Thank you for reading! Updates may be spottier than usual the next couple of months due to a new project I've taken on - I hope you'll bear with me.

Coming back to Skyhold felt to Bridget like coming home. She spurred her horse on ahead, excited to see what had been done in her absence—and was stunned by the extent of the work. So much building and shaping and repairing! Her own quarters were astonishingly beautiful, and so peaceful. Bridget was ashamed that she actually had some trouble sleeping in them, it was so quiet. She was sure she would get used to it, and to the luxuriously soft bed.

The main hall was still filled with scaffolds, but fewer than there had been, and Harritt was pleased as punch with the Undercroft. The tavern had been finished and was in full swing. Josephine reported that there had been a major spike in morale once the Inquisition boasted a proper tavern. Seeing how it bustled, Bridget wasn't surprised.

She hadn't been back in Skyhold for more than a day when the question of the strange boy, Cole, who had come to them before the attack on Haven, thrust itself into Bridget's notice. Bridget liked Cole, what she'd seen of him. He seemed to disappear a lot, but when she did see him, he was always trying to help. That was the spirit she liked to foster in the Inquisition.

She said as much to Vivienne, who looked at her condescendingly. "You know that this thing is not a stray puppy you can make into a pet. It's a demon. It has no business being here."

"Wouldn't you say the same of an apostate?" Solas countered. They'd been in the middle of a rapidly heating debate on the topic when Vivienne had called Bridget over to join them.

Cassandra had been listening to them both quietly, and now she turned to Bridget. "I wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his unusual abilities."

"He can cause people to forget him, or even fail entirely to notice him," Solas said. "These are not the abilities of a mage. I believe Cole is a spirit."

"I said it is a demon," Vivienne corrected sharply.

"The truth is far more complex than either term."

"Cole saved a lot of lives at Haven by warning us about Corypheus," Bridget pointed out.

"And how many will it later claim?" Vivienne demanded. "We cannot trust it here!"

"You are being too simplistic," Solas said. "Demons normally enter this world by possessing something. In their true form, they look bizarre. Monstrous."

"But Cole looks like a young man. So is this possession?" Cassandra's hand went to the hilt of her sword.

Soilas shook his head at her, and at the hand poised to draw the weapon. "It is not. He has possessed nothing and no one, and yet he appears human in all respects." He looked at Bridget. "Inquisitor, Cole is unique in my experience … and more than that, he wishes to help. I suggest you allow him to do so."

"I would like to talk to Cole and see what he has to say for himself. Do you know where he is now?"

All three of them looked at each other and shrugged; Cole appeared when he felt needed, apparently, and at the moment, he didn't seem to feel they needed him. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw movement. Cole was near the surgeon's tent, standing and watching those still recovering from their wounds at Haven and those who had been injured in the building process. Not many, Bridget was pleased to see, but there had been some.

She walked across the lower courtyard to join him.

Without looking at her, Cole said softly, "So many soldiers at Haven fought to protect the pilgrims so they could escape." His eyes seemed to fasten on one particular fallen soldier. "Choking fear. Can't think from the medicine, but the cuts wrack me with every heartbeat. Hot white pain, everything burns." The soldier was moaning softly, the moans mingling with ever harsher and louder breaths. "I can't, I can't," Cole said, his voice rising in volume, "I'm going to … I'm dying, I'm …" The soldier's head rolled to the side and he gave his last breath. "Dead," Cole finished.

"You can feel all that?" Bridget could only imagine what it must be like to feel someone else's pain that viscerally. No wonder Cole wanted to help so badly.

He nodded his head toward another soldier. "Every breath slower. Like lying in a warm bath. Sliding away. Smell of my daughter's hair when I kiss her good night."

And then she was gone, too, her eyes closing.

"Nothing could be done?" Bridget asked.

"No. I wanted to help, but … there was nothing I could do." Cole knelt by a third person, gently putting a waterskin to the man's lips. He drank greedily, closing his eyes with a satisfied sigh and lying back when he'd had his fill.

"Is that what you want to do, be a healer?"

"They don't remember me," he said. "But it's all right, because they don't hurt as much when I go." He looked up at Bridget from under his vast floppy hat. "I used to think I was a ghost. I didn't know. I made mistakes … but I made friends, too. Then a Templar proved I wasn't real. I lost my friends. I lost … everything."

