Skyhold had hosted banquets before.
For Orlesian envoys.
For Ferelden commanders.
For nobles who measured power in goblets of wine and how long others waited for them to sit.
This was not a banquet.
This was a test.
Elyanna stood at the head of the long table before anyone else arrived, fingers resting lightly against the carved wood. The servants had outdone themselves — candles in iron sconces, polished plates, banners hung to soften the austere stone.
An attempt to make the fortress look like a home.
Cullen moved to her side.
"You don't have to do this tonight," he said quietly.
"Yes," she replied, watching the doors, "I do."
Because fear that remained unspoken grew teeth in the dark.
Because an Inquisition that could face demons but not a dinner table was already lost.
They entered in waves.
Cassandra first — armor gleaming even in a room meant for peace.
Josephine beside her, diplomacy woven into every step.
Varric was already talking before he reached his chair.
Iron Bull arrived like a storm that had decided to be charming about it.
Sera slid into her seat without permission and immediately began rearranging the place settings.
Cole appeared where there had been empty air.
Solas came last among her people, gaze already distant, as if he were walking through a memory instead of a hall.
Then the other doors opened.
The room shifted.
Not visibly.
But every soldier at the walls straightened.
Every conversation dropped a note lower.
Ciri and her companions did not enter like guests.
They entered like variables.
Elyanna watched everything.
The way Serana's eyes tracked exits before she looked at faces.
The way the Khajiit — Inigo — paused just long enough to map every person in the room.
The way Sofia grinned too widely, like someone who had decided to treat a battlefield as a stage.
And Ciri—
Ciri moved like someone who had been taught how to walk into a royal court before she had learned how to be a child.
That was new.
In the courtyard she had been a weapon.
Here she was something else entirely.
A ghost of silk and protocol wrapped around a soldier's spine.
"Herald of Andraste," Josephine murmured at Elyanna's shoulder, "your guests are waiting."
Your guests.
The word tasted like a negotiation.
Elyanna stepped forward.
"Skyhold welcomes you," she said — not warmly, not coldly, but with the weight of a throne behind the words.
It was an offering.
Not friendship.
Not yet.
The first clash came before the wine was poured.
Varric leaned across the table toward Sofia with a grin that promised trouble.
"So," he said, twirling a knife between his fingers, "which one of you is the least likely to stab me if I ask too many questions?"
Sofia lit up like a festival torch.
"Oh, absolutely me," she said. "But only because I'd monologue first."
Cassandra closed her eyes.
"I already regret this," she muttered.
"You regret everything," Varric replied.
"I regret knowing you."
They were arguing before the first course arrived.
Josephine looked as though she might either faint or start taking notes.
At the far end of the table Iron Bull raised a goblet toward Serana.
"You don't talk much," he said. "That's either discipline or a body count."
Serana studied him over the rim of her glass.
"You talk too much," she replied. "That's either confidence or a death wish."
Bull's grin widened.
"I like her," he announced.
"Of course you do," Sera said, mouth full of stolen bread.
Across the table Solas and Inigo had already abandoned the performance of dining.
"Your world possesses artifacts that bend the structure of time," Solas was saying, fingers steepled.
Inigo's tail flicked, delighted.
"Yes! And yours has holes in the sky that scream when they close. This is most exciting."
"You consider this exciting?"
"I consider it beautifully impossible."
For the first time since the red rift had opened, Solas looked genuinely intrigued.
Elyanna marked it carefully.
If Solas was curious instead of wary—
the future had shifted.
And in the middle of the table, surrounded by noise and light and clashing personalities—
Ciri was alone.
She held her goblet the way Orlesian nobles did.
She answered Josephine with perfect, measured phrases.
She inclined her head at Cassandra with the exact angle due to a religious authority.
Every movement is flawless.
Every word is correct.
Every emotion locked behind imperial training.
She was performing a version of herself that did not exist in the courtyard.
And no one at the table knew the cost of it.
Except Elyanna.
Because Elyanna had learned to wear the same mask.
It was the moment Ciri laughed at something Varric said — a precise, polite sound that never reached her eyes — that made Elyanna stand.
No announcement.
No interruption.
She simply stepped away from the table and walked to where Ciri sat.
"Walk with me," she said.
Not a request.
Ciri rose instantly.
Of course she did.
Protocol again.
They left the hall together while the chaos behind them swelled into something almost joyful.
The corridors of Skyhold were quieter at night.
Wind moved through the high arches like distant surf.
For a long time they walked without speaking.
Elyanna did not look at her.
Not yet.
"You despise me," she said finally.
Ciri's answer came without hesitation.
"You are an elf."
The word landed like a blade.
Elyanna stopped.
Turned.
There it was.
Not hatred.
Pain.
Old.
Deep.
Personal.
"Your world," Elyanna said carefully, "has taught you what that means."
"Yes."
"Your world is not mine."
Silence.
Then, more quietly,
"I did not invite you to this dinner because I trust you."
Ciri met her gaze, unflinching.
"I invited you because fear left to grow becomes war."
For the first time since they had met—
the mask slipped.
Ciri looked young.
Twenty-one.
Exhausted.
"So you watch me," she said.
"Yes."
"And measure whether I am worth the risk."
"Yes."
Ciri exhaled.
Not anger.
Not relief.
Understanding.
"You carry them all," she said, glancing back toward the hall where the Inquisition still laughed and argued and lived.
"As you carry yours," Elyanna replied.
Two rulers.
No crowns.
The same weight.
When they returned, the room had transformed.
Sera was standing on a chair.
Varric was telling a story that involved an explosion.
Bull and Serana were arguing about whether dragons or demons made better drinking companions.
Josephine had given up entirely and was laughing into her sleeve.
Solas was actually smiling.
And for the first time since the rift—
Ciri did not sit like a guest.
She sat like someone who might, someday, belong.
From the far end of the table, Cullen watched Elyanna.
She did not need to say anything.
He could see it in her posture.
The shift.
Small.
Dangerous.
Necessary.
High above Skyhold, beyond the warmth and the light and the fragile beginning of something like trust—
the red rift pulsed once.
As if it had felt the moment hope entered the room.
And take notice.