The halls seemed emptier, the warmth leached from the stones. Since returning from Crestwood, Solas had kept his distance—no more late-night conversations, no more walks beneath the stars. He was still there, but different. Distant.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

His quarters were dimly lit, the fire casting long shadows. He stood near it, facing away. He must have sensed you because he spoke without turning.

“You should be resting.”

You ignored that. “We need to talk.”

A pause. Then, slowly, he turned.

His expression was carefully composed, but his eyes—Maker, his eyes. There was something heavy in them.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“Then look me in the eye and say that.”

Silence.

At last, he exhaled. “I did not intend to hurt you.”

“You did.” Your voice was unsteady. “You made me believe I meant something to you.”

His breath hitched. “You do.”

“Then why push me away?”

He hesitated before stepping closer.

“I care for you,” he admitted. “More than I should.”

Your heart clenched. “Then why—”

“Because it is selfish.” His jaw tightened. “I have already taken something from you.”

The vallaslin.

Your fingers twitched at the thought. “I wanted that,” you whispered.

His eyes closed briefly, as if in pain.

“I told myself I would not love you.” His voice was quiet. “But I do.”

The air between you was heavy, fragile. Then, softly—

“And that is why this must end.”

He stepped back.

“I won’t let my selfishness keep you from your duty.” A pause. “Or from the future you deserve.”