At the admission Felassan makes a noise in his throat, a nonverbal substitute for good. Were they not what they are — were Solas not what Solas is — it would do much less to balance the scale against an execution. But he is, and being wrong and admitting it are their own kinds of wounds, so the crack grows a little wider.

"I don't know," he says, without too much distress.

Not knowing what to do is one of the least uncomfortable aspects of this situation. He holds his hand out, palm up, in a gesture he assumes Solas will understand: no fire or ice swirls into sight, nothing at all responds to the call. He'd grown accustomed to being the most powerful person in a room, in a two-hundred mile radius. Some amount of his careless confidence was earned through rarely having much to fear. Now any fool with a sword could finish what his arrival here interrupted.

"Is there somewhere we could talk that's less — " Occupied. Enclosed. Even with the soaring heights and endless skies around the Lighthouse, even as much as he cared for the rebels and refugees who crowded in, Felassan would slip away somewhere even more wide open whenever he needed to breathe. " — rooved?"

Solas wasn't wrong. He does have questions.