A/N: Hey there, and thanks for reading! Some of the smaller chapters will be dedicated to other characters aside from Constance and Adolf, and this chapter is one example. Aside from that, I'd just like to note that I am completely open to reviews (be they praise and/or criticism), so if you have an urge to review, I'd greatly appreciate it. Happy reading :)

9:30 Servants' Quarters, Halamshiral

The morning sun was intense, its rays colliding with the architecture of the servants' quarters. There was a chill in the air, though much of the frost from the past few days had dissipated, and there was hardly ever any snow in the courtyard given the over-arching roofs of the palace. The elves ran about the gardens, as busy as usual. The palace served as a retreat for the Empress and her close associates during the winter months, so there was constantly work that needed to be done.

Lambert felt himself still reeling from the events of two nights ago. His thoughts were corroded with images of the woman, lying there. There was so much blood. The young elf had heard from some of his peers that a man had been found dead soon after. The thought of murderers in the palace was almost enough to frighten Lambert, but he knew that no one cared enough about elves to have them killed. As his mind raced, the young man thought back to Constance, he hoped that she was alright. Her parents no doubt probably took her far away from all that mess. In all the chaos Lambert, or rather Constance, lost the dagger. His father was going to kill him.

Lambert made his way outside, the towering palace walls keeping his eyes shielded from the sun, until he stepped out into the courtyard at least. Using his hand to protect his eyes, the boy pressed forward towards the kitchen. He was already dressed to start the day; even if his clothes did smell of dracolisk piss.

Opening the door to the kitchen area, Lambert took a whiff of the aromas that traveled throughout the room. Roasted lamb, eggs, pastries, and black cherries with cream- it was still morning after all. The young man made his way into the cooking area. A woman was cutting up the lamb, delicately placing each chunk on the platter.

"I see you're finally awake," the woman chided. "Even the Empress doesn't sleep in at this hour." the woman looked to the younger elf. She shared many of his characteristics, their olive skin matching perfectly. Her green eyes studied the boy. She was clearly tired. Her stomach protruded slightly more than the average elf, but not by much. Her look of slight disapproval soon turned to a warm one.

"How are you feeling," the woman asked.

"Mother, I'm fine." Lambert gave his mother a look before walking to her side. He picked up a handful of the elfroot that lay in a dish on the table. He decorated the platter in various spots with the green leaves, though not as carefully as his mother had been.

"No, I want you in the gardens today," his mother rearranged some of the leaves in the dish, before returning back to her cutting.

"Mother, you made me tend to the gardens all of yesterday. I promise, I'll be alright." The boy backed up, leaning now against a small wooden table.

"Your father..." she uttered in an exasperated tone as she chopped through a thick piece of the meat. "Your father worries for your safety, you know that," she continued.

"When things like what happened two nights ago occur, it becomes difficult to maintain a low profile. Your father doesn't want anything happening to you...not because of some accident of birth." The mother finished with the lamb meat, as she made her way over to a bucket of water, dipping her hands in it to clean off the remnants before drying her wet hands on her apron.

"Mother, we're servants, that is as low as I could possibly be." Lambert said this with a hint of disdain. He hated the idea that his people were reduced to servitude under humans, that they couldn't aspire to anything higher. Even at his young age, Lambert showed an ambition to be more.

Lambert's mother sighed, arguing with her son was often times a battle already lost. She smiled at him before placing her hand on his cheek. She felt his warmth, his youth, it wasn't something she could bare to see tarnished.

"I can hardly believe you'll be fourteen years of age come Drakonis. Andraste, the girls will be jumping you soon enough." She smiled at her son, trying her best to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Lambert could protest, the door to the kitchenette swung open. In walked an elf, slightly larger than the two elves already in the room. He had graying hair, but didn't look to be very old. Rubbing a hand through his ear-length hair the man looked to the two of them.

"There you are," the man made his way over to Lambert. Given his tone, the man seemed to be in a panic. "Lambert, were you playing with that dagger," the man asked nervously.

