ã€ŠTrue faith is born of a furnace of doubt [Dragon Age Inquisition Fanfiction]ã€‹


 Prologue

    It was a scorching summer day in the bustling Redcliffe village, with the unforgiving sun relentlessly blazing down on its people. A young boy, no more than eight years of age, strode down the busy street with purpose. His attire, though worn, was well-kept and showed signs of recent washing. A wooden sword, secured to his waist with a frayed rope, swayed back and forth in synchrony with each step of his sturdy but worn leather boots.

    His family had spent hours selling apples from their orchard in Honnleath at the Redcliffe Fair. Honnleath¡¯s apples were popular with the villagers for their remarkable size and juicy, succulent flesh. With the hot weather and hard work making everyone thirsty, his father had sent him to fetch a jug of wine from the nearby eatery.

    His walk to the tavern was interrupted by a series of faint whimpers coming from old crates that had been dumped along the side of the street. As he came closer and peered behind them, he was expecting to see a kitten, or perhaps a puppy, but what he saw instead took him back.

    He discovered a small girl, no older than four or five, squatting on the ground with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Her eyes were red and swollen with tears. Despite her expensive, immaculate clothing, her thin face and boney frame gave her the appearance of a street urchin.

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    "Why are you crying little one?" the young boy asked, his voice laced with concern.

    "I can¡¯t find my momma," she mumbled through her sobs. "I ran after a kitty and got lost."

    "You shouldn¡¯t stay here, it''s not safe," the boy told her. "Let''s go to the Chantry. I know a Sister who will help you find your momma."

    "I am only allowed to follow strangers if they are from the Chantry," the girl¡¯s voice trembled with fear.

    The boy''s eyes lit up, ¡° Then, there is no problem. I am training to become a Templar. Look, I even have a sword,¡± he proudly showed her the small wooden sword tied to his waist.

    ¡°Really?¡± She looked up at him with hopeful eyes.

    ¡°I swear to the Maker,¡± he replied, offering her a helping hand. ¡°And if you stop crying, I will reward you with treasure¡±

    "Treasure?" The girl perked up, her tears slowing down.

    As the boy smiled, the radiant sun spilled its golden rays through his tousled, blond curls, and cast a luminous halo around his head. "Yes, a beautiful amulet with Andraste¡¯s undying flames engraved upon it."

    "Oh, good sir," exclaimed the girl, her fear dissipating, "I won''t cry, I promise!"

    Taking his hand, she followed the boy, eager to get the promised reward.

 Dream come true

    As the midnight bells echoed through the solemn halls of the Chantry, Cullen Stanton Rutherford paced nervously in his cell, a prisoner of his own thoughts and eager anticipation. He''s been confined to this tiny space for three long, lonely days. His only companions in the dim, musty cellar were the faint flicker of a single candle and the sound of his restless footsteps. His vigil was coming to a close, and with the dawn''s arrival, a new chapter in Cullen''s life was about to begin. Tomorrow, he would finally join the Templar Order, after years of grueling training and unwavering dedication.

    He repeated the sacred canticle over and over in his mind, steeling himself for the moment when he would recite it before the watchful eyes of the Knight-Lieutenant. It seemed almost surreal to the now eighteen year old Cullen, that the dream of a farmer boy with a wooden sword, was about to become a reality. The young man saw himself striding forth, a beacon of hope and justice, vanquishing demons and protecting the innocent from harm. He envisioned himself as a defender of the mages, shielding them from the judgments of the ignorant and fearful.  Ready to step forward and embrace his destiny, he longed for the dawn.

    The silence of the night was abruptly interrupted by the high-pitched creak of a door. Startled, Cullen jumped to his feet and turned towards the entrance. Framed by the doorway stood Knight-Corporal Thomas, husband of his beloved older sister Mia, dressed in Templar armor. His thick mop of red hair gleamed in the candlelight. With a warm smile, Thomas strode towards Cullen, his plate armor clanking with each step.

    "How¡¯s our little Templar recruit doing?" he asked, pulling Cullen into a brotherly embrace.

    The young man was taken aback by the unexpected appearance of his brother-in-law. Speaking in hushed tones, he exclaimed, ¡°You are not supposed to interrupt the vigil! If the Knight-Lieutenant finds out, we¡¯ll both be in trouble.¡±

    Unfazed, Thomas released Cullen and took a few steps back. ¡°All that frowning will put creases on that handsome face, then what will all the young maidens do? Besides,¡± his eyes twinkled with mischief as he added, ¡°only the Maker will know of our little transgression.¡±

    "Why are you here? I thought you were stationed at the Redcliffe Chantry?" He asked with concern.

    Thomas sighed and patted Cullen¡¯s shoulder. "Mia wouldn''t let me rest until I promised to keep you safe. So, I convinced my Knight-Captain to allow me to assist with your ceremony and I even managed to secure a transfer to be stationed with you."

    Cullen bristled with indignation. ¡°I am not a child anymore Thomas! Tomorrow I will become a Knight ¨CTemplar. This is unnecessary. Tell Mia I will not stand for it.¡±

    Thomas calmly looked back at Cullen and replied, ¡°You know your sister better than anyone else. Mia can be overbearing and more stubborn than a constipated mule, but Andraste bless her heart, she''s doing it out of love.¡±

    Deflated, the recruit remained quiet, contemplating his brother-in-law¡¯s words.

    Meanwhile, Thomas reached into his pocket and took out a coin. It was a common silver coin from Ferelden, the engraving depicting the face of Andraste engulfed in flames. He presented it to Cullen on an outstretched hand, ¡°Branson worked hard to earn it, he said it¡¯s a lucky coin, to help you in your Templar duties. Little Rosalie blessed it in the chantry, to make sure that the Maker will watch over you.¡±

    Slowly, and with great care, Cullen took the coin into his hand. "Is that why you came here in the middle of the night?"

    "I wanted to give you your good luck charm as soon as possible," Thomas brightened with a grin. Then his previous smile faded and he continued in a serious tone, "The life of a Templar is not an easy one, you will need all the luck and help you can get."

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    ¡°I haven¡¯t come this far to change my mind now. I¡¯m ready.¡± Cullen answered firmly. After a pause, he added in a softer tone, "Thank you, truly. We are blessed to have you in the family Thomas."

    ¡°Oh, I know.¡± The Templar chuckled. "Now hurry and get dressed for the ceremony while I attempt to sneak back into the barracks unnoticed." He then gave Cullen a playful grin before slipping through the door.

    At last, the day had dawned. The sun over the horizon cast a warm glow over the land and painted the sky in brilliant shades of orange, pink, and red. Cullen stood outside the Chantry, feeling a mix of anxiety and excitement. He tried to steady himself, to calm his racing heart and still his trembling hands, but to no avail. He felt as though his nerves would get the better of him at any moment.

    He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, grasping the coin in his pocket for comfort. "I have trained for years for this moment," he whispered to himself. "I am certain in my purpose. I am ready." With those words, he steeled himself, drawing strength from the depths of his conviction. With renewed resolve, he opened his eyes and pushed open the doors of the Chantry.

    His comrades-to-be were arranged along the hall as if they were a honor guard - the Knight-Lieutenant waiting to receive him at the end.  Cullen was invited to pass among them, with every step being of his own free will. Any reluctance would have signaled that he was not ready. Other men and women slapped hands upon Cullen¡¯s shoulders in encouragement, looking spirited and excited for him as he passed.

    Upon reaching the Knight-Lieutenant, Cullen was presented with the boxed philter. In a loud voice, the Knight-Lieutenant pronounced, ¡°Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.¡± He nodded as if to ask if Cullen was ready.

    The recruit gave back an affirmative nod and finished the canticle, ¡°Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker''s will is written.¡±

    The Knight-Lieutenant''s eyes grew solemn as he raised his mailed hand, bathed in the blue glow of lyrium. The palms of his fellows, still on Cullen''s shoulders, gradually turned from welcoming to restraining, as the young man''s arms were held immobile at his sides. Fear began to rise in him, but when he noticed Thomas''s familiar face he managed to beat it down.

    The Knight-Lieutenant pressed the glow against Cullen''s chest and his reality shattered. The recruit was plunged into an ethereal abyss of enveloping darkness.  He found himself suspended in a void, the ceaseless emptiness stretching out before him in a disorienting expanse.

    A tune drifted towards him, strange and unfamiliar, like nothing he had ever heard before. The song didn''t consist of notes and lyrics, but of raw emotions and unfathomable, alien concepts. This song was beyond his comprehension, but it felt like a beckoning call, stirring within him a longing to connect with something ancient and powerful.

    The melody grew louder and louder until its deafening sound forced every rational thought out of Cullen¡¯s mind. His body became heavy and unresponsive as if it were locked in place by an invisible force, rendering him unable to move a muscle.

    Glowing blue chains began to form around his body, constricting and cold to his skin. A deep groan escaped his lips as the frigid, unyielding chains dug themselves deep into his flesh. They snaked their way around his very essence, coiling tighter and tighter like a merciless python. With each passing second, Cullen felt as though his soul was being squeezed and crushed, leaving him gasping for air amidst waves of searing agony. Overwhelmed by the anguish, he succumbed to unconsciousness.

    Cullen''s senses slowly returned to him, and as he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on his narrow, uncomfortable bunk in the cramped and dimly lit barracks. His body was drenched in a cold sweat, and he couldn''t help but shiver as he struggled to sit up. The young man¡¯s vision was still blurry, and a high-pitched ringing in his ears made it difficult for him to focus.

    While he tried to get his bearings, he sensed a comforting presence beside him. Cullen turned his head to see his brother-in-law standing by his side, a broad smile on his face. Without hesitation, Thomas wrapped his strong arms around him in a bear hug, offering a sense of comfort and reassurance that he desperately needed at that moment.

    "Knight-Templar Cullen, congratulations on your induction into the Templar Order."

    Despite the words of congratulation, there was a note of melancholy in Thomas'' voice, one that the new Templar was too shaken to notice.

    Cullen¡¯s dream had come true.

 A mother not to be

    Lady Beatrice Trevelyan has been beside herself with worry for the last few years. Her daughter Miriam, the youngest of the Trevelyan brood, has been suffering from a mysterious ailment that left her development stunted. Despite reaching the age of fifteen, Miriam has not yet begun her menstrual cycle and her physical attributes have remained childlike, with no sign of the curves and changes that normally accompany a young woman''s growth.

    Desperate to find a cure for her daughter, Lady Beatrice called upon the services of multiple healers, each one failing to offer any meaningful solutions. Determined to find a solution, she has summoned the most renowned healer from the prestigious Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux. It cost the Trevelyans a small fortune, not just for the healer''s fees, but also for the added expense of the Templars who are required to accompany the mage.

    For Beatrice, the thought of her daughter being unable to fulfill the duties of a wife and provide an heir was a source of unspeakable distress. Last year had been filled with exciting marriage proposals for Miriam, but with her unusual affliction, the prospects of a successful union were practically unattainable. The opportunity to secure and strengthen the Trevelyan family through a favorable marriage alliance was rapidly slipping away.

    The pressure was on to resolve the situation before any further chances for matrimony were lost. This was not just about securing a future for her daughter; it was about preserving the legacy of the Trevelyan family.

    Earlier this year, young Miriam began to receive multiple visits from various mage healers. First came the mage from the local Circle of Ostwick, a middle-aged man with a shaved head, dressed in simple, linen robes. After a thorough examination, he delivered the devastating news that Miriam''s reproductive organs showed little signs of vitality and that no cure was available. Lady Beatrice, furious with the results and the lack of remedy, sent the healer away with a disgruntled look. Bitterly, she refused to accept the diagnosis from a ¡°clueless ill-bred peasant¡± and proceeded to summon healers from larger, more prestigious Circles.

    However, despite the repeated efforts of the mages, the diagnosis remained unchanged. With each passing day, Lady Beatrice''s anxiety grew as the prospects of securing a future for her daughter and the Trevelyan family seemed further from her grasp.

    Due to the frequent and costly medical visits, the family''s finances began to dwindle, forcing Bann Albert Trevelyan, head of the household, to make the begrudging decision to stop any further attempts to find a cure for his daughter. Therefore, the last and final healer summoned from Val Royeaux became the Trevelyan¡¯s last hope.

    The Orlesian mage cast a spell over Miriam''s still form, as she lay motionless on her bed, dressed in a plain white housecoat. Despite the unpleasant tingling sensation of the magic, Miriam barely registered it, as her mind was elsewhere. This time she felt no hope, some part of her already knew what the outcome would be ¨C she could never become a mother.  Deep down, Miriam had accepted her fate the moment it was first explained to her. Marriage and family were simply not in the Maker''s plan for her. It was harder for the girl to witness her mother''s disappointment and listen to her constant lamentations than it was to come to terms with her own condition.

    Miriam''s mind wandered to her mother. Lady Beatrice was a stunning woman, the kind that could turn heads when she entered a room. Her features were delicate, yet striking, and it was clear that she had been blessed with natural beauty that had only grown more refined with age. But there was something about her appearance that was cold and unapproachable. Her eyes, though bright, were often cold and distant, giving the impression that she was looking through people rather than at them. Her lips, though full, were often turned down in a tight frown, conveying a sense of irritation and impatience. Her skin was smooth and flawless, but it had the coolness to it, as though it were a surface that others could admire but not touch.

    Miriam pondered what life would be like if Lady Beatrice were kinder and more loving to her, the mere thought of it making her heart ache with longing. She couldn''t help but wonder why she had been deprived of such a simple yet profound bond that so many others took for granted.

    The First Enchanter of the Circle of Val Royeaux, an elderly and seasoned mage, released her spell from the young girl with a heavy sigh. She was not wearing a mask typical for Orlesians, but her extravagant silk robes with golden embroidery and elaborate hairstyle were a telltale sign of her country of origin. Her features were weathered with exhaustion, and her normally poised demeanor was replaced with a troubled expression. Lady Beatrice, standing by Miriam''s side, gazed at the First Enchanter with a mixture of hope and apprehension. As the silence lingered, the tension in the room became palpable, even suffocating.

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing that can be done milady,¡± words from the mage, no more audible than a whisper, broke the silence. She cleared her throat, and continued more firmly, ¡°Magic can mend the damage from illness or injury, and return the tissue to its original state. But your daughter didn¡¯t suffer any of those, she was just born this way¡­¡± First Enchanter trailed off, her eyes fixed on Miriam.

    The young girl looked back at her with resignation, her hand clutching tightly an old amulet around her neck. The amulet was similar to those worn by members of the Chantry, and though smooth from constant handling, the carving of Andraste''s undying flame was still visible. The young girl''s silence was only broken by the sound of her fingers tracing over the amulet''s carved surface.

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    Lady Beatrice paced agitated, from one end of the room to the other. She pushed uselessly at her disheveled hair with shaking hands, her full lips pressed tightly together.  Suddenly, she started speaking, not looking at or addressing anyone in particular, ¡°This cannot be! Do you want to tell me that all my efforts were for naught? So much money spent, and for what? I get the same answer from the peasants of Ostwick and the First Enchanter of Val Royeaux! What did I ever do to deserve this!?¡±

    Finally, Lady Beatrice halted, and looked pointedly at the mage, as if realizing that she was speaking aloud this whole time.  Collecting herself she put on a forced smile and proclaimed in a high-pitched tone, ¡°We greatly appreciate your help First Enchanter. It is disappointing of course, that you could not offer us any help, but I guess, magic can only go so far. If I may offer some refreshments for you and your Templars before you depart, it would be my pleasure.¡±

    She walked straight to the door, opened it, and stood in the doorway, making it clear that the conversation was over.

    Despite being faced with a blatant display of discourteous behavior, the elderly woman remained seemingly unfazed. She rose gracefully to her feet, took hold of her elaborate staff, and made her way toward the exit. She turned back for just a moment, casting a sorrowful gaze upon Miriam. The sight was a pitiful one - Miriam''s locks of brown hair appeared thin and lifeless, her small frame frail and bony, her face elongated and gaunt, and her eyes sunken and pale. The old woman shook her head in defeat, offering one final look of pity before departing the room.

    Lady Beatrice closed the door after the First Enchanter, no longer trying to hide her raging emotions. She started pacing again, this time speaking to Miriam, ¡°I can¡¯t believe this is happening to me! Why does the Maker punishes me so¡­is it because your uncle Roland converted to the Qun? Or is it something else?¡±

    The young girl sat on her bed in utter silence, tightly grasping the amulet in her delicate hands. Lady Trevelyan began to list every conceivable explanation for why the Maker and Andraste might have to forsake her, unsurprisingly, not a single one of those reasons could be attributed to her personal flaws or shortcomings.

    Despite Miriam¡¯s determination to remain stoic, her mind was plagued by fear and uncertainty as Lady Trevelyan''s words echoed in the room. The weight of the situation was pressing down on her, making her feel small and helpless in the face of her mother''s onslaught of emotions. Unable to bear it any longer, Miriam got up from her bed and walked over to the woman. She took her mother''s well-manicured hands and pleaded, "Mother, please calm down. Surely there is a reason for this.  The Maker works in mysterious ways, perhaps family life is not my calling.¡±

    Hoping to cheer her up, Miriam looked into her mother¡¯s eyes and smiled shyly, ¡°Have faith Mother, I could help the family by becoming a Sister in the Chantry. No money would come of it, but our family would gain some respect.¡±

    In response Lady Beatrice huffed. ¡°Respect won¡¯t buy me a new summer house! Why are you so calm anyway? Sounds like you never wanted to get married in the first place.¡±

    She took her hands away from Miriam with annoyance, ¡°It seems that I am the only one in this family who is trying to move us forward. At least I have three normal, healthy sons to compensate for your disaster.¡±

    Miriam hung her head, feeling a sharp pang of pain at the words spoken. But despite their sting, she couldn''t deny that there was some validity to them. She had no desire to be bound in marriage to any of the wealthy and entitled nobles who pursued her, their eyes solely fixated on the potential financial gain of their union. At a tender age, Miriam had come to understand that the Maker had not blessed her with physical beauty. Her slender figure lacked the coveted curves and her features were anything but conventional, with a long face, a slightly crooked nose, and deep-set eyes. It was all too clear to Miriam that these suitors were only after the advantageous connections and wealth she brought to the table.

    She thought that while her yearning was nothing short of foolishness, she still wanted the same type of love Andraste and the Maker shared: all-encompassing, eternal and never changing. If the possibility of marrying for love was out of reach, then Miriam would rather devote her life to the Chantry.  The fact that she would never be a mother brought sadness to the girl, but there were many orphaned children in the Ostwick Chantry, she could always find a baby to look after when she grew up. The Maker was wise, she concluded, he just gave her a chance to avoid a loveless marriage in an unexpected way. Who is she to doubt His decisions?

    However, she couldn''t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Her mother had longed for the prestige and status that came with a successful marriage. She thought that maybe if she rose in Chantry ranks and became a Revered Mother, Lady Beatrice wouldn¡¯t consider her such a disappointment.

    Her mother shrugged her shoulders as she blew out an exasperated breath. "Perhaps you are right after all. Becoming a Chantry Sister may be the only way to salvage your situation.¡± After a pause, she added, ¡°I need some rest. Talk to your father about your potential priesthood, and if he agrees, I will support you." And with that, Lady Trevelyan turned around and left the room.

    Miriam stood in solitude, her mind a tempest of tumultuous emotions. Guilt, relief, optimism, and sadness battled within her, creating a maelstrom of confusion and distress. Desperate to find peace, she closed her eyes and focused on the present moment, seeking solace in the power of prayer. Falling to her knees, she tightly gripped the amulet around her neck and began to chant, her voice filling the silence of the room. The words flowed from her lips like a soothing balm, calming the storm within and filling her with a sense of inner peace.

    ¡°O Maker, hear my cry:

    Guide me through the blackest nights.

    Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.

    Make me rest in the warmest places.

    My Maker, know my heart:

    Take from me a life of sorrow.

    Lift me from a world of pain.

    Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.¡±

    Miriam rose from her knees with newfound clarity. The amulet felt warm in her hand, a physical reminder of the comfort she had found through her prayer. She smoothed out the folds of her housecoat with a gentle touch, her heart overflowing with hope. With eager steps, she made her way to her father''s chamber.

 Cracks in the Tower

    The next three months passed for Cullen in a blur. After the vigil, he took his vows and together with Thomas and two other Templars was promptly sent to Kinloch Hold, best known as the Circle Tower. Located on Lake Calenhad, and accessed only by its docks, it served as Ferelden¡¯s regional Headquarters for the Circle of Magi. It was rare for a newly inducted Templar to be assigned to such a prestigious location, leading Cullen to suspect that his brother-in-law may have played a role in his placement. Despite this, Cullen didn''t voice any complaints, as he was eager to serve under the renowned Knight-Commander Greagoir. He was known for his strict but fair leadership and was widely regarded as a model Templar by many in the Order. The opportunity to serve under such a highly respected Knight was something that Cullen was looking forward to.

    Thomas''s infectious personality made the uneventful journey enjoyable for all. He easily formed a bond with the two other Templars over their shared love of raunchy songs and beer. Initially, Cullen tried to maintain the demeanor befitting of a Knight, but as time went by, he found it increasingly difficult to resist the group''s good cheer and lightheartedness. As a result, by the time the party reached the docks at Lake Calenhad, they were calling each other friends.

    The arrival of the new Templars had been met with varying reactions from the inhabitants of the Circle Tower. Knight-Commander Greagoir was a commanding figure, standing at an imposing height with broad shoulders and a sturdy build. His hair had begun to grey at the temples, giving away his age which was just shy of his early fifties. Despite his intimidating appearance, he had a warm and inviting demeanor, greeting each new arrival with a firm handshake that conveyed both his strength and his kindness. His smile was genuine, and his eyes lit up as he welcomed them to their new home. Greagoir personally introduced them to their fellow Templars and even took the time to briefly chat with each of them. The warm reception from the Knight-Commander made Cullen feel like he was part of a larger family.

    As soon as the meeting with Knight-Commander Greagoir was over, an elderly man distinguished by a long, greying beard and opulent robes approached the group with a practiced smile on his face. Despite the warm expression, his eyes remained cold. Exuding an air of authority, he introduced himself as First Enchanter Irving. The young man noticed that while the First Enchanter stood tall and proud, there was also an aura of caution about him. This gave the Knight reason to suspect that Irving''s confident behavior was just a front.

    A number of mages stood behind the First Enchanter, some of them regarding the group with interest, others with bored indifference. To Cullen''s surprise, he also noticed several looks of fear and bitterness. Two young female apprentices, about his age, were giggling and staring directly at him. The attention made Cullen uncomfortable and he quickly looked away.

    Once all the introductions had been made, the group was briefed on their respective duties and then escorted to the Templar quarters on the fourth floor.

    Time flew by, and Cullen found himself accustomed to his new life in a Circle Tower. The young man¡¯s body adapted to the effects of Lyrium and he no longer experienced dizziness from its intake. Instead, he felt empowered and joyful, the blue substance making his sword lighter, his armor more comfortable, and his purpose clearer. Lyrium had become a source of strength and clarity for him, and he was grateful for its benefits.

    Cullen became well-liked by both, his fellow Templars and the mages under his charge. The Templars respected his unwavering dedication and reliability, knowing that he was a trustworthy ally in their duty. Meanwhile, mages appreciated his friendly demeanor and his lenient attitude towards magic. He understood their plight and was willing to listen to their concerns, something that was not always common among the Templars.

    Cullen¡¯s brother-in-law didn¡¯t spend his time in vain either, and before long he was appointed Knight-Lieutenant, the promotion filling him with excitement and pride.

    One day, Thomas walked up to Cullen with a wide grin on his face. "Cullen, my boy," he said. "I have some exciting news to share. During my next leave, Mia and I will be trying for a baby!"

    Cullen''s face turned a deep shade of red, embarrassment creeping over him. He stumbled over his words as he tried to respond. "Uh, T-Thomas, could you not share such personal things with me?"

    Thomas let out a hearty laugh, clapping Cullen on the back. "Alright, alright. I understand. But just know, my little Knight, that you''ll make a great uncle one day."

    Cullen couldn''t help but smile at the thought. Despite his initial discomfort, he was overjoyed for Thomas and Mia''s future family.

    The young Templar was sailing through life in Circle with ease until he started to develop forbidden feelings for one of the mages under his watch, Lea Amell, a woman whose very presence set his heart ablaze. Cullen became consumed by unspoken desires, tormented by infatuation that he deemed unsuitable and unwise, and plagued by a longing he yearned to banish even from the privacy of his own thoughts.

    He first met her in the apprentice¡¯s quarters, not long after his arrival at Kinloch Hold. Raven-haired, with striking dark eyes and olive skin, she immediately caught his interest. Her robes only emphasized her curves, making it difficult for Cullen to keep his thoughts in check. He tried to distance himself from the mage but somehow ended up seeing her almost every day. The situation turned even more complicated when the young Templar was assigned to assist Lea with her Harrowing. He was the one to strike her down in case she failed, which was a responsibility that weighed heavy on his mind. However, to his relief, Amell passed the test with flying colors.

    Lea¡¯s Harrowing came and went, but it lingered in Cullen''s mind long after it had passed. The proud expression on her face, the defiant gaze she gave him, the tingling of her magic in the air - all of it stayed with Cullen and haunted his dreams. The young Templar arduously prayed to the Maker to rid him of his sinful passion, but despite his best efforts, his yearnings remained. Cullen''s only comfort was, that he would never act on his feelings, nor reveal his sin to anyone but the Maker.

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    Soon after, rumors of the Fifth Blight started to spread through the Tower, causing widespread panic among its residents. The situation became even more dire when  Knight-Commander Greagoir received a missive from King Cailan; orders for mages and Templars from Kinloch Hold to participate in a massive assault on the recently spotted horde of darkspawn at Ostagar. After much debate between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter, Senior Enchanter Uldred - an outspoken libertarian - was chosen to lead the mages. Officially, he was given the task because of his knowledge of the darkspawn, but many in the Circle Tower suspected that there was more to the decision than just his qualifications. With the blessings from the Sisters of the Circle Chantry, Uldred''s team, accompanied by a group of Templars, was promptly dispatched to Ostagar.

    Both Cullen and Thomas were deeply disturbed by the news of ever-growing appearances of darkspawn. To ease their fears, they decided to send a raven to their family at Honnleath. Cullen gazed at the bird as it took flight, his thoughts heavy with worry.

    "Do you think they are safe?" he asked, his voice trembling with unease.

    "I certainly hope so," Thomas answered with a furrowed brow, his usual nonchalant demeanor completely absent.

    Days passed and the reply from Mia finally arrived. Cullen tore open the scroll with haste, eager to see what news it held. His eyes scanned the words. A wave of relief washed over him as he read Mia''s assurance that all was well.

    However, the young Templar still felt uneasy. Rumors of the onset of the Blight continued to spread, and he couldn''t help but feel that something terrible was about to happen.

    "Thomas," Cullen said, turning to his friend. "I can''t help but wonder... what if the Blight is truly coming?"

    "I share your fears, my boy," The older man replied in a somber voice. "But whatever comes, know that we will face it together."

    Cullen nodded, drawing comfort from his brother-in-law''s words. He found himself holding on to his lucky coin, praying to the Maker for guidance and protection, hoping that the rumors about the Blight were just that, rumors.

    News of the disastrous defeat at Ostagar reached the Tower a few months later. Despite all odds, Uldred and a handful of Templars had survived the massacre and were on their way back to Kinloch Hold.

    The Senior Enchanter returned from Ostagar with the confidence of a seasoned war veteran and even more extreme views than when he had left. His experiences on the battlefield solidified his beliefs, making him even more fervent in his revolutionary ideas. Previously, his ideologies were mostly disregarded by the mages in the Circle, but now, they were starting to listen. His charisma and battle-hardened demeanor made him a natural leader, and his message of change and rebellion began to spread like wildfire. Tired of the rules and regulations imposed upon them by the Templar Order, they were drawn to Uldred''s promises of freedom. No longer able to ignore the Senior Enchanter''s actions, Irving was forced to publicly challenge his subordinate. Strictly curated by the Knight¨CCommander and his Templars, an assembly for all the senior enchanters of the Kinloch Hold had been announced.

    Cullen was praying in the Circle''s Chantry when he received an urgent command from Thomas to reinforce the meeting on the second floor of the tower. The talks weren''t going well and the Knight-Commander wanted more Templars on standby. As soon as Cullen stepped onto the floor, he saw First Enchanter Irving. He stood tall and resolute, his gaze fixed on Senior Enchanter Uldred. The tension in the room was palpable, as two powerful mages faced off. Irving''s voice was calm and measured, but there was an undercurrent of urgency as he desperately tried to reason with the mage, "The Circle has protected us for centuries, given us purpose, and kept us safe."

    Uldred was not swayed. "Safe? Ha!" he sneered. "We are nothing more than prisoners, our every move monitored, our powers controlled." He took a step forward, his eyes blazing with defiance. "I will not stand for it any longer. I demand freedom for all mages, to live as we please and use our magic as we see fit!"

    "Don''t be ridiculous," Irving insisted, "think of the consequences. The Chantry will never allow it. For Maker''s sake, Uldred, your delusions could lead to the Rite of Annulment being invoked upon us!"

    But Uldred was undeterred. "Then let them come," he spat. "I am not afraid. Nor should you be." Despite First Enchanter Irving''s best efforts, his words of reason fell on deaf ears.

    Other mages watched the confrontation with unease, torn between their loyalty to the First Enchanter and their desire for change. With each passing moment, Irving''s grip on the situation loosened, his attempts to reason with Uldred becoming more and more desperate.

    As the stand-off continued, the atmosphere in the room became even more charged, the magic energy in the room starting to swirl and flicker. Uldred''s supporters grew bolder, sensing the increasingly desperate tone in Irving''s voice. Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword with determination, ready to draw it at the first order from the Knight-Commander.

    Greagoir rose to his feet, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword as he faced the mage. The room immediately fell silent, the sound of shuffling feet and hushed whispers filling the air. Uldred''s stepped away from Irving and turned his gaze to Knight-Commander, his eyes wild with zeal.

    "Uldred," Greagoir began, his voice stern, "magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him."

    Uldred''s eyes narrowed and he raised his hands, perhaps in preparation to unleash his magic, or perhaps simply in protest. But before the Enchanter could act, Greagoir made the first move. With a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword and summoned the Wrath of Heaven. A bright pillar of light descended from above and slammed into Uldred with a blast of holy energy. Overwhelmed by the powerful blow, the Senior Enchanter fell to the ground with a thud and slipped into unconsciousness.

    The mages stared in shock at their fallen comrade, afraid to even give a breath.

    Greagoir stood tall, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, his gaze cold and determined.

    "Let this be a lesson to all who dare to challenge the authority of the Templar Order," he declared, his voice echoing through the room. "We will not tolerate any form of rebellion or disobedience. The teachings of Andraste will be upheld, at any cost."

    He spun on his heel, his stern gaze settling upon the man before him. His voice boomed through the silent chamber, echoing off the stone walls. "Knight-Lieutenant," he declared, "I entrust you to take this rebel, this traitor, to the deepest and darkest cell of our dungeon. Let him rot there, in solitude and despair, until he comes to see the error of his ways."

    The Knight-Commander paused, surveying the room filled with mages, their faces contorted with fear. "And to the rest of you," he continued, his voice lowered, but no less menacing," return to your quarters, where you shall remain until summoned. No exceptions."

    With a final nod, the Knight-Commander turned and strode from the chamber, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. At his side, Irving fell in step, following him to his private quarters with a concerned face. As the door slammed shut, the remaining mages and Templars were left to ponder the weight of the Knight-Commander''s words, wondering what the future would hold for them.

 The initiate

    Miriam tentatively opened the door, her confidence waning as soon as she stepped into her father¡¯s quarters. Bann Albert Trevelyan was a man in his early sixties, his face marked by a stern expression and small, pale eyes, overshadowed by lush, overgrown eyebrows that reached down to his sideburns. He looked up from the papers on his desk, regarding Miriam with a quizzical expression, as if waiting for her to speak.

    With the Bann¡¯s eyes on her, the young girl''s heart quickened, and she crumpled the fabric of her housecoat with sweaty hands.

    "Good day to you, father." She greeted him, her voice barely above a whisper. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "I was wondering if you have been informed of the healer''s verdict."

    "Your mother has already notified me of this matter.¡± Bann Trevelyan replied in a flat voice. His eyes never leaving her face, he continued, ¡°She also mentioned that you wish to dedicate yourself to serving the Maker."

    Albert leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocking as he spoke. "I support your decision to become a Sister in the Chantry. My brother Roland brought shame to our family by converting to the Qun. Your entry into the clergy will help to restore some of our damaged reputation."

    As Miriam''s heart swelled with relief, she found the courage to broach the subject of her future. She cleared her throat, looking intently at her father as she spoke. "Father, I am deeply grateful for your support in my decision to join the Chantry," she said, her voice steady despite her nerves. "I humbly request that you send me to the Ostwick Chantry as soon as possible, so that I may begin my journey towards serving the Maker."

    A glint of approval appeared in Bann Albert''s eyes as he studied his daughter''s face. "Of course, my child," he said with a slight nod. "I will send a raven to Revered Mother Petra to inquire about your joining. I hope that you will serve the Maker with distinction and restore the honor that has been lost from our family." He then sighed, looking weary as he continued, "But for now, I have a great deal of work to attend to. You should return to your room."

    "Thank you, father," Miriam said, her voice filled with reverence. She executed a quick curtsy before departing, making sure to quietly close the door behind her.  The anticipation of her journey consumed her thoughts as she walked away.

    Bann Trevelyan was a man of his word, and as soon as he received a positive answer from Revered Mother Petra, he immediately informed Miriam of her acceptance as an initiate. The young girl''s heart was filled with hope, and her steps were light as she went about her daily routine of prayer, embroidery, and walks in the garden.

    Finally, the day arrived. Miriam was a picture of excitement as she stood in front of a carriage loaded with her luggage, ready to begin her journey to the Ostwick Chantry. The amulet she always wore dangled around her neck as she stepped into the carriage. The amulet was a simple piece of jewelry, but it held great sentimental value for the girl. She was dressed in her usual attire, a simple dark blue dress with the Trevelyan crest neatly embroidered on the front. Her hair was arranged in a single braid laced with a blue ribbon, adding a touch of elegance to her overall appearance.

    Only Lady Trevelyan, resplendent in a red gown of delicate silk, was there to bid her farewell. Her father and brothers were attending an important meeting and were unable to make it. Miriam was too eager to depart to be affected by their absence.

    As she seated herself in the carriage, Lady Beatrice looked at her daughter with a hint of amusement.

    "You seem to be so different today. Who knew my daughter could be more than a wallflower." She went on, "I expect you to seize every opportunity to enhance the prestige of the Trevelyan family. Do not disappoint me again."

    "I will do my best." The girl replied obediently.

    "I don''t want your best, I want results, Miriam." Her mother''s patience began to wear thin.

    Desperate for the carriage to finally depart, Miriam proclaimed, "I promise to bring honor to the Trevelyan family name, mother."

    "That''s better,¡± she answered, looking pleased. ¡°Farewell, my daughter. May the Maker watch over you."  Lady Beatrice lifted the hem of her dress slightly off the ground and walked away, not looking back even once.

    The servants closed the doors of the carriage, the wheels creaking slightly as it set into motion. Miriam gazed out the window, watching her childhood home grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Her heart was filled with joy at the prospect of starting a new life, but a nagging fear lingered at the thought of leaving behind everything she had ever known.

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    Miriam leaned her head against the window of the carriage, feeling the vibrations of the horse¡¯s hooves and the creaking of the wheels on the cobblestone road. She had been traveling for hours, her body stiff and sore from the long journey. Despite her discomfort, she kept her eyes on the picturesque scenery as it passed by. Rolling hills dotted with wildflowers and tall trees, babbling streams, and quaint chalets. As she continued her journey, the scenery slowly began to change, giving way to a more rugged and wild landscape.

    Finally, the carriage came to a stop, and Miriam stepped down from the coach, stretching her legs and taking in her surroundings. In front of her stood the Chantry of Ostwick, a massive complex of buildings and walls, surrounded by lush greenery. The stone walls of the Chantry loomed high above her, casting a shadow over the entire area.

    As Miriam approached the gate, she was greeted by an elderly woman, who was far from the warm and comforting figure one might expect from a Chantry Mother. The woman carried herself with a cold detachment that was almost palpable. Her eyes were like ice chips, giving away nothing of her inner thoughts or feelings. Her voluptuous figure, squeezed tightly into her robes, made her belly protrude in an almost ridiculous way. The Mother¡¯s round face was marred by deep wrinkles, giving her the appearance of a raisin that had been left out in the sun for too long.

    "Welcome, initiate," the old woman said in a deep voice. "I am Mother Lucia and I will be your mentor during your training.¡±

    Feeling small under the woman''s stern demeanor, Miriam bowed. "It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, honored Mother.¡±

    "Your luggage will not be needed," the woman informed her. "The Chantry will provide everything the initiate needs."

    The girl nodded, looking around at the courtyard and gardens that surrounded the Chantry. When she heard the soft sounds of chanting coming from the nearby chapel, she felt a sense of peace wash over her.

    "Follow me," Mother Lucia said, leading the way into the Chantry¡¯s complex.

    Miriam followed closely behind, her eyes taking in the intricate carvings and frescoes that adorned the walls around her. As she and Mother Lucia made their way through the complex, the girl couldn''t help but feel astonished at the sheer size and beauty of the Ostwick¡¯s Chantry. She couldn''t wait to explore every corner of it.

    Mother Lucia began to explain the purpose of each building they passed by. "This is the chapel," she said, "where we come to pray and offer our devotions to the Maker."

    The chapel was a grand structure with high ceilings and intricate stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the Chant of Light. Miriam was awestruck. "It''s so beautiful," she exclaimed.

    The old woman sighed, "Obviously, the beauty of the Chantry is meant to inspire us to connect with the Maker."

    As they continued walking, the Mother pointed out various other buildings. "This is the refectory where we have our meals and break bread together," she said, pointing to a large dining hall. "And over there is the scriptorium, where we make copies of the Chant of Light and record our histories." Miriam was impressed by the sight of rows of clerics bent over desks, painstakingly copying intricate illustrations and calligraphy.

    They passed by a small garden, where a few Chantry Sisters were tending to the plants. "This is our herb garden," Mother Lucia explained. "We use the herbs to make medicines for those in need." Miriam was pleased by the practicality of the Chantry. It wasn''t just a place of worship, but a community that served the people of Ostwick.

    As they walked through the cloister, Mother Lucia pointed at the heavy closed door and explained, "This is the infirmary, where the elderly Templars are cared for, and where I live and perform my duties. Once you settle in and spend a few months studying basic skills, you will assist me in taking care of the retired Knights."

    "I would love to look after the brave Knights of Our Lady," the girl said, beaming.

    "Yes, yes," Mother Lucia muttered. "Let''s move on."

    As they approached the initiate¡¯s quarters, the old woman announced, "Here you will live and study to become a fully-fledged Chantry Sister." The initiate¡¯s quarters were a modest building, but it was clear that it was well-cared for. Miriam could hear the sounds of chatter coming from inside.

    Mother Lucia opened the door and gestured for Miriam to follow her inside. As they entered the common room, several young women turned to look at them. Miriam could see the determination in their eyes.

    "This is Miriam," the Mother introduced her, "the new initiate who will be joining us."

    The women smiled, briefly greeted Miriam, and continued with their tasks. Then, Mother Lucia led her to the entrance of the quarter''s dormitory, "Your bed is number seventeen, and all your belongings are inside the bag upon it." She gestured towards the wooden beds that filled the room, each with a carved number on its bedframe.

    Miriam felt a wave of apprehension wash over her as she took in her new surroundings. The room was filled with simple wooden beds padded with straw and covered with old, coarse blankets. It was a far cry from the luxurious chambers she was accustomed to as a noble.

    "In this bag you will also find a scroll outlining your duties for the first few months, together with a schedule of ceremonies, devotions, and meals in the Chantry," concluded Mother Lucia. Miriam nodded gratefully, feeling a sense of comfort in the detailed instructions. "Thank you. I will do my best to serve the Maker well."

    In response, Mother Lucia merely grunted and walked away, leaving Miriam alone with her thoughts.

    The girl made her way to bed number seventeen and found the bag that held her meager belongings.

    The bag was made of old scraps of cloth, and when she opened it, she was greeted by a crumpled scroll, two worn linen shifts, a used Chantry robe that looked far too large for her, and a stained headscarf. Miriam''s heart sank as she realized the harsh realities of her new life. However, she refused to let this discourage her. Clutching her amulet, she prayed to Andraste for the strength to adapt to her new circumstances. She knew it would be difficult, but she was determined to serve the Maker with all her heart.

    Miriam hoped to find her true home in the Ostwick Chantry.

 The Broken Circle ( part 1)

    As the dust settled from the confrontation with Uldred, Knight Commander Greagoir wasted no time in introducing new rules to tighten control over the mages under his charge. Cullen watched his Commander issue additional restrictions, with a heavy heart. He knew that the mages were already struggling under the weight of their current situation and feared that these regulations would only serve to oppress them even further.

    As Templars grew more militant in their actions, mages became more resentful and bitter. The rift between the two groups was spreading with each passing day. Cullen tried to bridge the gap but found himself torn between his loyalty to the Order and his compassion for the mages.

    The new restrictions didn''t just affect the mages though; the Templars were also facing their own set of challenges. Their workload had significantly increased, with each Knight now having to work twice as many night shifts as before. As a result, getting a good night''s sleep had become almost impossible, turning what was once a basic necessity into a rare and treasured luxury.

    To make an already difficult situation worse, the Templars were now forbidden to take any time off from their duties. This ban only increased their resentment of the imposed isolation. Thomas tried his best to remain optimistic about his inability to visit Mia, especially now that she was expecting, but Cullen could see how deeply it was affecting him. The ongoing stress of being away from his pregnant wife had taken a toll on his brother-in-law, making it increasingly difficult for him to stay hopeful.

    Given the hostile environment, the once friendly chats that the young Templar enjoyed with his charges were a thing of the past. This had made his duty as a Knight all the more challenging, with little opportunity for him to interact with the people he was meant to protect.

    The whole situation was rapidly becoming unsustainable, leaving the Templars feeling frustrated, isolated, and demoralized.

    The dark passages of the Circle Tower were illuminated by flickering torches, casting eerie shadows against the stone walls and the young Templar on another grueling night shift. A high dose of lyrium was the only thing keeping him on his feet, as he had barely had any sleep for the past three days. Suddenly, Cullen caught the sounds of whispers and shuffling coming from the kitchen. Realizing that no mages were allowed to leave their quarters after curfew, his heart raced. He took a couple of deep breaths and went to investigate.

    Silently approaching the entrance, he found that the door was slightly ajar. Peering inside, he noticed two women silhouetted against the moonlit kitchen window. The young man could only make out a few words of their conversation as it was barely audible. One of the women seemed to be afraid of something, while the other reassured her in a stern tone. Cullen hesitated, unsure of what to do. Under the new protocol, his orders were to silence the mages, subsequently taking them into custody and escorting them for further questioning. His duty was clear, but his heart told him otherwise. The Templar steadied himself and stepped forward, his footsteps echoing through the silent kitchen.

    "Enchanters, what are you doing here?" he asked.

    The two women jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. One of them, a young mage with long, curly hair, looked at him with wide, fearful eyes.  To his surprise, the second woman was Lea Amell, the spirited and beautiful young mage who had captured his heart. She stepped forward to speak, her fear turning to relief as she recognized him.

    "We were just getting some water, Ser Cullen," Lea said, her tone relaxed. "My friend here is nervous about her Harrowing tomorrow. I was trying to calm her down."

    Cullen''s eyes flicked to the frightened mage behind Amell¡¯s back, and he could see the terror etched on her face.

    "I understand," he said, his voice gentle. "But you know the rules. Mages aren''t allowed to leave their quarters after curfew."

    Lea nodded, but the other woman shook her head frantically. "Please don''t report us," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don''t want to go through any more hardship than I already am. I know you''re kind, Ser Cullen. Please, just let us go."

    Cullen''s heart swelled with conflicting emotions. He knew that he should do his duty and report the mages, but he also didn''t want to make things harder for them. He remained silent, unsure of what to do.

    After a few moments of tense silence, Amell spoke again. "We understand if you have to report us," she said, her voice calm but resigned. "But please, know that we meant no harm. I was just trying to help my friend."

    Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and sighed deeply. "I won''t report you," he said, his voice contained. "But please, return to your quarters and don''t break the rules again."

    ¡°Yes, Ser,¡± the enchanter replied.

    As he turned to leave, he caught Lea''s eye and she gave him a broad smile. Cullen blushed, feeling both relieved and conflicted as he made his way back to his patrol route.

    After a few uneventful hours, he finally finished his shift and returned to his quarters, desperate for some much-needed sleep.

    Cullen was fast asleep in his quarters when his brother-in-law woke him up, shaking him gently. "Hey, Cullen. Wake up, buddy. You need to eat something. Come on, join everyone for breakfast."

    The young man mumbled groggily in a sleepy voice, "I''m not hungry. Just give me a few more hours of sleep. I''ll be as good as new." Thomas let out a disappointed sigh, but let him sleep some more.

    However, it wasn''t long before Cullen was awoken again, this time by the sound of someone violently vomiting. He slowly opened his eyes, still half asleep, to see several of the Templars hunched over buckets, their faces drained of all color. Sweat glistened on their foreheads as they retched and heaved, struggling to keep their balance. Cullen sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, trying to figure out what was happening.

    Thomas entered the room, his eyes glistening with an unhealthy glow and his face pale and clammy with sweat.  "It¡¯s a good thing you didn''t attend the breakfast. I am starting to think that we''ve been poisoned," he said, his voice hoarse and full of worry.

    Cullen''s eyes widened in shock. "Poisoned!? How is that possible?" he asked, his mind racing.

    "I don''t know, but how else to explain the fact that every Templar in the Circle except you has suddenly fallen ill?  Just thirty minutes ago, Commander Greagoir and the Knight Captain went to the First Enchanter for treatm-" Before he could finish his sentence, a blood-curdling screech tore through the air, sending shivers down Cullen''s spine. It seemed to come from the Harrowing Chambers. With a sense of growing dread, the young man felt a wave of dark magical energy wash over him. Someone nearby was summoning demons. "Merciful Andraste, preserve us," he whispered.

    "Templars, to arms!" bellowed Thomas, his voice ringing with urgency and command as he unsheathed his sword. "We are under attack! Draw your weapons and follow me to the Harrowing Chambers." Turning to face Cullen, he spoke in a low, hurried voice. "Knight-Templar Cullen, I need you to perform a vital task. Head to Commander Greagoir''s quarters and find the Litany of Adralla. It''s our only hope against the blood magic. Once you have it, join us at the Harrowing chambers." He paused, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. "But beware; the enemy is unknown to us, so tread carefully." Cullen nodded curtly, his jaw clenching with tension. "I will do as you command, Knight-Lieutenant. May the Maker watch over us all."

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    The Templars who were fit to fight quickly rallied to Thomas¡¯s side. Their pale and gaunt faces were taut with grim determination as they followed their leader toward the Harrowing Chambers.

    As Cullen hastily donned his Templar armor, his heart raced with a sense of urgency. He knew that time was of the essence and that he needed to act quickly to protect his fellow Knights. The panicked screams of the tower''s inhabitants started to echo through the halls, adding to the growing sense of unease that gripped him.

    With each piece of armor he secured into place, Cullen felt his resolve harden. He had trained for years to become a Templar, and now was the time to put his skills to the test. He reached for his lucky coin, the silver glinting in the dim light of the barracks, and took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.

    On his way to Commander Greagoir''s quarters, he felt a sense of purpose, knowing that he would do whatever it took to ensure the safety of his fellow Knights and the innocent inhabitants of the Tower.

    Cullen approached the room and a putrid stench of charred flesh and sulfur filled his nostrils. He could feel the magical energy that had been unleashed here mere moments ago. Slowly, he pushed open the door, sword drawn and at the ready. Cullen stood in the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest as he surveyed the scene before him. The room was in utter chaos, as though a raging inferno had ripped through it with reckless abandon. The walls were charred and blackened, and the heat was still lingering in the quarters, making it almost unbearable to breathe. The window panes were shattered, and the curtains that once adorned them were now nothing but tattered remnants, scorched and burned beyond recognition. The glass from the windows lay in glittering shards across the floor, crunching underfoot as Cullen moved cautiously through the room.

    The Templar noticed a pile of rubble in the corner, and as he approached it, his heart sank. Between the remains of a bookshelf lay the burned and maimed body of the Tranquil. The old elven man had been the Knight-Commander''s personal assistant for more than a decade and was well-liked by all who knew him. Cullen''s eyes widened in shock as he saw that the elf was still alive despite his horrific burns. The man''s robes had been consumed by flames, leaving his skin blistered and covered in a black, charred crust. Cullen draw a healing potion from his pouch and dropped to his knees before the dying man. "Please, hold on," he pleaded, "this will ease your pain."

    The Tranquil shook his head weakly. "No need¡­ Knight-Templar. It''s¡­too¡­late for me." He took ragged breaths between each word.

    The Templar felt a lump form in his throat as he heard the man''s final words. "The Litany of Adralla," the Tranquil whispered, "was taken¡­by Enchanter Amell. Tell... the Commander¡­. I am sorry¡­ I couldn¡¯t protect it..." The elf¡¯s eyes grew glassy, his expression relaxed, and he drew his final breath.

    Cullen closed the man¡¯s eyes, offering a short prayer for the deceased. His heart swelled with a mixture of grief and anger as he realized the truth.

    "That blighted wretch!" Cullen cursed under his breath. "She fooled me. Now it all makes sense...her being in the kitchen at night, the food poisoning."

    As he struggled to control his rage and shame, Cullen heard the screams of other Templars as they were struck down by the mage''s spells. He knew he had to act fast before more lives were lost. The young man rose to his feet and rushed out of the quarters. He needed to report back to Thomas, and fast.

    He sprinted frantically through the narrow passageways, where ash, blood, and carnage coated every surface. The ear-crushing tumult of chaos echoed around the Tower, filling it with the piercing screams of people and the howls of demons and abominations. The air was thick with the foul reek of sulfur and death.

    Suddenly, the Templar felt the searing heat under his feet. In a second, he was thrown back to the ground by the rage demon that had emerged from beneath him. For the first time in his life, Cullen found himself face-to-face with the demon; his heart pounded in his chest like a war drum, his breathing became shallow, and his mouth went dry. The monstrous entity made entirely of molten lava loomed over him; its eyes, like burning coals, stared straight into his soul, petrifying him with fear. With a bellowing roar, the demon attempted to smash its fiery fists into the terror-stricken Templar. Fortunately, Cullen''s honed reflexes kicked in, and he instinctively rolled to his right, narrowly dodging the infernal attack. Rising to his feet, he thrust his shield forward just in time to withstand the next blow. Despite the shield shaking violently from the force of the impact, it held strong, protecting the Templar from harm. Cullen''s sword began to glow with a brilliant light as he summoned the power of the Blessed Blades. Startled by the sudden radiance, the demon hesitated for a brief second, which proved to be its fatal mistake. Taking advantage of the creature''s momentary distraction, the Templar lunged forward, thrusting his sword deep into the demon''s chest. With a swift upward motion, he sliced open the rage demon and leapt backwards, dodging the blast of molten fire that erupted from the wound. With a deafening crash, the rage demon collapsed to the ground, its flames flickering and dwindling to nothingness. Leaving the stench of sulfur behind, the creature disintegrated into a pile of ash. The young man stood over it, his sword raised high. He took a deep breath, his body still shaking with adrenaline.

    The Templar had no time to savor his victory, as more demons were coming. Seven shadowy figures darted towards him, their bodies shrouded in ominous clouds. He recognized them immediately: shades, infamous for their scorching flames that could incinerate a man in seconds.

    Cullen''s hand trembled as he clutched the hilt of his sword. Summoning every iota of courage he possessed, he braced himself for what was to come. Though he had mastered the technique of the Wrath of Heaven, he had only ever practiced it on a dummy before. This would be the first time he would wield its holy power against real demons.

    The young man clenched his teeth and tapped into the lyrium coursing through his veins, igniting his Templar powers once more. He became consumed by a surge of unbridled energy, causing the air around him to be bathed in a vibrant radiance. With a fierce cry, he unleashed a devastating blast of holy light that rained down like a divine storm upon the approaching shades. Four of them instantly evaporated into the thin air, while the other three were hurled backward, dazed but not defeated.

    The young man¡¯s body was drenched in sweat and wracked with exhaustion, but he refused to yield to his fatigue. He charged forward.

    The demons circled around him with savage ferocity, their eyes smoldering with infernal rage. As the first shade lunged at him, Cullen deftly sidestepped its attack and struck back with a swift blow from his sword. The demon howled in agony as its form dissipated into the ether. Before he could catch his breath, the other two shades pounced from behind, their claws raking across his back and leaving deep gouges in his armor. Cullen grimaced in pain as he fought back with all his might. He managed to kill one of the shades with a well-timed thrust of his sword, but the other one was proving to be much more resilient.  Shade''s eyes flashed with a malevolent fire, and it unleashed a searing blast of flames at the Templar. He raised his shield to defend himself and started to advance. From behind his shield, he saw the glow of the metal being overheated, as if exposed to a forge. He flexed his hand on the leather straps as the heat began to seep into his gloves and gauntlets. He had no choice but to withstand the flames, even if it meant maiming his arm. It was still preferable to being burned to ashes.

    As the inferno raged on, the shield''s edges started to bubble and warp under the intense heat. The once smooth surface now had deep ridges and valleys etched into it. Suddenly, a cracking sound split the air as a jagged line formed down the center of the shield. The demon''s onslaught began to wane, its fury seemingly spent after the powerful attack. The crack widened, and just as it seemed the shield would shatter completely, the shade''s assault finally ceased. The Templar screamed in rage as he closed in on the shade. Summoning all the lyrium that was left in him, Cullen channeled the power of the Blessed Blades and swung his sword with all his might. The blade sliced through the air, cleaving the demon in two with a resounding crack. With a final gasp, the last shade dissipated into nothingness.

