

It didn’t help that the Circles stockpiled lyrium by the droves, claiming they held utmost priority with their forces of templars and mages. It was a never ending political struggle, it seemed.

---

---

"I look just about like everyone else," he hissed back, though he made an effort to step deeper into the shadows at her observation. Cullen watched her work -or rather, he struggled to do so, as he could barely see her- and gained a new respect for all Leliana's agents. The speed at which they disappeared into darkness like they were made of it was astounding. "Multiplying...? So the previous gathering was much smaller than this, I take it."

It was difficult to hold his tongue throughout the proceedings, hearing all the complaints hefted upon the Inquisition's vulnerabilities and shortcomings. The worst of it was that they weren't wrong in their suffering. He racked his mind for ways to solve the problems without aggravating the situation by rationing, and the only solution that came to mind was to simply find ways to get more of the lyrium, even if it meant expending a few forces to secure it. He had considered putting together a group to raid some of the Circle towers for stores, but given the carnage that Templars have dealt, the veil was no doubt thin in those places. Demons were all but a guaranteed presence there, making whatever efforts at reconnaissance there a costly gamble.

He waited and looked around, not at all pleased with the boldness of those who had gathered. He had to wonder if the same was happening to the few Templars who worked beneath the Inquisition's banner. His eyes tried to identify those whose hoods fell as they made their impassioned cries; were they healers? Or those who worked to support field agents in combat and defenses? Perhaps their services could be turned away from the arcane as they managed this tricky situation. That's all this was, he reminded himself. The situation was the problem, and not the people.

As soon as the gathering dissipated, Cullen would follow Hyacinth away from the crowd, but not without looking over his shoulder. Was he really that out of place?

"Do you know any of them?" he asked the elf, fatigue etched all over his face. "I'd like to find the ringleader of this... this gathering. There's always a leader in these things, and once we get them to stop, the rest should fall into place. The last thing we need right now is our own agents raiding the Inquisition's supply lines." He sighed, crossing his arms. "But this is hardly the place nor the time to discuss. And I suspect you'll have to report to Leliana before anything else. Tell her what you heard today, exactly as you heard them. It should make sure we're on the same page, when I suggest the raids on enemy supply lines."

It was a desperate effort, to be sure, but these were desperate times. They had to use all that they had, and unfortunately, those happened to be the lives of the very agents of the Inquisition.

"I intend to oversee the first one, personally." His hand instinctively went for the dagger at his belt as he said the words. "I will show them that we are doing all we can."

---

---

"Well, that was frightfully quick," whispered Alba, as she awoke to the sound of people coming down to open her cell door. "This must mean something very good, or this is the end of the line for me." The pirate eyed each of her imprisoned crew as she passed them, and she mouthed a farewell to all, with a grin. "Addio! Take care of the ship for me, Giuseppe. And you, Alessandra... make certain the sails are repaired. Marco! Do not forget to - agh!" A well placed hit to the ribs silenced the captain, and she was forced to make the rest of the walk to the court with a gag.

Her eyes adjusted to the strange warmth of the hall's abundant sunlight, after hours in the cell, and as soon as they caught sight of the Inquisitor and her advisors, they widened with fascination. Here were the very people who held her life in their hands; Alba wondered why they seemed so much smaller than she thought they would look. Ophelia herself was dwarfed by the ugly throne she sat upon; far better for her bottom to be seated on something more regal than this, thought the pirate. Finally, her gag was removed, and as soon as it was done, the pirate immediately spat on the ground, leaving spatters of blood upon the stone floor. A palpable ripple of disapproval moved through those present.

"This is Alba Selvaggio of Rialto, present here for associations to murder, coercion and the threat of violence," announced a graceful voice, one whose sounds were familiar to the pirate's ears - a fellow Antivan. "She has claims that she and her crew are innocent, but there is plenty of evidence to suggest otherwise. It did not take much time to find out that this woman is the leader of a crew of raiders; I have some old records from my associates that happen to mention her... particularly, as a great leveler of any merchant company's balance sheets. In a word, she is a pirate, Inquisitor."

Alba licked her lips, giving the people before her a bloody grin. Unlike most who appeared before the Inquisition's judgment, the captain stood tall, as if calmly awaiting for death was a common affair. Despite her apparent disdain for the proceedings, she still held her tongue and had enough tact to let the Inquisitor speak first.

Ophelia kept her shoulders squared and her back straight despite the revelation. She had known, or at the very least assumed, what the odd assortment of vagabonds really were. From their eclectic, patched clothing to the windswept greasy hair, everything about them screamed pirate. But what was she to do with this information?

With a raised brow as her only flicker of discernment, she scanned the woman in front of her. “Tell me, Alba Selvaggio of Rialto, have you any say in your defense?” She had heard the pirate’s claim of innocence only hours ago but she was curious if there was anything else she might have to say for herself and her crew.

