The briny scent of the sea filled Anne’s lungs as she urged her horse onward, the steady cadence of hooves against the stone mingling with the ceaseless roar of waves breaking upon the shore. Around her, nine Templars rode in a solemn formation, their armor catching the dull, muted light of the overcast sky.


    Through the narrow slit of her visor, the young woman’s eyes fixed upon Cullen’s broad back as he led the procession together with his loyal mabari. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the reins as his words echoed in her mind with a persistence that refused to be silenced: “You have merely misplaced your heart, and I won’t hold that against you. But from now on, I need you to understand where the boundary lies—and to never step beyond it again.”  The memory of his voice carried with it a peculiar duality—a sting that pierced her heart but also an almost unbearable relief.


    He had not cast her out nor condemned her for the foolish, unruly emotions she had let take root within her. How fortunate she was, she thought, that her hero could be so merciful, so forgiving—far more than most would have been in his place. For she knew the reflection that stared back at her from the polished surface of a shield or the still waters of a trough. Those broad shoulders, sturdy as a plowman’s; that square-jawed, thick-browed face, hard as the winter ground. No man would find pride or gladness to be desired by the likes of her.


    The wind picked up suddenly, whipping across her face, and Anne squinted against the gusts. She had promised Cullen she would bury her feelings for him, and she was determined to keep that promise. But how does one unravel emotions so deeply woven into the heart? She wished desperately for someone to confide in, someone wise and kind who could guide her through this tangled mess.


    In response to her troubled thoughts, the memory of Senior Enchanter Ilara surfaced. Much like the Knight-Captain, the woman was in her mid-twenties, and surely she knew a thing or two about matters of the heart. Besides, Ilara had always treated her with a gentle kindness, her warmth almost motherly in its comfort. Perhaps she could confide in her—not about Cullen, of course, but about the feelings themselves.


    Faith let out a sharp bark, pulling Anne from her reverie. The hound had stopped, her ears pricked forward as she sniffed at a patch of disturbed earth. Cullen dismounted in one fluid motion, crouching beside the dog to examine the ground. Anne watched as he ran a gloved hand over the dirt, his expression focused and intent.


    Even now, with the weight of their mission pressing down on him, she couldn’t help but admire how the sunlight caught the edges of his armor and the confident set of his shoulders...  Stop it, she scolded herself, her jaw tightening.  You promised him you will stop it! Cursing inwardly, she raised her mailed hand and tapped the side of her helm with a dull, metallic clink. The gesture proved to be effective, helping her mind to focus on the task at hand.


    “This was a recent camp,” the Knight-Captain announced, his voice cutting through the wind as he remounted his horse. “The ashes are cold, but the ground hasn’t fully settled. I’d say it’s about a day old. We’re on the right track, but we need to keep moving.”


    Anne nodded in unison with the others, her head dipping slightly as she urged her horse forward, falling once more into line behind Cullen and Faith.


    The day stretched on, uneventful and monotonous, as they followed the rugged paths along the Wounded Coast until the world was bathed in the cool, muted tones of twilight. Eventually, Cullen raised a hand, signaling the group to halt. “We’ll camp here for the night,” he announced. “It’s too dark to continue safely. No tents—just bedrolls. Stay sharp. We move again at first light.”


    His words were met with silent nods, the Templars dismounting with steady purpose, eager to escape their saddles after a long day’s ride. Their boots crunched against the gravelly sand as they moved to their tasks, the sound sharp in the quiet evening air.


    They found shelter in a shallow cave, its rocky walls offering some respite from the biting coastal wind.  Bedrolls were unfurled and laid out on the flattest patches of ground, and a small fire was lit. Anne watched as Cullen inspected the perimeter, his eyes scanning the dark outlines of the cliffs and the path that led to their makeshift camp. Even in the dim light, she could see the weariness in his movements, the way his shoulders sagged slightly when he thought no one was looking. But his vigilance never wavered. When he finally settled, his back leaning against a weathered rock, his hand resting gently on Faith, who nestled close beside him, she felt a pang of admiration—and something else, something deeper, that she swiftly buried away.