    Groaning, the Templar slowly sank to the ground, his body aching and battered from the demon''s relentless attacks. His left hand throbbed with searing pain, the skin badly burned from the heat that had engulfed it moments ago. With frustration, Cullen tossed away his now useless shield and reached for his pouch, hoping to find some relief in the healing potions and extra doses of lyrium it held. His heart sank as he realized that it had been ripped from his belt by the demon''s claws and now lay shattered on the ground beside him.

    For a moment, despair threatened to overwhelm the man. He was wounded and out of options, unable to heal himself or use any of his Templar abilities.

    Then, with a deep breath, he summoned the last of his resolve and pushed himself to his feet. His eyes narrowed with fierce determination as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He knew what he had to do. He had to reach the Harrowing Chambers and join his fellow Templars in the fight against the blood mages and demons. With every step, he recited the Canticle of Trials, his voice ringing out through the chaos of the tower, "Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."

    As he advanced towards the Harrowing Chambers, his sword at the ready, Cullen felt a sense of calm wash over him. He was a Knight-Templar, and he would fight until his last breath to defend the Circle of Magi. No matter the cost, he would stand against the darkness and emerge victorious.

 The Chantry Sister not to be

    Midnight bells echoed through the silent night in the Ostwick Chantry, their serene chimes a stark contrast to the young initiate''s agitated mind. Miriam lay on the straw mattress, unable to find reprieve from her discomfort. The hard wooden bed frame, the prickly straw that irritably scratched her skin, and the almost constant insect bites left her feeling anything but rested. Her whole body ached from the day''s grueling work, her swollen, red hands a testament to the constant manual labor of washing linens and helping in the kitchens. She scratched her greasy scalp, longing for the upcoming wash day to relieve her of the filth that clung to her.

    The life of an initiate was not at all like the young girl had pictured it in her dreams. She had imagined herself spending her days in quiet study of the Chant of Light, preparing herself to preach Andraste''s teachings to the people of Thedas. She had hoped to devote herself entirely to scholarship, with prayer and meditation as the only interruptions. And indeed, part of her day was dedicated to study, and there were times of prayer, but most of her time was filled with back-breaking work, the kind that left her exhausted and unfulfilled. Worst of all, she was constantly hungry, a sensation she had never really experienced before. At home, she had always been a notoriously picky eater, but she had never gone without food. The servants always had snacks at the ready, should she ever want them.

    However, here in the Chantry, initiates were only given two small meals a day: a watery porridge for breakfast and a simple lentil soup for dinner. On rare occasions, they were granted a slice of onion or half a boiled egg to throw into the soup, but otherwise, the menu was always the same.

    The hunger was so overwhelming that Miriam once dared to ask for seconds at the refectory, only to be harshly chastised for succumbing to the sin of gluttony. Mother Lucia''s stern voice lectured her that the only way to be closer to the Maker was to abstain from the comforts of mortal life. Hard work and an empty stomach, she said, would lead her to Andraste¡¯s side. The initiate couldn''t help but feel a pang of skepticism at the Mother''s words. As the woman spoke, Miriam noticed the glistening remnants of pork stew on her lips, and then the girl''s eyes drifted down to Mother''s soft, manicured hands resting on her bulging belly. She wondered if the woman practiced what she preached. Surprised at her bold thoughts, Miriam took the reprimands in silence.

    The girl had hoped to find kindred spirits and forge friendships with the clergy, but her dreams were dashed when she realized that her fellow Brothers and Sisters were cutthroat and fiercely competitive, focused only on achieving the coveted promotion as quickly as possible. It seemed that they had no interest in making friends or even engaging in idle chatter, making Miriam feel disappointed and lonely.

    As she observed her peers more closely, she couldn''t help but notice that the entire atmosphere of the Chantry was more akin to a commercial enterprise than a holy sanctuary dedicated to the Maker. Even the Revered Mother Petra, the leader of the Ostwick Chantry, seemed more interested in soliciting donations than fostering spiritual growth or spreading the Chant of Light. She droned through her services with a lackluster and disinterested tone, leaving the congregation listless and bored. It was as if the very air within the Chantry was permeated with competitiveness and greed, with little room for kindness, compassion, or a genuine spiritual connection. Despite her efforts to bond with other clergy, Miriam found herself adrift in a sea of cold ambition and hollow rituals, wondering if she would ever find the warmth and companionship she sought.

    The girl traced her puffy, reddened fingers over the surface of her amulet, seeking comfort in the familiar lines of Andraste''s undying flames. The amulet was a constant reminder of the only thing that kept her going in the Ostwick Chantry¡ªthe hope of fulfilling her dream of serving the Maker.

    The one bright spot in this otherwise bleak initiate''s life was the prospect of helping Mother Lucia look after the retired Templars. Ever since the day she was saved by a brave boy in the Redcliffe village, Miriam had been enamored with Andraste''s warriors. A decade had passed since then, and while she couldn''t recall the boy''s face, she did remember the golden halo above his head, the warm touch of his hand and the feeling of safety as he walked with her through the busy streets. All of these were her most precious memories. Sometimes, Miriam wondered where the boy was now. Perhaps he was still in Ferelden, saving innocents and slaying demons. Or maybe he had moved on to serve the Chantry in Orlais. Wherever he was, she prayed to the Maker that he was happy and fulfilled. And when the time comes for him to retire, Miriam hoped that he will be well taken care of by a loving and caring Chantry Mother, just like she would be. For her, the thought of providing care and comfort to those brave men and women who had dedicated their lives to serving the Maker was a source of great joy. It was the one thing that gave her hope that one day she too would be able to serve the Maker with the same level of dedication and devotion as the Templars.

    Miriam stood before the infirmary door, her heart racing with excitement. She smoothed her chantry robes and checked that her head scarf was neatly in place, wanting to look presentable for the retired Knights she was about to meet. Finally, the heavy footsteps of Mother Lucia, the infirmary''s caretaker, echoed down the hallway. The woman strolled towards Miriam with a relaxed gait, stopping before her and producing a massive, old key from her pocket. With a screech of rusted metal, she opened the lock and pushed the door open, beckoning Miriam to follow her inside.

    As they entered the dimly lit corridor, Miriam''s eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing two doors facing each other. Mother Lucia gestured toward the one on the right. "Those are my quarters," she said, "where I prepare lyrium drafts and healing potions for the retired Templars. You are not allowed to enter there without my express permission. Is that understood?"

    Miriam nodded vigorously, feeling a little intimidated by the woman¡¯s strict demeanor. They proceeded to enter the Mother''s small but bright and clean room, outfitted with sturdy new furniture and windows overlooking the lush Chantry garden. As her eyes drifted towards the feathered mattress and warm woolen blanket on the woman''s bed, Miriam couldn''t help but feel a twinge of envy.

    "You will also be responsible for cleaning my room and my linens at my request," Mother Lucia continued. "However, don''t even think of coming near the potion bench. That area is off-limits."

    With a sigh, Miriam resigned herself to the extra work of cleaning up after the woman. However, her excitement returned as Mother Lucia took the potion bag from the bench, closed the door behind them, and turned to the other side of the corridor. "Now let''s go to the Knight¡¯s quarters," she said, leading the way with the confidence of someone who had been there countless times before.

    As the woman pushed open the door to the Templar quarters, Miriam was greeted by a nauseating stench that assaulted her senses. The air was thick with the fetid odor of old sweat and urine, and the stagnant atmosphere made it difficult to breathe. The room itself was cramped and dingy, with stone walls covered in a thick layer of black moss that seemed to ooze from every crevice. The furniture, what little there was of it, was pitifully meager and mostly broken. The chairs were half collapsed, and the only table was wobbling precariously on three legs.

    The two small windows were dirty and grimy, casting an eerie light into the room that only served to highlight its dismal condition. Worse still, the windows were barred, trapping the occupants within the prison-like walls. Outside, the view was no better. The courtyard was nothing more than a bare patch of muddy ground enclosed by high walls. Inside the premises, there were elderly men and women in tattered, grubby clothes shuffling aimlessly. Their hollow gazes and shaved heads created a haunting atmosphere. Some of them muttered unintelligibly, lost in their delusional thoughts, while others sat motionless in a trance-like state, swaying back and forth.

    Miriam stood frozen in shock, her eyes wide with incredulity. The scene before her was too much to bear. She couldn''t believe that this was where the once mighty Templars spent their remaining days, reduced to nothing more than a bunch of feeble-minded, old men and women confined to their own filth. It was a harrowing realization, one that made her heart sink with despair.

    Mother Lucia was completely unfazed by the girl''s reaction. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she ordered, "Start cleaning the chamber pots while I tend to the Templars with my potions."

    As Miriam slowly made her way over to the putrid pots that lay scattered by the wall, her throat tightened with a lump, and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Just then, a desperate scream shattered the silence, echoing through the courtyard. Miriam''s head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear and confusion, she ran towards the source of the commotion. There she saw Mother Lucia trying to pour a potion into the mouth of a female Templar. The Mother''s face was red from exertion as she grabbed the woman''s jaw and tried to force it open, "You stupid, old hag!" she spat, "Why is it always so hard with you?" The Templar''s face was contorted with fear, and she struggled to fight back, but it was clear that she was no match for the Mother''s strength.

    Enraged, Miriam rushed towards them, her fists clenched in anger. The frustration of the last few months, coupled with the shock of this horrific discovery, made her bolder than she had ever been before. She grabbed Mother''s hand, trying to unclench it, and shouted, "Stop it! How can you treat Andraste''s warrior like this? Let her go!"

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Mother Lucia was taken aback by Miriam''s sudden outburst, but she quickly regained her composure. "This is none of your concern, girl," she hissed, her eyes narrowing. "Go back to your duties."

    But Miriam refused to back down. "Don''t treat her like this," the girl reiterated her voice firm. "She deserves better. They all do!"

    For a brief moment, the Mother''s piercing gaze lingered on the initiate, scrutinizing her with cold eyes. Without a word, she released the grip on the trembling Templar, who scurried to the other side of the courtyard, whimpering in terror. The young girl watched in pained silence as the elderly woman crouched against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her shaved head.

    As Miriam let go of the Mother''s hand, the older woman suddenly lashed out, her fist connecting with the girl''s face with brutal force. The unexpected blow caught the girl off guard, causing her to stumble and fall to the ground, her nose throbbing with pain. Hot, wet streams of blood trickled down her lips and chin, staining her robes. Miriam was stunned by the Mother''s sudden violence; it was the first time she had ever been beaten. Her parents may have been aloof, but they had never laid a finger on her. This felt like a nightmare coming to life. The girl couldn''t fathom how the Chantry Mother could be so vicious and cruel. She had always been taught that the Chantry was a place of peace and piety.

    "Don''t you dare question my authority ever again." Mother Lucia snarled, grabbing Miriam by the collar of her robes and hauling her to her feet. The young initiate was no match for the older woman''s strength, and she felt small and helpless in her grasp.

    "Return to your duties, and if I hear you speak of this to anyone¡­. I¡¯ll be very disappointed in you." The Mother continued in a deceptively calm tone. "Don¡¯t forget to clean yourself up, you clumsy girl, you took quite a fall."

    Miriam covered her bleeding nose with a trembling hand; her resolve was shattered. Fear replaced her determination as she turned and stumbled away from the courtyard, her legs weak and unsteady. The world spun around her, and she struggled to make sense of what had just happened.

    As the sun set and darkness crept in, the girl trudged wearily through the dimly lit Chantry corridors. Her legs felt like lead weights, each step requiring immense effort. Miriam was completely drained, every muscle in her body aching and sore. She winced as she gingerly touched her nose, which was tender and swollen from the blow she received this morning. The girl''s face was dirty, streaked with sweat and grime, and her mouth and chin were caked with dried blood. She hadn''t had the chance to clean herself up yet, and the filth clung to her like a second skin. Her stomach growled hungrily, a reminder of the missed dinner. Miriam pressed her bony hands to her stomach in a vain attempt to ease the hunger pangs.

    However, it wasn''t just the physical discomfort that was weighing on her mind. A deep sense of shame and guilt consumed her. She couldn''t help but compare herself to Andraste, the brave prophet who had fearlessly fought against the Tevinter Imperium to protect the helpless. How could she call herself Andrastian when she couldn''t even stand up to one old woman?

    A flash of the Revered Mother''s robes at the end of the corridor interrupted her self-loathing. The woman''s attire was a magnificent display of the finest silks, adorned with intricate gold embroidery that sparkled in the torchlight. Despite her age, Revered Mother Petra possessed a regal grace, her slim figure accentuated by her long, flowing garments.

    Seizing the opportunity, Miriam summoned her courage and approached the Mother. The girl spoke up, her voice tentative and unsure as she addressed the woman, "Revered Mother, may I have a moment of your time? It''s an urgent matter," she pleaded.

    The woman turned to face Miriam, her sharp gaze scrutinizing the girl''s appearance, taking note of her disheveled robes and dirt-stained face. "Even as an initiate, you are a representative of the Chantry. Take better care of your appearance, girl," she chided sternly.

    Miriam took a deep breath, gathering her composure. "I will do as you say, Revered Mother, but first I must tell you of the terrible conditions in which the retired Templars live in our care and of Mother Lucia''s cruel behavior towards them!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with indignation.

    Mother Petra lifted her hand to stop Miriam from speaking further. "And who are you exactly?" she asked, her eyebrows raised inquisitively.

    "My name is Miriam Trevelyan. I am an initiate under Mother Lucia and help her take care of the retired Knights of Our Lady Andraste," Miriam replied, her voice now more confident.

    "Well, Miriam Trevelyan, for your information, the Templars Mother Lucia cares for are all low-born. We do not receive a single coin from their families for their care. The Chantry is generous enough to give them shelter and food for the rest of their days," Mother Petra explained, her voice firm.

    "But their conditions are terri-" Miriam protested, but she was quickly silenced.

    "If you are so concerned, you could ask your father to be more generous with his donations to the Ostwick Chantry. Then, we might have more to spare for the Knights," Mother Petra suggested.

    Feeling a sudden surge of anger, Miriam clenched her fists. The girl thought back to the luxuries adorning Mother Lucia¡¯s room, wondering just what her father¡¯s money was actually going towards.

    "In the meantime, could you please have a word with Mother Lucia? Because money has nothing to do with the cruel nature in which she treats them," she retorted, her voice now tinged with frustration.

    "Your accusations are rather grave. Do you have any proof that she doesn''t perform her duties as she should?" Revered Mother Petra crossed her arms, looking at Miriam expectantly.

    "You have my word!" Miriam exclaimed, her confidence returning.

    The old woman chuckled. "The word of an initiate against the word of a respected Mother who has served in the Chantry for more than twenty years. I''m afraid you''ll need more than that," she replied, her tone dismissive.

    "But..." The girl started to speak, but her words trailed off as she didn''t know what else to say.

    "I know, Mother Lucia can be rough with initiates sometimes," the Revered Mother said, gesturing to Miriam''s bloodied face. "But she is a hardworking, faithful Mother, and I will not doubt her just because you say so."

    Defeated, Miriam''s mind went blank. All of her anger and frustration dissipated, replaced by a deep sense of fatigue.

    "Now, return to your quarters, initiate; I have matters to attend to." Having said this, Revered Mother Petra continued on her way down the corridor.

    Miriam watched the woman disappear behind the corner. At this point, all she wanted was to collapse onto her bed and forget this terrible day ever happened. Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed her head and slammed it against the wall, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through her body. She stumbled back, her vision swimming and her ears ringing from the impact. Too shaken to call for help, she was dragged unceremoniously into a small, dark storage room with no source of light except for a faint glow from the moon seeping through a window. Her eyes strained to adjust to the darkness, and her heart raced as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Miriam''s attacker let her go, and the girl whirled around, only to come face to face with Mother Lucia. Before she could react, a heavy blow landed on her stomach, causing her to double over in pain. She clutched her midsection, gasping for breath as she crumpled to the floor, tears welling up in her eyes. In the eerie moonlight, the full figure of the woman loomed over her, casting a dark shadow.

    "Insolent, little shit!" the Mother snarled, her voice laced with fury. She glared down at Miriam with contempt. "Do you think that I won''t keep an eye on you after what you''ve done this morning? "

    Miriam whimpered in response, too weak to defend herself as the woman kicked her with all her strength. The force of the blow sent her sprawling across the floor, her body aching with agony.

    "The audacity of this inbred bitch, complaining to the Revered Mother, trying to ruin my reputation. Let me show you, Miriam, how disappointed I am," the old woman spat, and started to rain down blows upon the girl, her rage uncontrolled and relentless.

    Miriam could do nothing but curl up into a ball, her hands covering her head in a futile attempt to protect herself. Through her tears, she pleaded for mercy, begging the Mother to stop. But her pleas fell on deaf ears.

    With each strike, the initiate felt herself growing weaker and weaker, her body battered and bruised. Helplessness and despair gripped her heart and she was overcome by the primitive instinct to survive. A single thought was at the forefront of her mind - I don''t want to die. As she became fixated on the idea, a brilliant blue light exploded from her body, pushing Mother Lucia back with such force that the old woman crashed through the wooden door and landed in a disheveled heap on the other side.

    Miriam''s eyes widened in shock as she found herself suddenly surrounded by a shimmering, translucent blue barrier, shaped like a half sphere. She felt an ethereal cord connecting her to the barrier, and strangely, she found it comforting. Every inch of her battered body ached as she tried to sit up, but the pain was too much to bear, and she sank back down to the floor.

    The girl could hear panicked screams and cries for the Templars ringing outside the room. Before she could even attempt to process the situation, three heavily armed Templars barged into the storage room with their swords at the ready, their eyes fixed on Miriam.

    "Remove your defenses, apostate, and surrender," demanded one of the Templars, his tone laced with authority.

    Miriam''s heart raced with confusion and fear. "Please, believe me! I am not an apostate. I am not a mage. I am just an initiate in this Chantry" she protested, her words coming in short, frantic bursts.

    However, the Templars didn''t look convinced. One of them said in hushed tones, "She is covered in blood, she could be a maleficar."

    The idea of being mistaken for a blood mage sent shivers down Miriam''s spine. Trying to plead her innocence, the girl reached out her hand to the Templars. Instantly, all three men tensed. One of them fell to his knees, slamming his sword into the floor, and a wave of holy energy washed over Miriam, blinding her with its suffocating brilliance. It felt as though the bright light was piercing her very soul. She sensed a jolt as though an invisible cord connecting her to the barrier had been abruptly severed by a sharp, swift sword. With her head spinning and her stomach churning, she rolled over onto her back. The barrier surrounding her dissipated into thin air, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

    At that moment, her gaze was drawn upwards, towards the ceiling. Through bleary eyes, the girl saw a pillar of radiant light descending from above. It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up and were reaching out to her in a glorious display of divine power. As the light engulfed her, the dazzling brilliance of it overwhelmed her senses, and she succumbed to unconsciousness.

 The Broken Circle (part 2)

    Cullen strode grimly towards the Harrowing Chambers, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. As he drew closer, he could hear the sound of swords clashing and the screams of his fellow Knights. His steps quickened, and he broke into a run as he saw the devastation ahead.

    The scene was one of utter chaos. Demons were everywhere, their grotesque forms clashing against the armor of the Templars, who had lost their formation and were scattered across the battlefield in total disarray.  Mages stood among them, casting spells with wild abandon. The air was thick with the stench of blood and sulfur, and Cullen could barely make out the forms of his comrades through the mayhem. He charged towards the fray, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of his brother-in-law.

    "Where is the Knight-Lieutenant?!" he shouted, his voice lost in the din of battle.

    No one seemed to hear him, and the man had to fight his way through the mass of demons and mages, bumping into other Templars and struggling to keep his footing in the chaos. Despite the confusion and lack of organization, Cullen''s training paid off and he fought with skill and precision. He ducked and weaved, dodging lightning bolts and shards of ice. He swung his sword, his movements fluid and practiced, the blade biting through demon flesh and mage robes alike.

    "Holy Maker!" he grumbled, barely evading a blast of fire that singed his helmet. "This is madness!"

    As he fought, the young man''s breaths became fast and shallow, his muscles burning from the effort of keeping his sword arm moving. His boots made a sickly smacking sound as he stepped through the blood, bile, and other fluids he didn''t care to identify. Through it all, the Templar could hear the voices of his comrades, shouting orders and cries of pain. "Hold the line!" one of them shouted. "They''re coming at us from all sides!" Another screamed as a demon tore into him, his armor no match for its claws.

    Cullen felt his heart break as he saw his fellow Templars fall, their bodies crumpling to the ground. He felt a surge of anger rise within him, and he fought with renewed vigor.

    Finally, he caught sight of Thomas, his armor dented and his face streaked with blood. He was surrounded by demons, his back against a wall. Cullen charged towards him, his sword singing through the air.

    "Stand firm, Knight-Lieutenant!" he yelled, as he cut down one demon after another. "I''m coming. We can still win this!"

    His words weren''t just meant to boost morale; though disorganized and affected by poison, the Templars remained a formidable force. Gradually, the tide of battle began to turn in their favor.

    He fought on, trying to reach Thomas, his body and mind consumed by the fight. For a moment, there was nothing but the clang of swords, the screams of the dying and the frenzied beating of his own heart.

    And then they came.

    Senior Enchanter Uldred and Lea Amell, the zealous leader of the rebellion and his trusted follower, walked into the hall with a menacing aura that reeked of blood magic.

    Uldred''s eyes were like two black pits, devoid of any light or color. His expression was one of pure elation, as though he were relishing in some sort of a triumph. He held himself with the confidence of a man who knew he was going to win.

    Behind him, Enchanter Amell followed closely. Her once pristine robes were now tattered and torn, with the sleeves cut off, revealing thin, long cuts on her hands that glistened with small droplets of blood. Lea, without uttering a single word, spread her arms wide, her eyes flashing a deep, ominous crimson. The blood from her wounds began to rise, swirling and dancing in the air around her, slowly enveloping her body in a thick, misty sphere of bloody vapor. The sphere grew and grew, expanding until it filled the entire area, its crimson tendrils seeping into each crevice, nook, and cranny.

    Cullen felt the mist creep into his body. It penetrated every pore, sinking deep into his skin. The chaos of battle raged on around him, but his focus wavered as his vision began to blur. His will to fight started to wane, as if the very air around him was sapping his strength. He tried to remember why he was attacking the mages, but those thoughts were slipping away like sand through the fingers.

    The Templar looked around himself, and to his surprise, the demons had stopped their fighting, and the mages had ceased their casting. They were all looking at him with what he could swear were friendly smiles. Something deep inside screamed that this was wrong, that he was still in danger, but the thoughts of surrender were stronger, like a siren''s song lulling him into a sense of security.

    His eyelids grew heavy as if they were made of lead, and all he wanted was to rest, to give in to the overwhelming exhaustion that took hold of him. The weight of the sword in his hand became unbearable, and with a clatter, he dropped it to the floor. The Templar felt utterly spent, like he had been fighting for days instead of hours. As he sank to the ground, his mind foggy and his body weak, he succumbed to a deep, restless slumber.

    Cullen slowly regained his consciousness, groaning in pain as he tried to sit up, feeling like he had been run over by a bronto. His head throbbed with a dull ache, his mouth felt like the inside of a desert, and a buzzing sound echoed in his ears.

    Bits of ash and gore clung to the side of his face that had been pressed against the floor. The stench of sulfur was overwhelming, and he took shallow breaths, trying to push the bile back down. "What in the Maker¡¯s name happened?" he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and weak.

    The Templar tried to focus his vision, but it was like looking through a thick fog. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, and slowly his eyesight cleared. As he inspected his armor, he felt a pulsating ache in his blistered and charred hand. The plate had dents and burns in multiple places, and his sword and helmet were nowhere to be seen. That was not the worst of it, however. With consternation, he found himself trapped, imprisoned within an ethereal prison, unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. The translucent barrier encircled him, and although it was transparent, it was made up of a mixture of colors, each hue morphing into the next, creating a sickening kaleidoscope of light. The horrible buzzing tune it was emitting started to get on his nerves.

    With a trembling effort, the Templar tried to cast a Spell Purge to erase the barrier, calling upon whatever traces of lyrium remained in his blood. The attempt was futile, and the sphere continued to hold him captive in its inescapable grasp.

    His mind raced frantically, desperately trying to recall the events that had led him to this moment. The maleficar Amell had cast some kind of wicked spell, that much he could remember. But after that, everything was a hazy blur. The memories of the woman filled him with a tumultuous mixture of rage and shame. He had been a foolish man, blinded by his passions, and now he was paying the price for his recklessness. He couldn''t help but wonder if he could have avoided all of this if he had simply done his duty that fateful night.

    Regrets, however, were a luxury he could ill afford at the moment. Cullen rubbed his throbbing forehead. The buzzing of the barrier was becoming relentless, growing louder and more insistent by the second. It turned into a jarring, high-pitched drone, like the whine of a swarm of angry bees.

    It dawned on him that there was more than one source of the sound. With a sense of foreboding, he turned around. A chilling wave of fear gripped him as he took in the scene before him. The whole area was covered in sphere-like prisons, just like his, each one holding either a Templar or a mage. It was now that the full horror of the situation started to sink in. All of the prisoners were battered and bloodied, even the mages. Cullen could hardly believe his eyes, "These monsters show no mercy, not even for their own kind," he whispered, incredulous.

    The young man grimaced as he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement. He wondered how long they had been imprisoned and why the Knight-Commander Greagoir wasn¡¯t coming to their rescue.

    "Thomas, where are you?" He tried to call out in search of his brother-in-law, but his voice came out as a whimper.

    "I am afraid he is no longer here, Knight-Templar Cullen." The voice was cold and mocking, and he recognized it instantly as that of the maleficar, Amell. He turned his body to face her, with his teeth tightly clenched, and launched himself forward; putting every ounce of strength he had into the attack. However, his attempt was interrupted by the unyielding force of the barrier. The Templar felt as if he had collided with a wall made of solid stone. The impact sent a shockwave through his body, and he collapsed to the floor.

    "Thrice-cursed whorespawn, I will reap your heart out!" He growled, trying to sound threatening, but his voice betrayed his weakness.

    The woman stood motionless on the other side of the translucent barrier, watching him with a look of indifference. It was clear that she had expected this outcome and was unfazed by his failed attempt to break through, "Oh, but I don¡¯t think you are in any position to threaten me, Chantry boy," Lea replied. With a grin on her face, relishing in her power, she added, "Uldred and I have big plans for you and the rest of your kind."

    She summoned a sharp icicle, which took the form of a knife, and with a smile, she pressed her right palm against it, drawing a deep, crimson cut. Blood flowed freely from the wound, dripping onto the cold, hard floor.

    As the icicle melted into nothingness, Lea rubbed her hands together, bathing them both in the thick, sticky blood. Then she kneeled and began to draw a pentagram on the stone floor with her hands. Each stroke of her fingers left a deep red trail, creating symbols of power that pulsed with malevolent energy.

    Cullen watched in horror as he recognized the summoning circle for the demons. His voice trembled with fear as he muttered a prayer to Andraste, hoping for protection against the evil that was unfolding before him.

    Lea finished the pentagram, standing up with a satisfied smirk. "Now, we just need the host," she said, her voice laced with a sinister edge. She strode over to one of the other spheres that held a mage, snapping her fingers to make the barrier disappear.

    Cullen identified the woman immediately - the one who had been in the kitchen with Lea that ill-fated night. Her long, wavy hair was tousled and clotted with blood, and one of her eyes was so swollen it was barely visible. She looked dazed, unable to offer any resistance as Amell took hold of her hair and dragged her towards the pentagram.

    "Even pathetic cowards who wanted to back out at the last moment have their purpose," Lea spat, dropping the girl on top of the pentagram with a cold, heartless thud. The girl could only sob and whimper as Lea began to chant, calling forth a demon from the depths of the Fade.

    The young mage wailed, and her body started trembling uncontrollably as if it were being wracked by an unseen force. She cast a last, desperate glance towards Cullen, her eyes pleading for help before her lids fluttered shut. Suddenly, a ghastly, bloody froth burst forth from her mouth, drowning out her screams and turning them into sickening gurgles. Her body contorted in a grotesque, unnatural manner, emitting a series of spine-chilling crunching sounds. The girl''s skin took on a sickly purple hue as if she had been dipped in ink. Her eyes, once bright and blue, turned a deep, demonic black, the pupils expanding until they swallowed up the irises. Then, two long, curled horns sprouted from the top of her head, adding to the horror of the scene. As if in some twisted, macabre display, the girl''s hair began to fall out in clumps, leaving her completely bald. From her exposed scalp, purple flames leaped forth, flickering and dancing wildly in the air. The flames cast an eerie, ethereal light over the girl''s face, illuminating her features with an otherworldly purple glow.

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    When the demon took full control of the mage''s body and the possession was complete, her once gentle and innocent aura was replaced by a wicked, sensual energy that seemed to emanate from every inch of her being. Desire demon''s figure was imbued with a sultry sex appeal that was utterly irresistible. Standing before the Templar, stark naked, was a being of pure desire and dark magic.

    The maleficar let out a satisfied sigh as she completed her chant. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and admired her creation. "There''s nothing like the satisfaction of doing the Maker''s work," she murmured.

    Her attention then turned to Cullen. The young man was on his knees, his eyes shut tight as he prayed fervently. His brow was furrowed, and he clutched his hands tightly in desperation.

    She turned to the demon and spoke with a hint of warning in her voice. "You can have your fun with this Chantry dog, but remember that I need him alive," she said, her tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. She continued, "Uldred needs my help to take on that bastard Irving, so I cannot stay here with you to enjoy the process."

    With a final glance at the imprisoned Templar, Lea left, leaving the man at the mercy of the desire demon.

    The creature cackled with delight as it approached the helpless prisoner. Cullen''s eyes flew open in terror as he felt a foreign entity tentatively probing his mind. "Please, Maker, save me!" he pleaded.

    The demon licked its lips as it leaned in close to the barrier and whispered, "Tell me, what do you dream of at night? What does your heart desire?" With a wicked grin, she began to push into Cullen¡¯s mind. The pain was excruciating like his skull was being split apart by a sledgehammer. His face twisted in agony as he struggled to resist the demon''s advances. Despite his best efforts, he couldn''t stop the creature. It felt as though slimy, cold hands were digging deep into his brain, leaving his most private thoughts and feelings laying bare before the black, soulless eyes of the monster. The desire demon shuffled through his memories, picking through them like a pile of drawings on a table. Her sticky fingers traced over every moment of happiness, shame, and grief, tarnishing each one with a layer of oozy black slime. It was a surreal experience, as though he was watching his own life being twisted and perverted before his very eyes. The man opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a weak, pitiful whine. Hot tears ran down his cheeks as he tried to fight back against the demon''s power, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a single hand. The creature was too strong and too insidious. It was invading every corner of his mind, leaving nothing untouched. His ears were filled with an eerie buzzing of the barriers, broken only by the sound of his own labored breathing and the soft, wet noises of the demon as she rifled through his mind. It was a violation beyond comprehension, and he could feel the weight of it crushing his soul.

    Searching for something in particular, the monster continued to sift through the Templar''s memories. Finally, with a pleased purr, it found what it was looking for - Cullen¡¯s dreams of Lea Amell. All at once, the excruciating pain stopped, and the Templar vision was filled with an image so vivid that it felt real. Before him stood Lea, dressed in a white nightgown that contrasted beautifully with her olive skin. Her full lips were parted slightly as she looked at him with passionate hunger. Slowly, she began to unlace her gown, her eyes fixed on Cullen. She bared her breast and traced her fingers gently over it, her movements enticing and seductive. "You could have this and so much more," she murmured, continuing to caress her own body. Transfixed, the Templar watched her every move, unable to look away from the sultry display before him. He began to sense the touch of soft, warm palms on his skin, moving in unison with Amell''s hands. His body instantly responded with a rush of blood to his loins.

    Shame washed over him¡ªa feeling of disgust at his weakness. Even after all that she had done, he still found the woman desirable, and it made him sick. His mind raged against the feeling of lust, but he couldn''t control it. In a fit of rage, Cullen lashed out at the barrier, smashing his maimed hand against it with all his force. The burned skin ripped apart under the pressure, and he felt a searing, white-hot pain explode through his body. The shock of it cleared his vision, and he saw images of Lea disappearing. Blood filled his glove, seeping through it and staining the metal crimson. He clutched his throbbing hand and gazed at the desire demon with the eyes of a hunted animal. The creature regarded him with a mixture of amusement and malicious glee, "I do love breaking the feisty ones; it makes the final victory so much more¡­ pleasurable", the demon said, emphasizing the last word. Cullen shuddered in revulsion and terror, the sensation of the demon¡¯s touch still lingering on his body. Feeling desperate for some form of safety, he began to pray, "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder¡­"

    A sly smile spread across the desire demon''s face as it taunted him, "Let''s see for how long you will be able to keep this up," it said. The creature gave him a wink and added, "I need to entertain my other guests, but I¡¯ll be back sooner than you think." As the monster slithered away to its next victim, Cullen''s legs gave way, and he sank to the floor. He sat on the cold, dirty surface, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. His mind was racing with thoughts of what had just happened and what might happen next.

    Time had become an abstract concept, meaningless and irrelevant to the imprisoned Templar. For him, the hours blended into one terrible nightmare that seemed to stretch on forever.

    He saw Irving, the once mighty First Enchanter, being dragged to the Harrowing Chambers by abominations, his body leaving a trail of blood on the floor. He saw Uldred, the mad mage who had caused all of this, come for other prisoners, turning them into demons and abominations until Cullen was the only one left.

    The man didn''t feel much pity for the mages, but each dead Templar chipped away at his soul a little more. He had seen too many of his comrades fall to the enemy, their bodies torn apart by the very magic they had sworn to protect against. He tried to push thoughts of Thomas''s fate out of his mind; he wasn''t one of the prisoners, and that meant there was still hope that he''d somehow survived.

    The desire demon visited him repeatedly. It mocked and tormented him, taking pleasure in trying to break him down and finding new and inventive ways to torture him until he was a shell of his former self. Visions conjured by the creature and reality blurred together, creating a disorienting and terrifying experience that left Cullen unable to tell what was real and what was not.

    All he wanted was for his suffering to end, for the nightmare to be over. He would gladly give his life if it meant that he could escape the clutches of the demon and the horrors that surrounded him. The darkness was closing in, and he could feel himself slipping away into its embrace.

    Cullen awoke to the sound of clanging armor and voices conversing, "Faren, look, I think this one is still alive." A female voice spoke with a strong Orlesian accent, "Poor thing, he must have suffered terribly." She continued softly, her voice dripping with sympathy.

    The Templar slowly opened his eyes and surveyed the group before him, taking in the tattooed dwarf with a lush black beard and the hornless Qunari wielding a massive two-handed sword. A young woman with fiery red hair who seemed to radiate empathy was standing right beside them. Their armor had been marred by the ash and gore residue of a recent battle. They bore a few bruises and scratches, but there were no signs of any serious injuries. The young man winced in pain as he tried to sit up. His face twisting with agony, he pleaded, "Enough visions. If anything in you is still human... kill me now and stop this game."

    The woman, sensing his delirium, reached for her waterskin in an attempt to offer him aid. But Cullen recoiled from her, his desperation evident. "Don''t touch me! Stay away!" he cried out. "Sifting through my thoughts... tempting me¡­ I am so tired of these cruel jokes... these tricks..."

    "By the teats of my ancestors!" exclaimed the tattooed dwarf, "Leliana, leave the man alone; we don¡¯t have time for this. We need to deal with Uldred if we want that old fart Greagoir to help us."

    Cullen¡¯s shock was palpable as he stared at the group before him, tentatively hoping that perhaps this wasn¡¯t a demon''s trick.

    The red-haired woman looked at Faren reproachfully. "I still think we should try to save the innocent mages," she said, her voice tinged with concern.

    "To ensure this horror is ended," the hornless Qunari cut in with his own opinion, "to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, we must kill everyone up there."

    Leliana was about to argue with him when Cullen spoke up. "Knight-Commander Graegoir sent you to deal with Uldred?" he asked, confusion etched on his face. "How are you going to do that? Those maleficarum control your mind and twist your thoughts with blood magic; they summon demons. You will perish!"

    Leliana''s delicate fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the scroll tied at her waist, her expression serene as she explained its significance. "This holy relic will protect us," she said, her voice filled with unwavering confidence. "While I chant the Litany of Adralla, my friends will make short work of Uldred and his minions." Her eyes gleamed with determination, convinced of their impending victory.

    "And what has happened to the woman from whom you took it?" Cullen''s voice trembled slightly as he asked.

    A smirk played on the dwarf''s lips as he chuckled. "She bit the dust," he said, relishing the memory. "I smashed her head so hard against the floor, her teeth fell off."

    Cullen''s fists clenched. "Good," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Crush Uldred''s head as well. Kill them all for what they''ve done! And to think I once thought we were too hard on them." Then he paused, his eyes searching for something else. "But before you go, I have one last question to ask. Have you seen the Knight-Lieutenant? He is a middle-aged man, tall, with red hair and green eyes."

    Faren''s expression turned incredulous. "Do you expect me to remember every damn person I met in this tower?" he snorted. "All I know is that, except for you, there are no more survivors on this floor."

    Cullen''s heart sank, his voice barely above a whisper. "Blessed Andraste, why should I live when my comrades lie dead?"

    "I don¡¯t know, and frankly speaking, I don¡¯t care," Faren said bluntly. "Leliana, leave the healing potion for the Templar near this glowing thing, and let''s get moving. Uldred is not going to kill himself." The dwarf and the Qunari strode off to the Harrowing Chambers, their weapons at the ready.

    As they left, Leliana placed the healing potion on the floor near the barrier; her movements were hurried. "In the armory, there was a Templar under the control of a desire demon," she said urgently to Cullen. "He matched the description of your lieutenant. The poor man was convinced that the demon was his pregnant wife. We couldn¡¯t save him. I am sorry." Her expression was filled with pity as she rushed to her friend¡¯s side.

    Cullen stared blankly into the distance. The news was too overwhelming.

    Shortly afterward, he heard the sounds of chanting coming from the Chambers. Leliana''s voice was like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, pure and beautiful. Her singing seemed to wash over the floor like a spring of crystalline water, cleansing away the stench of sulfur and the dark, vile energy of blood magic.

    As the chanting continued, the young man began to notice that the buzzing of the barrier was growing quieter and quieter. Soon the sound was completely gone, and his prison dissolved into the air.

    The echoes of battle roared from the Harrowing Chambers; even without demons and blood magic, Uldred and his men were formidable foes, but Cullen''s sole focus was the search for his brother-in-law.  He crawled over to the bottle left for him and quickly downed the healing potion inside. The liquid burned his dry throat as it went down, but he could feel a little bit of his energy returning. With effort, he stood up and made his way to the armory.

    With leaden feet, the man stumbled forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His healthy hand shook as he clung to the wall for support. His heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, every beat sending a fresh wave of pain radiating through his chest.

    The sight that greeted him as he entered the armory was enough to make his stomach churn. The door had been ripped from its hinges, and weapons and armor lay scattered about in a chaotic mess. The racks that had once held neatly organized blades and shields were now a jumbled mass of splintered wood and twisted metal. Blood stained the walls and floor, mingling with the debris.

    As Cullen stumbled forward, his eyes darted over the scene, taking in the carnage. Bodies lay strewn about, both mages and Templars alike. Limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, and blood pooled beneath them in a thick, sticky mess. Cullen tried to ignore the mutilated corpses as he searched for any signs of life.

    His heart leaped at the sight of a familiar figure, the mop of red hair unmistakable even from a distance. Cullen''s steps quickened, his breath coming faster as he drew closer to the fallen Templar. The man''s chest plate had been hacked open, revealing the gory mess beneath. An arrow protruded from his eye socket, the shaft slick with blood.

    Cullen''s knees buckled beneath him as he sank to the ground next to the body. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch the man''s cold, lifeless cheek. "There you are. It took me some time to have found you," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. The pain in his chest grew more intense, as though his heart were trying to burst free from his ribcage. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood and grime that coated his skin. He clung to the body of his brother-in-law, "Don''t worry, brother," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "The healers will patch you up, and we''ll go home. Mia will be so happy to see you again..." His words trailed off, his throat closing up. Through choking sobs, he continued, "I never told you, but your hugs always made me feel better. Thomas... can you... can you give me a hug?" There was no answer. The room remained silent; the only sound was the distant echo of battle still raging elsewhere. Slowly, Cullen leaned in and tightly hugged his brother-in-law. The grief and loss pressed down upon him, threatening to crush him under their unbearable weight, but for that one moment, he found solace in embracing the man he had loved like a brother, even as the world around him was consumed by chaos.

 Acceptance

    Miriam found herself standing amid a lush, green meadow, the sun''s warm rays kissing her skin. As a gentle breeze blew, she was enveloped in the intoxicating scent of wildflowers. A small green sprout suddenly sprung up from the ground next to her. She was amazed as she watched it grow into a tall plum tree with a thick trunk in a matter of seconds. The tree''s branches spread out and three blooming flowers appeared, which then turned into luscious fruits. They hang at the tips of the branches, each one calling out to her with its unique promise.

    One plum gave her a vision of a loving mother, braiding her hair gently as they chatted without any worries, laughing and enjoying each other''s company. Another plum promised a caring husband with a cute, chubby baby on his lap, calling out to her with the coveted word "momma." The third plum showed her in Chantry robes, tending with the utmost care to the retired Templars, their grateful expressions filling her heart with warmth and contentment.

    Miriam longed for them all. She stood up on her tiptoes with her arms outstretched above her head and attempted to pick the fruits, but the tree was too tall. The plums remained untouched, and while she tried desperately to grasp them, they began to wither and blacken. One by one, they fell to the ground at her feet, nothing more than the putrid remains of what could have been. With tears in her eyes, Miriam whispered to herself, "I can still have them," and tried to pick up the rotten plums, but the gooey remnants slipped right through her fingers. Devastated, she cried out, "Maker, don''t take everything away from me, PLEASE!"

    The girl woke up in a startle, gasping for breath as she jolted up from her bed, her own scream still ringing in her ears. Feeling a sharp pain in her head and a dull ache in her body, she slowly reached up to her swollen face to find the bandages that were wrapped tightly around her head. She winced as she felt the tender bruising that covered her skin. Looking down at her hands, she realized that they too were bandaged up. Miriam took a deep breath and tried to focus on her surroundings.

    The room that she found herself in was unfamiliar and she had no recollection of how she had ended up there.  It looked like some sort of infirmary with several beds lined up in a row. Large windows let in plenty of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the shelves of potions and bundles of dried herbs hanging on the wall. She noticed that the other beds were empty, and the room was quiet except for the sounds of muffled voices coming from behind the closed door.

    The girl tried to remember what happened to her, but her memory was hazy, and all she could recall were flashes of violence and anguish.  Miriam''s fingers instinctively reached for her precious amulet, a glimmer of hope amid her confusion, but her heart skipped a beat as her hand found nothing but empty air where it should have been. Frantically, she tore through her clothes and searched her bed, but the amulet was nowhere to be found.

    Just then, the door creaked open, and a middle-aged man in simple mage robes sauntered into the room. The sun glinted off his shiny bald head, giving him a slightly intimidating aura. Miriam turned to him with wild, desperate eyes.

    "My amulet, have you seen my amulet?" she blurted out.

    The man''s expression soured slightly, hinting at annoyance. "Nice to meet you as well, Lady Trevelyan," he retorted with a smirk. "I see you are as polite as your dear mother."

    Miriam recognized the man¡ªhe was the healer who had first examined her when her affliction became obvious. Perhaps he was at the Chantry to help heal her wounds, but at the moment all she cared about was her missing amulet. The girl took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm.

    "Forgive my rudeness, enchanter," she pleaded. "My amulet is very precious to me, and I cannot find it. Do you happen to know where I left it? It should be somewhere around the initiate''s quarters."

    The mage looked at her with mild amusement. "All your personal belongings are now in the Circle''s storage room," he explained curtly.

    "The Circle''s storage room? I don''t understand," Miriam asked, feeling more confused by the second.

    "Why were my belongings transported?"

    The enchanter rolled his eyes impatiently. "You are now an apprentice in the Ostwick Circle of Magi," he informed her bluntly. "That''s why your belongings have been transported with you."

    A sudden realization hit Miriam like a bolt of lightning. All at once, the memories flooded back to her: Mother Lucia''s brutal beating, the strange blue barrier that had erupted from her body, and the blinding light that had engulfed her when the Templars arrived. "This is a mistake, I am no mage!" she cried out, her voice shaking with shock and disbelief.

    "Oh, trust me, I truly wish that were the case. The last thing our Circle needs is an entitled noble causing chaos," the healer lamented, his tone exasperated. "But the truth is, you used your magical powers to attack a Chantry Mother. You are one lucky girl to be here and not rotting in a dungeon, awaiting the Rite of Tranquility. Your family must have spent a pretty penny to calm the fury of the Chantry."

    Miriam vehemently shook her head, her eyes widening in disbelief at the accusations thrown her way. How could she be a mage? It was impossible! She couldn''t have used magic to attack Mother Lucia; she didn''t even know how to wield it!

    "I am not a mage," she repeated, her voice ringing with emotion. "Please, just give me back my amulet and let me go."

    The healer, already weary of the conversation, muttered to himself. "Let the First Enchanter deal with this. I cannot bear this brat any longer." Turning to Miriam, he said, "Wait here. I will inform First Enchanter Lydia of your awakening, and you can discuss all your concerns with her."

    Desperate,   Miriam implored, "Please, could you bring me my amulet?"

    With an annoyed huff, the healer snapped back, "I am not your servant girl. Retrieve it yourself after you speak with First Enchanter."

    After that, he left, and Miriam collapsed back onto her bed, clutching the fabric of her robes where the amulet should have been, her hands shaking.

    The girl remained alone in the quiet room, feeling a sense of anxiousness building up inside of her. Thankfully, she didn''t have to wait long, as First Enchanter Lydia soon made her way to the infirmary with a poise and grace that commanded respect. Her hair, a brilliant shade of white, was woven into a beautiful braided bun that was held together by a delicate silver pin adorned with tiny flowers. The wrinkles and freckles on her face showed the marks of time, but her emerald green eyes sparkled with life and vitality, even in her advanced years.

    Miriam sat upright, her eyes fixed on the woman, who approached her with the amulet in hand; its chain broken. "I was told that you were searching for this desperately," Lydia said, holding out the amulet to the girl. "It''s damaged, unfortunately, but I can fix it with magic. It''s an easy spell, I just need to heat the ends of the chain and fuse them."

    The girl snatched the amulet from the First Enchanter''s hand, clutching it to her chest. "No, I''ll fix it myself," she said, her voice strained.

    Lydia gazed at Miriam with an expression of sorrowful understanding etched on her face. "Don''t worry about anything right now," she said, her voice soft and comforting. "Just concentrate on your healing. You still need some time to fully recover, so we can''t start your training for the Harrowing just yet."

    Miriam''s response was laced with agitation and frustration. "I don¡¯t need the training," she protested, her voice rising in tone. "I am not a mage. Why does nobody believe me?"

    Just as the girl''s words reached a fever pitch, a faint blue glow began to emanate from her chest, quickly spreading outward until it enveloped her entire body. Miriam looked petrified. "Blessed Andraste, preserve me, not this again!" she cried out. "Stay away from me! This thing is dangerous," she shouted as she recoiled from the woman.

    The First Enchanter remained calm, however, knowing exactly what was happening. "Miriam, don''t be scared," she said gently. "It''s just a barrier, a protective spell. It won''t harm you or anyone else."

    Miriam listened with bated breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She was terrified that she might harm another person, unable to control this strange power that seemed to reside within her.

    "Listen to me carefully," continued Lydia, her voice reassuring. "Close your eyes and feel the connection with your barrier. Imagine the cord that connects you to the spell; see it as a brilliant blue line that flows between you."

    Miriam did as she was told, closing her eyes and focusing all her attention on the ethereal cord. She could feel it¡ªalmost see it¡ªstretching out from her chest, pulsing with a gentle blue light.

    "Now concentrate your attention on it," Lydia instructed. "And give it the order to break."

    The girl¡¯s brow furrowed, sweat forming on her temples as she focused all her energy on the cord. With all her might, she willed it to snap¡ªto tear itself asunder. And then, suddenly, it happened. Breaking apart into a million pieces, the cord sundered, and the barrier around Miriam dissipated into thin air. She opened her eyes and let out a shuddering breath, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her chest.

    First Enchanter Lydia smiled reassuringly at Miriam. "You see? You have nothing to fear. You have a gift, and we will help you control it. You are safe here," she said kindly.

    Miriam stared at the Enchanter with a mixture of disbelief and fear etched on her face. "How can I be safe with these cursed powers?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion. "I''ll become a target for demons and their temptations, and everyone around me will be in danger. I don''t want this ''gift'', and I won''t train myself to use it."

    The Enchanter let out a deep sigh. "I know it''s not easy to accept, Miriam," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "But every mage has to pass the Harrowing to be deemed safe from the risk of possession. And to achieve this, you will have to learn how to control your magic. If you refuse to train, the only solution left will be the Right of Tranquility."

    Miriam looked back at the First Enchanter with a mixture of dejection and bitterness. "The Maker has already taken away everything I wanted in this life. At least I won''t long for it if I''m Tranquil," she replied.

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    Lydia placed a comforting hand on Miriam''s shoulder, feeling the tension in the girl''s body. "You''re still injured and shaken," she said softly. "Don''t make any hasty decisions right now. You''re supposed to be fully healed and ready for training in a couple of weeks. Let''s postpone your decision until then."

    With a gentle squeeze of Miriam''s shoulder, Lydia exited the room, leaving the girl to ponder her choices. The idea of marriage was out of the question. Being barren made her undesirable in the eyes of potential suitors. She knew this and had come to terms with it. However, it didn''t make the reality any less painful. Miriam still wanted to find purpose and meaning in her life, so she turned to serve the Maker. Her desire was to gain her parent''s approval and find fulfillment in her religious duties. Yet, the curse of magic crept in, shattering her hopes and dreams in an instant.

    The fear of losing control and succumbing to the whispers of the demons haunted her. Was it not better to end it all, to finally escape the pain and fear that consumed her every waking moment? The tranquility of eternal numbness seemed like a tempting alternative. The girl knew she had a choice to make, but she was paralyzed with indecision. All she could do was hope that the Maker would guide her toward the path that was meant for her.

    Over the next week and a half, she found herself mostly alone, save for the healer who visited her daily. The enchanter arrived each day with health potions in tow, expertly tending to her numerous bruises with soothing balms and carefully changing her bandages.

    She was given a new set of robes to wear, but she didn''t bother to change out of her old, dirty Chantry ones. She also didn''t care that her hair was unkempt, matted, and greasy. Lack of personal hygiene now seemed like a trivial problem that didn''t deserve the energy required to fix it.

    One time, a stern-faced Templar came to visit, his voice ringing out as he recited the endless rules and regulations that governed life within the Circle. Miriam listened in silence, her responses coming in weak, disinterested nods.

    Every day she would venture to the kitchens to try and eat, but at the sight of food, her stomach would immediately clench in protest. She forced herself to take a few bites when she could, but it was a struggle.

    Hoping to find solace in her faith, she ventured into the Circle''s Chantry, but when she stood before the statue of Andraste, she found the words getting stuck in her throat. The Prophet''s gaze seemed to bore into her with disappointment, and Miriam fled the prayer room without so much as a whisper of the Chant.

    After that, she spent her days lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.  In those quiet moments, the girl''s thoughts often turned to her parents, who had yet to visit or even send a note. She thought of the retired Templars she had failed to protect, and she thought of the Maker, whom she feared now saw her as someone unworthy to be his servant.

    The healer carefully unwrapped the bandages, revealing the myriad of bruises that marred Miriam''s skin. With a skilled eye, he inspected the wounds, nodding in satisfaction as he took in the progress made since the last time he had tended to her. "Ah, yes," he said with a satisfied smile. "The swelling has subsided, the bones have knitted back together, and the bruises are fading. You''re healing very well. I believe that by tomorrow morning, you''ll be ready to leave this place and move to the apprentice quarters." Despite the mage''s encouraging words, Miriam remained silent and aloof, barely acknowledging his presence. The man paused for a moment, as if remembering something, and reached into his pocket. A glint of recognition lit up his eyes as he produced a letter from within. "I almost forgot, it arrived this morning," he drawled lazily, before extending the envelope towards Miriam. The paper was of the finest quality, and the ink on the address was scrawled in elegant loops and curls.

    As he prepared to leave, the healer''s face contorted and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Oh, and do us all a favor and clean yourself up, would you?" He complained, the contempt in his voice unmistakable. "The stench coming from you is unbearable. You''re a noble; for Maker''s sake, act like one." He grumbled as he closed the door behind him.

    Miriam''s cheeks flushed with embarrassment; however, her attention was quickly drawn back to the letter, which she gingerly held in her hands. The wax seal bore the insignia of the Trevelyan family, and her heart raced with anticipation as she carefully broke it open and began to read its contents.

    "Miriam,

    I write to you with a heavy heart and a sense of great disappointment. Your recent actions have had dire consequences for our family, and I cannot simply overlook them.

    As you are well aware, the attack you made on Mother Lucia was not only unacceptable but also detrimental to our family''s interests. Moreover, the rumors of your being a maleficar have spread in the wake of this incident, causing us to lose several important trading partners. Your older brother''s betrothal to the noblewoman of Val Royeaux has also been brought into question.

    Considering the gravity of the situation, I have no choice but to take severe action. It pains me to inform you that I have decided to publicly denounce you as my daughter. You are no longer part of the Trevelyan family. This means that you have lost all your noble privileges, as well as the right to inherit.

    This decision was not taken lightly. I had such high hopes for you, and to see you throw it all away... However, I must prioritize the good of our family and our standing in society.

    I hope that you will take this as an opportunity to reflect on your actions and their consequences. Perhaps one day, with enough effort and penance, you may be able to earn back some of the respect and trust that you have lost.

    May the Maker watch over you.

