“And if she does not?” Nari demands, “We what? Let them smile smugly and erase that the Liberator’s charge with one hundred into a cloud of arrows to try and save her from her pyre before ten thousand of her own people dropped their swords was us? That his people were the People?”

She remembered that; the afternoon Andraste died, Cade’s reading gone solemn while she smoothed the planes of the Bride’s face.

Her rage melts into powerlessness, eyes stinging. “Again. It’s always like this. It’s not...” what, fair? What is? “It could be different, with the Inquisition. There are resources, we could find... something, make the Chantry have to change its ways or be exposed.”

There’s a deep sigh and then, slower, “Abelas, Myr, I—this is nothing new to you. I don’t mean to drag everything up again.”