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The file trembled in her hands as she stormed out of the War Room. Thom Rainier’s crimes, sketched in cold ink. Children. Fucking Creators, children. Blood spattered on splintered wood, tiny boots still laced… Nausea spiked.
Aelin had put Leliana in touch with her underworld contacts, ordering her to free Blackwall – Rainier – from Val Royeaux’s prison and to bring him to Skyhold for judgment. He was her friend. She wasn't ready to see him hang. But…
His crimes went beyond treason, beyond the boundaries of a civil war. This was vile. Could she sentence him to anything else?
She crashed through the door into the main hall of Skyhold. She hadn't noticed Cullen behind her. Not until he stepped around her and blocked her path. “Inquisitor?”
Aelin snapped the file shut, fought to restrain a glare. “Yes?”
He held her gaze. “We all made this mistake. Sometimes we don't question those we want to trust.”
Aelin's jaw clenched. She sucked in an angry breath through her nose.
One.
Two.
Exhaled.
Her rage pulsed beneath her skin. The Anchor sparked in her hand, stung her, reflecting her. “How do you come back from this, Cullen?” she asked, an edge to her voice. “Even if he regrets…” She waved the file. “This is evil.”
Cullen didn't look away, didn't flinch. “I've asked myself that every day since Kirkwall.”
“And?”
He gently took the file from her hand. “With one right choice at a time,” he said quietly.
A body slammed into hers. A familiar hand, warm, not gentle, snatched her arm, yanking her forward as Solas passed. Aelin twisted, off balance. “Solas! What the –”
“Inquisitor?” Cullen stepped after them.
Solas didn't turn. “She needs air,” he said, flat and final.
Cullen stopped.
Nobles watched, though, judging them as Solas dragged her through the hall. Leading her, commanding her. She vibrated with rage.
He wanted to dance?
Fine.
She'd dance.
With knives.
He practically threw her through the door to her quarters. She stumbled, nearly over the edge of the staircase. Gatsi. New railing. Tomorrow.
The door slammed. One hand waved, sharp through the air. “Up. Now.”
Aelin didn't move. Arms crossed, jaw working silently, eyes locked on his. “If this is a new seduction tactic,” she said, voice low, dangerous, “I'm not sure it's working.”
The cold mask on Solas's face flickered. A twitch of his lips. Almost a smile.
Oh, perfect. She amused him. She could work with that.
He gestured again, insistent. Another command.
She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Then slowly, deliberately, she turned. One step, then another. Not because he won. Because she let him think he did.
They hit the top of the stairs. Taking three steps into her room, she spun on him. “All right. I'm here. What's so damn important?”
Solas stalked toward her, all grace, all hunger, all power. Aelin stood her ground, silently daring him to lunge, to bare his teeth, to make her bleed.
His fingers brushed the back of her hand. The Anchor flashed, green and raw. “You're burning.” Frustration was etched on his face. “And you won't tend to it.”
His words hit like a blade. She'd braced for a fight, and he… cared.
And he expected that care to be a battle in its own right.
Because of course it would be. It always was.
Aelin retreated a single step, her chin raised. “Barely a sting. I have work to do.”
He clicked his tongue, chasing that step and stealing her hand. “The Inquisition can wait. You cannot.”
She started to protest, but he lifted her hand, exposing her palm to his prying gaze. The anchor flared, bright, sickly, choking off her words. The scent of burned flesh permeated the air, thickened it. The light faded. She curled her trembling fingers, hiding the scald. Gently, so gently, Solas stroked her fingers open, coaxed her to let him see. His frown deepened. One hand hovered over hers, steadily glowing a softer, healthier green. The fire in her hand eased, then extinguished.
His thumb stroked over the Mark. The magic was settled, thrumming quietly. “Thank you,” she whispered. Surrendering ground, just for a moment, pausing the fight.
“What do you intend to do with Blackwall?”
Aelin's eyes snapped to his. Just like that, the fight was back. She yanked her hand away. “I don't know yet, but I take it you have opinions.”
Solas vanished into himself. The shutters closed. His face was unreadable once more. “I do,” he said, “but I would hear your thoughts on the matter first, without my influence.”
Aelin took a step to the left, away from Solas. A sharp turn. Hesitated. Then stepped back into the space she'd left. The room was too small for her anger. A glittering cage for a wild Dalish elf. “Blackwall lied to me,” she snarled, a thread of fragility woven into the words. “He lied about everything.” Solas didn't move. Restrained himself. Just watched, silent as the gods, allowing her rage to burn in the space between them. “How can I ever trust him again?”
He let the question linger. Then quietly, almost clinically, he said, “Most Wardens shed their pasts. It's the price of the Calling.”
“That's different.”
“Is it?”
Her eyes blazed. She dared a step toward him, paused, stopped herself. He didn't flinch, but he didn't close the distance, either. Just held her gaze, measuring her. “He's not a Warden.”