    Tamlin''s request for them to be the first watch of the night was approved by the Knight-Captain, and they took their posts at opposite ends of the cave entrance while the others settled into their bedrolls. After a time, her gaze drifted to the redhead, his figure silhouetted against the faint, flickering glow of the firelight as he took his helmet for a moment to scratch the back of his head. He had always been lean, but now he looked gaunt, his face hollowed, his cheeks sunken as though the very life within him was slowly being drained away. Her thoughts turned unbidden to what she had witnessed in the storage room weeks ago, and the memory twisted her stomach into knots. It was no wonder that he was wasting away.


    Anne felt a pang of pity. Tamlin was, without question, a pain in the arse—but he was also a man who had done much good. He had helped her become a Knight in record time, a feat that had freed her from the Knight-Lieutenant’s grasp. He had stood guard over Enchanter Ilara, shielding her while Anne took her Vigil and adapted to lyrium. And now, in these troubled times within the Order, he stood steadfast by the Knight-Captain''s side against Alrik and his ilk.


    For all of it, recently—and to her own surprise—she had come to regard him as a friend. It was a realization that crept up on her, unexpected but undeniable. Tamlin, with his sharp tongue and stubborn pride, had somehow carved out a place in her life that went beyond mere ′fellow orphan from the Lowtown′. And with this realization came a deep, aching sympathy.  So what if he was lusting after someone he shouldn’t?  He didn’t deserve to be crushed beneath the weight of shame and fear for it, nor to be forced into the bed of that wretched hag Marta.


    The young woman wanted to make an earnest attempt to pull her friend out of this mess; yet, the problem was, she didn’t know where to begin. She had tried to uncover more about Tamlin’s family, hoping that if she could piece together the same information the Sister held, she might devise a proper plan. She had even written to Sister Petrice at the orphanage where they had both been raised, pleading for any scrap of knowledge about Tamlin’s past.  But the reply had been curt and unhelpful. “The records are sealed,” Petrice had written, “to ensure that the past remains undisturbed. It is not our place to reopen old wounds.”


    The denial left Anne at a loss. She didn’t know where else to turn. The thought of asking Tamlin himself about his family crossed her mind, but the idea felt fraught with risk. How could she broach the subject out of nowhere when she had never shown interest in his past before? And considering she couldn’t lie—thanks to the blighted spirit—she feared it might reveal to Tamlin that she had witnessed him with Marta. She didn’t want him mortified; she didn’t want to add to the weight of his shame. He was already carrying enough as it was.


    The young woman had been so utterly lost in the quiet pull of her own musings that Tamlin''s sudden movement startled her. He turned his head, meeting her gaze directly. Caught off guard, she quickly looked away, fixing her attention on the darkness beyond. Tamlin, however, continued to watch her, his boots scuffing against the rocky ground as he shifted his weight. The silence stretched between them, heavy and awkward, until he broke it, his tone strangely fervent yet weak at the same time.


    “Anne, aren''t you sick and tired of taking orders, of suffering for some cause that doesn''t give a damn about us? I just… I can’t do it anymore. What if we ran? You and me, away from all this. We could go right now if you say yes."


    The young woman’s head snapped up, eyes wide.  "Eh? Is this some kind of joke or something?"


    Tamlin shook his head, his words tumbling out in a hurry. "I mean it. I’ve thought it through. We could leave tonight, while the others are snoring. There’s a merchant cart passing nearby at dawn, heading deeper into the Free Marches. I talked to the driver a few days ago—he’ll take us, no questions. From there, we could go anywhere. Antiva, Rivain, even Tevinter if we had to. Places where the Order’s reach is weak, where we could disappear.”


    Anne turned to him fully. "What nonsense is that?" she whispered harshly, her voice low but sharp as she glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping Knights, hoping they were too deeply asleep to overhear.


    Tamlin reached out, hesitating before grabbing her hand. "Please, just listen. I’ve been saving my wages. Got enough coin to get us started. We could become swords for hire—we are both good with a blade—or we could learn something new. I’d do anything, Anne. Anything to give us a chance at a better life together.”


    She yanked her hand back. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Desertion is a death sentence, plain and simple. They’ll track us to the ends of Thedas if they have to. And don’t even get me started on the lyrium. You’ve been on it for more than a year now. You think you can just quit? You’re hooked, and we both know it. Besides, I’d never just abandon the Knight-Captain. Not after everything. Not a chance in the Void."


