Dawes held his hand out for Lace to help her down a jagged stone slick with mud. He knew she didn’t need it, but she blushed all the same, smiling up at him as she dropped down to the dirt. Ferelden was damp and fresh, the air heavy with pine. Morrigan had led them to an eluvian not far from Redcliffe, a two day hike to the village Lace had grown up in. It was late morning, and Dawes had fallen completely in love with the Hinterlands. The trees soared higher than even those in Arlathan, snow clinging to the shaded spots and a sharp chill on the wind. The land dipped and soared, mountains and valleys affording a view he’d only read about in books. Spring shoots were pressing up through the rusty brown carpet of pine needles. Everything smelled fresh and different, and he could almost ignore how the cold made him shiver. The heavy cloak with a fur collar had seemed ridiculous when Lace had pushed it on him, but he was grateful for it now, though she teased him relentlessly about winter being well over with. She seemed immune to the biting wind, and had barely let her tongue rest as she talked about every plant or trail they came across. She shone, here. Beautiful and flushed, her hair fighting to free itself from her braids. They’d seen little of the blight out in the wilderness, and all his promises to Dorian and thoughts of home had swiftly fled his mind in favour of the paradise he found himself in at her side. He didn’t even mind the mud all that much.