Solas tilted his head slightly, like a wolf evaluating a threat to the pack. “No, but he lived as one. Fought as one. Bled as one. For years.”
She scoffed. “You're defending him?”
“Someone should.” His voice stayed low, even, and that only made her angrier. “I don't excuse what he did. The crime was heinous. But he has spent his life since trying to atone, and that… matters.”
Aelin turned to the open balcony doors, sunlight cutting across her face. Fists clenched at her side. Blackwall's crime was beyond the pale…
Yet he'd come forward, saved Mornay, and told the truth. He was her friend.
But she couldn't get past it. “He lied to me.”
Solas clasped his hands behind his back, as if stopping himself from reaching for her, holding himself apart. “If he had told you the truth,” he said softly, “would you still have allowed him to join the Inquisition, to do good? Or sent him to the hangman?”
Aelin shook out her fists, shifting her weight. The urge to hit something rushed through her veins. Maybe Bull will spar with me later. Her jaw tightened, resisting the truth, but ultimately failing to hold it back. “I don't know.”
“Neither did he.” Her eyes snapped to him, widening. He dared a step toward her, continuing, “He did not know if he was safe. If he could trust you.”
Aelin snapped, “He did not give me a chance.”
Solas froze. “He did the best he could with the information he had. You cannot fault him for that.”
Closing the space between them with the force of a hurricane, she poked him in the chest. “I can blame him for being a coward. A murderer. A liar.”
Her panting breath filled the air between them, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes stung. He waited, let her regain some semblance of control, then whispered, “And if it were me? Would you judge me the same?”
Aelin finally stilled. Confusion, doubt, seeped into the cracks of her heart. “What?”
He didn't pull away, but he didn't touch her, either. He just… stood there. “Would you spurn me for lying to you?”
Her hand still hovered above his chest. Then her palm flattened there, tracking his heart beating wildly in his chest. “But it's not you,” she whispered back.
“You didn't believe it was Blackwall either, and yet…”
Shaking her head, she dug her fingers into the wool of his robes. “No. I know you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Solas sighed. “You know more of Dorian than of me. The dynamics of his family, his childhood, his –”
“I know the way you fight,” Aelin cut in, “the way you paint, the way you heal. Your favorite foods. I know the way you kiss me.” She pressed up on the toes of her boots until their breaths intertwined. “I know that I am your heart.”
Shivering, he ghosted his fingers over the vallaslin twisting like emerald vines across her cheekbones. “That is not enough.”
She leaned in slightly, brushed her lips against his, pulled back. “It is enough for me.”
He took two steps back, his hand falling, and she stumbled without him to lean on. His voice wavered as he said, “It should not be.”
Hurt sliced through her. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to condemn you? Because you don't share your past? Punish you for your secrets?” Something desperate crept into his eyes. “I won't. None of it matters. I know you.”
Solas took a deep breath, steadied himself, crawled back from the edge of… whatever this was. “Then why does the same not apply to Blackwall?”
Eyes widening, Aelin said, “It's different. I –”
“You trust what you see with me,” he pushed. “Yet you'll ignore what you've seen of him? He's fought valiantly at your side for months. Protected innocents. Children. You. Trained, played games, shared food, just as I have. Does who he has been to you change because he lied?”
“He's also murdered innocents, Solas. Yes, I admit, he's changed. But what, I should just free him? Let him walk away?”
She searched his face, but his walls had been rebuilt. “He has proven to you that he is no danger to anyone. His heart is good.”
Aelin paused. Considered.
The Warden – the Chevalier – who had fought by her side, stood up to evil, bled to protect others. His advice, his humor, his faith. His choice, not only to hide, but to hide in the skin of a good man.
A heavy sigh, and the tension drained from Aelin's shoulders. “Yes, it is,” she said quietly. “You are right.”
Solas arched a brow at her. “And?”
She scuffed the toe of her boot across the rug.
One heartbeat.
Two.
“Sometimes, men like Blackwall punish themselves enough all on their own,” she decided, meeting his eyes. “And sometimes… mercy is more torturous than any judgment.”
A sharp intake of air. The mask fell, desperation flooded his face, his hand twitched toward her –
Solas stopped.
His eyes drank her in, memorizing her, as if she were mist about to burn away in the sunlight.
The mask returned. His hand fisted. “I will leave you to your work,” he said, heading for the stairs, retreating, even after victory.
Hadn't he won?
Aelin's voice caught him halfway down the stairs. “Solas, wait.” He paused but didn't look at her. “Ar lath ma.”
The silence stretched, choked her, long enough that she began to think he wouldn't respond. Then, softly, he said, “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Aelin turned to her desk, bursting with reports and letters, heart heavy. Traced her finger along the edge of the desk as she rounded it. Lowered herself into her chair. The decision was made. She was at peace with it.
So why did she feel like she had broken something precious?