The dragon crashes to the ground with a roar, and it springs back, prepared for another blast of flame. Next to him, the Iron Bull laughs delightedly and holds his greataxe aloft, while Iselen knocks his mace and his shield together and presses forward.

But in the same moment that he does, Leas looks back at all three of them and raises a hand, bidding them stay. Bull frowns and lowers his axe, while Iselen freezes in mid-step and almost trips over, equally confused. Of them, Solas realises, he may well be the only one who can understand what is about to happen. He blows out a breath and leans on his staff, and he waits.

Leas, with no ceremony, now steps towards the dragon, which stares at him with less anger and more animalistic curiosity. Perhaps it can sense another of Mythal's creatures only by sight, or by some other sense, though even Solas cannot claim to know that for sure, and he does not care to speculate on it. Doing so stirs up his fury and worry for his friend within his chest again, his dark speculation regarding what will happen when he has taken what he needs from Mythal.

Enough, he tells himself. It is still not over. Concern yourself with that later. It is not as easy as he wishes it could be. But just this once, he is able to lay it aside. Likely the sight before him helps. Leas steps closer to the dragon, and he cringes back as it roars and almost covers him in its spittle. After a brief pause, and here comes the real spectacle, his head starts to glow. A visible power comes from him now, all directed towards Mythal's guardian, and the guardian goes still. From here, Solas can see its eyes flash purple as Leas—or the Well—or Mythal—works the requisite magic.

An ancient form of magic, he muses sadly as he observes, paying no need to Bull's dropped jaw or Iselen's bulging eyes. It was not so rare in Elvhenan (though few things were). That it has returned, if only to one person, should bring him joy. And yet…

There would be joy if it came not from the Well, if Leas did not have to become Mythal's creature in gaining its power. If it was not being used, unknowingly or not, for her benefit and by her will, for he is hers, no matter what he says. And if… At this point, Solas' thoughts trail off into a bland melancholy, and he sighs. Never had he thought he would disapprove of Leas' thirst for knowledge or dislike his naïveté, but the Well had been a rather singular exception.

Not that it matters. Yet, anyway.

The glow now fades, as quickly as it came. All at once, the dragon takes off, flying away from the altar and through the trees into the clear sky far above. It is soon lost to sight, and nothing remains of its presence but the scorch marks it left on the ground. An astonished silence reigns in the clearing, and Leas turns around, looking none the worse for wear and no different from before. Solas observes him for a moment, tries yet again to reconcile himself to those unnatural golden eyes, and as before, fails utterly. He looks away.

"Okay, yeah," Bull manages after a long moment. His voice is flat with his incredulity. "That was impressive."

Iselen shakes his head, seeming for all the world that he can't believe what he's just seen. "What? You—stared it down? And bound it? Seriously?" he stammers. His eyes—a vivid but natural blue, a shade Solas misses in his twin's—flick from the sky to the place where the dragon just was.

"Seriously," Leas says, stepping back over to them. "it will come when I summon it. Once. That's enough to fight Corypheus, however. I have my dragon."

He passes them by and heads out of the clearing, and they follow him. "There's a sentence you don't hear every day," Iselen says, and Leas laughs. "Fenedhis, Uvun. How much more can you do? And how much more could you do once you've had time to sift through things?" The questions stir the fear in his gut again.

Leas shrugs as he falls back in line with them and they head down the path back to where they left their mounts. "I don't know. I suspect binding a dragon to my will only scratches the surface of what I might be able to do. The ancients had so much magic, it's almost beyond what I can comprehend. They say I will not be capable of all of it, for… reasons they will not explain… but there are things I could do that would turn heads even in Tevinter. With a little practice, of course."

"Just a little?" Iselen says while Solas shudders, knowing precisely what the reasons for the limitations are.

"So it would seem."

Iselen shakes his head disbelievingly and chuckles. "Well, then. Deshanna will turn green with envy when she hears of this, I swear it. What did I say about you being the talk of the next Arlathvhen? I guess that's one good thing about you drinking from the Well, even if…" He trails off, brow furrowing.

"As I've said, we'll just have to deal with the consequences when they come calling," Leas says, patting his shoulder. "For now, be glad that power is in my hands, and that I can use it to our advantage, and that I'm starting to make sense of the language and the knowledge. Whatever may come in the future, our people will profit from this."

Perhaps, Solas says to himself. It is all we can hope for. If this is a better alternative than my plans… There, he trails off again.

"Wait," Iselen says. "What happened with Mythal? Did you actually summon her?"

Leas seems to go slightly pale, and a faint grimace crosses his face. "I did," he says carefully, and Iselen lets out a shocked laugh, eyes popping almost out of his head again. "It's… all very strange. I need time to think about it. I'll tell you the full story later, but long story short? Turns out that Mythal is… or is carried by, I'm not sure how it works… Asha'bellanar."

Iselen stops dead in his tracks and turns to stare at his brother. "What?"

"Asha'bellanar is a host—I think—for Mythal," Leas repeats, looking distinctly unnerved. "Yeah, I don't understand why Mythal's in a human body, either, but… that's really the least of my concerns. It was quite an, uh, enlightening conversation…"

They start moving again, but Iselen has gone white. "So… wait. That spirit that Asha'bellanar summoned to help her get revenge on her husband, that she joined with… was that Mythal?"

