The breath he huffs in for rebuttal is spent without shaping itself into speech, tension screwed in tight at the back of his sternum and held there. He’s found a mark on the floor to frown at, his jaw worked and prickled and set.

“Obviously.”

The table, the lamp, the cat, the wan slant of afternoon light through the window.

“Am I to believe you’ve made headway in your research with the Tevinter Imperium crashing down upon the Free Marches?”