A/N: This story is part of a series of loose short fics that explore Bianca Davri's character and her relationship with Varric. You can find the full list of short stories in my profile under Not By Fate's Design. This story was inspired by the phrase "reflections in the mirror." It is set in 9:28 Dragon (Bianca is 28). Thanks for reading!

A Crack in the Glass

The Hall of Mirrors was the pride and joy of the Valmont Palace. The crowning jewel of Orlesian architecture and artistry, the long corridor had attracted many guests and visitors over the years. The long, white marble hall was wide and open, its ceiling high and lofty, its arching buttresses gilded and sparkling. As its name implied, the walls had been replaced with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on both sides. The effect was astounding—whomever entered the hall would find themselves reflected back upon themselves again and again and again, their image spanning to infinity. Crystal chandeliers hung in the air, placed at regular intervals along the hall to ensure every inch was well-lit. Deep purple carpets embroidered with gold ran the length of the hall, their texture soft and thick. Unlike many other areas of the palace, there were no cushioned couches or chaise-longues upon which to sit. Those who entered the hall would either stand or fall—there was no in-between. For the purpose of the hall was both to observe and be observed, and upon entering it, there was no escape from being displayed.

It was all very Orlesian.

Bianca arrived at the hall early and was immediately swept through the great white double doors by bowing attendants. They then shut the doors behind her, the echo ringing ominously in the empty corridor, contrasting with the bright, almost happy, light. Truth be told, she wasn't so much as early as exactly on time—the pocket watch dangling from the sash at her waist told her so. But she knew from experience that royalty only ever considered their personal time the correct one. If she had to wait fifteen minutes or even a half hour for the Empress' arrival, so be it.

Bianca sighed wearily as she walked slowly down the corridor, her heels clacking loudly against the stone. She paused, uncertain of where to stand or where to go, surrounded by nothing but images of herself. It was unnerving to be in this place alone, with nothing but yourself for companionship, every virtue, every flaw on display. She caught her reflection—it was impossible not to—and saw that the bags and dark circles beneath her eyes were deeply pronounced. She hadn't noticed this morning; she had been in too much of a hurry to dress and make her appointment. Though her black and red gown (House Vasca colours, of course, not her own) did a decent job of making her a presentable representative of the Merchants' Guild, it could not mask everything.

Ancestors… I really could have used the extra sleep.

It was her own fault. She had been up for most of the night, puzzling over a coded letter she was fairly certain was from Varric. Judging from the complexity of the code and its reliance on alternating metrical lines between iambic pentameter and trochaic tetrameter, she didn't know what else it could be. Unless, of course, her spies had accidentally intercepted the mail of a theatrically and poetically-inclined Orlesian noble.

Varric…

It had been two years since their parting. Two very long years, half of which she had spent isolated in Orzammar, her connection to the surface almost completely severed while she played housewife to her husband. Thankfully Bogdan Vasca wasn't a foolish as he looked, and eventually he remembered that he had married her for her skills as a smith and a political alliance and not much else. He recognized that she served him best on the surface as his personal representative. His spies watched her and her spies watched him and there was very little either of them did without the other's knowledge. It was the definition of the perfect Guild marriage.

Perfect, save for the political ramifications of their union. As a surface kalna tied to a powerful smith caste family, all of Bianca's actions, all of her words had to be carefully and coldly calculated. One slip and everything could unravel.

Which brought her back to Varric and his letters. That's all he could ever be now—letters. But she remembered the passion of their clandestine meetings and reckless adventures, and none of it was lost on her now. It had merely been transformed exquisitely into the written word. Her heart soared with excitement and joy whenever she thought—or knew—she held a message from him in her hands. Often she would remain restless until she decoded it, read it and set it to heart.

If only I'd finished this one last night. Blasted code.

Bianca ached to go home, but too much depended on this meeting. The letter could wait. The letter would have to wait. She hoped there was nothing important—life or death important—concealed within it.

The great white doors opened.

