Stephen straightens, his scrutiny sharpening. He’s realising his reading must have omitted a particular detail. It’s not like the Chantry shouts all of its private practices from the rafters, but between this and the templars’ lyrium —

“I thought it was a mere magical scrying thing,” he admits, the furrow of a frown deepening between his brows. “I used to be able to scry someone’s location using only a single strand of hair. I wasn’t aware that the Chantry’s version involved actual literal blood magic.”

There’s a withering disdain in his voice which he can’t quite tamp back as he continues: “Good lord, it’s just like back home. Are all organised religions this hypocritical?”