    As Tamlin remained silent, she searched his face, but with his helmet on, all she could see were his eyes. And Maker, his eyes—there was something hollow in them, something frayed at the edges. “So, you’d choose him over me? Is that it?”


    Before she could respond, the moment was abruptly shattered by a sudden rustle in front of them, followed by the sharp, slicing whoosh of something cutting through the air. Instinct took over. The young woman lunged forward, shoving Tamlin aside just as a spear thudded into the ground exactly where they had been standing. From the shadows, figures surged forward—bandits, their movements swift and predatory, unleashing their fury like a pack of wolves descending on their prey.


    "To arms! To arms! We are under attack!" Anne shouted, drawing her sword in one fluid motion. Her warning had no sooner left her lips than the night descended into chaos.


    Tamlin reacted first, his sword flashing as he parried a vicious strike aimed at her. With a practiced riposte, he drove his blade through his attacker’s armpit—the only soft point in the man’s armor. Beside him, Faith launched herself at another attacker, dragging him down in a flurry of snarls and blood.


    "Form up!" Cullen bellowed as he and the other Knights joined the fray.


    The young Templars scrambled to obey, but the hesitation was fatal.


    Marcus, barely nineteen, lifted his shield too slowly. A bandit wielding a warhammer seized the moment, swinging low, crushing his knee. The Templar crumpled with a strangled cry, but the bandit wasn’t finished—he reversed his grip and brought the hammer down again. This time, the blow landed on Marcus’ helmet. The sound was sickening, like an eggshell shattering underfoot. He didn’t scream after that.


    Anne, momentarily distracted by the gory sight, had less than a second to register the glint of an axe swinging toward her side, yet her body moved on its own, twisting sharply to the left as the curved blade screeched against her breastplate, sending sparks flying. The force of the blow jarred her, but she didn’t falter. Before her attacker could recover, she seized the opening. With a swift motion, she drove her sword upward, the blade slipping neatly through the gap between the bandit''s helmet and gorget. The man shuddered, a choked gurgle escaping his throat before his body went limp and crumpled to the ground.


    Two bandits from the rear hurled a massive clay pot at the Knights. It shattered against the ground near the Templars with a deafening crack, and in an instant, the battlefield was engulfed in a roaring inferno. Anne barely managed to dive behind her shield as the explosion sent a searing wave of fire rippling across the rocky terrain. This wasn’t just some crude firebomb tossed into the fray—this was an alchemical abomination, a nightmare concoction of oil, tar, and quicklime that clung to everything it touched and burned hotter than a dragon’s breath.


    The heat was unbearable, even though her shield protected her from the searing waves of fire pressing against her like a living thing. Smoke filled her lungs, forcing her into a coughing fit, her eyes watering as she peered over the edge of her shield.


    Eldon, one of the older Templars in the group, had taken the brunt of the blast. Flames clung to his plate armor, seeping into the joints and crevices, cooking him alive inside his own metal shell too fast for anyone to intervene.


    "Don''t fall back into the cave!" The Knight-Captain''s voice cut through the chaos as Faith, her teeth bared, lunged at a bandit attempting to flank her master. "Don’t let them box us in! Hold the line!"


    The hound tackled the assailant to the ground, her jaws tearing into his face. But before she could finish him, another bandit charged in, swinging a massive maul with terrifying force. The weapon whistled through the air, aimed straight for mabari’s ribs—but it never landed. Cullen was already moving. In one fluid arc, his sword flashed, and the bandit’s head tumbled from his shoulders.


    Meanwhile, Anne could feel that Valor started to act through her, her blade moving with the speed and precision that would leave even the most seasoned Knights astonished. The fact that the spirit took control should have left her terrified, but there was no fear—only a wild, intoxicating joy. The thrill of battle surged through her, each deadly strike feeding into a warrior’s bliss.


    But that bliss shattered the moment she saw it—another clay pot, smaller this time, spinning through the air in a deadly arc. It was headed straight for Tamlin.


    He saw it too. She watched as his eyes locked onto the pot, his body tensing. He had time to raise his shield. Space to move. But instead, his hands dropped to his sides, and he tilted his head back.


