Off to the side, settled in the shadows. Listening, searching- he stopped wondering after his family, his lovers long before they arrived in Orzammar. As accustomed as he is to grief? To know what little he'd managed to pin down as solid and certain is lost to him in so short a span isn't something he thinks he might manage with any kind of grace.

And then there is Cyril, standing like a pale beacon among the stone and dust and whispers. "Tesoro."

Worn, yes. Older, with a lean edge to him that is strange to see and far more reminiscent of his brother? Yes. But it is Cyril none the less. "I am glad to know you are well."