The man was Lambert's father, much like Lambert's mother, he was a chef. It seemed odd that he wasn't already helping to prepare the breakfast.

Lambert fumbled for a moment, his palms beginning to sweat as he looked to his father. He saw a sort of despair in the man's eyes, a sight that made him uncomfortable. He carried with him an intensity that Lambert had not seen before.

"Father, I," the boy started before looking down at his hands.

"What happened to it Lambert," his father demanded. The man was clearly in a rut, but it was also clear that Lambert and his mother had no idea what was going on.

"Josrian, what is this, what's going on," the woman walked over to her husband. She wrapped herself around the man's arm, looking to him. He returned her gaze, but it reinforced her suspicions that not all was well.

Looking into his wife's eyes, his brows twisted upward, and his tear ducts began to swell. He moved his arm as if to force her to release her hold on it. His anger and forcefulness had subsided leaving now only a discomforting sense of fear and desperation.

"Lambert, please, where is the dagger?" His father walked towards the boy, placing his hand on Lambert's shoulder.

Lambert didn't dare look into his father's eyes. "The night of the attack..." the boy continued. "I showed my friend into the servants' quarters. She was playing with it, and then when everyone started running..."

"Does she have the dagger," the father demanded once again, his voice raising. His grip on his son's shoulder tightened, not threateningly, but certainly forcefully.

The boy said nothing, and still refused to look at his father. Josrian had his answer.

"Maker," the man released his grip on his son. He sounded lost, unsure of what to do. "Menni, I need you to start gathering as much of our belongings as you can," the man continued with a sigh."Lambert, help your mother." With that, the man walked out of the kitchen area as he headed back into the courtyard gardens.

Bewildered, Menni followed suit. "Josrian, stop! What is going on?" Her voice was sharp now. There was a looming sense of anxiety and confusion. Many of the other elves turned their attention to the family. Servants who were fixing curtains looked to them from atop their balconies. The sun continued to beam, casting golden shadows around the gardens.

"There's the knife-ear," an angry Orlesian accent called out from beyond one of the gates. A group of armed men marched forward, no doubt the Empress' royal guard, the chevaliers. Behind them, two templars followed. Their presence was stoic, and their armor shimmered in the lights from the garden as shades of emerald danced on their metallic plating.

Josrian halted a few paces in front of the armed group in defeat. The chevalier who had called out the elf walked to the front of his peers. His brown eyes studied the elves that surrounded him, before looking over his shoulder to the soldiers. Two of the knights stepped out in front as they walked towards Josrian.

"Menni, please go inside," Lambert's father spoke as if he was broken. He sounded exhausted, and looked the part as he turned to his wife, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

A templar spoke up, "The apostate elf, he's nearby..." A sort of sensation surged through him; the lyrium he consumed allowing him to better sense the presence of magic wielders. With this, the templar motioned for his comrade to follow him. They both surveyed their surroundings. There was a thick tension that filled the air as the elven residents looked on. They all said nothing, no one could. They were afraid that speaking out in protest would likely result in punishment.

Lambert made his way out, coming to Menni's side, "Mother, what's going on," the boy looked on at all of the guards, noting among them a couple of templars. He suddenly felt a nervous ache in his heart, a lump in his throat. His eyes shifted back and forth between the templars and the elves that stood in watch.

"That's the apostate, his son," the chevalier from before spoke up again as his eyes shifted to the young elf. His Orlesian accent was thick, and carried a smugness with it. The templars began walking towards Lambert, who was at this point backing away.

His mother, realizing what was happening, shielded her boy from the two. "No, you have made a mistake. My son is not an apostate." The woman tried to fight off the templars, pushing at them. Their armor was more than enough to protect them from her assault.

Menni began crying, and as if through her tears, the world around them fell silent. The elven woman cried out, to the Maker himself, as she struggled to fend off the two soldiers in front of her. One of them grabbed her, as gently as possible, subduing her. The other templar made their way to the young man who continued to back away. There was a sense of futility, as the woman's cries grew louder. An elder woman looked on at the scene. Given the contorted look of sadness on her face, it was obvious to see that her heart was breaking.

