"No," Clarke says, looking down at the book as if she's forgotten it's shut. The ash is still on her fingers. If the book hadn't seen battle—literal battle, in addition to the metaphorical battle against the element and dozens of past smudgy fingertips—she might be bothered. After a moment she amends, "Recently."

It isn't a joke. There is a double meaning. A whole village on fire.

And Leliana knows her name.

If she weren't so sad and tired and old, for eighteen, she might panic.

"I could get used to it if I had a finer point," she says. Normally, she thinks. "I used to be really good."