A party was never quite a proper party in Tevinter until there was at least one assassination attempt, and the novelty in the attempt at Magister Caius’ party lay not quite in its actual occurrence but in the ambition of its assassin. At the height of Caius’ decidedly juvenile lyrium-laced drinking game, during the start of dinner, Magister Fabiana made a sudden gesture close to the Divine, all the while leaning closer, as if to say something private. Divine Leontius’s hand snapped up, viper-quick, grabbing Fabiana’s hand high on the wrist. She rose from her seat, fright and outrage both in her eyes, fire stealing hot up from her trapped wrist before it was abruptly… gone. Shock froze Fabiana’s snarl in her throat, even as, with a gentle, almost intimate economy, Leontius pulled Fabiana towards him and shoved a dagger up through her ribcage.

“This isn’t going to work,” Diego said, once everyone had stopped moaning on the grass and/or throwing up.

“Who are you?” Graves demanded hoarsely. “I’m Newt. Scamander. Err. Pleased to meet you. I mean, I would’ve been pleased to meet you, under normal circumstances.” “Scamander.” Graves frowned to himself. For someone who was supposedly in a bad rut, he seemed perfectly in control. “Your accent, it’s British. Any relation to Theseus Scamander? Head of the DMLE?” “I’m his younger brother.” “Are you an Auror?” “No. I’m a magizoologist.” Graves exhaled, exasperated. “A what? Is this a rescue or are you a hostage?” “Sort of neither,” Newt admitted.