Miriam's knees met the chill of the chapel's stone floor as she kneeled in reverent prayer before the statue of Andraste on the eve of their journey to the peace talks. At her side was Lysette, her head bowed in solemn silence kneeling with the soft clink of her armor. The statue of the Maker’s Bride, with its serene countenance and outstretched arms, seemed to watch over them.
“O Creator, see me kneel, for I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my heart." Miriam chanted, the hushed murmurs of her whispered devotions echoing in the sacred space. Suddenly, as if in response to her words, a sharp pain pierced through her hand. The mage gasped, her eyes snapping open. The anguish intensified, and blood burst forth from the mark, staining her robes and the floor beneath her.
Lysette, alarmed, turned towards her friend. "Maker's breath, what's happening?!"
Miriam opened her mouth but gripped by the sudden agony, she couldn't form coherent words. She dropped to the floor clutching her hand, trying to summon the magic within her to heal the wound. The pain, however, resisted her attempts, spreading through the emerald veins like a relentless tide.
"Herald, please, tell me what's wrong!" the Knight pleaded, kneeling beside her.
The mage’s eyes widened and a strangled cry escaped her lips. Lysette faltered for only an instant. Tapping into her Templar prowess, she stretched forth her hand and invoked a Spell Purge. Instantly Miriam sensed her hand growing numb, as though the nerve endings had dulled and lost their responsiveness. The bleeding came to a halt, however, and the excruciating pain was replaced by an unpleasant tingling.
"What in the Maker's name was that?" the Templar demanded, concern etched on her face.
"It…It's a sign from Him. He speaks…he speaks to me in mysterious ways,” she managed to mutter regaining her senses.
Lysette's countenance darkened. "Even should it be a divine omen, you need assistance. Seek Solas's expertise on the mark."
Miriam's gaze flared with defiance. "I shall have nothing to do with that apostate," she retorted, gradually raising herself to a seated position.
"With all due respect, Herald, your obstinacy is unwarranted. The elf may know how to alleviate your suffering," the Templar insisted.
"No!" Miriam snapped. "Swear to me, Lysette. Swear that neither you nor any other shall meddle again. This is between me and the Maker!"
Lysette hesitated and then reluctantly nodded. "I swear, but I fear you may be making a grave mistake."
The mage fixed a stern gaze upon her friend. "I place my trust in His guidance. Now help me up. At dawn, we journey to Val Royeaux."
The Templar assisted Miriam to her feet, blood smearing across her armor as she supported the mage, "Will you, at the very least, consider seeking aid if things worsen?"
Miriam remained silent, simply tightening her hold on the Templar's arm.
Lysette released a sigh, guiding the Inquisitor to her quarters as the echoes of their footsteps gradually faded in the dimly lit chapel.
The Winter Palace, grandiose and resplendent, perched like a jewel in the heart of Halamshiral, greeted the Inquisition forces with its opulence. Its white marble walls gleamed, adorned with statues of golden lions. Only the Inquisition council had the privilege to enter the palace, however. Lysette, along with the soldiers, remained outside, poised and ready for whatever awaited them.
As the council passed through the gilded gates of the palace, designed for ceremonial rather than defensive purposes, they were greeted by the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, dressed in sumptuous robes with a demeanor that exuded both charm and authority.
His dark eyes sparkled with calculated warmth as he extended an enthusiastic welcome to the members of the Inquisition council. "Ah, my honored guests," he exclaimed, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Welcome to the Winter Palace."
Miriam, with a polite nod, acknowledged the Grand Duke's greeting. The prospect of being around so many nobles unnerved her, yet Gaspard's friendly demeanor put her at ease. "Lady Trevelyan,” he said, singling out the mage and moving slightly closer to her. “The hero who closed the Breach! A feat that has impressed even the most skeptical among us," he commented with a tone that carried respect as they walked towards the entrance of the palace through the lash garden. Before she knew it, he was walking right beside her, positioning himself so that she was separated from the rest of the council. “Imagine, my Lady, what you could achieve with the full support of the rightful ruler of Orlais." He spoke softly, his voice having a melodic cadence.
