TRIGGER WARNING! Sexual harassment, canon-typical violence and death.

Standing in the temporary war room prepared in a far corner of the Winter Palace away from prying eyes and ears, Josephine explained with a thin smile on her face. In Halamshiral hobnobbing among nobles and politicking, she was in her elements.

"So, the war is at an impasse. Each side is desperate enough to maneuver every available means to turn the tide. Empress Celene invited Ambassador Briala for her elves and her affection, Gaspard us for our influence and prestige. Plus, it helps the Grand Duke greatly to have us, the only people thoughtful enough to feed the displaced Orlesians, on his side since he lacks popular support."

Josephine held up a sheaf of documents and chirped along, "Both Celene and Gaspard have sent us secret letters supporting your Land Parcellations Act. No surprise there, since it would directly target those hostile to their causes. Now, we have the opportunity to choose the winner of the grandest Game of all."

Leliana cut in, "But the most important objective in this mission is to secure Orlais as an independent nation. We cannot have it fall to Corypheus's hands. Either Celene or Gaspard, the Inquisition needs to make a choice and bolster the claim."

"I say we support Gaspard. He has the chevaliers and the army on his side. He will be useful to us when we bring the fight to Corypheus," said Cullen. Cassandra nodded.

But Josephine was far from done. "No, Leliana and I disagree. Just because Celene is a reformer and favors peace does not make her weak. It makes her an attractive ally. Having Celene as the ruler will help the southern nations unite against the common enemy, and in the long term, improve Orlais's relations with Nevarra and Ferelden."

Tharin saw Leliana approach with her eyes crinkled. His heart began to quicken. "Since we are deadlocked, you get to choose. In fact, the war council has discussed, and we agree you should get your title and powers back during this mission. We cannot have you run around the palace without any power to make decisions. So, do you accept?"

Tharin's heart drummed, enough to echo throughout his whole body. He could even feel the beats in his fingertips. The Anchor fizzed. Barely able to contain himself, Tharin spoke in a shaking voice, "Y-yes! I accept. I shan't disappoint you again! Thank you." He looked to the Ambassador and saw she avoided his gaze. His heart slowed. "Thank you…"

Leliana gently prodded, "So, now that you know everything, who do you choose?"

Making sure to focus his attention solely on the Spymaster and not look in the general direction of the Commander and the Seeker, the Inquisitor declared, "Celene is the best choice for the future of Thedas. We keep her alive and on the throne at any cost."

Tharin heard Cullen sigh and Cassandra sniff. The young man could not help but crease his brow ever so slightly. The Spymaster upturned her lips. "As you bade."

"Now that we have made the most important decision," Josephine began, "the last item on the agenda is the Divine Election." The Ambassador glanced down at the missive on her hand, "The Chantry would like the Inquisition to nominate three candidates for the election."

"I would recommend a woman who is for doing away with the Circles and instituting humane rules on magic."

Tharin whipped his head toward Cullen's baritone. It was indeed an unexpected turn.

After making a noise of surprise, Leliana remarked, "I must admit, I am amazed, Commander. I would have thought you'd be for keeping the Circles. And putting an end to the Circles would put an end to templars, no?"

Cullen nodded solemnly. "Precisely because of it. The Order could reform itself into something new, something more benign, something that's… more personal. Many templars have suffered because of the Chantry and lyrium. I know that we had a whole war over this, which makes this unlikely, but if mages and templars could become partners instead of prisoners and guards… That possibility alone is worth a try."

Josephine grinned at Cullen. "Well, the Chantry bureaucracy is notorious for moving slowly. I say we focus on the mission at hand and wait to endorse anyone." She finally looked to Tharin and intoned, "Consider it carefully."

Leliana leaned forward on the table in the middle and proclaimed, "We shall reconvene before the ball to go over the mission thoroughly. But for now, rest easy knowing we have a plan. A good plan."

As the war council began to shuffle out, Josephine drew near and touched Tharin's right arm. "Stay. I want to talk to you."