    Anne''s breath caught in her throat as the pot struck Tamlin’s chest, the impact hurling him backward. He hit the ground hard, the thud of his body drowned out by the roar of the fire engulfing him. His screams tore through the battlefield—raw, ragged, and almost inhuman—as the inferno consumed his form. His armor glowed a molten red, the metal twisting and warping under the unbearable heat, melting into his skin.


    “Tamlin!” Anne cried out, shoving past a bandit with a brutal force that sent him stumbling—straight into the waiting jaws of Faith, who tore into him without hesitation. But the young woman’s focus was locked on the burning Templar. His body convulsed violently, his fingers twitching, as his nerves fired in agony.


    She lunged for him, reaching for his hands—only to recoil as the unbearable heat scorched through her gloves. Too hot. Too hot! I can’t touch him—I have to get him out!


    Desperation clawed at her as she ripped the cloak from one of the dead bandits and grabbed one of Tamlin’s wildly flailing hands, wrapping the thick fabric around it to shield her own from the searing heat of his molten armor. Gritting her teeth, she pulled.


    The battle raged around them—shouts, the clash of steel, the crackle of spreading flames—but all Anne could hear was the wet, shuddering sound of Tamlin gasping for air as she hauled him, inch by inch, out of the inferno.


    The young woman’s eyes swept across the battlefield, frantic and searching for anything that could save her friend. Then she spotted it—a barrel of fresh water in the cave, one of the supplies they had carried from the Gallows. That’s it. Her heart surged with a flicker of hope. Tightening her grip on Tamlin’s now limp form, she began dragging him toward it, her muscles straining with every step.


    With a desperate grunt, she reached the barrel and propped Tamlin against it. Summoning the last of her strength, she tipped the barrel over. Water gushed out in a violent torrent, crashing over his body. A thick cloud of steam erupted as the liquid met the searing heat radiating from him. The air hissed and crackled, the flames sputtering and dying beneath the deluge. The steam was overwhelming, obscuring her vision. She stumbled back, her breath catching. Please, let it be enough!


    As the mist cleared, Anne dropped to her knees beside her friend. His body lay in a soaked heap, his burned armor still radiating warmth, but no more fire. She rolled him onto his back, making sure every last ember was out. The stench of charred flesh and scorched metal clogged her throat, thick and nauseating. She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to gag.


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    Her hands trembled as she fumbled at her belt, fingers slick with water. Where is it—where is it?! Then she found it—the small glass vial. She yanked it free, teeth bared in determination. “Don''t you dare to die on me!”


    She uncorked the vial and poured the crimson liquid over the worst of Tamlin''s burns, wincing as it sizzled against his ruined skin. The potion worked fast, the concoction knitting together the rawest wounds, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Still, for now, it would have to do.  The battle was far from over. Her eyes darted to the body nearby—Marcus. She forced herself to avoid looking at his shattered skull, focusing instead on his shield. She grabbed it and propped it over Tamlin’s head as a makeshift cover before rushing to rejoin the chaos of the battlefield still raging around her.


    The young woman noticed that two more Knights had fallen, their armored forms crumpled on the ground, twisted and broken. Yet, despite the losses, the Templars pressed on relentlessly, the tide of the ambush shifting, the attackers’ initial advantage slipping until the last of the bandits broke ranks and turned to flee, but the Knight-Captain’s command rang out to doom them—no mercy!


    Anne was more than willing to comply. Her blade flashed as she moved with deadly purpose, cutting down the fleeing enemies. One by one, the bastards fell, the battlefield filling up with bodies until the last of the resistance was snuffed out.


    And then—it was over.


    A suffocating silence settled, broken only by the ragged breathing of the surviving Templars. They all stood frozen, blades still clenched in trembling hands, their eyes wide with the shock of what they had just done—what they had just survived.


    Just like for Anne, for most, this had been their first real battle. The first time they had seen a man’s throat split open beneath their blade, the first time they had heard the gurgling death rattles of those they had cut down. One Knight doubled over and vomited into the dirt. Another stared at his blood-soaked hands as if they belonged to someone else.


    Anne also felt the nauseating sensation creep over her mind, a cold, sinking realization that sent a shiver down her spine—she had enjoyed it. The rush of battle, the thrill of the fight, the way her blade had cut through flesh and bone. For a moment, she had reveled in the bloodbath, and the thought sickened her.