Miriam's mind drifted into a vision, a tapestry of fire and blood. In her mind's eye, she saw legions of faithful followers marching under the banner of the Inquisition against the forces of the Elder One. The Chant of Light echoing louder than the cries of battle, bringing deliverance and righteousness in its wake. Meanwhile, Gaspard continued to paint a picture of collaboration. "The Empress's diplomatic foray into the mage dilemma and the elven unrest have left Orlais vulnerable. As a loyal enchanter and a believer, surely you understand the dire consequences. Together, we could birth an age of order not merely for Orlais but for the entirety of Thedas. I implore you to weigh my words." The doors swung open, admitting them into the heart of the palace. The Grand Duke, with a curt nod, declared, "Find me atop the stairs in the Grand Hall should you wish to converse." Having said that, he tersely extended his farewells to the council members and took his leave.
"What did he propose in your conversation?" inquired the Ambassador, her tone tinged with suspicion as she led her into a quiet, secluded corner.
"He spoke of the alliance and made assurances. I won't deny that his arguments held weight," Miriam confessed.
Josephine's smile was a measured response. "Weighted words, carefully tailored to align with your desires. Gaspard is a maestro of the Game, much like the Empress herself."
"Perhaps he is, yet he's a man of war, revered by his troops for his valor," Cullen interjected with a stoic demeanor. "Securing his support would significantly fortify our soldiers' morale."
"I fear, Commander, that such support cannot be garnered without incurring the wrath of the Empress," came the sobering reply from the Ambassador.
"Yet," Leliana began, her gaze cold, "our aim is not necessarily the salvation of the Empress herself, but rather the prevention of Orlais succumbing to anarchy in the absence of a ruler. If Gaspard lives and can ascend the throne, our mission could still be achieved."
Miriam's heart beat wildly at the revelation, the Maker's will crystallizing before her. At last, it was the chance to give him the blood he demanded.
Josephine gasped, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest. "What are you suggesting? That we stand idly by and let the woman perish?"
"We shall not," the mage declared, as she sought to weave a convincing facade. "It merely implies that, while delving into the depths of the impending assassination, we must also strive to protect the Grand Duke’s image."
Leliana acknowledged her words with a sly smile. "My agents have already infiltrated the palace. While we await their findings, let us disperse and mingle amongst the nobles. We must not arouse suspicion. Reconvene here in an hour, and may the Maker watch over us."
Time spent amid the pampered crowd, surrounded by the insipid chatter of aristocratic buffoons, ignited in Miriam a fervent desire to set fire to the entire place. Exhausted by the false smiles, the hollow pleasantries, and the incessant barrage of nonsensical questions about her mark and her viridescent veins, she decided that she had already spent enough time in this cesspool of treachery and that it was the right moment to engage in a more meaningful discourse with the Grand Duke. She needed reassurance that Gaspard was the Maker's chosen ruler for the beleaguered land. Despite her unwavering acceptance of the path dictated by Him, there was still uneasiness within her.
Ascending the steps of the Grand Hall, she traversed the plush carpet, its golden embroidery yielding softly under her boots. Her journey led to a secluded enclave with a slightly ajar window, where the Grand Duke stood. His posture was impeccable, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed upon the distant vista. As she approached, despite the carpet's hushed concealment of her steps, he promptly took note, a content smile gracing his lips. "Inquisitor, I knew my words would stir your heart," he intoned, his voice carrying a measured confidence.
"They did, Your Grace," Miriam began in a hushed whisper, though the privacy of their conversation assured that no one overheard. “That’s why I want to inform you that the Inquisition is here on a mission to protect the Empress from an imminent assassination attempt orchestrated by the malignant entity known as the Elder One." The Duke, his countenance inscrutable, listened intently as Miriam pressed further, "Do you know of anyone within the court who may collude with this villain, someone who could pose a potential threat?"
A pregnant silence lingered, stretching the moment into eternity. Then, a chuckle rumbled from the Duke's throat, breaking the tension. "Incredibly refreshing," he remarked, "to finally meet a noble who speaks plainly." He took a contemplative pause before sharing his insights. "Briala, the elven ambassador present at the ball, is one of the few who harbors genuine ill will towards the Empress," he disclosed, his words resonating with disdain. "The elven rebellion flourished under the Empress's leniency," Gaspard intimated, leaning in for emphasis. "She permitted them to worship their false gods in the Alienages. Under my rule, every Alienage would become home to a Chantry, securing the true teachings of the Andrastian faith even among the lowest of his children." Miriam absorbed his words, her resolve strengthening as the Duke persisted, "Or perhaps it could be one of the apostates in Celene's employ." He added with a shake of his head, "This might explain her feeble response to the mage rebellion."