Bianca tore herself away from the mirrors, hands quickly smoothing down the folds of her gown as she dropped into a practiced curtsy, eyes scanning the scene before her. A tall, elegant figure passed over the threshold, accompanied by a parade of masked attendants who stood at a respectful distance. She was dressed in a lush periwinkle gown, embroidered in sliver and studded with pearls. Its neckline cut deeply to accentuate her cleavage and its train rustled against the marble floor, muffling the sound of her heels. Her silvery blonde hair was roped into a multi-stranded braid that flowed over one shoulder. A silver half-mask adorned her face, much simpler than the ones she wore in public but still maintaining an air of elegance. It disguised her age, making her seem much older and more experienced than her twenty-four years.

Empress Celene was a woman who knew the extent of the power she wielded and it showed in her bearing. Proud, yet relaxed, she carried herself with the comfort of someone who had long ago achieved their desires and held onto them with ease.

If only they could all be so fortunate.

"Madame Davri," Celene said, gesturing for Bianca to rise. "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard so much about you."

Bianca straightened from her curtsy and tilted her head up to address the Empress. Even in heels, she was—pun not intended—dwarfed by Celene and her attendants. "You have?" she asked cautiously.

"But of course!" Celene exclaimed. "How could I not? Word has spread from the Free Marches of your ingenious mind and miraculous inventions!"

Bianca stiffened, the nasal, simpering lilt in Celene's voice vexing her deeply. It was impossible to tell if her words were sincere or if she was merely trying to play to Bianca's ego. Knowing she was an experienced politician even at a young age, Bianca guessed the later.

"Again and again I have heard your name on the lips of cloth merchants and the finer quality crafts they are able to seek thanks to your work," Celene continued, gesturing airily with a hand, the praise falling from her lips as if rehearsed.

You frequent cloth merchants, Celene? Bianca thought. I would have assumed the Empress of such an old and traditional country would never stoop to dealing with such perfunctory people. Don't you have a government officials for that?

She would have dearly loved to speak those words, but she bit her tongue. Celene couldn't know that Bianca had long ago tired of political pandering.

"You flatter me, your Majesty," Bianca said as demurely as she could manage. "I simply saw a problem and found an appropriate solution."

"Indeed," Celene replied. "Is that not the heart of all great innovation?"

Bianca smiled wanly. "Great innovation?" she said. You should see the amount of shit those 'great innovations' got me into. "Truly, I am not deserving of such praise from one such as yourself."

Celene paused, her expression blank. If there was anything emotive on her face, it was hidden behind her mask.

Nug shit, Bianca thought, desperately trying to read Celene's body language. Was that too sarcastic for her? Did I just insult the Empress of Orlais?

Celene laughed, a coy, tinkling laugh that sounded surprisingly genuine. "Oh, but she is humble!" she said, turning to her attendants, a gracious smile on her lips as her attendants tittered away in Orlesian, their heads bobbing up and down in agreement.

Not really. And not always—at least not by choice.

Ancestors, she was feeling jaded today.

"You must know, Madame Davri," Celene continued, "that I only speak of what I know and see to be true. It is impossible to do anything but that in la galerie des glaces." She gestured grandly down the corridor, her extended hand reflected to infinity in the mirrors. "Shall we walk?"

Bianca nodded. She folded her hands together and walked at the Empress' side, taking two paces for every one of Celene's. She knew that by the time they reached the end of the gallery, her audience would be over. She had the length of this corridor to fulfill her task.

A task that was becoming impossible to broach the longer she remained in the gallery.

Bianca tried to focus on the end of the hall and ignore her passing image, but she couldn't avoid her reflection. The longer she was in this room, the more awkward she felt, particularly now that the Empress—a woman of such height and grace—was at her side. It was such a simple thing, but Celene Valmont made her feel unbecomingly awkward.

Blast it, Bogdan. Why did you send me? Any number of your agents could have done this!

