Sensing a cold sensation lightly nipping at her skin, Jace rose her head to observe an onset of snow petals drifting downward, settling on her hair and cheeks. She lifted her hands, welcoming the petals into her palms. They stuck to her skin the space of a heartbeat, before melting into tiny droplets of water, trickling down the inside of her sleeve. Her mark had been exposed to the dazzling light, its emerald reflecting through each watery bead and sending a kaleidoscope of colours shining against the thick layer of pristine white covering the ground.

They had been in L’Emprise for the space of a week, now, witnessing their advancement in every scraps of notes retrieved from debris scattered across the quarry, agitated warnings hurriedly etched onto papers. Her group had watched as much as they were being watched, learning of the other as they progressed before the inevitable clashes.

Twisting her bust from the broken tree trunk she sat on, Jace stretched out her hand, retrieving her leather (check what kind of leather would work) gauntlets from the wooden trestle table and outfitting them, sheathing away the light of her mark. A layer of warmth enveloped her hands as she did. Sahrnia had been thrust into a perpetual, artificial winter, and while they had experienced a temporary reprieve from the biting cold, with snow falling anew, it had begun settling over the camp once more.

She stood, approaching the table once again. Time allowed them but a brief lull in their pursuit, and as such, she found it in utter disarray. Notes, documents and reports of all sorts swarmed its surface, thrown unceremoniously on any clear corner of it. Words had reached from across L’Emprise, telling of their enemies’ withdrawal from this place, of newly located rifts, of the tainted lyrium’s growth. She began sifting through it all, attempting to impose a modicum of order, classifying reports chronically and ridding them of those which no longer reflected the current situation. As she erected a neat pile on one side of the table, her hand found a handful of notes. Taking hold of it, she lowered herself onto the tree trunk once again.

The paper had been creased from usage, its corners torn and clipped. Unlike the myriad of correspondence which had been uncovered by her hand in the past months, the one she held between her fingers was entirely legible, words conscientiously carved onto the paper. A phrase caught her attention.

“It’s a sword in the guts.”

Her mind wondered on, recollecting every piece of knowledge she had garnered, whether from Cullen or Hawke, or Varric himself, any stories and anecdotes which had been relayed to her. Perhaps an answer laid in the heart of it all. She would need to bring the strings of correspondence back to Skyhold, hand them to Cullen, informing him of the situation. No doubt would he be angered at the sight of it.

“He gave us what the Chantry couldn’t. A second chance.”

A name had been mentioned twice over. Maddox. Jace had no recollection of Cullen ever mentioning this name, and it was luck she did not have to solely rely on him for information. A conversation with Hawke resurfaced in her mind, telling of this boy, this tranquil, of perceived transgressions which had led to ultimate punishment. Jace had briefly wondered of his fate, afterward. It seemed her question had finally found its answer.

Standing up, Jace folded the notes between her fingers once more before setting them aside on the table alongside the handful of others recovered in the quarry. They would require attentive safekeeping until their return to Skyhold and further analysis of their content was conducted. She did not doubt the Commander would have a tirade ready the moment the missives would fall in his hands. For now, it would have to wait. As Jace readied herself to depart, an instinct held back her steps. Her gaze fell back on the now neatly organised piles and noticed she had failed to place back the final note she had been reading. She glanced ahead, sighting Cassandra standing observant, then glanced back, before sliding the letter in her pouch.

Harsher gusts of snow had began flurrying across camp, now, steadily covering the handful of tents in slim layers of white.

Turning heel, Jace began before distributing orders, indicating to their scouts to scatter ahead and those remaining to break camp before calling out to her companions, signalling time had come to set out once more. She gave a last thought to the letter folded among her belongings, before setting out onto the thickening snow.

“Treat Maddox like you’d treat me.”