Not she or any other elf moved out of place, but even still most of them looked on in horror. The family was a part of their community, but there was nothing to be done. When chevaliers came to take, there was no protesting, no 'saving' anyone. When you were a servant elf, there weren't heroes. There was only survival. For them, valiant elves were things of legend- stories that belonged to the Dalish- not them.

"Do not fight boy," Josrian- now apprehended by the chevaliers- called out in a desperate and gritty cry to his son. "Do you hear me, Lambert," the man began to whimper, cry, in some last ditch effort to save his son. "You never fight them, you do as they say." The man gave little resistance to the men who restrained him. He hung his head, tears dripping from his face as they hit the soil. The men shoved him to his knees.

The templar that apprehended Lambert made his way over to the group as well, the young elf's hands were bound. The templar allowed the boy to stand unlike his father. His eyes peered out to the group of knights. His helm masked a look of disgust on behalf of the chevaliers' callousness in handling the situation.

The accented man stepped forward again, the only one from the group without a helmet. "Josrian Thelthorn, you are charged with the murder of Comtesse Elaine of Serault as well as harboring an apostate. You will be imprisoned in the name of Empress Celene Valmont the First to await judgment." The man looked down at the elf to see a face stricken by grief. His tears only affirmed the man's victory. He smirked.

"You should be thankful Josrian, we have shown you a mercy by sparing your wife, despite knowingly harboring an apostate. It would be most disappointing to see such a beautiful family ruined by such an ugly affair ." The man turned and headed for the gates beyond the courtyard, gesturing for the chevaliers to follow.

As the group, now including Lambert and Josrian began to fade from view, Menni collapsed to the ground. Her cries were no longer silent, as they rung out for the rest of the elves to hear. Once there was no sign of the soldiers left, the servants on the main floor rushed out to the woman. The elder woman from before knelt down with the distraught mother, rubbing her hair gently, holding Menni's head close to her.

…

Some of the others helped Menni to her room. They gently rested her on her bed. The red velveteen sheets did little to offer her comfort. She continued to cry, as she looked around the room. Everything was spinning, and she was trying her best to make it end.

"Menni..." the elder woman who had held her before spoke up, standing by the bedroom door. Her call snapped the mother out of her trance.

"I'll be fine ma'am. Please, I just want to be alone." Menni tried her best to stop her sobbing though it hardly worked. Her eyes stung, and her chest felt heavy.

"We'll be right outside when you need us, dear," the elder woman looked over to Menni. It was as if the elder had seen this tale for the thousandth time. Wanting Menni to get rest, she nodded, gesturing for the three other elves to follow her out of the room.

…

When the door closed, Menni began to implode. She had dealt with tragedy her entire life, and typically she would keep herself busy as a distraction. This however, was beyond tragedy. She felt a loneliness that ripped her apart in ways she never felt before- a parent without their child. She combated the flowing tears with the occasional wipe of her hands across her cheeks. She rose from her bed, and began pacing for a few minutes. She would have to handle this as she would any other situation, by working through it. It might be a distraction to fill sorrow, emptiness, but for now it was what she needed.

She couldn't just let this happen, she needed to find out what happened with this Comtesse, she needed to know how they found out about Lambert's magic. Everything tied back to the dagger, but that apparently was no longer an option she could explore.

All of this didn't make any sense. It all happened far too fast, and she knew that her husband wasn't a murderer. Something happened to the Comtesse, and Menni was going to find out what. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach, and immediately clutched the area as she eased herself back onto her bed. She wiped her eyes one last time before falling back, letting her head hit the mattress. She wrapped herself up in the sheets, her body covered in their warmth. She was never much of a hero, but Menni was – more than anything- a survivor. For now, survival meant resting. She allowed herself to drift, as her body sunk deeper into the velveteen.