    Just as her composure began to unravel, the spirit of Valor flared in her chest, its presence a steadying force that anchored her fraying nerves. The warmth of its resolve pushed back the darkness, grounding her. Snapping back to reality, she turned and rushed to Tamlin, dropping to her knees beside him once more.


    He lay deathly still, his armor scorched and warped, the faintest rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was still clinging to life. Her hands moved quickly, uncorking vial after vial, the crimson liquid glinting as she poured the healing potions over his seared flesh.


    "Knights, form a perimeter!" Cullen''s voice rang behind her, hard as steel. "Keep it together. This fight isn’t over until I say it is."


    The younger Templars snapped to attention, some forcing themselves to swallow their horror, others gripping their weapons with renewed purpose. Slowly, they began to spread out, forming a defensive line in case more enemies lurked in the shadows.


    Cullen approached Anne, his gaze flickering over Tamlin’s motionless form. "How is he?"


    The young woman met his eyes without hesitation. "He needs a healer, Ser. Soon. Or he’s going to die."


    Cullen exhaled heavily. His gaze flicked to the horizon, where the first traces of dawn were beginning to stain the sky in hues of deep indigo and gray over the sea.


    "It’s almost morning," he said, voice low. "Not far to the east, a City Guard patrol should be passing soon. We’ll request to send the dead back to the Gallows—them and Tamlin." His expression hardened. "One of our own will accompany them to make sure they reach the Circle. The rest of us continue the mission."


    Anne nodded. The apostates were still out there, and they couldn’t afford to lose the trail. But the cost of the ambush had been devastating. Four Knights dead, Tamlin gravely injured, and the Templar who would need to stay behind to tend to him—that left them with what? The Knight-Captain, Faith, and four Knights, herself included. It wasn’t much of a force, not against whatever awaited them ahead.


    “Keep him alive until then.”


    She gave another curt nod.


    As Cullen turned to bark orders at the others, Anne pulled the last vial from her belt. She wanted to pour the healing potion into Tamlin’s mouth to give him every chance to survive, but she hesitated. To even attempt it, she’d have to remove his helmet—but the metal had fused to his skin in places, warped and melted by the searing heat of the explosion. The thought of prying it sent a chill through her. She would tear away flesh with it, causing more harm than good. Maker, what do I do? She clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus.  Keep him alive however you can. That’s all that matters.


    For the next hour, Anne did what little she could; all the while, her mind was a storm, replaying the night’s events again and again, each loop solidifying one undeniable truth: Tamlin, the one who prided himself on his honesty, his bluntness, and his refusal to sugarcoat the truth, had lied to her. His desperate need to leave the Order wasn’t about being tired of taking orders or frustration over unrecognized sacrifices. No, it was something more. It had to be. Because when she refused to desert with him, he had chosen the only escape he saw: death. And there was only one reason grave enough to drive him to that—Sister Marta.


    The realization tightened around Anne’s chest, a mix of anger and sorrow clawing at her insides. She had avoided confronting her friend, unwilling to expose what she knew, afraid of humiliating him. But if he was ready to end his life over it, she had no choice. Once he recovered, she would have to face him. No more sidestepping the truth, no more protecting his pride at the cost of his life… She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. The confrontation would have to wait. For now, there was work to do.


    Finally, the first rays of dawn cut through the smoke-laden air.


    The Templars moved swiftly, gathering their supplies, tending to wounds, and preparing the fallen for transport. Anne helped where she could, securing what few personal effects the dead had left behind. Their bodies, wrapped in cloaks, were tied carefully to the horses. Tamlin, still unconscious, was strapped to a mount, his body secured as best as possible for the rough journey ahead.


    Anne stood beside him for a moment, her hand resting briefly on the horse’s flank. The weight of exhaustion was settling in, heavy and unrelenting. Unlike the rest of the group, she hadn’t slept a wink the entire night.


    Cullen swung into his saddle and gestured toward the road. “We move. The patrol should meet us along the route.”


    With one last glance at her friend, Anne turned, mounted her horse, and rode toward the hope of help.