The Spymaster gave a meaningful look before leaving, and Tharin knew this was serious.

Racked with anxiousness, he looked to the Ambassador. Josephine pushed on the door and closed it with muffled sound. They were alone in a plainly decorated, musty room.

She turned and walked to the table. "You know how we had to postpone the wedding because of your trouble?"

Tharin's heart once again pulsated. He meekly answered, "…Yes."

Josephine's eyes were trained on Tharin as she proclaimed, "I am going to finalize the new wedding date while here. It will be the twenty-fifth of Cloudreach."

The date he would be sold, when his life would no longer be his. There was only one answer to give.

"I see. All right."

Strangely, he felt nothing. It almost felt like he was a stranger watching things happen to some other person named Haretharin Trevelyan. If he was lucky enough, he would live the rest of his life in a dissociative state like this, watching things happen to him.

Josephine crossed her arms and looked away. She looked pensive as she spoke, "Do you know why Leliana was able to forgive you so easily?"

"Not really."

"Because she fought alongside the Warden and watched him become the hero. Because she knows how messy it is to save the world. I… didn't know. Diplomacy is all about never revealing one's weaknesses. I've only seen people strive to be perfect and succeeding at it." Josephine glanced down at the gargantuan map of Thedas laid on the table. "At least outwardly."

She continued after a protracted moment of silence with an impassive face, "You truly botched everything up. You made my life more difficult. But that is the price I must pay to help the Inquisition save the world. I know that now."

But soon, Josephine's face hardened, and she wagged her forefinger. "But do not for a second think I have forgiven you. This is not a forgiveness. Think of it as… a probation. I agreed to give you back the powers because it would be impossible to execute this mission otherwise."

Tharin bit his lower lip and nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Lady Montilyet."

"And it is strange for you to call me Madam Ambassador or Lady Montilyet constantly. Just… call me Josephine or Josie." The Ambassador rolled her eyes and gave a glare that had a streak of playfulness about it. "Again, not that I forgive you."

The Inquisitor had to bite down on his lip again to stop the smile. "No, I would not expect you to."

No matter how much the Commander wanted to, his bolting from the ballroom was not part of the Inquisition plan to save Orlais.

Never once did Cullen imagine the kind of reception he received here. He walked in thinking that Orlesian nobles would turn a cold shoulder to him, which would have been actually preferable. Staying inconspicuous was at the heart of their plan to have the Inquisition soldiers infiltrate the Winter Palace.

Instead, the Commander was barraged with such enthusiastic adulation that he knew he could not direct the troop movements himself. Thank the Maker for Leliana and Josephine, for they could carry out the plan in his stead. Having studied and lived at the Imperial Court for years, the two did not possess the novelty value that his presence did and could stay hidden in plain sight.

And so, he concentrated on making the best impression as possible. It seemed that the Commander's contribution to the Inquisition tonight would be centered on diplomacy, not military. Surrounded by a gaggle of breathy ladies and showy gentlemen, he tried to smile the right smile and talk the right talk, as coached by the Ambassador.

His self-control notwithstanding, the man was fighting a losing battle. There was only so much inane conversation he could tolerate.

"Commander, has anyone ever told you that you have the most remarkable eyes?" A duchesse tittered behind a fan, her expression obscured by a mask that looked sinister rather than fashionable.

"Several times this evening, actually."

Evidently not satisfied with the answer, the duchesse sighed and nagged playfully, "How dreary. We aren't in Ferelden, mon cher monsieur. Smile! You're so handsome when you smile!"

Cullen tightly gripped his tumbler and forced his lips to curve up. He couldn't believe how difficult it was to look like he was enjoying himself. The ice clinked, already having been deprived of the brandy in which it was suspended.

"He's just as handsome when he doesn't," a gray chevalier in ceremonial armor chimed in. But before the Commander could utter another word, the nobleman leaned in and asked in a low voice, "Are you married, Commander?"

"Not yet, but…" At that moment Tharin rushed by with a purposeful look. Things must be progressing according to the plan. "I am already taken."

