Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar battles demons and darkspawn for purpose and profit, and he seals Fade-Rifts in his sleep. He’s a formidable battlemage and principled leader. He gives most of his earned or acquired loot away to children and beggars. He’s never lost a chess game in his adult life and can easily keep up with even Dorian Pavus’ banter and snark. He’s seven-ish feet tall, only a bit gangly, relatively non-hideous—if one happens to prefer liberally freckled and unapologetically ginger Vashoth Qunari—and can involuntarily conduct small quantities of arcane lightning between his copper-plated horns without even trying.
He’s also continually saving the world from millennia of its bewildering mistakes. He is not easily or ever cowed. So . . . why does the idea of confessing his powerful attraction and deepening feelings for the commander of the Inquisition’s military—or, Maker forbid, confessing them to the commander—frighten the bloody horns off him? Why is he increasingly certain that he’ll never be worthy enough?