When Solas opened his eyes, he found himself inside a tent dimly lit by the glow of an oil lamp. The sound of the wind was a reminder of the blizzard that had struck him. Other than that… this place was warm.
He was lying on the edge of an improvised bed in a corner of the tent, his posture relaxed by the effects of sedatives he could not quite identify, but could nonetheless recognize without difficulty. His torso was bare, and a compressive bandage wrapped around him, showing red bloodstains—far too vivid to belong to a wound without active bleeding. He remembered almost nothing.
Almost.
First came a jolt of bitterness; he groaned, and his stomach tightened. Someone had stabbed him—that much he remembered. He hadn't felt it at the time, but now he certainly did. He tried to sit up, but only managed a painful jerk that forced him to curl an arm around himself and abandon the attempt.
Then something shifted beside him. The mage was forced to close his eyes as the pain tore through him. Nearly drained, damn them, and yet, still feeling threatened, he summoned what little arcane force he could to his hands. Cold sweat soaked his brow, but he prepared himself to fight.
- Solas… - the voice of the Seeker of Truth resonated beside him.
The woman's hand settled over his and invited him to release the magic.
- You're awake. You're safe.
He did not feel safe.
She had imprisoned him.
Solas pulled his hand away with some roughness.
Their gazes met. Confusion flickered in the warrior's eyes.
No. Those memories belonged to the past… She had imprisoned the Dalish woman, not him. And now reality was different—she was his companion, another member of the group led by Elentari.
- Did you drug me? - was all he managed to mutter.
He had been drugged before.
And he had never liked it.
The sensation that his mind was not his own (or rather, that it was not functioning as it usually did) irritated him deeply.
- You drank a sedative. You were badly wounded, Solas.
So she hadn't drugged him.
- It allowed me to treat your injuries.
So she had helped him…
- But the templar blade went straight through you.
Templar blade?
Suddenly, he remembered everything.
The loss of control. Elgar'nan's voice. Guilt. Judgment. A sentence that never came—and never would. He felt utterly defenseless.
- Thank you. - he muttered, trying to sound like himself. Trying to regain control.
How had he allowed himself to be overtaken by his emotions like that? How had he let all of it overwhelm him?
It was unacceptable.
He had to be better than his trauma.
- Did I kill them? - was the first thing he asked.
Silence first. An answer after.
- Yes.
- I didn't mean to.
He hadn't. That was true.
- I know. I know you well enough to know they attacked you first.
You don't know me at all…
And then, for the first time, he truly looked at her.
- Thank you.
The outline of the Seeker's face was blurred, and it bothered him. The dose she had given him had been too strong.
He wanted control of his mind.
He wanted to regain control.
He wanted everything to disappear.
- I want you to take this sedative out of me… - he complained, almost like a petulant child. He shook his head, annoyed, and fervently wished to regain his mental clarity, as though sheer desire could grant him victory. He knew better. Victory did not belong to the just or the innocent. It belonged to those willing to pay the price. To stain their hands… and he always had been.
- The effect will pass with time, Solas.
The pain would not pass. Oh no—she had meant the sedative. If only it would never pass. If only it would drag everything away with it.
- The pain was agonizing when I found you…
It had broken him.
And that was unacceptable.
- I couldn't take you to Adan because the storm hasn't let up. When it does, I'll bring you to the apothecary so he can treat your wounds.
- I can heal myself. I don't need anyone. I'm a mage.
- You're still very sedated.
- You sedated me. I didn't ask you to. - Cassandra fell silent. - What did you give me? - Solas felt agitated and still confused.
Cassandra remained silent for a moment that felt far too long to him, but eventually spoke again.
- Do you remember what happened, Solas?
He remembered everything. The storm. The Veil. The spirits. The templars' blows. Elgar'nan. His guilt for having killed so many in the past—and in the present. Blood. So much blood. The arcane explosion. The guilt. So much guilt.
- I think they attacked me because they saw me using magic - he concluded. - To protect myself from the storm…
That was true…
He thought.
He didn't know.
Solas shook his head, irritated.
- I think there were five of them. I'm not sure.
He hated not being sure.
- I'm sorry, Solas. It saddens me deeply that you were exposed to the worst face of the Chantry… to such profound injustice.
The mage smiled with disdain.
- The world has never been just, Seeker - he whispered, keeping his eyes closed, as though speaking more to himself than to her. - That is nothing new…
Silence filled the space between them once more, until she spoke.
- Do you know why this age was called the "Dragon Age," Solas?
The apostate smiled and forced himself to open his eyes.
- Why, Seeker?
- It was chosen because it was foretold to be a time of political struggle, wild beasts, and powerful magic… - she sighed and curved her lips into a half-smile. - I think everything is coming true, don't you? There's a massive Breach in the Veil…
- I think you forgot to mention something important about these times. - Cassandra looked at him curiously as he tensed his muscles, trying to abandon the relaxed posture he had fallen into. - This age is also characterized by being deeply marked by faith… Faith in the Chantry of Andraste.
Cassandra made a small grimace; he struggled to discern the reason —disgust, perhaps? With his blurred vision, he couldn't be sure.
- That's true, Solas. After all, this madness you've been caught in began with a belief that is supposedly unquestionable… - she whispered. - The belief that arcane practices have the potential to unleash ruin upon the world. And therefore, mages must be controlled. And that is why the templars attacked you.