The chevalier stared at the Inquisitor, looked back at him, and grinned wickedly. "Still single, then?"

Before Cullen could come up with a roundabout refusal to the sly proposition, however, he felt a hand on his lower back. It descended in a blink and his whole body froze. "Did you just… grab my bottom?" The gray chevalier purred, "I am a weak man," no doubt a suave veneer that conveyed the idle curiosity of a sexually frustrated courtier.

That was the last straw. Cullen knew that at this rate he would inevitably make a faux pas, if not necessarily a physical altercation, and thus decided to extricate himself from the situation. Luckily, his admirers let him leave when he mentioned that he had urgent Inquisition business to take care of. He made a mental note to use this excuse more frequently through the night.

But there was to be no peace for the Commander. At the table bedecked with all kinds of foodstuffs and drinks, from which Cullen hoped to steal away another tumbler of brandy and perhaps a couple amuse-bouches to make himself look occupied, he ran into Lady Renée.

More precisely, Renée stood behind him and cleared her throat.

When Cullen turned around, Renée began without giving him an opportunity to get a word in, "I am very cross with you, you know. What were you… Maker…!"

Holding onto a small plate of vol-au-vents, Cullen exclaimed, "Lady Renée! Uh, good evening. How are you?"

Renée looked struck. "You… got another scar. What happened?" She reached out to touch his left cheek before retracting the gloved hand presently. Her cheeks bloomed red.

Lifting the hand holding the tumbler, Cullen traced a finger across his left cheek, feeling the groove there. "Oh, this… I was protecting the Inquisitor."

With her hands over her mouth, Renée murmured, "How dreadful."

Cullen upturned his lips to reassure. "It's quite all right."

After a moment of awkward staring by Renée, she began to speak. "Well, I am glad you seem to be doing well. But it does not change the fact that I am very cross with you."

Cullen frowned. "Cross with me? What have I done?"

"You apparently saw it fit to have Lady Montilyet meddle in my family's affairs."

No good deed went unpunished. Despite rising exasperation, Cullen tried to reason, to defend himself, "I did you a favor. You should not be marrying Guillaume de Val Foret. Has Lady Montilyet provided you with a list of eligible bachelors who are interested in your hand?"

Renée's arms and gathered hands looked rigid. She was indeed angry. "Yes, she has. And my father found all of them wanting. Because none of them is a Val Foret, because none of them could make me a baronne." She breathed, "My father went ahead and turned all of them down."

Yet Cullen was just as stubborn. "No matter. I shall have Lady Montilyet draw up another list of suitors for your father. You shall not wed Guillaume."

Renée spread her arms in apparent frustration and asked in a threateningly low voice, which was uncharacteristic of her, "Whyever not?"

Cullen bit down on his lip and shook his head. "I am not at liberty to discuss the why. But you should know this is for the best. This is for your sake."

As soon as he finished speaking, Cullen felt his head ring, as though he stood under a tolling bell. Hot pain emanated from his left cheek and lingered. He dropped the plate of amuse-bouches, and the delicate plate smashed against the marble floor. The debris flew in all directions. There was a collective gasp around the two, and only then did it register in Cullen that Renée, a lady of repute from a good family, had slapped him.

Cullen looked around and saw nobles gawking. Some glowered through their masks, some held up their fans to gossip. He surveyed the ballroom for somewhere to escape to, yet nothing came into his view. Cullen lowered his tumbler on the table and leaned forward to offer his hand. Looking up at Renée, he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone, "May I have the pleasure of a dance?"

The woman looked away and huffed. "No."

Cullen exhaled and beseeched, "Please."

Renée whispered back harshly, "You have insulted me and my intelligence. Greatly."

There was not much the Commander could do other than to say his sorry. "I cannot apologize enough. Please, follow me. I need to speak to you in private."

Only then did Renée look around. She seemed to finally catch on to their predicament, and the young woman nodded. And so, the two pushed through a crowd of judgmental nobles and meandered to the dance floor.

