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He remembered the heat of the Tevinter sun. It sometimes seemed a phantasm, a wishful false memory. His self-exile was entering its second year as he made his way farther into the cold, inhospitable lands to the south in search of what? Redemption? A sense of purpose not tied to that of his predestined station and the father who would not unbend to accept him? Sometimes he was no longer sure, as the chill of these lands ran deeper than mere weather. He pretended insouciance, turning cold glares with elegant wit. He wondered if he would ever be warm again.