The mention of her company’s unsavory dealings with merchant companies had her on edge. Realistically, Ophelia should cut off her hands, or seize her ship and all her valuables inside, but the mere thought had her shifting uncomfortably in her stiff throne. There was another option, something so morally questionable that it would likely cause an uproar, but she had to consider all her choices. After all these years playing as a puppet under the eyes of the Empress, and now being spearheaded by the lesser people as a token of faith, she knew it was utterly impossible to keep everyone satisfied. She would make the decision that would provide peace in the long run, not light a flame of false hope that would burn her at the stake when things went haywire.

“I would like to hear more of these unseemly practices with the balance sheets. Selvaggio, if you would tell me your own personal accounts, so I may fully weigh all factors tying into your final judgment,” Ophelia spoke clearly and calmly. It didn’t escape her notice how Josephine sent her a fleeting skeptical look, but she kept her eyes on the callous pirate in front of her.

---

With the last lingering mage out of sight, Hyacinth shot out of the shadows and cast Cullen a disapproving glare. “I know all of them, it is my job. The short pasty one that was yelling in the middle of the crowd - that is Merren. She hangs out by the stables eyeing the Warden fellow all day,” she snorted as if she couldn’t possibly understand the infatuation with such a man. “And the elven man I bumped into? His name is Ryvalle, and he has only joined us recently. One of the stragglers from Alexius’ former team.” She shrugged as if none of this information really mattered.

“The leader is the least of our concerns.” Throwing her hood back, she stepped directly into the moonlight and faced the Commander, the jut of her high cheekbones glistening under the night’s starry skies. There could be no official confirmation on whatever they had witnessed that night. The mages were angry, as they were likely to be regardless of their outcome, the finicky beings they were, but Cullen had made a good point. If the Inquisition appeared to be weak, the mages would poke and prod to expose them.

“I shall alert Leliana of the concern, though we don’t have enough information for a full report,” she explained as she began walking out of the courtyard. “I have been overseeing these meetings for a fortnight and nothing has come out of it yet. Only complaint after complaint. We should prioritize their concerns, not dismiss them. We are in need of lyrium, and the upper council is failing to negotiate a proper resolution with the dwarven merchants, from what I hear.”

From what she’s heard from the dwarves themselves. They weren’t exactly quiet about their demands, and about their dissatisfaction with the inability to secure a favorable deal between both factions. The issue lied with those in power, not with the people who were in need of those resources.

---

---

Cullen understood the distance in her words, though he failed to imagine how one could feel, operating the way she did. Even as he could no longer remember the names of every single man or woman in the Inquisitions forces, each face, each pair of eyes meant much to the Commander. He was responsible for them all, and each life lost weighed on him, even as he did his best to keep such sentiments from showing. It helped that he was curt with some, though his newfound stance towards mages still meant he was still learning patience with their lot.

"Making a martyr out of their leader isn't the best course of action," he replied, seeing her point. His eyes lingered on her face, surprised at how different she looked out here, than in his stuffy office. Hyacinth was in her element, under the cover of night, and he was utterly out of it. The man averted his gaze, choosing to park it at the statue as he cleared his mind of unnecessary information. "But complaints... they can turn into more. Much more." Cullen looked back at her, his scarred lip now setting into a thin, grim line. "I think someone is keeping stores of lyrium on hold somewhere, taking advantage of the situation to drive up the price. Profiteers of the worst kind," he said, his voice dipping into a dangerous growl. "We need to force their hand, as soon as we can."

The catastrophe of Kirkwall had branded the importance of swiftness and urgency into the Commander's very person, and he could not stand to watch idly by as a potential thorn in the Inquisition's side would metamorphose into a full-blown stake in the heart of the valiant movement to save all of Thedas.

"I know Leliana and our Ambassador's ways aren't mine... but there is a time for action. That time is now. If we cannot gather enough gold to meet the merchants' demands, then we must get our stores elsewhere."

Cullen knew that she would be able gather that he meant forcibly collecting supplies from those in alliance with the Inquisition, even as he did not say so outright. There was a war going on, and there was no place for hesitation if the very mages that voiced their discontent here could turn into an army of demons the next day.

---

---

Alba winked at the Ambassador in a rather flirtatious manner, earning her an outraged gasp from the woman. No doubt it was played up to indicate complete disinterest on the noble's part; it was a game most Antivans and nobles of other nations were familiar with. Though the pirate was by no means a member of their hallowed flock, she could still play by the rules and break them in their faces, for she was not at all bound by such restrictions. No, the only thing she was bound by were the ropes around her wrist, and only in this unfortunate, temporary moment. That little amusement done, she then turned her full attention towards the Inquisitor, smiling as she spoke.