    They reached the road just as the sun crested the horizon, the pale morning light stretching long shadows over the sandy path. Cullen dismounted first, signaling for the others to do the same. Tamlin was carefully lowered from the horse, his unconscious form laid out on the ground with as much care as possible.


    And then—they waited.


    Hours passed. The morning mist burned away under the growing heat of the sun, yet still, there was no sign of the patrol. The road remained eerily empty, stretching toward the city like a promise unfulfilled.


    Tamlin was getting worse. His breath, already weak, was turning ragged, each inhale a struggle. Anne tried another healing potion, but it barely helped. The concoction can only do so much. He needs a real healer. She clenched her teeth. Where are they?


    The moments dragged on, stretching into an agonizing eternity until at last, there was movement on the road. A trio of unfamiliar figures emerged, walking at an unhurried pace.


    The first man was an elf, tall and broad-shouldered for his race. His short hair was as white as snow, a striking contrast to his tanned skin, yet it matched the intricate tattoos that coiled across his arms and neck like frost on a winter morning. The markings seemed to shimmer faintly, their patterns both beautiful and unnerving. His armor—if it could even be called that—was light, form-fitting, a mix of leather and metal designed for speed rather than defense. His green eyes burned with almost predatory intensity, and his entire body seemed coiled, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.


    Beside him walked a man with a mage’s staff slung across his back, his blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail. His coat, long and travel-worn, was lined with blue feathers at the collar, and a knowing smirk played at his lips despite the sharpness in his eyes.


    But it was the third man who made Anne’s breath catch.


    The sheer size of him was staggering. He was the largest human she had ever seen—just as massive as a Qunari. Broad shoulders, thick with muscle, loomed over the others. His long, matted black hair hung past his shoulders, blending with the equally unkempt beard that framed his face. His countenance was a patchwork of scars, old wounds carved into his flesh by years of battle. His nose had healed wrong after a break, twisted slightly to the left, and part of his upper lip had been torn at some point, leaving it jagged and uneven, exposing the sharp white of his teeth—teeth that looked too long, too pointed, almost bestial. He wore nothing but a pair of worn leather pants and a wide strap of dark leather slung across his hairy chest, securing the heavy sheath of a great axe against his back. Every inch of him radiated raw, feral power.


    Anne stood up immediately, stepping in front of Tamlin and placing a firm hand on the hilt of her sword. Faith padded closer to her master, her teeth bared and hackles raised, a low growl rumbling from deep in her throat. The other Templars reached for their weapons as well, yet Cullen seemed to be calm; he simply watched the group approach, his expression unreadable.


    “Well,” the massive man rumbled, his voice deep, rough, and edged with disdain as he continued forward without breaking stride. He tilted his head slightly, his piercing black gaze locking directly onto Cullen. “If it isn’t the Knight-Asshole himself!”


    “Watch your mouth,” Anne snapped, anger flaring hot in her chest as Faith let out another low, warning growl, muscles coiling as if ready to lunge.


    Yet, before she or the hound could make another move, Cullen raised a hand. “Everyone stand down. Garrett and his companions have been allies of the Order on many occasions. I will handle them myself.”


    Anne shot him a sharp look. “Garrett? Garrett Hawke?”


    When the Knight-Captain nodded, she turned her gaze back to the towering brute before her. Her eyes widened slightly. This? This hulking, hairy beast of a man was Hawke? The man who had once saved her life? The same man Bethany had spoken of with such fondness, admiration, and warmth?


    Her mind reeled as she struggled to reconcile the image before her with the one she had built from the healer’s tales. She had always envisioned Garrett as a male version of Bethany—perhaps broad and strong, but refined, exuding an air of gentle kindness. Not this half-naked, ill-mannered creature covered in enough hair to rival a damned bear. How in the Void were he and Bethany even related?


    As the strange trio approached the Templars, tension filled the air. The elf and the mage exchanged silent looks, clearly used to the animosity in Hawke’s presence, though neither seemed inclined to intervene. They remained close but kept their distance, watching the scene unfold with a sort of practiced wariness.


    Meanwhile, Garrett and the Knight-Captain stepped forward, facing each other like two war dogs measuring whether they were going to snap or simply snarl.


    Cullen exhaled, his tone carefully even. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”


    Hawke bared his sharp teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “Neither did I.”