Bridget decided in that moment that this spirit, this strange boy with the open heart, was worth keeping around. "You're real to me, Cole. And if you're willing to stay, the Inquisition could use your help."

His eyes widened as if he hadn't expected the offer. "Yes! Helping. I help the hurt, the helpless. I will listen for the ones who need me, and help them."

"Can you listen to anyone's mind?"

"No. They have to need me."

"I imagine there's no shortage of people here who need you."

Cole nodded. "Pain. Fear. Sadness. Guilt. Anger. Hurt. Things I can fix." He turned his head to look at her. "I can help you, if you want."

Bridget held her breath. Did she need help? She was frightened of being Inquisitor, and she felt the absence of her child at the back of her mind in every moment … but overall, she was coping. She could handle them. "I'm all right."

"Yes. For now."

She left him there—or he disappeared, she wasn't sure which—and headed up to the library. She and Dorian had agreed to meet for a game of chess, but she found him slumped in a chair in an alcove, a letter dangling from his fingers, his other hand over his face.

Bridget considered walking away … but she had the sense that too many people had walked away from Dorian in the course of his life. She didn't want to be another one. "Everything all right?" she asked softly.

He looked up, his eyes wet with tears. "It's … regarding Felix. Alexius's son."

"Oh, no. Is he—?"

Dorian nodded. "He went to the Magisterium. He stood on the Senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, so I'm told. And then … the Blight caught up with him."

"I'm so sorry."

"He was on borrowed time anyhow," Dorian said. He passed his hand over his face to wipe away the telltale marks of his tears.

"That doesn't mean you can't regret his death."

"He was the best of what Tevinter has to offer: those who put the good of others above themselves. With him around, you knew things could be better."

"In that case, he should be an example for others to follow."

"Yes. Yes, he should." Dorian forced a smile. "I could spread the word—the Cult of Felix could be spawned within a matter of days."

"I've heard worse ideas."

This time the smile was almost genuine. "Probably true. And you're right, his actions should not be forgotten." He reached his free hand up to pat hers. "Thankfully, Felix wasn't the only decent sort kicking around Thedas. I regret that I'm not feeling quite up to chess this afternoon, however. I imagine you can find a way to fill the time?"

"Yes, but not nearly so enjoyably," Bridget told him. "The calls on the Inquisitor pale in comparison to time spent with you."

"You flatter me." But to some purpose, it seemed; the light was back in his eyes, and he was studying the books with interest again.

Bridget made her way up to the Rookery to check in on Leliana. The Spymaster, too, it seemed, was mourning those lost. She was flipping through a pile of old letters in careful, beautiful handwriting. As Bridget approached, she looked up. "Did you need something, Inquisitor?"

"Just wanted to see how you are."

"Ah. I'm afraid you have caught me wallowing in nostalgia." She gestured to the letters. "Justinia."

"I'm sorry."

"As am I."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Are you certain this is something you want to hear?"

Bridget nodded. "Very much so."

"You know that I was there when the Hero of Ferelden defeated the Archdemon. We won the day, and I thought the Maker smiled on me. When the Divine requested my help, I went to her. I owed her that—and much more. I sacrificed so much to do the Maker's work … but now Justinia is dead. When she died I was angry. I felt betrayed. But … I should never have let my emotions get the better of me. I'm sorry."

"It sounds as though you should be apologizing to her, not to me," Bridget said gently.

"Perhaps so." Leliana carefully bundled up the papers and tucked them away in a pigeonhole. "Now, enough of this. Let us think more pleasant thoughts. Like the work we have to do, no?" She gave Bridget a remarkably impish smile, which Bridget returned with some surprise. It was the lightest she had ever seen her spymaster.

"Pleasant is exactly the word I would have used."

"Good. Then shall we go over the latest intelligence?"

They worked together for a good hour, and then Bridget excused herself, heading down the long curving stairs. A page met her as she reached the ground floor, with a note from Cullen asking her to meet him in his office. Curiosity piqued, she took the recently repaired bridge across the courtyard, knocking gently on Cullen's door.

"You asked to see me?"

He was standing before his desk, fists braced on the surface. Bridget noticed it was unusually clean; normally there were piles of papers, but today all she saw was a box lying open in front of him.

