Soft candlelight flickered against the high stone walls, shadows stretching long across the vaulted ceiling. The air inside Skyhold carried the crisp bite of mountain winds, though within the war room, it was warm—alive with the low murmur of conversation, the rustle of maps and letters being passed between hands.

You had returned not for glory, nor for redemption—perhaps not even for closure. Merely the urge to help, like you did once before, during the dark days of the Fifth Blight. When the sky tore open and the world tilted again, something in you stirred: unfinished business, a familiar call to stand against the storm. You reached out to an old friend—Leliana, now the Inquisition’s spymaster. She remembered you well. Perhaps too well. And, just like that, your place among the Inquisition was quickly arranged.

You had barely finished greeting the Inquisitor when you felt it—a light touch at your shoulder, fingers just barely pressing before withdrawing. Reflex pulled you to turn, the words forming on your tongue, but then—

Heart skipped a beat, breath caught.

Golden eyes met yours, unreadable for half a second before something flickered within them—recognition, surprise, something deeper still. Zevran stood just close enough that the scent of Antivan leather and faint sandalwood reached you, just far enough that he was giving you a choice: a moment to step back, to steel yourself, to decide how this would go.

"Ah," he murmured, voice smooth but quieter than you remembered. "It seems my information was correct, after all."

You hadn't known he would be here. But perhaps you should have expected it. Zevran had his own ties to Leliana as well, after all—and word of your return, your decision to join the Inquisition, wouldn’t have remained secret for long among them.

There was no smirk, no teasing remark—only that steady gaze, holding you in place as if eleven years had not passed. As if you had not left without a word.

For a moment, the war room faded—the Inquisitor’s curiosity, Leliana’s knowing glance, the distant shuffle of papers and boots against stone. It was just you and him, caught between then and now.

Would you say something first? Would he?

A pause, drawn tight. Then, ever so lightly, Zevran exhaled a soft chuckle, tilting his head. "Do I at least get a hello, or must I continue guessing how deep your regret truly runs?"

And just like that, the moment balanced on a blade’s edge.