Click.
The wooden door shut behind Solas with a soft thud as he stepped into the guest room.
A red, plush carpet stretched across the floor, its fibers thick and inviting beneath his feet. Above, a golden chandelier hung from a ceiling white as snow, casting a soft glow over the space.
To his right stood a grand bed—its frame crafted from dark oak, the sheets a shimmering silver, neatly folded with white pillows resting atop. The covers were trimmed with gold, gleaming faintly in the light.
To his left stood a tall, polished closet, its surface engraved with noble runes—symbols of refinement and quiet power. On either side, matching dressers were built seamlessly into the wall.
Straight ahead, two tall windows faced him, their glass slightly tinted. Silver curtains hung above, drawn slightly aside to let in pale afternoon light.
Solas stepped forward slowly, his eyes scanning the room. "This is… welcoming," he murmured, running his fingers lightly along the footboard of the bed before sitting on its edge.
He faced the closet directly. One by one, he began removing his clothes—first his shoes, then his trousers, coat, and finally his shirt—until he remained in only his undergarments, the pale light casting delicate shadows across his frame.
Rising, he opened the closet and began browsing through the hanging garments. Most were of noble fashion: tunics of black, red, and silver, each finely made and unmistakably tailored for someone of status.
But one piece called to him.
A white, high-collared tunic with dark trim—its design evoking both the sanctity of a holy knight and the commanding presence of a royal guard. The fabric was pristine, its silhouette graceful and stern. Solas lifted it carefully from its hanger, studying it for a long moment.
Without hesitation, he slipped it on.
It fit perfectly.
Though the wardrobe had clearly belonged to a woman, the cut of the tunic felt almost androgynous—balanced.
He turned next to the drawers, pulling them open one by one until he found a pair of black, tight-fitting trousers. He stepped into them, pulling them up with smooth precision.
They fit just as well.
Now fully dressed, Solas glanced down at his form. The dark and light contrast between tunic and trouser struck him with a quiet satisfaction.
Then he saw the mirror—tall, narrow, framed in silver—just beside the closet.
He stepped toward it.
His reflection stared back: noble, sharp, quietly radiant. A man cloaked in dignity, and beneath it… something hidden not spoken aloud.
Solas reached out, fingertips hovering just above the surface of the mirror—as if, for a moment, he believed he could touch the reflection staring back at him. He paused, gaze lingering on his hand, then slowly drew it back and ran his fingers through his hair, gently fixing it.
"I look good," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
He lowered his hand, turned toward the door, and let out a quiet breath before stepping forward. The door clicked softly as he closed it behind him, leaving the guest room and entering the hallway beyond.
To his left, the corridor opened into a wide gallery. The familiar split staircases curved up on either side, and another chandelier—this one larger, more ornate—hung above, casting golden light across the polished floor.
Solas stepped forward, his feet silent against the plush red carpet, eyes drifting as he searched for any sign of Vargra.
But then, something caught his eye.
To his left, a pair of tall glass doors led to a balcony. Drawn by instinct more than curiosity, he approached them and pushed them open.
A fresh breeze greeted him, cool and clean. It swept through his hair as he stepped onto the stone-floored terrace. To his right were a few black chairs arranged around a low round table—meant for quiet conversation or tea at dusk. He barely glanced at them.
His attention was ahead—drawn to the black iron railing.
He approached it, resting his hands lightly on the cool metal.
The view unfolded before him.
The city stretched out like a living map. Far to the left, he could see the place where he'd been imprisoned—the courthouse, still and distant now. And then—
His eyes locked forward.
There it stood.
The castle.
Crowning the capital like a monument to authority, its pale towers rose into the afternoon sky, far above the rest of the city. Its spires shimmered faintly in the light, vast and unshakable. Even from here, it commanded everything.
Solas took a slow step back. A quiet smirk crept across his face.
He had found it.
The place he was meant to be.
As he stared at the castle, it stirred something familiar—a reminder of the belief that had driven him for so long: the need to rise above others.
To ensure his safety.
The door behind him creaked open.
He turned slightly, eyes shifting over his shoulder to find Vargra standing in the doorway.
"Enjoying the view?" she asked.
Solas turned to face her fully. "I'd say I've found more than just enjoyment," he replied, voice calm, certain.
Her eyes immediately swept over him—his new attire, the way the castle framed him in the distance. In that moment, he looked almost ethereal. Angelic. A figure of quiet nobility.
"I see you found something to your liking," she said, regaining her composure. "So I take it I don't need to find anything else for you."
He offered her a soft smile. "If you could provide a pair of black boots—or brown—I'd be grateful. Either would suit me."
Vargra gave a small nod. "Very well. Let's find you some."
She opened the door wider and stepped back into the manor, Solas following close behind.
Turning right from the gallery, she led him down the same hallway he had earlier walked—where the guest room lay in silence behind them.
As they walked, Solas spoke, his tone edged with curiosity.
"Who is the queen of this kingdom?"
Vargra paused before a closed door, her hand resting lightly on the handle. She looked to her side, meeting his eyes.
"Queen Selqorra."