At the camp he watches the guards and the mages build pyres together. Normally, he would be proud to see that sort of cooperation but it feels hollow tonight. He watches them light the fire before he turns away.

He goes off by himself with his staff. The familiar steps of cleaning the blade, polishing out chips and cleaning the wood soothes some of his mind. He'll have to practice more when he returns to Kirkwall and somehow learn to accept that he failed. Dorian doesn't like to fail. He hates it. The memory of his father's voice is too fresh.

Muttering a Tevinter curse he sets his staff down and stares off in the distance, scowling deeply. His eyes land on Cullen who is tending to his armor. He doesn't look happy about this either. He is fond of the man, he really is, and he doesn't know what to do about that. He's fond of these people but not in the same way. His foolish heart once again trying to get him in trouble.