#falherna

And then rose a voice — not fair and singing, but loud, harsh, and full of wrath.

“You might as well keep walking! I want nothing to do with heretics!” cried a man whose anger seemed to claw at the air itself.

Others joined him, like ravens cawing from the battlements:

“They’ve abandoned us! The Templars! They’ve left us to the mercy of mages!”

“The Chantry has turned its face from us!”

“Our protectors have fled!”

“What of the Inquisition? Shall we let another power rise and claim what was once ours?”

So the shouts rose, like storm winds rushing through a valley. Fear and fury twined together, thick as smoke.

Falherna turned her gaze toward the far end of the square, seeking a shadow among shadows. She sought Faron, her companion of many silent paths — he who knew the ways of secret things. But of him, there was no sign. The elves that passed bowed their heads, their steps slow and heavy. They wore their shame as one wears a shroud.

Her heart ached to see it — these were the children of Arlathan, now hunched and hollow beneath the towers of a human empire. And in their sorrow, she saw the reflection of her own weariness.

The clamor of the crowd rose like the tolling of a warning bell, echoing through the narrow stone streets of Val Royeaux. It surged in waves — first fury, then fear — until it became a great buzzing din, like that of a hive disturbed.

Falherna turned her gaze down the winding road, her eyes searching the shifting faces, her heart drawn to shadows. She sought Faron — ever silent, ever elusive — who knew well how to pass unseen, leaving behind only the softest impressions of his path. Her pulse quickened as her eyes slid from one bowed elven form to the next. They moved with hunched shoulders and averted gazes, cloaked more in shame than cloth.