The night in Kirkwall was never truly silent.

There was always something—a distant shout, hurried footsteps, the echo of the sea crashing against ancient stone. But that night... everything seemed muffled. As if the city itself were holding its breath.

Hawke, too.

The room was dimly lit. A candle burning slowly, casting jagged shadows on the walls. Her armor lay in a corner, still stained. She hadn't had the strength to clean it.

Or to take it off completely.

She sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached.

And for the first time in a long time... no one was watching.

No smiles to maintain.

No decisions to disguise as certainty.

Only her.

And the weight.

The weight of every distrustful glance.

Of every argument left unresolved. Of every life she had sustained... at the cost of stretching herself beyond her limits.

A slight tremor ran through her shoulders.

She tried to ignore it.

She could always ignore it.

But this time it didn't go away.

She took a deep breath.

Again.

And again.

As if she could sort herself out from within.

It didn't work.

The first sob wasn't a sound. It was a breaking point.

Barely a contraction in her chest that escaped before she could stop it. She immediately brought a hand to her mouth, as if someone could hear her, as if the world were going to demand that she pull herself together right then and there.