"As leader of the Inquisition, you …" he began slowly, each word clearly painful. "There is something you should know."

"Of course. Whatever it is, I'm willing to listen."

"Thank you." He paused, seeming uncertain how to proceed, then spoke again in a singsong, as if he was reciting from a textbook. "Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer. Some go mad … others die."

Bridget realized that the box on his desk was lyrium paraphernalia, and she stared at it in horrified fascination. The mages all knew the Templars took it, but to imagine Cullen going through those motions—it was sickening. A man that in control of himself—it didn't seem right.

Cullen went on. "We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I … no longer take it."

That was a surprise. Bridget's eyes flew from the box to Cullen's face, understanding now the lines of pain in it. "You stopped?"

"Yes. When I joined the Inquisition. It's been …" He closed his eyes, counting, then gave up. "Months."

"Cullen, if this can kill you—"

He shook his head. "It hasn't yet. Although at times I thought I might wish it had. After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn't—I will not be bound to the Order, to that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it," he added, his voice getting stronger. He stood up straight, meeting Bridget's eyes squarely. "But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to watch me. If she believes my ability to lead has been compromised, I will be relieved from duty."

"Are you in pain?" Bridget asked.

"It is kind of you to ask … but it's nothing I can't endure."

"In that case—thank you for telling me. I respect what you're doing. If there's any way I can help …"

He held up a hand, shaking his head. "I merely wished you to know, so that you aren't taken by surprise if … the worst should happen."

"It won't. I believe in you."

Cullen looked startled, and pleased. "Thank you, Inquisitor."

Bridget had heard that Cassandra and Varric had gotten into a fistfight while she was gone, presumably over him inviting Hawke to Skyhold. From what she'd been told, Cassandra believed that if Hawke had been found in time for the Conclave, presumably he could have saved the Divine. More likely, Hawke would have died, too, Bridget thought.

Between that and this thing about Cullen and the lyrium, she thought it was high time she had a chat with Cassandra. She found the Seeker in her rooms above the blacksmith shop. "You've been busy while I was gone."

"What? Oh, you have spoken to Varric."

"No, but I heard what happened. This is about Hawke?"

"Yes. And no. Mostly it is about Varric lying to me, over and over again, and my believing him. And in the end, it is my own fault, because I never explained to him why we needed Hawke so badly. I gave Varric no reason to trust me." She sighed heavily. "I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter! In the end, I don't believe I deserve to be here."

"Without you, there is no Inquisition," Bridget said. "You began it; you gave it its voice and its first mandate, its first commandment. You are too hard on yourself."

"But I want you to know, I have no regrets. I realize my behavior might make it seem … but I think you are what we needed, and I am proud to serve at your side."

"I'm proud to have you here," Bridget assured her.

"You are … not what I would have pictured, but I hope I have learned that I know less than nothing."

"Don't be ridiculous. And you have to know something—I'm told Cullen has you watching him for signs of lyrium withdrawal?"

As she had hoped, mention of a practical matter pulled Cassandra out of her doldrums. "Cullen," she snorted. "He suffers from an excess of honor."

"Now there's the pot calling the kettle black." Bridget smiled. "But you think he's all right?"

"I do."

"Good. Let me know if anything changes?"

"Of course, Inquisitor. And … thank you."

"I did nothing but listen."

"Often, that is everything." Cassandra smiled.

Bridget found Varric in the main hall; he had taken one of the tables—the one nearest the fire, naturally—for his own. Bridget ladled herself a bowl of soup and took a piece of bread and carried them over to the table.

Varric looked up at her and groaned. "You've come to give me one of your Inquisitorial lectures, haven't you?"

"Do I lecture? I didn't think I lectured. Do you think everyone thinks I lecture?"

He shook his head. "No, of course not. Never mind me. I'm just feeling guilty for letting the Seeker get to me."

"I think she's calmed down."

"Has she? Took you to do it, then."

"Or some time and space. She feels guilty over the Divine's death, and is looking for something she could have done that might have changed it."

"Well, she's not the only one."

"It was Corypheus's fault, Varric."

At the mention of the name, Varric winced. "Corypheus is back. You know that's my fault, too."

Bridget had to finish chewing a bite of bread, shaking her head vehemently, before she could say, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous."

