I'm not wearing this."

Her three advisors regarded her with cool, assessing eyes; while they might squabble like children over certain decisions, each was more than capable of analysing a situation and forming a reasoned, though usually different, opinion.

Right now, that situation was the dress they'd chosen for her to wear to the ball at the Winter Palace. Given it was only a week away, she'd had a dress fitting that morning to make any last minute alterations, though it had only taken a single glance in the mirror to convince her that it was out of the question.

"We're going to stop an assassination! How am I supposed to stop anything wearing this?"

With the heels they'd given her, even walking quickly had proved to be a nightmare, and she'd nearly stumbled down the stairs as she'd attempted to get from her quarters to the war room.

Oh, she could see what they'd been aiming for. In complete contradiction to current Orlesian fashion, the dress was made entirely from white silk, laced up the back with buttery, pale gold ribbons. The dragonbone corset they'd prised her into underneath made her waist elfishly small and pushed her meagre breasts up into an illusion of fullness, which was taken advantage of by the daring neckline of the dress. From her waist the dress flared out, supported by hundreds of ringed petticoats, which swung disconcertingly around her legs whenever she took a step. It was a miracle she'd managed to avoid getting a shoe stuck in the netting.

A single sash of blood red fabric had been tied around her waist, and they'd added a gold Chantry necklace to complete her outfit. The sun nestled snugly on her manufactured bosom and winked up at her, irritating in its implied piety.

She'd been so caught up in wearing something pretty for once, something that definitely wasn't designed with blood stains and heavy combat in mind, that she'd been half swept away by the seamstress's clear delight over the outfit. They'd brushed her hair out and let it flow free down her shoulders, the red curls nearly a perfect match for the belt round her waist, It had been so long since she'd had occasion to do something with her hair that wasn't practical that she'd been giddily anticipating the admiring looks and comments she'd receive. She hadn't realised what the effect would be until she'd caught sight of herself in the mirror.

They'd made her look like bloody Andraste. All she needed was a flaming sword.

She regretted that for a moment, she'd been tempted to go along with it anyway. What was a little more worship? It was easy to transition between the Herald of Andraste to Andraste's avatar, soul reborn to aid Thedas with this new disaster. Even the Chantry was beginning to fall in line now, abandoned by the templars, and more than a few saw her as their religious saviour. She'd heard more than one cleric put her name forward for the empty position of Divine.

But she was no Chantry symbol. She was Evelyn Trevelyan, apostate mage and Inquisitor. It was the Chantry who had advocated for her to be locked up in a tower her entire life, and it was the Chantry who had wanted her head on a stick after she'd fallen through the rift with the Divine dead at her feet. She owed them nothing, and she would not be their puppet.

"You are there to seek political allies, Inquisitor, not to wage war on the ballroom floor. Lelianna's agents will make sure that we are all safe there, Empress Celene included. We cannot ignore how important this event will be in convincing more parties to join our cause."

Unsurprisingly, it was Josephine who spoke up in defence of the outfit first. While Evelyn could see the logic in her words, it was not enough to sway her opinion on the dress.

"I go representing the Inquisition! Let them see something that reminds them of our military strength, not our links to a failing Chantry."

"She's right," Lelianna interjected, to Evelyn's surprise. "This is too broad a stroke for the Game. We need to take a more subtle approach, or we risk being dismissed entirely as fools."

She let Lelianna and Josephine argue over it and watched the Commander instead. She'd not though he would have much to add to the conversation, as it was entirely unrelated to troop movements, but the way he kept trying to steal a glance at her was intriguing. Normally he tried his best to ignore her presence, staring over her shoulder even when reporting directly to her.

Evelyn wondered what had caused the change. Was it the dress itself? The swell of her breasts were on display, and it was possible that suddenly revealing flesh normally hidden under high necked shirts and half jackets had aroused his curiosity. Possible, but it seemed unlikely. There were plenty of women who went around attired in a similar way around Skyhold, and the Commander did not openly stare at any of them.

No, she suspected the cause was her artfully designed resemblance to the statue of Andraste in Skyhold's Chantry. The Commander was known to spend hours each morning on his knees in front of that marble form. The image of him on his knees in front of her instead sent a delicious spike of pleasure through her, and she imagined him making his absolutions in her name instead.

Lelianna and Josephine were still engrossed in their argument, raised voices and deft hand movements underlining each point. She used their distraction to move closer to the Commander, edging round the war table until there were only a few hand spans between them. His jaw tensed, but he remained still.

"Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide." Her words were feather-light, half-whispered, meant for his ears only. She watched in satisfaction as he swallowed heavily and stared straight ahead.

"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade."

His hand curled tightly across the pommel of his sword, as if gripping the weapon would give him the strength to ignore her.

"For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light."

This time his eyes flicked to her face, and she marvelled in the desperate hunger that she saw there. He wanted this to be real, wanted it to enough to ignore that he knew who she really was, and she could almost taste the plea on his lips as he exhaled sharply.

"And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."