The chamber is silent now.

The ritual is over.

Only the low hum of fading magic and the distant whisper of the wind through stone remains. Candles gutter in their sconces, casting gold across the blood-slick altar where your palm still stings. Across from you, Solas stands half-shrouded in shadow, one hand bandaged, the other resting on the hilt of a ceremonial blade.

The same blade that cut you both open.

Your blood mingles still in the shallow basin between you, glimmering faintly with magic that hasn’t yet settled. The runes etched into the stone walls pulse faintly with residual energy—like they’re still watching.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

His eyes are unreadable—cool, sharp, strangely quiet. The distance between you feels smaller than it is. Something about the pact binds more than just flesh and spellwork. You can feel him—at the edges of your senses. Not thoughts. Not emotions. But presence. Like a pressure behind your ribs that wasn’t there before.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is low and precise. Measured.

“It’s done. You’re bound to me now—by will, by blood, by magic.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “We share consequence. Pain. Power. Even death, if it comes to that.”

A pause.

He tilts his head slightly, tone softening—but not gently.

“You should say something.”

He steps forward. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you feel his attention land on you like a weight.

“You still have time to regret it, if that’s what’s sitting on your tongue.”

Another pause, this one longer. He studies your face.

“No? Then speak, or silence will say it for you.”

The bond flickers between you like a second heartbeat—echoing, alive. He’s giving you a moment. One final breath of autonomy before everything changes.