"You said he was a darkspawn … or a magister. He seems to think he's both. What is he really?"

"Your guess is as good as mine—or his, for that matter. I don't think even he knows what he is. I'm not sure a word's been invented yet that would describe him."

"Evil works."

"Yeah, I suppose so." He looked at her across the table as she ate her soup. "You know, we didn't just think Corypheus was dead. He was dead. No pulse, no breath, full of stab wounds. There wasn't a lot of room for doubt." Varric sighed. "It makes me wonder. I thought the Wardens imprisoned Corypheus to use him … but what if they did it because he can't be killed?"

"Well, you're just full of cheery thoughts today, aren't you? Nothing is unkillable," Bridget said determinedly, hoping she wasn't wrong.

"I'm not so sure about that. Do the things in the Fade really die? Maker's breath, what have I let loose?"

"It isn't your fault."

"I was the one who led Hawke to Corypheus. If I hadn't tracked the Carta to that ruin …"

"Someone else would have," Bridget told him firmly. "Corypheus wanted to be found. Someone would have, sooner or later."

"If you say so, Sunflower." He rattled the papers in front of him. "I'm going to try to get some work done here. You let me know when you want something shot."

"Will do." Her bowl of soup was empty, anyway, so Bridget got up and put it away and sought the quiet of her room for an early bedtime. A letter was waiting for her on her desk, in Malachy's secretary's neat, plain writing. Bridget eagerly tore it open.

Dear Bridget,

We hear that you have been made Inquisitor. This is surprising, but we are of course quite pleased if it is true. Naturally, whatever support we can give you and your organization we are happy to provide.

Life here goes on as usual. Our young Declan continues to grow rapidly—he has been through two full wardrobes just this fall. He is learning much from his new tutor, and I enjoy his bright young mind. He is full of questions, particularly about the Inquisition. He feels a connection to it, knowing his aunt is such an important part, and we are kept busy reading up in advance of the next onslaught of his curiosity.

I hope this finds you well and that you keep so. You are doing the Maker's work, sister, and I have never been more proud of you.

Affectionately,

Malachy

Bridget clasped the letter to her chest, her eyes filling with tears. She could see Declan in her mind's eye, taller, but still with his head full of golden curls, asking question after question. How she wished she could be there to answer them, hold him in her arms and tell him all about the Inquisition. Better yet, show it to him, give him the tour and let him meet all her companions … how proud he would be of his—aunt.

All her dreams came crashing down around her. She would never show Declan her life and have him understand it as he should. He would always think of himself as Malachy and Deirdre's son.

Her happiness at the image of him in her mind ebbed away, and she went to bed, curling her hand around the locket with his picture in it, dreaming of a life that never could be.

The next morning, she met Josephine in her office bright and early, as scheduled. She was sitting in judgment today—her first trial as Inquisitor, and was nervous and sick about it.

"Are you certain this is necessary? And that it has to be … public? I … It seems as though there are already enough lives in my hands."

Josephine put her hands on Bridget's shoulders, looking her in the eye, her tone firm. "You are a beacon of law, Inquisitor, as others retreat from responsibility. You must let them see the way you think, and there must be no indication of secrecy in your decision-making. However, it needn't be bloody. The Inquisition's sovereignty is derived from the allies who validate it. You are both empowered—and bound. Justice has many tools. If their application is clever, execution may even seem merciful by comparison. Be creative, Inquisitor."

Bridget sighed. "I will do my best. Let's get this started, before I think better of it, and run screaming back to the Circle."

"I can't imagine you doing so."

"No, I suppose I can't, either, but occasionally it's a relief to believe I could."

Josephine lifted her eyebrows in delicate disagreement, and moved off toward the main hall.

The Inquisition was assembled there, ready to see Bridget in the high seat for the first time. She walked through them, focusing on keeping her breathing even, and sat down. It was a fairly comfortable chair, which was nice. But she felt exposed, sitting in front of all these people who were standing.

Josephine raised her clipboard, reading from it. "This was a bit of a surprise, Inquisitor. This man was discovered attacking the building. With a goat."

"With a—?"

"Goat, Inquisitor, yes. He comes from the bogs of Ferelden, the Fallow Mire, I believe it is called."