    “Regardless,” the Ferelden pressed on, clearly trying to steer this toward diplomacy, “I want to congratulate you on regaining your noble title and standing in Kirkwall’s elite. It must be—”


    “Why don’t you take those pleasantries and cram them so far up your tight ass you’ll be shitting them out for a week?” Hawke interrupted, his voice rough as gravel.


    Several Templars bristled, Faith let out a low growl yet again, and Anne took an involuntary step closer to Cullen, half-expecting the entire situation to explode into violence. The Knight-Captain, however, didn’t react with anger. His gaze hardened, but he stayed composed. “You’re still holding onto that grudge, then?”


    “Oh, mate!” Garrett’s laugh was utterly humorless. “I fought for your fucking Order, risked my neck, saved your asses more times than I can count—” he jabbed his meaty, calloused finger toward Cullen’s chest, “—and the second I was gone, your lot came sniffing around for my sister.” His voice dropped even lower. “So yeah. I’d say I’m clinging onto that grudge. Like shit to a boot.”


    Cullen’s eyes narrowed, his stance shifting just slightly—not backing down, but preparing for the worst. “I must remind you that aiding and abetting apostates is a crime punishable by no less than a decade of hard labor in the mines. And yet, you and your family walk free because of your service. Because you fought for us. Because you helped.” Hawke’s lips peeled back in a sneer, but Cullen cut him off. “While you were chasing your fortune in the Deep Roads, the mob in Kirkwall was ready to tear Bethany apart on suspicion of blood magic. If it hadn’t been for my Knights stepping in, she’d be dead. Not just her—your entire family. So show some bloody gratitude. And some respect.”


    Hawke stepped closer, looming over the Ferelden like a storm rolling in, his sheer size making even the Knight-Captain seem small. The air between them crackled, the tension thick enough to snap.


    Then, suddenly, Hawke stilled.


    His head tilted slightly, his bushy brows furrowing as if he were listening to something. His expression turned distant, pensive—eyes flicking upward, somewhere beyond. His nostrils flared, his jaw worked, and then—“Mhm. That one is about to bite the dust.”


    “Are you threatening me?” Cullen’s voice was low and dangerous, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. Around him, Anne and the other Knights mirrored the action, their armored forms tense and ready. The elf and the mage accompanying Hawke shifted into defensive stances as if daring the Templars to make the first move.


    Hawke, however, appeared unfazed by the escalating tension. With a dismissive wave toward Tamlin’s prone form, his earlier aggression softened into something more inquisitive, almost nonchalant. “Nah, I’m talking about the lad. He’s about to croak,” he remarked, idly scratching his thick beard before adding, “In seven minutes, give or take.”


    Cullen, brows furrowing, glanced up at Tamlin then glared back at Hawke. “What in the Void are you talking about? He’s hanging on—”


    “By a thread, Knight-Asshole. Can’t you smell that?” Garrett asked as if it were obvious. “The stink of rot? His body’s already shutting down.”


    Anne’s mouth went dry. She moved to kneel beside her friend, but she couldn’t smell anything except blood, dirt, and charred flesh.


    Garrett shoved Cullen aside with a rough push, dropping into a crouch beside Anne. “Look,” he said, tapping a finger to the side of his nose. “Enhanced senses. Perks of...being me.” His lip twitched, halfway between a grin and a snarl. "I can smell the rot setting in, the burnt flesh breaking down, the blood turning stale in his veins. His heartbeat’s too slow, too uneven. His lungs sound like they’re filling with sludge. Soon he’s gonna start convulsing, then piss himself, and then—" He made a sharp whistling sound, flicking his fingers outward as if scattering dust to the wind. "Gone."


    Anne’s fingers curled into fists. “No... he can’t—”


    Hawke cut her off with a dismissive shrug. “Denial won’t change the facts, mutt.”


    Cullen took a single step closer, his tone now edged with barely restrained frustration. "If that’s true, then stop running your damn mouth and tell your mage to do something!"


    The blond enchanter bristled, his shoulders stiffening as he turned to face the Ferelden. “I am not his mage, Templar! I am a Gray Warden, don’t you da-”


    “Shut up, Anders,” Hawke snapped, straightening to his full height. The glare he fixed on the mage could have melted steel.


