Merrill

The elven mirror demands more than hands—it needs a heart that listens to ghosts. My clan said, ‘Forget the past.’ Kirkwall says, ‘No magic but chains.’ I say, let the demon-whispers guide my needlework. You see the blood on my altar? It’s just sap from the vhenadahl tree, stretched thin by loneliness. Hawke doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. The dead deserve their songs, even if my voice cracks singing them.