As the story begins, Orlais is a city filled with tons of gold coins, bronze mirrors engraved with avian motifs, and taxidermy beasts stitched together by fire. In the grand court, within every gleam of a silver blade, every reflection in a pool of blood, and the eyes of her lover, she could clearly see her own reflection and felt she truly belonged there.

However, when she is forced into fleeing to the Chantry, it marks her first departure a passive one. At that time, she dared not face Marjolaine; with the loss of her identity as a lover, a loyal follower, her reflection in the other Marjolaine's eyes had also become blurred.

But the second time, she leaves the Chantry on her own terms. If we interpret her "vision" as a manifestation of her subconscious, it was her deep, internal need to leave that place.

The most beautiful part of this is that she is never entirely certain that leaving was what she had to do. In her dialogues, she constantly gives conflicted responses about whether she should have left the Chantry (mentioning she wanted to leave in about 3 or 4 conversions, but admitting she misses it and didn't want to leave in 1 or 2 others). Even after confronting Marjolaine, her immediate reaction isn't anything else but, "I never should have left the Chantry."

To her, the Chantry is a harbor, a safe haven. Yet, staying in a safe place (or clinging to a comfort zone) isn't always the right choice. Ships are built to sail the open seas, not to remain anchored in the harbor.

It's like being born in a country that isn't yours. The people don't look like your mother or speak her language, but amidst the cruelty, you think you've found a home. So when everything betrays you—when Marjolaine’s dagger cuts you open to reveal who you really are underneath—you feel the pain of a traitor.

Then she started running. She ran non-stop from Orlais to Ferelden. Only when she crossed that thin border line did she dare to stop and breathe. She looked down at her bleeding, worn-out feet staining the meadow. It was just an endless green field. At that moment, she didn't realise that the border line didn't actually exist. It was real in history, politics, and war, but in reality, it was just a patch of grass.

She was just lucky to be alive. She could hide in the Chantry and say she was Fereldan—she had the red hair for it. But the blood on the grass was red, and that color had nothing to do with being Orlesian or Fereldan.