Her stomach lurches again, and Marja has to close her eyes and brace herself against the wall until the nausea passes. Ancestors. How did she end up here? Hungover in a surface brothel, chasing down the Blight with no Second by her side and no name to live up to. Her father’s letter is still in her pocket, and she can remember the words he wrote so clearly. My little jewel. My only child. I never believed your guilt. Marja groans again, and turns to lean with her back against the wall. Across the room, a mirror is hung crookedly against the wall; the glass is dirty and smeared, but her eyes stare back at her clearly enough- eyes of steely grey, just like her father, just like her brothers. Aeducan eyes, her father called them. But there is nothing royal in Marja’s reflection now; those Aeducan eyes are underlined with dark circles, her fair skin is covered in sun-borne freckles, and the golden hair she once took such pride in is a hopeless mess of tangles. A long moment is spent staring at herself like that, until Marja fumbles through her pockets and finally withdraws a small dagger. Even now, she hesitates. She could search for a brush instead, could spend the time to work out every knot and tangle until that soft, golden shine is back and ready to be arranged into braids by some dutiful Servant. But there are no Servants here, and the traditional braids of Orzammar are meaningless. Marja grabs a handful of her tangled hair, pulls it taught, and runs the dagger through her locks. The tug against her scalp does no favors for her headache, and for one horrible moment Marja can only stare at the loose hair in her hand and wonder what in the world she was thinking. Her braids were a symbol of her status just as much as anything else; if she’d done something like this back in Orzammar, she would have made herself a laughingstock. Trian would have mocked her relentlessly, her father would have been horrified- But that thought sparks something in her, a rush of rebellion which she’s never known. She makes another cut, clumsy and crooked, and it’s painful but it’s freeing. Hair falls to the ground like snow, like rain, like something that comes from the sky and does not belong in the dark caverns of Orzammar. She grabs long strands and saws, ignoring the stinging in her scalp until what once fell well past her shoulders now barely scratches against the back of her neck. Still she keeps going, until the door to her room creaks open and someone steps inside. “Get your ass out of bed, Princess, I don't care how hungover- what the fuck?”