Luckily, they need not wait long. The song ended as soon as they descended the steps, and the dancers parted and clapped politely. Some dance partners remained, some left. And new dancers joined the fray. Cullen extended his arm to lead Renée.

As men and women stood in parallel lines, Cullen hoped for an allemande, the same dance from the Royan social club that he had some hope of emulating. Alas, the man was not as fortunate this time. The orchestra began to play a minuet.

Cullen bowed alongside the gentlemen. Renée curtsied with the ladies. And the lines began to move in concert.

Minuet was a frustrating dance because it afforded no modicum of privacy with his partner. The dancers did hold their hands together, but they were looking away from each other. And even that contact ended as each pair began to separate. There was no opportune moment for Cullen to close in and speak to Renée. Besides, it did not help that the man had only seen a glimpse of the dance moves at Skyhold and neglected to practice them. While Orlesian nobles and Lady Renée moved about gracefully in flowing gestures, Cullen alone moved about haphazardly, in motions that could be construed as hostile for its jaggedness.

After what felt like an eternity of mincing and prancing with pointed toes, the couples rejoined hands and closed in. As they revolved around with their palms touching, Renée snapped, "How dare you assume you know what is best for me. Do you see me as a mere good to be traded and won over like my father does?"

They switched their palms and revolved backward.

Cullen stammered, "No, of course not. I am… I am your friend. I wish you to be happy."

Renée's visage softened. She took a deep breath and said, "Now, please explain why I must not marry Guillaume and instead marry one of the Inquisition's candidates."

The other dancers were still too close for Cullen's comfort. His eyes met with at least two other dancers, one lady and one gentleman. He had no option but to be vague. "He… shan't remain faithful."

Renée scoffed. "Is that all?"

Cullen raised his brow. "Is that not enough of a reason for you?"

"It is a marriage of convenience. What does my husband's predilection matter?"

The private moment was over as the song reached the rousing midpoint and dancers converged into opposing columns again. The lines were broken up into three couples who began to form a wide circle and revolve. Cullen felt ridiculous as he watched the others step around in perfect harmony while he failed to do so.

After many graceless steps which had Cullen worry about bumping into another dancer, the couples converged into another private moment.

With their palms gathered, Cullen fervently prayed his hand was not sweaty and began to rebut Renée's previous statement, "But marital harmony is a crucial element for your long-term happiness, is it not?"

"Yes." Renée hesitated before she added shyly, "That is why I asked if you may be… interested."

"I…"

Cullen thought he felt a stare. He turned and saw the shimmering Anchor afar. The Inquisitor leaned forward on the balustrade that edged the upper level of the ballroom. The man looked small next to the enormous winged golden creature protruding from the pillar. When their eyes met, Cullen thought he saw Tharin grimace. The man's gaze followed Cullen, and he began to feel self-conscious.

When he made another turn, the Inquisitor was gone.

Cullen knew he had to be direct and forthright. And so, he was. "I am sorry, milady. I can't."

A look of dismay on Renée soon transformed into a pained grin. "You already have someone, do you not? May I ask… The woman who's stolen your heart, who is she?"

The question gave him a pause, but he did not look away. He leaned toward her and spoke softly, "You see, I am a soldier. I am fighting in this war against Corypheus. And I have seen too many die regardless of their strengths and skills… Do you understand what I am trying to say?"

It took a moment, but Renée soon nodded with a grave expression. She was disappointed and Cullen felt wretched for having disappointed her. The dance came to a gentle, somewhat lackluster conclusion. The dancers were back in their respective columns, bowing. As Cullen bowed to Renée, he found it easy to say with absolute conviction, "You will find someone worth your time, and you will love well."

In spite of all the treacheries and the conspiracies under the surface, or precisely because of them, the evening seemed to amble on endlessly.

It was frustrating for the Commander to not be able to lead the infiltration himself, but Leliana seemed to be in control of the situation, and he was appreciative. And the Spymaster was judicious enough to keep him apprised of the situation.

