“You are not alone in these feelings,” he says, watching the panic wash over her and doing nothing but being solid himself. “Better dead than lost.”

He shrugs his shoulders elegantly, gestures to the city lazily with his fingers. “Kirkwall is an island city. But outside it, there are forests. What is the Green Pact?” He mimics the way she says it, the same care on the words where she places them.

“Something,” he says. “Once you account how they do not charge us for food, shelter, a few sets of clothes—it is enough to buy alcohol at the tavern. Trinkets. Solider’s pay.” It keeps them calm, gives the others something to send home to their families. Mannish war is profitable, if one is positioned right.