Seth stands in front of the mirror, giving himself one last look. He's impeccable, of course. Dorian has seen to that. The haircut, the outfit – all of it carefully curated to play to the elf's considerable strengths. Seth has always looked good in blue, but this particular shade of cobalt is perfectly stunning on him, offsetting his silver hair and bringing out the startling aquamarine of his eyes. The silver is picked up in the embroidery on his tunic and the stitching on his black leather gloves, the latter designed with flared forearms that fit perfectly over the elf's artificial hand. It's an immaculate ensemble. Now if he can just stop fidgeting with it…

"There's no need to be nervous," Dorian tells him.

This is a lie. There is every reason to be nervous and Seth knows it. Tonight is to be his introduction to the glitterati of Tevinter society. On enemy ground, no less: a soiree at the estate of one Magister Grotius Philion, whose Priori faction has been at odds with the Lucerni over virtually every piece of legislation tabled in the Magisterium for the past two years. Philion loathes Dorian – a feeling that would be mutual if Dorian could be bothered to give the old goat a second thought. Which is of course why he invited "Magister Pavus and Guest" to this little get-together. It's a gauntlet thrown. He's daring Dorian to cause a scandal, which… challenge accepted, obviously.

Still, not exactly the terms Dorian would have chosen for introducing his new husband to the world. He'd have preferred to host something at their estate, or least let Mae do it. A soft open, as it were. But Seth was having none of it. It'll be taken for weakness, he said – demonstrating an eerily strong grasp of Tevinter culture for a man who's been living in the Imperium for all of a month. We need to show them we're not afraid and not ashamed. And we'll only get one chance.

From that perspective, at least, tonight's festivities will be ideal. A chance to show Minrathous society that Magister Pavus and his husband fully expect to be welcomed with open arms – even if there's a knife tucked up those silken sleeves. Which of course there will be, figuratively and occasionally literally.

Seth has been inspecting himself for a full five minutes now, a record even Dorian would be hard pressed to break. "Maker's breath, amatus. You will be the most beautiful creature in the room and you know it. Can we move this along?"

"Is that what you think I'm worried about?" Seth snorts softly. Then he flicks his wrist, revealing the flashing point of a blade before tucking it away again. "I just want to make sure none of the weapons I'm carrying are visible."

Dorian frowns. "Exactly how many weapons are you carrying?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No. Far more amusing to let me discover them on my own, later." Dorian gives him a seductive little smile. "In the meantime, the carriage is waiting."

Fifteen minutes later – the carriage was mostly for show – they're being escorted up a flight of steps into a verdant courtyard dancing with magical light. Quite literally: tiny flecks of golden light swarm like fireflies in the air, swirling just a few feet above the guests. Spirits, probably, though it could be a cantrip of some kind. Either way, the effect is quite spectacular, and Dorian wonders how a dry old nug fart like Philion came up with the idea.

"Darling!" calls a familiar voice, and Maevaris flits over, looking radiant in a spilly confection of emerald satin. "Or should I say darlings," she adds, air kissing each of them in turn. "You look brilliant, both of you. Especially you, Inquisitor. You'll be the belle of the ball, I promise you."

Seth smiles, looking perfectly serene. If it's a mask, it's a very good one – but then, Inquisitor Lavellan is no stranger to these sorts of performances. "Quite a party, from the look of it," the elf says, his gaze travelling over the glittering assembly. "I didn't think anything could outdo the Winter Palace, but those lights… How is it done?"

Mae's expression curdles. "Theft, of course. That"—she points irritably at the swirling pinpricks of light—"is my spell."

Dorian laughs. "Of course it is. I ought to have known."

Mae finds it considerably less amusing. "The wrinkled old balls on him," she mutters, "stealing someone else's work…" Then she makes an airily dismissive gesture, and her expression clears. "Well, we'll soon have our revenge, won't we? Here's the seneschal. Ready for battle, gentlemen?" Looping one arm through Dorian's and the other through Seth's, she steers them over to the seneschal and whispers in his ear.

The man is too well trained to react; he just nods crisply and turns toward the assembly. "Magister Pavus," he announces, "and Inquisitor Lavellan."

Silence drops like a curtain. Every head in the courtyard turns as if pulled on a string, and for just a tiny second, Dorian is terrified. This is mad, he thinks. Even for you. Bringing a Dalish to a party in Minrathous? You've thrown your halla to the wolves.

But his forest creature still looks perfectly serene. He touches Dorian's arm, discreetly maneuvering him so that his back is to the crowd – and then he laughs, as though Dorian has just said something terribly witty. "Breathe, vhen'an," he murmurs, still smiling. "It's going to be fine, I promise."

The guests, meanwhile, don't seem to know quite how to react. There are a few incredulous laughs, and whispers behind gloved hands. But most just look at one another, as if waiting for someone of social power to determine which way the thing will break.

And then the most extraordinary thing happens.

"Inquisitor," says a familiar voice – one Dorian was not expecting to hear. Aquinea Pavus glides over, resplendent in midnight blue silk with long silver gloves, and she takes Seth's hands, kissing him on each cheek. "Look at you. My son usually fancies himself the finest specimen in the room, but I daresay my son-in-law will outshine him forever more."

