[Facades are powerful things. They run both ways, as present pleasantries avow— where the reflection (or is it refraction?) in the mirror holds itself at the level of a raised chin or a lifted gaze, and the rest of the story simply fills itself in as needed: I have this, so I'm well. I'm fine. I'm confident. I'm free.

Never mind the holes in the ceiling. The blind spots firelight can't touch, bleeding focus like dense crimson.]

....just his wealth? [A tilt of his head, curiosity leveraging a perked-up ear. He's read up on Tevinter, though there's still so much to learn; sleepless nights have taught him that there's a limit to how far even gold might take a slave.]

Hmh. [He's only mulling for a moment. Don't worry, it's not evasion:] Ideally, Cazador's curse. His dominion over life and death and adoration— so many who came to his halls were utterly blind to his true nature as a monster they should fear, but far more than you'd ever expect did know. Understood it either conceptually or completely, and it took a long, long time for me to comprehend how those were the ones that loved him more.

[The bottle rolls between his fingers, glass gritting where its base meets tiled flooring, barely noisy.]