    Bann Albert Trevelyan"

    Miriam held the letter in her trembling hands, her heart sinking as her fingers traced the lines on the paper. The words of denouncement echoed in her mind, ringing like a bell tolling for her soul. She couldn''t help but read the letter over and over again, her mind adrift in a sea of confusion as she tried to make sense of it all. How could her father turn his back on her so easily? He didn''t even bother to listen to her first.

    The injustice of the situation stoked a fierce anger inside her, burning like wildfire as she railed against the unfairness of it all. Why was she being punished for defending herself, while the woman who had wronged her walked free and played the victim?

    In a fit of frustration, she crumpled up the letter and hurled it to the floor. She started pacing the room, trying to find any relief from her fury. Eventually, she lay down on her bed, pressed her face into the pillow, and let out a scream. It was a wail, a release of all the hurt and resentment she had held in. Gradually, her anger began to dissipate, replaced by a profound sadness. She didn''t know what would become of her now that her own family had abandoned her. Miriam felt like a ship lost at sea, with no compass to guide her and no map to show her the way.

    As she lay there, lost in her thoughts, hours slipped by unnoticed. The moon rose high in the sky, casting a silver light into the infirmary. The last sentence of her father''s letter echoed in her head like a chant: "Perhaps one day, with enough effort and penance, you may be able to earn back some of the respect and trust that you have lost." A memory from her studies surfaced in her mind: a ritual in which devout servants of the Maker would pass their hands over flames, burning away their sins as an act of penance. Perhaps if she underwent a similar purification, the Maker would smile upon her and free her from the magic. It will soften Bann Albert''s heart, and the Trevelyan family will welcome her back with open arms. Together, they will help her find justice for herself and the retired Templars.

    Determined to make things right, Miriam rose from her bed and made her way toward the Circle''s Chantry. The sound of her footsteps echoed through the empty corridor as if heralding a new beginning.

    When she arrived at the Chantry, the girl took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping inside the prayer room. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and candle wax. Miriam walked with purpose, her mind focused on the task ahead as she made her way to the altar.

    There, at the feet of the statue of Andraste, she found the brazier, its fire burning brightly in the center. Miriam stood before it and began to chant, "O Maker and Creator, O Lover of mankind, hearken unto Your servant who is entreating for Your grace. As the greatly merciful One, loose, remit, and pardon the sins and transgressions, whether voluntary or involuntary, whether known or unknown, whether by mistake or disobedience, that I have wrought. Deliver me from the eternal torment!"

    She rolled up the sleeve of the robe on her right hand, steeling herself for what was to come. She knew that the flames in the brazier were hot¡ªhotter than any fire she had ever felt. But she also knew that this was the only way to find redemption in the eyes of the Maker.

    Slowly, she extended her hand toward the flames, feeling the heat radiating toward her skin. As she got closer, the pain intensified¡ªa searing sensation that made her grit her teeth and clench her jaw. But she did not falter. With a steady hand, she placed her palm over the flames, feeling the fire lick at her skin.

    The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air. Tears streamed from her wide-open eyes as she moaned, the excruciating, unbearable agony coursing through her body.

    In an instant, a blinding flash of light illuminated her surroundings. As the light dissipated, she felt as if her body had evaporated into nothingness, leaving her weightless and without a physical form. She could feel herself soaring upwards, propelled by an invisible force until she found herself high above the Circle Tower. As she floated there, suspended in the air, she took in the eerie view around her. The black, heavy clouds looked like they were made of smoke and ash, casting dark shadows on the landscape far below.

    Gliding effortlessly through the air, she began to fly. Below her, a patchwork of war-torn lands, forests in flames, and blood-red rivers stretched to the horizon. As she drew closer to the ground, she noticed a figure standing atop a crumbling stone wall, silhouetted against the sky.

    Standing tall and proud, the woman commanded attention. She towered over others with her statuesque frame, her slender form accentuated by the graceful flow of her dark blue robes, intricately adorned with golden embroidery. Her long brown locks whipped wildly in the strong winds, streaming out behind her like a banner.

    As far as the eye could see, a congregation of people stretched before the woman, all races of Thedas, all walks of life, united in their devotion, their eyes fixed upon her.

    In a moment of awe-inspiring grandeur, the woman raised her left hand high above her head, her tightly clenched fist exploding with a brilliant, emerald-green light that illuminated everything around her. The crowd below erupted with an ardent roar, the sound of their voices shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

    With each word she spoke, her voice echoed through the air with a commanding force, stirring the hearts of all who listened. At this moment, it was clear that this woman was a force to be reckoned with, a beacon of hope for all who followed her.

    As Miriam moved towards the woman, an inexplicable sensation of familiarity began to envelop her, like a warm embrace. With every breath, the pull grew stronger, beckoning her to approach the stranger. When she finally stood before the woman, her heart skipped a beat as she recognized her own features looking back at her. It was as if she was gazing into a mirror, only the reflection was somehow a decade older.

    Before she could gather her thoughts, the woman''s piercing eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive. And then a thunderous voice echoed through the air: "LEAD THEM OR FALL."

    The words reverberated through Miriam''s bones, stirring something deep within her soul.

    At that moment, everything else fell away.

    Miriam blinked her eyes open in confusion, as she found herself standing once again within the walls of the Circle''s Chantry. The brazier that had been burning fiercely just moments before was now extinguished, leaving behind only a faint wisp of smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling.

    She gazed down at her hand and winced at the sight of angry red blisters and patches of raw, scorched flesh. The fire had not been kind to her, but the girl remained resolute and unwavering, wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her left hand. The pain was nothing compared to the epiphany she had just experienced.

    First Enchanter Lydia had been right all along. Her magic was not a curse, but a gift from the Maker himself. The doubts and fears that had plagued her for so long suddenly seemed small and insignificant.

    Filled with a newfound sense of purpose, Miriam looked up at the statue of the Prophet. To her amazement, she could swear that Andraste was smiling down at her. The warmth and radiance that emanated from her figure were almost palpable, and Miriam felt as if she were basking in the divine presence of the Lady herself.

    With a sense of awe, the girl bowed her head in reverence. She knew that the road ahead would be long and arduous, but she was no longer afraid. The Maker had chosen her for a reason, and with His guidance, she knew she was capable of achieving anything.

 The City of Chains ( part 1)

    In the Knight-Commander''s recently restored quarters, Cullen stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back. The smell of burning wax mixed with the lingering aroma of fresh paint created an ambiance that was both old and new.  Greagoir sat comfortably in his chair, his eyes scanning through various reports and documents, while his newly appointed Tranquil assistant busied herself with organizing the cluttered bookshelves behind him.

    The young Templar''s burned hand was wrapped tightly in bandages soaked in healing salves, courtesy of the Chantry Sisters. Cullen had adamantly refused any magical healing, willing to endure the long healing process and resulting scars rather than allowing magic to touch his skin. Despite the throbbing pain spreading from his injured limb, he maintained a calm and collected demeanor, determined not to show any sign of weakness in front of his superior.

    The atmosphere in the room was tense and quiet, with only the faint sound of pages turning and the occasional shuffling of books as the Tranquil assistant went about her work. The Knight-Commander finally looked up from his paperwork, his piercing gaze fixed on Cullen. The old Templar''s expression was stern, and the young man couldn''t help but feel a sense of apprehension creeping up his spine. He knew that this conversation was bound to be a challenge.

    Commander Greagoir spoke up in a firm tone, his frustration evident, "Yet again, you have initiated an unwarranted attack on the mage under your supervision. I can no longer overlook your actions."

    Cullen felt his frustration building, but he knew better than to let it show in front of Greagoir. "With all due respect, Ser, I did not engage in unprovoked aggression. The apprentice''s conduct was questionable, as he was wielding a knife, and I strongly suspected that blood magic was about to be employed."

    The Commander let out a deep sigh, his patience wearing thin. "The man was peeling potatoes, and you summoned the Wrath of Heaven on him. Your conduct is unacceptable," he admonished, his eyes piercing the Templar. "Perhaps it is time for a personal evaluation of your career path with the Order. We can discuss your options outside of the organization."

    The young man felt his nerves beginning to fray. "Ser, I want to serve. I need to serve!" he exclaimed, his emotions getting the better of him. "Every day new mages are born in Thedas, every day those born a dozen years ago come into their power. The uphill battle against magic is relentless, and every Templar must persist in fighting it until their last breath." His voice grew louder, the fervor and conviction in his words unmistakable.

    Commander Greagoir regarded the Templar before him with a mixture of admiration and concern. "I won''t deny that your passion and dedication to our cause are commendable." He paused for a moment as if contemplating his decision. "I can see your potential. Perhaps serving in a different Circle will prove beneficial for you. Let me send your file to some of the Knight-Commanders I know, maybe a transfer option will present itself."

    "Thank you, Ser. This means everything to me. You won''t regret it." He meant every word of it; his desire to protect the innocent from the horrors he had suffered was the only thing keeping him afloat. That being said, the prospect of leaving Kinloch Hold behind and serving in a different Circle was a welcome one. The memories and nightmares that haunted him in this place had become too much to bear.

    "At ease, Knight," the Commander''s countenance shifted to one of solemnity. "There was also another reason why I summoned you. Your family has been located. They have taken refuge in South Reach. Your siblings remain unharmed, but your parents did not survive the Blight. I extend my condolences."

    "I see," Cullen replied flatly as if his voice didn''t belong to him. The air in the room felt heavy and suffocating as he tried to process the information. His parents were gone. The people who had raised him loved him, and supported him, were no longer a part of this world. He was supposed to feel something, anything, but all he felt was a crushing emptiness.

    His mind flashed back to memories of his parents, their faces etched in his mind. The sound of their laughter, the way his mother''s voice sounded when she sang lullabies to him, the smell of his father''s pipe smoke. All of it felt like a distant dream, a memory he could never relive.

    He felt a coldness seep into his chest, numbing him to any feeling. It was as though a wall of ice had formed around his heart, preventing any emotion from breaking through.

    The Knight-Commander continued, "If you want to personally notify your sister of the Knight-Lieutenant''s death¡ª"

    Cullen quickly interrupted him. "No, Ser," he said firmly. "Please dispatch a formal letter from the Order to my family. I would also appreciate it if you denied their inquiries regarding my location."

    Greagoir arched an eyebrow in response to the request but refrained from making any remarks. "As you wish, Knight-Templar. You are dismissed."

    Cullen rendered a salute and departed from the Knight-Commander''s quarters.

    The Templar walked through the half-empty halls of the Circle Tower. After Uldred''s atrocities and the Rite of Annulment, it was almost completely devoid of life. However, the arrival of mages and Templars from other smaller Circles around Ferelden had slowly started to populate Kinloch Hold.

    He was relieved to hear that his siblings were safe. This also meant that Mia and Thomas''s baby had survived. This news brought a sense of comfort to him, as his brother-in-law was a good man who deserved to leave a legacy behind. Yet, even as he thought of this, Cullen couldn''t help but feel an immense sense of guilt and responsibility towards Mia and her child.

    The young man knew that his actions had played a role in the tragic fall of the Ferelden Circle, and the weight of that knowledge was almost too much to bear. The thought of having to face his niece or his nephew and tell them that it was because of him that they didn''t have a father was appalling. How could they see their uncle with anything other than contempt? And what about his sister? How could he look Mia in the eye and not feel like a failure? How could he ever hope to make amends for what had happened when the pain he had caused was a wound that could never truly heal? The conversation that he knew he had to have with his family felt like an insurmountable task; just the thought of it was enough to send his mind into a spiral of anxiety and dread. The relationship between them was now beyond repair. He had to find a way to navigate his life without the love and support of those who had always been there for him. However, he couldn''t let himself sink into self-pity. Wallowing in guilt wouldn''t bring Thomas back or change the past. Despite the weight of his sins, Cullen knew that he had to perform his duty. The Maker would judge him for his actions in time, but for now, it was up to him to prevent another disaster like the one that had befallen Kinloch Hold. He had to use his experience to ensure that innocent lives are never again lost because of negligence or inaction.

    After about a week, the ravens carrying replies from the contacted commanders finally arrived, but only one response held any promise. The Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard, from the city of Kirkwall, was willing to accept him into her Circle.

    In a matter of days, Cullen was ready to leave, his meager belongings packed tightly and his blood filled with lyrium to the brim. He stood at the docks of Kinloch Hold, his eyes fixed on the tranquil waters of Lake Calenhad. The stillness of the lake was like a mirror, reflecting his inner numbness.

    As he waited for Knight-Templar Carroll to prepare the ferry, his thoughts drifted to the poor man''s condition. Carroll had been especially vulnerable to the side effects of lyrium consumption, and as a result, his descent into dementia had begun much earlier than it should have. He knew that no Templar in the Circle wanted to be near the man, as he was a stark reminder of the inescapable fate that awaited them all.

    Despite knowing what was in store for him in his golden years, Cullen remained steadfast. He was determined to serve the Chantry and protect the people, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. Like the Grey Wardens who ventured into the deep roads when the taint was about to overtake them, he was prepared to go on the Exalted March against the Qunari once his mind began to fail him. A true knight is meant to die in battle, not to lay weak and deranged in his bed.

    Carroll worked diligently, but his hands shook as he fumbled with the ropes that bound the boat to the docks. Cullen noticed his struggle and stepped forward to help, but the man protested, "No! I''ve got one job, and one job only, and by the Maker''s shiny gold cutlery, I will do it!" As he continued to work on the knot, his brow furrowed in concentration, and his tongue stuck out slightly, almost as if it were trying to help him with the task at hand.

    Finally, after much effort, the knot was undone, and they set sail across the lake. As they moved further away from the Circle, Carroll''s eyes met Cullen''s. "Oh, I recognize you! So you''re supposed to be one of those. Well, one of the new Templars arrived yesterday. Our Circle is one of the best in Ferelden, why are you leaving when you just came here?"

    "I may be leaving, but I don''t think I''ll ever be able to truly escape this place," Cullen murmured, his gaze returning to the Kinloch Hold slowly retracing into the distance. He knew that a part of him would always remain there, trapped within the walls of the tower alongside his fallen comrades and Thomas.

    Carroll''s words were a bit scattered as he continued, "I have a bit of a secret, you see. First Enchanter Irving, he''s my closest friend." A broad smile stretched across his face, the excitement evident in his voice. "If you change your mind, I''ll make sure to introduce you to him," he added. As he spoke, he suddenly turned his head to the space beside Cullen, his eyes wide with surprise. "First Enchanter!" he exclaimed. "I was just talking about you." The young Templar shuddered involuntarily; it was unnerving to listen to the one-sided conversation between the delusional Templar and the First Enchanter who had been dead for quite some time. To his relief, they soon reached the shore.

    Cullen bid Carroll farewell, took one last look at the Tower, its imposing structure rising against the sky, and set off.

    The beginning of his journey was relatively smooth, as he had been provided with a horse by the Chantry on the outskirts of Ferelden. Riding on horseback for several days, the Templar only briefly stopped to rest and resupply at small villages along the way, his mind occupied with grim thoughts.

    Upon reaching Denerim, he hired a carriage to take him to the port city of Gwaren. The cramped quarters made him feel uneasy, but he tried to distract himself by taking in the scenic views outside the window. After what felt like an eternity, he finally arrived in Gwaren. He stepped off the carriage, stretched his legs, breathed in the salty sea air, and made his way to the docks to find a ship that was headed to Kirkwall.

    To his surprise, the ship named ''Unsinkable'' was about to depart for the City of Chains in just a few hours. Cullen thought that the name sounded promising, so he made his way up the gangplank and onto the deck, where he was greeted by bustling activity, with sailors scurrying about, tending to various tasks. Despite the hustle and bustle, the Templar managed to find the captain and began to haggle for a fair passage fee. After a brief negotiation, the deal was struck.

    He was relieved to find that the vessel was sturdy, with a gleaming, polished interior that was relatively spacious, permitting him to move about freely. However, when the captain suggested that he take a cabin for the voyage, the young man hesitated. The thought of being trapped in a small stateroom for days on end made his stomach churn.

    To his relief, the skipper of the ship was sympathetic to his plight and allowed him to spend most of his time on the deck.

    During the day, Cullen watched the graceful seagulls soar above him and enjoyed the feeling of the refreshing breeze on his face. At night, he curled up in a quiet corner of the deck, trying to ignore the unsettling sounds of the creaking ship and the lapping of the waves against the hull.

    Ten days later, Cullen arrived in Kirkwall, which greeted him with a foul stench of human waste emanating from the murky waters and a series of giant statues depicting desperate, chained slaves. He stepped off the ship and onto the creaking wooden dock, his legs feeling wobbly after the long journey at sea. The young man looked around the busy harbor, his eyes squinting against the bright sunshine, scanning the crowds of people for the Templar who was supposed to meet him. After a few moments of searching, he spotted familiar armor in the distance.

    "Knight-Templar Cullen Rutherford?" the Templar called out, striding towards him. He was a tall, muscular man with a shaven head and a serious expression.

    "Yes, Ser!" The young man saluted, straightening his back and trying to look more alert.

    Introducing himself as Knight-Lieutenant Alrik, the man began escorting Cullen through the winding streets of Kirkwall to the Gallows, explaining the complicated political and social dynamics of the city.

    "You''ll find that life in Kirkwall is... different," Ser Alrik said, his voice tinged with a note of caution. "The Templar Order has a lot of power here, and Knight-Commander Meredith can rival the Viscount in authority. It will do you good to remember that."

    Cullen nodded, his eyes scanning the bustling streets and the towering buildings around him. He had heard stories about Kirkwall''s branch of the Order, tales of Viscount Perrin Threnhold who abused his power, wreaked havoc on the city, and attempted to expel the Templar Order from Kirkwall, killing the Knight-Commander in the process. Knight-Captain Meredith and a group of her best Templars marched on the Viscount''s Keep and had him arrested, thrown in his own dungeons, and stripped of his title. She was promoted to Knight-Commander by Grand Cleric Elthina, and with the Chantry''s support, Meredith appointed Marlowe Dumar to succeed Perrin, though she remained the true ruler of the city.

    As they walked, Knight-Lieutenant continued to explain the role of the Templars in Kirkwall, outlining their duty to not only protect the city from the dangers of magic but also assist the city guard however they can. The young man listened carefully, taking in every word.

    Eventually, they arrived at the Gallows, a massive structure looming over the city. Cullen''s body tensed up, sending goosebumps across his skin, as he lifted his gaze toward the towering walls that surrounded the square. The walls were like imposing giants, casting long shadows over the area and making him feel small and vulnerable in comparison.

    As he continued to take in the surroundings, his eyes fixed on the numerous grotesque statues that adorned the square. The huge sculptures of rusted metal were unsettling, depicting the chains wrapped tightly around the bodies of the enslaved, the look of agony and despair etched on their faces. The rust and decay of the statues gave them an eerie quality as if the slaves were still trapped in their metal prisons, forever frozen in their suffering.  All of these elements combined created a scene that was both chilling and mesmerizing, and Cullen found himself unable to look away. He couldn''t help but feel as though he was standing on hallowed ground, surrounded by the echoes of a tragic history that continued to haunt the present.

    "This is your new home," Lieutenant Alrick announced, gesturing toward the building. "It''s not the most welcoming place, but you''ll get used to it."

    The young Templar swallowed, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He knew it would take time to adjust to the new place, but he was determined to serve the people of Kirkwall with honor and dedication.

    "Thank you, Ser Alrick," he said, turning to the other Templar. "I appreciate your guidance."

    The old Knight smirked, clapping him on the shoulder. "You''ll do fine, Ser Rutherford. Just remember to stay vigilant and stay true to your duty as a Templar."

    With those words of encouragement ringing in his ears, Cullen stepped onto the Gallows, ready to begin his new life in the City of Chains.

    In no time at all, the Templar realized that his new Knight-Commander was an exceedingly strict taskmaster, but it wasn''t without reason. Kirkwall was a veritable pit of vile scum, repugnant blood mages, and detestable bandits. Upholding any sort of order within the city was an Andrastian feat, as for every apostate that was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the Circle, two more cunningly slipped away from it. For every maleficar that was slain, three more sinister practitioners of the dark arts emerged. And for every bandit that the Templars managed to take down, another one would spring up in his place, somehow even more ruthless than the last. It was a never-ending cycle of violence and corruption that threatened to overwhelm them at every turn.

    As a result, the Knights here were worked to the bone, without any concept of time off, unless they were severely injured and incapacitated from their duties. Cullen suspected that the only reason the Order was still functioning was due to the heightened lyrium intake by its members. The blue liquid was consumed at an alarming rate, sometimes up to four times a day instead of the recommended daily dosage. The concentration of the potion was also more potent, leaving his mouth and throat numb for hours after ingesting the draft. It was as if the Templars were constantly walking on the edge, fueled by the power of the lyrium to keep them going.

    Despite the hardships, most of the Knights didn''t complain, for Knight-Commander Meredith was a relentless force of dedication within the Order, unmatched by any other. She wasn''t content with simply sitting back and letting her subordinates do the work while she luxuriated in comfort. No, this fierce woman led by example, constantly pushing herself to the limit and beyond. Sleep and meals were mere afterthoughts in her tireless pursuit to make the Circle of Magi safer and the streets of the city more secure.

    Cullen couldn''t help but respect her unwavering commitment. Unlike the lenient Greagoir, Meredith was not one to shy away from tough decisions. He did not doubt that, under her watchful eye, Uldred would have been made Tranquil long before he even had the chance to dream up his rebellion. It was clear to the young man that Meredith possessed a unique understanding of the dangers of magic. She saw mages not as people but as volatile weapons that could never be fully trusted. This perspective fostered a sense of camaraderie between him and the Knight-Commander. She saw in him the same fire and passion for the cause that burned within herself.

    In Ferelden, his tendency to overreact to certain situations earned him reprimands. However, in Kirkwall, this trait proved to be an asset. In just over a year, he was able to climb the ranks from a regular Knight to the position of Knight-Corporal. Another six months passed, and he was promoted once again, this time to the rank of Knight-Lieutenant. While the young Templar''s rapid ascent up the hierarchical ladder was impressive, it did not go unnoticed by others in the Order. Some viewed him with respect and admiration for his achievements, while others were apprehensive, believing that he lacked the necessary experience for his position. There were also Knights who were jealous of his success and tried to spread rumors that he had secured his promotions through a ''special'' relationship with the Knight-Commander. However, these claims were quickly dismissed as baseless by the rest of his comrades. Anyone who knew Cullen or Meredith would realize that such ideas were simply ridiculous.

    The dedication to his duties as a Templar had taken over his entire existence. He avoided forming close bonds with his fellow Knights, knowing that the constant danger posed by demons and blood mages could lead to heartbreak at any moment. He used to be a passionate chess player, but he had abandoned the game, seeing it as a frivolous distraction from his work. Even his prayers to the Maker felt hollow, lacking the sense of divine connection he once cherished. And while some Templars tried to sneak away from their duties to indulge in pleasures like drinking or visiting brothels, he steered clear of such places. The reason for his avoidance was twofold: not only was it inappropriate for a Knight to partake in these activities, but he also harbored a deep fear of losing control of his mind through alcohol. Furthermore, he found the prospect of an unfamiliar woman touching him repulsive.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    Despite his unwavering commitment, serving in Kirkwall offered Cullen little respite from the traumas he had experienced at Kinloch Hold, the memories lingered on like a haunting melody. The lyrium he consumed dulled the nightmares that plagued him, but it was incapable of eliminating the profound feeling of detachment he experienced within himself.

    For all the weight of his burdens, the man knew he could rely on Meredith. In her presence, he felt a sense of camaraderie and trust that he had not experienced with anyone since Thomas''s death. In a city plagued by chaos and uncertainty, they stood side by side, facing the world together as they fought against the perils of magic.

    Cullen marched along the rugged terrain of the Wounded Coast, his boots crunching against the rocky ground. As he trudged forward, he couldn''t help but notice the striking contrast between the harsh, stony landscape and the brilliant sky above.

    The blazing summer sun beat down on the jagged cliffs and the choppy waters of the nearby sea, casting a golden glow over everything in sight. Even in this searing heat, a persistent chill was clinging to him like a second skin, causing him to shiver. He flexed his icy fingers and toes, trying to warm them up and alleviate the discomfort. Knowing that overconsumption of lyrium had caused this affliction, he recognized it as simply another toll to be paid for his Templar abilities. Nevertheless, he clenched his teeth and persevered, redirecting his thoughts back to his mission.

    As he walked, his eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of his quarry. He had been assigned to find and question Wilmod, a Templar recruit who had recently vanished without a trace. He wasn''t the first to go missing; other recruits had been disappearing for weeks, and all attempts to find them had been unsuccessful. However, a guard patrol recently spotted Wilmod near the caves of the Wounded Coast, providing an opportunity to uncover the truth about the situation.

    Cullen cursed under his breath, the Templar Order already struggled to find recruits in Kirkwall, where people were well aware of the risks involved. The loss of several young warriors was a blow to their depleted ranks. Knight-Commander had entrusted him with this task, and he knew that failure was not an option.

    With every step he took, he became more determined to uncover the truth behind the disappearances and stop the panic spreading through the city.

    When Cullen finally spotted Wilmod in the distance, the sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. The recruit was slinking around the edge of the cave, trying to stay out of sight. Templar''s heart raced with anticipation as he quickened his pace, closing the distance between them. When he was within shouting distance, Cullen barked out, "Halt! Templar recruit, Wilmod! You are under arrest!"

    The recruit froze, turning slowly to face the Templar. His eyes widened with recognition as he realized that he had been caught. Cullen approached him, his eyes drilling into the man. "Where have you been? You left the Gallows without permission. The Order has been searching for you."

    Wilmod''s eyes darted nervously around, and he took a step back. "I just needed a break, a little time to myself," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

    The Templar''s gaze narrowed. "You know very well that you can''t just come and go as you please. You''ve been missing for weeks, along with several other recruits. Tell me what is going on."

    Wilmod''s eyes widened in fear, but he quickly composed himself. "I don''t know anything about that, Ser. I swear it," he said, his voice shaking slightly.

    Cullen wasn''t convinced. He had a feeling that Wilmod was holding something back. "I find that hard to believe. You were seen together with the other recruits in the Blooming Rose before they disappeared. What can you say about that?"

    Wilmod''s face paled, and he took another step back. "I don''t know anything, Ser. I swear it on the Maker''s name," he said, his voice trembling.

    Cullen had had enough; he lashed out delivering a blow to Wilmod''s stomach that sent him tumbling to the ground.

    "Tell me the truth, damn it!" he shouted, looming over the recruit.

    Wilmod lay on the ground, cradling his midsection, and whimpered, "I don''t know anything, Ser."

    Suddenly a female voice announced from behind him, "Alright, mate, hold up a sec! If you wanna get results, ya gotta be a bit softer on ''em, ya hear? Carrots work a hell of a lot better than sticks."

    Cullen wheeled around, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. His eyes widened as he saw a peculiar group heading towards him. At the front was a towering, muscular woman, clad in old and rusted armor that seemed to have seen better days. Although he could see that she had once been a beauty, her face was now covered in thick and jagged scars, and her nose was crooked, likely from being broken too many times. She carried a massive maul in her hands with an air of confidence, and the Templar knew that he wouldn''t want to be on the receiving end of that weapon.

    Following close behind her was a white-haired elf with intricate and strange tattoos adorning his skin. His face was stoic, his eyes alert and watchful, as he gripped the hilt of his two-handed sword. And then, at the very back of the group, he was surprised to find Brother Sebastian Vael, his white and golden armor reflecting the last rays of the setting sun.

    Cullen relaxed slightly at the sight of the Chantry Brother, but he still kept a hand on his sword. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he demanded, looking at the woman, his voice steady but cautious.

    The woman standing ahead chuckled heartily before introducing herself, "The moniker be Hawke, and I''ve got me fair share o'' wants." She gave Sebastian a playful wink, which he ignored. "But for the time bein'', I be wantin'' to have a wee chat with the poor sod ye be bashing up o''er there."

    Cullen narrowed his eyes and said, "This is Templar business, stay out o--" Wilmod''s scream pierced the air, jarring the senses of everyone around him. He writhed in pain, convulsing on the ground as if his body was no longer his own. Cullen tried to approach him, but before he could even take a step, the recruit''s skin began to shift and change, morphing into a grotesque sight. His skin turned an ashen gray, becoming loose and saggy. His mouth split wide, revealing sharp, rodent-like incisors. As his body shrank and his armor morphed into tattered black hooded robes, sharp claws sprouted from his fingers. In mere moments, the recruit had transformed into a despair demon.

    The creature charged at Cullen with blinding speed, and he barely managed to raise his shield in time to deflect the demon''s attack. The force of the collision dropped the Templar to the ground. The demon leaped into the air, a blue barrier sprouting around him as he levitated above the surface, darting around the area in all directions. Sebastian shot arrows at the demon, but the barrier deflected them.

    "Attacks are useless until I dispel his shield," Cullen shouted to the group, knowing he was the only one who could break through the demon''s defense.

    " Don''t ye worry, Templar! We''ll be keepin'' him busy while ye do yer thing!" Hawke yelled in reply, rallying the group to action.

    The despair demon shot a beam of ice at the Chantry Brother, who jumped away to avoid it, but still took a hit in the shoulder and groaned in pain.

    "Don''t be messin'' with me man, ye bilge rat!" the woman roared, throwing herself at the demon with wild abandon. She smashed into the creature with her maul, the blunt force of her blow sending the demon sprawling to the ground. Despite the protective barrier surrounding despair demon, the impact of the hit left him momentarily dazed and disoriented. Using this opportunity, Cullen called upon lyrium, and a blinding light erupted around the creature, dispelling his barrier and leaving him vulnerable. At that moment, the tattooed elf charged forward with his two-handed sword, slicing the demon in half with one swift motion, his body turning into a pile of sulfur smelling  ash.

    Cullen''s heart was racing as he approached the remains of the slain monster. "Maker''s Blood!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his shock and horror. "I knew that something was going on, but this¡­ to see one of our own turn into a demon again..." His voice trailed off as dark memories of the past resurfaced, reminding him of the horrors he had witnessed in Kinloch. He shook his head, trying to push the haunting images away, before turning to face Hawke with a stern gaze.

    "What did you want from Wilmod? What is your involvement in all of this?" Cullen demanded, his eyes piercing into hers. However, Hawke remained entirely focused on the Chantry Brother, her attention solely on making sure he was okay. With a worried look on her face, she handed him a healing potion, and Sebastian smiled at her reassuringly and said, "Don''t worry, Hawke. It''s just a scratch."

    Cullen opened his mouth to express his indignation at being ignored, but he was interrupted by a white-haired elf who approached him. "She won''t pay you any attention until she makes sure Brother Sebastian is fine," the elf said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Let me explain our involvement in this situation."

    With a flick of his hand, the elf beckoned Cullen to come closer. "Hawke was approached by a woman named Macha," he began, his voice steady and clear. "She is the sister of one of the Templar recruits named Keran. He''s been missing for several weeks now, and Macha is desperate to find him. She offered us a reward for any information we could find."

    The elf continued, "Our friend in the City Guard told us that Keran''s friend Wilmod had recently been seen near the caves on the Wounded Coast, so we came here, in the hope of getting some information on Keran''s whereabouts."

    Cullen couldn''t help but feel a sense of unease creeping up on him as he realized that with Wilmod''s death, the trail had gone cold, and the only clue left was the infamous Blooming Rose. This den of iniquity was the last place the missing recruits were seen together, but it posed a problem for Cullen. He was strictly forbidden from entering the establishment. It was a rule that had been enforced after a regrettable incident that he still recalled vividly.

    He had ventured to the brothel to retrieve a comrade who had indulged in too much wine and was unable to leave on his own. As he entered, the overwhelming fetor of cheap perfume and bargain-priced drinks mixed with the sounds of moans coming from every direction. A scantily clad woman approached him with a sultry smile on her face. Her eyes were dark and smoldering with desire as she said, "Hey, handsome, why don''t we have a bit of fun?" She reached out and touched his face with her fingertips. The young Templar felt a tremble of fear race through him. Suddenly he sensed the inescapable caresses of a desire demon traversing his body, heard the vibrating hum of the barrier, and smelled the overpowering stench of sulfur. On pure instinct, the man reacted. Shouting, "Get your filthy hands away from me, you monster!" He smashed his fist into the woman''s face with all his might. The prostitute dropped to the floor, knocked out cold, blood pouring from her broken nose. Chaos erupted as the guards of the brothel rushed in, pushing him out of the establishment. Cullen was filled with shame and regret for his behavior. Later, through the Templar who was her regular customer, he gave some coins to the woman as an apology. Nevertheless, the incident had permanently barred him from entering the Blooming Rose.

    Hawke finished fussing over Vael and made her way over to them, her expression expectant. Cullen''s heart lifted as he realized that the answer to his problem was right in front of him. With a sense of urgency in his voice, he addressed the group. "We share the same objective," he said, his eyes meeting each person in turn. "So I propose that we help each other. I am Knight-Lieutenant Cullen, and I am on a mission to find the missing recruits, Keran being one of them. Unfortunately, the umm¡­ ladies of the Blooming Rose won''t collaborate with me. If you could find out what they know, I would not only pay for your cooperation but also assist you in investigating this matter further."

    Hawke''s face lit up with a smile, her eyes alight with excitement. "Let''s hoist the anchor and set sail! " she exclaimed, reaching out her hand for a shake. "This here''s a fair wind that''ll bring us both to port. You''ve got yourself a deal, matey!"

    Cullen hesitated for a moment, his mind searching for a way to avoid the contact, but he knew he had no other choice. Mentally preparing himself, he clasped Hawke''s hand and gave it a firm shake before quickly releasing it.

    As they stood before the Blooming Rose, Hawke''s arms were crossed and her expression stern. She glanced over at the group and furrowed her brows. "Me an'' Fenris will handle it solo, no need for all them harlots gawkin'' at me man." she said, eyeing Sebastian.

    Vael let out an exasperated sigh. "I don''t mind waiting outside with Ser Cullen, but please stop referring to me as your man. We''re not a couple. I''m a Chantry Brother sworn to chastity, I told you that the first time you showed interest in me."

    Hawke waved a dismissive hand, unphased. "Bollocks, if I say ye be me man, ye be me man. Ye just haven''t realized that I be yer woman. And this talk of chastity don''t mean nuthin'' to me, I can live without yer tool, all I need is yer heart."

    Cullen let out a loud cough, his face turning bright red. The elf at his side rolled his eyes, clearly used to the duo''s banter.

    However, the Chantry Brother didn''t back down. "My heart is filled with my devotion to the Maker, there''s no room for anything or anyone else," he retorted, a hint of frustration in his voice.

    Hawke gave him a cheeky smile. "Aye, I''m sure I can still scavenge some empty nook and fit meself in there."

    The Templar cleared his throat, breaking up the exchange. "Could we return to our matters at hand?" he asked, his voice serious. "You can discuss your relationship after we deal with this."

    Hawke relented with a playful pout. "Ok, ok, ye win. Fenris, let''s shove off. We''ve got some wenches to grill!" She exclaimed, grabbing the elf''s arm as they entered the brothel, leaving Cullen and Sebastian to wait in awkward silence.

    An hour had passed since Hawke and Fenris had disappeared into the brothel. When they finally emerged, the woman practically shimmered with satisfaction, and even Fenris, who was typically stoic, had a small grin on his face. As they approached the group, Hawke announced, "We''ve got the story, mateys! We know what''s gone down."

    Cullen tensed, bracing himself for the news. He had a feeling it wouldn''t be good.

    "Those fresh-faced lads have been bewitched by the harlot Idunna," Hawke started, her tone full of disgust.

    Fenris added his voice to the conversation. "Who is also a blood mage. Once under her control, she sent the recruits to Tarohne, another maleficar, who  implanted demons in them to sow chaos and paranoia within the Templar ranks. They released Wilmod, but he was too afraid to return to the Order after what had been done to him."

    Cullen''s blood boiled with anger. Once again, the mages were attempting to destroy the Templar Order. When would they stop?

    The elf continued, his words dripping with venom. "Idunna claimed Tarohne talked her into the whole thing, promising they could ''recreate the ancient Imperium, that mages could rule again, not serve,'' how very typical."

    Hawke wasn''t finished. "The harlot blabbered about their secret den in Dark Town to save her skin."

    Cullen clenched his fist. "I will arrest Idunna for her crimes against the Order," he growled.

    The woman shook her head. "Nay, no need for that, matey," she said with a sly smile. "We had barely finished questioning the wench when she gave up the ghost, her heart shattered into pieces." She gave a knowing look to the elf, who smirked in return.

    "Then let''s make for the Dark Town," Sebastian spoke up, his eyes hopeful. "If the Maker is willing, the recruits will still be alive."

    The Templar nodded in agreement, and the party headed towards the Dark Town.

    Hawke led the way as the group followed her through the dark and treacherous streets of Dark Town. The narrow alleys were barely wide enough for two people to pass, and the crumbling buildings seemed ready to collapse at any moment. The air was thick with the stench of rotting garbage and excrement, and the only sounds were the scurrying of rats and the distant howling of the wind.

    The woman and her companions kept their weapons at the ready, knowing that danger lurked around every corner. Cullen kept a sharp eye out for any signs of suspicious activity, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

    As they made their way deeper into the district, Hawke suddenly stopped in front of a narrow alleyway. "This be the way, mateys!" she said, gesturing for the group to follow her.

    The Templars followed her into the alleyway, exchanging suspicious glances with her companions. The path was tight and winding, and the shadows seemed to grow thicker with each step. The woman led the way to a nondescript door at the end of the alley. "This be it," she whispered, pointing at the entrance.

    Sebastian strode confidently to the door and placed his hand on the rusty lock. Kneeling before it, his pouch of tools at the ready, he whispered, "This one is pretty basic." With swift, precise movements, he inserted the lock pick into the lock, and the sound of the metal scraping against metal echoed through the eerie silence. Cullen looked at the man in surprise; it was an unexpected skill for a Chantry Brother. After a few clicks and twists, the lock finally gave way, and the door creaked open. As they cautiously stepped inside, their senses were assailed by the stink of sulfur and the metallic tang of blood. The chamber was dimly lit, but even in the flickering candlelight, The Templar could see the stains of blood on the stone floor. The room branched out into three separate corridors, each one darker and more ominous than the last. The walls were adorned with grotesque paintings and statues of dragons. The atmosphere was oppressive, and Cullen could feel the weight of the mage''s dark power bearing down on him.

    Before they could decide which path to take, a swarm of abominations rushed towards them from all three directions, their eyes glowing in the dark.

    Sebastian''s bowstring was the first to sound as an arrow found its mark in one of the monsters. Hawke rushed forward with her maul, her swings hitting two creatures at once with wide arches. The elf displayed incredible grace as he took on another two abominations, dodging and hitting with deadly precision.

    Cullen cursed as he saw rage demons emerging from the floor. The room was too small for his Wrath of Heaven ability unless he wanted to hit Hawke and her companions.

    He activated Blessed Blades on his sword and joined the fight, shield-bashing one of the rage demons before piercing it with his blade. The fight was intense, with arrows flying and swords clashing against the claws. Cullen felt the pull of dark magic, and beneath their feet, three immolation circles appeared. Narrowly avoiding the demon''s attack, he dispelled the space, causing two circles to instantly disappear. However, the third one remained beneath Hawke, out of the area of effect.

    An explosion erupted from it, sending the woman flying into the wall before she landed in a heap on the floor. Sebastian rushed to her aid with a healing potion in hand, while Fenris held the line, fighting two rage demons at once. Cullen concentrated and sent a precise Holy Smite into one of the creatures, causing a ball of light to land right in the monster''s head, blowing it to pieces. Lava splashed in all directions, some of it reaching the elf, making him hiss in pain.

    To his relief, Cullen saw Hawke standing, shaken but ready to resume the fight.  The battle raged on, with each member of the group fighting with all their might against the seemingly endless horde of monsters.

    As the Templar fought, a sudden movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned to the left corridor and spotted the telltale flash of robes disappearing into the darkness. Without a second thought, he darted after the maleficar, his heart racing and breath coming in quick gasps. As he sprinted down the narrow passage, a sharp shard of ice whizzed toward his face. Instinctively, he dispelled the projectile, which was mere centimeters from his head. He bellowed a roar of fury and continued his pursuit, heedless of the danger lurking ahead. He burst into a room and was confronted by a chilling sight. Five translucent barriers held the missing recruits captive, their bodies emaciated and pale, lying motionless on the ground. Cullen felt a wave of nausea wash over him as the space seemed to shrink around him, morphing into the walls of the Circle Tower. Suddenly, a bloody mist enveloped him, blurring his vision as he glimpsed the female figure approaching. Though her face was obscured, he knew with a gut-wrenching certainty that it was none other than Lea Amell. Rage consumed him as he lunged toward her, feeling the siren''s song of tranquility attempting to calm his fury. However, this time was different, the excessive consumption of lyrium allowed him to fight the spell. Sweat poured down his face as he concentrated fiercely, calling on Andraste for strength. With a loud cry, he unleashed the powerful Spell Purge, tearing apart the clutches of the maleficar''s hold on his mind. As the magic released him, Cullen''s vision cleared, and he surged forward, his weapon at the ready. The maleficar looked at him with a mix of shock and disbelief, but it was too late. With a savage thrust, he plunged his sword into her gut, eliciting a terrible scream. The woman crumpled to the floor, clutching her wound. Still, Cullen was not finished. Driven by an unbridled fury, he dropped his sword and shield, climbing atop the fallen woman and pummeling her face with his fists. He could not stop himself as the violent rage consumed him, overwhelming all sense of reason and logic.

    A female voice jolted him back to reality, "Take it easy, mate. The wench is gone beyond repair." Cullen turned to face Hawke and her companions. It was a sight to behold, their armor covered in gore and ash, their skin full of cuts and bruises from the intense battle they had just fought. Yet there was nothing a potion couldn''t cure. He blinked several times as the realization of where he was finally hit him. He was in Kirkwall; Lea was long dead. He looked down at the bloody pulp that was left of the maleficar''s face, her blond hair matted with blood¡ªof course, it wasn''t Amell. The rage that had engulfed him a few moments ago dissipated into nothingness, and he felt the all-too-familiar numbness set in. He stood up, his gauntlets dripping with blood and his hands shaking slightly, but as he looked around at the young recruits, he felt a flicker of hope. The barriers holding them captive had disappeared, and Sebastian was already checking for their vitals.

    "Thanks the Maker, they are alive!" The Brother exclaimed, looking relieved.

    Cullen walked over to one of the young men, gesturing toward him. "This is Keran, the one you''ve been looking for," he said to the group, his voice firm. "You can tell his sister that he is now safe and back with the Templars. Please remain with the recruits until I notify the Order of their location. This way, my comrades can arrange their transportation back to the Circle. They will also pay you for your assistance," he added, his tone grateful.

    Hawke grinned, " Don''t fret, mate. We''ll hold down the fort and keep everyone safe until help gets here," she said, her voice full of confidence.

    Cullen nodded his thanks, picking up his sword and shield before making his way toward the Gallows. As he walked, his mind raced, trying to process everything that had just happened. But he knew that he had done what he had to do and saved lives in the process. That was all that mattered.

    The next day, Cullen was summoned to Knight-Commander Meredith''s office. As he entered, his back straightened with a sense of purpose and duty, fully expecting to receive another assignment. Meredith, however, was standing with her back to him, her eyes fixed upon the cityscape below. She acknowledged his arrival without turning to greet him, her voice measured and calm, "When I received your request for transfer from Greagoir, I knew it was the Maker''s providence. It is not often one can meet people who know what it is like to suffer, to be burned by magic, and to rise from the ashes stronger than ever before." After a momentary pause, she turned towards him and continued, "Your last mission demonstrated that you are prepared for this new role. You have earned this promotion through your devotion and commitment to duty."

    With a deliberate stride, Meredith approached the armor stand and retrieved a sword of the finest quality, with the hilt adorned by the intricate design of Andraste''s flames. "It was my blade when I served as Knight-Captain, now it will be yours. Make good use of it, Knight-Captain Cullen," she handed the weapon over to Cullen with a steely resolve. It was a true masterpiece, worth a small fortune, and the Templar accepted it with great reverence. "Thank you, Commander. I hope to be proved worthy of your trust."

    Meredith''s lips quirked slightly in a smile, "I wouldn''t appoint you Knight-Captain if I didn''t trust you. I will announce your promotion tomorrow, there is still some paperwork to be done."

    "Before I return to my duties, may I ask how the rescued recruits are faring? I can''t obtain any information on their well-being from the infirmary," he asked with a note of concern in his voice.

    "Unfortunately, they succumbed to the injuries inflicted on them by the maleficar," Commander Meredith replied solemnly.

    Cullen was taken aback. "But they were alive when they arrived at the Gallows. How could that happen?"

    "The curse of dark magic is powerful. It destroys everything it touches," Meredith explained, her tone serious. "Do not mourn the recruits, Knight Captain. They are with the Maker now." Returning to her desk, she added, "I''ll see you tomorrow. You are dismissed."

    As Cullen left the office, he made his way through the Gallows, his new sword clutched tightly in his hand. He couldn''t help but resent the harsh reality of the City of Chains. Every victory here came with a price, and he wondered how long the Order would be able to pay it.

 The Harrowing

    Miriam stood in the courtyard of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, sweat dripping down her face and pooling on the ground beneath her feet. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and she leaned heavily on her staff, feeling its rough wooden texture against her palm. Her once-pristine robes were now soaked through with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to her thin frame. Her long, barely entwined braid hung over her shoulder.

    For four hours, she had been practicing her spells with the First Enchanter Lydia. For some reason, the old woman had taken a particular interest in Miriam, dedicating her own time to the girl¡¯s training.

    Miriam had been full of excitement and eager to begin her training after she had received her vision three years ago. She had imagined herself hurling fireballs and summoning thunderstorms, her power unmatched by the forces of darkness. The girl had believed that if the Maker had chosen her for an important mission, her abilities would rival those of the Grand Enchanter.

    She had poured her heart and soul into her magical training, but regardless of her sincere effort, she found that her powers were woefully inadequate. She watched with envy as her fellow apprentices summoned magnificent flames, sharp ice crystals, and stunning bolts of electricity while her attempts produced nothing more than a pitiful puff of smoke, a handful of snowflakes, or a weak electric jolt. Even the First Enchanter couldn''t hide her disappointment when she saw her lackluster displays.

    As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Miriam''s sense of inadequacy grew stronger. She couldn''t shake the feeling that she was a fool who had deluded herself into thinking she was worthy of the Maker''s special attention and that her vision was nothing more than a hallucination brought on by the pain.

    However, she refused to fall back into the suffocating grasp of hopelessness and despair. With fierce earnestness, she battled her wavering conviction. Resolved to keep her head above water, she prayed with fervent passion and pushed herself to the limit determined to make the most of what powers she possessed.

    Her perseverance paid off as she discovered that her talents lay in a different aspect of magic. While she could not conjure up destructive forces of nature, she could bring about physical restoration and create multiple protective barriers at once.

    As she continued to hone her skills, Miriam took solace in the fact that she could still be a valuable asset in her own way. Her abilities were no less important than those of the masters of fire and lightning, for her spells could mean the difference between life and death.

    The First Enchanter''s aged face glistened with sweat as she elegantly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Hours of intense casting had left her little more than mildly fatigued, and her graceful strides carried her effortlessly toward Miriam. Her expression was a strange mix of contentment and concern, reflecting the complex emotions that tugged at her heart. "Miriam, your barriers are exceptional," she said, admiration shining in her eyes. "You sustain them longer than most of the apprentices. Yet, I am still worried about your impending Harrowing. Your healing and protective spells are impressive, but they may not be enough to defeat the demon." The First Enchanter''s words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of her concern. "I can try to convince the Knight-Commander to postpone the ritual," she offered.

    Miriam straightened her posture and her hand instinctively went to the amulet she wore around her neck. She clutched it tightly, drawing strength from its presence.  "Do not worry, First Enchanter," she replied. "Somehow, the Maker will carry me through."

    Lydia looked at her with a hint of reproach. "The Maker helps those who help themselves."

    Miriam knew this, but she was as ready as she was ever going to be. Besides, for years, alongside her studies, she had tried to achieve a seemingly impossible goal: to bring justice to the retired Knights who were still suffering from Mother Lucia''s abuse.

    Yet, despite her tireless efforts, she hit one roadblock after another. The girl had written letters to Revered Mother Petra pleading for an investigation into Mother Lucia''s tyranny. She had spoken to the Knight-Commander of the Circle and even reached out to her father, but no one believed her claims. The incident had made Mother Lucia a hero within the city-state of Ostwick. She was hailed as a valiant servant of the Maker who had bravely confronted a deranged apostate disguised as an initiate.

    Seeing Miriam''s struggle, the First Enchanter explained to her the harsh truth that had been staring at her face all along: might makes right. It was a bitter pill for the girl to swallow. She had always believed that justice would prevail and that the strong would protect the weak. But the reality was far from her idealistic vision.

    With a heavy heart, Miriam realized that she had to play the Game if she wanted to make a difference. Advancing in the Circle of Magi hierarchy was her only hope of gaining the chance she needed to help the retired Templars. The newly appointed Senior Enchanters were revealed in a glamorous ceremony at the Grand Cathedral, in the presence of the Most Holy herself. The girl hoped that if she could just meet the Divine in person, she could plead her case and convince her to investigate the corruption within the Ostwick Chantry.  She was eager to get through the Harrowing and begin her ascent to Senior Enchanter as soon as possible, for every day that passed was a day too many for the Knights to suffer.

    Trying to convince the First Enchanter she proclaimed, "I have worked very hard to develop the skills that the Maker has given me. I am determined to get through my Harrowing as soon as possible and start moving towards my goals."

    Lydia''s expression softened, and she looked at Miriam with almost motherly eyes. The wrinkles on her face crinkled as she smiled gently. "Sometimes, it''s hard to believe that you are the same frightened and weak girl who was brought here three years ago."

    Miriam shifted slightly, throwing a glance at her right hand, which was covered in an uneven patchwork of rough and textured scars that crisscrossed each other. At times she wondered if she should tell other people what she saw in her vision, but somehow it felt like something too private to share, something just between her and the Maker.

    The old woman continued, "I''ll schedule your Harrowing for next week then. If you firmly believe that you are prepared, then you are ready, because ultimately, your ability to resist the demon and maintain your resolve is what matters most." After a pause, she advised in a serious tone, "In the meantime, refresh your knowledge on the various types of demons and their tactics for breaking your will. We can''t predict which of these monsters will come your way, so it''s best to be prepared for any possible scenario."

    With a firm nod, Miriam locked eyes with the woman, showing her resolve.  "Thank you, Enchanter Lydia," she said, her voice steady. "I will do my best to prepare."

    Lydia''s eyes glinted with approval. "I do not doubt that you will," she said reassuringly. "Now, it''s best if you change out of those sweaty robes. We wouldn''t want you to catch a cold just before the Harrowing."

    The Enchanter''s concern for her well-being made her heart swell with gratitude. With a cheery grin, the girl replied, "Of course, First Enchanter, right away. I will see you later at the Circle''s library." With a wave goodbye, she turned and strode towards her quarters, eager to continue her preparations.

    The day of the Harrowing had arrived, and Miriam''s heart was pounding in her chest as she was led through the winding corridors of the Circle by a group of Templars. Her emotions were a swirling mix of excitement and fear, and she could feel her palms growing slick with sweat as they walked in silence.

    Finally, they arrived at the Harrowing Chambers, and the girl was ushered inside to the designated space where she would face the ultimate test of her ability to resist the possession. The chamber was spacious, with tall, looming arcs and flickering torches casting dancing shadows across the walls. There were no windows to the outside world, and the air inside felt thick and heavy with anticipation.

    As she stood in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a circle of grim-faced Templars with weapons at the ready, Miriam could feel her nerves starting to fray. To her relief, First Enchanter Lydia and Knight Commander Tobias appeared, and Miriam drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    The First Enchanter approached her, carrying a chalice filled with lyrium, the contents shimmered with an otherworldly glow, a vibrant energy pulsing within. Her eyes were kind and reassuring as she spoke to Miriam, "I believe in you. Stay strong and remember the lessons I taught you."

    With a trembling hand, the girl took the chalice, feeling the cool weight of the metal in her grasp.

    She lifted the cup to her lips and piercingly cold lyrium flowed down her throat, chilling her from the inside. Emptying the contents, Miriam lowered the goblet, feeling the scrutinizing gaze of the Templars upon her. A surge of power rushed through her body, filling her with an indescribable energy. The world before her became distorted, colors became unnaturally bright, and the shapes of people around her warped and melted into splashes of vivid hues.  A strange, alien melody began to fill her ears, echoing from all directions at once. A numbing sensation spread from her head, coursing through her limbs and weakening her extremities. The girl dropped the chalice to the ground, her legs wobbling. The world around her began to spin at an incredible speed, all the colors blending in a white swirl.

    In the blink of an eye, the music and numbness disappeared. She found herself standing in the middle of a desolate, barren field of dark, wet earth. The air was thick with moisture, and heavy clouds loomed overhead as if they were about to unleash a deluge of rain upon her.

    Miriam stood bewildered and disoriented. Her hand reached for her amulet, but to her horror, it was nowhere to be found. Panic began to set in as she frantically searched for any sign of familiarity, but all she could see was a vast expanse of dirt and mud.

    Suddenly, the ground near her began to shift and churn, as if something was stirring beneath the surface. A dark figure emerged from the wet soil, its grey skin slick with mud and grime. It clawed its way out of the mire, revealing a gaping maw filled with jagged, rodent-like teeth.

    The creature was clad in rugged black robes that clung to its form as if they were woven into its flesh.  The girl recognized the monster immediately as a Despair demon, but the illustrations in the books had done it no justice. Its appearance was more terrifying than she could have ever imagined.

    She desperately tried to move, but the dread paralyzed her. She knew she had to fight, but how could she defeat such a beast without any offensive magic? Despair demons were susceptible to fire, but she barely could light a candle, let alone throw a fireball.