Horror seized Miriam as the Duke exposed the heretical practices within the Empress's court. The blatant disregard for Andrastian teachings was abhorrent. "Thank you, Your Grace. We shall investigate. Rest assured, the Inquisition will act in the best interest of Orlais' future," she declared, a mask of determination etched onto her features.
"I certainly hope so," the man replied. "You strike me as a sensible, pious woman, Lady Trevelyan. May Andraste guide your path."
Miriam acknowledged the Duke's words with a nod, her eyes reflecting a blend of conviction and sincerity. Without lingering further, she turned on her heel, her swift steps leading her in search of Cassandra.
In her quest, she found the woman engaged in a conversation with a noble whose words seemed to weigh heavily on the Seeker's patience. Sensing an opportunity, Miriam approached and, with a discreet signal, caught Cassandra's attention. The Seeker's eyes flickered with gratitude as she seized the excuse to extricate herself from the man's company.
Cassandra joined the mage in a more secluded part of the Hall. "What news do you bring, Inquisitor?" she inquired, her eyes sharp and expectant.
"Disturbing tidings indeed," she whispered, mindful of potential eavesdroppers. "The Duke has alluded to heretical practices within the court. Briala, the elven ambassador, may be entangled in this web as well. I require you to discreetly safeguard Gaspard. Your Seeker skills could protect him from the apostates, and as royalty, your extended presence at his side would arouse minimal suspicion."
Cassandra grumbled in reluctant acceptance. "So be it, but be warned, prolonged time together may give rise to unwarranted courtship rumors. I shall endure it nonetheless."
"Very well. I shall go and apprise Leliana of these matters," the mage responded.
The Seeker nodded in acknowledgment and proceeded toward the stairs.
As Miriam traversed the Grand Hall towards the Spymaster, she encountered a gathering of nobles encircling Cullen. The assembly swirled around him like a tightening python, their voices a ceaseless hum of inquiries and inappropriate comments. Cullen's countenance, typically steadfast, now appeared pallid, his jaw clenched. In the midst of this aristocratic vortex, one woman dared to place her hand on his shoulder, freezing his features in discomfort. He briskly moved his arm, dislodging the intrusive touch, and his steely gaze fixed on the noblewoman. "Madam, I must ask you to refrain from such liberties," he said, his tone polite but stern.
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Undaunted by the rebuff, the noblewoman attempted to justify her actions with an air of nonchalant charm. "Oh, Commander Rutherford, my intention was merely to express my sincere gratitude for your valiant efforts in sealing the Breach. Just a gesture of appreciation," she purred, fanning herself in a coquettish manner.
Cullen's jaw tightened further, unmasked frustration crossing his face. "I appreciate your sentiments, but such gestures are unnecessary. Now, if you'll excuse me," he replied tersely, attempting to extricate himself from the crowd. However, another woman placed herself right in front of him.
"Commander, I've heard tales of your prowess on the battlefield. Perhaps you could regale us with a firsthand account of the skirmish? The court thrives on such thrilling narratives," she inquired, a glint of anticipation in her eyes.
Miriam felt the flames of anger surging within her; those people just wouldn't leave him alone! With unapologetic determination, she forcefully pushed through the throng, disregarding disgruntled huffs and surprised exclamations, her singular focus on reaching her friend. "Commander Cullen," she addressed him with deliberate loudness. "There's an urgent matter that demands your attention. Excuse us," she added, casting an aggrieved glance at the lingering nobles.
He acknowledged her approach with a nod, relief spreading across his features. Yet, the expression quickly transformed into one of incredulous shock, his breath hitching. Startled by the sudden change, Miriam surveyed the surroundings, her gaze falling upon the face of a smug nobleman who was brazenly sliding his hand over Cullen's backside.
The mage's anger ignited a furious blaze. "Enough!" she exclaimed. "Don't you dare lay your filthy hands on him!"
The nobleman recoiled, indignation crossing his face. "Your words carry the stench of the vilest disre-"
His words were cut short as Cullen, in a swift and decisive motion, spun around to face the bastard who had dared to assault him. "Consider this your only warning, Your Grace. Any further transgressions will be met with appropriate consequences," he declared with seething intensity, his imposing figure towering over the man.