Still, what frustrated Cullen even more was the fact that his cool attitude only seemed to fan the interests among Orlesian nobles. And Renée, one person he would not have minded talking to in this ghastly spectacle, promptly left him after the dance and was nowhere to be found. He was not surprised given what he told her.

After receiving unwelcome pats on his derrière from two more people, Cullen finally escaped the ballroom and retreated into a dimly lit corner of the vestibule. He nursed the tumbler of brandy he managed to pilfer from Maker-knows-where and watched the people file past him toward the festivities. He told himself a convincing lie that he would only linger for five minutes until he rejoined the revelry.

The thought of all the unwanted interactions got to him and he felt stifled. He was tugging at his stiff collar when the Inquisitor approached.

"Is everything all right, Commander?"

"Thank you for your concern, Inquisitor. The collar's just… scratchy." Cullen discreetly ran his hand over his left cheek, which no longer throbbed. Renée's hand must not have left a noticeable mark, and he was grateful for that.

Tharin grinned lightly as he leaned against the gilded wall and joined him. He crossed his right arm over his left, holding a glass flute with ease. "Fidgeting with your collar like that, I rather expected you to have gotten used to uncomfortable attires by now. You wear your full armor day and night. And the last time I checked, fabrics are more comfortable than metal."

"I cannot disagree, but no matter how many times I wear the ceremonial uniform, I shall never get accustomed to it. The last time I wore this was at that hunting party in Val Royeaux, and I absolutely hated that."

Tharin's visage darkened instantly. "I am so sorry."

Cullen belatedly realized his mistake in calling back to the man's unsavory encounter with Guillaume de Val Foret. Maker, the amount of trouble that flirt of a man was causing Cullen was astonishing. "No, no, please, don't apologize. It's not you. I just did not enjoy having to fawn over dukes and counts like an imbecile. It really wasn't… Wasn't you." He knocked back the brandy, thinking it would ease his frayed nerves.

As the liquid traveled smoothly down his throat, Cullen remembered Dorian's sharp words, that Tharin was in love with him. Madly so, according to the mage. It was not just hard to believe, but impossible. Those spiky, hurtful things Cullen hurled at Tharin at Haven… It had been months, yet they still left a bitter taste every time he recalled. And that roundabout yet still cruel denial in a hedge maze in Val Royeaux… Their history guaranteed that Tharin would hate him.

Still, those words from Dorian invoked within him an exhilarating feeling that swaddled his whole body whenever Tharin was nearby. That feeling of a tight heart and tingling limbs that dared him to leap. If what Dorian said were true…

Cullen tried to stop his mind from wandering toward the inevitable. Because they had Orlais to save right now.

The man managed to stem his thoughts and added some puckish remarks, "Thank the Maker black seems to be my color at least."

Tharin neither laughed nor gave a reply. Instead, he quietly sipped from his flute some sweet cordial, brightly colored yet innocuous.

The two men stood side by side silently until Cullen thought of something to say. "Everyone's in position for your signal." Old news, but just in case.

"I see. Thank you for that."

"You should thank Leliana and Josephine. For the better part of the night, I've been stuck trying to impress the Orlesians."

"I saw. You certainly attracted a following. That girl from Val Royeaux in particular."

"Pardon?"

"The pretty girl in a ruby gown you were dancing with for most of the night. I daresay you were enjoying yourself then."

Cullen glanced at Tharin, but he was staring straight ahead. The cool eyes betrayed no emotion.

"I will concede that my previous acquaintance with Lady Renée as a dance partner made it tolerable."

To this noncommittal answer, the Inquisitor snorted hollowly. After gulping down the rest of the cordial, he intoned, "Well, wish me luck. Hopefully, we can keep the kerfuffle down to minimum. It'd be a pity to ruin the party."

But Tharin walked away before the Commander could reply properly, leaving him to stammer to himself, "Good… luck."

As the Inquisitor disappeared among the throngs of showy nobles, Cullen prayed to the Maker.