"My lady Inquisitor... with all respect, I was under the impression that I was to be judged for my alleged crimes at the tavern... of which I assure you, I am utterly innocent of," she said. Her words came slowly, in a sort of lazy drawl. "As I have said many times over, my friends and I were in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and with the wrong sort." Alba shook her head and gave a disapproving sigh. "Why, I even lost my hat in the skirmish that followed. A shame that the woman died. Such a beauty deserves a far better end than to spend the last moments of life face down on a sticky tavern floor. My bed would have been far softer, you see," she remarked, smirking as she did. "That was the only reason I spoke to her, and in these intentions, I was fully clear. Unfortunately, she had other expectations, namely... my aid." Alba's words now picked up speed, wary of getting interrupted at the crucial point. "As I was about to help, the good Inquisitor and her brave friends happened to grace us all with their presence. Then all Void broke loose. And now, here we all are."

She shrugged and tilted her head, glancing at everyone, as if the story made perfect sense. It was the truth, after all.

"As for the... other allegations, well. A ship does not just appear out of thin air," said the pirate, scoffing as she did. "What I do is not so different from what the fishermen do, after all. We sail the seas in search of a catch, and sometimes, well... what a catch it is!" A low laugh rumbled through her as she explained. "But you have my word that we have never chanced upon any of your fleet. I heard you had none, actually, and it continues to surprise me. How can you save all of Thedas, if you cannot traverse the great seas?"

Her eyes widened with an abrupt awe as she spoke of the waters, enchanted by the mere thought of it. One would think Alba had spoken of a lover, the way she stared vacantly for a moment, before returning her focus to the trial for her life.

"If I am in any position to bargain, I ask that you spare my crew," she said. "They make for terrible cellmates. I should know; I've spent months with them all cooped up in a ship, and they have such ugly, dreadful voices. Not one can carry a decent tune!"

Ophelia fought to keep her well-bred manners in check despite the utter insolence radiating off of the raider captain in front of her. At first, she was willing to hear the woman out — but now? Her patience was growing thinner with each lilting word disguised as a petty insult that dropped from Alba Selvaggio’s mouth. Though she let the woman finish her speech, Ophelia easily picked up on the half-truths and deflections littered throughout.

The pale-haired woman was incredibly keen, more than Ophelia might’ve expected from someone who spent all their time on the seas. What sort of education would such a person have under their belt? It couldn’t possibly be street smarts only that kept this woman sharp as a whip — or sea smarts, as it were. Ophelia was an objective woman, she really was. She did not judge as freely as her family did. Yet it was hard for her to believe that this … pirate talked with as much discernment as a person of her own background would.

With a too-forced benevolent smile, Ophelia finally rose from her throne and clasped her hands together over her midsection. “That is quite enough, thank you, miss Selvaggio. While you are a wonderfully sordid storyteller, I believe I have gathered enough information to make my verdict.”

Tearing her eyes away from the striking woman, who unnerved Ophelia so profoundly that she made a mental note to look under her bed before sleeping that night, she faced the mass of people and projected her voice for all across the hall to hear: “Alba Selvaggio of Rialto, you are hereby exiled back to your homeland, along with the rest of your crew.” A smattering of conversation exploded among the people below her but she continued her judgment without faltering. “The Inquisition will seize all of your assets, ship including, and you will have to find an honest way of living. Guards, secure her back in the cells — they shall be released in the morning under my supervision.”

---

Hyacinth surveyed him with an air of stilted curiosity, wondering how exactly his time in the Circle may have altered his judgment. The mage-templar war had begun as mere complaints, as whisperings in shadowed corridors until the pot boiled over and rose to a blazing fire. What was happening in Skyhold right under the Inquisitor’s nose could set aflame if they didn’t tread carefully.

“Give me some time and I could track down the hidden stores,” she replied in a hushed tone as she stepped up to a door that led directly to the main hall. “Save your forces for now — this would only work covertly, not with brute strength.” Her words died as a deeply-accented voice boomed out from the hall.

She halted, reaching one hand behind her to stop Cullen from moving ahead. That was the Antivan prisoner Ophelia had brought back only hours ago. Had they already begun the trial? Training her ears to hone in on what was being said, she leaned against the wooden door and knitted her brows together, deep in concentration.

This Alba character, as Hyacinth had gathered from Leliana earlier in the day, was a pirate, and one with a glib tongue. From the sounds of it, the pirate was not so subtly questioning the power and authority of the Inquisition. No one seemed too inclined to halt her haughty speech, and yet, there was something interesting to note here …

Turning to Cullen, her eyes were alight with pure pleasure. The Inquisitor, as usual, had improperly judged a prisoner. Exile, and law indeed, mattered not to those who engaged themselves in criminal activity. Chances are the pirates would come back and hit ten times stronger. But Hyacinth would not allow it to get to that level. She may not be as smooth with her words as the Antivan was, but she sure could be persuasive when she needed to be. “I think I know how we might secure those supplies.”