    The demon''s glowing eyes surveyed its surroundings, searching for its prey, and it locked onto the girl with a piercing gaze. It let out a terrifying howl that seemed to come from the depths of the Void itself. The sound echoed through the air, striking terror into Miriam''s heart. The demon began to move, its movements quick and jerky like those of a predator hunting its prey. Miriam could feel its malevolent energy closing in on her, and she realized that she had to act fast if she wanted to survive. She threw her hands forward, unleashing a translucent blue shield that erupted before her just in time to deflect the demon''s attack. The creature''s razor-sharp claws clashed against the barrier, sending cracks spiderwebbing over its surface. Miriam gritted her teeth and ordered the shield to push back. It slammed into the demon and dragged it several meters through the muddy terrain before finally breaking. Undeterred, the Despair demon leaped to its feet and conjured its own barrier, which shimmered with malevolent energy. In an instant, it unleashed a deadly ice beam toward Miriam, who frantically cast a protective spell to defend herself.

    The attack hit her with a bone-jarring force, sending her flying backward into the ground. The spell broke upon impact, but it had done its job, taking most of the damage before dissipating. Miriam groaned in pain, her chest aching from the blow.

    Her mind raced as she searched for a way to defeat the demon, and then it hit her: she could cast a spell to destroy the creature''s protective barrier and trap it within her own. With fierce determination, Miriam dispelled the demon¡¯s barrier shattering it into countless pieces. Then without hesitation, she cast a spherical barrier around the creature trapping it inside.

    As sweat trickled down her face, the girl poured every ounce of her magic into the barrier, creating layer upon layer of protection. The monster let out an ear-piercing wail, its claws frantically scratching against the walls of the sphere, but to no avail. Each coat destroyed by the demon''s claws was immediately replaced by a new one until it was utterly trapped and subdued.

    The monstrous creature ceased its attempts to get free and locked its glowing eyes onto Miriam. She felt an eerie and cold entity take hold of her mind as a voice that sounded like her own, but twisted and distorted, whispered to her, "What are you fighting so hard for? Even if you pass your Harrowing and become the Senior Enchanter, do you think the Divine will believe you? Your father didn''t, so why would she?" The voice taunted.

    Feeling like she was losing control Miriam screamed, "Get out of my head!"

    Still, the voice continued, more insidious and cruel than before. "Do you truly believe you''ve been chosen by the Maker?" it sneered. "You, of all people in Thedas? Don''t make me laugh. Why would He choose an ugly, sterile girl who is so unlovable that her own family disowned her? Stop deluding yourself and accept that you are worthless. No one has ever loved you, and no one ever will."

    Miriam was left reeling as if a thousand swords had pierced her soul, each one striking with pinpoint accuracy at the places that hurt the most. The words that had been hurled at her were like venom, seeping into her veins and poisoning her from within. Her eyes stung with tears that threatened to spill over as she tried to push back the wave of anguish that sought to overwhelm her. And then, a fierce hatred began to awaken within her. It was like a wildfire, spreading rapidly and consuming everything in its path. How dare this Maker-forsaken beast use her deepest fears and insecurities against her? Miriam''s jaw clenched, her heart pounding with indignation. The world around her seemed to fade away, leaving only her and the Despair demon trapped in the center of the sphere. She could feel the heat radiating off her body as she took a step forward, her eyes locked on the creature.

    With a burst of strength and willpower, she commanded the magical sphere to shrink. The beast struggled against its confinement, its body writhing and contorting in a desperate attempt to break free. As the Despair demon fought against its bonds, she felt a malicious glee rise within her. Miriam heard the sound of the creature''s bones cracking under the immense pressure and knew that victory was within her grasp. The demon''s growls turned into desperate cries as it realized the extent of its defeat. The girl raised her hands above her head, preparing for a final squeeze that would leave the creature nothing more than a black, gooey mass.

    Miriam¡¯s focus on her spell was interrupted by the thousands upon thousands of small white wildflowers springing from the earth, transforming the once barren land into a beautiful floral carpet. Any Andrastian would recognize those as Andraste''s Grace, gentle wildflowers whose enchanting perfume remained even after the blooms had withered and dried. She felt a powerful and sweet aroma engulfing her. The honeyed scent was like a soothing balm on Miriam''s frayed nerves, and it began to douse the flames of hatred that had been burning within her. She protested, knowing that she needed the negative emotions to fuel her spell and savor the moment of the Despair demon''s defeat. However, she found herself unable to resist the aromatic charm that enveloped her like a warm and nurturing embrace from a mother.

    As she struggled to maintain the sphere, the flowers surrounding her began to glow with soft and comforting light, filling the air with holy energy. Miriam felt it coursing through her, and with it came an intense feeling of pure and unadulterated love. The glow from the blooms grew brighter and brighter, and the divine ardor flowed into her with increasing intensity.

    The girl felt herself drowning in the profound emotion, unable to contain so much affection. Every beat of her heart was painful as if it were about to burst. Unable to resist the tenderness within her, she dropped to her knees, her barrier dissipating and setting the creature free.

    She saw the Despair demon lunging towards her, its claws poised to strike, but as she gazed into the creature''s eyes, something shifted within her. The hatred and fear she felt for the demon vanished, replaced with an overwhelming sense of compassion. Miriam could see beyond the monster''s wicked exterior and into the Maker''s firstborn that lay within. It was unfair that it was suffering in its wickedness, going astray without His love, while she had so much of it to give.

    The girl closed her eyes and outstretched her hands toward the creature. She let herself be completely consumed by love, allowing it to stream from her to the lost child of the Maker.  And when the creature came upon her, it was not the sharp claws of the Despair demon that reached her, but the warm touch of the spirit of Hope.

    Miriam slowly opened her eyes, her surroundings coming into focus. She found herself lying on the cold, hard floor of the Harrowing Chamber, yet her body felt comfortable and snug. She instantly reached for her amulet, relieved to find it still securely around her neck. As she struggled to stand up, Enchanter Lydia came to her aid, helping her to her feet.

    "Well done, Miriam," The Fist Enchanter spoke, her voice filled with pride. "You have proven yourself worthy. From this moment on, you are a mage in the Ostwick Circle of Magi." Filled with relief and gratitude, Miriam couldn''t help but beam at  Lydia who had supported her along the way.

    To her surprise, she heard the sound of applause from the Templars around her. Miriam was incredulous at what she was hearing. With an expression of disbelief across her face, she turned to Commander Tobias, whose stern features had softened in approval, as he was clapping.

    When everyone slowly began to disperse, the girl felt a strange tingling sensation in the palm of her right hand. Bringing it closer to her eyes, she was shocked to see the scars on her skin rearrange themselves, forming the image of the Andraste''s Grace flower.

    Enchanter Lydia noticed Miriam''s reaction and asked, "Is everything alright?"

    Miriam nodded, still in awe of what had just happened. "Yes, everything is perfect," she said, her voice serene.

 The City of Chains ( part 2)

    With a determined stride, Cullen made his way through the wide streets of High Town, his eyes fixed on the grand Amell Estate looming in the distance. The sky was bathed in hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the city as it slowly began to recover from the vicious Qunari attack and the Viscount''s murder. The residents of High Town were finally taking tentative steps towards normalcy, their spirits buoyed by the knowledge that they had survived the onslaught.

    As he approached the estate, his thoughts turned to Hawke, the Ferelden refugee who had defied all expectations to become one of the most influential people in Kirkwall. Despite her noble status, Hawke was a breath of fresh air in the city''s arrogant and entitled high society. The woman was very quirky and impulsive, but over the years they had the chance to work together on several occasions and came to respect each other.

    The Templar couldn''t shake the feeling that more could have been done during the battle against the Qunari. The Knight-Commander had insisted on keeping a close eye on the mages, fearing that they would use the chaos as an opportunity to escape the Circle. Meredith''s insistence on supervising the Gallows had left them unable to provide adequate support during the attack. Instead, they were forced to guard the mages, leaving the city guards to face the brunt of the assault. Despite their bravery, they had been vastly outnumbered, as many residents of Low Town had joined forces with the heretics, making the battle all the more difficult.

    He felt a sense of admiration for Hawke, the woman who had saved them all. It was thanks to her courage and skill that the city had been saved from the wrath of the Arishok. She had challenged the Qunari leader to a duel, with the fate of the City of Chains resting on her shoulders. The battle had been long and brutal, with both sides determined to fight until their last breath. In the end, however, it was Hawke who emerged victorious. The Templar had heard that she had been gravely maimed during the fight and had barely made it out alive.

    As the savior of the city, Hawke had been named the Champion of Kirkwall by Grand Cleric Elthina. Cullen had been sent to tell her this important news, and also to inform her of the ceremony that would be held in her honor once she had recovered. Despite the chaos and destruction that had befallen Kirkwall, he felt a sense of hope for the future, knowing that there were people like Hawke fighting for the greater good.

    The Templar''s thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he finally reached the estate. He knocked on the thick oak door embellished with carvings and decorative metalwork and was greeted by an elven servant who led him inside.

    The halls of the estate were elegant and refined, filled with lavish tapestries and intricate artwork. Finally, he arrived in a room where the air was heavy with the scent of antiseptics and healing potions. His eyes immediately fell upon Hawke, who lay propped up in bed, her injuries on full display. Her head was wrapped in bandages, covering half of her face, the other half looking bruised and swollen. As his gaze traveled down her body, he noticed that her chest was also heavily wrapped. Despite her injuries, she somehow managed to maintain a cheerful demeanor. At her side were Fenris and Sebastian, their expressions concerned.

    Cullen approached the bed and spoke softly, breaking the silence. "I have news, Hawke," he said. "For your bravery in the face of the Qunari invasion, you have been awarded the title of the Champion of Kirkwall."

    Hawke''s eyes lit up with excitement, "Bout time they be seein'' the value in me skills," she said. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she added, "At least I didn''t lose me tit and me eye fer nothin''."

    Cullen was taken aback by her candidness, unsure of how to respond. "I, I umm..." he stuttered before trailing off.

    Sebastian stepped in to reassure Hawke, "Fear not, for every wound you bear while defending the innocent shall only enhance your beauty in the sight of the Maker." He said, placing a gentle hand on Hawke''s shoulder.

    The Champion sighed deeply. "I don''t give a rat''s arse how the Maker be seein'' me." She muttered, "I''d sooner be knowin'' if me man still finds me comely, aye?"

    Sebastian chuckled at Hawke''s blunt honesty, his expression tender. "You are one insufferable woman."

    "Glad to see you in high spirits, Hawke," the Templar said, trying to change the subject. "May the Maker bless you with a smooth and swift recovery from your injuries," he added.

    Fenris, who had been quietly observing the exchange, spoke up. "Knowing her, she will be out of bed chasing bandits and slavers in no time," he said with a hint of admiration in his voice.

    As Cullen took his leave, saying goodbye to the trio, he couldn''t help but be surprised that Sebastian hadn''t protested being referred to by Hawke as ''me man''. It seemed that the Champion had found a special place in the Brother''s heart after all.

    Life in the bustling city of Kirkwall was back to its usual rhythm, but nothing was ever truly normal in this place. The recent vacancy of the Viscount''s seat had been filled by none other than Knight-Commander Meredith herself. The once-shadowy ruler now occupied the seat of power in plain sight, determined to hold onto it with an iron grip. Try as he might, Cullen couldn''t imagine how she would manage to juggle ruling the Gallows and the city at the same time. The Knight-Commander was spreading herself thin, but any concerns voiced by her subordinates were met with icy glares and harsh reprimands. Commander Meredith had always been a force to be reckoned with, but lately, her behavior had become more and more erratic.

    Meredith''s once-vigilant attitude had turned into full-blown paranoia. She saw traitors everywhere, not just among the mages but also among her own Knights. Every move made by her subordinates was monitored with strict scrutiny, and the slightest misstep was enough to get a Templar kicked out of the Order. Cut off from the lyrium they needed, these outcast Knights suffered terrible withdrawal symptoms and were forced to beg on the streets or join bandits to survive.

    Despite the Order''s dwindling numbers in Kirkwall, Meredith refused to accept Knights outside of the city, choosing instead to rely solely on her troops. She simply did not trust outsiders and believed that any Templar from another Circle could be a potential traitor.

    Cullen stood in the Gallows courtyard, surrounded by his Knight-Lieutenants, giving out orders for the day ahead. As he finished speaking, a familiar face approached him, her expression one of fiery indignation. It was Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, who was seemingly involved in everything that happened in the City of Chains.

    As she drew closer, he could see the anger in her remaining eye. She wasted no time in expressing her frustration. "This be nonsense! I need to speak with yer Commander, but ye scallywags won''t let me parley with ''er!" she exclaimed.

    The Templar furrowed his brow, "Could you please clarify what''s going on?" he asked, hoping to understand the situation.

    Hawke¡¯s response only added to his confusion. She explained that rumors were circulating throughout the city that the Templars were planning to make all mages Tranquil, even those who had already passed their Harrowing. She had been trying to find out if the rumors were true, but the Knight-Commander refused to speak with her.

    Cullen was taken aback by this news. "Surely you wouldn¡¯t believe in such nonsense," he said to Hawke, hoping to reassure her. "I know the Knight-Commander can be harsh, but she wouldn¡¯t go as far as that."

    The Champion was undeterred. "Can ye at least speak with ''er about it" she pleaded. "I''m being pummeled by the kin o'' them mages, all beggin'' to know the truth o'' the matter."

    "I will look into it," he assured her. "And I will send you a note as soon as I find something."

    Hawke thanked him and gave him a grateful pat on the shoulder before hurrying away. Cullen watched her go, deep in thought.

    As the day drew to a close, he resolved to uncover the truth about this matter as soon as possible. He made his way to the Knight-Commander''s office, determined to get to the bottom of it during his evening report. He entered Meredith''s office, saluted, and handed her the documents. As the woman sitting behind the desk finished scanning the papers and looked up at him, the air felt tense and heavy. Her reddened eyes were surrounded by dark circles, and her usually pale skin appeared even more drained. She looked like any other Knight in the Order, tired and overworked. Yet, despite her obvious exhaustion, she remained a picture of stoic composure.

    "I see that today passed without any incidents," she said, her voice quiet yet still commanding. "It''s a rarity for which we should give thanks to the Maker. However, there''s always more work to be done. Do you remember Knight-Templar Samson? I believe you two shared quarters."

    Cullen nodded. "Yes, Ser. He seemed like a decent man, but his sympathy for the enchanters led him astray, and he was dismissed from the Order."

    The Knight-Commander''s face grew somber. "There is always a price to be paid for trusting the mages," she said gravely. "I have received word that he now lives on the streets of Lowtown, spending his days begging and slandering the Chantry and the Templar Order. You have the discretion to employ any method you see fit, but I expect you to put a decisive end to this behavior."

    "Understood, Knight-Commander. I will take immediate action," he said, and after a brief pause added, "Request permission to ask a question on an unrelated matter, Ser."

    "Granted," she replied, her voice firm.

    "Ser, there have been rumors circulating in the city that the Order intends to subject all mages in the Gallows to the Rite of Tranquility."

    Her eyes narrowed, "Are you referring to the Tranquil Solution proposed by Ser Alrik?" she asked, her voice icy. "How did this information disseminate so rapidly throughout the city? Just as I thought, there are ears everywhere."

    Cullen swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. "With all due respect, Knight-Commander, this proposal is reckless. The Rite of Tranquility should be considered only as a last resort," he said, his voice shaking slightly.

    "I am aware of this, Captain Cullen," she replied, her tone slightly annoyed. "I have carefully considered the matter and have decided to reject the proposal. If that was all, I have pressing duties that require my attention."

    Relieved that his fears were unfounded, Cullen saluted again and left the Knight-Commander''s office. As he made his way through the halls of the Gallows, he sent a raven with the news to Hawke and resolved to head to Lowtown to deal with Samson.

    He strode purposefully through the narrow, winding streets of the district, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of Samson. Cullen''s task was not an easy one, Lowtown was a maze of winding alleys and tall, crumbling buildings looming on either side. The only sources of light were dim lanterns hanging from the walls, which barely illuminated the surrounding area. As he made his way through the twisting streets, he questioned the few people he encountered. Most were unwilling to speak to a Templar, and those who did provide information were either vague or unhelpful. The handful of paupers he encountered were equally uncooperative, either out of fear or distrust.

    The man continued his task, determined not to give up until he found the former Knight. After hours of fruitless searching, he finally came across a group of beggars huddled around a small fire and paused to ask them if they had any information on the ex-Templar. They stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes, but one of them finally spoke up, pointing in the direction of an old warehouse on the outskirts of the district.

    Cullen thanked the man and set off in the direction he had indicated. He arrived at the site to find it abandoned and dilapidated, with the windows boarded up and the door rusted shut. As he drew near, however, he heard a low moaning coming from inside.

    Drawing his sword, he pushed open the door and cautiously entered the dark interior of the building. The moaning grew louder, and he soon found himself in a corner of the warehouse, where a figure lay huddled in the shadows.

    It was Samson, emaciated and barely conscious, his body writhing with the agony of withdrawal. He was rambling incoherently about his lost cause and the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of the Chantry.

    Cullen couldn''t help but feel sympathy for him as he sheathed his sword and reached into his pouch to pull out a vial of lyrium. When he poured the contents into the man''s mouth, the effect was instantaneous. Samson''s eyes shot open, his hands grabbing for the bottle as he greedily gulped down more. He looked wild, like a man possessed, his desperation clear as he clutched at the vial.

    "More," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please, I beg of you. I am so thirsty, it''s unbearable."

    Cullen rose to his feet, looking down at the broken man before him with pity. "I can''t offer you any more lyrium," he said firmly, his tone gentle but resolute. "Now, listen to me carefully. If you want to remain a free man, you have to stop openly criticizing the Chantry and the Order."

    Samson looked at him in disbelief with sunken and hollow eyes. " A free man?" he spat, his voice bitter. "I was on a leash since the day I joined the Order. The lyrium...I never realized that it was taking more than just the fear, slowly, painlessly, until one day I woke up and couldn''t do without the stuff."

    Cullen winced as the man clung to his feet with surprising strength while he continued to plead. "It''s like a desperate thirst that nothing but lyrium can quench, please, just a little bit more. Just enough to ease my pain."

    The Templar was trying to pull away from the man''s grasp, but Samson held on tight, his voice trembling with emotion as he spoke. "It''s not going to be for free," he said, desperation creeping into his words. "I could give you names. Meredith would be pleased."

    Cullen''s interest was piqued. "What names are you talking about?" he asked, his tone laced with confusion.

    "Mages, for whom I smuggled things in and out of the Circle," Samson said, his eyes darting nervously. "Maddox wasn''t the only one that I helped."

    "You''re lying," The Templar accused, his voice low with suspicion. "It''s just an excuse to get more lyrium out of me."

    "No, it''s the truth, I swear to the Maker!" he insisted, his voice becoming more frantic. "I was protecting them, that''s why I didn''t mention their names at the time of my arrest, but I''m dying here, it''s either them or me now."

    The Templar''s eyes narrowed, "Fine," he said after a pause. "I promise you one more vial of lyrium if you tell me who they were."

    "Two vials," Samson countered, his eyes gleaming with greed. "It''s a long list."

    "No," Cullen replied, his voice steelier than before. "Either you take one, or I leave, and the next time you slander the Chantry, you go to the cell."

    "All right, one then." The man reluctantly relented.

    Cullen handed over the vial of lyrium to Samson, who took it with a shaking hand. The former Knight hurriedly gave him the names of the mages he had been helping, along with the items they usually requested. There were a total of eight people, some of them Senior Enchanters. The things they wanted varied from sweets to jewelry, and other mundane items that they could have theoretically obtained by making a request. As soon as the man finished speaking, he gulped down the lyrium and sank to the floor in relief. Within moments, he was snoring loudly.

    Cullen left the warehouse, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. He knew that for Meredith, Samson''s words would be enough to sentence the mages to Tranquility without trial. If he disclosed this information to the Knight-Commander, he would be dooming eight enchanters who might not be guilty of anything sinister. Yet, if he didn''t, he would be shirking his duty. He had shown leniency once before, and it had turned into tragedy.

    The Templar couldn''t shake a feeling of unease, he knew that whichever option he chose, it would not sit well with him. However, the Knight-Commander''s methods had never failed him before, and he trusted her judgment when it came to keeping the city safe.

    With a heavy heart, he took a deep breath and gripped the hilt of his sword. His eyes were fixed on the path ahead, and his jaw clenched tightly as he made his way toward the Gallows. The sounds of the city faded into the background as he concentrated on the weight of his weapon, which seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.

    True to form, Meredith didn''t bother to verify Samson''s story, nor did she attempt to put the mages on trial before sentencing them all to the Rite of Tranquility. In response, the Circle erupted in indignation.

    Stolen story; please report.

    This was the final straw for the First Enchanter Orsino. He made a bold decision to leave the Gallows, despite not having permission to do so, and made his way to the bustling plaza in front of the Chantry, where he started to voice his grievances. The tension in the air was palpable as Orsino stood on the steps leading up to the main cathedral, his voice echoing throughout the square of Kirkwall. He was determined to rally the people and make them aware of the struggles that the mages were facing under the rule of Knight-Commander Meredith.

    As he spoke, a crowd of curious onlookers and sympathetic supporters gathered around him, their eyes fixed on the passionate mage. The First Enchanter knew that this was his moment to shine, to make a stand against the oppressive regime that had ruled over his Circle for far too long.

    The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the square. Cullen, together with several other Templars, followed behind Knight-Commander Meredith, her face contorted with anger as she marched towards the mage.

    The Templars looked uneasy, their armor clanking as they tried to keep up with their commander. Cullen silently prayed to the Maker that they could resolve this conflict peacefully, but deep down, he knew that it was unlikely.

    The enchanter continued to speak, his words full of passion and conviction, as Meredith approached him. The two locked eyes and it was clear that neither would be willing to compromise.

    "I have every right to employ the Rite of Tranquility on those blood mages!" Meredith shouted, her voice like steel, as she strode right up to Orsino. The people in the crowd began to murmur, and a few started to boo the Knight-Commander.

    "What blood mages? They are esteemed enchanters of the Circle. Yet you accuse them of corruption without any proof." The First Enchanter countered, his voice ringing out loud and clear.

    The crowd started to cheer, emboldening Orsino further. He could feel the support of the people, and it gave him the courage to continue speaking out against the tyranny of the Knight-Commander.

    "I have every proof that I need, mage. Step down and follow me to the Gallows. My patience is at its end." Meredith''s voice dripped with menace, and the tension in the air reached a boiling point. Just as it seemed like things were about to come to a head, a familiar voice boomed through the square.

    "Avast ye scallywags! Be settlin'' yer nerves and lower yer voices!" It was Hawke, accompanied by Sebastian and Fenris, who had arrived on the scene just in time to defuse the situation.

    "This does not involve you, Champion." The Knight-Commander hissed.

    "I called her here, people deserve to know just what you want to do," Orsino replied.

    "All I want to do is protect the city and its people and save you mages from your curse and your own stupidity." Meredith retorted. She turned to the crowd and said, "I will not stop performing my duties! I will not lower my guard, I dare not!"

    Hawke looked at the woman unimpressed. "Do ye be knowin'' what ¡®touched in the head¡¯ means, matey?"

    Commander Meredith shot the Champion a deadly glare but chose to ignore her insolence. "What other options do I have? Do you not know what mages can do? Do you not see how they seek power to rule over us?"

    "You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so!" Orsino intervened.

    Meredith''s expression turned pained for a moment as she looked at the enchanter. "I know and it breaks my heart to do it, but I must be vigilant." Her expression changed again to one of ire, "If you can''t tell me any other way, don''t brand me a tyrant!"

    "This is getting us nowhere, Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this," the First Enchanter grumbled and turned to head up the stairs.

    Meredith raised her hand to signal the man to stop, but before she could utter a word, a voice thundered through the square, "She''s not going to help you!" The sudden interruption caught everyone''s attention, and they turned their heads in unison toward the source of the sound. There, standing in the center of the square, was a man with thin blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He was dressed in black robes that seemed to blend into the shadows, and his pale skin was visibly cracked, allowing blue light to escape from beneath it.

    As he walked toward the Knight-Commander the crowd instinctively parted before him, each person too afraid to get too close to the strange, otherworldly aura that seemed to emanate from his very being. The man''s eyes were wild, filled with a passionate intensity that bordered on insanity, and his movements were jerky and unpredictable as if he were possessed by some unseen force.

    "Anders? Is that you?" Hawke''s voice was laced with confusion as she tried to make sense of the situation.

    "The time for compromise is over!" the blond man declared with an air of finality. "There will be no half-measures. Mages will no longer submit to their Templar jailers. Let the world see our wrath!" The apostate slammed his staff into the pavement, causing a shockwave to ripple through the ground.

    Meredith raised her sword in response, unleashing a Holy Smite, aiming it directly at the mage''s head. The force of the blow was tremendous, splitting his forehead open and sending blood and brain matter spraying into the air. However, it was already too late to stop the unfolding spell. Magical energy filled the air, and the ground shook violently beneath their feet.

    The explosion that followed was like a thunderclap, a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the city. The force of the blast sent everyone on the square tumbling to the ground, Cullen¡¯s ears rang with the sound of shattering glass and crumbling stone.

    For a moment, all was chaos and confusion. Flames licked at the wreckage of the Chantry''s main cathedral, sending smoke and ash billowing into the sky. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood, and the screams of the injured and dying could be heard as they struggled to escape the ruins.

    Cullen coughed and blinked, trying to clear the ash-filled air from his lungs and eyes. As he struggled to his feet, he felt a numbness spreading through his body, as if he were watching the events unfold in slow motion. The First Enchanter''s lifeless body lay sprawled on the stairs, a jagged piece of wood protruding from his chest. He then saw Brother Sebastian, one of the few surviving members of the Chantry, on his knees, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at the burning ruins of his home. Hawke was by his side, trying to offer words of comfort and solace. Fenris was already on his feet, rushing to aid one of the injured Templars. His strong arms effortlessly lifted the wounded soldier, while his face was set in grim determination.

    As the smoke cleared, the full extent of the destruction became apparent. The once proud Chantry was now a twisted mass of wreckage and flames, and the surrounding streets were littered with debris and rubble. Bodies lay strewn about, their lifeless forms twisted in unnatural positions.

    Cullen noticed that warm streaks were running down his chin. He raised his hand to his face and winced in pain as his fingers brushed against a deep cut that ran from the corner of his lip to his cheek. The wound throbbed, sending sharp jolts of pain through his head at the touch. He could taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue as he tried to assess the extent of the injury. The cut was deep and would require attention, but he knew he couldn''t let it distract him.

    It was like Kinloch Hold all over again¡ªa reminder of the horror that magic could unleash upon the world. However, he was no longer the fresh-faced Knight he once was. He steeled his heart and went in search of his Commander, determined to do whatever it took to protect the people of Kirkwall from this madness.

    He found Meredith standing amidst the destruction, her sword still in hand, her armor battered and bloodied. Despite the deep gash on her temple and blood streaming down her face, she seemed almost exhilarated as she turned to address the Templars.

    "The Grand Cleric has been slain by magic, the Chantry destroyed," she declared, her voice ringing out above the chaos. "As the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment. Every mage in the Circle is to be executed immediately!"

    Cullen heard the cheers and shouts of approval from the people of Kirkwall and the Templars around him, but he didn¡¯t feel fully convinced. "Ser, the perpetrator responsible for this heinous act has already been slayed, besides, he was not a part of our Circle," he pointed out.

    Commander Meredith turned to him, her eyes blazing with a fanatical zeal. "I am sure he was in cahoots with the First Enchanter," she insisted. "Can''t you see that all of this is connected? The blood mages inside the Gallows, the abomination that killed her Grace. The corruption overtook the entire Circle. We cannot save it."

    Sebastian stepped forward, his eyes were bloodshot with anger and grief. "We must avenge Elthina," he declared, his voice choked with emotion. "She was like a mother to everyone in the city, the most faithful, the most beloved..." Hawke squeezed his hand in a silent gesture of support.

    Cullen swallowed, feeling a cold knot tightening up in his stomach. It looked like there was no way to avoid bloodshed.

    News of the impending annulment of the Circle of Magi spread like a noxious, swirling storm through the streets of Kirkwall. Rumors and whispers, urgent and insistent, became shouts and roars as people from all corners of the city, eager to seek revenge for the death of the Grand Cleric, rushed into the fray. To make matters worse, marauders took advantage of the chaos to loot and pillage the city, indiscriminately attacking anyone who got in their way. The City Guard tried their best to control the situation, hoping to prevent further civilian casualties, but they simply didn''t have the numbers.

    The mages, sensing that their very lives were at stake, fought with all their might, unleashing their formidable powers upon the streets of the city. Kirkwall had turned into a battlefield, where magic clashed with steel and the sound of screams filled the air.

    As the conflict escalated, the cornered and frightened enchanters were driven to desperation. In their last-ditch effort to save themselves, many turned to the forbidden art of blood magic. Some sought to take down as many Templars with them as possible, while others were simply ready to pay any price to save their own lives. The streets became flooded with demons and abominations.

    Amid this bloodbath, Cullen began to feel a deep sense of unease. Every mage that fell to his sword felt like a mistake, a betrayal of his own beliefs. This was not the reason he joined the Order, not why he dedicated his life to its service, not why he accepted the eventual madness that comes with lyrium addiction. He had joined the Templars to be a savior, a protector of the innocent. Yet, at this moment, he felt like an executioner.

    After a grueling fight that had lasted for hours, the weary and battered group finally stood before the crumbling Gallows. The last surviving mage of the Circle lay lifeless on the floor. The elderly enchanter had met his fate with dignity, refusing to offer even a hint of resistance. In his final moments, he spat in Cullen''s face before his sword delivered the fatal blow.

    The Templar grimly looked at the destruction surrounding him, his mind drifting back to the day he first arrived in Kirkwall. What had a decade of his service achieved? Despite his best efforts to prevent the tragedy of Kinloch Hold from repeating itself, he found himself standing amidst the ruins of yet another Circle of Magi. This time, the entire city lay in shambles alongside it. The Right of Annulment had been carried out, but had it truly made things better?

    As the man''s dark thoughts consumed him, Meredith''s voice rang out, cutting through the heavy silence. "Knights of the Order, we have almost purged the city of corruption. However, there is still one traitor among us." Her sword pointed directly at Hawke, her accusatory tone leaving no room for doubt. "You all heard that The Champion of Kirkwall called the abomination that destroyed the Chantry by its name. She knew the monster, but she never reported him to the Gallows."

    Hawke''s face twisted in anger and disbelief, her mouth opening to protest, but Sebastian stepped in front of her, blocking Meredith''s line of sight. "I don''t mean to offend, but, Knight-Commander, your accusations are unfounded," he declared firmly. "As a member of the Chantry, I can attest to the fact that we met the man once, many years ago, to purchase maps of the Deep Roads. Yes, we knew he was an apostate, but he was providing healing for the poor. I convinced Hawke not to report him because he was doing Maker''s work in Lowtown. If anyone is to blame, it is me. Arrest me if you must, but leave the Champion out of this."

    Meredith''s eyes blazed with an almost otherworldly light, her voice cracked with menacing energy. "Maker preserve me, corruption exists even in the Chantry¡¯s ranks," she muttered, her words laced with disgust. "The Brother and the Champion both succumbed to the influence of blood magic."

    "Knight-Commander," Cullen''s voice rang out, the tension palpable in the air. "The Champion of Kirkwall and Brother Sebastian have exhibited unwavering dedication in providing aid to the citizens of Kirkwall on numerous occasions. Having worked closely with them for an extended period, I can attest to their unblemished character."

    Meredith was having none of it. Her eyes glinted dangerously, and her sword started to glow with an ominous red light as she pointed it toward Cullen. "You will do as I command," she hissed.

    Cullen''s resolve hardened; his hand was on the hilt of his sword now. "No, I refuse to continue executing your commands without question. This has gone too far."

    Commander Meredith''s face twisted in anger as she held her sword aloft. "I will not allow insubordination!" she snarled.

    Hawke stepped forward, a glint of recognition in her eyes as she beheld the metal of the Knight-Commander sword. "Meredith, that thing be treacherous! ''Twill drive ye insane, mark me words!"

    However, the woman was not about to listen to anyone. "Lies!" she spat. "This is pure lyrium from the Deep Roads. It gives me the strength to stay vigilant. Templars, to arms! We must eradicate this threat once and for all!"

    Hawke tightly grasped her weapon, poised to defend herself, while Sebastian''s hand instinctively reached for his arrows and the tattoos on Fenris''s body began to glow.

    Cullen''s voice was steady as he stood his ground, unsheathing his sword. "Enough! This is not what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander, step down. I relieve you of your command!"

    Meredith''s face contorted in disbelief. "My own Knight-Captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic," she muttered darkly. And then, with a sudden burst of fury, she whirled around, her eyes blazing with anger.

    "You all have!" she cried out to the assembled Templars. "You are all weak, allowing the mages to control your mind and turn you against me!"

    The Templars began to back away, their allegiance uncertain. However, Meredith was not done yet. "But I don''t need any of you anymore," she snarled. "I can protect the city myself!" she exclaimed, slamming her sword into the ground and falling to her knees to pray.

    Her voice rose with every word, filled with righteous fury. "Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and DO NOT FALTER!" She cried out, her words echoing off the walls as she grabbed her sword and leaped in to attack.

    Meredith moved with inhuman speed, her movements precise and calculated as she lunged at Cullen with her lyrium sword. He used his shield to fend off her attacks, dodging and weaving to avoid the deadly strikes.

    Hawke, Fenris, and Sebastian were in perfect sync, each one covering the other''s weaknesses and taking advantage of any opening. They attacked Meredith when she was off-balance, their movements fluid and graceful as they danced around her. However, Meredith was a force to be reckoned with, and she was not going down without a fight. Her sword glowed with eerie, otherworldly energy as she summoned waves of power that rolled through the floor and knocked Hawke and her companions back. The sheer force of her attacks was enough to stagger them, and they struggled to regain their footing.

    This gave the woman the opportunity to concentrate her attention on the Templar. The clash of metal against metal filled the air as the Knight-Commander unleashed a barrage of attacks on Cullen, her movements were precise as she launched one strike after another at her opponent. The intensity of her hits grew with every passing moment, her two-handed sword slamming into Cullen''s shield with a strength that defied comprehension. Every hit sent shockwaves through Cullen''s body, but he fought on, trying to maintain his guard against the relentless assault.

    Despite his best efforts, his shield was no match for the lyrium-infused sword of the Knight-Commander. Soon, it became so deformed from the force of her blows that it was no longer serviceable, leaving Cullen vulnerable.

    Suddenly, an arrow flew through the air and grazed the Commander''s neck, leaving a deep wound. The woman let out a piercing wail, but quickly regained her composure and channeled energy from her weapon to create a deep red barrier around her form. As the next arrows hit her, they were deflected by the impenetrable shield. Fenris tried to phase through the barrier, using his abilities to his advantage. Instead, a potent charge was generated at the contact, which caused him to be thrown several meters away, leaving him in pain and disoriented. Hawke didn''t waste a second and plunged herself into the attack, but the sphere was impenetrable, her blows achieving nothing.

    Completely ignoring the Champion, the Knight-Commander swung her lyrium sword in an arch, creating a single powerful shockwave aimed directly at the elf. Cullen threw himself in front of the man, shielding him from harm. The force of Meredith''s attack was overwhelming, completely shattering his deformed shield with a thunderous blast of energy. He stumbled backward, leaving himself defenseless. Seizing the opportunity, Meredith charged forward with a vicious intensity, her sword slicing through Cullen''s armor like a hot knife through butter. The blade left a deep gash on his chest, causing a geyser of blood to spurt forth, while the man''s vision blurred from the searing pain as he fell to the floor. Despite his agony, Cullen fought to stay conscious, gritting his teeth, but the wound was deep and the blood loss was starting to take its toll.

    Unexpectedly, the Knight-Commander froze, her lyrium sword dripping with blood as she looked at her wounded Knight-Captain. The glow in her eyes flickered weakly as doubts and uncertainty crept into her mind. Looking lost and pained, she turned her back on him and began to walk away, muttering, "Maker, guide your humble servant. Is this really what I must do? What if I am wrong? What if this is all madness!?"

    Brother Sebastian sprang into action, seizing the opportunity to tend to the Templar''s wounds. He swiftly poured one healing potion over the injury and another one into his mouth. Cullen¡¯s pain subsided and the blood loss slowed, but he was in no condition to continue fighting. However, he knew he could still contribute. "Hawke, Fenris, be ready," he called out, "I will try to weaken her shield." Meredith shook her head vigorously, determination etched on her face. "NO! You dare not!" she screamed, facing Cullen just as he called upon the power of lyrium to dispel her barrier. His gambit paid off, and the Knight-Commander blinked in confusion as her crimson sphere began to slowly dissipate. Grateful for the opening, the elf summoned all his strength, his enchanted tattoos blazing with an intense blue light as he unleashed a blast of spiritual force at the Commander Meredith. The blast slammed into the woman, causing her shield to collapse completely. In that split second, Hawke lunged forward, her weapon striking true and sending Meredith tumbling to the ground. Brother Sebastian launched a flurry of arrows at the fallen Knight-Commander, each one finding its mark with deadly precision and biting deep into her flesh. Bloodied and wounded, Meredith let out a guttural scream, "I will not be defeated! Maker! Heed your humble ser--" Just as she was about to finish her plea, a sudden and deafening crack reverberated through the air, causing everyone to freeze in place. It was then that Cullen noticed that the Commander¡¯s sword was quickly crumbling in her grasp. Before he could make sense of what was happening, a fierce and vibrant swirl of red light erupted from the remains of the weapon, spreading out and enveloping the Knight-Commander in a blazing inferno. The Templar watched in horror as his Commander let out a piercing wail of agony, her body writhing and contorting as the crimson flames licked hungrily at her skin. The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the air around them as the flames continued to consume the woman relentlessly until she was nothing more than a blackened, smoldering husk.

    ***

    Cullen stood at the railing of the "Unsinkable," watching as the city of Kirkwall shrank into the distance behind him. Despite the blazing sun overhead, a chill lingered inside him, and he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. At his side stood Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine, her short raven hair whipping around her face in the wind. "I am glad that you accepted my offer, Cullen. To tell you the truth, given your dedication to the Templar Order, I didn''t expect you to agree." She spoke with a light Nevarran accent.

    Cullen remained silent for a long moment, lost in thought. The seagulls above screeched and wheeled in the sky, their cries mingling with the sound of the waves below. Finally, he spoke, his voice firm and resolute. "The Circles have fallen. I can give no more to the Templar Order, nor it to me. When you approached me with the proposition to join your cause, I realized that the Maker was showing me a new path. I felt that I must take it."

    The Right Hand nodded in approval, seemingly pleased with his answer. "You have proven yourself to be a capable leader. We can use someone with your experience and expertise."

    The man gave a small smile at the compliment.

    The ship continued to sail further and further from Kirkwall, the city now a mere speck on the horizon. Finally, the woman turned to the former Templar and asked, "Would you like to join me and Leliana for lunch?"

    He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the distant shore. "Thank you for the offer, but I would prefer to stay on the deck."

    "As you wish, I will see you later then," Cassandra replied. With that, she walked away, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts.

    He reached for the sword at his side, unsheathing it from its scabbard. It was a legacy from Meredith, who had wielded it with ruthless efficiency. The blade glinted in the sunlight, its edges honed to razor sharpness. For a long moment, he held it aloft, feeling its weight in his hand. Then, without a word, he cast the sword overboard, watching as it disappeared beneath the waves.

 The Conclave

    First Enchanter Lydia sat behind her desk, her tired eyes rubbed red and swollen. The old woman leaned back in her chair and emitted a deep, weary sigh. Her once immaculate hairdo was now disheveled, for she had been running her fingers through it in frustration for several hours.

    The table before her was littered with a chaotic mess of papers and scrolls, many of them crumpled and torn. Several candles burned low, their wicks nearly spent, leaving behind pools of wax in the candleholders. The room was filled with a flickering orange glow, casting long shadows upon the walls.

    Across from her sat a slight figure, almost too thin, dressed in simple enchanter robes of dark blue. The only adornments on her were a small embroidered Andraste¡¯s Grace flower on the upper left side of her garment and the timeworn amulet around her neck. Her hair flowed down over her shoulder in a long, loose braid the color of rich earth, the only aspect of her appearance that seemed remotely unkempt.

    Lydia watched as the woman''s furrowed brows betrayed her concentration while she scanned through the papers before her, her eyes darting from one sheet to another as if she were searching for something crucial. Despite her delicate appearance, there was a fierce determination in her, a tenacity that made the First Enchanter feel a sense of admiration and respect.

    Finally, Lydia spoke, her voice laced with gratitude. "I don''t know what I''d do without you, Miriam." With eyes fixed on the younger mage, she continued, "The last few years have been... trying. I''ve spent my entire life serving as a healer in the Circle of Magi, and to see it all fall apart... it breaks my heart every time I think about it." Miriam leaned forward, her pale face glowing in the warm light. She stretched her hand across the table and gently took the First Enchanter''s arm in hers. The ragged, scarred skin of her palm was even more obvious in the candlelight. "Do not despair, Lydia," she said, her voice filled with compassion. "The Maker shapes the back for the burden. We will pull through. We won''t let down the enchanters and the Tranquil who have come to depend on us."

    Lydia smiled warmly at Miriam''s words, grateful for her optimism and support. She patted Miriam''s hand affectionately, murmuring, "From your lips to Andraste''s ears, my girl." Suppressing a yawn with the back of her hand, she added, "If you don''t mind, I''m going to call it a night. My old bones need some rest." With effort, she pushed herself up from the chair, her staff clutched tightly in one hand. "An hour in the morning is worth two in the evening. I think it''s time for you to get some sleep too."

    "Just a few more minutes, and I promise I will go to my quarters," the woman pleaded softly. The First Enchanter nodded understandingly and slowly made her way towards the small cot in the corner of the room. Her staff tapped against the stone floor as she moved with the stiff, cautious gait of someone accustomed to physical limitations.

    "May the peace and blessings of the Maker be upon you as you rest," the younger woman called out tenderly as Lydia settled onto the cot, pulling the rough woolen blankets up to her chin. The old enchanter smiled in response, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "And upon you as well, my dear," she murmured before closing her eyes and succumbing to sleep.

    Miriam sat silently, deep in her thoughts, as she watched the peaceful slumber of her elderly mentor. She had worked tirelessly to earn the title of Senior Enchanter, building her skills and cultivating her connections over the years. It was a long and difficult journey, made even more challenging by the stigma that had been attached to her as a result of Mother Lucia''s accusations. Still, she persevered, focusing on her work as a healer and slowly changing people''s perceptions of her. Finally, after years of service, she had been appointed to the coveted position.

    Her attendance at the ceremony in Val Royeaux had been meticulously planned, with all the pomp and splendor befitting a grand occasion. Such was the anticipation that Miriam could hardly sleep as she prepared for the event. However, once again, all her best-laid plans crumbled in an instant. An abomination had unleashed its fury upon the Kirkwall Chantry, killing the Grand Cleric and reducing the sacred structure to rubble. Even though the culprit was an apostate, the Knight-Commander invoked the Right of Annulment and mercilessly slaughtered every mage in the Gallows in response. The shockwaves of these catastrophic events were felt far beyond the borders of Kirkwall. A ripple effect that spread like wildfire, plunged the entire Thedas into utter chaos.

    The Circles of Magi erupted in rebellion, their long-suppressed anger and frustration boiling over in the wake of the tragedy. The Templars, charged with maintaining order and quelling any magical uprisings, found no support from the Divine and abandoned their duties in retaliation. And people were now warier of magic than they had been for centuries.

    The world was unraveling, and the Ostwick Circle was not immune to the turmoil. Despite its neutrality in the Mage-Templar conflict, it was slowly crumbling. The changes were gradual yet inevitable like drops of water trickling through a crack until it widened beyond repair.

    The mages, after first disappearing one by one, were now leaving in droves. Some joined the rebels at Redcliffe, while others sought refuge with their families or tried to make a life for themselves beyond the confines of the Circle.

    Apart from the Tranquil, the few remaining enchanters in the Circle were either staunch Loyalists like Miriam, or mages who simply had nowhere else to go. First Enchanter Lydia was among them. She had spent all her life within the Circle''s walls and was ill-equipped to face the challenges of the outside world. Managing her finances, finding work, and securing a place to live were all daunting tasks for her and her fellow senior mages. They were frightened of the unknown, a world that they had been sheltered from for so long.

    The Templars of the Circle too, were caught amid the upheaval. While some had thrown in their lot with the rebellious Lord Seeker Lucius and his followers, others remained steadfastly loyal to their duty of safeguarding their charges. It was a precarious position to be in, indeed. Torn between their loyalties to the Chantry and the harsh realities of an ever-shifting world, they found themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. The conflict had taken a toll on the supply of lyrium, that power-giving substance upon which the Templars depended. As the war raged on, more often than not, the Knights were forced to suffer the debilitating withdrawal symptoms that came with its scarcity. In their desperation, they turned to the healers of the Circle, hoping against hope that they might find some solace from their torment.

    Miriam and her fellow healers labored ceaselessly to find a way to alleviate the suffering of their comrades in misfortune. Even as they dedicated themselves to the task, it quickly became apparent that the symptoms could only be mitigated to a certain extent. Potions and healing magic could help ease the headaches and fatigue, but the unquenchable thirst and the hallucinations remained as unbearable as ever.

    As if these trials were not enough, the Revered Mother Petra, in her infinite wisdom, saw fit to cut off the Circle¡¯s financing. With so few mages left in their ranks, she argued that they could surely support themselves by providing healing services to the people of Ostwick, as they had always done. Despite her fuming indignation at this decision, Miriam had no other option but to grin and bear it. Theoretically, Mother Petra was not wrong; the healers of the Circle were renowned throughout the city for their skill and expertise. However, in the current climate of fear and mistrust that gripped the populace, none were willing to seek out their aid.

    That is why, for the past few weeks, First Enchanter Lydia and Miriam have been consumed with the task of finding a way to sustain the Circle financially. Every day, they pored over the accounts for hours, scouring every detail to identify any further areas where they could cut costs and minimize expenses. Yet, despite their efforts, the task seemed insurmountable.

    They had already sold off everything that wasn''t an absolute necessity, and yet it was only a matter of months before starvation would set in.

    Frustrated and exhausted, Miriam turned her attention back to the papers in front of her. They needed to find a way to restore the trust of the people of Ostwick if they had any hope of finding a feasible solution to their financial woes.

    As she pondered the problem, the midnight bells chimed throughout the tower, signaling the late hour. Perhaps the First Enchanter was right¡ªa fresh head in the morning might yield a better solution.

    Slowly rising from her seat, Miriam extinguished the flickering candles and tiptoed to the door, making sure to shut it soundlessly behind her. She walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoed against the stone walls, a solitary resonance that seemed to highlight the stillness of the night.

    It suddenly occurred to her that with all the work she had done today, she had missed the evening service in the Circle¡¯s Chantry. Chastising herself for her forgetfulness, she knew she had to make amends, and so she turned towards the prayer room, her steps quickening as she neared her destination.

    The room was empty when she arrived; the only sound was the soft rustle of her robes against the floor. As she approached the altar, she saw that the Chant of Light lay open upon it. The tome was huge, its pages thick and yellowed with age, yet it seemed to glow in the dim light of the room.

    Miriam''s eyes swept over the familiar lines of text that had been ingrained in her memory since she was a child. "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him." The words were simple yet powerful, and as she read them, she felt a jolt run through her body.

    Everyone in the Circle had grown so accustomed to hearing those words that they no longer paid any heed to their true meaning. The means to win back the trust of the Ostwick populace were right there in front of her, within the very verse of the Chant itself.

    Excitement and hope began to bubble up within her as she realized that this might be the solution they had been searching for. With renewed energy, Miriam made her way back to her quarters, determined to start putting her plan into action. It wouldn''t be easy, but with the help of the Knight-Commander Tobias and the rest of the Circle, they could make it work.

    As dawn broke over the bustling market fair of Ostwick, the warm rays of the sun started to spread a blanket of golden light over the scene. The air was thick with the fragrance of fresh bread, exotic spices, and roasted meats as merchants set up their colorful stalls and prepared to greet the day''s customers.

    The square was filled with the sound of hawkers calling out their wares, the clatter of horses'' hooves as they pulled carts laden with goods, and the laughter and chatter of people.

    Amidst the throngs of citizens jostling each other in the market fair, a sightly procession made its way through, causing curious glances and whispers to spread through the crowd. The Templars, resplendent in their shining armor, surrounded a large group of mages from the Circle of Ostwick, who carried several banners of the Circle of Magi. The banners fluttered gently in the wind as the group advanced toward the center of the fair, their solemn demeanor attracting the attention of all who passed by. At the head of the procession, Miriam and Commander Tobias walked in a stately fashion, leading the way for the others. The stoic Knight-Commander, clad in heavy plate armor, stood in stark contrast to the frail-looking woman walking beside him, her long, loose hair cascading down to her knees.

    As they moved steadily towards the heart of the market fair, the crowd grew hushed and people gazed at them with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. The sight of so many mages suddenly gathering in one place was enough to set hearts racing. The Templars flanked the enchanters on all sides, their eyes alert for any sign of danger or hostility towards their charges.

    The very air seemed charged with anticipation as the procession finally reached its destination, standing at the very center of the city square. All eyes were fixed on the woman and the Commander, awaiting with bated breath the revelation of their purpose.

    Miriam¡¯s hand traced the amulet around her neck, and the small trinket gleamed in the sunlight. With a deep breath, she turned to face the people, her eyes scanning the expectant faces before her.

    "My fellow citizens of Ostwick," she began, her voice ringing out clear and strong, "I stand before you today, humbled by the power that has been entrusted to me by the Maker, yet acutely aware of the responsibility that comes with it. I am here to regain your trust and to restore your faith in magic and in those who wield it."

    A murmur of skepticism rippled through the crowd, but she pressed on, determined to make her message heard. "The words of the Prophet Andraste resonate deeply within me," she continued. "¡®Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.'' I believe in these words, and I pledge to live by them every day of my life."

    She paused for a moment, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "But let me be clear, the path of a mage is not an easy one. The power we wield is immense, and it can be all too easy to let that power go to our heads. That is why today, all the loyal enchanters of the Ostwick Circle will stand before you in prayer."

    Miriam swiftly knelt down on one knee, clasping her hands together in front of her. The other mages followed suit, their voices rising in a united prayer: "O Maker, grant me humility, that I may know that my purpose is to serve. Grant me strength so that I may use my power for the greater good. Grant me compassion so that I may understand and empathize with those who do not share my abilities. And grant me patience that I may endure the trials that come with my powers."

    The people watched in silence as the mages rose to their feet, holding high the Circle of Magi banners. Miriam''s gaze swept over the faces before her, her eyes blazing with fierce determination. "I am aware of the ongoing war that plagues our land, and I perceive that you are fearful of us, and I do not reproach you for it. However, I give you my word that the mages of Ostwick Circle shall employ their gifts solely for healing, restoring, and serving. We shall stand by your side in times of trouble, and we shall use our magic to shield you from any danger that may come your way."

    As the woman spoke, her words struck a chord with some in the crowd, and they erupted in fervent cheers as if stirred by her sincerity. Yet a great many remained skeptical, their doubts palpable in the air like a thick fog.

    "We swear to never forget the words of the Prophet Andraste and always strive to use our powers for the greater good!" she announced, her voice echoing across the square. As she finished her speech, the applause was mixed with a cacophony of derision and disbelief.

    Tobias strode over to Miriam, approval etched on his stern face. "Well-spoken, mage. But it''s time to return to the Circle. We cannot risk any unrest in the city."

    The enchanter nodded in assent, and the Commander and his Templars moved in to escort her and the other mages back into the safety of the Ostwick Circle. As they made their way through the square, Miriam could feel the tension rising. She saw the dread and ire etched on some of the faces, and it was evident that not everyone was won over by her words.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.Suddenly, a cry went up from the back of the crowd, and a group of angry men armed with makeshift weapons began pushing their way toward them while hurling insults and threats. Miriam''s heart raced as she saw them approaching, their faces twisted with wrath. The Commander''s voice boomed out over the noise, "Templars, form a ''Shield Wall'' and hold the line. We must ensure the safety of the mages. " He turned to the enchanters and commanded, "Remain calm. Do not attempt to leave the protective formation. Keep your heads down and stay as low as possible." Miriam and the other mages huddled together, terrified, while the Templars formed a wall with their shields around them and drew their swords. She spoke in a hushed voice to her peers, "Use no magic, for if anyone casts a single spell, we are all doomed."

    "Stand aside at once! The mages are under our protection!" Commander Tobias barked, his voice cutting through the din of the angry mob. Miriam could see the determination on his face and felt a surge of gratitude.

    The mob pressed closer, brandishing their weapons before the Knights. Still, the Knight-Commander and his men stood firm, their swords and shields at the ready.

    "Step aside, you flaming fools!" spat one of the leaders. "These damn Fade humpers should rot in the Void!"

    The Commander did not flinch. "We shall not permit any harm to befall them, and should you employ violence, we shall defend ourselves with all our might." He declared his voice cold and steady.

    For what felt like an eternity, the two groups faced off against each other, neither willing to back down. Yet, slowly but surely, the fuming multitude began to disperse. Some of the angriest members of the mob threw down their weapons and skulked away, while others muttered curses and retreated into the crowd. At long last, the mages were able to proceed on their path.

    Finally, they arrived at the gates of the Circle and breathed a collective sigh of relief. Miriam turned to the Knight-Commander and his Templars. "Thank you," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Thank you for protecting us."

    The man nodded his head in acknowledgment, his face stern and unyielding. "There is no need for gratitude, we were simply performing our duties," he replied, his voice low. With that, the group entered the Circle, and the gates closed behind them. Tobias gave her a curt nod of dismissal before departing to the Templar quarters with his people.

    As Miriam stepped down the halls, the whispers of her fellow enchanters reached her ears. Some of them were tinged with hope and eager anticipation of the possibility that they might receive support from those outside their walls. Others, however, carried a sense of skepticism, as they knew that today, without the Templar¡¯s intervention, the mob would have likely descended upon them, tearing them limb from limb in a frenzy of fear and hatred.

    She caught sight of First Enchanter Lydia peering out from the corner, watching their arrival with trepidation. The old woman had been eager to accompany them to the event, but Miriam was glad that she had insisted on her staying in the tower. The commotion and chaos of the day would have been too much for the frail enchanter.

