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“I was the golden child when they knew me here,” Arinda said.
Outside their little room, other warriors shouted as they gathered for the Provings. Loose golden hair hung in Arinda’s face, her armor halfway cast off, and she drank again from the bottle.
Morrigan and Zevran looked up from their idle tasks fussing around with gloves and boots, each perched in a corner like guardians.
“I’ve fought with everyone here, even if it was just sparring.” She shook her head. The bottle was dropped. With a half-snarl, Arinda turned to the mirror and tugged her hair back in one hand, beginning to fuss at it. “Beaten them, lost when it was my time. They used to cheer when I walked into the arena. They chanted my name when I left. I was chosen. Now I’m dust.”
She furrowed her brow, beginning a tight braid down the center of her head. In her mirror she could see both her companions, silently watching. Arinda ground one silverite boot on the floor.
“Trian was right. True honor gets you nowhere in this city, only tradition. Tradition that says all I did and all I was is gone, and never was. Half a year ago, everyone in this city would have blessed the day of Trian’s death. Half a year ago, one word could have made me queen. I was chosen. I was unstoppable. Bhelen would have stood at my side, that cunning mind of his leashed to the honor of House Aeducan.”
She pinned her braid and dipped her finger in the pot of grease under the mirror, smoothing what strayed back in one motion. The next began to be woven, tight and slick against her skull. The heads of her companions hung slightly, their work abandoned as they watched Arinda, eyes downcast.
“I thought we were united in knowing Trian would destroy us. He could never adapt, never outwit. He took his position for granted, when it is the deshyrs who make a king. Bhelen has the brains, but I had Orzammar’s heart. I thought I knew my people. I thought their love would never falter. It was false as Bhelen, it seems.”
“Then they are fools,” said Morrigan. “You need them not.”
“As she says.” Zevran let a leg swing free from the crate he perched on. “To forget your deeds in such a time as this? A shrewd politician should leap at the chance to place you upon the throne.”
Arinda snorted. She walked away from the mirror, twisting her braids into a topknot as she approached her discarded armor. Teeth pulled at her lower lip, leaving it near to bleeding.
“Gorim could have told you all the reasons they should.” She ran pins roughly through her knotted hair. “All this time, we thought it was the deshyrs and the people that made this city. We were wrong. It is the Shaperate that truly rules Orzammar. It matters not what you do or can be, but what you allow them to say of you. Bhelen slew Trian just as I, but they cannot call him kinslayer. I was blessed by the Ancestors, but how dare I truly act on what they all knew.”
She picked up her breastplate, now eyeing her own reflection in it.
“I sound as crazy as Sister Leliana to you, don’t I?”
“You are a dwarven princess.” Zevran shrugged. “I expect you to sound crazy at times.”
She bit her tongue, slowly beginning to don her armor again. Morrigan stood, robes brushing against the stone floor, and wordlessly lent her hand to straps and buckles.
“They told you what you were,” she said, voice soft, no hint of brusqueness like her businesslike hands. “Now they have decided you are something else. What you once were means nothing. That is sensible… Lady Aeducan.”
“I am not Lady Aeducan. If they cannot love me, I cannot be.”
“Arinda.”
Morrigan knelt, taking Arinda’s helmet from the shelf, and handed it to her. Their fingertips brushed.
“You know who you are, even if they do not,” Morrigan said. She nodded, returning to her corner. She faced the shelf, gathering up her own scattered pieces of armor and enchantment. “In their hearts, they remember. Today you may show them, may you not?”
Arinda turned her helmet around in her hands. She turned her gaze to the rack holding her swords, now both of Ferelden make.
“I’m going to make everyone in this damn city sorry they turned their back on me.”
Arinda reached for her sword, sheathing them in one fluid motion.
“Now, we’re fighting my cousin, Piotin. He’s good, and he’s vicious. I want to take him down decisively. I’ll take him. Zevran, you keep his allies off my back. Morrigan, keep our friend standing. Remember what I said about shapeshifting to keep the crowd happy.”
She turned back to her companions, smiling as she pulled on her helmet. “Now, ready to show this city there will be no king without us?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Zevran said, sheathing his daggers. He stood and bowed politely.
Morrigan only smiled. The pair followed behind, Arinda leading the way to the Proving Grounds.
The warriors of the Proving fell silent as Arinda passed by.