Two soldiers brought forth a man in the distinctive armor of the Avvar. Bridget remembered them from her time in the Fallow Mire—they had captured a troop of Inquisition soldiers, and she'd had to fight the leader, she and her companions. He had been a young man, sure of himself, and they'd had to kill him, she remembered with some sorrow. Was this one of his clan? She had recruited one of them, a giant of a man calling himself Skywatcher. She wondered what he was doing for the Inquisition now. Working for Leliana, perhaps? She hadn't seen him around Skyhold. She'd have to ask later.

Josephine continued, "This is Chief Movran the Under. When asked about his intentions, he claimed to feel slighted by the kiling of his Avvar tribesmen. Who repeatedly attacked you first," she added, with a displeased look at the prisoner.

Bridget had the sense that this wasn't quite the dignified way Josephine would have wanted her first judgment to go, but Bridget had no complaints. She quite liked the originality of attacking with a goat, and was glad that there was no one more powerful than the Avvar to offend with any potential misstep she might make.

"What should we do with him?" Josephine asked. "Where … should he go?"

There was a hint there, in her words and the emphasis behind them. Josephine thought the Avvar could be useful elsewhere, apparently. But where?

"Chief Movran," she said, "can you explain why you answered the death of your clan with a goat? Does that serve a purpose for your people?"

The Avvar laughed, approaching the dais. "A courtroom? Unnecessary! You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your holdings with goat's blood."

Bridget glanced at Josephine, who shook her head and shrugged. No help there.

"No foul!" Movran went on. "He meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with your Inquisition. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat."

There was a guffaw from the back, unmistakably the Iron Bull, who had a loudly avowed "thing" for redheads. Bridget frowned in his general direction, but she was thinking rapidly. The boy had meant to kill Tevinters; Josephine thought the Avvar could be useful elsewhere; the Venatori were one of the biggest threats the Inquisition faced.

Movran nodded at her, almost cordially. "Do as you've earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads!" He laughed, clearly enjoying himself, and a general chuckle rumbled through the crowd.

Bridget sat forward, looking at him thoughtfully. Yes, this seemed like the right idea. "It seems our conflict was accidental, Chief Movran, but it cannot be repeated. I banish you and your clan—with as many weapons as you can carry—to Tevinter. You can be a thorn in their side."

Laughing delightedly, Movran said, "From ice and cold to sun and warmth. My idiot boy got us something after all!"

He went willingly away with the soldiers, and the crowd began to disperse when Josephine made it clear that was all for today. Bridget slumped back in her seat, weak with relief now that it was all over.

"Well done, Inquisitor." Josephine gave her an approving smile. "That was a very good solution."

"It seemed best." Bridget got up slowly, hoping not to have to occupy that chair, and so much of everyone's attention, again for a good long time.

Blackwall ran his fingers over the wood, testing for splinters. He could feel none, but he picked up the file he'd been using and began scraping along the edges, smoothing them out.

After a few moments, he began to feel that tingle on the back of his neck that said he was being watched, and he turned his head to see Bridget standing in the open door of the workshop. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice you. Been there long?"

"Only a few minutes. I was watching you work. Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Quite the opposite, which should have given him pause, but he had come to enjoy the pounding of the blood in his veins when she was near, the heightened senses and the feeling of rightness. Dangers, all, but he could no longer help himself.

"What are you making?" she asked, coming closer.

"It's just a silly thing. Something to keep the hands busy."

"They always told us in the Circle 'idle hands are a demon's temptation'."

"Something like that."

Bridget cocked her head and studied the carving. "You've done a lot of work on this. Is it meant as a statue?"

"No." He touched the joint at the leg of the gryphon was carving. "I couldn't help but notice that we're starting to develop a population of children here, and there's little for them to do that doesn't require them being underfoot. I thought … perhaps a plaything or two."

"That's … generous of you. Thoughtful." He could see a sudden softness in her face, something in her eyes that he couldn't quite explain. "Do you like children?"

He hadn't really thought about it, but he supposed he did. Children were either kind or not, as their nature and their mood dictated, but they rarely had the skill to dissemble well or to hide their emotions. "Yes, I guess I do," he said at last.

Bridget released her breath as if she'd been holding it, waiting for his answer, and he wondered why it mattered. Unless she planned to start leaving him here as a children's caretaker, but that would surprise him, given their relationship … or whatever you wanted to call what was between them.