She knew why. She only had to glance at her reflection to be reminded of it.

My spies report that the Empress admires you, his letter had said. She has long refused audiences with the Merchants' Guild on principle, and legal trade agreements with any major city within Orlesian borders are neither plentiful nor long-lasting. Celene has an iron grip on the economy of this country, but she will weaken for you. Talk to her. Charm her. Plant the seed in her mind. Do your duty to me, wife, or you can return to Orzammar and fill it in other ways.

Bianca had set the letter on fire out of spite upon reading it, then reluctantly drafted a reply. She would go to Val Royeaux. She would convince the Empress to give House Vasca's branch of the Guild an exclusive contract for selling dwarven crafts in Val Royeaux, Montsimmard, Ghislain and Jader. Their rivals would be crushed, turning to lesser avenues to support their businesses, or the Carta for illegal trade. And House Vasca would secure financial stability for decades to come.

Bogdan had staked his family's future on this deal. More positive people would see it as a sign of faith, of the trust he placed in her. Bianca knew otherwise—Bogdan was well-aware of the stakes Bianca had at risk. If Bianca secured the contract, House Vasca would prove itself worthy of its power. It wouldn't be long before the Assembly elevated Bogdan to noble status, and the rest of the House along with him. With the House and family in good favour and standing in Orzammar, Bianca would never have to return below the surface unwillingly.

"I must admit, I do not spend much time with your kind, Madame Davri," Celene said, her gown's train rustling against the marble floor as they walked. It was the loudest sound in the gallery, apart of her voice, now that her attendants had stopped whispering to one another. "I had not realized that the dwarven people were so… small of stature."

Bianca resisted rolling her eyes. "Frankly, your Majesty," she quipped, "I had forgotten humans were so tall. Are you certain Orlesians are not descended from giants?"

A servant some steps behind them gasped in shock. It was only then that Bianca realized that her words had been taken at face value.

"No offense intended, of course," she added quickly, bowing. Good job, Bianca. If you're executed for insulting the Empress, Bogdan will never let it go. "Us dwarves have an incorrigible sense of humour—"

Celene laughed. It wasn't a polite laugh, either. She stood still, body wracked with laughter as she politely tried to hide her giggles behind a pale hand. Whether her humour had been tickled by Bianca's original jest or her poor attempt to recover from it, Celene found her funny. And humour was usually a good sign.

"No offense, indeed," Celene said, forcing away her giggles. "If anything, it was I who crossed the line with a careless remark about your height. It seems you have put me in line, Madame Davri."

She's… apologizing? To me?

"Huh," Bianca said.

It seemed even a woman as renown as the Empress of Orlais still had surprises up her sleeve.

Celene gestured and they continued down the gallery. "Tell me, is this your first time to Val Royeaux?"

"It is, your Majesty." Bianca purposefully threw in the royal address. She still wasn't certain if the Orlesians would let her earlier remark pass.

"As one familiar with both human and dwarven architecture, what is your opinion of my fair city?"

"It's… very Orlesian. And a sight better than Kirkwall, that's for sure."

Celene tutted. "Come now, Madame Davri, we are in la galerie des glaces! There are no words uttered here but honest ones."

Bianca pursed her lips. She glanced up at the gilded marble arches and ceilings painted with gold leaf. "It's too rich," she said. "There's too much gold. This isn't architecture, this is… bravado. Every building—at least the ones deemed important—is built for show, not function. The city lives inside a performance."

"But is life itself not a performance?" Celene countered. "The behaviour of sentient beings is remarkably ever-changing. How we speak to a friend, a parent, a lover when we are alone is astonishingly different from how we address them in public. We perform the best versions of ourselves, depending on the scene we find ourselves in. Most societies recognize this, I believe, but refuse to acknowledge it. We do not in Orlais. What you see as frivolous, we see as honest, no?"

Bianca's brow furrowed. "Your Majesty, I fail to see how—"

"If you are to petition me for House Vasca's exclusive contract, madame," Celene said, "then I must be certain you understand Orlais. If you are to be her only connection to Orzammar, you must accept her as she is."

