You’d think I’d be mad at him, hate him, vow vengeance, scream and cry about how unfair it was. But I don’t-I don’t do any of these. I don’t feel. I don’t try to convince Harrowmont my innocence. I don’t spit Bhelen’s name out like venom. I don’t wallow in self-pity. I just. Don’t.

Perhaps it hasn’t sunk in yet. That this is really happening. That I’ve been stripped of my caste, sentenced to the Deep Roads, branded traitor, charged with fratricide and my own father won’t even hear my side of the story. That Trian is dead. That Bhelen is the cause of all of it. That my best friend has been exiled to the surface. That if I don’t find these Grey Wardens, I’ll find my death instead.

It all seems so surreal. Like it’s happening to someone else and I’m just along for the ride, not actually experiencing it. Or a bad dream that I just can’t seem to wake up from. I’ll wake up and Trian will be alive with his stupid condescending attitude. Bhelen will share a secret smile with me as we make fun of the other nobles. Father will actually listen to me when I talk. Gorim will sneak kisses after sparring practice and we’ll be terrible flirts together.