The Seeker Fortress, Montsimmard, Wednesday

It had been a long and arduous... how long had it been? She did not know. She did not remember: did not remember her name, her being, anything beyond this room. She was empty. A vessel, which sat on thin knees and prayed. Over and over again, she had spoken the Chant, and now she was hoarse; she had eaten and she had drunk, but nothing of any noteworthy flavor. It was as it should be.

There was nothing left in the world but grey. It did not matter. She pressed her hands together more firmly and whispered the words. It hurt, but the pain was distant. Colourless. It was...

...

...

It was white. Hot, burning like the sun, settling deep within her core. It stretched its rays outward and touched every part of her, scorching it. The greyness burned, like Andraste's pyre, great white hot flames that licked up through her every extremity. It was beauty. It was grace. It was everything. It was... too much.

She came to hours later. She was curled up on the floor. Above her, the familiar faces of a dozen Seekers.

"Congratulations," said Byron. He was smiling.

---

Two days later, she sat outside the fortress. There was a small park here, far away from the bustle of Montsimmard, but not quite as outside it all as the fortress; it was good for her, to experience the colors and the scent of the world again, even if it left her rather... distracted. Cassandra had new power burning in her veins, power she scarcely knew how to use. It kept gripping her at the strangest of times.

But now she sat, and she watched, and she--

--watched a jagged line of magic slice clean through the air, sparked by a small bundle at the side of the fountain. A trap, surely, laid here by a mage, waiting for a Seeker to come and...

Cassandra was up on her feet within moments, drawing her sword. "What is this?!"

[[ for one! ]]