It occurs to her only as the blade is sweeping through the air that she has always believed her father is invincible. Ever since she was a young and lonely child, Loghain has appeared to her as larger than life, and quite possibly outside her realm of understanding.
With his proud armor and impenetrable heart, Loghain was more than merely human. He was always Anora's most valued source of stability, and even now, grown and wed and weary, she cannot separate her father's identity from his lofty title. He has always been the valiant hero, the symbol of hope and courage for Ferelden.
And then that cruel blade has done its ugly work, her skin and eyes and lips are spattered with hot blood, and her father-that shining example, that golden man-is undeniably dead.
A voice says Traitor's death and For the good of Ferelden and finally Alistair will be King and Anora cannot object. It is impossible to synthesize those words into her current reality, or to focus on anything beyond the immediate.
The cool fabric of her gown. The wet puddle soaking through her slippers. Her father's lifeblood on her lips. The bitter aftertaste of death.
She is a daughter first in those short moments, but a queen at the last. She takes Alistair's hand and holds her head high. Her treasonous eyes are locked onto that bloody sword, but she does not falter.
She is Mac Tir to the bone.