People do not, as a general rule, hug Herian. Sometimes the refugees she helps do. Sometimes friends, when such things have a chance to be forged. This is different from all those things. She was probably too proud and too likely to roll her eyes and too focused on reaching her goals to hug in the Spire.

There is an embrace she cannot easily compare others too. They have not shared one of its like before. She knows not if they will ever share such a one again, and Herian feels all broken glass and warped metal. She is the remains of the Spire; she is something hollowed out.

For all that, for all the long moment of shock and hesitation, her arms wrap around the Enchanter, and her fingers press into Adelaide's back, something between reassurance that she is solid, real, and a desperate grip that she has not allowed herself in years.

There'll be a paragraph dedicated to— and a vague insult about Orlais or nobles or both, there. Herian abandons the script and holds on all the tighter. "I'm sorry."

Quiet, rasped, and inescapable.