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Summary
Dorian transferred his disgruntlement to his impromptu teacher. The elf gazed cooly back at him, his eyes a shocking blue that brought to mind frozen lakes, or perhaps snowy mountains cleaving the vast sky, distant and majestic both. With his eyebrow arching regally upward and his stance exuding unshakable superiority, he could have passed for any preeminent scholar back at the Imperium. Except none of Dorian’s tutors back home had ever been quite so stern, or—and it truly pained Dorian to admit this—quite so attractive. This unholy combination made Dorian’s belly flop with an unnamable emotion he couldn’t exactly pinpoint.
Hate. Yes, it was probably hate.
—
Solas agrees to teach Dorian some new tricks. Dorian suffers.
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