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Josephine had outdone herself once more. The music flowed smoothly, the guest list was carefully balanced and every detail arranged so the evening felt effortless, even under the growing weight of scrutiny against the Inquisition. It was Maxwell Trevelyan’s thirtieth birthday and most of southern Thedas had come to witness.
He stood with a goblet in his hand, still untouched, acutely aware of Leliana’s warning murmured hours earlier—they will notice everything—and Josephine’s gentler echo of the same. He nodded to ambassadors, accepted bows and endured praise, but all of it blurred.
Because she was here.
The Divine Victoria, his Cassandra, stood near the dais, robed in white and gold. He had not spoken to her in over a year. Not since she had stepped away from him and into history.
Time had not eased the longing in his heart.
The music shifted at Josephine’s signal, the lively beat giving way to a slower melody meant for dancing. Conversations tapered off as guests drifted back, guided by the servants, until the floor lay open. Silence settled over the crowd and he knew that all eyes were on him, waiting to see whom the Inquisitor would choose.
He did not hesitate and crossed the hall.
“Inquisitor,” she acknowledged him.
“Your Holiness,” he replied, hating the distance in the words.
He bowed, then did the unthinkable. He offered his hand. “Will you dance with me?”
The quiet hum of the guests was silenced. Her eyes searched his. At last, she placed her hand in his. The touch was light, but it sent a shock through him all the same, and she allowed him to guide her to the floor.
“You should not do this,” she said as his hand settled on her waist and they took their first steps.
“Then tell me to stop.”
They moved with care, neither daring more than the dance steps allowed. Being this close hurt more than distance ever had. He could feel the tension in her touch, see the tightness around her eyes.
“This is not wise,” she murmured.
“I stopped pretending to be wise where you are concerned a long time ago.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You cannot keep waiting for me.”
“I do not have a choice.”
She turned her head, just enough to look at him directly. “You deserve more than memories and regret.”
“And you deserve happiness. Do not tell me you no longer want it.”
“What I want has very little to do with it.”
They turned again.
“I think of you,” she said at last. “More than I should, more than is… proper.”
His chest ached. “Then you must understand why I cannot move on.”
Her hand tightened briefly in his. “If I let myself reach for what we had, I would not stop. And I will not fail the Chantry. Not for anyone.”
“Not even me.”
“Especially you.”
But the true answer lay in her eyes, unspoken but dangerous, and it could ruin them all.