    With a broad smile on her face, Miriam made her way over to her mentor, eager to recount the day''s events. She carefully selected her words, omitting anything that might upset the woman. After all, the last thing she wanted was to cause her any unnecessary worry or distress. Together, they made their way to the First Enchanter''s quarters, where they spent the rest of the evening discussing the future of the Ostwick Circle.

    Despite the naysayers, the power of her words had not gone unnoticed, and she managed to plant the seeds of understanding and empathy in the hearts of some of Ostwick¡¯s citizens.

    As the days passed, she saw the fruits of her labor. For the first time in a long while, the demand for the healing potions and enchanted goods provided by the Circle grew. People also began to request visits from the healers again, the numbers may have been minuscule compared to prewar times, but it was a start, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. The atmosphere in the tower changed, with a newfound sense of purpose and optimism permeating the air, Miriam couldn''t help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction. Finally, she succeeded in one of her endeavors.

    In the coming weeks, the news of the Conclave reached the Circle, permeating every conversation and thought of its inhabitants. The very possibility of peace and order being restored to their war-torn world was a glimmer of hope that everyone desperately clung to. Amidst all the excitement and anticipation, Miriam found herself engrossed in her work, brewing potions in the infirmary. As she stirred the bubbling cauldron, lost in thought, the sudden entry of the First Enchanter jolted her back to reality.

    Lydia was visibly agitated, holding a letter in her trembling hands; paper folded with meticulous care. She handed the sheets to her student, her voice quivering with excitement and urgency. "Look at this my girl," she said, "it¡¯s the invitation from the Loyalist fraternity of the College of Magi to attend the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It seems your declarations at the Ostwick square reached their ears, and you caught their attention!"

    Miriam stood frozen, clutching the paper tightly in her hand, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum. It was as if time had stopped and the world around her had ceased to exist. The invitation was like a dream come true¡ªa chance to contribute to the peace talks and help shape the future of the Circle. Even more than that, it was a chance to finally bring the attention of the Divine to Mother Lucia¡¯s crimes.

    A sense of awe washed over her as she looked down at the letter, feeling the weight of its importance in her hands. The Maker was giving her another chance to make a difference, to stand up for what was right, and she was determined to seize it with both hands.

    Miriam stood before her mentor with a rekindled determination in her eyes. Her lips were set in a firm line, and her shoulders squared, "The Maker is showing me the way," she said, her voice full of emotion. "I will do everything in my power to help restore peace."

    Lydia smiled at her student, her eyes glimmering with pride. She had always seen something special in Miriam, something that set her apart from the other apprentices in the Circle. "I do not doubt that you will, my dear," she said, placing a hand on the woman''s shoulder. "You have always been a strong and determined student, and I have faith that you will carry Andraste''s teachings with you wherever you go."

    The old woman turned towards the large cauldron that simmered over the fire, stirring the potion inside. "Now, go and get yourself ready for the journey," she said, her voice softening. "I will finish brewing the potions for you."

    Miriam gave an affirmative nod and hurried towards her quarters, eager to prepare for the road ahead.

    Several suns had set when she found herself standing before the imposing gates of the Circle. She was flanked by three of the Templars who had been assigned to accompany her on her journey. Her heart was fraught with a mixture of excitement and trepidation as she bid farewell to her mentor, "Your wisdom and guidance have been a light to me," Miriam whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around Lydia. "I shall be back before you can even miss me."

    The old woman returned the embrace, her eyes brimming with affection. She murmured a short prayer for the travelers, her voice soft and melodious. "May you encounter a road that rises to greet you, may the wind remain always at your back, may the sun shower warm rays upon your face and gentle rains fall upon your shoulders. And until our paths cross once more, may you be cradled in the embrace of the Maker''s hand."

    Miriam pulled away, her eyes filled with tears. "May Andraste bless you and keep you, and may Her grace shine upon you always," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

    The First Enchanter tenderly cupped Miriam''s cheek for a second before she took her leave, slipping through the iron gates that marked the bounds of the Circle. Miriam lingered there for a moment, gazing at the stately tower that had been her home for over a decade. Then, with a resolute turn, she set her sights on the path ahead, her stride firm and her countenance unflinching.

    ***

    Miriam''s eyes slowly opened, as if weighted down by the fog that surrounded her. The damp earth beneath her was cold and unyielding, and she could feel the chill seeping through the fabric of her robes. As she struggled to rise, her ears were filled with a high-pitched ringing that seemed to reverberate through her entire body.

    It was then that the woman¡¯s gaze fell upon the eerie and unsettling scene that lay before her. The ground was a desolate expanse of rocky terrain, broken only by jagged protrusions of bright red lyrium, alive and pulsating with some unknown energy, jutting up through the ground like twisted fingers reaching for the sky. The thick fog that enveloped everything was a spectrum of different hues of green, making it difficult for her to see more than a few feet in any direction.

    As she looked closer, she could make out strange and unsettling sights. Rocks that defied gravity floated in the air, seemingly held in place by some unknown force and alien structures that were both intricate and unsettling, as if they had been formed by some twisted hand that did not understand the nature of beauty.

    For a moment, Miriam was disoriented and confused. She could not remember how she had come to be in this place or what had led her here. The last thing she remembered was the Temple of Sacred Ashes, rising before her in all its grandeur and the sea of attendees as she struggled to make her way through the crowd.

    Still, as she stood in this strange and desolate landscape, she knew that something was very wrong. She was alone, surrounded by things that should not exist, and had no memory of how she had come to be there.

    While her mind was in disarray, a sudden jolt of excruciating pain shot through her left hand. At first, she couldn''t fathom what had caused it, but as her eyes flicked downward, she saw the cause of her torment. A gaping wound had appeared on her palm; the flesh had split apart as if pierced by a dagger, exposing tendons and bones.

    As she beheld her injury in disbelief, an icy terror crept its way into the depths of her being. Instead of the blood that should have flowed forth, an eerie, otherworldly, verdant hue emanated from the wound, suffusing the cavity with an unnatural glow. The ghastly luminosity began to dissipate, seeping relentlessly into her veins, causing them to engorge and pulsate with an emerald fervor, spreading up the length of her arm until it was all drenched in the sickly shade. The agony that beset her was almost unbearable; it was as though her entire limb was engulfed in flames, and her howls of pain reverberated across the bleak terrain.

    She caught a glimpse of them just then. Demons. Creatures of darkness and malevolence that haunted her worst nightmares. They emerged from the shadows, closing in on her from all sides, their eyes gleaming with hunger. Approaching her, they came into clearer view, and she could discern the distorted lines of their figures, their flesh a ghastly hue of ashen pallor, and their jagged claws reflecting the dim glow around them.

    Miriam tried to summon her magic, but her efforts proved futile; her mind vailed with pain and confusion was unable to focus. Overwhelmed by terror, she became aware of her utter impotence. The creatures seemed to feed off her fear, savoring her fright with sinister smirks. She knew that her fate was sealed¡ªthat they would tear her apart and drag her soul down into the abyssal Void.

    Brought low to her knees, tears cascading down her face, she braced herself for the inevitable as the fiends crept ever nearer, their talons poised to rend her asunder. And yet, within that fateful moment of despair, a spark of hope flared to life in the depths of her being. Summoning every last shred of her courage, she lifted her gaze skyward and beseeched, with fervent abandon, "O, Andraste, shield your unworthy servant from harm''s way!"

    As if in answer to her plea, a sublime figure of celestial grandeur suddenly materialized before her very eyes. An effulgent female spirit of incomparable beauty and grace, whose very aura emitted a warm, enveloping radiance that banished the surrounding darkness. The apparition outstretched her hands towards Miriam as she scrambled to her feet and ran towards the light, her tears of anguish and terror giving way to tears of solace and reprieve. With a desperate longing to seek refuge in what she believed to be the Prophet''s embrace, she reached out for the figure, only to be assaulted by a blinding burst of viridescent light that erupted from her mark. The rift had suddenly opened up beneath her, and she felt herself plummeting into the unknown.

    The wind rushed past her as she fell through the void, her lithe form twisting and turning like a leaf caught in the grip of a merciless hurricane until she was abruptly thrust onto an unyielding stone surface.

    Her senses in disarray, she strained to regain her bearings, frantically scanning her surroundings in search of any trace of the Maker''s Bride, resplendent in her golden glory. Yet, her fevered gaze met only the cold, steely stares of armed soldiers, their weapons pointed at her with lethal intent.

    The foremost among them was a fair-haired man, wielding a long sword with poised readiness. His imposing stature and brawny physique were only further emphasized by the sleeveless battle coat that he wore, bearing a fur collar that stood out against his armor. As she beheld him, his demeanor brought to mind the Knight-Commander of her Circle. In his carriage and bearing, he exuded a similar air of authority and command. In his unwavering gaze, she detected the same piercing intensity that spoke of a readiness to strike should he deem it necessary.

    Standing alongside the blonde man was a woman, garbed in the trappings of battle and draped in a black tabard emblazoned with the crest of the Seekers of Truth. Her face bore a perplexing mixture of ire and bewilderment as if she could not quite discern the true nature of the events unfolding before her. Her gaze darted restlessly back and forth, trained intently upon Miriam as she sought to unravel her intentions.

    Lagging slightly behind the pair, a third figure lurked, her fiery locks concealed beneath a shadowy hood. Clasped firmly in her grasp was a sleek bow, her fingers taut as she drew the string back, poised to release a lethal arrow at a moment''s notice. Miriam could feel the coldness emanating from her piercing gaze, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

    A palpable hush descended upon the scene, as if time itself had ground to a standstill. At long last, the hooded woman broke the deafening stillness, her words spilling forth with a cutting iciness. "Tell us why we ought not to put an end to you this instant?" she demanded with a steely resolve.

    As Miriam was about to give her response, a sharp and persistent pain in her hand disrupted her train of thought. The wound that had given her some respite suddenly burst open with a ferocity that made her feel as if she had been stabbed anew. A violent tremor coursed through her body, and at that moment, she was enveloped in a blinding emerald light that burst forth from her palm. Instantly, the Seeker of Truth stepped forward, and with a swift and fluid motion, she raised her hand to summon a Spell Purge. The effect was instantaneous. The anguish and the flashes of light ceased, but Miriam felt as though she was being wrung out like a wet rag, and her senses were overwhelmed by a dizzying sensation of nausea and disorientation. As she slumped to the ground, gasping for breath, she couldn''t shake the feeling of d¨¦j¨¤ vu when she saw a pillar of brilliant, blinding light descend upon her with its smothering radiant aura.

 The Herald of Andraste

    Commander Cullen, his boots caked in ash and debris, slowly made his way through the desolate ruins of the once magnificent Temple of Sacred Ashes. The grand structure, which had once stood tall and proud as a symbol of divine power, was now reduced to rubble and cinder. The very air around him was thick with the acrid scent of burned flesh and decay, a haunting reminder of the horrors that had taken place here. Behind him marched a weary procession of soldiers, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair. They had borne witness to an event beyond the bounds of the human imagination: the temple, brimming with the faithful, rent asunder by an explosion, and the sky torn apart by a gaping wound in the Veil.

    Amidst the ruins of the once holy place, they found only one survivor: a strange woman who had fallen from the Fade itself. She was an enigma, a puzzle that none of them could solve. How had she survived the explosion that claimed so many lives, including that of the Divine Justinia herself? More importantly, how had she managed to enter the Fade, a realm reserved for spirits and demons? The mere contemplation of such a notion made Cullen shudder with trepidation. The only recollection of people physically venturing into the Fade occurred centuries ago and ultimately resulted in the cataclysmic First Blight that nearly decimated the entirety of Thedas.

    The Commander¡¯s ears were keenly attuned to the soldiers'' whispers behind his back, and he found himself intrigued by their discussions of the mage, the sole survivor of the explosion. Like him, they all saw a golden female figure standing above her as she fell out of the rift. Yet the identity of this apparition remained shrouded in mystery. Some of the soldiers posited that the vision was nothing more than another illusion of the Fade or a manifestation conjured up by the powerful mage''s own mind. Others, however, saw the glorious figure as an omen, a harbinger of an even greater upheaval to befall the land.

    Despite their varying theories, all men seemed to agree on one thing: that the enchanter was the culprit. The fact that she had not been summarily executed on the spot was a source of bewilderment and discontent among the troops, and Cullen could hardly blame them.

    If he were to scrutinize his conscience, he would not deny that an eagerness to hold her accountable had taken root within him as well. The allure of slipping back into the familiar grooves of anger and fear that had so long defined his life was all too tempting. The years spent in the abyss of these emotions had left an indelible mark on his psyche. To his own dismay, the familiarity of their smothering embrace had somehow become a refuge that beckoned to him like a siren''s call. Yet, despite the pull of these dark feelings, he found himself fighting to keep his composure.

    As he gazed upon the havoc that had once again engulfed him, he felt as if the Maker was testing him, daring him to give in to the demons of his past once again. However, what happened with Meredith taught him that succumbing to such instincts would only serve to further compound the chaos. Thus, with a resolute will, he compelled himself to surmount his first visceral reaction and tried to maintain a state of impartiality and reason in the presence of yet another brazen display of magical power.

    "Ugh, this woman''s shag is driving me to the brink of madness," the Right Hand of the Divine grumbled, her powerful form unyielding beneath the weight of the unconscious suspect''s body draped over her shoulder like a sack of grain. The mage''s head lolled listlessly behind her back, with the long locks wriggling between Cassandra''s legs and getting caught in the debris as she strode forth. "Commander, do me a favor and cut this thing short," she said, her voice thick with irritation. "I am tired of struggling to keep it in place, and I would hate to stumble and fall because of some errant strands of hair."

    Without hesitation, Cullen unsheathed his sword and strode over to the prisoner. He gathered her hair at the base of her neck, and with a swift motion, he sliced it off. The long locks fell away, tumbling to the ground like a cascade of dark silk.

    His gaze fixated upon the enchanter''s left hand, drawn once more to the strange wound that glowed dimly as if with an inner light. It was a most disconcerting and disturbing sight; the veins upon her palm were so visibly enlarged that it seemed as if they might burst forth from the confines of her flesh at any moment. A ghastly greenish hue tinged their surface, giving off an air of something decidedly unnatural. Though the rest of her hand was concealed beneath the folds of her robes, he sensed with growing unease that the affliction was spreading faster than he thought, as the strange and eerie green glow had started to spread to her neck as well.

    There was much to be done, and yet it looked like they didn''t have much time on their hands. The woman Cassandra carried was their only lead in this tangled web of mystery and chaos, and her premature demise would complicate things beyond measure. That¡¯s why they found themselves with no other choice but to transport her to their camp at Haven with the utmost haste, not only to stabilize her condition but also for the purpose of interrogation.

    Leliana, ever the efficient scout, had already advanced ahead to prepare the dungeon for their captive and to seek counsel from the enigmatic elf Solas, who had appeared in the village just hours after the Breach had torn the sky asunder.

    The man had entered their camp voluntarily and, despite being met with suspicion and apprehension, surrendered his staff to the Chantry forces without a word of protest. He spoke calmly of his expertise in magic tied to the Fade, claiming to have studied it on his own, free from the constraints of the Circle. His story was convenient, almost too much so, but the witness reports of his presence in a nearby settlement during the Conclave blast gave him some measure of credibility, and he was not considered a suspect in the disaster.

    To their surprise, the elf indeed proved knowledgeable about the Fade, describing its effects on the Breach in detail that convinced even the most skeptical of his competence. And so, with trepidation, they allowed Solas to study the smaller rifts that had appeared close to Haven. Though the risks of accepting an apostate''s aid were great, the potential benefits outweighed the danger, at least for the time being.

    Cullen hoped that with the help of their unlikely ally, they might finally unravel the connection between the woman from the Fade, the Breach, and the Conclave''s explosion.

    As they trudged further along the mountain path, an abrupt chill shot down his back, causing him to wince involuntarily. Despite a fortnight without lyrium, his Templar senses remained acute, primed to detect the slightest disturbances in the Veil. In a jolt of alarm, his head snapped upwards, his eyes widening in surprise as he witnessed the sky above him split apart by an eerie emerald light, birthing a small rift. He could hear the demons already starting to make their way through the opening, their otherworldly howls and screeches filling the air with dread.

    "We can¡¯t afford to abandon this gateway to the Fade, not this close to the settlement," Cullen said, his voice low and urgent. "Lady Cassandra, take the prisoner to the camp. My unit will establish a foothold here and secure the rift."

    The Seeker nodded resolutely, her sharp features set in determination. "I''ll dispatch additional troops to your location as soon as I can," she said before rushing off towards Haven with surprising speed, the unconscious prisoner slung over her shoulder.

    His gaze lingered on her retreating form before turning to the soldiers, who looked pale and frightened; most of them had never faced the denizens of the Fade before. The Commander''s voice was firm and commanding as he spoke to his men, "Our objective is to maintain this defensive perimeter. The demons must not be permitted to advance any further towards Haven." They all nodded in unison, their swords at the ready.

    The air around them crackled with otherworldly energy, and the monsters began to pour through, their twisted forms illuminated by the viridescent light that was spilling forth from the rift. The smell of sulfur filled his nostrils, and he felt a surge of adrenaline course through his body.

    At his command, they charged towards the looming swarm of ghastly wraiths that ominously accompanied a formidable rage demon. His heart raced with a mixture of apprehension and eagerness, and his eyes fixed on the enemy before him.

    With a well-honed instinct, Cullen reached deep within himself and called upon the lyrium, only to be met with a sharp, agonizing pang of emptiness that pierced through his very being. It was a strange and surreal sensation as if he were trying to wield a phantom limb that no longer existed.

    Despite his knowledge of the inevitable, actually experiencing the loss of his powers was a jarring and disorienting shock to his system. For so many years, his abilities had been an integral part of his identity¡ªa tangible proof of who he was and what he could do. And yet, here he was, stripped of his powers and forced to rely solely on his own strength and cunning.

    However, Cullen was no stranger to adversity or challenges. He recalled that he had willingly left behind his former life as a Templar, determined to start anew and forge a different path for himself. Powers or not, he was a seasoned and experienced soldier with a warrior''s heart and soul. Thus, with a steely resolve, he cleaved his sword through the wraith, and the phantasm dissolved into fragments with a dazzling flare of emerald radiance.

    Cullen¡¯s face was caked with sweat, blood, and grime, the result of countless hours spent locked in a desperate battle with the demons. Every inch of his body was screaming with pain; fresh cuts and bruises stung with every movement, and his muscles ached with exhaustion. The fight seemed endless, with wave after wave of monsters crashing against their defensive perimeter.

    The creatures were not individually powerful, but their sheer numbers were overwhelming, and slowly but surely they wore down his soldiers. The casualties were mounting by the hour. Several of his men lay dead, their lifeless bodies scattered across the battlefield, while others writhed in agony with injuries both severe and life-threatening. The rest were exhausted, their spirits crushed by the unending onslaught.

    The Right Hand had promised to send reinforcements, but none had arrived so far. He couldn''t help but feel a creeping sense of unease¡ªwhat if something had gone wrong? What if Cassandra had been ambushed on her way to the village, or if the prisoner had somehow regained consciousness and attacked her? The scope of things that could go awry seemed boundless, and the anxiety that gripped his heart as he contemplated these prospects disturbed his concentration. The Rage demon, quick to capitalize on any weakness, saw the opening in his defenses and disappeared beneath the ground, only to emerge directly under his feet and drop him onto his back. Cullen gasped in pain as his body hit the cold, frozen terrain with a sickening thud. Above him, the demon lifted its fists, which glowed with molten lava, ready to crush him with their smoldering weight.

    Just as he prepared himself for the inevitable strike, he was suddenly engulfed by a protective blue barrier that absorbed the full brunt of the monster''s attack. A surge of healing energy traversed through his body, mending his wounds, bruises, and aching muscles. The sensation of magic coursing through his veins was terrifying, and panic rose within him as he struggled to catch his breath.

    Through his blurred vision, he saw Holy Smite fly past him, its holy power piercing through the demon''s chest and leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The force of the spell continued onward, striking a wraith that had been lurking behind the demon and reducing both monsters to ash.

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    As the dust settled, Cullen frantically scanned the battlefield to find out who had joined in to fight. To his immense relief, he caught sight of Cassandra and Solas rapidly approaching, their bodies moving with a sense of urgency. Surprisingly, the survivor was with them as well, her lithe form trailing slightly behind the Seeker. The elf lifted his staff, and a burst of chain lightning sprung forth, staggering the demons in its path. The Seeker called upon the power of the Blessed Blades, not just for herself but for the soldiers fighting alongside her. With newfound hope and invigoration, they fought harder with their weapons now coated in a radiant holy light that dealt devastating blows to the creatures of the Fade.

    Still, even with their combined strength, the battle continued to rage on. Cullen felt the barrier around him continue to glow, its power pulsing against his skin. He knew that he could not bear it much longer, and turned to face the woman who had been holding the spell.

    "Free me from your enchantment, mage, at once!" he commanded, the indignation that she had dared to cast upon him stoked by the terror.

    The enchanter recoiled from him; her hands shaking as she hurriedly broke her spell. As the magic faded, Cullen let out a deep sigh of relief and reengaged in the battle with renewed vigor, his sword swinging with deadly precision.

    With the last of the demons vanquished, a fleeting moment of respite descended upon the battlefield. Solas wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to act. Urgently, he turned to the other mage, his grip firm as he took hold of her marked palm and pointed it toward the rift.

    "Listen to me," he commanded, his voice calm and collected. "Connect with it, feel its essence as though it were your very own magic. Let it surge through you, and then exert your will over it as you would with your own spell." The prisoner looked at him with alarm and confusion etched into her features, but she complied with the instructions nonetheless. Her brows furrowed in concentration, and the mark on her hand began to glow with a bright intensity. A visible link of green light formed between her palm and the tear in the Veil, like a cord connecting two distant points.

    He could see her body shaking with the immense exertion it took to maintain her grip, the sinew in her neck bulging as she fought to gain control over the rift. Her eyes, already wide with fear, widened even further as the pulsing green cord jittered as if possessed of a life of its own. Sweat started to flow down her face, which contorted with effort. "I cannot master it. It is too strong," she implored, her voice betraying her desperation.

    "I am allowing my mana to course through you," the elf declared, his voice ringing with a resolute tone. "Take hold of it and draw upon its strength. You are capable of this, I know it to be true." His eyes locked on the woman''s hand as he channeled his own energy into her body.

    As Cullen stood there, transfixed by the unfolding scene before him, he felt the very air itself begin to thicken and warp with eerie, otherworldly magic. It was a force unlike any he had ever encountered, one that seemed to twist and distort reality itself, creating a maelstrom of energy that pulsated with raw, ancient power.

    In wonderment, he watched as the woman''s eyes glimmered with ethereal green light, mirroring the hue of the rift that lay before them. And then, with a sudden burst of determination, her fingers clenched into a death grip, and her body wracked with a piercing cry, she severed the connection between herself and the tear in the Veil.

    As the edges of the rift shrank in on themselves, sealing the tear shut with a blinding flash of light, Cullen let out a long, slow breath and relaxed, realizing only now how tightly he had been holding the hilt of his sword. "Is it sealed for good?" he asked, turning to Solas.

    The elven mage, with a sigh of relief, relinquished the prisoner''s hand and turned to face the Commander, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. "Verily, we have triumphed," he intoned, his voice resounding with a sense of achievement. "Miriam has proven herself capable of sealing the rifts, albeit the lesser ones."

    "The merit is not mine," the woman said, intervening with a voice that was feeble and exhausted but unwavering in its conviction. "I am but a humble servant of Andreste. It is thanks to her divine blessing and the aid of Master Solas that I was able to perform such a feat."

    Watching the woman closely, Cullen noticed that she seemed even more pale and drained than when they had first encountered her. The suspect¡¯s short, uneven strands of hair were plastered to her face with sweat, and the pattern of green veins that had previously crept up her neck had now reached her cheek.

    Cassandra approached him, her eyes scanning the wounded soldiers with a mixture of concern and determination. "Solas," she called out, her voice carrying with it a sense of authority and confidence. "Please tend to the injured with your magic." The elf nodded obediently and proceeded to cast healing spells, his hands moving in intricate patterns as he channeled the power of the Fade.

    It was then that the prisoner perked up and spoke with a quiet urgency in her voice. "I could help as well," she offered. "My healing spells are second to none."

    Cassandra''s expression soured at the suggestion. "I can''t allow you to cast a spell upon our people while you are still a suspect," she retorted, her voice firm and unwavering.

    The mage¡¯s face fell at the rejection, and she clutched her hand tightly around an old, worn amulet that hung from her neck. As Cullen watched the exchange, his eyes fell on the burn scars that marred her hand. He found himself feeling a sense of amusement; after all, he had a similar flaw. In her case, however, he suspected that the scars were the result of a failed fire spell, a common mistake made by young apprentices still learning to harness their powers.

    "But," Cassandra continued, her voice softening slightly, "you can give out the health potions that I brought."

    Miriam''s eyes shone with fervent eagerness as she gratefully accepted the pouch filled with flasks from the Right Hand.

    As she approached the wounded, some men pushed her away, unwilling to receive her aid. Miriam seemed unfazed by their rejection, simply moving on to the ones who were too weak to protest. She tended to the wounded man with the careful gait of a seasoned healer, her fingers nimble and deft as she administered the health potions to them. Cullen observed the way she moved, her body fluid and graceful even with all the strain of her affliction. It was clear that she possessed a talent for healing, despite her current predicament as a prisoner and suspect.

    When the two enchanters moved away from them, the Seeker turned to him in a hushed yet resolute voice and said, "Solas is the Maker''s instrument. Not only did he stabilize the mage, allowing me to carry out my interrogation, but he also revealed a most surprising fact that her mark has the power to seal the rifts".

    Cullen leaned forward, eager for further details. "What have you uncovered? Did she offer a confession?"

    Cassandra''s expression darkened. "No, the mage professes her innocence," she said, her voice laced with a hint of frustration. "Miriam maintains that the circumstances leading to her present plight elude her memory. According to her, she entered the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the next thing she knew, she was inexplicably transported to the Fade. Her injury materialized suddenly and without warning, and as she was assailed by demons, Andraste descended from the heavens to her aid."

    Cullen''s brow furrowed, and he frowned in confusion. "Andraste?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "Surely she cannot be serious."

    The Seeker''s lips twisted into a grimace. "I know, but we cannot discount her claims entirely, the mark on her hand is undeniable. It has the power to close the rifts. And for now, that is all that matters."

    "If her power was bestowed by the Holy Andraste, why is it killing her? This doesn¡¯t make sense." He went on in disbelief.

    "I don¡¯t have the answer for you, I am afraid," Cassandra said with a tinge of exasperation. "What¡¯s important now is to close the Breach. The rest can be resolved in due time."

    The Commander nodded slowly; his face darkened with doubt. "You speak the truth, but I find it hard to believe that closing the Breach, which is an infinitely greater task, can be accomplished by the woman who was so greatly taxed by a mere rift," he muttered, his voice low and uncertain, as if burdened by the weight of his apprehension.

    The woman¡¯s eyes narrowed. "Well, she either succeeds or she will die trying," she replied nonchalantly, though the words were laced with a grim determination that belied her casual tone. "Take the wounded soldiers with you to Haven," she continued with an air of authority. "We cannot abandon the village without proper leadership. The able-bodied men will accompany us to the Breach."

    "What about Sister Nightingale?" he asked with concern.

    "Leliana has ventured to the Hinterlands with the bulk of our troops," the Seeker replied, her gaze momentarily glancing at Miriam before returning back to Cullen. "The conflict between the renegade Templars and mages at the village of Crossroads was escalating. If we hadn''t intervened at once, the fate of the refugees would have been sealed. Hence, I couldn''t send reinforcements to you."

    The Commander heaved a deep sigh, "I understand. I will do what I can to keep Haven safe until your return."

    The woman''s gaze fixed upon the Breach, her countenance fierce and unyielding. "We''ll succeed," she declared with an unshakable determination. "For we have no other choice but to triumph."

    Their troops came back from the Temple of Sacred Ashes bearing the limp form of a solitary survivor, yet the air surrounding her was thick with an altogether contrasting reverence. She was carried as if she were a fragile glass figurine, and whispers of awe and adoration trailed the procession. The same man and woman who had once referred to her as a cursed abomination or a wretched whore now spoke of her in tones of unmistakable veneration. As Cullen watched the march with a mix of disbelief and resentment, he couldn''t help but voice his thoughts aloud. "It''s amazing how quickly their tune has changed. They were spitting venom at her just hours ago, and now they''re calling her the Herald of Andraste."

    One of his soldiers, a gruff man with a thick beard, shrugged. "It''s the power of belief, Commander. People need something to hold onto, especially in bloody times like these. And if they believe that the woman is their savior, then so be it."

    Cullen shook his head, still unable to wrap his mind around the sudden transformation. "But how can they be so blind? She''s just a person, like you and me."

    The bearded man gave him a stern look. "Ser, that woman is the only one who can seal those damn rifts, and that means something."

    He opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. There was no point in arguing with a man who was set in his beliefs. Instead, he simply watched as the procession made its way past him, the whispers of admiration and worship growing louder with each passing moment. It was clear that the mage had become more than just a person - she was a symbol, a beacon of hope in a world that desperately needed it. Whether or not Cullen believed in her newfound holiness, he couldn''t deny the power she gained over the hearts and minds of the people around her.

    Solas, also unconscious, was carried with far less fanfare, his form relegated to a position of relative obscurity in the procession. Upon arrival, he and the Herald were taken to the infirmary to begin their convalescence.

    The Right Hand of the Divine was the last one to reach Haven, scarcely managing to keep her feet moving, propped up by the arm of a man who sought to keep her from falling. Despite her exhaustion, Cassandra was electrified with newfound hope. Her voice trembled with fervor as she recounted the events that had taken place.

    They traversed through the site of the explosion, where ghostly visions of the past flickered in the air and the voice of the Divine echoed through the area, calling out to Miriam for protection and aid. Everyone saw how the woman had hastened to the Most Holy''s side, only to be thwarted by the true perpetrator of the crime. Although the apparition was cut short before it could reveal the identity of the culprit, it had proven Miriam''s innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt.

    Once they arrived at the Breach, they found themselves face-to-face with the formidable Pride Demon, a battle that would have cost several of their men their lives had it not been for the Herald''s ability to cast multiple spells at once, weaving them into a complex tapestry of magic that enveloped all those around her. She conjured shimmering shields of light and healed wounds with a single gesture.

    To his surprise, Cullen detected a new note in Cassandra¡¯s voice when she spoke about Miriam¡ªa sense of respect that had not been there before.

    After the demon had been vanquished, the Herald attempted to close the Breach, but it proved to be an impossible task. The sheer power of the rift was overwhelming, threatening to consume her entirely. Solas, recognizing the dire situation, offered his own strength to aid her once again, but even this was not enough. In a desperate bid to help, Cassandra used her own abilities to suppress the magic of the Breach. The strain was immense, and the effort left her drained and weakened. Miriam and Solas were also overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, falling unconscious from sheer exertion. Still, in the end, through their combined efforts, they had successfully managed to contain the Breach, preventing it from spreading any further and stopping the demonic incursions.

    "It is a triumph," the Seeker declared, her voice trembling with emotion as she concluded her tale. "Perhaps not the victory that I had envisioned, but a triumph nonetheless."

    Cullen''s heart was torn between the hope and doubt that filled his soul as he listened to Cassandra''s words. Granted, there was something miraculous about Miriam''s ability to mend tears in the Veil, but he couldn''t shake the lingering thought that it might all be a cruel twist of fate. Could it be possible that she was indeed the chosen one of Andraste, sent to save them all from the chaos and destruction that had befallen Thedas? Or was this yet another ploy by the mage, a cunning deception that would lead them all to their doom?

    Only time would tell the answers to these questions, but for now, the ability to close the rifts lay in the palm of that one woman''s hand, and he was determined to do everything in his power to aid her on her path to seal the Breach, whether it was ordained by the Maker or not.

 The Crossroads

    Miriam stood before the meager looking-glass in her cabin, her pallid face peering back at her from beneath short, choppy locks. The mark had been subdued since they stabilized the Breach and the green engorged veins that had once crept with alarming abandon all over her body had now receded to a mere few, clustered around a narrow emerald gash upon her palm.

    She made a minute adjustment to the collar of her cloak and smoothed out the wrinkles in her robes, fussing over her appearance for the momentous meeting that lay ahead.

    Through the slightly ajar window, the bright rays of the sun and the sounds of the bustling life outside came in, bringing a vibrant energy to the room. The clatter of steel-shod boots and the raucous shouts of soldiers drilling in the field filled the air. They mingled with the muted voices of merchants hawking their wares and the rhythmic clack of workmen''s tools. She could hear the ringing of the bells, their ethereal melody carried by the wind from the nearby Chantry, rising above the sounds of the village,  touching the hearts of all who heard them.

    Miriam took a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves. This was a crucial day, and she knew that she had to be at her best.

    Upon having fulfilled their duty to secure the Breach, she and Solas fell into a deep slumber that rendered them incapacitated for three consecutive days. In the meantime, they were granted shelter in the infirmary. Yet even after several days of rest, while the elf was able to recover his stamina, she remained in dire need of convalescence. Thus, Miriam was assigned a modest cabin, where she languished for a full week under the begrudging supervision of a skilled, if ill-tempered, healer by the name of Adan, who seemed to fancy himself an alchemist above all else. She suspected that he had used her condition as a pretext to experiment with his latest concoctions, for the remedies she had ingested were most peculiar indeed. She didn''t mind so much, though, as they proved highly effective not only in restoring her physical well-being but in replenishing her mana as well. She made a mental note to ask him for the recipe, should the opportunity arise.

    During her period of seclusion, Solas visited her to assess the state of her mark and to keep her abreast of the world''s events, which marched forward even during her recovery.  With a writ from the Divine Justinia, the Right Hand had proclaimed the rebirth of the Inquisition, naming Miriam as the Herald of Andraste, a fact that spread far and wide. The remaining Chantry clergy, however, refused to support the nascent organization, denouncing its members as heretics. Despite this, people flocked to join their ranks, eager to aid in the restoration of order.

    Commander Cullen also graced her with a visit, presenting her with maps of the village and offering explanations as to the locations of important landmarks and how to proceed in the event of an enemy attack.

    Finally, after much time spent in recovery, Adan deemed her strong enough to take on the weighty mantle of the Herald of Andraste. And so early this morning, a messenger arrived to inform her that she had been summoned to formally introduce herself to the prominent members of the newly formed organization. He also revealed that when the afternoon bells tolled, the Commander himself would escort her for that purpose to the Chantry, where one of the chambers had been designated as the War Room for the Inquisition.

    Deciding that she was presentable enough, Miriam made her way out of the cabin, feeling a slight chill as the crisp, cold air enveloped her frame. As she awaited Cullen''s arrival, she sensed the inquisitive glances of the Haven''s inhabitants fixed upon her. Gradually, folks began to approach the mage, imploring for her holy blessing. One elven woman even fell to her knees, uttering, "Bless me with your infinite grace, oh Herald of Andraste."

    Startled, Miriam rushed to her side, trying to lift the female to her feet. "You should not kneel before me, for I am only an instrument in divine hands, nothing more. Your reverence should be reserved for the Maker and his Bride."

    Yet the elf did not seem to heed her words, remaining prostrate before the enchanter and refusing to rise. Before long, a crowd had gathered around her, grasping at her clothes in an effort to capture her attention. "Please, good folk, unhand me," she beseeched, striving to navigate her way back to her cabin through the dense throng.

    "You are the Herald of Andraste! Your blessing will deliver us from evil!" cried one villager.

    "Your mere presence gives us hope!" shouted another.

    Miriam felt overwhelmed by their adoration and the weight of their expectations. "I am but a humble servant of the Maker," she insisted.

    Despite her best efforts to quell the crowd, they swarmed around her like a frenzied horde of bees. Miriam felt her hair being yanked, her arms pulled in every direction, and for a moment, it seemed as if the mob might swallow her whole, until a stern masculine voice cut through the cacophony, commanding their attention.

    "Everyone, calm yourselves!" he bellowed. "The Herald of Andraste is here to serve you, but she cannot do so if you do not show her the respect she deserves as a fellow child of the Maker."

    Miriam looked up to see Cullen making his way towards her, his broad shoulders parting the crowd like a ship through a stormy sea. The worshipers were no match for his imposing stature, and he pushed them aside with ease until he stood before her.

    With a sense of relief flooding through her, the mage watched as the people around her began to quiet down. "This ill-treatment of the Herald will not be tolerated ever again. Now get on with your day!" The man commanded, his voice grave and unyielding. Like leaves scattering in the wind, the multitudes quickly dispersed, leaving Miriam and the Commander alone.

    She took a deep breath, her heart racing from the ordeal. The frigid mountain air filled her lungs, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face. "Indeed, it is true what they say, that there is nothing more dreadful than the fury or fondness of the crowd," she murmured.

    She opened her eyes to see Cullen gazing at her with concern etched on his face. "Are you unharmed? That was a rather tumultuous scene."

    Miriam nodded. "I am fine, Commander. Thank you for your timely intervention. I don''t know what would have happened had you not come to my rescue."

    "It is my duty to protect the people of Haven, you included," he replied. "However, we must tread with caution in the future. The masses can be hazardous when agitated."

    "You are right. I cannot overlook their fervor." After a brief pause, she added, "Could one of the Templars be assigned to guard me?"

    The Commander appeared momentarily surprised by her request. "I must confess, that is an unexpected appeal. Most of the mages harbor animosity towards the Templars as a matter of principle, so I was about to offer one of our soldiers for the position."

    "Why would I hate my protectors?" Miriam queried, her brows furrowed in confusion. "During my time in the Circle, it gave me great solace to know that someone was always by my side to shield me from the dangers of the world and the demons that may lurk within the Fade. Would you not find such a company comforting?"

    The man chuckled wryly. "How strange it is that I have never felt that my presence was considered a comfort. Rather, it has always been regarded as either a nuisance, a fright, or an insult."

    "You are a Templar!" Miriam exclaimed with delight.

    Cullen''s countenance darkened slightly. "I was a Knight once, but I have since left the Order," he replied somberly.

    "I see," she acknowledged briefly, sensing that this topic was a sore point for him.

    "I will make arrangements for Lysette to be your bodyguard. Although she is not a full-fledged Templar, as a recruit, she has undergone rigorous training and is an honest and dependable woman," he offered.

    "Thank you, I will feel safer with her by my side," the mage replied gratefully.

    A small smile graced his lips as he gestured towards the path leading to the Chantry. "You are most welcome. Shall we proceed?"

    Miriam nodded in assent, and together they made their way towards their destination.

    As they traversed the well-worn paths of Haven in uneasy silence, she deemed it a fitting moment to seek forgiveness for the unsolicited use of her magic during their battle at the rift. She knew full well that her intentions had been pure and that she had only sought to protect and heal the man, but the suddenness of her actions had unsettled him. It was not a promising start for their budding relationship as members of the same organization.

    "I must apologize to you, Commander," she began, her voice faltering slightly. "I realize now that my use of magic upon you during the battle must have been startling, and for that, I am sorry. I had no ill intention, but I understand your disquiet at experiencing sorcery from a woman suspected of such heinous crimes."

    He did not immediately respond, but the tension in his body seemed to ease somewhat at her words. "Your apology is accepted, Lady Miriam," he finally said, his voice low and guarded. "Perhaps my initial reaction was somewhat... excessive. But you must understand that my relationship with magic is complicated and strenuous, born out of years of fighting against those who would wield it for darker purposes."

    Relieved at his forgiveness, she proclaimed, "I vow to obtain your permission before ever a spark of my spell ventures in your direction."

    ¡°That would be appreciated, Herald,¡± he replied, his tone conveying a sense of satisfaction.

    At that moment, the wind whistled through her hair, and she brushed it from her face with a gentle hand. Miriam could not shake the feeling of unfamiliarity with her new hairstyle. Her locks were her pride and joy, the very embodiment of her womanhood in a frame that was otherwise bereft of overtly feminine traits. It was frivolous, of course, to mourn over such an insignificant matter when the lives of so many were lost each day in the war. Yet try as she might, she could not help but feel some resentment toward the unwanted haircut.

    Her inner musings must have been evident on her face as Cullen cleared his throat, signaling his desire to speak.

    "I also feel compelled to extend my apologies." His voice was contrite as he continued, "Lady Cassandra did instruct me to shear off your locks for the sake of convenience, but I confess that I paid little heed to her commands. In retrospect, it is conceivable that I erred in cutting it so drastically short. Having spent considerable time amidst soldiers, I had grown forgetful of the cherished significance that women often attach to their hair."

    "It shall grow back, fret not," she uttered in a gentle tone. "Though I fear my current appearance lacks certain femininity¡­. I sure hope that I wouldn¡¯t be mistaken for a man," she murmured, her lips barely moving as if afraid to give voice to her anxieties.

    Cullen, however, appeared to be oblivious to her apprehension. "Your worries are needless," he replied. "Your figure is far too delicate, too fragile, to warrant such confusion. Perhaps if one were to catch a glimpse of you, they may take you for an adolescent boy, but surely not a man."

    She let out a bewildered expression, her eyes wide open in disbelief at his words. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, her voice laced with confusion and a hint of indignation.

    As the realization of his blunder dawned upon him, a flush of shame stained his cheeks crimson, and he stumbled over his words in a hasty attempt to rectify the situation. "I mean...what I was attempting to convey is that...."

    A sigh escaped the mage''s lips, her heart unable to harbor ire towards the man before her, as the remorse etched upon his face dispelled any notion of malice. "I thank you for your efforts to console me. Why don''t we direct our attention to the more pressing concerns at hand?" Her lips curled into a small smile, and with a gesture towards the looming entrance of the Chantry, she urged them forward.

    Cullen, looking grateful for the shift in discourse, nodded his agreement. "Indeed, let us do just that." And with a mutual understanding, they proceeded down the hallway and into the War Room, leaving the weight of their previous awkwardness behind them.

    As the heavy wooden door creaked open, they were immediately greeted by the dim light of the room. A musty smell of old books and incense filled the air, suffocating in its intensity. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with dusty tomes and copies of the Chant of Light, their spines worn and frayed from years of use. The low, flat ceiling seemed to press down upon them, making the room feel even more claustrophobic.

    The only source of light came from a few flickering candles, casting dancing shadows across the walls and creating an eerie atmosphere. In the center of the room, a large wooden table dominated the space. It was cluttered with papers and maps, with ink bottles and quills scattered haphazardly about. Miriam''s eyes were drawn to the four women gathered around the table, each one a study in contrasts.

    One of them was immediately recognizable as the Seeker, her imposing presence unmistakable. Another brought back memories of the time she fell out of the Fade, a haunting memory that sent a shiver down her spine. The other two were strangers to her. One was a muscular woman in armor, whose frame looked even more imposing than that of the formidable Right Hand. Her face was covered in scars, and she wore an eye patch that only added to her fearsome appearance. The other woman was a refined lady in extravagant golden attire, with frills and laces that seemed out of place in such a quaint place as Haven.

    To her surprise, their arrival went unacknowledged as all attention was fixed on the heated discussion unfolding before them. The Seeker stood with arms crossed, her brow furrowed in consternation, as she faced off against the woman with the eye patch. "How can I regard you as part of the Inquisition when your convictions are so fickle?" Cassandra challenged. "In Kirkwall, I implored you to assist the Conclave, but you refused me time and time again, stating that you don¡¯t give a damn about this war. And yet here you are, seemingly eager to lend a hand. How can I trust that you won''t change your mind again?"

    The target of the Right Hand''s inquiries scratched her head, the visible jagged scars between the short, spiky strands of raven-black hair bearing testament to her turbulent past. With her one remaining eye, she regarded Cassandra with an air of indifference. "Me opinion hasn''t changed," she asserted. "I still don''t give a rat''s arse about a bunch of blokes in skirts and their bleedin'' war. But ye know me man. He be wantin'' to help this Herald of Andraste close the blasted Breach and avenge the Divine. And so, here I be, doin'' the foolish things one does for love."

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Cassandra regarded her with exasperation. "Does your entire life revolve around Brother Sebastian? Do you not feel that your obsession with that man is excessive?"

    The woman''s response was sharp. "Be we not cut from the same cloth, lass? At least I''ll be dedicatin'' me life to a true man, not some bloke who left us all behind just to get some alone time with his missus Andraste."

    The Seeker''s anger flared, her indignation palpable. "Do not dare to utter blasphemy in my presence!" she snarled, slamming her fist onto the table.

    A golden-clad lady intervened with a soothing voice, "Lady Hawke, I implore you to refrain from any disrespectful remarks towards the Maker if you truly wish to become part of the Inquisition council. Besides, I am sure that Brother Sebastian would not approve of such behavior either." She then turned to the Right Hand, "And Lady Cassandra, please consider that we are in dire need of allies. The Champion of Kirkwall is a well-renowned figure that could bring some legitimacy to our cause."

    "Josephine speaks the truth," Cullen interjected. "Lady Hawke is a skilled warrior in her own right, but when combined with the likes of Fenris and Sebastian, they become a truly formidable team. Their addition to our military forces would be a valuable one. Besides, having a member of the Chantry openly join our cause would be a significant step forward. The Brother''s reputation among the clergy would aid our efforts tremendously."

    "Ugh, very well," Cassandra relented with a lackluster tone. "If that is what you all desire, let it be so."

    As the tension gradually dissipated and an oppressive stillness settled over the chamber, Miriam''s gaze roved from one countenance to the next, and she was beset by a sudden, inexplicable doubt as to whether she was truly present in their minds. Amid so many illustrious figures, she felt diminished and inconsequential, her hands fidgeting nervously as she sought to exude an air of composure. Yet she found herself unable to stifle her agitation, her fingers picking restlessly at her nails. She all but, jumped out of her skin when the Seeker held out a hand for her to approach the table saying, "Let''s get straight to it. Currently, the Inquisition is without a leader, and the council, of which you are a member in your role as the Herald of Andraste, is responsible for making all decisions. As you are well acquainted with me and Commander Cullen, I shall spare you the tedium of our introductions and go straight to the remaining members of our governing body." With a gesture towards the woman adorned in resplendent golden attire, she continued, "This is Josephine Cherette Montilyet, the ambassador and chief diplomat of the Inquisition."

    Josephine executed an elegant curtsey, her movements graceful and fluid. "I am looking forward to working with you, my Lady."

    Then, the Seeker directed her attention to the hooded woman with fiery red hair and icy, unyielding eyes. "You have already met once, but allow me to introduce her formally. This is the Left Hand of the Divine, Leliana. She serves as our spymaster."

    Leliana''s expression shifted slightly at the mention of her title. "Cassandra," she said sharply, "there¡¯s no need to announce my creed so openly."

    The Right Hand opened her mouth to retort, but before she could utter a word, she was interrupted by Hawke, "Ye be the Herald of Andraste, aye? I was hopin'' for someone with a bit more mettle. I could snap ye in two with me two pinkies, lass," she commented, regarding Miriam with interest, her eyes flicking up and down as if sizing her up.

    Cullen chuckled at her irreverent remark, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth. "It is nigh impossible to envision a soul that you could not effortlessly break in twain, Hawke"

    The warrior laughed a deep and throaty sound that filled the room with a sense of vitality and energy. "Aye, that be true enough." She gave Miriam a broad smile that revealed a missing tooth. "I be Marian Hawke, the finest warrior in all of Kirkwall. But ye can call me Hawke," she proclaimed with a confident air. Cassandra''s eyes rolled in a gesture of annoyance, but she refrained from any comment.

    Miriam cast a fleeting gaze upon each individual in the War Room, and then, with a flourish, executed the finest curtsey that her limbs could muster. With a clear and unwavering voice, she declared, "It shall be my greatest privilege to work with every one of you."

    "Now, let us discuss our next course of action," the Right Hand spoke in a businesslike tone. "Solas has concluded that we might be able to close the Breach if we channel sufficient power into the mark on the Herald''s hand. This means we must seek assistance from either the rebel mages or the Order."

    Leliana, her countenance animated, pointed her finger at a map of Orlais. "I have received intriguing information that Grand Enchanter Fiona was recently sighted in Val Royeaux."

    Josephine''s expression registered surprise. "But why would the leader of the rebellion abandon her charges in Redcliffe and travel alone so far?" she wondered aloud.

    "That is precisely what makes this development so interesting, especially considering that Lord Seeker Lucius is also present at the capital."

    Cassandra''s expression turned grim as she spoke, "Lucius was once moderate in his views about the freedom of mages. He supported the Divine''s Conclave, and many Seekers believed he would compromise to end the war. But now, his opinions have taken a sudden and inexplicable turn. He openly advocates for the Templars to establish themselves as a power in their own right, and many of the Knights are eager to listen. I can''t shake the feeling that there is something more going on."

    Miriam, buoyed by her faith in her role as the Herald of Andraste, offered a hopeful suggestion. "Perhaps I could reason with him and bring him back to the right path. Surely he cannot abandon his vows to protect the people of Thedas?"

    "Or, we could approach the mages, their power¡­" Leliana ventured, but the Commander silenced her with a stern expression. "Will doom us all. You cannot combat the inferno with fire, Leliana. The Templars have devoted their entire lives to extinguishing the dangers of magic, we must rely on their expertise."

    The Left Hand''s countenance grew steely, her eyes narrowing. "Pray tell, do you speak as the Commander of the Inquisition or as a former Knight?" she challenged.

    "I speak as one who possesses common sense," he retorted with a hint of vexation.

    The air grew taut with tension once more, and again it was Josephine who endeavored to diffuse it. "Regrettably, neither the Grand Enchanter nor the Lord Seeker can be approached. We remain deemed heretics by the majority of the populace and the ruling powers. At the moment, we are denied entry to Orlais due to this very fact. We must first rally the clergy to our cause before we may petition to lift the ban."

    "Aye, me man can lend a hand with that. Me hearty knows some Mothers and Sisters, and he''ll be sure to sweet-talk ''em into joinin'' our crew." Hawke proffered.

    Leliana nodded in agreement, adding, "And whilst we await Brother Sebastian''s efforts to bear fruit, we ought to vanquish the apostates and renegade Templars at the Crossroads. We have stabilized the region surrounding the refugee camp in the village, but until we eradicate those miscreants for good, our progress will be fleeting."

    Cassandra, visibly agitated, clenched and unclenched her fist and said, "Let us waste no more time then. I propose that Hawke, accompanied by Fenris, lead a unit to subdue the mages, while myself and Commander Cullen, lead our troops to vanquish the renegade Templars.  Leliana, I entrust you with the responsibility of overseeing Haven in our absence."

    A wry smile crossed Hawke''s lips as she responded, "Fenris be chompin'' at the bit to unleash his fury on them apostates! ''Tis been a fair while since he''s had such a chance!"

    Cassandra continued, her voice resolute. "Josephine, I request that you lend your aid to Brother Sebastian in his efforts to win over the Chantry clergy. Your persuasiveness will prove invaluable in this endeavor."

    The ambassador smiled enigmatically; it was obvious that her mind was already racing with ideas. "Do not fret," she replied. "I will lend my personal touch to his letters to make them all the more convincing."

    As the others turned to each other, discussing their plans of action, a look of confusion crossed Miriam''s face. "And what about me?" she asked, uncertain of her role in this mission.

    The Right Hand of the Divine fixed her gaze upon the mage, her expression thoughtful. "We cannot afford to send our only means of closing the Breach into the heat of battle," she explained. "You and Solas shall tend to our wounded soldiers and civilians at the camp at Crossroads. Rest assured, Corporal Vale shall find you other tasks to occupy your time."

    Miriam''s eyes shone with eagerness at the prospect of helping those in need. "I am at my best when I serve others," she declared. "It will also be a chance for me to sway their hearts, to show them that Andraste has bestowed upon me this gift so that I may bring peace to the Maker''s children."

    Cassandra, looking pleased with the outcome, concluded, "Well, if all of us are in agreement, then tomorrow morning we shall march to Hinterlands."

    For days, the Inquisition forces had journeyed through the winding roads of the countryside, enduring the harsh elements and treacherous terrain. Finally, they reached the outskirts of the village of Crossroads, and as they gazed upon the scene that lay before them, Miriam was struck by the signs of destruction that surrounded her.

    The buildings were in disrepair, their once-sturdy walls now crumbling and worn. Makeshift tents and huts dotted the landscape, with smoke rising from the fires that had been lit to cook the meager meals of the refugees who had sought asylum there. The pitiful cries of children and the moaning of the wounded could be heard from every corner of the village, and it was as if the very air was suffused with the scent of suffering. She could feel her heart ache for the people who had been forced to endure such hardship.

    As the members of the Inquisition arrived at the village, they split off for their respective missions, leaving Miriam, Solas, and Lysette under the command of Corporal Vale. Together with her guard, she was quickly assigned to aid Mother Giselle in her toilsome endeavors of tending to the dispossessed, whereas the elf was summoned to enlist himself among a paltry band of huntsmen, tasked with the pursuit of untamed rams for their hides and flesh.

    In light of the atrocities committed by the frenzied apostates in the region, she was strictly forbidden from exercising her magical abilities. It was feared that the populace, already traumatized by the harrowing events, would not receive magic kindly. Hence, she devoted her days to gathering medicinal herbs and concocting curatives in tandem with Giselle, laboring tirelessly to relieve the sufferings of the sick and injured. Occasionally, the Mother would implore her to employ her talents in aiding the womenfolk, whether it be by sewing blankets from scraps of fabric salvaged from the rubble or lending a hand in food preparation. However, more often than not, her duty remained unchanging. Despite the grueling nature of her work, Miriam found solace in knowing that her toil was a beacon of hope for those who had lost everything. This realization served as a wellspring of strength that sustained her through even the most arduous of days.

    Solas, on the other hand, seemed to thrive in the company of the hunters. His lithe form moved with grace and fluidity as he stalked his prey through the wild, his sharp senses honed by years of living in the wilderness. Although he was not a skilled hunter by any means, he seemed to relish the challenge of tracking and catching the elusive rams.

    As the days stretched on, all of them labored unceasingly at their respective duties, each contributing their share to the aid of the beleaguered denizens of Crossroads.

