Between them, the memory playing out over the water flashes with muted magical violence: an ambush on a camp left unattended by the distant battle, supplies seized for a rebellion that's building small and quiet under the noisy clashes between the Evanuris and their more bombastic rivals. It is nothing she has not seen before, surely, save that everyone — down to those left behind to guard the supplies while everyone who might contribute more fights elsewhere — wields magic alongside their weapons.

It's not interesting to him. Felassan looks through it at Beleth, flint in his eyes giving way to a small, crooked smile.

"I hope so."

Felassan has lived longer in the after than he did in the before. Four thousand years of decline, enslavement, and false promises. He's hoped in the past. When Tevinter was broken. When the Dales were granted. He should by all rights have learned better than to hope again. But everything she has told him — and told him with her chin up, measured and forward-thinking, in the wake of a memory of bringing Orlais to heel — doesn't leave him much choice.

"I guess there's nothing to do now but try to trust them."