He spoke with a mocking tone, despite his pain.
- Ah, but the templars are right. The magical arts… do have the potential to unleash ruin upon the world, Seeker.
- So you agree with the templars, then?
- You know me well enough to know the answer to that, Cassandra.
- I believe they attacked you simply because they saw you using magic. They never considered that you were doing it to survive the storm.
Solas smiled, even as his abdomen burned. He concealed it. Clearly, the narcotic was wearing off—the pain bore witness to that. But he could endure it.
- And if I had used magic by choice, would the attack have been justified?
- Of course not! But you can't go around using your magic all the time.
- Why not?
- Because it's dangerous.
- Ah, but you using your sword isn't dangerous, then. Is it?
- I don't use it all the time.
- You carry it all the time, and you can use it whenever you wish.
- The same applies to your magic, Solas.
The mage smiled. It was true. He had chosen his words poorly. He was clearly not at his usual level of clarity. He wondered where he wanted to take this debate—anywhere? Nowhere? He didn't know.
The truth, in all likelihood.
No. The truth was dangerous.
But he could play with the narrative.
Could he?
He could try.
- The issue here, Seeker, is that we're talking about a different concept. We're talking about "truth," aren't we? What truth do the templars defend, and what truth do the mages defend? You are a Seeker of Truth. Tell me—what does that truly mean?
- We were meant to maintain the balance of power within the Chantry. Our goal was to root out corruption wherever we found it, whether among rogue mages or within the Chantry itself. Though now, that seems to no longer matter.
- Ideas never stop mattering, Seeker…
- Tell me, Solas... what can be done for truth to prevail in times as dark as these? Is there something the Inquisition can offer where the Chantry and the Seekers of Truth have failed?
Solas looked at the warrior before him, saw the weariness etched into her expression, and thought it honorable. That a woman like her—laden with titles and external recognition—would engage in this kind of conversation with an apostate mage who held no honors at all was commendable. It showed she was free of shallow prejudice. And that gave her a perspective few possessed.
Perhaps that was why he decided to share something of his true knowledge.
- For truth to prevail, organizations must be created with the power to tip the scales in favor of facts, Cassandra. - He braced his hands at his sides, tightening the muscles in his arms to better adjust his wounded torso and rest his back against the side of the tent. Pain tore through him, forcing a small sound of complaint from his lips. A knot of agony burned in his abdomen and spread its tendrils through the rest of his body. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he trembled.
It didn't matter. The tactic the Seeker had used to restore his mental clarity had worked—she had appealed to his reason, weakening the narcotic's hold. Now pain split him in two, but his mind was sharper… and his body was, after all, that of an Evanuri. He would not die—not from a templar blade, at least.
- Do you need help, Solas?
- No. There's no need. Thank you. - he assured her. - I want to answer your question.
She had helped him; in return, he would give her the truth.
He would explain that every institution—even the Chantry—requires mechanisms to correct itself, because infallibility does not exist. What exists is only the desire to appear infallible.
The Seekers of Truth had arisen precisely for that purpose—to act as an internal restraint. But they failed by not imposing real limits on the Chantry's power, the very authority they were meant to oversee. Still, Solas did not believe such mechanisms should be discarded. On the contrary, understanding their failure should not discourage them, but drive them to rebuild them better.
And for that same reason, the Inquisition would need to learn to watch itself, to recognize its own mistakes and correct them. There lay the difference between the Seekers of Truth and the Inquisition: in acknowledging that an organization that accepts its capacity for error will always be stronger than one that proclaims itself perfect.
At its core, accepting the possibility of error is far more solid—and far more honest—than claiming infallibility.
Solas forced himself upright to share this knowledge with the Seeker, and the moment he did, he felt terribly ill. A white haze distorted his vision. He closed his eyes, feeling as though his insides might spill out of him.
- I need a spirit to heal my wounds.
He confessed.
He was worried.
The injury was more dangerous than he cared to admit.
- Can you find one? You're far too pale, Solas.
- Of course. I will... once the sedative fully wears off. I don't want to disturb any of them.
- But you don't look well at all. Call one…
She was right. He wasn't. He felt so useless it was maddening.
- Here, drink. - he heard her say.
- I don't want any more drugs.
- It's a healing potion.
Solas looked at her, offended. Why hadn't she given it to him earlier?
- You've already had four.
Four?
That was humiliating.
- Then I suppose I'll have five, Seeker.
Shortly after, he felt the cold vial against his lips and drank until it was empty. He didn't know it, but Cassandra had mixed it with more narcotic. It was clear the mage would not allow himself to be defeated—but it was even clearer that he needed rest, and a mage to properly tend that wound. The bleeding hadn't stopped, and Solas was paler than she liked.
Slowly, Cassandra watched the elf's eyes darken. His pupils were far more dilated than when he had awakened. She saw him struggle against the effect, but winning this time would be impossible. The apostate placed a hand on her arm, squeezing gently.
- I don't want to…
…I don't want you to tell the others. I don't want them to worry. I don't want you to tell the Herald.
- You must rest, Solas. - she whispered, taking him by the shoulders and guiding him back onto the bed. For a moment, she thought he resisted—but an instant later, his eyes closed.