The gathering erupted in gasps and whispers as the assembled aristocrats, sensing the impending confrontation, instinctively created a small circle around the unfolding scene, their curious eyes fixed on the escalating drama.
The nobleman, now red-faced, stumbled backward. “Perhaps a reminder in the art of manners is in order, for it seems you have grievously overlooked your standing within the hierarchy of this esteemed court," he pronounced in a high-pitched voice.
Miriam poised herself to respond, but a sweeping glance across the murmuring assembly made her acutely aware that they were drawing attention from every corner of the Grand Hall. Summoning her resolve, she quelled her anger and, with it, the power emanating from the mark on her hand. Thankfully, the thick material of her gloves concealed the telltale glow she knew to be radiant.
As whispers started to circulate, the tension in the Hall escalated swiftly. It was at this precarious moment that Josephine made her entrance, an embodiment of calm and composure amid the burgeoning chaos. "Duke Germain," she addressed the man who molested Cullen with a tone that effortlessly cut through the commotion. "Allow me to remind you that we are all esteemed guests in the Winter Palace. Let us conduct ourselves with the decorum befitting this grand occasion." The crowd hushed, their attention pivoting toward the Antivan woman. "Inquisitor, Commander, dear guests,” she continued, “I implore you to remember the purpose of this gathering. Let us not mar this illustrious event with discord." Her manner, a masterful blend of tact and authority, began to pacify the agitated nobles.
Duke Germain, now somewhat calmed, muttered toward Cullen, "If your delicate Ferelden sensibilities took offense, I regret any inconvenience caused. Let us put this matter behind us, and I graciously permit you to learn from this encounter to avoid future lapses in decorum." With a proud lift of his head, he retreated alongside his entourage.
As the crowd, still murmuring, gradually dispersed, a lingering tension hung in the air. Josephine looked at Cullen with a strained smile. "Commander, may I trust you to enjoy the evening without incident?"
He nodded his head reluctantly. "Thank you, Josephine."
"Herald, Commander," the Ambasador made a small curtsey and hastened toward the nobles with words of appeasement.
Cullen approached Miriam, incredulity etched into his features, but his muscles seemed visibly more at ease now. “While I am grateful, Inquisitor, the nerve of those pompous, arrogant--,” he cut himself off from his building tirade with a long exhale, “I hope Josephine will pacify them. We don’t need this complicating or distracting away from the mission.”
“I long for means beyond mere words to instruct them, to etch a lesson upon their wicked hearts," the mage admitted, still fueled by the lingering adrenaline of her outburst.
Cullen passed a weary hand over his face. "I share the sentiment, but I fear we are denied that luxury."
The mage, locking eyes with him, asserted, "Should they insist on tormenting you again... they shall see the consequences of harming those I hold dear."
Cullen’s expression softened at her words. "Herald," he said, a hint of warmth in his tone, "we have a mission to fulfill. Let's not allow personal feelings to cloud our judgment. There's much at stake here."
The enchanter, though appreciating his dedication, pressed further. "I understand your point, and I agree that our mission is paramount. But there are instances when some matters can't simply be ignored. What if the roles were reversed? Would you be able to maintain your calm if you witnessed someone behaving inappropriately towards the person you cared about?"
Cullen furrowed his brow, contemplating her words. "It would be difficult, but I would hope to find a way to address the issue without compromising our mission."
"And if diplomacy failed, if the actions were egregious? What then?" she insisted.
There was a shift in his expression, a hardening of his gaze. "I would do whatever was necessary to protect you."
At his words, Miriam's heart skipped a beat, and she looked at him with a mix of surprise and hope. “Me?”
As he seemed to realize the implication of his statement, a flush of color tinted his cheeks, and he started to stutter, stumbling over his words. "I...It's not... I didn't mean -"
His utterances were interrupted by Leliana, whose approach went unnoticed in the depths of their conversation. "Commander, Inquisitor, please accompany me to the Vestibule. I have important news to discuss with the council," she declared with an edge of urgency.
Their discourse, momentarily forgotten, was eclipsed by the Spymaster's summons. They redirected their attention to her, and she gestured for them to follow. Miriam, hastening to keep pace, declared, "Cassandra is guarding Gaspard, and Josephine is salvaging our reputation among the nobles."
"I am aware of your endeavors, Inquisitor. You have been rather occupied," Leliana remarked in a tone that teetered between amusement and judgment.