He prayed for Tharin.

Or the Inquisitor and his friends could have been as loud as possible, exposed every darkness within the palace, and carelessly ruined the party. If only that were an option.

As any Orlesian event goes, the ball at the Winter Palace was an elaborate production, and ruining it would have satisfied Tharin's childish, contrarian impulse against all things noble and high-cultured.

Yet beyond the decorations and the lights and the ornate hors d'oeuvres and the well-chilled potations, it was an utter mess, a comedy in a guise of a tragedy wrapped in blood with a tiny golden bow on top. In fact, every time the Inquisitor stopped one plot, a new one popped out. He would stop one faction only for another to take its place. The whole situation could only be described as–

"Omnishambles," muttered the Inquisitor.

"D'you say somethin'?" A curious voice from Sera rang across the marble archway. Cassandra and Vivienne stopped and looked back as well.

Back to being his composed Inquisitor self, Tharin shook his head and replied, "It's nothing. Pay no mind."

It took him less than five minutes to figure out Leliana and Josephine may have underplayed the dangers of the Grand Game in action. The first room Tharin and his party entered in the upper level of the palace was strewn with dead bodies of guards and harlequin spies.

"Eugh, gross," Sera scrunched her face in naked disgust as she relaxed her bow.

Tharin scoffed. "Really? That's your reaction? You see dead bodies all the time when we are out in the field."

"It's different, innit? You don't expect to see dead bodies in the friggin' palace, do ya?"

"I am going to hazard a guess and say… yes? As I first met you at a garish mansion in Val Royeaux with dead bodies scattered all over its garden?"

He expected a dramatic reaction, and unsurprisingly, Sera gave it to him. She laughed quite loudly and mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, Lord Smartmouth." She then blew a raspberry. "Nobody likes a mouthy boss, you arse."

"Well, I will definitely endeavor to be less mouthy in the future. More glum and serious. More… Herald-of-Andraste-like, right?"

Sera rolled her eyes and snorted in mock annoyance, "You are ridiculous."

Tharin's Anchor decided to act up at that moment and an arcane discharge zapped through the air. Sera held her backside and yelped, "Yowch! What was that?"

Pursing his mouth and recalling the nightmares for the briefest moment, Tharin raised his Anchor hand that was still crackling and answered, "That… may have been the Anchor."

"Ugh, tell it to keep it in its pants, will ya? I'm not interested," grumbled Sera.

Cassandra and Vivienne were dependable companions, but it was especially good to have Sera by his side. She was a welcome distraction to the image swirling inside his head. Tharin could not quite accept the fact that he was having a frivolous thought during a critical operation such as this. The fate of Thedas, not just Orlais, hung in the balance, yet it was all he could think of.

That expression on Cullen's face as he danced with that girl. Tharin had not seen such an earnest expression from the man since… Well, since he thought they were together at Haven. It galled him.

Now that Dorian had correctly guessed Tharin's love for Cullen, it all seemed much more real. As though it possessed its own flesh and blood that the young man could not ignore. And he was not nice or congenial enough to watch his love interact with other potential companions without feeling jealous.

Well, more accurately, feeling envious since any kind of romantic potential with the Commander had gone up in flames back at Haven. In his freezing cabin, Cullen was a passionate lover, a tortured soul, and a cruel messenger of an overlooked truth all at once. When Tharin vowed to always be there for him, Cullen countered with sharpened words.

You don't get it, do you? It is perfectly clear to me now that I am not what you are. On top of being whatever you are, you're useless too.

The truth forever engraved in Tharin's mind.

The man confirmed this truth once again in Val Royeaux when Tharin foolishly asked. To Cullen, he was the Herald of Andraste, someone with a wonky, magical hand that acted up from time to time. Nothing more. Tharin couldn't be jealous for something he did not even possess, could he? Envy was really the more apt term to describe what he felt. Envy for Cullen's attention and devotion.