    Mother Giselle remained wary of the so-called Herald of Andraste, but with every callus that formed on Miriam¡¯s palms from gathering herbs, with every pricked finger as she sewed blankets, the Mother''s attitude toward her seemed to soften. Though still regarded with a measure of circumspection, the mage detected a glimmer of recognition for her tireless efforts, which overjoyed her. In the mage''s eyes, Mother Giselle epitomized the ideal of a true servant of the Maker. Her devotion was unwavering, choosing to remain amid the war-torn region when other Chantry clergy fled to safety. She was wise and composed, possessing a knack for uttering just the right words to calm even the most agitated of spirits. Moreover, she was unfailingly compassionate, always extending a helping hand to those in need, regardless of their background, be it mage, elf, or dwarf. Miriam bitterly mused how different her life might have been had every Mother followed Giselle''s example, but she did not indulge in such fancies for long, knowing them to be fruitless what-ifs.

    As she toiled alongside Lysette, boiling bandages in the cauldron for disinfection, Corporal Vale approached them with a somber expression. "Have you seen Mother Giselle?" he asked. "One of the elders requires the last rites. It won''t be long now."

    Miriam felt a tinge of sadness, but she knew all too well that no potion or spell could prevent death from the ravages of time.

    "We''re running low on elfroot, and with none left in the vicinity, she decided to venture closer to the east road, where nobody collects it," the other woman explained.

    Vale''s expression darkened even further. "Nobody collects it there because that area is rife with bandits. It''s perilous. I''ve warned her numerous times, but the woman is too stubborn to heed my counsel."

    Determined to bring Mother Giselle back, Miriam spoke up. "I know precisely where she is. It''s not far, we''ve been there before. I shall retrieve her immediately and ensure she returns safely to camp."

    "Not an option," the Corporal, retorted, perceiving her eager disposition. "I am bound by strict orders to ensure your safety. Once the patrol returns, I shall dispatch men to comb the surroundings for her."

    "Sir, then allow me to accompany them!" She insisted, her voice resonating with an imploring tone.

    "You are to abide by my decision, mage. Continue with your assigned duties," Vale replied with an air of sternness.

    Miriam saluted him, a mixture of frustration and determination pulsating within her as she watched him stride away.

    The enchanter persisted in her tasks for a time, yet her heart throbbed with apprehension for Giselle''s well-being. A peculiar compulsion arose within her, urging her to become the one who found her. Despite knowing that disobeying orders was demifying, she knew to trust her instincts.

    Stealing a glance at Lysette, who was engrossed in conversation with several fellow Templars, preparing for the changing of the patrol, Miriam quietly slipped into the woods. She tucked her marked hand into her robe to hide its light and like a specter, glided from tree to tree for cover, looking about every so often to ensure her clandestine endeavor remained unseen by prying eyes.

    As Miriam scanned the surroundings with a wary eye, her attention was drawn to an elderly woman, crouched low in the grass, busily gathering herbs in a large basket. The crimson robes that adorned her stood out in stark contrast to the lush green landscape that surrounded her. The mage couldn''t help but feel that something was amiss, as the area seemed far too quiet for her liking.

    "Mother Giselle!" She called out to the woman, who, upon hearing her name, beamed and ascended to meet her, "What brings you here, my child?"

    Miriam¡¯s query to Giselle was cut short by a volley of arrows that descended upon them, piercing the air with their ominous whistle. In a flurry of movement, the mage raised an arc of protection to shelter them both, yet not before two arrows had found their mark, one piercing her midriff and the other penetrating the Mother¡¯s breast.

    With a cry of agony, Giselle crumpled to the ground, clutching at her wound, while Miriam sank to her knees at her side, her own affliction throbbing with excruciating force as her blood oozed out, leaving her reeling and faint.

    The bandits, a motley crew of at least a dozen, had the two women cornered. The man laughed cruelly, their weapons glinting in the sun as they took aim at the pair. "Look at this wench. You think you can stop us with your little magic trick?" Taunted one of them, while another chimed in, "Hand over your valuables, and perhaps we''ll be merciful enough to let you live."

    However, she was not so easily beguiled by their deceitful overtures. Undeterred, she strove to conjure a mending enchantment to staunch the hemorrhage and soothe the anguish wracking Mother Giselle. Yet the exertion was overwhelming, her mind grappling to sustain both the defensive barrier and the curative incantation at once. Her sight grew dim, and beads of sweat trickled down her brow. Giselle was slipping away, her respiration growing feeble and spasmodic, each inhalation a struggle. Miriam herself felt her vigor wane, her very life force draining away with every crimson drop that fled her veins.  Her mind whirled like a maelstrom, beset by a desperate yearning to elude this infernal snare. Almost as though sensing her despair, a thought alighted on her consciousness, a tempting prospect to abandon the old Mother and make her escape. She could deploy her Fade Step to outstrip the bandits and preserve her own life.

    The very thought, with its venomous fangs, sank deep into her soul, wrenching it with a violent blow that left her spirit bleeding. The notion that she, the Herald of Andraste, could even entertain such a cowardly idea was a bitter pill to swallow. The memory of the adulating crowds in Haven hailing her as the savior of Thedas only served to intensify her shame. How could she, who had been entrusted with a divine mission, crumble under the weight of fear and consider abandoning an innocent woman to her fate?

    A tempestuous torrent of fury swept through her, a scorching flame that kindled her mark to burn with an emerald radiance. The brigands quailed, taken aback by the unforeseen eruption of her might. Yet Miriam paid no heed to their quivering forms, for she was possessed by a fervent anger, kindled by her own failings and misgivings, that eclipsed all else. "How dare you!" she hissed, her voice shaking with indignation as she spoke the words aloud. "How could you even conceive of abandoning her? You are the Herald of Andraste! You cannot falter now!"

    Her self-reproaches were a balm to her wounded spirit, a rallying cry that renewed her resolve. "Endure, Mother," she muttered through clenched teeth. "I will not let you perish. It is not yet your hour to cross the Veil."

    Miriam''s hands trembled with the intensity of her focus as she bent over Giselle''s wounded body, determined to heal her once again. She invested all her might in the mending of the wound. With every fiber of her essence, she implored the flesh to unite and reweave until it pushed out the projectile, leaving behind nothing but a minuscule pink blemish. Upon completion of her task, Giselle''s weak and wheezy voice beseeched her. "My dear, you''re hurt," she croaked, anxiety written plainly on her features as she beheld blood continuing to gush forth from the mage''s midriff.

    Miriam returned her gaze to the elder woman with crazed, manic eyes, sensing the mana drain from her body as it flowed to her mark. "Worry not, Mother, though I am but flesh, the light of Andraste is ever present within me. I shall endure."

    She thrust her aglow hand skyward, the light strengthening with each fleeting moment. And bellowed, "O Andraste, grant me strength. So all will know that I am Yours, and none shall stand before us!"

    In a deafening eruption, her mark detonated with a viridescent glow, releasing an onslaught of otherworldly energy that swept across the terrain like a surging tide. The bandits, caught unaware by the sheer might of her power, were flung aside as if they were nothing but straw.

    Miriam sensed her body slump to the earth as she crumpled from complete exhaustion. Her eyes shuttered closed, and she knew no more. The last sounds she discerned were Giselle''s worried voice and the groans of pain from the brigands, but they all appeared distant, as if within a dream.

 By their fruit, you will recognize them

    Cullen stood amidst the ruins of the rogue Templar¡¯s camp, encompassed by the debris of war and the pungent odor of death. The bodies of the rogue Knights were dispersed haphazardly across the ashen terrain, their once-gleaming armor now dimmed by the filth and dust of battle. The jagged edges of their weapons glimmered under the bleak light of the flickering campfires as if mocking the futility of their former wielders¡¯ crusade. He was bespattered in blood and dust, his weapon still wet with the crimson essence of his foes.

    As he surveyed the wreckage that lay before him, a profound sense of sorrow overtook him. Never in his wildest dreams had he foreseen that he would be compelled to take up arms against the Knights of the Order, but the perfidy of their betrayal had left him with no choice but to engage them in combat. The Seeker had attempted to reason with them, imploring them to heed their solemn oath and unite with the Inquisition to safeguard the people of Thedas. Yet they had remained obstinate, refusing to yield to the call of duty.

    A surge of anger welled up within him. The Templars had always been venerated as the most revered and esteemed warriors in the land, yet these renegades had chosen to violate their oath and spurn the principles of the Order. Their downfall stood as a testament to the fragility of honor and loyalty, a mockery of all that the Order had once represented. It rankled Cullen to see such a great legacy marred by their despicable actions. And for what? A fleeting taste of power? A false sense of righteousness?

    His grasp upon the hilt of the sword grew firmer as if in a vise, the coarse texture of the leather glove rasping against his skin. "You were supposed to be the peacekeepers, the champions of the just," he muttered in a bitter tone, his voice laden with disappointment.

    With a stern countenance, Cassandra approached him, her expression etched with gravity, the battle had taken its toll on her as well. "We did what we had to do," she intoned.

    Suddenly, at the edge of his field of vision, he noticed the presence of a bloodied Templar with a shock of red hair, standing in complete silence. The Commander turned abruptly to gain a clearer view, but to his bewilderment, there was no one there. He blinked several times, his mind in disarray, gazing intently at the vacant spot.

    "Is everything in order?" inquired the Right Hand.

    "Yes, all is well, I merely require some rest," he replied, striving to appear collected. "It has been a long and trying few days."

    "It sure was," Cassandra agreed. "The soldiers are prepared to depart. Let us leave this place."

    Cullen gave a somber nod of agreement, and with a leaden heart, he guided his men away from the gruesome battlefield.

    As they traversed the verdant Hinterlands forest, the Commander could not dispel the impression that he was being surveilled, that an ominous presence lurked in the shadows, poised to strike. He dispatched scouts to scour the surroundings, but they reported nothing out of the ordinary. Was it the effect of lyrium withdrawal finally catching up with him? The first signs had already surfaced; he was perpetually thirsty, fatigued with the slightest exertion, and suffered from throbbing headaches that waxed and waned. Yet, till this moment, he had been able to suppress the symptoms to some extent, concealing them beneath a fa?ade of stoicism. It may have been unwise, but he had hoped to keep his struggle under wraps.

    Perhaps all he needed was some rest. If it was the Maker''s will, he would spend the night without the burden of nightmares, and his mind and body would be rested enough to clear up his troubling mind.

    As the night descended upon them, it brought with it a chill that pierced through the bones. The darkness was thick, and the stars were hidden behind the heavy clouds that hung overhead. Cullen decided that it was time to establish a camp for the night, so the ever-watchful Seeker sent out scouts to explore the surrounding area, searching for a safe and suitable location.

    The spotters ventured out and soon returned with the news of a flat area near a small stream. The Commander quickly assessed the site and agreed that it was the appropriate spot. He ordered his troops to set up the camp, starting with the command tent at the center. The soldiers worked diligently, pitching tents in neat rows and marking out designated areas for the guards.

    As the encampment began to take shape, torches, and lanterns were strategically placed around the perimeter, casting a flickering glow in the darkness. Fires were kindled in the center, their radiance providing both warmth and light for the soldiers who huddled together in groups, seeking solace from the bitter chill.

    Cullen keenly observed the countenances of his men as they gathered around the blazing flames. They had fought valiantly, but the toll of battle was unmistakably evident on their battle-worn bodies.

    As his eyes roved over his faithful warriors, a profound sense of pride and gratitude surged within his breast. They may not have been the most skilled or accomplished soldiers, but they were unwaveringly dauntless and fiercely loyal, willing to lay down their lives for the cause. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could depend on them, no matter what perils lay ahead.

    As the thought took root in his mind, an unsettling feeling began to fester within him. Was he truly giving his all to the Inquisition? Could he fulfill his duties to the best of his abilities without resorting to the crutch of lyrium?

    During his time as a Templar, he gave his entire being to the Order, sacrificing everything else in the service of its lofty ideals. He shed his blood and sweat in unyielding devotion to its sacred mission. The Inquisition deserved no less, and yet, the idea of resuming lyrium consumption to fortify the chains that bound him to his past was choking his very essence. He longed to be free, to find release from the unrelenting grip of addiction that clutched him mercilessly.

    Still, wasn¡¯t his decision to quit lyrium, in pursuit of his desires a selfish one? Was he, once again, putting the lives of others in jeopardy with his actions? The very thought of it made his heart heavy with guilt and remorse. For he knew all too well the devastating consequences that could arise from a single misstep.

    As the night grew darker, the Commander cast a final glance over the camp, content that all was in its rightful place, and resolved to withdraw to his tent for the evening.

    Once inside, he bent his knee in prayer. His supplications had grown hollow and weak during the long years spent in Kirkwall. Nonetheless, in moments of uncertainty and doubt, he still turned to the Maker. Perhaps out of mere habit, perhaps out of sheer necessity, for he had no one else to whom he could unburden his soul. "Oh, Maker, hear my plea. As I stand here, lost and unsure, grant me the strength and clarity to make the right choices. Help me to trust in your plan and walk with courage in your sight. For I know that with your grace, I can face whatever may come," he prayed softly, his lips barely moving as he beseeched the divine presence for a glimmer of hope and clarity.

    As he lay down and felt the cool breath of night against his countenance, he yearned for the sylvan peace and serenity surrounding him to soothe his turbulent thoughts. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension in his body slowly dissipating. The susurrus of rustling leaves and the gentle murmur of a nearby stream filled his ears, lulling him into a blissful slumber.

    As the morning sun began to rise, two ravens descended upon the camp. The first bird bore a missive from the Hawke, while the second carried tidings from Corporal Vale. Hawke, known for her candid nature, had scrawled but a few words upon the parchment: ¡®We be done with them mages. Back to the village we go, that was a jolly good time!¡¯ Cullen, ever amused by the woman''s irreverence, allowed a hearty chuckle to escape his lips. However, the austere Cassandra, found the lack of professionalism to be beneath her discerning tastes. The warrior voiced her dissatisfaction with a disgusted ¡®Ugh,¡¯ a single utterance conveying more disapproval than a three-hour-long lecture.

    The news that arrived from the Crossroads was not entirely favorable. The Right Hand perused the letters on the paper with a crease marking her brow. "The Herald," she divulged with a tone of deep concern, "was wounded while shielding Mother Giselle from the bandits."

    "The region was meant to be under our aegis. How could this have happened? Were our forces waylaid?" The Commander posed the query, seeking an explanation from his companion.

    "No," came the swift reply, as the Seeker meticulously scanned the scroll in search of answers, "rest assured, the village remains secure.¡± With a disapproving shake of her head and a quizzical arch of her eyebrow she continued, ¡°Mother Giselle decided to venture down the King''s Highway, east of the Crossroads, knowing that this very region succumbed to the recent encroachment of bandits. Miriam recklessly ignored orders to stay at camp and went off on her own to find Giselle. And, in a twist of fate that surely tickles the whims of the Maker, she ended up saving the Mother from the clutches of an insidious ambush. Although injured, our mage managed to vanquish most of their assailants. Those who still draw breath are presently being interrogated by Vale."

    The Commander sighed heavily, frustration etched across his face as he contemplated the behavior of the woman in question. His fingertips sought solace upon the bridge of his nose, in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing headache that accompanied his exasperation. "So she disobeyed authority, disregarded orders, and nearly got herself killed... just another reminder that rebellion always dwells in the hearts of those who are gifted with magic."

    His companion, leaning against a fresh wooden post, cast her gaze into the distance lost in contemplation. Slowly, she shook her head, her eyes fixed upon a distant point as she meticulously weighed his words.

    "I don''t believe her daring behavior is inherently tied to her being a mage," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "And while I do not endorse her actions, I find myself unable to escape the thought that I, too, may have been tempted down a similar path. My mentors had always lamented my proclivity to act upon instinct rather than measured contemplation. Yet, here I stand, the Right Hand of the Divine. Perhaps it is not always a flaw to follow the dictates of one''s heart."

    Her words hung in the air, challenging the established notions of discipline and obedience that governed his world. Cullen regarded Cassandra with a mixture of surprise and understanding, realizing that perhaps there was more to his reaction than a mere clash of ideologies.

    "You speak the truth," he conceded reluctantly, a begrudging admission escaping his lips. "It was improper of me to assume that her disregard for authority stemmed solely from her being an enchanter." His voice carried a tinge of regret as he acknowledged his own biases. "Nevertheless, we cannot allow such whims to go unchallenged. She proclaims herself the Herald of Andraste, it is her duty to act accordingly." A spark of determination ignited within him as he formulated a plan. "I will compose a missive to the Corporal," he continued, his tone firm. "Order him to reprimand the woman, but not in public, of course. She needs to understand that her actions affect not only her, but the Inquisition as well."

    The Seeker nodded in agreement. "Indeed," she murmured, her voice carrying a wistful tinge. "Despite the kinship I perceive, she must reckon with the consequences of her actions. It is a terrifying prospect to consider what might have happened to Thedas had she been lost to the marauders.¡±

    "That¡¯s my other question, how did she emerge victorious against all those men? Leliana''s report on her stated that she had never shown any ability for offensive magic." He mused aloud, his countenance troubled.

    "She used her mark," the Seeker explained. "Unfortunately, it worsened her condition once again, and Solas is working to stabilize her health."

    "This turn of events is hardly unforeseen. Our knowledge of the mysterious marking upon her hand is woefully inadequate, and I pray that the mage''s experimentation will not doom us all."

    Cassandra appeared taken aback by his lack of faith. "Do you not believe that she is the Herald of Andraste?" she asked incredulously.

    ¡°I believe...¡± he fell into a pensive silence, striving to offer a truthful response, "that she holds a sincere conviction in her divine calling," he eventually replied.

    Cassandra surveyed him with a dry smile. "Well, that''s something, I suppose," she opined. "If nothing else, you could recognize that her efforts are sincere."

    "The path to the Void is laid with good intentions, and I could serve as proof of that," he riposted.

    "What do you mean by that?" she quirked an eyebrow, her curiosity having been piqued.

    He sighed deeply, his expression strained. "Back when I was serving at the Ferelden Circle, I did what I thought was best, but it ended up blowing up in my face. I had good intentions, but they paved the way for the Tower''s collapse. Then there was Kirkwall, where I saw how quickly the good we try to do can turn rotten. Even though the lessons were tough, they made me who I am today. "

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    The Seeker listened with a mix of empathy and skepticism. "But is it not preferable to aspire to goodness, even if the outcome is not what we intended?" she queried.

    He shook his head. "Maybe in a world where good intentions suffice, but we inhabit a realm of consequences."

    She ruminated over his words for a moment. "So you''re suggesting that Miriam should refrain from using her mark for fear of unforeseen repercussions?"

    Cullen heaved another heavy sigh. "No, of course not. I merely seek to ensure that everyone''s fervor for the mage does not blind us to the potential risks."

    Cassandra nodded thoughtfully. "You are right. It is a precarious balance to have faith in the Herald and yet remain vigilant against the dangers of magic we do not comprehend." A genuine smile graced her face. "It is comforting to know that the Commander of our forces possesses a composed and rational mind.

    A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "Indeed. Someone must, after all."

    Except for the sporadic confrontation with bears, their journey back to the Crossroads transpired without incident.

    Cullen''s mental state exhibited a slight improvement. Though the Maker had not yet unveiled His divine guidance, at least the disconcerting sensation of an unseen presence trailing him had dissipated. However, his headaches persisted, growing more severe, as did his unquenchable thirst. Cassandra had begun to observe his abnormal frequency of reaching for the water skin, her concerns mounting. Yet he adeptly evaded her probing inquiries, skillfully diverting her apprehensions for the time being.

    In due time, he knew he would be compelled to disclose the concealed truth to the Seeker and enlist her aid in quitting his addiction. Yet at the thought of it, fear coiled within him. Fear that she would withhold her endorsement, branding his endeavor as self-serving. Fear that the delicate bond of amity beginning to form between them would fray and rupture under the weight of his revelation.

    The longing for camaraderie gnawed at his soul¡ªan ache to relish the sense of brotherhood, to revel in the unity he once shared with the fellow Templars of the Order. The tendrils of connection that were slowly entwining him within the Inquisition had become a beacon of hope, and to lose it all now before it had even begun would be a crushing blow.

    The village and the refugee camp, unchanged in their dilapidated state, endured the weeks of the relentless hunt for the rogue Templars and mages. Though conditions had hardly improved, a change in the spirit of the people permeated the very air. There was a palpable sense of hope, an ethereal aura that heralded better days on the horizon.

    This time, when their troops entered, they were greeted with an enthusiastic welcome, as if they were legendary heroes emerging triumphant from battle. Barefooted and begrimed children scampered alongside the marching soldiers, their bright eyes peering out from their innocent faces with nothing but admiration.

    At this moment, Cullen, too, was transported to the fragments of his past. Memories flickered in his mind''s eye, for as a mere boy, he had once pursued the majestic procession of Templars as they strode through the streets of Honnleath. His fervent heart had aspired and yearned to be among them someday, emulating their noble deeds. Oh, the surreal twist of fate as the present unfolded and revealed that now he stood as the embodiment of inspiration, the beacon kindling the flames of aspiration in the new generation.

    His musings were interrupted by the stalwart Corporal Vale, who hastened to report on all that had transpired since the last raven had been sent.

    Hawke had arrived two days ago from her mission and landed with her people to help rebuild the village Chantry under the auspices of Mother Giselle.

    The Mother, having experienced deliverance at the hands of The Herald, dedicated days to recounting the extraordinary tale of her rescue to the throngs of eager listeners. The saga unfolded, revealing how Miriam had pulled her back from the precipice of imminent demise. And then, in a display of divine intervention, the enchanter summoned the indomitable power of the Maker''s Bride, laying low the marauding brigands, all the while disregarding her own grievous wound. Such selflessness and valor in the face of adversity forever transformed the perceptions surrounding the once-maligned mage. Her arcane abilities were no longer intertwined with the deranged apostates but were now viewed as a divine benediction, bestowed by the very hands of Andraste herself.

    It seemed that under the watchful care of Solas, the enigmatic scholar, Miriam''s recovery had been swift, and now her days were devoted to caring for the afflicted. Her healing spells flowed like celestial hymns, mending the broken and bringing comfort to the wounded souls who sought her aid.

    Cullen, subjected to an impassioned tirade, felt a slight sense of irritation within him. The fervor emanating from Vale, whose orders the mage had disobeyed, was an unexpected revelation.  He should be reprimanding the woman, not praising her. Yet, despite the burgeoning thoughts eager to escape his lips, he restrained himself, recognizing the importance of fostering hope within the hearts of these people. He would not be the one to shatter the fragile illusions that provided solace amidst the harsh realities of their existence.

    The Corporal concluded his tale by revealing what little information had been gleaned from the interrogation of the assailants who had attacked Mother Giselle and the Herald. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but Cassandra''s instincts had been stirred by what she sensed was a covert ruse at work, and so it was decided that the culprits would remain in the camp until Leliana''s people had a chance to ''talk'' with them.

    As nightfall descended upon them, the Seeker recommended debriefing Hawke in the morning to discuss the outcome of their missions and to determine their next moves. Cullen, in acquiescence with her proposal, thanked the Corporal for his contributions and dispatched him with his men to get some rest.

    Yearning for a moment of respite, he ventured towards the humble cabin reserved solely for the commanding echelons of the Inquisition. On arrival, however, he was greeted by a queue of people seeking comfort and aid from The Herald.

    He discovered her perched upon a makeshift bench, positioned near the entrance of the hut, with Lysette standing resolute at her side, a somber countenance etched upon her features. A palpable tension lingered in the air, and the Commander couldn''t help but surmise that the guard had received a more substantial share of reprimands from the stern Corporal than the audacious mage herself.

    The enchanter was cradling an infant in her lap. The child, pallid and emaciated, barely moving within her grasp. Standing nearby, the young one''s mother, her face etched with anguish, beseeched the mage with trembling words, "Ah, Lady Herald, me wee babe has refused milk the whole day long. I beg of ya, with your divine gift, bless him with your sacred touch."

    Replete with ardent eagerness, Miriam swiftly responded, her weariness momentarily eclipsed by resolve, "Fear not, good woman, for with the arcane gift bestowed upon me by the Maker, I shall alleviate the child''s affliction." Casting forth her incantation, she summoned radiant light from her palms, but the illumination proved disconcerting to the child, provoking his tender form to emit loud cries. The Herald, undeterred, began to sing a lilting melody in a buoyant timbre, her voice intertwining with her magic:

    Little apple tree,

    Oh, my apple tree,

    In the orchard, in the field,

    You''re the one for me.

    A-ah, little apple,

    Red, ripe, and sweet,

    A-ah, little apple,

    A tasty little treat.

    Under the blue sky,

    The sun shines down so bright,

    And on my little apple tree,

    The fruit is just right.

    A-ah, little apple,

    Red, ripe, and sweet,

    A-ah, little apple,

    A tasty little treat.

    When the cheeky birds come,

    To peck at the juicy fruit,

    I''ll wave them away,

    And grab a snack to boot.

    A-ah, little apple,

    Red, ripe, and sweet,

    A-ah, little apple,

    A tasty little treat.

    In the cheerful embrace of her melodies, the child''s plaintive cries began to fade, gradually replaced by murmurs of contentment and serenity.

    Cullen stood transfixed, his face awash with astonishment. This melody, it simply could not be! How was she acquainted with it?

    The recollection surged forth, unveiling the cherished memory from a time when his world was yet untarnished. It happened only a few fleeting days before he left for Templar training, when the sun-kissed fruit beckoned his family to the field. As fate would have it, his little sister, in the throes of youthful exuberance, stumbled and fell, her knee bearing the sting of a shallow scrape. A melody of joy and tenderness poured from his mother''s lips, enveloping little Rosalie and bringing her back from the brink of tears as they gathered the ripe red apples in their orchard.

    This song had been inseparable from the fabric of Honnleath, the humble village distinguished solely by its bounty of succulent apples. And yet, this very tune, so intimately entwined with the quaint hamlet, now stirred within the air of the Crossroads, emanating from the lips of a woman who hailed from across the expanse of the Waking Sea.

    Cullen''s mind teemed with questions, his curiosity beckoning him to unravel the mystery that had unfolded before him. As his gaze remained locked on the Herald, the boundaries of his perception unraveled, and for the first time, he beheld not solely a mage, a conduit of raw and untamed arcane might, but a fellow human being, cloaked in the intricacies of her own story. The report penned by Leliana, once considered by him to be a comprehensive description of Miriam, now appeared inadequate in capturing the essence of the individual before him.

    The enchanter concluded her incantation, her healing spell weaving its way through the infant''s fragile form, and gently returned the child to the arms of his mother. The baby, once pallid and feeble, now displayed a rosy hue and exuded newfound vitality. Overflowing with gratitude, the woman showered the mage with effusive thanks before hastening away, her steps laden with renewed hope.

    Scarcely had she departed when another desperate soul approached the tired Herald, beseeching her aid. The Commander, perceptive to the woman''s exhaustion, observed the relentless tide of supplicants who seemed unaware of her weariness.

    "Good people, hear my words!" Cullen''s voice resounded, commanding attention. "Lady Herald, who has toiled tirelessly to mend the wounded and heal the ailing, requires respite for the night. Let us honor her dedication and grant the woman the rest she deserves." His proclamation invoked an unforeseen sense of comprehension and benevolence among the gathered crowd. Slowly, they began to disperse, creating a respectful distance and affording the mage a moment of peace. As the throng dissipated, leaving Miriam, Lysette and the Commander in solitude, she turned to him with fatigued eyes filled with lingering determination.

    "I wish, oh how I wish, that I possessed the power to heal every afflicted soul," she confessed, her voice a mere whisper.

    "It is a noble pursuit," he replied, meeting her gaze with empathy. "Yet, you must also recognize the importance of tending to your own well-being.¡± His countenance shifted, adopting a seriousness as he pressed on, ¡°I expect you not to disregard our efforts to ensure your safety again. By the grace of the Maker, you have survived this ordeal, but your actions had the potential to unravel all that we have worked tirelessly to build. I trust you will learn from your mistake and do better."

    The mage remained quiet for a moment as she absorbed Cullen''s words. "I strive to be worthy of my title, yet my mortal limitations confine me within their grasp. But fear not, I shall heed your guidance." she conceded, her voice carrying a tinge of surrender.

    As she slowly rose to her feet, poised to enter the cabin, a question about the song lingered on Cullen''s tongue, ready to escape his lips. Before he could utter a word, a resonant voice boomed from behind, shaking the air with its presence. "Here ye be! Ahoy, me matey. I be hopin'' life treats ye well." Startled, he turned to behold the approach of none other than the Champion of Kirkwall, accompanied by Fenris and the Right Hand.

    A smile of salutation emerged upon the Commander¡¯s lips as he greeted them, "Good to see you, Hawke. And Fenris."

    The elf, ever stoic and brooding, simply nodded in response.

    The attention of the Champion swiftly shifted to Miriam, her eyes filled with intrigue. "I''ve heard the whispers sailin'' through the village, spreadin'' tales o'' yer wondrous powers. So, how about ye work yer magic and perform the miracle of re-growin'' me missing tit?"

    Cassandra, with an air of detachment, entered the cabin, declaring, "I shall not partake in this conversation. See you all tomorrow."

    The mage, taken aback by the audacious request, stuttered in response, "I must confess that the realm of my abilities is incapable of restoring severed limbs, or... ahem... other bodily appendages that may have gone astray. I am powerless to assist you in this matter."

    Hawke let out a disappointed sigh, her words laden with frustration. "What good be yer bloated, fancy title if ye can''t muster the skill to grow back a measly tit?" She continued, turning her gaze to Fenris. "I be tellin'' ye, matey! Besides closin'' them cursed rifts, this wench be nothin'' but a useless piece o'' driftwood in the sea."

    The elf, with a remorseful glance towards Miriam, ushered Hawke inside, silently shaking his head.

    Perplexity painted across her features, the Herald confessed, "To speak with candor, after all the tales about her heroic exploits, the esteemed Champion of Kirkwall does not quite conform to the image I had conceived in my mind."

    Cullen, his smile lingering, responded reassuringly, "Believe me, you are not alone in that sentiment. But give it time, and you may find that she grows on you."

    With a gesture, he invited Miriam and Lysette to enter the cabin. Inquiring about the Honnleath song was going to have to wait.

    The morning assembly drew to a close, and the decision was made to return to the Haven. Freed from the clutches of the deranged apostates and renegade Templars, the region could finally breathe a sigh of relief and begin the arduous process of recovery. Corporal Vale, displaying unwavering dedication, pledged to remain in the vicinity until the restoration was complete, ensuring that the displaced refugees found solace and sanctuary within its boundaries. Moreover, the strategic position of the village, nestled amidst the convergence of various trading routes, rendered it an opportune location for a permanent Inquisition presence.

    It was decided that both Hawke and Fenris should extend their stay, using their skills to clear out the remaining bandit threat and restore the uninterrupted flow of trade through the area.

    Mother Giselle, however, chose to accompany the Herald on her journey back to Haven. She boldly proclaimed that the followers of the Chantry should from now on be free to follow their consciences, and in her case this compelled her to work for the restoration of peace, not only within the confines of the Chantry, but also in the wider world.

    She also expressed her desire to assist Leliana in finding those of her brethren who would dare to entertain doubt, thus potentially changing the perception of the Herald of Andraste and her mission.

    As the hour approached for their departure from the Crossroads, an undeniable pall of melancholy descended upon the scene. The humble villagers and refugees, whose lives had intertwined with the presence of the Herald of Andraste, gathered together in a bittersweet display of farewell. Tears shimmered in their eyes, etching a testament of gratitude and yearning upon their weathered faces. The woman with the mark had transcended the realm of mere symbol, evolving into a wellspring of solace and an unwavering bastion of strength.

    Cullen watched as the enchanter stood among the villagers, her voice filled with fervent devotion as she eased their fears. The Herald assured them that while they carried the burning flames of Andraste with them, her departure did not mark the end of their shared journey, but rather an auspicious genesis.

    In this poignant moment, embraces were exchanged, tears were shed, and solemn promises were pledged to preserve the fortitude each had witnessed in the other. The inhabitants of the Crossroads, though swathed in sorrow at the Herald''s parting, possessed an acute understanding of the gravity inherent in her mission and the path she was destined to tread.

    Finally, after tender and lingering goodbyes, their party ventured forth upon the road that would lead them back to Haven.

 Camaraderie

    Miriam, accompanied by the Inquisition forces, journeyed towards Haven atop a trusty steed. The horse exuded a quiet strength, its muscles rippling beneath its sleek coat while its warm breath mingled with the crisp mountain air. The village loomed closer, the Frostback Mountains outlining their imposing silhouettes against the wintery sky as the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed through the desolate terrain.

    Reflecting upon her first mission as the Herald of Andraste, she couldn''t deny that, all things considered, it had yielded favorable outcomes. The perils that once plagued the Crossroads were quelled, the suffering of refugees alleviated, and Mother Giselle had pledged her unwavering support.

    Yet, amid these triumphs, one lingering setback persisted like stubborn thorn. Lysette, still nursing the resentment of an unjust reprimand for a transgression not of her own making, revealed her bitterness through curt exchanges and terse conversations that lacked the warmth of camaraderie.

    Miriam couldn''t help but feel the weight of guilt, knowing that her actions had caused her guard to be disciplined. Nevertheless, a steadfast conviction rooted itself within her being, unyielding in the face of remorse. To her, those actions were not born of reckless disobedience but rather guided by a divine hand¡ªa beckoning from the Maker''s Bride herself. Why else would Andraste aid her in vanquishing the bandits and restoring the Revered Mother to health?

    However, mindful of her pledge to Commander Cullen, the mage vowed to exercise caution in the future, to ensure each step was weighed and measured before taken.

    The enchanter''s eyes wandered to the man riding in front of her, her thoughts swirling with concern. For more than a week there has been an air of perpetual weariness about him. Always lost in his thoughts, he rarely emerged from the depths of his contemplation. Dark, haunting circles had etched themselves beneath his eyes, betraying the toll of sleepless nights, and his short temper, like a smoldering ember, flickered to life at the slightest provocation. It was as though some hidden force tugged at his very essence, leaving him drained and restless.

    The mage, attuned to the telltale signs of suffering, couldn''t help but draw parallels to the tormented Templars of the Ostwick Circle. Could the scarcity of lyrium be at play here? She had witnessed the debilitating effects of its absence far too many times to dismiss her suspicions outright. Seeking understanding, Miriam urged her horse forward with a gentle nudge of her heels, its powerful form gracefully carrying her closer to Cullen. Drawing alongside the troubled Commander, the enchanter spoke with caution, her voice hushed to preserve the intimacy of their conversation.

    "May I have a moment of your time?" the mage inquired, her words carrying a soft urgency.

    The man, previously consumed by his thoughts, raised his gaze to meet her searching eyes. "Of course,¡± he responded, his voice wearied.

    "It''s apparent to me that you''re going through a difficult time," she began, her tone infused with genuine empathy. "Is there anything I can do to be of service?"

    His eyes widened briefly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he composed himself. "Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, it''s nothing you need to worry about," he uttered, his words carrying a veneer of politeness. Yet, behind that facade, there lingered a palpable strain, an unspoken plea for the silence that resonated in his pained expression. It was a rebuff that discouraged her from any further attempts to delve deeper into the subject.

    This rejection struck her with a disheartening blow. Despite her commitment to the organization, she wasn''t deemed trustworthy enough to share her comrade¡¯s burden.

    Miriam thought that perhaps, for trust to take root and flourish, she should provide some meaningful proof of her loyalty to the cause.

    "Perchance you are unaware, but I maintain a correspondence with the First Enchanter of my Circle. I find myself compelled to make a request from her that requires the Inquisition''s assistance," she spoke enthusiastically, steering the conversation in a different direction.

    Cullen, responded with a measured tone, his eyes fixed intently upon the mage. "I am well aware of your ongoing exchange with Enchanter Lydia. I am also privy to the contents of each missive that traverses between our base and your Circle," he declared, eliciting a bewildered expression from the enchanter. "Every message that crosses the borders of our camp falls under the scrutinizing gaze of the Left Hand''s vigilant agents. Your correspondence, in particular, undergoes a thorough examination by Leliana herself, who assumes personal responsibility for ensuring the integrity of the letters you dispatch and receive."

    A moment of contemplative silence embraced Miriam, as she digested this information. While she was accustomed to having little privacy in the way of correspondence in the Circle as the Templars vetted it, they had never so bluntly and outright confessed that it was being done. Her mind raced through all the letters she had written, trying to remember if she had divulged any sensitive details. As she skimmed the messages in her mind, her heart¡¯s pattern hastened fretting over what bits of information Leliana had shared with him and the others. With nothing of consequence aside from speaking of her true feeling regarding her role within the Inquisition, she attempted to calm herself lest she says something that would hinder her chances of gaining his trust. "I do appreciate your honesty, though I cannot claim to relish such intrusive oversight.¡± He raised an eyebrow at the slight distaste in her tone. She knew he was gauging her reaction, so she endeavored to remain civil. ¡°Still, I understand the necessity that compels you to enact these measures." A wistful smile tugged at the corners of her lips, "Thank the Maker, I have refrained from revealing any embarrassing moments to dear Lydia."

    The Commander''s countenance softened, his features relaxing as he beheld the enchanter''s reaction. "I am glad that you have taken this revelation in good spirit. Now, pray tell, what is this request you alluded to?"

    "I would like my phylactery to be delivered from the Circle to the Inquisition," the woman spoke, her voice steady yet laced with a touch of agitation. "I believe it could prove to be a valuable asset in the face of an emergency." Upon seeing the furrowed brow and worried expression on Cullen¡¯s face, she hastened to allay any concerns that may have arisen. "Please, do not worry," she assured, her tone resolute. "I have no intention of embarking on another solitary endeavor. My desire is simply to offer everyone a measure of peace, knowing that I shall forever remain within reach should necessity demand my presence.¡±

    The Commander, with a discreet nod, bestowed his approval upon the proposal. "To be utterly candid, I had already been contemplating the transfer of your phylactery into our custody. Still, the fact that it was your own suggestion, and thus a sign of your commitment, is undeniably reassuring. I shall have a word with Josephine. She possesses the finesse to orchestrate the delivery."

    Gratitude welled up within Miriam, "Thank you, considering the rather limited state of my Circle finances, I would not want to burden them with this request."

    "Rest assured, the Inquisition shall handle all the expenses," the man stated firmly.

    Pleased that her suggestion had elicited the desired response, her visage brightened with a touch of delight. With small acts of loyalty like this, she hoped to stoke the flames of camaraderie within the ranks of the Inquisition.

    When they reached Haven, the dying embers of the sun caressed the snowy expanse, suffusing the quaint settlement with a melancholic roseate hue. The village had swelled in size since their departure to the Hinterlands, its boundaries stretching far beyond what she remembered. Makeshift tents and hastily constructed huts sprawled across the landscape, a testament to the settlement''s struggle to accommodate the surge of recruits. It was an outcome borne from the tidings of Mother Giselle''s alliance with the Inquisition. The very presence of the Revered Mother stirred a profound awakening among the dispossessed, who converged upon the banner of her cause with an untamed passion.

    Miriam, still riding alongside the Commander noticed his gaze sweeping across the multitude before him, a weariness etched upon his countenance, yet an unmistakable fervor flickering in his eyes. In his mind, she supposed, he was already devising plans for the training and organization of the nascent army before him. Not having the knowledge of what that involved, considering the number of souls under his command, it had to be extremely stressful to be chiefly responsible for their lives. She admired his dedication and hard work having seen him straining his eyes in candlelight into the twilight hours on more than one occasion.

    Upon reaching the stables, Miriam dismounted from her steed with measured slowness, her body thrumming with the protest of fatigued muscles and weary limbs acquired through the lengthy journey. The arduous trek had exacted its toll, leaving behind a cacophony of discomfort within her lithe frame. Cullen was swiftly intercepted by Knight-Captain Rylen, his trusted second-in-command assuming his duties in his absence. The urgency of his presence was demanded at the training field, a call that left no room for delay or respite. Solas hastened back to his secluded cabin as if wearied by the constant company of others. The Right Hand, too, seemed eager for a taste of solitude. With solemn brevity she informed Miriam that the meeting with the rest of the Inquisition council would take place tomorrow at the morning bells, granting her the freedom to seek respite until then.

    With a nod of acknowledgment, the enchanter trudged towards her cabin. She dragged her travel-worn satchel in tow as if it were an anchor, while the ever-silent Lysette followed in her wake.

    The short distance that separated the enchanter from her humble abode became an arduous journey that took hours to complete, for every step she took was hindered by a constant stream of fervent souls yearning to see the Herald of Andraste. Some, their spirits broken and weary, craved her presence for a mere uplifting word. Others, afflicted with physical ailments, sought the caress of her healing spells. Fortunately, most of the faithful showed a semblance of decorum, and the few who did not were swiftly and firmly chastised by Lysette.

    When, at last, mustering the few remnants of her strength, the mage sealed the door of the hut behind her, the moon was already soaring high above the celestial canvas. Exhaustion clung to her like a vice, as she braced her hands and arms out against the door. She hung her head and let out a heavy sigh in an attempt to unburden herself from the day. Unable to muster the energy to eat or tend to the contents of her weathered travel bag, she draped her cloak upon the rusted hook on the wall, cast off the shackles of her shoes, and succumbed to the embrace of the bed. A languid sigh of relief escaped her lips as the warm blankets embraced her.

    After relishing a few precious moments of respite, Miriam turned her head, only to discover Lysette still lingering by the door, her face marked by intense scrutiny that furrowed her brow. Her lips were parting and closing repeatedly as if caught in a battle between voicing her thoughts or remaining silent.

    Miriam propped herself up, wanting to ask what happened. However, before she could utter a thing, Lysette''s words came forth, "Is it because I am but a lowly Templar recruit?" she blurted out.

    Confusion creased the mage''s brow as she regarded the woman before her. "I beg your pardon?"

    "Do you not trust me because I lack the stature of a fully-fledged Knight?" the guard attempted to clarify her train of thought, her voice revealing a touch of vulnerability.

    "What leads you to believe that I do not trust you?" Miriam inquired, genuine bewilderment tinging her words.

    "With all due respect, Lady Herald, you abandoned me at the village and ventured forth to find Mother Giselle alone. It seemed to imply that you either lacked faith in my abilities or deemed me unworthy of your trust," she voiced her grievance, her tone carrying a mix of frustration and wounded pride.

    Miriam''s face softened as realization began to paint her features. "Ah, dearest Lysette, do not mistake my intentions," she tenderly placated her guardian. "My solitary departure was guided by a stirring deep within, a conviction that Andraste herself yearned for me to be the one finding Mother Giselle. Never did I harbor desires to undermine your station or cast doubt upon your loyalty."

    Lysette''s eyes, filled with a veil of skepticism, met Miriam''s gaze. ¡°If the will of Andraste was behind your decision then why didn¡¯t you tell me so?" she began, her words punctuated by disappointment. "Together we could have forged a united front to sway Corporal Vale''s judgment, beseeched him to grant you passage alongside our comrades.  And in the face of failure, I would have willingly journeyed by your side. Yet, you chose to keep me in the dark."

    Miriam was struck by an unforeseen revelation. The notion that Lysette could have been a collaborator, a kindred spirit in her endeavor, didn¡¯t even cross her mind. And to think that all this while, she had been convinced that Lysette''s bitterness stemmed solely from the reprimands she received from the Corporal. A few days ago she was wounded by the fact that Cullen sought solace in silence, building walls where bridges should have been erected. It turns out she was guilty of the same transgression as well.

    "You speak the truth," Miriam confessed, her voice marked by regret. "In my arrogance, I failed to recognize our shared purpose. Blinded by my assumptions, I foolishly believed you wouldn¡¯t approve of such rash action as my protector." Her gaze shifted downward for a moment as if seeking solace in the patterns etched upon the wooden floor. "To think that I dismissed the possibility of your understanding... It was a misjudgment. For that, I offer my sincerest apologies." With a delicate sigh, she raised her eyes once more, meeting Lysette''s gaze with newfound humility, and declared, "From this moment forth, I pledge to confide in you as a true companion!" As a gesture of her earnestness, she extended her hand towards her guard, offering it as a symbol of reconciliation.

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    The woman, though visibly affected by Miriam''s words, regarded her with caution. The walls of skepticism remained intact, for trust once fractured is not easily repaired. Yet, beneath the wariness that lingered in her eyes, there flickered a spark of willingness to forgive. "I appreciate that you acknowledge your error," she responded, her voice carrying a touch of cautious optimism. "I hope your actions will match your words."

    Slowly, tentatively, Lysette extended her own hand, meeting the mage halfway. Their palms touched, bridging the gap between them, a physical embodiment of their shared commitment to rebuild what had been fractured.

    As the world stirred from its slumber, a gentle, golden radiance spilled across the rugged peaks of the mountains, signaling the dawn of a new day. Mischievous shadows danced playfully over the modest cottages that lined the streets, while smoke twirled from chimneys, gracefully ascending into the tranquil morning air. Miriam, accompanied by her loyal guardian, embarked on her journey towards the Chantry an hour before the morning bells.

    Having learned from the previous day''s experiences, they opted to navigate the village while its inhabitants peacefully slumbered. A tinge of guilt tugged at the mage''s heart as they tiptoed past closed doors and shuttered windows. It was her duty to interact with the people, to listen to their woes, and to provide comfort during their time of need. Sensing Miriam''s unease, Lysette offered reassurance that after the forthcoming meeting, she would have ample opportunity to fully embrace her role as the Herald.

    Finally, they approached the Chantry, its weathered walls bathed in the gentle hues of the awakening sun. With determination, the enchanter pushed open the imposing doors, revealing a hall illuminated by the flickering glow of countless candles. Sebastian was already there, immersed in the meticulous preparations for the morning service. Though men were not ordained as true priests, they contributed to the spiritual guidance of Thedas alongside their female counterparts, ensuring that crucial duties were fulfilled to sustain the material lives of the faithful. Hence, it often fell upon Brother Sebastian to organize the details of the services led by the Mothers. His countenance brightened with a warm smile as he turned to greet the newcomers.

    "Lady Herald, Lysette, it brings me joy to behold your presence," Sebastian welcomed them graciously. "Alas, you have arrived a tad early for the service, but should you desire, I would be grateful for your aid in the preparations."

    Before Miriam could respond, her guard nudged her towards the War Room, her voice brimming with excitement. "Certainly, Brother. I shall gladly assist you. Lady Miriam, however, is engaged in a matter of utmost importance and cannot join us."

    "There is still time before other members of the council arrive, I can lend my assistance," the mage interjected, her perplexity evident.

    "Do you not recall the pressing need to prepare the documents for the impending meeting?" Lysette insisted, maintaining direct eye contact. There was a peculiar glint in the woman''s eyes, almost as if she were silently pleading for something.

    Miriam suddenly noticed a telltale flush spreading across her guard''s face. Oh, no, could it be that Lysette held an affection for Brother Sebastian? Such a passion would be ill-fated, for everyone in Haven knew that Hawke was his... what, exactly? A friend? No, she had professed her love for him so many times it was almost ludicrous. A lover, then? Not likely, the man had willingly embraced the vow of chastity, a matter of great contention among many in the village. Regardless of their connection, Miriam was certain that the Champion of Kirkwall would not welcome a rival for Sebastian''s attention.

    She had no time to reply or bid the man farewell, for Lysette, in her fervent desire for solitude with the Brother, swung open the door to the War Room and shoved the mage inside, promptly sealing the entrance behind her. Spurred on by her companion''s unexpected and formidable push, Miriam sprinted into the chamber, only to trip over a crack in the worn stone floor. Fortunately, her tottering trajectory was abruptly halted by the presence of a massive table prominently placed in the center of the room. Immovable in its weight, the substantial furniture was unaffected by the collision, a fortunate occurrence considering its customary array of parchments, maps, and quills. Relieved to have escaped a full-blown fall, the mage steadied herself, her breath caught between gratitude for the resilient table and mild annoyance at being pushed around by her guard. With a moment to compose herself, she straightened her posture, smoothed down the fabric of her robe, and adjusted her disheveled hair.

    As her eyes swept across the orchestrated chaos that defined the War Room she was surprised to see Commander Cullen standing by the window with a report in his hand. "That was quite the spirited entrance," he remarked, a discernible hint of mirth permeating his voice. "Considering the early hour, it warms my heart to witness such unbridled enthusiasm."

    Miriam¡¯s cheeks flushed with a tinge of embarrassment. "My exuberant arrival owes its existence to Lysette. The woman''s fervor to secure a private moment with Brother Sebastian was so great that she practically propelled me into the chamber," she lamented.

    Cullen''s mood seemed to brighten even further, an irrepressible twinkle dancing in his eyes. "It appears that we shall bear witness to yet another duel for the Brother¡¯s favor."

    Shocked at the turn of events and the Commander''s seemingly lighthearted approach, she regarded him with disbelief, "Surely, you cannot condone such a foolish matter escalating into violence."

    The man''s response came with a hint of reassurance. "Oh, fear not, only training weapons will be permitted, and the duel lasts until the first strike finds its mark. This is not the first time such an event will unfold. In Kirkwall, Hawke engaged in duels almost every month. Besides, the loser is tasked with performing a charitable deed predetermined by Brother Sebastian himself. I recall an Orlesian Chevalier who succumbed to the Champion''s prowess¡ªthe resulting donation to the Chantry allowed Sebastian to feed the homeless throughout the entire winter."

    Perplexed, she inquired further, her voice laced with bewilderment, "So, you mean to tell me that Sebastian is fully aware of these peculiar proceedings?"

    The Commander chuckled warmly, his amusement evident. "He was the one to conceive this idea. The man professed that if the Maker blessed him with both good looks and the companionship of a passionate, powerful woman, then he ought to employ those gifts for the greater good."

    Pondering his words, she acknowledged with a touch of bemusement, "Well, though it all seems rather unconventional if no harm befalls anyone and charitable acts are accomplished, I suppose there is some merit to this unique arrangement."

    Cullen''s countenance shifted, a fleeting moment of remembrance crossing his features. "There has been something I''ve been meaning to inquire about for quite some time now," he began, his voice carrying a touch of curiosity. "It is regarding the tune you sang for the ailing infant at the Crossroads. How did you come to be acquainted with it?"

    Her surprise was evident as she responded, "You mean ''The Little Apple Tree''?" The notion that he remembered and displayed interest in a simple children''s melody caught her off guard.

    The man nodded, his agreement accompanied by a slight quirk of his brow. "Indeed, that song hails from my village. I was surprised to discover that anyone outside Honnleath is familiar with it. Please, indulge my curiosity."

    Miriam''s heart swelled with a sense of nostalgia, her fingers instinctively curling around the amulet she wore. It was a cherished memento, one that encapsulated a precious memory. "A dear friend of mine once entertained me with it when I was a child. Even now, decades later, that modest tune lingers in my mind "she confessed. She knew how foolish it was to consider someone she''d only met once, and whose name remained a mystery, a friend, but she couldn''t help but give that title to the brave boy who had saved her on that fateful day.

    Cullen''s expression softened as he listened, and a bittersweet smile played upon his lips. "I see. You know, my younger sister adored this song. Whenever she was on the verge of tears or feeling grumpy, my mother would begin singing it, and without fail, Rosalie would brighten up."

    The mage¡¯s curiosity was piqued by the sudden mention of his personal life. "You have siblings?" she gently prompted.

    The man''s gaze shifted, his eyes growing distant as he lost himself in his memories.

    "Well," he began, a hint of sadness in his tone, "I have two younger siblings, Branson and Rosalie. And then there is Mia, my older sister, a steadfast protector who has always been my shield against life''s trials. However, fate has seen fit to place a chasm between us, and it has been many years since our paths last crossed."

    Sensing the longing and the ache in his voice, an empathy stirred within Miriam, compelling her to offer a comforting gesture. She reached out and placed a hand on Cullen''s arm. However, to her surprise, he seemed startled by her touch, his body tensing for a moment.

    Realizing that she had unintentionally crossed a boundary, she swiftly retracted her hand, a contrite expression playing upon her face. "Pardon me Commander, I had no intention of alarming you," she murmured.

    The man quickly regained his composure, meeting her gaze with a calm demeanor. "No need for apologies," he reassured her, his voice firm yet tinged with a trace of vulnerability. "It¡¯s simply that I¡¯m not used to receiving such a warm gesture from a...¡±

    Miriam grasped her left hand concealing the glow emanating from it. How could she have been so forward considering his previous reaction to her magic. She looked down squeezing her eyes shut as she reprimanded herself for such thoughtlessness. Seeing the change in her demeanor, he seemed to understand her thoughts. ¡°The reason lies not in your identity as a mage or the powers you possess, but in your essence as a woman.¡± Her head shot up in confusion as a fleeing hint of mortification reddened his face, ¡°I- um, what I mean to say is that it caught me off guard."

    It took her a moment until her eyes widened at her understanding of the problem. The enchanter found herself exaggerating her nodding awkwardly, attempting to convey her respect for his choice, "I must admit my oversight. I should have recognized that like Brother Sebastian you have taken a vow of chastity."

    "I-I have not taken such vows," he stammered, his voice wavering with a touch of annoyance, "It is not a matter of chastity, but rather... Maker''s breath! Can we speak about something else?"

    ¡°Yes, of course,¡± she responded, eager to diffuse the tension. Her gaze fixated upon the man''s countenance, etched with profound creases, and instead of another discourse, she contemplated extending her aid in managing the influx of recruits that had flocked to their cause. "With the Inquisition witnessing the arrival of so many newcomers, I can well imagine how the weight of your responsibilities has swelled," she empathized, her voice carrying a genuine concern. "I stand ready and willing to offer my healing abilities to the cause."

    Her words seemed to succeed in dispersing the air of unease that had settled between them. Cullen''s face brightened with an idea, his countenance visibly easing into a more relaxed state. ¡°There is indeed something you can do to bolster our forces. We don¡¯t have that many skilled healers in the organization, and your expertise can make a difference. I propose that you impart classes of first aid to our soldiers. Teach them the basic skills of tending to wounds and providing immediate care in the field. This knowledge can save lives when healers like yourself cannot be present."

