To say that the atmosphere was [i]uncomfortable[/i] was putting it lightly. Not for the first time, Petra wondered what she had done to offend the Divine so. They certainly hadn’t been friends—sentiment was weakness in The Game—but they had never quarreled, and Petra had followed the once First Enchanter’s orders throughout and beyond the nightmare that had been Andoral’s Reach. Try as she might, Petra could not see what misstep had led her to this antechamber, to this awful moment. Maker, they asked too much of her. 

The Viscount broke the uneasy silence without any pretense of grace. Petra looked up from the writings on the table, studying the man who would be her lord. His golden mask seemed out of place, but he seemed at ease in his fineries. Sensible, classic, but hardly keeping to the shifting whims of fashion in court—and the accent was unmistakably Marcher. And like those Marches, he spoke plainly; Kirkwall would not welcome them, and their one true connection to the city state was a fraying thread.

The Knight Commander spoke, and Petra’s first instinct was to gather her magic. The fingers tracing parchment tightened, knuckles flashing white, and she feared she might burn the report. Never had Petra been so grateful for the mask, guising the tension in her features. After a moment, her fingers loosened, and she released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. The familiar burn of shame surged through her veins—it had been nearly a year since the war had ended, since the Templars were leashed and the world stopped burning, and they still put her on edge. The Divine had crushed rebellion among mages, but she had purged the Templars just as viciously. Still—Petra wasn’t sure she’d ever stop dreaming of armor with burning swords and the emptiness swirling where her magic once sparked.

“I have never had cause to visit your Marches,” Petra’s lilting voice was half delicate diplomacy, half dry amusement. As if she had ever had the freedom to travel beyond the confines of the Circle. Cumberland had once felt like an exotic journey, a fascinating new world, her first taste of Thedas beyond Orlais. She had loved those days, exulting to be surrounded by so many fresh faces. She had learned so [i]much[/i] in that fortnight, discussing arcana and politics with the finest minds in the Circle. She had never felt so heartbroken as when she had returned to Montsimmard, knowing that there so many other wonderful minds so many hundreds of miles away from her. Those memories felt as though they belonged to someone else.

 “I have no illusions that my presence [i]complicates[/i] matters, your lordship,” Petra said after a moment’s consideration, looking from the Viscount to the Templar. An Orlesian, elven mage—it went without saying that she would draw considerable ire the moment they entered Kirkwall. She was not, she mused, the most [i]diplomatic[/i] choice. Maker, her presence might doom this venture before it could even truly begin.

The Knight Commander sounded rather hopeful, as if he truly thought that reason might win the day. Petra studied him and his finery, his several seasons out of vogue mask, the lines of discomfort in his build. Hasmal, she wondered, making a mental note to send a raven to her contacts. 
 
“Your optimism does you credit, Knight Commander,” Petra remarked evenly. It was a strange thing, hope, and she wasn’t sure she quite trusted the concept. “I will do what I can to compensate for these difficulties.”

How exactly she could make up for the nature of her being, Petra was not sure, but she had little time to dwell. The door opened and a thin, elderly man in an exquisitely tailored Chantry robe hobbled in, accompanied by the same Chantry mother. He peered blearily around the room, one of his eyes deeply clouded. The Chantry brother seemed amused as he took in the sight of them.

“Well,” he chuckled, his voice like dust. Fereldan, Petra decided. She stepped aside as he and the Chantry mother approached the table. His wrinkled hands withdrew a quill and ink from his heavy robes, which his trembling fingers placed gingerly on the oak. “Aren’t you three a sorry sight to see? [i]Kirkwall[/i]! Mother Genevieve, some chairs if you please. This will take some time. Titles and Divine right are messy business, I’m afraid.”

[i]Paperwork,[/i] Petra marveled, both horrified and deeply amused, [i]The misfortune never ends.[/i]