The Bull stood straight when Dorian stepped into his space, attempting to regain some sense of control. Whether he liked it or not, Dorian had the upper hand.

Unless he found the sewing kit again.

He didn't know if what he said now was out of months of frustration and fear or if it was due to whatever spell was on him, demanding his obedience and honesty, but it didn't matter. He felt cornered, and all he knew how to do was push forward, to physically answer the volume of Dorian's voice. Bull did not, would not, raise his own.

"And which part was I supposed to confess, Dorian? That I remember my own death? Every detail, the pain? Or what led to that moment? After everything we went through in the fall, with my dreams and with the red lyrium, telling you would not bring us peace."

He was still trying to hedge, trying to find the edges of this spell that kept him from lying, or even omitting.