    Miriam''s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "That is an excellent suggestion, Commander! By empowering the soldiers with the tools to care for themselves and their comrades, we can significantly improve their chances of survival. I will prepare a comprehensive guide that covers the essentials of first aid and some basic recipes for healing potions."

    The man offered a grateful smile. "Excellent, I think it will help to ensure that our soldiers are equipped not only for combat but also for the aftermath. Please keep me updated on the progress and any requirements you may have."

    "Understood. Grant me a mere week, and I shall be primed to embark upon this endeavor," she declared.

    In the midst of a momentary hush, Cullen''s eyes took on a pensive expression. "What about the demands of your role? Doesn''t the responsibility of being the Herald of Andraste burden you?"

    As he inquired, a solemn expression graced the enchanter''s face. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, her gaze turning introspective. "Indeed, the demands of my position are substantial," she replied, her voice carrying a mixture of weariness and determination. "Being the Herald of Andraste means carrying the hopes and expectations of countless believers. It requires tending to the faithful, offering solace and reassurance in times of despair. It''s a responsibility that I take to heart." She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "The emotional toll can be overwhelming at times. But it is in those moments that I seek refuge in the teachings of Andraste, it is through the lens of her revered doctrine that I find solace and meaning, for I fervently believe that I tread the path carved by the Maker''s hand. There are moments of doubt and weariness, of course," she admitted, her voice carrying a touch of vulnerability. "In those instances, I reiterate the importance of the task at hand and the impact it can have on the lives of so many. And with that reminder, I gather my resolve and press on." The enchanter''s eyes met Cullen''s. "I also lean on the support of those around me," she added, her voice laced with deep sincerity. "Their camaraderie encourages me on this arduous journey".

    He inclined his head, his countenance mirroring comprehension. "As long as you stay on the righteous path, rest assured, I will remain by your side.¡±

    As her lips curved into a smile, the tender touch of sunlight seeped through the window, releasing a cascade of shimmering brilliance that elegantly twirled around the Commander''s strands of golden hair. A swell of fondness surged within the mage, whisking her away to a bygone time at the Redcliffe Fair, where the young boy extended his benevolent palm to her in earnest aid.

    The resonant chimes of morning bells reverberating through the halls of the Chantry shattered Miriam''s reverie. She blinked several times as if awakening from a trance, only to be greeted by the creaking of the entrance door. Turning around, she beheld the members of the Inquisition council stepping into the War Room.

    With polite greetings exchanged, they assumed their designated places around the table, ready to commence the meeting.

    With poised grace, Josephine initiated the gathering by recounting hers and Leliana¡¯s triumphs, their talents masterfully employed to sway the clerics besides those who held the recommendations of Brother Sebastian and Mother Giselle. Persuasion, coercion, and the artful exchange of favors were deftly utilized, leaving a diverse tapestry of outcomes in their wake. Some were swayed by reason, their convictions reevaluated in the face of compelling arguments. Others, their darker inclinations laid bare, succumbed to blackmail, their loyalty assured through veiled threats and whispered secrets.

    Judging by the compiled roster of names, it was clear that the Chantry''s stance on the heretical nature of the Inquisition would soon be poised for a shift. The discord within the clergy, as various factions begin to cling to their differing opinions, will be enough to upset the fragile balance that has held until now.

    Leliana added that not all of the clergy were eager to embrace the change, though. Among the dissenters, one figure stood tall as a bastion of denial, her fervor unwavering in her rejection of the notion that Miriam was the anointed Herald of Andraste. It was, of course, Mother Lucia who spared no effort in disseminating far and wide the tale of her alleged assault at the hands of the mage. Unrelenting in her determination, she sought to remind all who would listen that this so-called Herald had dared to masquerade as a Chantry Sister while her very soul was tainted by the tendrils of magic.

    At this news, Miriam''s delicate fingers clenched with such intensity that her knuckles turned as pale as freshly fallen snow. It was a visceral reaction, a manifestation of the turmoil churning within her. She long resolved to speak with the Inquisition council about Lucia''s crimes once the Breach had been sealed. With the closing of that otherworldly tear, her tenuous position as the Herald would be fortified, rendering her testimony more palatable to their minds. Her life experience showed that nothing short of this momentous feat would compel them to believe her.

    A decade of being silenced, of having her voice muted in the face of apathy and skepticism, had left her jaded. Her hopes for vindication, once a flickering ember, now seemed but a fading wisp of smoke. Yet the audacity of Lucia to continue to spin her wretched lies had ignited a dormant fire within. The enchanter harbored no illusions, she knew that once again it would be her word against the word of the esteemed Mother. However, she refused to falter in her resolve.

    As she prepared to speak her truth, she beseeched the Maker, her plea a silent prayer. May He guide her words, may they find fertile ground in the hearts of those around her, and may this time, someone, anyone, finally believe her.

 Lyrium and Prayers

    The story that the enchanter revealed took Cullen aback. It was not that he harbored doubts about the potential for abuse and mistreatment within the Chantry; no organization, no matter how noble its cause, could escape the insidious tendrils of corruption. What truly surprised him was the fervor with which Miriam fought for justice on behalf of retired Templars, even at the expense of her well-being.

    A desire to protect, to right the wrongs inflicted upon the innocent, resonated deep within his heart. It was a sentiment he had always carried, the only constant in his life. And now, in this unexpected revelation, he found himself discovering a kinship with the mage, a connection he had not anticipated.

    As her tale reached its conclusion, she stood rigid, her fingers clutching tightly around the worn and tarnished amulet that rested against her chest.  Her eyes darted anxiously from one face to another. It was as if she sought to unravel their thoughts, to measure the impact of her words upon their hearts.

    The Left Hand was the first to break the silence, her face revealing nothing of her feelings. "It doesn''t matter what the truth may be," she began, her voice measured and detached. "What counts is that your version of events serves the interests of the Inquisition and boosts its reputation. That is the approach we will take, regardless of the facts."

    It was moments like this that made it difficult for Cullen to believe that the ruthless, pragmatic woman before him was the same gentle and compassionate soul that had saved him at Kinloch Hold. Then again, he wasn''t the same man that she met either.

    Josephine, ever the diplomat, interjected with a touch of concern furrowing her otherwise composed features. "Without wishing to offend Lady Miriam, I find it challenging to imagine that the esteemed Mother could have been engaged in such grave transgressions.  Nevertheless, irrespective of my viewpoint, given our delicate position with the Chantry, an overt confrontation would not be prudent. We must exercise finesse and focus on those clerics in Ostwick who are already swayed to our cause. Their voices, if amplified, will outweigh the influence of Mother Lucia."

    The mage''s voice trembled with agitation as she pleaded her case, "While it may bring an end to her deceitful fabrications, what of the retired Knights under her care? It is highly unlikely that she has changed her cruel ways. For justice to be served she must receive retribution for her deeds and, of course, be stripped of her position."

    He agreed with the notion that the Mother should be held accountable for her actions. However, he also possessed the wisdom to recognize that right now was not the best time to do so.

    The Spymaster, her words deliberate, shared her insight. "The Mother''s audacity carries purpose. Trust my instincts when I say that if we delve deeper, we shall uncover secrets we can exploit to our advantage."

    "And meanwhile I propose we dispatch a contingent of Inquisition soldiers to Ostwick. Their presence, under the guise of protection, will serve as a reminder to her that she is not beyond our reach." He added to the discussion.

    "No," Leliana interjected, her demeanor resembling that of a predator patiently stalking its prey. "This will only heighten her vigilance. We must maintain a veil of obscurity, allowing her to remain blissfully unaware of our true intentions. Let her revel in her perceived sense of security and authority, while we diligently orchestrate her downfall."

    Cassandra, her voice resolute, entered the discussion with a decisive tone. "So be it," she declared. "For the time being, we shall refrain from issuing an official response to her claims. Instead, our focus shall shift towards cultivating relationships with other influential clerics in Ostwick. Josephine, if I remember correctly, Revered Mother Petra has an affinity for generous donations. Let us ensure that our version of events reaches her ear, along with the offerings intended as goodwill gestures from the Inquisition. At the same time, our Spymaster will try to uncover any compromising information on Mother Lucia. With any luck, her hour of reckoning will come quickly".

    The Seeker then turned her attention to Miriam, a hint of sympathy etched upon her features. "I understand that this outcome may not align precisely with your expectations. But regretfully, this is the extent of our capabilities for now."

    The enchanter shook her head. "I am immensely grateful for your support," she responded earnestly. "I have been trying to bring this woman to justice for years. I can wait a little longer to do so. What truly matters is that you stand beside me, even if your faith in my cause remains partially uncertain," she acknowledged, glancing towards the Ambassador and the Left Hand. "That, in itself, is a tremendous boon."

    As the meeting wore on, an uneasiness settled over Cullen, its grip tightening with each passing moment. He tried to dismiss the feeling, chalking it up to the weariness from sleepless nights and the increasing weight of his obligations. Yet, as Leliana divulged the fruits of interrogations from the imprisoned bandits at the Crossroads, that disquiet swelled, morphing into a wild pounding within his chest. A rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins was driving his heart into a relentless gallop that overpowered the cadence of the Spymaster¡¯s words. Perplexed, he questioned the reasons behind this. For there seemed to be no logical explanation for such turmoil. And then, as if summoned from the depths of his worst nightmares, a chilling apparition materialized before his eyes. Thomas, his long-dead friend, stood in the corner of the room, frozen in time as he had been the day he fell - a visage of searing wounds and dented armor. The weight of his gaze bore down upon the Commander, brimming with unspoken condemnation. No words escaped his brother-in-law''s lips, only the silent accusation that pierced Cullen''s soul.

    At this sight, a torrent of dizziness engulfed him, thrusting the room into a disorienting spin. With a trembling grasp, he clung to the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as he fought to anchor himself. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his hands trembled involuntarily. Every breath he took felt constricted as if the air itself had been transformed into a thick miasma of sulfurous smoke that was choking his lungs. Battling to preserve his outward composure, Cullen waged a silent war against the mounting torrent of panic that surged within him. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately seeking refuge from the haunting vision that threatened to engulf his sanity. He begged the Maker for mercy, his silent prayer an impassioned plea for the apparition to fade away.

    As he cautiously opened his eyes, a wave of relief washed over him. The ghostly presence had vanished, leaving behind only the lingering traces of unease that clung to his senses. His momentary respite was short-lived, however, as he became acutely aware of the gazes fixed upon him. The room had fallen into a hushed silence, and the weight of the council''s collective scrutiny bore down upon him. Each pair of eyes held questions, concern, and perhaps even doubt. Cullen''s heart sank, realizing that his struggle had not gone unnoticed.

    "Sorry, I... I just need a moment," he mumbled, his voice barely audible as he stumbled over his words. Without waiting for a response, he hurriedly made his way to the door, leaving behind a War Room filled with puzzled expressions and unanswered questions.

    Venturing down the hallway, he found his way out of the Chantry, drawn towards the solace of crisp, fresh air that enveloped him like a comforting embrace. Once outside, the intensity of his emotions gradually subsided, giving way to an overwhelming fatigue that settled deep within his bones. He stumbled along the path to his tent, yearning for seclusion and respite from prying eyes.

    Once inside, he collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his trembling hands. In his mind, the events of the meeting played on an endless loop as he tried to process the fact that the lyrium withdrawal was beginning to take its toll on his sanity. Desperation surged through him, and in a frantic attempt to find catharsis, he grabbed his hair and tore at it until the physical pain matched his inner anguish. How feeble he felt, how pathetically inadequate. With his powers gone and his mind playing cruel tricks on him, what purpose did he serve in the Inquisition? What could he hope to achieve? He was so tired, tired of the pain that gnawed at his core, of the relentless nightmares that now plagued even his waking hours, of the paralyzing fear of confined spaces and unwanted touches - how much longer could he take it?

    A single thought wormed its way through his tortured mind, whispering temptation with a venomous allure. Just one vial, it suggested, and the burdens would lighten, the path ahead would smooth. The philter within his trunk beckoned to him, its remaining traces of lyrium promising temporary respite from the torment. His body jerked upright from the chair, propelled by that impulsive yearning, ready to succumb to the allure of the vial. Yet, before he could reach out and grasp the trunk''s handle, a resounding voice shattered the silence. The Right Hand requested permission to enter. Cullen froze, his hand suspended in mid-air, the weight of his choices hanging heavily upon him. The sudden interruption pierced through his desperate resolve, offering a moment of hesitation.

    "Come in," the Commander called out, as he lowered his hand, the appeal of the philter momentarily overshadowed by the arrival of the Seeker. The trunk remained closed, its contents obscured, as he turned his attention towards the entrance, anticipation mingling with trepidation.

    The woman entered his tent with a worried expression etched upon her face. Her keen eyes scanned his form, studying him intently from head to toe, before she finally spoke. "Are you alright?" she inquired with genuine concern.

    "Yes, I am fi-" he began to offer his usual dismissive response. However, the raised eyebrow and penetrating gaze of the Right Hand halted his words in their tracks. "No, not really," he admitted, his voice laced with defeat. He motioned for Cassandra to take a seat in the chair while he settled on the edge of his cot, his hands clenched tightly in his lap as he considered what else he should say.

    The Seeker leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "Are the lyrium withdrawal symptoms worsening?"

    "What!? How did you..." Cullen''s bewildered reply escaped his lips.

    The woman let out an exasperated sigh, her frustration evident. "I am the Seeker of Truth. It is my duty to watch over the Templars. Do you really think I would not recognize the symptoms?"

    A mix of emotions swirled within him¡ªrelief that he no longer had to hide his decision, regret for not confiding in her sooner, and a touch of embarrassment at his naivety. He had spent countless hours contemplating how to broach the subject with Cassandra, though in retrospect it seemed glaringly obvious that she would discern the truth. "Then why didn''t you say anything?"

    "I was being considerate," she pointed out. "You recoiled at every probing question I posed about your struggles and so I refrained. As long as it did not hinder the Inquisition, it was not my place to interfere. But at this point, you must admit that I can no longer turn a blind eye."

    The man lowered his eyes and fixed his gaze on his hands, which were still trembling. Where does one begin such a confession? In his decision lay the weight of a lifetime, a story that he had shared only with the Maker. He was hesitant to reveal too much, to lay bare the depths of his inner turmoil, but the Seeker deserved an explanation. "For decades, I dedicated myself to the Templar Order, giving it everything I had. But now... now I yearn for a new beginning, to break free from the chains that still bind me. It may seem ill-advised, especially considering the timing." He paused for a moment, his gaze meeting Cassandra''s steady eyes, searching for understanding. "But I need to put some distance between my past and my present. While I am within the confines of lyrium''s grasp, I don''t think I can do that. I ask that you watch over me, and if my ability to lead is compromised any further, release me from my duty."

    The woman listened intently, and when he finished she nodded slowly. "Your decision to stop taking lyrium is not one I take lightly, but I believe in your strength and resilience," she said, her voice steady and reassuring. "Your success in finding a new way forward could inspire others who no longer wish to be bound by the constraints of the Order. Your journey is not just your own, it carries the potential to ignite hope in those Knights who feel trapped."

    "Thank you, Cassandra," he whispered, his voice tinged with emotion. "Your understanding means more to me than you can imagine."

    "We are a team, Cullen, I hope you know that," the Right Hand spoke, her voice laced with a gentle yet determined tone. "When I say ''we,'' I do not refer solely to you and me, but to the entirety of the Inquisition council. Many stand against us, and if we do not support one another in times of trouble, our cause is destined to fail." Her words carried a spark of enthusiasm, as she continued to lay out her proposal. "I am certain that you are not the first one to try and break the lyrium chains. While openly seeking information on this matter would strain our relationship with the Chantry, Leliana possesses the skills to retrieve records discreetly, ensuring our anonymity. And as a healer, Miriam could offer remedies to alleviate some of the withdrawal symptoms. She was beside herself with worry when you left, and it would bring her peace of mind to know that she can be of assistance to you."

    He shook his head, "I wouldn''t wish to burden others with my struggles," he replied, his voice filled with a touch of self-deprecation.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Cassandra''s expression softened. "Don''t be stubborn. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. Even Andraste didn''t accomplish her feats alone."

    Cullen, feeling the weight of the Seeker''s unwavering support, found his resolve wavering. Perhaps it was time to relinquish his pride and accept the aid offered by his comrades. With a sigh, he relented, "Very well. For the sake of the Inquisition and our shared mission, I will set aside my reservations and allow others to lend their strength to my own."

    The woman''s smile widened, "That is the spirit. Now get some rest, Josephine will send the report on our meeting to you later today." With those words, she rose from the chair "I will return to my duties as there is much work to be done."

    As she left his tent, he leaned back against his cot, his tired body sinking into the fabric, and a sense of relief enveloped him. He had companions by his side, comrades in arms who were ready to support him. The temptation to reach for the lyrium that had held such power over him only moments before was now reduced to an almost imperceptible whisper. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was not alone in his struggles.

    As promised, the report from the Ambassador arrived a few hours later, bearing information that shed light on the recent events. Interrogation by Leliana''s agents revealed that the so-called bandits who attacked Miriam and Mother Giselle were henchmen of the infamous Carta. Their purpose was to deter humans from traveling further down the King''s Highway  where the dwarves had stumbled upon a rare find - a vein of lyrium in an underground cavern unusually close to the surface. Hawke and Fenris, acting swiftly, had dealt with the remaining hirelings in the vicinity preparing the ground for claiming the precious site. However, their efforts were abruptly halted by a Rift within the tunnel leading to the deposit. Hence, the expertise of the Herald was necessary to seal the tear in the Veil. It was decided that tomorrow after the morning bells, Cassandra, Lysette, and Solas were to accompany her to the Hinterlands to help secure the location.

    The implications of this discovery were profound. Once the site was cleared and a working mine established, it would serve as a permanent source of lyrium for the Inquisition''s mages and Templars for years to come. The prospect of stability and self-sufficiency was a beacon of hope amidst the challenges they faced.

    Cullen set the report aside and made his way to the training field. The tendrils of good news had seeped into him, infusing his weary spirit with a renewed sense of enthusiasm to face the rest of the day.

    He dedicated himself to the task of training the recruits, tirelessly guiding them through drills and imparting his knowledge. He observed their progress with a discerning eye, taking pride in their growth as they honed their skills under his tutelage. The training grounds buzzed with activity as soldiers pushed their limits, sweat glistening on their brows, while his voice resonated with firm instructions.

    When dusk enveloped the land, the Commander wearily retreated to his tent for the night, a mix of exhaustion and fulfillment lingering in his heart.

    He bolted upright from his cot, drenched in a cold sweat that clung to his trembling body. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and rapid, as his panicked eyes darted around the dimly lit shelter. Slowly, a sense of relief washed over him as he realized it was all but a haunting nightmare. Yet, the sickening sensation of the demon''s warm, slimy fingers still clung to his skin. Overwhelmed by a sense of revulsion, he pushed himself upright and made his way towards the modest basin perched upon a weathered wooden chair in the corner. With deliberate movements, he removed his shirt, exposing his clammy flesh to the cool air. His hand extended towards the bowl, where the frigid water awaited. With a resolute grip, he seized the basin, brimming with ice-cold liquid, and splashed it against his face. The streams cascaded over his body, awakening his senses with their biting touch. In that instant, the present moment claimed his attention, erasing the lingering traces of fear and disgust that clung to him. Patting himself dry with a worn cloth, he turned his gaze towards one of the tent openings, covered with a thin layer of nug skin. The translucent covering allowed a soft diffusion of light from the outside to permeate the tent. The faint pink hue of the approaching sunrise barely caught his eye, indicating that there were still a few hours before the morning bells would stir the camp awake.  Unwilling to waste time when there was a mountain of things to do, he thought to get a head start on checking the Inquisition¡¯s supply lines. With the impending shortage of weapons for the recruits, it was imperative to address the issue promptly. He donned his trusty armor, its weight a reassuring presence, and made his way to the Chantry.

    As he ventured along the well-trodden path, his steps quickened, hastening him to his destination. There, amidst the swirling snowflakes, he came upon Lysette and Brother Sebastian. The woman, her countenance marked by a crimson flush from her labor, diligently toiled to clear the snow from the entrance with an old, weathered shovel.

    Nearby, Sebastian, stripped of his usual armor and clad in maroon Alb, exuded an aura of elation as he fervently wielded an axe to cleave wood. This garb signified that he had been entrusted with the task of preparing logs for the ever-burning brazier placed at the feet of the Maker''s Bride statue. This duty, sought after and revered, offered the clergy an opportunity to imbue the timber with their prayers, knowing that Andraste''s flames would deliver them to the Maker. Such a sacred undertaking had traditionally been reserved exclusively for Mothers, rendering it an unattainable dream for any man. The fact that Mother Giselle had allowed the Brother to transgress the boundaries dictated by his gender made her a woman of peculiar nature.

    With a solemn nod of acknowledgment bestowed upon Sebastian, he proceeded to Lysette. The woman, her face marked by both weariness and resolve, saluted him with reverence. Her breath formed visible puffs in the frigid air as she spoke, "Commander," she greeted, her words laced with a tinge of exhaustion. "Lady Herald has sought solace in the sanctum of the Chantry. She has expressed her desire to offer a prayer to Andraste before we embark on our mission. In the meantime, I have taken it upon myself to assist Brother Sebastian in his obligations."

    He paused for a moment, taking in Lysette''s worn appearance and the snow-covered surroundings. "Understood," he replied, "However, take a moment to rest. Your strength must remain steadfast for the impending journey."

    With a brisk nod, the woman assented, "I shall, Commander. May Andraste guide our path."

    While she retreated towards a sheltered corner, seeking respite from her tasks, Cullen entered the Chantry. As he made his way further down the hall, he couldn''t help but be enticed by the melodic cadence of Miriam''s prayer and the gentle crackle of the ever-burning brazier emanating from the inner sanctum. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of intruding upon her moment of communion, but something within him urged him forward. As he approached the hallowed ground, his gaze fell upon the mage kneeling before the statue of Andraste, her silhouette bathed in a soft halo of light emanating from the brazier. She prostrated herself on the cold stone floor, her delicate frame swaying ever so slightly in harmony with the Chant of Light.

    With every step he took toward the enchanter, a palpable wave of emotion washed over him, her pleas stirring his longing for a deep connection with the Maker. He closed his eyes and allowed the sounds of the Chant to envelop him. The words cascaded into his consciousness, a melodic current carrying with it a profound sense of calm and surrender.

    As the moments passed, his breathing deepened and a comforting warmth enveloped his chest, as if he were being embraced by the ethereal presence of Andraste herself.

    Eventually, the intensity of the feeling began to subside, leaving him in a state of serene stillness. Cullen opened his eyes, imbued with newfound strength. His gaze lingered upon Miriam, lost in her reverie, and a surge of gratitude welled within him for the unintended gift she had bestowed upon him.

    Quietly, he stepped away, leaving the sanctum behind. As he walked into the War Room, he carried with him the lingering echoes of her prayers.

    The chamber was bathed in the sun''s warm rays, casting long shadows across the polished oak table where the Commander stood absorbed in his task. Maps, reports, and a weathered leather ledger, filled with meticulously recorded weapon inventories, surrounded him. For hours he devotedly traced the lines representing their supply routes, tirelessly striving to ensure an uninterrupted flow of weapons and resources to the Inquisition''s nascent army. As the demand for their forces grew, new passages needed to be established.  That¡¯s why he scrutinized every potential candidate, meticulously pointing out the possible dangers that lurked within. Bandit-infested areas and treacherous terrain were mapped out, along with the exact number of guards to be stationed at critical points along the newly charted paths.

    While the Commander''s concentration remained fixated on the maps before him, a graceful figure silently entered the War Room. The Spymaster of the Inquisition approached with purpose, her steps light and unhurried. "Commander, I hope the day finds you well."

    Startled by her sudden appearance, the man''s gaze swiftly shifted from the maps to meet the Left Hand''s arresting gaze. How had she managed to infiltrate the room without so much as a whisper? "Leliana," he addressed her "What brings you here?"

    "I need updated maps depicting the northern region of the Frostback Mountains," she revealed. "Having received reports of potential threats in that particular area, I find it imperative to ensure that my scouts are equipped with precise and current information.¡±

    Without uttering a word, the Commander gestured towards a nearby stack of parchments, indicating that her request would be swiftly fulfilled. As she gracefully moved towards the waiting maps, he thought that it will be an opportune moment to ask for her help. Gathering his resolve, he cautiously yet resolutely ventured forth. "I wanted to discuss something with you," he began, his voice carrying the weight of both concern and determination. "Could you secure Chantry records pertaining to Templars who have attempted to abstain from lyrium consumption? I am also interested in any studies on the withdrawal symptoms they may experience."

    Rather than posing the expected questions, the woman surprised him with a simple yet assuring response carrying an air of quiet confidence. "Of course, consider it done."

    "Thank you," he said, feeling a sense of gratitude for Leliana''s prompt willingness to assist him without prying further. Though their perspectives often diverged, and they found themselves on opposing sides of heated debates, there was no denying the Spymaster''s unparalleled competence. Her reputation as a master of intrigue and espionage preceded her, and he knew that if anyone possessed the skills to uncover the necessary information, it was her.

    The corners of her lips curled ever so slightly, a subtle hint of satisfaction gracing her features, "Helping hand gets sway over the fate."

    With those last words, she departed the War Room, leaving Cullen slightly perplexed by her response. A sense of uncertainty settled within him, for her words hinted at a hidden agenda. He shook his head, perhaps it was best not to dwell too deeply on the enigma that was Leliana. After all, her unwavering dedication to the cause had proven invaluable time and time again. It was her competence and her skill that mattered most at this moment. With renewed focus, he turned his attention back to the maps that lay sprawled across the table.

    As twilight draped its dusky cloak over the horizon, Cullen''s weary body reminded him of its needs. Hunger gnawed at his stomach as he had not taken a single bite of food throughout the entire day. It was a new sensation, one he would need to grow accustomed to. In the days when lyrium coursed through his veins, such mundane concerns as nourishment had been foreign to him, replaced by an unyielding surge of energy that sustained him without fail. However, with his attempted liberation from the addictive substance, his body demanded sustenance.

    Sighing heavily, Cullen rubbed his reddened eyes, strained from hours of scrutinizing maps and poring over reports. It was clear that he needed to address his own needs if he was to have the strength to carry out his duties. Resolving to venture to the nearby tavern, he stepped out of the War Room.

    Just as he left the Chantry behind, a sudden clamor interrupted the tranquility of the evening. Intrigued by the disturbance, the Commander''s determined gait quickened, his purposeful strides cutting through the still air. With each step, his anticipation heightened, urging him toward the heart of the commotion.

    When he arrived at the scene, his eyes took in a gathering of recruits, their collective attention fixated upon a heated dispute unfolding before them. A Templar, his countenance twisted with contempt, hurled accusations at a mage, "It is your blighted kind that brought about the Breach and the death of the Divine!" he spat, his voice laced with bitter resentment.

    The enchanter, refusing to yield under the weight of the Knight''s accusations, met his opponent''s words with unyielding defiance. "Has the lyrium eroded your brain?" he retorted in an exasperated voice. "If your claims held any truth, why would Andraste have chosen a mage to be her Herald?"

    A sneer curled the Templar''s lips. "Andraste chose her because she is a submissive sort. She knows her place, a far cry from you lot."

    Cullen''s blood boiled at the Knight''s words. "Enough!" he thundered, his authority resonating in every syllable. "Such disputes serve no purpose in our mission." His eyes, ablaze with fury, bore into the Templar, "This is the Inquisition, you are talking to your comrade, not your charge. Address your words with due respect, soldier!" he demanded. "There should be unity in our ranks. The division is a weakness we cannot afford."

    The Knight, his bravado momentarily diminished, lowered his gaze in reluctant submission.

    Cullen''s attention then shifted to the mage, his voice softened but carrying an undeniable intensity. "And you, refrain from engaging in provocations that will only serve to escalate the conflict. Your duty is to maintain order and discipline, not fuel discord. Should you experience any more misconduct within our ranks, report it to Knight-Captain Rylen."

    The enchanter nodded, his expression slightly tempered. "Yes, Commander."

    With a sweep of his gaze, Cullen addressed the assembled onlookers. "There is nothing more to see here. Dismissed! " The crowd, reluctantly acquiescing to his command, began to disperse, the tendrils of animosity and discord gradually dissipating.

    His brow furrowed as he stood amidst the lingering echoes of the confrontation. For so long, he had been steadfast in his conviction that mages should be always closely monitored, their powers tempered by the watchful guidance of the Templar Order. It had been a doctrine ingrained within him, a truth he had clung to in the face of the chaos and destruction that magic had often wrought.

    Now, however, doubt had crept into the depths of his soul, the events he had witnessed chipping away at the certainty he once held. He found himself in uncharted territory, where the boundaries of right and wrong had become blurred and muddled.

    He took a deep breath, drawing in the cool evening air, and resumed his walk towards the beckoning glow of the tavern.

    The establishment door was swung open, releasing a lively chorus of laughter and mirth into the night. Cullen stepped across the threshold, allowing the spirit of the place to wash over him. The scent of hearty meals and the clinking of tankards filled the air, mingling with the sounds of animated conversations and the melodic strains of a bard''s song.

    His weary eyes surveyed the room, taking in the diverse faces that populated the space. Soldiers, scouts, and pilgrims huddled together, sharing tales of their trials and triumphs. The Commander found a quiet corner, away from the bustling crowd, and settled into a sturdy wooden chair. Summoning a serving wench with a nod, he ordered a simple meal and a mug of bark tisane.

    In the cheerful atmosphere of the tavern, amidst the rhythmic pulse of life, he waited patiently for his sustenance, all too aware that the approaching night would likely unleash another torrent of nightmares. At that moment, a recollection emerged¡ªa memory of the profound warmth that coursed through him during the morning prayer shared with Miriam. And so he allowed himself to be enveloped in a sense of serenity and to be freed, if only for a little while, from the shackles of his burdens.

 Envy

    The intrepid party crossed the threshold of the tunnel entrance that descended into the depths of the subterranean cavern. With the Rift being the only remaining danger, and the narrow nature of the passage, it was deemed unnecessary to call in additional Inquisition forces for this particular mission. The vanguard was led by Fenris and Hawke, who was not only familiar with the labyrinthine path but who had also uncovered the existence of the Rift in the first place. Following in their wake were Miriam and Solas, conjuring orbs of ethereal light. The radiant glow emanating from these spheres acted as a beacon, pushing back the encroaching darkness and giving the party comforting warmth. Lysette stood resolutely at Miriam''s flank, her shield gleaming with meticulously polished steel. Completing the procession, Cassandra brandished her sword with an iron grip, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

    As they ventured further into the maw of the tunnel, the air grew cool and damp, clinging to their skin and assaulting their senses with the putrid mustiness of the surrounding atmosphere. The echoes of their footsteps merged with the distant drip of water, creating an eerie symphony that resonated through the passage. They passed by remnants of past expeditions, abandoned equipment, and faded markings on the walls, evidence of Carta¡¯s members who had ventured here before them.

    Miriam''s heart brimmed with excitement as her eyes beheld the clusters of deep mushrooms strewn across the floor, their vibrant azure hues standing boldly against the surrounding darkness. These subterranean fungi served as one of the crucial components for the coveted regeneration potion. The notion of passing by such a fortuitous opportunity seemed almost sacrilegious, prompting her to propose the idea of collecting them on their return journey.

    To her surprise, however, the rest of the party did not share her enthusiasm, save for Hawke. A gleam of recognition lit up the Champion''s eyes as she nodded in agreement. "Aye, them mushrooms be fit for mixin'' in me tonics as well. With one o'' me concoctions, ye''ll possess the power to unleash the fury of the seven seas!" A momentary pause followed before she added mischievously, "But I must warn ye that on the morrow it has a nasty tendency to send yer bowels into a stormy frenzy. If ye value yer trousers stayin'' dry, keep this knowledge close to yer heart. Ain''t that right, Fenris?" Her words dripped with playful mischief, punctuated by a sly wink directed at the elf.

    The man responded with a gruff growl, his voice laced with a touch of irritation. "Would you like me to pluck out your remaining eye?"

    Undeterred, the woman laughed heartily in response, her deep voice echoing against the rugged walls of the tunnel.

    Her cheer abruptly ended as an ominous crawling sound reached their ears. From the shadows emerged the grotesque and predatory forms of giant spiders, their many eyes glinting in the dark. Instantly, the group''s formation tightened, their bodies coiling in readiness to meet the threat.

    With practiced precision Miriam''s hands danced through the arcane gestures, as she swiftly cast her protective barriers upon the warriors, ethereal energies enveloping their frames in a shield. The task demanded every ounce of her strength, but she remained steadfast, rooted in place, and determined to maintain her concentration. Her mana flowed out, coursing along the ethereal cords that tethered her to the barriers, ensuring their stability amidst the chaos that surrounded them. As the monstrous abominations closed in, their snarls and slavering jaws heralding their bloodthirsty intent, a surge of crackling energy erupted from Solas, an electric storm unleashed upon their foes. Bolts of lightning arced through the air, leaping from one vile creature to another, momentarily stunning them in a dazzling display of power. Seizing the opportunity Hawke charged forward with a war cry, slamming into the horde head-on. Her maul swung in wide arcs and the spiders, their spindly legs buckling under the force of her blows, were tossed aside like rag dolls.

    One of the monsters lunged at Cassandra''s back but was met by the barrier, the resonating impact causing the spider to recoil, its fangs gnashing in frustration. With a swift and fluid motion, the Seeker pivoted on her heel, her eyes ablaze with fury. Without hesitation, she launched a ferocious counterattack, her sword becoming an extension of her body. The blade sang its deadly melody as it cleaved through the flesh of the monster, carving a path of swift retribution. The creature, caught in the whirlwind of the Seeker''s onslaught, faltered and crumpled under the weight of her skill, its existence having been snuffed out.

    Miriam, wholly dedicated to the task of upholding the barriers, found her attention utterly consumed by the demanding duty at hand. Her focus was so intense, her senses so enveloped in the intricacies of magic, that she failed to perceive the encroaching danger lurking in the shadows. Stealthily, one of the monsters crept closer and lunged, its attack aimed squarely at her vulnerable form. Yet, Lysette, ever watchful, leaped forward with unparalleled swiftness. Her shield held high she interposed herself between the mage and the creature. The clash of their collision was resounding, causing the woman to be propelled backward and collide with Miriam. Caught off guard the enchanter was abruptly jolted from her trance. The delicate strands of incantations that bound her barriers snapped and the ethereal protection dissipated into nothingness. As if sensing the opportunity granted by the failed enchantment, another spider, quick as lightning, vaulted above Lysette, who even from the ground held her shield up using her body to block Miriam from harm. From their backs, the two scrambled backwards as the creature continued its assault. With their other companions occupied, the Templar took hit after hit, and while her resolve held strong, her strength waned. The spider was unnaturally fast not giving the women an opening to counterattack. Miriam''s eyes widened in terror as she witnessed Lysette''s shield falter and fall to the wayside, no longer able to repel the venomous onslaught, ¡°Herald, go!¡± the Templar commanded as she shoved her charge away, forcefully separating them to draw the monstrous creature''s attention solely upon herself. The wicked jaws instantly found their mark in the unprotected flesh of Lysette¡¯s neck, puncturing her defenseless skin with a savage bite. A cry of startled anguish escaped the woman¡¯s lips as she crumpled to the ground, her body seized by violent convulsions, crimson streams flowing forth from the wound.

    Hurrying to their rescue Fenris sprang into action. His movements were fluid and deadly as he descended upon the monstrous assailants. With a swing of his weapon, he sent the spiders tumbling, their grotesque forms writhing in agonizing torment, bearing deep gashes inflicted by his skilled hand. Meanwhile, Solas unleashed a fireball that descended upon the remaining creatures with unrelenting fury. In its searing wake, several of the loathsome spiders were reduced to ashes, while the survivors, their courage shattered, scrambled away, fleeing from the overwhelming might array against them.

    Miriam''s heart sank as she knelt beside the ailing Lysette whose form writhed in torment, contorted by agonizing spasms. She knew that the standard healing potions she carried in her arsenal would prove futile against the poison that had infiltrated the warrior''s bloodstream. The situation demanded another solution, one that only a potent healing spell could provide. Time was of the essence, and Miriam''s hands moved with a desperate swiftness as she reached for her sash, fingers fumbling until they closed around a vial of lyrium. Hurriedly she uncorked it and consumed its contents, feeling the energizing rush of the mana returning to her body. Her gaze shifted toward Cassandra, her eyes brimming with intensity. "Hold her in place," she commanded, her voice steady despite the tremor of anxiety within. The Seeker obeyed without question, her grip firm yet gentle as she cradled the convulsing warrior, ensuring she remained still for the impending healing ritual.

    Miriam took a deep breath and centered herself. With a resolute determination etched into her features, she laid her hands on the wound. Closing her eyes, she shut out her surroundings. Drawing upon the power of her connection to the Fade, she summoned forth a surge of healing energy. The enchanter¡¯s magic delicately wove through the raw edges of the wound, mending and knitting together torn tissue, while also purging the insidious poison from every cell.

    Beneath the gentle ministrations of Miriam''s spell, Lysette''s shallow breaths began to steady, her spasm ceased and she fell into a deep slumber. As the last vestiges of her magic dissipated, the enchanter opened her eyes and gazed upon her work with a mix of relief and satisfaction. The deep gash that marred her guard¡¯s neck had now been sealed, replaced by a thick, rugged scar.

    Cassandra carefully released her hold on Lysette''s weakened form, rising from the ground with her gaze fixed upon Hawke. With measured steps, she closed the distance between them, her eyes ablaze with righteous indignation.

    "You told us that aside from the Rift, there was no danger," she seethed, her voice laced with restrained fury. "And yet, here we are, facing a peril we were ill-prepared for."

    Hawke, unflinchingly defiant, met Cassandra''s accusatory gaze without a hint of remorse. "Aye, an'' there weren''t any danger when we first stumbled upon this tunnel, ye see. It''s been days gone by since that time, it has. Do ye reckon I be standin'' watch at the entrance day and night, makin'' sure no scurvy threats dare cross our path?"

    The Seeker''s nostrils flared with barely contained frustration. "I expect you to exercise caution and foresight before our arrival. Miriam is our only hope in sealing the Breach. We cannot afford to take unnecessary risks."

    Hawke rolled her eyes dismissively, "Spare me the theatrics, will ye? Besides, I be bettin'' me last tit that Andraste be keepin'' a spare Herald stashed away in some flamin'' hidey-hole o'' hers."

    Cassandra''s temper flared, her restraint on the edge of snapping as she raised her clenched fist, prepared to strike the Champion. However, before the blow could land, Fenris, his intricate tattoos glowing with a fierce intensity, stepped between them. His intense glare bore into the Seeker, a silent warning that spoke volumes.

    Miriam shook her head with a weary sigh. This was not the time nor the place for their heated argument. "Please, calm down," she implored, her tone carrying a gentle authority. "All of you. We must focus on the task at hand. Lysette is safe, but she needs time to recover. Let us not waste precious moments bickering amongst ourselves when we still have a mission to accomplish."

    The tension eased slightly, though the undercurrents of frustration and discord remained palpable.

    "The Herald speaks the truth," Solas interjected. "I can sense the proximity of the Rift. It is close by." He paused, as if attuning his senses, then continued, "The tear is small, limiting the entrance of powerful demons. We may encounter wraiths, perhaps a terror demon, but nothing more formidable than that."

    Miriam imbued with newfound resolve, rose to her feet, her eyes sparkling with determination. "If that is the case, then I propose Fenris remains by Lysette''s side, safeguarding her as she regains consciousness. Meanwhile, the rest of us shall venture further to confront and close the Rift."

    "I will keep her safe." The elven warrior announced as he stepped beside the form of her guard lying on the ground.

    Miriam directed a grateful smile toward the man. "Thank you. I trust that she will be in capable hands with you."

    Cassandra regarded Solas with a mix of caution and hope. "I pray that your senses are indeed accurate and that we do not find ourselves facing a pride demon."

    The elven mage met her gaze with confidence. "Fear not. They have rarely failed me."

    With the plan set and roles assigned, the Seeker gestured for Hawke to take the lead, her gaze piercing as she directed a final reproachful look toward the woman.

    The remainder of their mission unfolded with unexpected ease as if the Maker had finally chosen to favor their endeavors. Solas'' keen senses had proven accurate, and the small Rift welcomed them with only a handful of wraiths accompanied by a solitary shade. The seasoned warriors and mages swiftly rose to the challenge. Blades met ethereal forms, spells crackled through the air, and the wraiths dissipated under the onslaught. The shade, too, succumbed without offering too much resistance.

    Miriam, invigorated by the resounding victory, embraced the challenge of sealing the Rift without any assistance from Solas. Bathed in a radiant emerald glow, the mark on her hand pulsed with untamed energy as she extended her hand toward the tear. Embracing its power, she intertwined the delicate strands of the Veil, weaving them together until a resounding crackle reverberated through the air as the Rift succumbed to the force of her magic and sealed shut. In that moment of triumph, the elven mage approached her. His normally inscrutable expression softened, replaced by a rare gleam of contentment. He reached out and gently patted her shoulder in silent approval.

    Their mission accomplished, the group retraced their steps with renewed purpose, hastening their return to their comrades. Lysette, though still weakened, had regained consciousness, her strong spirit shining through her pale countenance as she greeted them. Before departing, Miriam and Hawke lingered for a while, seizing the opportunity to gather the deep mushrooms they had previously stumbled upon. With the fungi collected, the group was ready to head back to the camp established near the entrance to the tunnel.

    Under the canopy of towering trees, the soft glow of a dying campfire flickered at the Inquisition encampment nestled amidst the Hinterlands. The scene was hushed, save for the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze and the occasional nocturnal sounds of the forest. Inside one of the tents, Lysette sat cross-legged on a padded mat, a faint glow from a magical orb cascading over her weary features, accentuating the slight pallor of her skin. Miriam, knelt beside the woman, her eyes focused and filled with empathy. With practiced care, she opened a small, weathered satchel at her side, its contents revealing an assortment of fragrant leaves, delicate vials of elixirs, neatly rolled bandages, and the sturdy mortar and pestle that had notably witnessed countless uses. Lysette''s eyes remained fixed on the mage as she deftly selected a handful of leaves, placed them in the mortar and began to grind them.  As their essence was released into the air, the soothing scent of the herbs mingled harmoniously with the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest, enveloping the duo in a comforting and serene atmosphere. When the crushed herbs formed a paste, Miriam''s nimble fingers applied it with a gentle touch to Lysette''s wound, her movements precise and tender. "If administered regularly, this remedy shall aid in diminishing the prominence of the scar, though I fear it shall still remain noticeable," she offered with a note of caution.

    "I hold little concern for its visibility," the woman replied, her gaze briefly glancing at the marred hand of the mage, adorned with burn scars. "If the Herald of Andraste herself bears such marks, why should I fret over mine?"

    "Because you are a young woman who has yet to embark on the path of matrimony. Your charms are still sought after," the mage explained, completing the application of the remedy before rubbing her hands together to cleanse any residual remnants.

    A flicker of curiosity crossed Lysette''s face as she met the enchanter¡¯s gaze. "But are we not in the same predicament?"

    Miriam let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I am not burdened by such concerns. Mages are forbidden from marrying, and even if we were not, I do not believe anyone would find me of particular interest."

    "Why not? You possess your own unique appeal,¡± the woman countered, her voice filled with conviction. "And I don¡¯t believe the Chantry will refuse to bless the Herald of Andraste¡¯s union."

    "I''ll be happy enough if they just acknowledge that I am the Herald." The enchanter sighed, tucked her tools into her satchel and placed it next to her bedroll. "With any luck, by the time we return to Haven, the ban on our presence in Orlais will have already been lifted. I cannot wait to finally meet with the Lord Seeker and secure the aid of the Templars."

    Lysette''s countenance grew somber, "I joined the Order with the belief that it would provide an opportunity to uphold the Chantry''s laws and help the mages during this troubled time. But it has become a mere shadow of its former self." Her words dripped with disillusionment as she continued to voice her concerns. "Once, we stood as protectors of all people, shielding them from the dangers of magic. But now, it seems we are more preoccupied with posturing and grasping for power rather than fulfilling our purpose."

    Miriam placed her hand gently on her guard¡¯s shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Surely, there must be a reason why the valiant Knights of our Lady remain passive in the face of this magical calamity. We shall uncover the truth, I promise you." The enchanter gently withdrew her hand and reached towards the magical orb that provided their only source of light, ¡°But now we should rest, for tomorrow''s journey will demand our full wits."

    She whispered an incantation and the orb''s light gradually faded, leaving the tent cloaked in shadows. Silence filled the air, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as the two companions settled into their beds.

    The untamed wilderness of the Hinterlands loomed as the party prepared for their way back to Haven. Suddenly, a gust of wind heralded the arrival of a raven, its ebony feathers glistening under the dappled sunlight. The majestic bird landed gracefully on Cassandra''s outstretched arm, bearing a sealed message from Josephine.

    Intrigued the group gathered inside the sanctuary of Cassandra''s spacious tent, its fabric billowing gently in the breeze. Their eyes were fixated on the delicate parchment clutched tightly within the Seeker''s hands, their anticipation tangible. The woman cleared her throat and began to read aloud, "Our efforts to sow discord among the clerics had bared fruit. Although the Chantry doesn¡¯t officially recognize Miriam as the Herald of Andraste, they are now willing to give the Inquisition a chance to prove itself. The branding of heretics and the banishment are no more, which marks a significant shift in our standing. While tension still lingers within the halls of the Grand Cathedral, the Chantry could now be counted as our potential political ally."

    Excitement surged through the tent, however, Cassandra''s serious expression cautioned the group that there was more to the message, "However, there are further developments. Both Lord Seeker Lucius and Grand Enchanter Fiona had abandoned the capital. Declaring the Chantry unworthy of the Order''s protection, Lucius took his Templars to billet themselves at Therinfal Redoubt. Meanwhile, Fiona had left in the company of a Tevinter magister, journeying to Redcliffe Village to reunite with the rebels." A low growl escaped Fenris'' lips, his usually impassive face etched with a mixture of anger and concern. The Seeker''s voice pierced through the tension as she continued to read, "Adding to the intrigue, the Lord Seeker himself had extended a personal invitation for the Herald to convene at his fortress. It is clear that the landscape of power is shifting. Please, let us know your thoughts on how we should proceed."

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Perched on a stool beside Cassandra, Miriam was the first to offer her opinion at the conclusion of the message, "The Lord Seeker''s invitation is unexpected, yet it presents an opportunity to forge an alliance with the Order. We should not let it slip away.¡±

    Fenris, his expression etched with a mix of concern and suspicion, brought a hand to his chin as he contemplated the unfolding situation. "While the Lord Seeker''s offer bears weight, I cannot ignore the fact that Fiona, the mages'' leader, has departed in the company of a Tevinter magister. History has shown us that no good comes from entangling with those bastards. I propose for Cassandra and Miriam to venture to Therinfal Redoubt while I and Hawke will investigate what happens at Redcliffe."

    The Champion nodded in agreement, a spark of excitement gleaming in her eyes. " We be but a stone''s throw from the village. Let''s turn our bows towards that lively place and see what adventures be unfoldin'' there. It be more thrillin'' than sittin'' through this mind-numbin'' gabfest with the Seeker scallywag, if ye ask me!"

    For once, even Cassandra found herself in alignment with Hawke''s perspective, her voice brimming with cautious agreement. "Investigate, yes, but do not plunge headlong into this without consulting the rest of us. We must proceed with care and deliberation." She turned her gaze towards the elf, her eyes holding a silent plea. "Fenris, I trust you to rein her in.¡±

    The elven warrior, his tone measured and tinged with a touch of wry amusement, responded, "She is a woman of her own choices, but rest assured, I shall strive to strike a balance between her fervor and the wisdom of the situation."

    ¡°Why do I feel that I will regret this decision?¡± The Seeker mumbled as she shifted her attention back to Miriam, "We are not far from Therinfal, but it would be wise to seek the presence of Commander Cullen for our meeting with Lord Lucius. As the former Knight-Commander of the Order, his insights and experience would undoubtedly be valuable. It would be prudent to wait for him to join us before proceeding."

    The enchanter, her thoughts racing, ran a hand through her tousled hair, "Although I am eager to attend this meeting, I agree that Commander Cullen''s involvement is crucial. It will also grant Lysette ample time to fully recover from her injuries." She paused for a moment "What about you, Solas? Would you come with us to meet the Lord Seeker?"

    The man met her gaze, his expression composed yet guarded, "Bringing an apostate with you might send the wrong message to the Templars, wouldn''t you agree?"

    A flicker of concern crossed Cassandra¡¯s face as she considered his words. "Yes, I share his reservations. It would be better for Solas to accompany Hawke instead. His presence with us could complicate matters and undermine our mission.¡±

    The elven mage gave a curt nod in agreement.

    As Miriam contemplated the implications of Solas''s apostate status, she realized that the time would come when she would have to address this issue directly. All the mages belonged in the Circle, under the protection of the Templars and Solas was no exception. Yet, with the chaos of the Breach in the sky, the death of the Divine, and the absence of functioning Circles, the conversation surrounding this subject seemed futile. For now, they had a pressing mission to focus on.

    ***

    As Miriam busied herself preparing for her first aid classes for the soldiers, the days blurred into nights and before she knew it, Commander Cullen arrived in the Hinterlands with a contingent of Inquisition forces. With haste, they sent a raven bearing a message to Lord Seeker, notifying him of their intent to honor his invitation. The wheels were set in motion, and their path led them toward the Southron Hills, where the Templars awaited their arrival at the formidable fortress of Therinfal Redoubt.

    The journey to the fortress was a tense one, filled with an air of anxious silence. Miriam sensed that she was not the only one feeling the weight of the impending meeting with the Knights. Commander Cullen appeared even more drained than she had last seen him. Each time she thought he couldn''t possibly look more worn out, he managed to surprise her. It was not lost on her that he often prioritized the needs of his soldiers over his own well-being. Was he sacrificing his own lyrium dose for their sake? She sighed, her thoughts mingling with a thread of hope. With the establishment of the new mine, the lyrium shortage in the Inquisition would hopefully become a thing of the past. Surely, the improved access to the precious mineral would extinguish Cullen''s suffering and allow him to regain his strength.

    After several days on the road, they finally reached Therinfal. An awe-inspiring fortress nestled in the rugged landscape, stood as a formidable bastion, rising defiantly against the horizon. Its imposing silhouette commanded respect and admiration, evoking a sense of both grandeur and trepidation. Its towering ramparts, crowned with battlements and parapets, stood as a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone era. Weathered by time and the harsh winds the rough-hewn walls seemed to bear the weight of history, their very stones whispering forgotten tales of valor and strife. As they approached the formidable gates, their eyes were met with the sight of a stern and steadfast Templar standing sentinel. Clad in his resplendent armor and exuding an aura of confidence he raised a gauntleted hand in a gesture that demanded their attention. His deep voice carried with it the weight of authority as he addressed them, his words echoing through the cavernous entrance. "Halt! State your purpose and the nature of your visit to Therinfal Redoubt."

    Cassandra stepped forward, her posture displaying confidence. "We come in the name of the Inquisition," she declared, her voice clear and unwavering. "We have an audience with Lord Seeker Lucius, for he holds matters of great importance to discuss with the Herald of Andraste." She gestured towards Miriam who fought to project an aura befitting her esteemed status, despite the nervous fluttering in her chest.

    The Knight regarded the group with a discerning gaze, his sharp eyes scanning each face as if searching for hidden motives. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded, a tacit acknowledgment of their legitimacy. "Very well. You may proceed. The Lord Seeker awaits your arrival at the Grand Hall."

    With a well-practiced motion, he signaled for the gates to be opened, the grinding of metal against metal breaking the silence. As the gates slowly rose, revealing the vast expanse beyond, Miriam could not help but feel a sense of trepidation mingled with anticipation. Each step brought her closer to her encounter with Lucius, the figure that held the keys to power within the Templar Order.

    In the sun-drenched courtyard, the group was greeted by a formidable Knight, his presence commanding and his armor polished to a reflective sheen. With a curt nod, he introduced himself as Ser Barris and declared that he would be the one to escort them to the presence of the Lord Seeker. As they began to follow Barris through the labyrinthine corridors of Therinfal Redoubt, a disquieting sensation settled upon Miriam. The atmosphere grew heavier with each step, and the once confident stride in her gait faltered slightly. Shadows danced along the walls, casting eerie shapes that seemed to taunt her from the corners of her vision. Yet, it was not just the gloom that sent shivers down her spine; it was the palpable sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate the air. Their journey through the fortress was full off encounters with other Templars, but there was something markedly different about them. Their expressions haunted, their eyes inflamed and bloodshot, their gazes heavy with hostility.

    Cassandra, her brows furrowing in deep concern, leaned closer to the mage, her voice a barely audible whisper, "The lyrium coursing through these Knights, it feels... off."

    Miriam''s fingers instinctively clenched around her amulet and she moved closer to Lysette, their shoulders touching as they started to walk side by side.

    Finally, after traversing the labyrinthine corridors and ascending countless stairs, they arrived at the Grand Hall, its massive doors standing tall before them. The weathered wooden panels, aged by the weight of time, groaned with reluctance as Ser Barris exerted his strength to swing them open. The doors yielded with a resounding creak, unveiling a breathtaking sight within. Soaring arches reached towards the heavens, their graceful curves etching intricate patterns against the expanse of the ceiling. Marble pillars, sturdy and regal, stood as sentinels, their surfaces kissed by the soft glow of candlelight that danced in ethereal hues. Every detail was meticulously crafted, every surface polished. At the heart of this resplendent setting stood Lord Seeker Lucius, flanked by a retinue of high-ranking Templars, their armor glimmering like stars in the flickering torchlight.

    Miriam, her gaze taking in the Grand Hall, couldn''t help but feel the dissonance between the opulent surroundings and the unease that pervaded the atmosphere. The Templars appeared hauntingly hollow. Their gaunt features seemed etched with lines of suppressed anger, their eyes burning with a fervor that teetered on the edge of control.

