He looked familiar, but wrong. Even by the Architect—Cyril's—standards, the one before him looked very off. Red that hummed and sick. Nothing like Cyril, nothing like the one other of them he'd seen ages before. "You're nothing like me, or like the Augur."

What was her name? He couldn't remember that; he knew her title, who she served, but her name. What was it?

Unimportant, for the moment. He’d try to remember later. Maybe.

Still, the one before him was one of them, was one of the old followers, though he couldn't put a name to the face, to which of the gods he served. He knew him; he knew that he knew him.

“What happened to you, brother? You’re ill,” he murmured cautiously.

Separated from her companions, lost and choking on the smoke, blinded by the burning heat and ash. Myrna struggled to stay upright, to keep the too-big sword in her hands aloft to put it between her and her foe. She repeated ‘be brave, be decisive, be firm, be convincing’ in her mind as she held Corypheus’ gaze.

She’d had the whole fight up to this point to think about it. Before, Myrna had planned to just run for it. The rifts? She’d fix them as she came by them but she’d do it without the Andrastians forcing her to do it. Myrna happened to like living in this world she called home, and she’d hate for it to be ripped apart, and yet...her family was dead. A mistake made out of the belief that the others knew more than her when it came to diplomacy.

But they were her people; she should have known that they’d see it as a threat, even if the soldiers had come with an olive branch already held out to them. She had no one left. Maybe she shouldn’t give a damn anymore...

Or, at least, give less of one than she had before. Let the humans fix the mess they made. This was their war, not hers. They’d locked her away until they knew she’d be useful when she first woke. They’ve made her their figurehead for the bride of a god she didn’t believe in.

‘And there’s no room for one more?’

‘Why can’t you have room for all of mine?’ 

It was infuriating. She had no desire to be forced into representing their god. They’re the ones using her existence to push for change in the direction of the rebellion and their influence on Orlais and Ferelden and and and and. She wouldn’t be their puppet without a fight.

She would forge her own path if she were stuck here for the foreseeable future. Alliance and revenge if she could swing it. If not, she’d do it herself.

“Before we do...whatever, I have a suggestion. Would you hear me out?” She licked her dry lips, but it accomplished nothing.