"No." There's something hard and sure and implacable behind the word, for all Myr's tone is mild once more. "What's been brought back to light can't be hidden again, now that they've the People among them. We'll see the truth restored, however long it takes. The Maker's hand guided the Divine in returning the Dissonant Verses; it's on us now to carry the rest of His work forward. He'll provide a way."

If there's one thing he's sure of in his life, it's the Maker's intention for all of them. (Whether it would be met--whether it was meant to be met, in his lifetime or ever--that's a little harder to believe, some days.)

"And maybe the Inquisition is that way," though he's other reasons to suspect not, to suspect with so many hands trying to twist it as a tool to reshape Thedas, they'd get nothing useful done in the end, "though I mislike the thought of forcing a change out of the Chantry for fear of what we'd say--anything like that, that's not rooted in the heart, is bound to wither and die."

Or the rot would consume it. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, musters his self-control. "It's new to you," he observes at last, "and I'm glad of your passion for it. So don't worry--it's worth it being drug up."