"I will try," Bianca said slowly. She glanced at her reflection in one of the mirrors, swamped by the towering Celene. She raised her chin. "If at first I don't succeed, I will try and try again until I do. That is the rule by which I govern my life."

"Everything in your life?" Celene asked.

"Seed drills don't come to you fully formed in a dream, with functioning schematics," Bianca said. "The persistence of trial and error has gotten me to where I am today, and if I can do that for my inventions, then I can certainly do it to adapt to your country's culture."

"I am not speaking of seed drills, Madame Davri," Celene said.

Then what are you talking about, Celene? Bianca thought as she resisted the urge to grimace. Now would be a great time for you to show some of that honesty you're obsessed with.

"I'm afraid I'm uncertain as to your meaning," Bianca said.

"Then let me be more clear," Celene answered. She had drawn to a halt several steps ahead of Bianca. She turned, her silks shifting and rustling, the light from the chandelier above illuminating her in a soft glow. "You are not a daughter of Orzammar, no? Kirkwall is the place of your birth, though it is no longer your home. Since your marriage, you have curiously never returned there."

"Not so curious when you consider Orzammar thinks it blasphemy for any dwarf to see the sky," Bianca said.

"And yet you are here."

"Yes. On behalf of my husband."

I don't like where this is going.

"Ah, yes," Celene said. "Your husband. I have heard a great many things about you and your husband, Madame Davri."

"As a great many things can be said about many marriages," Bianca countered. "Not every marriage is made for love, as I'm sure an Orlesian of your status is well aware—"

"Indeed," Celene said. "But not every merchant's wife is so closely watched by a curious amount of spies. You have stepped a very guarded step since entry my city, Madame Davri."

Bianca sighed. "Whatever story you seek, your Majesty," she said, "it is not worth retelling. My past is my past. And now, if you would, I would like to focus on the future I am to build between Orlais and House Vasca."

"And what future is that, madame?" Celene asked. "The one where your House has exclusive rights to sell in every major Orlesian city? Such a contract has never been offered, as I am sure you are aware. What promises could a single dwarven house make that would exceed what we could gain from ten houses?"

"Me," Bianca said bluntly. "They don't have me."

Celene raised a near-invisible eyebrow. "Such faith in your skills. I wonder how well they stand up to your bluster."

"You yourself sang me praises mere moments ago," Bianca countered. "Were those false words intended to lull me into complacency?"

Celene chuckled. "You see much, Madame Davri."

Bianca spread her hands, as did her multiple reflections. "We are in the hall of mirrors, after all."

"Then shall we proceed to business?" Celene said. "Make your statement, madame. Convince me to give House Vasca its heart's desire."

So much for planting a seed, Bianca thought. Might as well plant the entire tree and a shrubbery while we're at it.

"On paper House Vasca appears like every other dwarven smith house," Bianca said. "We have our connections to talented craftsmen within the miner and artisan castes. Our place within the Merchants' Guild gives us the funds to provide an increased supply of top-of-the-line goods to cities on the surface. But the Vascas are not merely smiths with a good eye for trade. We are creators and inventors. If you honour this deal with my House, your Majesty, you will not only receive the best arms and armour your city could want, but you will also receive exclusive access to my own projects and inventions, before any other nation. The seed drill that changed the landscape of the Free Marches and Antivan? The next one would belong to Orlais."

Bianca looked earnestly at Celene as she spoke, spewing words and nearly tripping over her own tongue. Celene was resistant, Celene knew how she would play her. They were nearly at the end of la galerie de glaces and her audience with the Empress would be over. She didn't have time to coddle and placate and win Celene over to her side. Her only choice was to be upfront and honest. Bogdan would be displeased, but then if he wanted things done in a particular way, he would have to brave the Stone's wrath and do it himself.

