Sleep was something that came less and less easily to you. If it weren't the stress of the Inquisition keeping you up until the dawn of morning, then it would be your accursed mark etched into your left palm; aching at any odd hour of the day in increasing amounts as time progressed.

But even with Corypheus defeated and nearly all rifts having been closed by you, the absence of one issue ultimately led to another. Spies within your networks. Elven spies. You hadn't wanted to acknowledge the very real possibility that he could be responsible. Neither you nor your scouts had seen him since his disappearance.

So then perhaps it's the Maker laughing at your misfortune by taunting you with the figure of Solas, watching from afar in your dreams. You can feel his gaze on you; never hostile, never quite friendly either. Almost as if he's as curious as to what you've been up to, as you're likewise of him.