"The Game has never been my forte. I leave the intricacies of courtly maneuvering to those more adept at deception," the mage retorted.
The Spymaster smiled slightly but offered no response. The trio moved through the throngs of nobles, their elaborate dresses rustling like autumn leaves, as they moved toward the silent and empty Vestibule. The contrast was striking, the cacophony of the Grand Hall replaced by hushed silence.
In the secluded space, Leliana wasted no time. "My agents succeeded in intercepting and interrogating one of the agents of the Elder One, an elven servant who was trying to poison the food in the kitchens."
Miriam noticed Cullen's brow furrow at the news, his concern palpable. “After a brief yet intense questioning,” the Spymaster continued, “the elf confessed that the assault is planned to transpire during the Empress's speech at the tolling of midnight bells. Regrettably, he perished before divulging any further information.”
Tension hung in the air as they absorbed the gravity of the revelation. Miriam, her mind racing with the implications, turned to Cullen. "We need to fortify the security around Duke Gaspard."
Cullen nodded, his demeanor transforming into that of a focused and decisive Commander. “We must act swiftly and discreetly to prevent panic among the nobles.” After a brief pause, he added, “I'll alert the palace guards and conduct a thorough sweep of the premises. We cannot afford any bloodshed."
Miriam felt a sharp sting in her mark as if a needle had pierced it right in the middle. She winced and looked at her hand; the white fabric of the glove was rapidly turning red. The Maker was speaking to her once again, reminding her of His will.
“But we do, we do have to let it happen,” she mumbled. Cullen and Leliana turned to her, their faces registering surprise and concern. Miriam hid her hand behind her back, concealing the evidence of the Maker's call. She didn’t have the time or patience to explain the intricacies of the manifestation of His will at the moment. Addressing her companions, she spoke with a measured tone, "Leliana was right. We do not need the Empress to survive for our mission to be successful." Her comrades exchanged puzzled glances as Miriam continued, "Gaspard would make a worthier ruler for Orlais, and he has pledged his support to our cause. Our troops will greatly benefit from his expertise as well."
The Commander contemplated her words, his expression reflecting the weight of the decision ahead. "Choosing sides in Orlesian politics is a dangerous game, Inquisitor. Are you certain the Grand Duke can be trusted?"
The mage met his gaze with conviction, "His beliefs are in line with the teachings of Andraste, Commander, a sentiment I cannot attribute to the Empress. If we are to stand against the corrupt and the wicked, we will need allies who are as pious as we are."
“The Empress's reign is on the wane, and Gaspard would be a more pragmatic choice for the future," Leliana added. "If aligning with him furthers our goals, Celene’s demise may be a necessary compromise."
Cullen sighed, acknowledging the pragmatism in their words. "Very well. If you two believe this is the path we must take, I will support you.”
“My people will inform Cassandra and Josephine about our decision. Though it may displease them, we possess the majority, and acceptance is their only recourse. We should be primed to address the assassins upon the Empress's demise, so let us strategize for that," Leliana concluded with a calculated tone.
The plan was surprisingly simple. Following the death of the Empress and the ensuing panic, Josephine and Leliana's agents would convene at the Grand Duke's side. This strategic location within the Grand Hall offered a stronghold for a prolonged defense, guaranteeing the safety of both Gaspard and Josephine. Meanwhile, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra and Miriam would directly confront the assassins before the Inquisition reinforcements could intervene.
The remainder of the evening was spent in anxious anticipation as Miriam waited for the tolling of the midnight bells. Her hand throbbed with increasing pain, and the bleeding persisted. The gauntlet, now soaked with her blood, posed a growing challenge in concealing the affliction. Her vision blurred from time to time, with splashes of red encroaching in the corner of her eyes, and by the time the bells tolled, signaling the Empress's arrival to greet the attendees, Miriam was barely holding herself together.
The Empress entered the Grand Hall with her entourage, draped in a resplendent white gown, a golden mask adorned with diamonds concealing her visage. She executed practiced smiles and moved gracefully through the crowd. The mage, in the sea of nobles, was like a coiled spring waiting to be released.
