Felassan knows this song. He knows how his part in it goes. He's supposed to grin wider and decline to apologize, aware Solas may make good on the threat but equally aware he doesn't have to be afraid of any real harm — and he's supposed to keep teasing him until Solas throws something at his head, only not about this. No more comparisons between Beleth Lavellan and anyone they know. Something that won't wound. There's never been any shortage of harmless things to make fun of him for, when the moment required, and that was before the Dread Wolf had apparently been domesticated by the mortal Dalish leader of a Chantry force —

Solas has had ten years to soften and reconsider, but Felassan didn't see them. Felassan's clothes still smell like the fire he lit to roast his last meal in a snowy forest clearing he knew he would never leave.

The smile doesn't drop from his mouth, but the amusement does retreat from his eyes, like an outnumbered force back into its fortress.

"I have learned," he answers, a touch too sharp to be deferent.