By Varric Tethras Donnen Brennokovic searched Comte de Favre's office. The comte lay dead, murdered while armed and barricaded inside his own home. The servants' rooms were all empty, and from the pulled-out drawers and abandoned trunks, they had been sent away in a hurry. The comte had clearly expected trouble, and trouble had come to call. The comte kept all of his letters. Decades of correspondence sorted by, apparently, kingdom of origin filled his writing desk. Donnen rummaged through them, looking for darker ink, fresher pages, anything that might indicate that it was recent.