As the Empress continued her greetings, the attention of the enchanter was seized by a noblewoman delving into her pocket. Miriam's heart raced wildly as the glint of a dagger caught her eye. This was the moment they had anticipated, the moment where she would allow the woman to meet her end. Yet, at that crucial juncture, doubt crept into her conviction. It was one thing to discuss such decisions and another to witness their execution. Celene wasn't a worthy ruler for Orlais, but still… Another sharp sting of pain, a reminder of the Maker's will compelled her to clench her fist and simply watch.
Time seemed to stretch into an endless crawl as the noblewoman hurled the weapon into the Empress's throat. A collective gasp echoed through the Hall as blood spurted from Celene's neck and she crumpled to the floor. Chaos erupted, transforming the scene into a tumultuous pandemonium. Guards stationed around the Empress rushed towards the assailant, but before they could reach her, the woman slashed her wrist with another dagger, unleashing a bloody spray that rendered them unconscious. “Blood magic," Miriam seethed. Hastily, she yanked off her soaked glove, revealing the glowing, bleeding mark on her hand. With urgency in her eyes, she tried to approach the unfolding chaos, seeking a path through the disoriented nobles and guards to confront the blood mage.
Yet she was outdone by Leliana and Cullen, who swiftly joined the fray, their weapons drawn with lethal precision. Now, there was no way for her to unleash the mark's flames without the risk of hurting them. She could forgive herself for scorching the Spymaster or a noble a bit, but not Cullen, never him. So, instead of summoning her emerald flames on the assassin, she wove barriers around her comrades.
Just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of the Inquisition, a sudden appearance of Harlequins, as if materializing from the shadows, altered the dynamics of the fight. Too many to count, they moved with eerie grace, their attacks distracting the Commander and the Spymaster, allowing the blood mage to inch closer to where Gaspard stood. But thankfully, the maleficar was swiftly intercepted by Cassandra, who sent her into oblivion with the Wrath of Heaven, followed by a swift decapitation.
Miriam conjured another barrier around the Seeker, who now joined the fight with the Harlequins. The urge to release her flames tingled under her skin, yet the same predicament lingered—her enemies were too close to her comrades. The Harlequins disregarded her and other nobles, their sole focus on reaching the Grand Duke, the last remaining candidate for the throne.
So she remained at a distance, a vigilant observer of the unfolding skirmish, ensuring her allies remained shielded from harm. Amidst the chaos, she was constantly jostled by nobles attempting to flee. However, the exits weren't spacious enough for a multitude to leave at once, resulting in a slow and tumultuous escape.
The clash was fierce, but the seasoned warriors were gaining the upper hand. With the arrival of the Inquisition forces imminent, it seemed the fight would be over before it truly began. A booming voice suddenly echoed in Miriam’s head, the same haunting one from her dream, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" it screamed, clawing at her mind until it forced its way into her consciousness, bringing the chilling realization that the blood of the Empress wasn't enough for the Maker, he demanded more, so much more.
Turning her attention to the nobles swirling around her—running, screaming, untouched, and unharmed, merely scared—she felt another stab of pain shoot through her palm. "Let your will be done," she murmured, her lips trembling. At her words, a burst of blood poured from her mark, and the Harlequins, as if compelled by some command, forsook their opponents. Disregarding their own lives, they threw themselves onto the nobles with wild abandon, resembling crazed animals unleashed upon their prey. Miriam stood in a trance-like state, tears streaming down her face as she watched limbs severed, guts spilled and throats slit in a gruesome dance of crimson carnage.
With the enemy's focus shifting to the aristocrats, her comrades were able to strike with ease, and when Lysette's loud voice signaled the arrival of the Inquisition forces, it was only a matter of moments before the Elder One's agents were obliterated.
Surveying her surroundings, the mage was in shock at the swift and devastating loss of so many lives. Eviscerated bodies of the nobles lay strewn across the floor, their lifeless eyes and limbs hauntingly still. The marble beneath them gleamed as if the rain had fallen, yet the liquid that adorned it wasn't clear but red. Dizziness and frailty enveloped her, the urgent voice of Gaspard, barking orders, barely penetrating the fog in her mind. She finally released her barriers, for there was no longer danger in the Grand Hall—only the silence of the dead and the moans of the wounded.
Noting that her bleeding had ceased, she scrutinized her crimson-stained palm for a fleeting moment. Then her gaze drifted from her arm to the floor beside her, where the blood she had lost pooled, forming a mirror-like surface. In its reflection, she saw her gaunt face, and as she focused on it, a disquieting revelation dawned—she was smiling.