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Morrigan’s fire flickered gold and bright at the edge of camp, but Surana hardly saw the flames. Her gaze was caught entirely by the tall figure beside it, dark and wreathed in shadow.
Surana made no effort to quiet her step as she drew nearer. She had no illusions of managing to sneak up on Morrigan, but for one thing, it was courteous to approach audibly. For another… She could walk soundlessly along stone corridors and ancient, creaking wooden floors; she was useless at stealth in a wilderness still unfamiliar to her.
Morrigan half-turned, and her eyes danced with flame. “So, you come once more to dally with the heathen.”
It wasn’t a question, but Surana answered, “Yes.”
Morrigan’s smile deepened. She stepped aside to give Surana a place at the fire.
In Kinloch Hold, light spread from lanterns and torches, narrow windows, lyrium in bottles, magic crowding against carefully measured sigils. Light was caged, contained, and orderly. It was well-managed. There were few dark corners for anything to hide.
Outside the Circle—
Every night Surana watched Morrigan start her fire. There was no incantation and no inscription. No permission sought from Templars to conduct magic outside a training room. She flicked her hand and the fire exploded into being. Flames rose and fell, pushing and pulling shadows along with them.
“How did you like Orzammar?” Surana asked, because the dark sky was so wide, and her heart was so full, she could not be silent.
Morrigan hummed. Her head tipped back towards the stars, but her gaze slid towards Surana every few moments, like she could not help herself. “Not well,” she said. “I prefer the woods and skies. Yet the stone preserves so much, and there is much to learn beneath the stone. I’d love to spend more time in their Shaperate.”
“I’d like to as well,” Surana said. Of all the things in the Circle, she most missed the library. She thought she would like to settle into the Shaperate and read a shelf of memories end to end. And perhaps, to look over the top of the scroll now and then, to observe Morrigan at her quietest: absorbed in words.
A bare arm brushed the sleeve of her robe, and Surana shivered. Morrigan said, “Did you truly wish to speak of Orzammar?” Her gaze was dark and curious.
“Somewhat.” Surana glanced away, suddenly shy, but pulled the small pouch from her pocket anyway. The silk felt fragile over the cold, heavy object inside. “Before we left Orzammar, I stopped by Garin in the commons. He had this in his wares, and it made me think of you.”
She offered it, and as always, Morrigan hesitated. “For me? You shouldn’t,” but she took it, and her cool fingers grazed the backs of Surana’s knuckles.
Surana didn’t care if she shouldn’t. She was too hungry for the slow, careful look crossing Morrigan’s face. Not a softening, but a wondering, and that slow, true smile as the golden amulet caught the firelight.
Morrigan glanced up quickly, and caught Surana’s stare.
Surana bit her lip. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” Morrigan said. She turned the amulet over in her hands, and pursed her lips. “But you know, it’s so pretty. I think I’d rather look at it than wear it. Stand still.”
Surana’s brow furrowed. She’d given Morrigan gifts before. It was a bit of an addiction. Such little things, to make Morrigan happy—which in turn made her happy—but this was not one of Morrigan’s usual responses.
“All right,” she said doubtfully, as Morrigan circled behind her. Her neck prickled, like she was a rabbit in view of a hawk. Cool hands gathered her hair and moved it forward over her shoulder. Then Morrigan leaned in closer and eased the necklace around her neck. It hung heavy against her collarbone, but was no longer cold: it was warm with Morrigan’s touch.
Surana barely heard the click of the clasp above her own hammering pulse. She was bright red, she knew, even the tips of her ears hot. And then a warm, soft press against bare skin—her knees turned to water as Morrigan kissed her neck.
“There,” Morrigan murmured. “I like it even better on you.”