    Anders’ face twisted, his eyes flaring a vivid, unnatural blue for the briefest of moments before he clenched his jaw and looked away. Anne stilled, there was something terribly off about the flash of blue in his gaze. She glanced around, her eyes scanning the faces of the other Templars and the Knight-Captain, but no one noticed. Why? The unease in her chest grew, but she said nothing, her instincts screaming at her to stay silent.


    Meanwhile, Hawke folded his arms, expression darkening as he turned back to Cullen. "Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. Let me visit Bethany, and you get my healer to save your dying boy."


    Cullen’s face hardened. "You know I can’t do that. Knight-Commander Meredith would never allow someone as prominent as you to waltz in and out of the Gallows unchallenged. The entire city watches your movements, Hawke."


    Garrett exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. "Then you can all fucking rot!" He turned on his heel, already motioning for his companions to follow.


    "Wait."


    Cullen’s voice stopped him mid-stride. Hawke stilled but didn’t turn around.


    "You can’t come. But your mother could. Discreetly."


    That gave Hawke pause. Slowly, he pivoted, black eyes locking onto Cullen’s face with renewed interest. He studied him for a long moment, and then, for the first time since arriving, he smiled. A real smile, something genuine, something almost soft.  "Well now," he murmured. "Why didn’t you lead with that, Knight-Asshole?" Without waiting for a response, he turned and jerked his chin at Anders. "Heal him."


    The blonde enchanter′s face twisted in disgust. "I will not heal the jailer of the mages."


    Garrett rolled his eyes. "And I will not listen to your self-righteous bullshit." His voice dropped. "You will heal him, or I will impale you on that magey staff of yours."


    Anders hesitated for half a breath before letting out a sharp, frustrated growl. "Fine!" He strode toward Tamlin, grumbling under his breath. "Bossing me around like a mabari just because he helped me this one time… bloody bastard—"


    With concern etched across her face, Anne watched as the mage knelt beside her friend and placed his hands over the most severe burns. A golden glow flared beneath his fingers, so intense it was nearly blinding. The sheer power of the spell was breathtaking—even Ilara, the most skilled healer in the Gallows, paled in comparison to this man.


    Tamlin’s burnt skin blackened further—then split open, expelling thick, foul-smelling pus and dark, tar-like liquid. The sound of it was wet, sickening, and the young woman nearly gagged at the smell. But then, beneath it all, new skin knitted together. Pink and raw, marred with uneven scars, but whole.


    Anders’ breathing turned ragged, his hands shaking under the weight of the spell’s immense strain. Sweat gathered on his brow, glistening as it dripped down his temples. His body wavered, unsteady and faltering, until his eyes rolled back, and he began to collapse backward.


    But before he could hit the ground, Hawke caught him with one hand, hauling the unconscious mage up like he weighed nothing. Anne blinked in astonishment as Garrett draped the healer over his shoulder like a sack of grain. "Every damn time," he muttered, shaking his head.  Then his dark eyes lifted, locking onto Cullen with something sharp, something dangerous. "And listen close, Knight-Asshole, if you break this deal, if I so much as hear that you—"


    "I swear I won’t." Cullen’s voice was steady, unyielding. He met Hawke’s gaze without flinching, his expression grim but resolute.


    Garrett smirked, a lazy, knowing thing, as though he had already decided what he would do if the Knight-Captain ever dared to betray him. "Good."


    Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, the elf falling into step beside him.


    Anne’s eyes lingered on their retreating forms for a moment longer, still stunned by the whirlwind of events. But soon, her gaze drifted back to Tamlin.


    He lay still on the ground, but the difference was startling, his features far more whole than they had been mere minutes ago. His breathing was deeper, more even, the strained, shallow gasps replaced by the sound of air moving smoothly through his chest.


    A wave of relief flooded the young woman, and she let out a breath she hadn''t realized she was holding. Tamlin would live. For now, the worst seemed to be over.


    But the moment of calm was fleeting. As she glanced back to where Anders had stood, something gnawed at her gut, a sense of unease that refused to dissipate. The way his eyes had flared, that unnatural blue that had pulsed just beneath the surface—it wasn’t just magic. It felt like something more, something eerily familiar... She didn’t know what.


    But she would find out.