The chamber felt wrong, every line of its architecture too straight, the air too still, the light catching on every surface in a way that made Dorian feel like he’d slipped into a mirror realm. All wrong. His fingers trembled, his breath catching in his throat as he stared into the talking crystal, its light flickering, fading.

Fading. The spell was fading.

The thought repeated like a hammer striking iron, over and over until his mind was full of nothing else. Sweat clung to his skin, cold as frost. He was not cold. The room was not cold. But he shivered as though something from the Fade itself had wrapped its claws around his chest.

“Damn it,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice breaking the suffocating silence. His hand hovered over the crystal, a useless instinct. He couldn’t touch it, couldn’t fix it. Not when the Fade was the one reaching out to disrupt the connection—Veil tears, a demon, some foolish mage tampering where they shouldn’t. There were too many reasons, too many things that could go wrong. And you were too far away.

He swallowed hard, a lump of panic lodged in his throat. He was your Ambassador, the Inquisition's Ambassador. He should be able to do something. Maker, he had to do something. But no spell came to him, no clever idea. Only the crystal’s flickering light, the static silence as though the Fade itself had gone dead.

“Don’t you dare fade on me now,” voice sharp with anger born of fear.

The spell wavered again. His name caught in his throat before spilling into the void. The silence was unbearable. It pressed against him, heavy and cruel, whispering doubt into his ears. His hands clenched into fists. His pride demanded he keep his composure.

“Don’t you dare make me mourn you,” he muttered bitterly.