Maybe Cullen meeting that woman from Val Royeaux was a welcome development. Tharin had to acknowledge that the Commander would not be interested in what he thought, not in the least. The man would move on and find a woman to start a family with. The sooner it happened, the faster Tharin could move on with his own life too. And once this mission was over, he could fall to his knees and supplicate Dorian to reconsider their stillbirth of a relationship like a pathetic mess that he was, the Orlesian Plan be damned.

Did following through with that last idea make him a selfish person?

But the fact that his heart would once again ache for… however long it would, that was much harder to accept.

Holding onto the image of Cullen and his ingénue despite every effort, the Inquisitor marched onward.

The story of the Winter Palace turned out to be straightforward and complicated all at once. Celene, Gaspard, and Briala all came to the negotiation table with plots to disrupt and defeat the others. Most of the Inquisition's resources were spent untangling that web of multiple conspiracies overlaid on each other. But above all stood Grand Duchess Florianne, Corypheus's secret contact within the Imperial Court and his self-proclaimed lieutenant. As her title suggested, the woman's delusion was grand indeed.

With her face illuminated by the rift floating above the courtyard, Florianne gave her speech the only way clichéd villains knew: manic and theatrical. "I'll deliver the entire South of Thedas, and Corypheus will save me. When he has ascended to godhood, I will rule all Thedas in his name."

The Inquisitor sneered. "Oh, Your Grace. I would bother to come up with a cleverer retort if I didn't think your addled mind wouldn't completely miss the point." He heard Vivienne snort behind him.

"You are the addled one, Inquisitor. You don't know half of what Samson and I have planned." Florianne's lower face broke out in a monstrous smile, incongruous to her unmoving eyes behind her mask. "I suppose you won't live to know it. Pity. Now, do enjoy dying while I go slit Celene's pretty, scheming neck."

Despite Florianne's confident words, her Venatori turned out to be easy foes. It was more difficult fretting about his Anchor acting up and concentrating on closing the rift than taking her minions down, in fact.

After running through a labyrinth of palace corridors and chambers, the Inquisitor and his companions came through to the ballroom to find the Empress standing on her platform ready to give her speech.

Josephine ran up and asked, "You are back! The Empress will begin her speech soon. Who is the assassin?"

Before Tharin had the chance to speak, Cassandra barked, "It is Grand Duchess Florianne!" Too loudly given the sensitive nature of the information.

Tharin creased his brow and glanced back at the Seeker as he told Josephine, "Don't let her anywhere near the Empress. I'll take care of her."

But Tharin had already missed the chance to apprehend Florianne discreetly. He had to call across the ballroom at Florianne when he saw the Empress motion for her to come closer. Things instantly spiraled out of control.

In an elaborate move that rivaled a seasoned assassin, Florianne whirled and knifed Inquisition soldiers approaching to apprehend her while a dozen harlequin spies appeared out of thin air and began to murder nobles in plain sight. Piercing screams and frenzied footsteps filled the ballroom.

Tharin saw Florianne slip past the resultant chaos and escape to the palace gardens. Feeling helpless, he began to run after her and looked to the advisors. "Cullen, Leliana, protect the people!"

The jump was several stories high. Florianne, now freed of her cumbersome butterfly gown, nimbly leapt from one perch to another, and there was no hope for Tharin, a warrior lacking in dexterity, to catch up to her. When he looked back, he saw his battle-ready retinue follow him to the balcony.

He bellowed, "Sera, can you reach her?"

"On it!" Without a moment of hesitation, Sera began her descent in pursuit of Florianne. There was no time to check whether she made it down safely. Tharin turned around and began to run toward the vestibule, to the palace entrance.

To the final showdown.

By the time the Inquisitor, Cassandra, and Vivienne arrived at the gardens, Sera was losing the ground. She had flesh wounds on her forehead and her shoulder from which blood trickled down and soaked her fitted uniform, and she ceaselessly nocked and released arrows at Venatori and harlequin assassins coming at her.

Cassandra and Vivienne immediately joined the affray to relieve Sera, and when Tharin was about to do so himself, he heard grating laughter.

