Marcus had spoken, a little, to the Orlesian shard-bearer who had trailed them there, about keeping in mind some vision of the future. A utopian impulse, but an important one. Makes the war worth more than simply a means to purge himself of that deep volcanic well of anger, a means of revenge. He nods his agreement, and gives a quiet, smokey laugh at this last thing. No, he cannot either.

"We deserve many futures," he says. "Just as everyone born without magic has them."

It's not so simple. The Circles may be a preference belonging to an individual's desire for comfort and safety, but there are those who can only see them as a means to corral all mages. A nation separated from all other civilisation, a new Free March city-state or some piece of Fereldan land, likewise needs numbers to function. But all the same, there ought not be only one solution.

"Before," he starts, that single word doing a lot of heavylifting, "did you never wish for what other men could have? Inheritances, a family of your own."

Speaking of listening. There are just certain things that Marcus had never understood of those fellow mages who didn't burn for the loss of what was taken from them. Well, he imagines that ninety-something-year-old Erfield is rather content in his lot in life, but the rest of them.