Beleth's timely arrival saves Felassan from another round of reflexive apologies, though not from a good view of the way Solas' expression shutters. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to find— he isn't sure what. Peace, or stability, or the grace to go on politely. He should have known, or remembered, that what stood between them was too wounded to bear old weight.

Ten years had passed, and that mere decade felt more filled with life than tenfold years had done, when Arlathan was new. But not for Felassan. Ir abelas, he says quietly, into the silence when Beleth leaves for the chair, expecting no reply; a courtesy, as much as anything. An acknowledgement.

Her anger is... deceptive, he knows. She is at her most dangerous when she is calm, and despite the warmth in her voice, Solas recognizes the towering anger in each word. She's giving them a chance to come out from under the executioner's axe. And yet... it would be wrong, would it not, to simply break Felassan's cover, and reveal all?

He opts to say nothing, and when she meets his gaze, he looks away, offering a helpless chance at honesty to the man leaning there by the window. Well? Tell us about the clan. The one you're definitely part of.