( In her adventures in this wide outside world over the past year, there’s always the smaller differences: Rivain likes their foods spicy while the Avvar favour plainer, hardier fare. Orlais favours more ornamentation in their furniture. The Nevarrans inter their dead while hers dismember theirs. These are, ultimately, smaller differences; matters of cultural flavour, easily understood.

But for the first time, Astrid’s run facefirst into a core, foundational, contradictory belief about how the world works and what even matters about it, and she finds herself squinting at her crystal at an equal loss. The same question’s running through her own mind: How can she possibly explain something that seems so basic? ]

Stories told for fun and flavour are different from prophecies. Even then, though— if the prophecy’s accurate and it’s gonna happen anyway, then what does it matter to keep track of ’em? If it’s right it’s right and it’ll still come to pass.