"So it would seem."

"Creators! Why would Mythal come to a human host and not one of us? Why hasn't she answered any of our prayers all these centuries, if she had the means to? If she wasn't trapped in the Beyond like all the others?"

Leas shrugs. "No idea. I tried to ask, but she didn't really answer. I suspect she has her own agenda."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It may very well be so," Leas admits, sounding now as unnerved as he looks, and Solas lets out a sigh and rubs his forehead. Now that the man has come into contact with the consequences of his choices, more than just a simple change in eye colour—now he is regretful, or something like it. Of course, he is. The poor little naïf. "But, again, we can't do anything about it now. It's tomorrow's problem."

Iselen stares uneasily at him. "As you say," he murmurs, and Leas subsequently moves the conversation to another subject entirely.

In the meantime, Solas descends into his own thoughts once again, returning to Leas' newfound power. In Mythal's service he may be, but Leas still has at least a semblance of free will, and his ability and desire to learn have not changed at all. What he might become capable of given a few years or even a few months of study, besides what he was already capable of and what Solas himself taught him… it almost beggars belief. The Veil is still in place, and so he will forever be a weakling in comparison to the ancient elves, but his power is far from inconsiderable in these days. What he could do, what he could be, what sort of threat he could pose…

Fenedhis. What madness seized you when you decided to train him? Solas wonders, remembering well the mingled dread and excitement he had experienced so many months ago when he had learnt that Leas was a dreamer. Even at the time, you had known this would end poorly, that you would make him a threat by instructing him. But you were so desperate for some crumb of familiarity that you did it, anyway! Foolish man! Did you wish to be proven wrong even then?

For a long moment, Solas contemplates that question, wonders if even when he had seen this world as being full of nothing but Tranquil, he had hoped for a better solution. Tranquil are Tranquil, but people they remain, and to slaughter them en masse… Had he not been repulsed by the oculara? Why should he now say that his own mass slaughter of the Tranquil is any better, even if it is for a far greater purpose? Why should he ever have said it—or had some part of him always wanted another path? It is only recently that his duty has seemed such an ugly thing to him, but had he doubted even back then?

Questions he cannot answer, that much he knows. Leas is the one with whom he should concern himself. Dread fills his veins, warms his blood to a sickly heat, clouds his head, turns his gut into knots. He showed you that you are wrong, Solas reminds himself. He loves this world, and if it is a shadow, he is still right to love it. Foolish. If you had wanted no trouble, you should not have taught him nor let him befriend you! But Leas would have won his respect, anyway, even if Solas had kept his distance, wouldn't he? His actions would not have changed, nor his personality. Perhaps this was inevitable, simply because of Leas' own nature.

The change, maybe. Not his power. You knew what he might become if he was taught, but you did it anyway. What have you done? Not so grave an error as his formation of the Veil, or as so much else that he did as Fen'Harel, to be sure, but it hardly matters. Leas is a man he is glad to call lethal'lin, the first since Elvhenan, but he is also his own worst enemy—one at least partly of his own creation. He will never accept Solas' goal, not in a thousand years, and he will stand against him until one of them dies, however much it pains him. Considering it, Solas finds himself so torn that he's uncertain if he fears the coming of that day or welcomes it.

Stand against me, by all means. Let me be wrong. But I must save our people, restore what I destroyed. A contradiction, two diametrically opposed points, and for some time, his mind goes back and forth between them. As often, the simplest solution reoccurs and reoccurs to him: give it all up. Trust to Leas, Briala, and others like them. Let there be true reformation and peace. What does it matter if they do not have their magic and immortality, so long as they are equals? Even if he pulls down the Veil, it will not bring back everything. So why not give it up and take the harder, but more rewarding and less morally repulsive path?

But then he remembers Arlathan again: the spires climbing through the trees, the people who often took decades to cast a spell, whose magic paved the roads before them and blended with what had come before to create an unending symphony. The longing seizes his heart again, as it always does, and the shame of what he did, for the greatest mistake he ever made. How can he let that stand, even despite the cost? And how can he let his friendship with one man get in the way, however worthy a man he might be?

There is no answer, and so at last, his mind finally settles, the doubts fading somewhat. But he only need look at Leas, riding ahead of him now on his magnificent red hart, the shadow of an ancient elf and yet more an ancient elf than any elf alive bar himself, for them to resurge. He cannot decide if it is fear of Leas' power or fear of his friendship that causes it, the sudden awareness that Leas, through his kindness and their mutual respect, could conceivably stop him even without using his magic. If his doubts are so strong now, what will it be like when he finally starts to work on his plans in earnest? And how much, or how little, will Leas have to do to cause him to turn away for good?

Leas looks back at him now, and he asks, "Are you all right, Solas? You seem troubled."

"I am fine, lethal'lin," Solas says quickly, squaring his shoulders and trying not to seem so ill at ease. "But thank you for asking. I am just… eager for this to be over, I think."

Leas smiles at him, suspecting nothing. "As are we all," he says, and he turns his gaze back to the road. He does not know, need not know, that Solas spoke of something far different from what he believes.