Something burns in his chest. It’s not the lyrium. He’s — he’s pissed.

They're dying out there by inches, and she’s sitting here swallowed by self-pity. Thinking about what she wants. Like these are still times for wanting. The old story of the Magister whose touch turned everything to gold, until he glittered alone.

"He wouldn’t be the only one." His voice stays low. If there’s anything that Ortan Thaig actually doesn’t lack for, it’s people slowly losing their shit. "There are people who know how to handle it. Even some templars still alive."

People who could give him structure. People who wouldn’t get broken in half if something went wrong.

"There are still people who’d forgive you."