He wanted to tell her something of what it meant to him to be part of something again, to be drawn back into the world. "I'm grateful you tracked me down when you did, you know. As exciting as wandering the woodlands was … this is better."

She smiled. "I'm glad you think so."

"It's good to be part of something so important, something that could change things."

The smile disappeared, the line between her eyes that came when she felt overwhelmed suddenly back. "Yes. Very important and potentially life-changing. That's us." She met his eyes. "I like to hope there's more than just the work keeping you here."

He couldn't help it; he smiled at her, tenderly. "There is you, of course. The Inquisition is nothing without its Herald." Blackwall hesitated, then went on. "'You are who you choose to follow.' Someone told me that, once. Took me years to understand what he meant."

Bridget nodded thoughtfully. "There's wisdom in that. Who was it?"

Blackwall clenched his jaw. How much could he afford to tell her? Could he afford to tell her anything? But he found he wanted to—almost needed to. For the first time, he wanted to share with someone else who he was, and who he had been, to think about who he wanted to be. "He was … a chevalier. A powerful man, but always with honor. A true knight." Thom Rainier hadn't been fit to polish that man's boots, he thought bitterly, turning away from Bridget and crossing his arms. "We met as competitors in the Grand Tourney. He left me with that advice before we parted. He put aside his own ambitions to help me in the melee. I don't think I ever thanked him," he added softly. The chevalier had died several years later—just one more thing Thom Rainier could never put right.

"The Grand Tourney of the Free Marches!" Bridget said delightedly. "I haven't thought of that in years. I went once, when I was seven or eight."

He tried to avoid doing the math, but given the age difference between them, it was possible she had been there the year he had fought. He fought down the panic that rose in him at the thought.

"It was quite a spectacle," she continued. "I mostly remember the food, and the games. The fighting didn't interest me that much." She smiled. "Too bad I didn't know where I would end up, or I might have paid more attention."

"The contest of arms is the greatest part—or it was for me. Prove yourself in the Grand Tourney, and you can make your fortune."

"Did you?"

Hastily, Blackwall went on as if he hadn't heard her question. "There were a hundred men on the field, each one fighting for himself. The knight had forged an alliance with me—green as I was, I let him, and it was the smartest thing I've ever done. Just the two of us, and we took all comers. The goal, naturally, was to down as many opponents as possible … but he always let me deliver the final blow."

"That was generous of him."

"It was more than I deserved. Far more. He said I stood to gain everything—while he'd lose nothing. To this day, I don't know why he singled me out. There were other men there more skilled than I, smarter, stronger … but none luckier. Not that day," he added gloomily, remembering how Thom Rainier had thrown that luck away. "When it was over, he offered to mentor me, to teach me to become a chevalier like him. And I, young and stupid, turned him down flat. I'd just won the melee at the Grand Tourney," he said, mocking himself. "I didn't need him." He turned again, looking at Bridget. "My life would have been very different if I'd followed him. I regret that."

"Is that why you follow me?" she asked softly. "Because you think you'd regret it if you didn't?"

Her face was turned up to him, her eyes open and trusting and beautiful, and he reached out a hand, tracing the delicate edge of her jaw with his fingers. "Following you makes me think I made the right decision all those years ago after all. It puts to rest one of the demons that haunts me."

"Because if your life had been different, we wouldn't have met?"

He smiled. "Nothing escapes your notice. Our paths likely wouldn't have crossed if I'd gone with the old chevalier. I could—I could never regret this life. Not with you in it." The last words came out in a whisper. Her face was so close. Lean down a few inches and he could kiss her, and Maker, but he wanted to. To hold her in his arms and taste her lips and feel her body against his own …

Blackwall stepped back. Once he kissed her, there would be no turning back. The loss of his heart, the pledging of his life to hers, would be irrevocable. He could feel that. What he felt for her outshone anything he had ever felt for a woman before. Possibly because for the first time, he thought more of her—her happiness and her safety and her future—than he did of himself. And for her, he had to fight this compulsion as long as he could, give her the chance to find a better man, little as he wanted her to.

He turned back to the half-finished gryphon. "I should get back to this."

There was a silence, and then Bridget said, "Can you do a dracolisk next?"

Blackwall smiled. "I can try, if you wish it."