Shards

The glass had shattered into thousands of pieces across the floor, crusting it with crystalline slivers that sparkled dangerously in the fading sunlight. A trail of sticky red liquid seeped into the floor, staining both rich marble and carpet. At first glance, it seemed as though something murderous had taken place in Josephine's immaculate greeting salon.

Perhaps something murderous very nearly had.

Venara stood in the centre of the room, her right hand curled tightly around the stem of a broken glass, the front of her shirt was spotted with red wine. Her dark brown hair, uncharacteristically loosened from its braids, hung around her shoulders in a tangled mess, her green eyes narrowed nearly to slits. The only sound in the small room was her breath—shallow, fast, barely containing her anger.

Anger directed at the woman standing across from her.

"Say that again," she hissed.

Mélisande Perrault was impassive. Her eyes did not stray to the broken glass, nor the shards on the floor. Her pale hands remained at her sides, her chin tilted upwards, her silver mask glinting in the room's warm torchlight. The last time Venara had seen her, she had been dressed in full armour. Now she was adorned in silks, satins and velvets, but she was no less iron-clad for it. Despite the gemstones on her shoes and the ornaments layered into her towering wig, she carried herself with the severity and self-importance of a commander of the city guard and an expert at the Grand Game.

"I find it surprising you did not hear me the first time, Inquisitor," Mélisande said. "Considering the state of your wine glass. That reaction does not happen by accident, no? Or are Dalish elves so savage that they go about destroying every mark of civility on a whim?"

Creators, I hate her.

"My hand slipped."

Mélisande nodded at the scattered shards of glass, her lips pursing in contempt. "That was quite the slip."

"I'm very dexterous."

"Certainly. My guardsmen can account for that."

Venara folded her arms, her fingers nearly cracking what remained of her wine glass. Of course she would bring up that incident. It was most likely the reasons she had appeared at the villa, demanding an audience and loudly proclaiming that all "knife-ears" and "spellbinds" must have their weapons confiscated during their time in Halamshiral. Venara had once travelled to Val Royeaux to address the city elves at their alienage. The meeting had not gone according to plan, and the city guard had arrived. Under the impression that something dangerous was stirring, they had attacked the elves and Venara had been forced to kill some of them in defense. She had ended up in Dame Perrault's office, narrowly escaping punishment by Orlesian law thanks to Vivienne's timely interference.

Venara wasn't surprised that on the eve before the ball, she was, once again, entangled in political wordplay with the Commander of the City Guard.

"That matter was resolved months ago," Venara said.

"It is a matter that cannot be resolved, Inquisitor," Mélisande replied smoothly. "Whenever you step foot in Val Royeaux, that matter will rear its head."

"But we are not in Val Royeaux," Venara said. "This is Halamshiral."

"Indeed," Mélisande answered. "But you are in the heart of the court of Orlais, on the threshold of the Grand Game itself. From Revered Mothers to the Council of Heralds, every man or woman of importance walks the halls of the Winter Palace tonight. The court is Orlais. The court is Val Royeaux. I am merely doing my duty, you understand—"

"I am the guest of Grand Duke Gaspard," Venara interrupt. "You have no right to speak to me as such."

Mélisande snorted with laughter. "Oh please," she said. "Inquisitor, I know as well as anyone the derision with which you regard him. His opinion of elves is well known. Frankly, I'm surprised you lowered your convictions enough to allow yourself to appear on the arm of a raging chauvinist."

"Believe me," Venara countered, "my convictions remain where they are. I wouldn't degrade myself by accepting Gaspard's invitation or by allowing you this audience without reason."

Mélisande's lips drew into such a thin line, they almost disappeared. "You would rank me the same as Gaspard?" she said, her voice low.

"Gaspard, Celene," Venara said, shrugging as she fingered the glass shard in her hand. "The court of Orlais beats the same blood, no matter who sits at its heart. The only reason I am here is to ensure the nation does not fall to its enemies while Corypheus is a threat. So play your games, Dame Perrault. None of it matters. I am beyond them."

"No one is beyond them," Mélisande snapped derisively. "No one on this earth can be. The fate of Orlais is the fate of all—"

"And I am the one to decide that fate," Venara interrupted, her voice cold as ice. "I am the Inquisitor. Do not forget it." She let the shard drop from her hand as she walked towards Mélisande, her shoes crunching on the glass strewn between them. For a moment, though she was much smaller and leaner than the aristocrat before her, Venara carried herself like a giant. "Your concerns have been heard, madame. With the threat to the Empress imposed by Corypheus, my companions and I will have permission to enter the Winter Palace with our weapons. This will not be contested."

A subtle green glow encompassed Venara's hand, summoned as if on command. Mélisande flinched, her eyes flickering from the mark and away.

"Unless, of course, you think your men are equipped to deal with such an assassin," Venara continued. "Have they had much experience protecting innocent lives against Venatori mages or templars enhanced with red-lyrium?"

Mélisande paused, her feet rooted to the floor. "No."

"I thought so," Venara said. "This conversation is over. Get out."

Mélisande nodded abruptly. She spun on a hell and marched towards the door, back held straight.

"Oh, and one more thing," Venara called. "Never address me as a knife-ear or spellbinder ever again."

Mélisande disappeared through the door without a word.

Venara sighed, releasing the tension that had been building within her throughout the encounter. She looked at the mess on the floor, her shoulders slumping.

"Josephine's going to kill me," she murmured.

"I believe I can talk her out of it," a voice said smoothly from the doorway. "Provided you don't give me a reason not to."

Venara looked up and saw Vivienne enter, her sliver skirts rustling around her as she moved.

"I must admit, I am impressed," she said. "I heard every word. That was admirably handled—for you, that is."

Venara shook her head. "Are you incapable of giving anything but a backhanded compliment, Vivienne?" she asked wearily.

"Only when I'm not dealing with amateurs who must learn their lessons quickly and harshly," Vivienne replied. Her eyes scanned the broken glass across the floor. She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "At least there was only one accident this time," she sighed.

"You're lucky I didn't throw it at her," Venara grunted.

"Yet another thing we must work on," Vivienne said. "My dear, you simply cannot take your anger out on inanimate objects whenever it pleases you. Not only did you waste a perfectly good glass of wine, it made you look horrifically… messy. People will gossip."

"Should I take it out on animate objects, then?" Venara snapped. "Would you prefer that I froze her in ice?"

"No," Vivienne said. "That would bring disaster."

"You froze that marquis to teach him a lesson."

Vivienne scoffed. "He was a pig and a disgraced one at that," she said. "And I am not you, and you are not me. Despite your position, we have different standings amongst the court, my dear. We will be fortunate if no one mistakes you for a serving girl tomorrow night."

She leaned forward and patted Venara on the cheek.

"Be proud of yourself, darling," she said. "You aren't nearly as hopeless as you were when I met you."