Which is perfect, really. For while Lady Pavus is unmistakably in the act of very publicly placing her seal of approval on her son's shocking marriage, she couldn't quite manage it without a swipe at Dorian in the process.

"Lovely to see you as always, Mother," Dorian says, his sour tone quite convincingly masking the surge of gratitude in his breast. The moment Aquinea's lips touched Seth's cheek, it was as if the ice in the room melted. For Lady Pavus is a woman of tremendous social power indeed. A revered matriarch of Tevinter society, the sort of figure lesser mortals set their social compasses by, lest they find themselves shunned by other figures of great power. Only the bravest would dare cross her now – at least publicly.

Which means Grotius Philion now has little choice but to play the gracious host, his trap having failed to spring. He appears before them as if by magic, sweeping into a courtly bow. "Inquisitor Lavellan. You honour me." His gaze flicks to Dorian. "And Magister Pavus, of course."

"There you are, Grotius," Aquinea says, snapping open a silver fan and fluttering it. "I was beginning to wonder if you were hiding in the shrubbery."

"Lady Pavus." Philion smiles thinly. "It is clear how Magister Pavus came by that delightfully sharp tongue of his."

"It is how he came by all of his better traits," Aquinea declares before sauntering off.

Philion, too, beats a hasty retreat. And now there are three.

"I'm not sure what just happened," Seth says.

"Aquinea has placed you under her protection," Mae explains, looping her arm through Seth's once more. "Now society has a choice. Embrace you or risk being cut. Most will take the easier route, which means you can brace yourself for an evening of fawning, Inquisitor."

Anyone else might have been pleased, but Seth actually sighs at that. "I'm grateful, though I confess I've had enough fawning for a lifetime."

"Alas, you poor creature," Dorian says wryly.

"You would be wise to reap the harvest while you can, darling," Mae advises Dorian with an arch of her eyebrow. "There are deals to be done here. Go, mingle. I will entertain your better half." And keep an eye on him, her gaze adds silently, for which Dorian is grateful.

The evening progresses smoothly after that. It is, in fact, rather a smashing success. Dorian flits about the room like a butterfly, collecting tokens of political goodwill that he fully intends to cash at the earliest opportunity. Seth, meanwhile, is a fascinating novelty; even the most prominent names in the room are eager to inspect the legend up close, if only to gossip about him later. Mae has her hands full providing introductions and diplomatically divesting Seth of anyone who tries to monopolize his time. Lady Montilyet would have thoroughly approved.

Only once does Dorian almost lose his temper, and that late in the evening, when stragglers begin to appear who were not present for the seneschal's introduction or Lady Pavus's benediction. "Is that one yours?" a young woman murmurs conspiratorially to Dorian, inspecting Seth rather shamelessly from afar. "He's very pretty."

"He is," Dorian says, half annoyed and half curious to see where it will go.

"Is he any good?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The woman considers Dorian with a tilt of her head. "You are having him, yes? He certainly looks too well-kept for a house boy." She returns to her inspection, looking Seth up and down like a horse she's considering buying. "Besides, why bring him here except to show him off? Unless you're trying to tempt the rest of us." She smiles coyly at Dorian. "Well, are you? Because if you're willing to share…"

Dorian draws a deep breath. In this company, even the slightest quiver in the Veil will draw attention, and it would be blood in the water to these sharks. A weakness they could exploit. And so, pasting on the silken smile that is his birthright, Dorian says, "He is extremely good, actually. But I'm afraid you're just not his type."

She laughs incredulously. "What does that matter? Or do slaves decide for themselves now?"

Before Dorian can answer, Mae appears at his side, a glass of brandy in each hand. "There you are, darling. Your husband is getting lonely."

The young woman blinks.

"Is he?" Dorian asks airily, accepting a glass. "He looks to be quite surrounded. I'm surprised you left him alone in that horde, frankly."

"Oh, I daresay the Inquisitor can take care of himself."

The young woman blanches. "The…" she whispers.

"Inquisitor," Dorian purrs, looking her right in the eye.

The woman swallows hard. "Will you excuse me? I think I…"

"Yes, I expect you should," Dorian says, his smile curving like a blade.

The retreat is far from glorious. She actually trips on her gown in her haste to be away from what she must assume will be an imminent roasting. Not that Dorian hadn't considered it, but the smell of burnt flesh is entirely off-putting when one is trying to enjoy a nice brandy.

Mae and Dorian sip their drinks and watch Seth, who seems to be managing perfectly well on his own. "A triumph," Mae declares.

"Except for the part about the love of my life being mistaken for some bed boy to be passed around like a plate of hors d'oeuvres."

"Oh, pooh. If you make it all the way through your first party with only one of those, I say you've done well."

"Remarkably so, actually," Dorian admits, taking another sip of brandy.

Seth's eyes meet his from across the room, and he smiles. And just like that, a weight Dorian has been carrying for… well, years, frankly… evaporates. They can do this. Really do this.

"You know something, Mae? I think we can aspire to more than just surviving this. I think maybe we can change things, Seth and I. With your help, of course."

She smiles. "Slow down, Magister Pavus. One victory at a time."

"Sensible advice. But if you don't mind, I'm going to savour this one."

"And so you should, darling. To victory." Mae raises her glass.

And the battles to come, Dorian adds silently, and he takes a drink.