This isn’t the easy, unthinking process it once had been, where she would’ve been able to play him like a harp back home. Her fingers needling through his mind like flicking through a filing cabinet, pulling out slivers of thought and memory.

And he’s still fearful and guarded, which makes it a little more difficult. The shape of Thedas itself rebels against this, making all magic harder, more purposeful: you have to fight for it. Press harder. Her weight leaning on the ice, which creaks underfoot,

and Stephen exhales a shaky breath, noticing that he’s started clenching his jaw, and has to remind himself to relax again. The door opens a little wider, and he lets her in.

It’s still surface-level, but Wanda catches those glimpses of Stephen’s rapid-fire thoughts as they skim past her:

They’re in the library, home to Mobius and his filing system, which reminds him— Stephen has a book on Orlesian botany that he probably needs to return soon,

There’s that stack of forms on the table beside him, the medical questionnaire she still needs to fill out,

(wary relief at a familiar face, at her death not being on his conscience after all)

Wonder which division she’ll pick —

And at least Provost Stark isn’t here anymore to complicate matters even further. Small favours.