"I mean no offense, your Majesty," she continued, "but your country has seen very little in terms of technological development in the past century. I can change that. I can bring you prosperity your forefathers never dreamed of. I can make you the Empress who brought Orlais into another age. All I need is a contract—exclusive rights in Val Royeaux and a forge of my own."

"A forge?"

"You surely don't expect me to do all of my work in Orzammar," Bianca said. "After all, if I am to provide you with new and exciting developments, I might as well be near your doorstep."

And I would be free from Bogdan's reach. A forge in Val Royeaux would get me out from under his thumb. And if this is what seals the agreement with Orlais, he can't argue it.

Celene drew to a halt. She was silent for a long time, her masked face unreadable. Bianca stood still, pushing down the panic she felt rising in her with each passing second. Had she misspoke? Did she underestimate the Empress? Had she ruined her chances? Bogdan's fury would know no bounds if she failed—

"There was another dwarven merchant who sought exclusive contracts in Orlais," Celene said suddenly. "A representative of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild petitioned me a year ago. He was perhaps the most honey-tongued man I have ever met, and yet his words rang true. He stood where you stand right now and spoke of how he and his brother could increase Orlais' wealth tenfold within five years time—"

Oh shit.

Bianca froze, rooted to the ground.

Varric, if I ever see you again, I am going to strangle you. Why do you insist on helping me when you know how dangerous it is?

"And yet," Celene continued, "despite the brilliant arguments he gave, when it came to sign the agreement, he retreated. He said, 'With all due respect, your Majesty, you don't want my name on that contract. You want someone else, someone who can do what no other House can offer, not even mine—and her name is Bianca Davri.'"

Celene eyed Bianca, coolly folding her arms. "I was intrigued. I took his advice. I waited. And sure enough, a year later, here you are, asking for a contract I cannot, with goodwill, refuse."

Bianca swallowed the lump in her throat. Don't get excited. There's a catch here. There's always a catch—

"I intend to offer it," Celene continued, "but before I do, there is one thing I wish to know. How is it that a rival merchant would go so far to negotiate so thoroughly on your behalf?"

There's the catch.

"I'm afraid, your Majesty, that is a story for no one's ears."

"Not even an empress'?"

"No."

"Madame Davri," Celene said, "hidden secrets are my specialty. Whatever it is you are hiding, it is simply bleeding romance and tragedy."

"And if it's romance and tragedy you seek," Bianca countered, "I can direct you towards fiction. The merchant with whom you negotiated has written a number of novels that would suit your tastes."

"I am familiar with Master Tethras' works, thank you," Celene interrupted. Bianca tried not to wince at her use of Varric's name. "But I don't want his fictions." She swept passed Bianca, her heels clicking on the cold floor, and stood in front of her, her tall frame and billowing dress barring the way to the double doors at the end of the gallery. "I want the story as you tell it. "

She won't risk giving me what I want unless she has leverage. You should have known better. She's royalty—royalty always needs to be in control.

"Is that the price of this contract?" Bianca asked.

"My dear, there's a price for everything in Orlais. Take it or leave it."

And what will you risk?

She thought of Bogdan, in their mansion in Orzammar, a crease in his brow and a scowl on his face, swearing about her ineptitude. She thought of the possibilities that would be open to her, here, in Orlais, the life she could carve out for herself.

She thought of Varric, eyes squinting in the low candlelight, fingers covered in ink as he scratched out a page of his next novel. He had been here once, to la galerie des glaces. He had spoken to the Empress on her behalf. It wasn't just secret words and hidden messages between them, he was actively trying to help her, however he could.

And if she spoke the truth, Celene would have the power to sweep that away from her at a moment's notice.

Ancestors help me, you need that contract.

Bianca turned abruptly, her reflection rippling in the mirrors, fracturing her image into infinity. "Then maybe we should take another pass of the gallery, your Majesty," she told Celene coldly. "It is a very long story. And, after all, there are no words uttered here but honest ones."

Varric, I'm sorry.