"Choice. Spirit." corrects Imshael, standing before them dark haired with a neatly trimmed goatee, not imposing but well-dressed in shades of purple and charcoal. The central courtyard of the castle is a mess of broken stone and metal, massive sculptures, and red lyrium that nearly hums with energy, jutting up from the ground, a heaping pillar from what used to be the courtyard's central platform. Snow blows across flagstones and frozen dirt, whipped at cheeks by a cold wind. They have had to fight to get here, but the main battle is elsewhere, the lines of Inquisition soldiers and Red Templars clashing just barely in earshot. Though the battle seems distant, they have in fact come to the heart of the matter: scouts have reported that the man standing before them seems to be in charge.

"These are your friends?" he asks, directing the question to Michel de Chevin, though his attention roams across the others. A brow lifts, intrigued. "Very interesting. True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn't always have to end in blood. We don't fight, and I will grant you power. Shower you with riches. Or maybe virgins. You pick."