She is going to die.
Solas cradles her hand in his, brow furrowed in concentration. Her skin is hot with fever, her pulse is erratic, and the mark grows with each passing hour. As if drawing poison from a wound, he tries to leech some of the magic out, but the power contained within the mark is too strong for this to be of much significance. There is little more he can do to slow the inevitable. Should she awaken or not, the mark will consume her and she will die.
He's amazed that she has survived this long. She – a mortal with no magical talent – physically entered the raw Fade. Neither her body nor soul should have been able to adjust to the transition between the worlds, but here she lies before him – weak and wounded, but alive.
It is… unexpected.
There is hope yet.
Though the mark still grows, she is much more stable than the day before. Her breathing is even now, her fever nearly gone. Solas tells Cassandra that the elven woman may live long enough to wake up and give her the answers she so desperately seeks. She parts her lips as if to say something – to thank him or inquire further, he isn't certain – but is immediately cut off by the slamming of the Chantry doors.
A woman in light armor sprints forward, eyes wide as she stumbles and falls at Cassandra's feet.
"What is it?" She asks, helping the woman to her feet.
"Reports from the forward scouts, Lady Cassandra. Demons are falling from the sky, soldiers have gone missing." The woman gasps for air, coughing as she replies, "Rifts… there are more rifts and they are getting closer."
"I would like to study the nearest tear, if it is possible," Solas offers, leaning on his staff. "If you'll allow it."
Cassandra eyes Solas suspiciously, but grants his request nonetheless. She tries to arrange for an escort, but is disappointed when she's informed that there simply aren't enough men for the task at hand.
"I think I can help you with that problem, Seeker."
An arrow hisses by Solas's ear, slaying the last demon to descend from the rift.
A display from the arrogant dwarf, he thinks, but the arrow does not belong to Varric. The prisoner is alive and the mark on her hand is radiant, no doubt more powerful near the tear. She approaches it, puzzled and unsure of the mark's reaction, but Solas detests wasting time. He grabs her wrist and hopes that his assumption is correct.
Ribbons of green light pour into the tear. The jutting emerald crystals of the rift shatter, disfiguring and deforming until it seals shut with a booming crack. Solas can feel the world around them settle, weaving together its new skin. A brazen statement from Varric sparks a petty quarrel between him and Cassandra, but the importance of their new knowledge washes over them. She may be able to close the Breach.
"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live."