Felassan does not crack a smile at the joke. He only cares so much about his life, long enough to be satisfying if satisfaction is measured in years, and frequently exhausting besides; he cares a great deal about whether his friend still feels entitled to take it from him. And he does not duck his chin or bow his shoulders in shame at the consequences Solas presents to him, either, the slim chance he ever might have been very sorry obliterated by the distraction of Evanuris now walk free.

His eyes narrow immediately. He stays quiet until Solas finishes, but Solas is spared having his reasoning picked at or from having Felassan ask if he's trying to drive him off — and has he considered it might work — by having dropped a beehive into the center of the conversation.

"For how long?" Felassan asks instead. How seems of less immediate importance; it's nearly happened before, when those fool Tevinters drenched themselves in blood and tore into the Black City, and it never seemed impossible. Only preventable, if they were watching for the next attempt.