It was Florianne standing atop the fountain in the middle of the gardens, looking smug. "The night is still young. All I need to recover… is to kill you, Inquisitor." She tossed and caught her dagger before turning to look at him. "So good of you to attend my soiree."

Tharin had to hand it to her. The Grand Duchess had a flair for drama. But that talent obviously did not extend to strategical thinking. The aftermath would have been quite a challenge had she managed to escape into the night, framing the event as a lost battle and putting into question the Inquisition's ability to control the volatile situation in Orlais. Yet, she elected to stay and fight and die.

Senseless, arrogant, thoughtless woman. This battle was the Inquisition's to lose, Tharin was certain.

He shouted, "We still have the last dance, Your Grace!" and charged down to the ground level.

As he passed, Vivienne fired a thunderbolt and yelled, "We've got this! Go after Florianne!" Indeed, the three of them appeared to be rather content in their positions, taking down the Venatori zealots and harlequin assassins one by one.

It did occur to Tharin he would have no means of reaching Florianne if she were to stay on top of the fountain. But the woman's ego precluded that option. She hopped off with ease and took a defensive stance with her daggers.

Without appending any more word, Tharin charged at her with his greatsword drawn. Florianne backflipped away and threw a smoke bomb.

As Tharin coughed in the offending haze, he felt the air behind him coalesce into a faintest movement, something that could be construed as wind. He whipped his whole body and avoided Florianne's dagger by a hair.

Despite her apparent idiocy, Florianne made for an awesome opponent. She was quick, she knew how to use the environment to her advantage as she flitted about, and most of all, she knew when to retreat and when to advance. Though Tharin dodged most of Florianne's attacks, neither could he inflict significant damages to slow her. The woman simply somersaulted and jumped her way out of the corner.

After what felt like hours of slashing, dodging, and parrying her daggers, Tharin felt frustration beginning to sap his energy. A few more moves and he may no longer be able to completely avoid the blade.

When he ducked a particularly close thrust, he saw Florianne's foot close in. An inch more, and she would have kicked his teeth in. He threw his body to the side to avoid the contact and tumbled on the grass. He could see Florianne smirk as she stood over him. He scrambled to get away.

"Oi, Arsehole!"

Sera's voice rang like a clarion call. There was a sound of an arrow whizzing across the cold night air. Florianne screamed in pain and reached for her back.

When the woman turned around, Tharin saw Sera's arrow right in the middle of her spine and blood beginning to leak out in a perfect circle. He turned and saw Sera lowering her bow, Cassandra with her sword and shield, and Vivienne wielding her large staff standing next to each other. The three were bloodied yet triumphant.

Not the one to miss the chance, Tharin leapt to his feet and swung his greatsword with all his might.

There was a sickening sound of ripping flesh, and hot, crimson foams sprayed everywhere, dotting Tharin's uniform. Florianne's hands were frantic as they kept slipping against the blood pouring from the gigantic gash on her neck. Soon, she emitted a gurgling noise, and her body toppled to the ground like a heavy sack of flour falling on its side.

For a moment, the four looked at each other, their breaths ragged and their white respirations dissipating into the dark ether. But Vivienne let forth a groan as she bent forward.

"Vivienne! You are hurt!" exclaimed the Inquisitor.

The mage held her side. The black velvet of the uniform hid much of the bloodstain, but there was a large one even so. A grimace disguised as a smile floated on her visage. "This is nothing, my dear. Now, go and solidify Celene's position. That is what we came here for."

Tharin sheathed his greatsword and went up to help her. Supporting the mage, Tharin looked to Cassandra and Sera. Letting his emotion take over, he began, "Thank you, all. I could not have done this–"

"Go!" emphasized Vivienne in an insistent tone as she forcefully pushed him away.

The Inquisitor closed his mouth and nodded. Leaving behind his retinue, he raced up the marble steps to the palace. To the Empire's destiny.

Next up, more shenanigans at the Winter Palace on Sunday, May 8!

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