    It was then that Lord Seeker Lucius turned his piercing gaze upon the mage, and her heart skipped a beat. Never before had anyone looked at her with such intensity, such hunger. His eyes bore into hers, threatening to devour her whole, leaving her trembling and speechless in his presence. The weight of his scrutiny was suffocating, rendering her momentarily voiceless. A smile spread across Lucius''s face, as he made his way towards her. The gesture, though seemingly friendly, was more akin to a predator toying with its prey, relishing the anticipation of the chase. With a tone dripping in calculated charm, he addressed her, "Look who has finally graced us with her presence! If it isn¡¯t the Herald of Andraste herself."

    Miriam involuntarily took a step back into the strong unmoving arm of the Commander, who had also closed ranks protectively close on her opposite side. Unlike before, her grazing touch didn¡¯t register to him as his mind worked the situation. His amber eyes were lowered as he looked about from under his brow, though he didn¡¯t move his head. The soft creak of his hand on the worn leather grip of his sword signaled that he was on high alert.

    The Right Hand  took it upon herself to break the silence and address the situation. Her voice, though polite, carried a hint of underlying tension. "We were pleased to receive your invitation, Lord Seeker. The Inquisition humbly requests the assistance of the Templar Order in dealing with the looming threat of the Breach," she spoke with measured words, attempting to maintain a sense of diplomacy.

    Lucius''s eyes narrowed with an expression of annoyance as he shifted his attention towards the female Seeker, a subtle disdain lingering in his gaze. It was as though he deemed her presence an unwelcome intrusion, disrupting his intended interaction with the enchanter. With an air of haughty impatience, he retorted, his voice laced with an undercurrent of condescension, "Ah, always the one for directness, aren''t you, Cassandra? Allow me, at the very least, to extend a proper greeting to the esteemed Herald." With measured steps, he closed the distance between the mage and himself, extending his hand in a gesture of greeting, his body bending ever so slightly in a bow.

    Miriam''s hand trembled as she reluctantly reached out, her palm meeting his in a hesitant clasp. As her delicate fingertips brushed against the rough leather of Lucius''s gauntlet, a blinding flash of light consumed her senses. Just as suddenly as it began, the brilliant luminosity ceased, leaving her disoriented and breathless. As her vision gradually cleared, she found herself seated upon a simple, weathered wooden bench. The once-majestic grand hall and the enigmatic Lord Seeker were replaced by the humbler surroundings of a refugee camp nestled at the Crossroads. In her arms, she held an ailing baby, while a concerned mother stood anxiously beside them. How had she ended up here? Her mind, in a whirlwind of confusion, struggled to piece together the suddenly fragmented memories of recent events.

    As the baby extended his plump, rosy hands and emitted endearing sounds, Miriam''s perplexity momentarily dissipated. The sweet scent of infancy filled her nostrils, drawing her into an embrace of tender affection. Why did some lowly peasant have a child, while the Herald of Andraste remained bereft of maternal bliss? Surely, she would make a far superior mother, far more deserving than this wench who had carelessly allowed her baby to fall ill.

    With a jolt of horrified self-awareness, she abruptly released her grasp on the babe, returning him to the arms of his rightful mother. A soft, seductive whisper brushed against her ear, caressing her senses. "Let me get to know you." A searing pain suddenly tore through her head as if her very consciousness was being torn asunder. Squeezing her eyes shut, Miriam clutched the wooden bench with desperate hands, trying in vain to keep her balance amidst the storm of emotions and fragmented memories that assaulted her mind.

    As the mage tumbled downward, her descent was abruptly interrupted by a jarring impact against the unforgiving stone floor. Dazed she struggled to regain her bearings, only to be met with the sound of a voice that carried a note of familiarity. "My dear, it seems your mastery over fire spells is a total fiasco. You couldn''t even light a simple candle with that feeble flame of yours," the voice chided. When her vision gradually cleared, she found herself lying on the floor of one of the training chambers within the Ostwick Circle. The familiar surroundings of the mage''s haven enveloped her, stirring memories of countless hours spent honing her magical abilities. Yet, it was the countenance of the elderly woman before her that seized her attention. The woman''s expression brimmed with concern, etching lines of care onto her face. Her silver hair was elegantly woven into a braided bun, held in place by a delicate silver pin adorned with intricate floral motifs.

    "Lydia? Could it truly be you?" Miriam inquired incredulously as she slowly stood up.

    The woman chuckled. "It seems my spell had a more potent effect than I had intended. Who else could I possibly be?"

    "First Enchanter, I... I apologize. I must have drifted off into my own thoughts. But¡­there is something amiss, something I can''t quite grasp¡­" she trailed off, her voice filled with a mix of confusion and unease. Her fingers found their way to her temples, gently massaging in an attempt to alleviate the dull ache that lingered there.

    "The only thing amiss, my dear, is your control over offensive magic. The Harrowing looms ever closer, and yet you remain unprepared." Lydia replied with a hint of exasperation.

    Confusion clouded Miriam''s features. "The Harrowing? But I have already undergone it, haven''t I?" A flicker of doubt crept into her mind, casting shadows upon her memories. Her gaze instinctively shifted to the palm of her left hand, a fleeting feeling that something significant should have resided there appeared, but the memory eluded her grasp like a wisp of smoke.

    Lydia''s patience wore thin, her frustration seeping into her voice. "You most certainly did not, and it is high time you gathered yourself and focused. Now, try to create flames once more. Just like that." Raising her hands above her head, Lydia began to mold and shape a ball of fire between her palms. With each deliberate movement, the sphere grew in size, transforming into a vibrant, full-fledged fireball. Confidence emanated from her mentor as she effortlessly controlled the element.

    ¡°Look at you, old hag, boasting about your abilities. What use do you have for them?" Her words spilled forth involuntarily, her own voice startling her with its venomous tone. "I don''t need your pathetic spells. I am the chosen of the Maker, and that surpasses anything you could ever hope to achieve." Horror washed over her, and she quickly clasped her hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle any further insults that threatened to escape. What had come over her? She didn''t mean any of it... or did she? She looked at Lydia''s hurt expression as her hands fell to her sides, the flickering flames of the spell dissipating into nothingness.

    Miriam¡¯s mouth started to open once more as if driven by an unseen force. Panic surged within her, and in a desperate attempt to regain control, she sank her teeth into her palm. The sharp sting of pain momentarily broke through the fog, bringing a flicker of clarity. Yet, the insidious whisper echoed through her mind once again, its voice growing stronger, more persuasive. "Why are you fighting me? I am only trying to help you, to give voice to your innermost thoughts and reveal your greatness to the world.¡±

    No! She refused to succumb to the treacherous allure of the voice, the lies it spun to deceive her. Deep within her core, she clung to the love and respect she held for Lydia, the trust forged over countless shared moments. Jealousy may have also been there, but it was a fleeting emotion¡ªa ripple in the vast ocean of their bond.

    With a surge of inner strength, she pushed against the whispered lies, the distorted reflections of her feelings. As if angered by her resistance, the voice hissed, striking with a renewed vigor. Another wave of searing pain lanced through her skull, and her vision blurred, merging the familiar walls of the Circle''s chamber with the presence of the First Enchanter. Everything dissolved into a disorienting haze of white, obliterating the boundaries of her surroundings.

    Gasping for air, Miriam''s hand slipped from her mouth, revealing the distinct imprint of her own teeth etched upon her skin. She clutched her throbbing head with both hands, a guttural moan escaping her lips. Fragments of thoughts, memories, and desires clashed and jumbled together in a chaotic cacophony that threatened to consume her sanity. It was as if the very fabric of her identity was unraveling, her sense of self slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

    In the midst of the tumultuous storm that raged within her mind, Miriam''s senses caught a glimpse of a spectral presence, a young boy emerging from the ethereal haze. His form seemed both familiar and yet distant, his hand extended in a rhythmic motion as if inviting her to join in a dance. The faint strains of a melody accompanied his presence, growing in intensity with each passing moment. As the cheery tune permeated the chaotic symphony within her, whispers that had plagued her began to recede, their power waning in the face of this newfound melody. The pain in her head subsided, replaced by a soothing calm that washed over her like a gentle breeze on a summer''s day.

    The words of the song became clearer, resonating within her being. "A-ah, little apple, red, ripe, and sweet. A-ah, little apple, a tasty little treat." Tears welled up in Miriam''s eyes as she extended her trembling hand toward the apparition of the child. "Oh, brave boy, help me once again, I beg of you." And then, as if in response to her plea, a deep, radiant gush of emerald light appeared on the palm of her outstretched hand. With a sudden burst of energy, the light transformed into cascading green flames, erupting from the mark in a blinding display of viridescent power.

    In an instant, the suffocating white fog dissipated, replaced by the warm embrace of the sun-drenched courtyard of the Redcliffe Chantry. The pain that had ravaged her evaporated, leaving behind a renewed sense of clarity and resolve.

    With a sense of revelation, Miriam realized that the sinister whispers, the malicious influence that had manipulated her, were nothing more than the machinations of yet another demon seeking to possess her. This monster, however, was unlike anything she had ever encountered before, possessing an eerie power that tested her resolve to the limit. Still, with her mind sharpened and her spirit aflame, she knew she had the strength to defy its insidious grasp.

    A child¡¯s voice, filled with boundless joy, echoed through the air. "Come on, join in! I promise it''ll be fun!" She turned her gaze and there he was, the boy who had saved her on that fateful day. He danced with unbridled enthusiasm, leaping and twirling, his hands clasping in rhythm as he resumed his singing ¡°Under the blue sky, the sun shines down so bright. And on my little apple tree, the fruit is just right.¡±

    Tears flowed freely from Miriam''s eyes, cascading down her cheeks in an unbridled release of emotion. She studied the boy''s face, drinking in every detail¡ªthe curls of his blond hair, the warmth in his light brown eyes, and the ever-present smile that graced his lips. Over the passing years, his features had gradually faded from her memory, until she could no longer conjure his image with clarity. Yet, here, in this precious moment, she beheld him once again, resurrected from the depths of her recollections. All the torment and trials she had endured, all the darkness she had faced, paled in comparison to the overwhelming joy of seeing him anew. She took a step closer, the distance between them shrinking, and reached out a hand, her fingers yearning to touch his face. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice quivering. "Thank you for being my savior, my guiding light in the midst of darkness."

    He ceased his dance and regarded her with a hint of embarrassment in his eyes. "Well, that''s the duty of a Templar, is it not? To save the innocent." His tone gently reproachful he continued, "You promised me that you would be brave and cease your tears."

    She hastily wiped her tear-stained cheeks with the flowing sleeves of her robes. "Yes, forgive me. I ought to keep my promise and display courage."

    A smile of warmth and reassurance curved his lips. "That''s better. Do not fret, your mother will come for you."

    She shook her head, a touch of sadness tinting her features. "No, she won¡¯t. She is too preoccupied with revelries. Instead, a servant will be dispatched. But it matters not," she continued her fingers gently grazing his cheek. "I cannot fathom why I neglected to inquire at that time, but pray to tell, what is your name?"

    "It is Cullen," he eagerly replied, his enthusiasm apparent.

    "Cullen..." Miriam echoed softly, a surprising lack of astonishment coloring her expression. This was the realm of her own mind after all, it was only natural that she would yearn for her friend to be him. If it were true, it would mean that her valiant protector had not only survived the ravages of war and avoided the peril of the Breach, but also that he was now at her side. Even for the Herald of Andraste, it seemed too much to ask for.

    Reluctantly releasing her touch, she took a few steps backward, placing a distance between them. ¡°I shall safeguard this precious memory, the demon will not tarnish it with his presence," she declared, her right hand closing firmly around the amulet adorning her neck. Then, with her left hand uplifted, she directed her gaze skyward. "Let us see how the holy flames shall test you, vile creature!"

    The moment seemed to hang suspended, frozen in time, as her marked palm ignited in a brilliant hue of verdant fire. The emerald flames rapidly consumed her entire being, spiraling around her in an untamed frenzy. A tempest of green inferno whirled and twirled, forming a swirling vortex of Veilfire that erupted in a resounding explosion, engulfing everything in its path.

 Eudaimonia

    As the hands of Lucius and Miriam intertwined, an ethereal surge of veridical fire erupted from the mark upon her palm. The arcane flames roared to life, engulfing the formidable Lord Seeker and sending him hurtling like a rag doll across the vast expanse of the Grand Hall.

    Cullen stood motionless, astonishment etched upon his countenance, as he witnessed the unfolding scene. The mage, her body swaying precariously, feebly attempted to articulate her thoughts, "A demon... was attempting to possess me, to break my mi..." Her words faded into the air, disjointed and incomplete, as her consciousness started to slip away, causing her body to slump toward the ground. In a swift motion, Lysette swooped in, catching her under the arms just in the nick of time. Meanwhile, Lucius engulfed in a brilliant blaze of emerald flames, writhed in agony upon the floor, his desperate screams filling the chamber.

    ¡°Abomination! You will pay for this," Ser Barris growled, positioning himself to unleash a Wrath of Heaven upon the enchanter. Cullen drew his sword and tried to strike the Templar down. Surprised, but quick to react, Barris parried the first blow, his blade striking the Commander with a resounding clang. They engaged in a frenzied dance of steel, their clashes sending sparks flying in dazzling cascades, a testament to the formidable skill of both combatants.

    Meanwhile, the high-ranking Templars sprang into action. One of the Knights swiftly unhooked a horn from his belt, raising it to his lips and blowing a powerful blast that rang through the chaos. The reverberating sound filled the Hall, echoing off the stone walls, ensuring it reached the ears of every Knight within the fortress.

    Two Templars were desperately trying to extinguish the flames engulfing their leader, but their endeavors proved futile against the overwhelming intensity of the magical blaze. The remaining Knights at the Grand Hall unleashed their fury upon Cassandra and the few Inquisition soldiers who had accompanied them to Therinfal. The clanging of armor, the grunts of exertion, and the shouts of battle filled the air as the combatants fought with abandon. Despite being engrossed in the battle with Ser Barris, Cullen''s peripheral vision caught sight of more Templars storming through the doorway. In that moment it dawned on him that victory was beyond their reach. The bitter irony that he was about to die fighting against the Knights of the Order to protect a mage''s life was not lost on him.

    Suddenly, a wretched screech, haunting and primordial, pierced through the air halting everyone in their tracks. The source of the sound emerged from the figure of the burning Lord Seeker, whose body exploded in a swirling miasma of darkness, unveiling a grotesque and contorted form of the Envy demon.

    All gazes abruptly shifted toward the monstrous entity, momentarily setting aside the ongoing conflict. The creature let out a thunderous roar, its gaping maw revealing a menacing array of razor-sharp teeth. It leaped with astonishing agility, effortlessly scaling the walls with its many long limbs armed with deadly claws. Nestled in a corner under the ceiling, it surrounded itself with a protective barrier, a potent defense far beyond the typical spells employed by lesser demons. The Templars caught in a state of bewilderment shared looks of uncertainty and confusion. Ser Barris, his hands dropping limply to his sides, wore an expression of anguish. His voice, laced with pain, betrayed his realization, "We were led by a demon... Maker protect us all."

    A resounding tone, strikingly reminiscent of the Lord Seeker''s, echoed through the fortress, forcefully capturing the attention of the Knights. "Heed my command, Knights of the Order!" it thundered. "The mage who falsely claims to be the Herald of Andraste is an abomination responsible for the demise of the Divine and the Breach in the sky. She should be apprehended, and all who dare to stand in your way must be executed".

    "The demon seeks to manipulate you! Guard your minds, Templars!" Cullen bellowed with all his might, his shout reverberating through the tumultuous air.  As his words resounded, he witnessed a significant number of Knights turning their attention to him, their eyes glowing with an unsettling crimson hue. The sight sent shivers down his spine, for he had witnessed this once before¡ªthe haunting recollection of Meredith''s deranged gaze flooded his mind. Reasoning with these men would prove futile.

    In the heart of the Grand Hall, chaos reigned supreme as the Red Templars unleashed their indiscriminate assault upon both Inquisition members and their fellow Knights. The air was thick with the sound of clashing weapons, anguished cries, and the ominous crackle of red lyrium. Panic and fear gripped the air, threatening to drown out any flicker of hope that remained. It was clear that swift action was needed to unite the surviving Knights and protect their only means to close the Breach¡ªMiriam. "Cassandra, rally our men and form a protective circle around the Herald! We must shield her from this madness." Cullen¡¯s voice carried across the chaotic Hall. His attention then shifted to the Knights, who fought disheartened, still grappling with the shock of their leader''s true identity. "Templars of the Order, listen to me!" he shouted, trying to break through the maelstrom of battle. "The Envy demon has stolen the identity of the Lord Seeker, and your comrades have fallen victim to the corruption of red lyrium. But you cannot falter! Now is the time to uphold the sacred oath you took and fight against this wickedness." With each impassioned word that left his lips, the Templars found themselves drawn to Cullen''s commanding presence, the role of their new leader solidifying before them. Swiftly analyzing the chaotic battlefield, the Commander barked out orders, orchestrating the rearrangement of the Knights to strengthen their defenses. The men, propelled by the confidence instilled in them, adjusted their positions, reinforcing weak points and tightening their formation. With the groundwork laid, Cullen seized the opportunity to lead from the front. He lunged into the heart of the enemy, his sword carving through the sea of red-armored adversaries with a lethal grace. The Templars, invigorated by his boldness, followed suit, their weapons poised to strike. It was a synchronized dance of death, their movements harmonious and precise. The thunderous roars of combat resounded throughout the hall, as two opposing forces collided in a desperate struggle for dominance. However, the unity and determination of the Knights began to turn the tide of the battle, pushing back the relentless onslaught of the Red Templars.  And as the last of the corrupted Knights fell, a victorious hush settled over the Grand Hall.

    With the immediate danger extinguished, the Knights turned to their new Commander, their eyes filled with expectation. Cullen, his face streaked with sweat and blood, addressed the Knights, his voice steady despite the lingering tension in the air. "To breach the barrier of that monstrous creature, we''ll need more lyrium. Where are your supplies?" he inquired, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

    Ser Barris stepped forward, his armor bearing the marks of the recent fight. "All the lyrium in the fortress is under the exclusive control of Knight-Commander Samson."

    ¡°Samson? Raleigh Samson?¡± the Commander asked incredulously, this couldn¡¯t possibly be, but he had to make sure.

    Barris nodded, his expression mirroring the surprise he felt. "Yes, you know him?"

    "We served together in Kirkwall for a time," Cullen recounted, his voice tinged with concern. "The last I saw him, he was a mere shadow of his former self, completely succumbing to the ravages of lyrium withdrawal. How could he have been reinstated in the Order, let alone granted such a high rank?"

    Barris let out a heavy sigh, weariness evident in his voice and expression. " All I know is that he seemed to be an ordinary man, although his passion for the independence of the Order was a little overbearing. Lord Seeker Lucius convinced us that the red lyrium Samson presented would grant us liberation from the Chantry''s control. While this promise was alluring, thankfully not everyone was quick to embrace it, myself included." He paused momentarily as if trying to collect his thoughts, then cast a furious glance towards the monstrous being trapped within the barrier. "But now I see it for what it truly was¡ªa deceptive trap to corrupt the Templars."

    Cullen''s determination deepened. "Where is Samson now? Should we search for him among the fallen?" he asked, his eyes scanning the hall strewn with lifeless bodies.

    "No," Barris responded, his tone somber. "He departed shortly after we received news of the Herald''s arrival."

    Cullen''s suspicions only grew, but he knew the immediate priority was defeating the Envy demon. "As much as this situation raises questions, we must focus on the task at hand," he said, turning to the Seeker, "Lady Cassandra, I will accompany Ser Barris and a group of Knights to retrieve the lyrium supplies from Commander Samson''s quarters."

    The Right Hand nodded solemnly. "We will await your return here."

    As Cullen turned on his heels, he caught the urgent call of Lysette, "Commander, the Herald has regained consciousness. She wishes to see you."

    Striding purposefully towards the cluster of Inquisition soldiers encircling the awakening Miriam, Cullen''s gaze fell upon her, cradled in Lysette''s embrace. The Herald seemed disoriented, her eyes darting erratically, searching for something beyond the immediate reality. Her hands reached out, and the green mark on her palm pulsed with a radiant emerald light, its luminous tendrils spreading up her arm like a network of roots.

    "Cullen, is it truly you?" Miriam pleaded, her voice quivering. "I need to be certain."

    The Commander exchanged a concerned glance with Lysette, "She is unwell. The mark is acting up again. We must send for Solas as soon as possible. Meanwhile, do your best to soothe her," he instructed Lysette with a firm yet compassionate tone.

    "Yes, Commander," the Templar affirmed, her determination clear in her response.

    "No, please don''t leave me!" the mage implored frantically, tears streaming down her face. She attempted to rise, but Lysette gently restrained her.

    Aware of the impact the Herald''s distress could have on the troops'' morale, Cullen''s brows knitted in concern. The Herald of Andraste, a symbol of hope for so many, should not be seen in such a weakened state. Gathering his resolve, he knelt by Miriam''s side, carefully clasping her scarred hand in his own. Speaking in hushed tones to ensure their privacy, he softened his voice. "Take heart, Herald. We need your strength now more than ever, for the sake of our people." Despite his attempt to provide comfort, his words may have sounded graver than intended, causing a flicker of regret to pass through him. He knew firsthand the torment of having a demon infiltrate one''s mind. Yet, his intent seemed to be received, as Miriam''s gaze steadied, her grip on his hand tightening briefly.

    "I will," she murmured, determination resurfacing. "I promised you that I would be brave." Her head sagged, wearied by the ordeal.

    Cullen''s gaze fixed on the woman, a sense of bewilderment gripping his thoughts. Such a promise had never escaped her lips before. However, it was obvious that she was in a delirious state, so there was no point in dwelling on her words.  He smiled reassuringly and slowly rose to his feet. Turning to Lysette, he directed, "Keep watch over her, and inform me immediately of any changes."

    The Templar nodded in acknowledgment, her concern for the Herald mirroring his own.

    With the plan in place, Cullen led Barris and a few loyal Knights on their mission, determination and unease intertwined in his heart. The threat of the Envy demon loomed large, but the disturbing revelations regarding Samson and his plan to corrupt the Templars with the red lyrium hinted at a web of darkness and betrayal that the Inquisition would have to unravel once this immediate crisis was dealt with.

    Through the devastated corridors of Therinfal Redoubt, the group marched in solemn silence. The aftermath of the brutal battle was evident all around them¡ªtwisted bodies of Red Templars and fallen Knights bore witness to the violent clash that had taken place within these walls. The dissonant hum of red lyrium filled the air, its insidious melody seeping into Cullen''s mind, intertwining with his thoughts like a malevolent specter. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as a surge of revulsion washed over him. How far had the once noble Templar Order fallen? He had believed that the rebel Templars at the Crossroads was a harrowing sign of their decline, but today''s horrors surpassed even that grim benchmark. Cullen couldn''t help but feel a sense of relief that he had distanced himself from the organization, though he also felt a tinge of guilt. It was as though he had abandoned the Order when it needed aid the most. Yet, he quickly dismissed the notion. He had given his all in service, sacrificing everything he had to offer, and the Maker knew it.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Barris raised his hand, signaling the group to halt, and pointed toward a formidable door ahead. "That''s Commander Samson''s chambers."

    Cullen''s jaw clenched. "Let''s uncover what this man was up to," he said grimly. He summoned Knights equipped with heavy axes and instructed them to concentrate their blows on the area around the hinges of the door. With each powerful strike, the hinges weakened under the onslaught. Finally, two resolute Templars threw their weight against the door, breaking through with a thunderous crash. As the dust settled, the group stepped into the commander''s private domain, unsure of what they might uncover. The room bore the tainted signs of red lyrium corruption, its influence evident in every corner. Cullen''s gaze swept across the chamber, searching for any clues that might shed light on Samson''s agenda. The chamber lay in disarray, its furniture overturned, and countless papers scattered haphazardly across the floor. At the center of the chaos stood a brazier, and beside it, a figure draped in robes, methodically feeding piles of documents and scrolls into the voracious flames.

    "Stop at once!" Cullen¡¯s command echoed through the room as he swiftly moved towards the man, using his shield to slam into him with force. The robed figure offered no resistance, crumpling to the ground like an empty sack, eyes devoid of emotion as they locked onto his. Recognition dawned upon the Commander like a chilling revelation. "Maddox..."

    "Yes, Knight-Commander Cullen," came the response from the Tranquil, his voice void of any inflection. "It''s good to see you are in good health. If you don''t mind, I would like to continue with my assigned task."

    "What task?" Cullen inquired, extending a hand to assist Maddox in getting up from the floor. The Tranquil accepted the offer with quiet compliance, his countenance still void of any emotion.

    "I am afraid I am not allowed to share it. Commander Samson was very particular about this," the man replied, shrugging with an unsettling detachment.

    Barris stepped forward, his anger boiling to the surface as he grabbed hold of Maddox''s robes. "You bastards are responsible for all of this!"

    Cullen intervened, firmly grasping Barris hand to halt his aggression. "Let him go, Knight. He is a Tranquil, a victim of circumstance who was merely following orders.¡±

    Reluctantly, Barris released his grip, though the frustration still etched on his face. "I know he is Tranquil, but he came to the Therinfal with Samson. He was the one preparing red lyrium for the Knights," the Templar growled, his eyes never leaving the robed man. "It''s hard not to feel resentful, knowing the role he played."

    Cullen sighed, understanding the complexity of the situation. "We will find the truth and bring justice to those responsible," he declared, his voice resolute. "But for now, let''s focus on the task at hand. We must continue our search for lyrium and deal with the Envy demon before it wreaks more havoc."

    After giving him a hard look, Barris took a step away from the man.

    Meanwhile, Maddox straightened his robe and began collecting the scattered documents from the floor. Cullen approached him with a gentle demeanor, carefully removing the papers from his hands. "You are now relieved from your duties here. From this moment onward, you are a member of the Inquisition," he announced.

    Maddox looked up, "On whose orders, Knight-Commander?" he inquired, seeking clarity.

    Cullen took a moment to consider his response before answering confidently, "On the orders of The Right Hand of the Divine, the Seeker of Truth, Cassandra Pentaghast."

    Unfazed, the man questioned further, "Do you have proof of such orders?"

    The Commander''s eyes brightened  as he replied, "I don''t have the proof on me, but she is here in the fortress. Come with us, and she will confirm this."

    "As you wish, Commander," Maddox agreed calmly. "However, know that if Lady Seeker does not confirm your words, I will return to the duties assigned to me by Commander Samson."

    "Understood," Cullen replied, acknowledging the stakes. With their priorities set, he turned to the Knights, issuing a directive. "Let''s find any untainted lyrium and leave this place as swiftly as possible."

    The group scoured the area in a hurried search until they discovered two crates brimming with blue lyrium potions. Cullen hoped that this newfound resource would prove sufficient to face the demon. Putting out the brazier, the Commander collected any remaining documents that could be of importance. After that, with Maddox in tow, they made their way back to the Grand Hall, where the rest of the Inquisition forces awaited their return.

    As they crossed the threshold into the chamber, the Envy demon perched menacingly on the ceiling, taunting them with unabashed confidence. Its vile words were bolstered by the formidable protective barrier encompassing it. "The Elder One shall deliver me! Your false Herald will crumble before us!" it spat with malevolence.

    Cullen''s visage contorted with disdain as he confronted the monstrous being. "We shall see," he countered resolutely. Leading Maddox forward, he approached Cassandra, silently conveying the man''s significance. "Lady Seeker," he addressed her, "as you requested, I present Tranquil Maddox for service to the Inquisition."

    Cassandra raised an eyebrow but played along with the pretense. "Well done, Commander," she acknowledged before shifting her focus to the Tranquil. "As the Right Hand of the Divine and the Seeker of Truth, I conscript you into the ranks of the Inquisition."

    Maddox paused for a moment, his eyes briefly appraising the Seeker''s insignia adorning Cassandra''s armor, as if to authenticate its authority. Then, he met her gaze with composure. "Lady Seeker, as you outrank Commander Samson, I shall heed your orders, whatever they may entail."

    Cullen leaned in closer, whispering to the woman "Keep a watchful eye on him. He is a valuable witness, but some of the Knights may want him dead."

    Cassandra nodded in understanding and led Maddox to stand within the protective circle of Inquisition men who diligently guarded the delirious Herald.

    With preparations brought to completion, the time had arrived to confront the creature. Cullen turned towards the Templars, his voice resonating with authority. "Knights, make ready for the assault. Take lyrium and form yourselves into two steadfast ranks." The Templars hastily consumed the potions, and with disciplined precision, they arranged themselves in the prescribed formation. Clad in their armor, which now gleamed with an ethereal azure aura bestowed by the lyrium, they stood prepared for the impending ordeal. The familiar enchanting melody began to reverberate in Cullen''s mind, the temptation to also partake in the lyrium power gnawing at his resolve. Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead, and his hands trembled in a struggle for self-mastery. Summoning all his inner strength, he steadied his nerves and commanded the Templars to unleash a barrage of Spell Purges upon the Envy barrier. The protective veil quivered and trembled, straining under the relentless assault of the Knights, yet stubbornly held its ground. The Templars, with sheer determination, pooled their strength to maintain the focus, but it was evident that more power was needed to breach the demon''s formidable defenses. They were the last knights left in the fortress, however, and there was no one else to rely on. Yet they pressed on, undeterred.

    "You will never reach me, you pathetic fools," the demon''s laughter resounded through the chamber, its malevolent voice taunting the Knights.

    ¡°Go to the Void creature!¡± Cassandra shouted with a resolute spirit. Calling upon her own powers to aid the cause, the Seeker stepped forward with confidence. Like the last straw that broke the camel''s back, her formidable Spell Purge burst through the barrier and with a thunderous explosion, the protective layer shattered into countless iridescent shards that scattered like stardust in the air. The once-impenetrable barrier was no more, and the Envy demon was finally exposed before the gathered forces.

    At Cullen''s command, the second rank of Templars advanced with their blades glowing as they summoned the mighty Wrath of Heaven. Divine energies crackled around them, manifesting with electrifying potency. However, before their power could find its mark, the wily demon had already vanished, slipping effortlessly into the Fade.

    The Commander''s mind raced, his heart pounding as he desperately surveyed the surroundings, trying to anticipate Envy''s next move. "Beware, it''s beneath us!" Cassandra''s urgent voice reached his ears, but the warning came a fraction of a second too late. With a deadly swiftness, the demon burst forth from the floor, its monstrous limb, a grotesque fusion of claw and sinew, striking out with terrifying speed. The formidable appendage tore through the air, rending the armor of a nearby Templar as if it were mere cloth. The unfortunate Knight''s body was flung with brutal force toward Cassandra, who had no time to evade the unexpected projectile. The impact sent her hurtling several meters across the chamber, her form colliding forcefully with a marble pillar. The column trembled under the impact, threatening to give way, but it held, leaving Cassandra sprawled and dazed in the rubble. Cullen''s concern for his fellow warrior surged, but there was no time to tend to her now. He rushed at the monster with lightning speed, his sword raised high as he delivered blow after blow, engaging in a fierce and unyielding duel with the malevolent creature.  The demon struck back with a vengeance, its clawed limb reaching out with deadly precision. Cullen managed to raise his shield just in time to protect himself, but the force of the attack was overwhelming. The impact sent tremors through his arm, leaving a brief opening in his defense. Seizing the opportunity, the demon''s claws tore through his armor like paper, inflicting a deep, searing gash along his forearm. Pain exploded through his body, but fueled by adrenaline and sheer determination, Cullen remained on his feet. Warm blood trickled down his arm, staining his gauntlet and the floor beneath him. He pushed aside the agony, refusing to let the injury hinder his resolve. Engaged with the Commander, Envy remained in one spot long enough for the Templars to strike back. Brilliant pillars of blinding light enveloped the demonic entity, but the creature was cunning, disappearing with a swift movement, only to reappear on the opposite side of the Hall. It seemed to relish toying with its foes, striking with ferocity and then vanishing before they could mount a counterattack. Cassandra, undeterred by her injuries, rose to her feet, blood dripping from a wound on her head. Her eyes blazed with anger and purpose as she glared at the elusive creature. "Enough of this cowardice!" she thundered, her voice echoing through the chamber. "Face us, demon!"

    The monster responded with another eerie laugh, its eyes glowing with intelligence, seemingly amused by the mortals who dared challenge it. In a blur of motion, it reappeared behind a group of Inquisition soldiers guarding the Herald, slashing through their ranks with ruthless precision. Only a few valiant souls remained standing, among them Lysette, who fought fiercely to defend both Maddox and Miriam. Cullen''s protective instincts kicked in, and he moved swiftly to intercept the demon''s next strike. Sword clashed with claws, sending sparks flying as the Commander engaged in a deadly dance with the creature. His determination was unwavering, but the pain in his arm made each swing more arduous than the last. As the other Knights rallied to Cullen''s side, forming a protective line around the Herald, Cassandra''s eyes blazed with a radiant intensity. She drew upon her formidable Seeker abilities, channeling the power of Silence. Brilliant light swirled around her hands, suffusing the entire Grand Hall with divine energy. The potent aura disrupted the demon''s ability to slip into the Fade, denying it the advantage of its elusive movements.

    The adrenaline that had fueled Cullen¡¯s body began to wane. He took a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady himself, but it only served to remind him of the searing pain in his injured arm. A cold, detached realization washed over him - he couldn''t maintain this relentless battle much longer.  The Commander glanced at Cassandra, who remained deeply focused, maintaining the Silence that held the demon in check. He summoned every ounce of strength and skill he still possessed and pushed forward with a ferocious strike, catching the demon off guard. His blade sliced through the creature''s side, causing it to roar in pain and frustration. The monster, enraged by his bold attack retaliated with a devastating blow. The force of the strike sent Cullen crashing to the ground, his vision swimming with pain. As he fought to remain conscious, he witnessed Barris rallying the Templars, positioning them for another collective Wrath of Heaven. This was the opportunity they had been waiting for¡ªthe moment to strike decisively. With a resounding battle cry, Ser Barris led the charge, and the Knights launched a coordinated assault on the now-vulnerable demon. Cullen could feel the intense heat of the searing light that engulfed the malevolent creature. Envy''s form flickered and wavered, its ear-piercing shrieks transforming into desperate howls of agony as he slowly disintegrated into a swirling vortex of ash. With each passing moment, the whirlpool slowed down until it dissipated completely, leaving nothing but a faint smell of sulfur in the air.

    The Grand Hall fell silent, the air heavy with both exhaustion and triumph. Cullen lay upon the harsh and frigid floor, his breath uneven and labored, crimson lifeblood flowing ceaselessly from his wound. Yet, amidst the throes of pain and struggle, a broad grin etched itself upon his pallid face. A profound sense of contentment enveloped his weary soul. Today, even without the lyrium and its powers, he had helped to achieve something of great significance. The taste of victory lingered on his tongue, like a heady wine savored after years of abstinence. And so, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to bask in the glow of his hard-won victory.  As his consciousness started to fade, the cold floor beneath him seemed to transform into a cradle of comfort, lulling him into a peaceful state. The world around him blurred, and he felt himself being gently carried away into a realm of tranquility.

 Eudaimonia (part 2)

    In the heart of the Therinfal Redoubt, as the sun began its slow descent on the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the ancient fortress, Miriam found herself nestled in one of its chambers.

    The dwindling light filtered through narrow slits in the thick stone walls, painting intricate patterns of shadow and light across the floor. The air was imbued with a serene calmness as the sounds of the day slowly gave way to the gentle symphony of the evening. The mage''s appearance was somewhat disheveled, her hair falling untamed around her long, thin face. She was deep in thought, her pale eyes fixed on the marked palm of her hand as she held it out in front of her in frustration.

    Whenever she harnessed the full extent of her mark''s power, she felt utterly drained afterward. Being the chosen one, destined to bear the mark of the Maker¡¯s Bride, should have meant that she could effortlessly command its might. Yet that was not the case, and she couldn''t help but wonder why she struggled so much.

    Shaking her head, the mage attempted to push aside these thoughts. If she had been chosen, there must have been a profound reason behind it. She needed to trust in the Maker''s wisdom and have faith in herself. She was where she was meant to be, and her role in this grand tapestry of events was crucial. She had visions, and Andraste herself descended from the side of the Maker to save her in the Fade. It was a mantra she repeated to herself like a protective spell, hoping it would shield her from the creeping tendrils of doubt, but beneath the surface, they remained, lingering in quiet moments like this, when the world was still. The weight of responsibility bore down on her shoulders, and she couldn''t shake the nagging feeling that she might not measure up to the expectations placed on her.

    She glances at Lysette, her unwavering resolve a source of both comfort and turmoil. She, too, believed in her, but what if that belief was misplaced? What if her magic failed when they needed it most?

    With a heavy sigh, Miriam let her hand rest on the bed. Solas, who had arrived at the fortress the day before, had managed to stabilize the mark again, and she could feel her strength slowly returning. The mage turned her head and glanced at the weathered calendar hanging on the wall. It had been ten days since their arrival at Therinfal Redoubt, but the harrowing encounter with the Envy demon who had tried to possess her was still fresh in her mind. Miriam shuddered at the thought, realizing how close she had come to succumbing to its malevolent influence. If not for the power bestowed upon her by the Bride, she would have become the unwilling leader of the Red Templar army, marching against Orlais.

    Documents discovered by Commander Cullen in Samson''s chambers had unveiled a shocking truth: the entire upheaval within the Templar Order had been orchestrated by someone known as the Elder One. Both the Envy demon and Knight-Commander Samson had been mere pawns in this sinister scheme, doing the bidding of this mysterious puppet master.

    The plan executed by the Elder One was deviously simple yet highly effective. Envy assumed the identity of Lord Seeker Lucius, while the real Seeker was killed and his body disposed of. Under this false guise, Envy proclaimed the Order''s independence and lured his followers to the secluded fortress, where Knight-Commander Samson fed them red lyrium, promising liberation from the Chantry. The corrupting influence of the red lyrium made the Knights susceptible to the demon''s control, turning them into puppets of his dark design.

    The final stage of the sinister plot involved the demon possessing Miriam and attempting to impersonate her to perfection. Once successful, the combined forces of the Inquisition and the Red Templars were to unleash their might upon Orlais. To exacerbate the situation, there were ominous indications that the next step in the plan involved the assassination of Empress Celene. With Orlais torn apart by civil strife and lacking a strong leader, the fake Herald and her army would have conquered the nation in a matter of weeks.

    Miriam held onto her amulet, feeling profound gratitude to the Maker that the Elder One''s plan did not unfold as intended. The Inquisition thwarted the demon and saved the Templars from their dark fate. Although the Order suffered heavy losses in the process, there were enough remaining Knights to aid in sealing the Breach.

    With a serene expression, the mage shut her eyes. Once she accomplished this feat, there would be no room for doubt or disbelief regarding her role as the Herald of Andraste. The need for any pretense or deceptive games with Lucia would vanish into thin air, for her influence would surpass even that of the esteemed Mother. At long last, she could exact the vengeance she sought, not only for herself but also for the retired Templars who had suffered under the wretched woman all these years.

    Whenever her thoughts turned to the Templars, they inevitably drifted to the figure of the Commander. Ever since the dreadful encounter with the Envy demon and the vision she had experienced during that perilous ordeal, a longing had taken root in her heart¡ªa desire for the brave boy who had come to her rescue at Redcliffe to be none other than Cullen. The thought seemed audacious, almost foolish, but against all odds, she clung to the hope, nurturing it in the secret recesses of her soul. Now that Miriam''s mind could vividly recall the boy''s face, she couldn''t help but notice that the golden hair that crowned his head like a radiant halo and the eyes of honeyed amber bore a striking resemblance to those of the Commander. Even beyond the shared physical attributes, there was a thread that connected him to Cullen¡¯s past. It was more than mere happenstance, she thought, that the song she had learned from her dear friend came from Honnleath, the same village from which Cullen hailed.

    The tempest of emotions inside her surged, and she opened her eyes wide, overtaken by a sudden boldness. Why should she not dare to ask him? What harm could it bring to simply seek the answer from the source itself?

    The prospect of finding out the truth, even if it meant facing disappointment, felt more appealing than dwelling in uncertainty. With newfound vigor, she rose from her bed, ready to act on that impulse.

    With haste, Miriam donned her robes, striving to bring order to her disheveled appearance by running her hands through her tousled hair. Amid her efforts, a sudden question caused her to turn around. "Are we heading somewhere? Lysette''s gaze bore down upon her, and an eyebrow arched as she ceased the rhythmic motion of polishing her sword and rose gracefully from her seat.

    The mage exhaled, her hand instinctively seeking solace against her pounding heart as she remained silent, trying to come up with an excuse to see the Commander alone.

    Lysette''s countenance expressed genuine concern as she posed her next query, her tone tinged with worry. "Is something wrong? Does the mark hurt you once more? Should I call for Solas?"

    "No, there is no need to worry," Miriam reassured her loyal comrade, her hands making calming gestures in the air. "It''s not the mark that troubles me. I simply wish to speak with the Commander.¡± A flush of embarrassment swept over her cheeks as she confessed, "It''s a personal matter, that''s all.¡±  She quickly reminded herself that there was nothing improper in her desire to speak with Cullen privately. "His quarters lie down this very corridor, not far from ours. There is no need for you to accompany me."

    "I see," Lysette replied, regarding her with an enigmatic gaze. "You are a woman of virtue, graced with your own charms. Never forget that."

    A mixture of gratitude and bewilderment washed over the enchanter as she looked back at the Templar, her cheeks now aflame like a summer sunset. "Thank you for your kind words," she replied sheepishly. "I will try to remember them."

    "Very well," Lysette declared, acknowledging her friend''s intention to depart. "I shall await your return here, polishing my armor for tomorrow''s assembly with the Templars."

    Miriam offered a nod of acknowledgment. The upcoming assembly held great significance, as she would finally address the remaining Knights of the Templar Order, beseeching their aid in confronting the Breach. With a gentle pass of her hand over her robes, she made a mental note to present herself with an added touch of elegance for the important occasion. "Fear not, I shall be back soon," she assured Lysette, and with that, she gracefully slipped out of her chamber.

    In a hastened frenzy, she traversed the distance that separated her quarters from Cullen''s chambers, as if her very determination might wane before she could reach her destination. Her breath came in hurried bursts, her heart thudding with trepidation as she stood before the door, her hand poised, ready to knock. Much to her surprise, the door stood slightly open, allowing a gentle gust of wind to drift out, carrying an unpleasant whiff of something sour. Her brows furrowed in concern as she hesitated. Summoning her courage, she called out through the partially open door, "Commander, may I come in?" Silence hung in the air, briefly punctuated by a faint sound¡ªa stifled moan of pain, followed by shuffling noises. Her heart clenched with worry, for it was evident that something was amiss. Lysette had mentioned that the Commander sustained an injury during the battle with the Envy demon. What if his wound had flared up? Although she knew Cullen to be a man of great privacy who might not appreciate an uninvited intrusion, the urgency of the situation left her no choice. "Is everything alright?" she tried once more, her voice infused with genuine concern, but once again, her inquiry was met with only feeble responses¡ªmore moans, more shuffling.

    Her apprehension outweighed her sense of propriety, she decided she could not simply stand by and let whatever ailment afflicted the Commander go unchecked. Slowly, she pushed open the door, her voice announcing her entry, "I¡¯m coming in."

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    As Miriam cautiously entered the room, her heart sank at the sight before her. The chamber was dimly illuminated and enveloped in a musty scent that weighed heavily in the air. The furniture lay in disarray, adding to the gloomy atmosphere. In the corner, near the slits in the wall, Cullen crouched on the floor, his head slumped. His armor, usually immaculately arranged, now clung to his form in a disheveled manner with loose straps and ill-fitted pieces. Noticing her presence, he slowly raised his head to meet her gaze. "Lady Miriam, I... I didn''t anticipate your presence here, he mumbled, looking like a wounded lion reluctantly baring its wounds to an unexpected witness. With a feeble attempt to rise, he faltered, unable to muster the strength to stand. The sight tugged at the enchanter¡¯s heartstrings, her healer''s instinct urging her to call upon a curative spell to aid him, but a lingering memory reminded her of his aversion to magic.

    She stepped forward, eager to maintain the balance between respecting his boundaries and offering the aid he needed. "Commander," she spoke gently, kneeling beside him, "if your injury has taken a turn for the worse, I can mend it with a healing spell. She awaited his response, fully aware that he might resist, but she hoped that in this vulnerable state, he would allow her to extend a helping hand.

    "No need, Herald," he muttered faintly, his voice barely audible. A weary half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips in a feeble attempt to alleviate the concern that lingered in her gaze. "My wound is mending as it should, but this discomfort..." his voice wavered for a moment before he continued, "stems from a different source. A subtle shift coursed through him, and though weariness dimmed his eyes, a faint gleam of resolve managed to pierce through. "Please, set your worries aside, all I require is a moment of rest."

    "Then allow me to assist you in reaching your bed," she pleaded, her gaze filled with genuine compassion as it remained fixed upon him. Cullen''s expression betrayed his struggle, seemingly torn between his need for help and his discomfort at the physical contact. Reluctantly, he nodded, granting her permission with a subdued acknowledgment. Miriam outstretched her hands and assisted him in rising to his feet. Gently, she nestled herself beneath his uninjured arm, her lithe frame providing a steady anchor for Cullen to lean upon. The man exuded a nauseating blend of vomit and sweat, his unyielding armor pressing painfully against her frame as they moved towards his bed, taking each step with a slow and measured pace. Cullen''s reluctance to receive aid was evident in the tension in his muscles, but he allowed her guidance, perhaps recognizing that he couldn''t manage on his own in his current state. Finally, they reached the bedside, and Miriam carefully lowered the man onto the mattress. He seemed to let out a small sigh of relief as the strain on his body lessened.

    "Thank you," he uttered, a hint of strength seeping into his voice while he passed a hand over his face. "I''ve been feeling unwell since earlier today, and then it just hit me all at once."

    A warmth began to radiate from Miriam¡¯s chest. Cullen seldom revealed his vulnerabilities, so his openness about his struggles was a testament to the growing trust he was placing in her. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she inquired, her gaze steady as she observed him closely. "I can procure a healing potion or a vial of lyrium."

    Noticing the faint wince that crossed his features at the mention of the blue liquid, her suspicion that withdrawal symptoms were at play here solidified in her mind. She couldn''t fathom why such an issue persisted, surely the Templars could provide an adequate amount of lyrium to the Commander of the organization that had rescued them from the Envy demon. There had to be something more to this situation, and she felt an earnest desire to uncover the truth.

    Cullen denied her offer with a shake of his head, and then, exhaling softly, he continued, "My initial plan was to broach this subject once the Breach had been sealed. However, given the rather humiliating spectacle you''ve just witnessed, I might as well confide in you now." She held her silence, allowing him to continue. "I... I''ve made a decision," he admitted, his voice tinged with both relief and trepidation. "I have forsaken the consumption of lyrium."

    The mage''s eyes widened in terror. In all her years within the embrace of the Circle''s walls, she had never bore witness to a Templar who dared to sever the chains of lyrium and yet retain his sanity. Aghast, she contemplated that, in the most optimistic scenario, this endeavor would cost him his mind, but most likely it would claim his life.

    Cullen''s gaze faltered briefly before he continued, his tone measured but raw with emotion. "I need to break free from its hold and find a way to stand on my own. I won''t pretend it''s been easy. The withdrawal has been challenging...." Once more, a pause lingered in the air, and his fingers coiled tightly around the bed''s edge as if seeking an anchor to steady himself amidst the weighty confession unfurling from his lips. "But I''m committed to seeing it through, for the sake of a future free from the lyrium''s grip."

    "The symptoms only worsen with time," she mumbled, still taken aback by the weight of his revelation.

    "I know," he responded, his voice carrying an eerie sense of resignation.

    "Maker, it could kill you!" Panic surged within Miriam, causing her to clutch the fabric of her robe tightly in her fists.

    "I know," he repeated, unyielding to the urgency of her concern.

    "Then why?! For what reason would you willingly subject yourself to such torment?" she leaned forward, her voice trembling with emotion.

    "In all honesty, it is impossible for me to give you a straightforward answer to this question. And while I understand your apprehensions, know that I am not alone in this endeavor. Lady Cassandra and Liliana both lend me their aid." He turned his gaze towards Miriam, a glimmer of expectation in his expression. "And I was hoping that you too would be able to offer me your support".

    The enchanter¡¯s response was thoughtful, her tone carrying a mix of resolve and caution. "I would be more than willing to help in any way I can. I do have some experience in the treatment of withdrawal symptoms from my time in the Ostwick Circle." She paused, her gaze distant for a moment before refocusing. "But I must caution you. Available remedies can only relieve certain symptoms, such as headaches and lethargy. Unfortunately, they don''t alleviate nightmares, memory loss, or hallucinations¡­" The mage trailed off as she touched upon the darker aspects of the challenge at hand. As she continued, her words became more measured, "I will also have to cast upon you, for potions alone have their limitations." Her fingers remained tangled in the fabric of her robes, the tightness of her grip turning her knuckles to white peaks, "I do not intend to discourage you from your pursuit, for I sense its profound significance to you. I only..." The mage''s voice trailed off, her gaze dropping to the floor as she struggled to find the right words.

    "Lady Miriam, please look at me," Cullen said with a gentle insistence that willed her eyes to rise and meet his own. "I shall endure."

    ***

    Therinfal Redoubt stood strong against the backdrop of a stormy sky. Dark clouds churned overhead, their thunderous roars echoing through the air, and streaks of lightning painted jagged paths across the horizon. Rain poured in torrents, drenching the cobbled courtyard where the gathered Templars waited, their armor gleaming with rivulets of water.

    Amidst the tempest, Miriam emerged, her robes billowing in the wind, her presence a beacon of defiance against the raging elements. Following in her wake were the figures of her companions. Cassandra, a paragon of strength, exuded a quiet authority that matched her status in the Order. Lysette, watchful and poised as ever, her eyes scanning the crowd for any potential danger. And of course, Commander Cullen, drained by battles both outward and within, somehow managing to look confident and strong for the occasion. Beside them walked the remaining soldiers of the Inquisition, their ranks diminished but their spirits high.

    Miriam drew in a slow, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon her shoulders. In the throes of the battle with the Envy demon, she had stumbled, her strength wavering after she unleashed the power of her mark. Instead of rising as the Herald of Andraste, she had found herself a momentary burden, a stark contrast to the savior she was meant to be. It was here, on this makeshift stage, that she sought to reclaim her role in the unfolding events.

    She ascended the platform, her steps resolute, and raised her arms to silence the murmurs that had spread through the ranks.

    "Templars of the Order," she began, her voice carrying over the howling wind. "The Breach that looms above us is a tear in the Veil, a wound that will consume all we hold dear." She paused, her eyes scanning the faces before her, meeting the gaze of each individual with a mixture of strength and compassion. "You have been betrayed by your leaders, led astray from your purpose, yet you have resisted their corruption and remained steadfast in your convictions." She declared, her voice a balm for the Knights wounds, known and hidden beneath armor and skin. Whispers of agreement rippled through the crowd; swords were held a bit higher, and spirits lifted. Lysette couldn''t contain her excitement. Her face lit up with happiness, and she exchanged enthusiastic glances with her comrades, a spark of hope igniting in her eyes. Cullen stood on the edge of the platform, his presence offering Miriam silent reassurance. His eyes locked onto the mage¡¯s, a subtle nod of approval showing her she was on the right path.

    The rain splattered against the enchanter¡¯s robes, the gusts of wind tugging at her hair, but she stood firm, her gaze returning to the Knights. "The once-gleaming reputation of the Order now lies shattered," she continued her tone grave. A flash of lightning illuminated Miriam¡¯s silhouette, casting her in stark contrast against the tempest. "Yet at this moment, as the Herald of Andraste, I extend to you a chance to restore it. Stand with the Inquisition, for the Maker has chosen us to face this darkness, to mend the rift that threatens to devour our world!"

    A heavy pause followed as the reverberations of her words echoed amidst the rain-soaked courtyard, each syllable a bridge between past regrets and future possibilities.

    And then, as if commanded by the Maker, a collective motion stirred within the ranks. The Templars threw their arms to the heavens, their gauntleted fists grasping the swords pointing towards the tumultuous sky. The very storm seemed to respond, roaring its approval with booming thunder that echoed like a war cry. Rain cascaded from the clouds in unison with their fervor, as if Andraste herself wept in relief.

    In a crescendo of fervent devotion, voices that had once murmured doubts and hesitations converged into a resounding chorus. "Andraste wills it!" they cried through the torrential symphony. The tempest raged on, its elements no longer adversaries but comrades in this moment of unity. Miriam''s eyes, filled with the fire of her conviction, swept across the assembled Knights. Her gaze paused, her heart skipping a beat as it landed on Solas. The elven mage stood at a distance, his expression a stark contrast to the passionate atmosphere of the courtyard. His eyes were cold, his features etched with disapproval as if he were an observer who found no solace in the alliance that was forming.

    For a moment, her fervor faltered, a pang of guilt nagging at her conscience. She was well aware of Solas'' lack of affinity for the Templar Order and the teachings of Andraste. His beliefs were rooted in a misguided understanding of the world after all. Still, the weight of the moment and the sea of eager faces demanded her undivided attention.

    With a determined exhale, she pushed her thoughts about the mage to the background. Her voice melded with the chorus around her, each cry punctuated by the roar of wind and rain, the brilliance of lightning and the resonance of thunder. All that mattered at this moment was that the Templars before her were standing united, their souls alight with the flame of renewed purpose, and their resolve forged anew.

 Demons

    Cold rivulets traced the contours of Cullen''s worn countenance, carving pathways down his battle-scarred face before cascading over the dents and scratches etched into his armor. Droplets glimmered in the sporadic flashes of lightning, turning the rain into a cascade of liquid diamonds. Thunder resounded above, the heavens echoing the fierce symphony resonating within his chest. His sword, gripped tenaciously in a gauntleted hand quivered slightly as he chanted together with the crowd. Amid the storm''s turmoil, his gaze remained fixed on the Herald, drawn to her presence, which exuded a unique blend of a Mother''s grace fused with the blind devotion of an Exalted Marcher.

    Ascending the platform mere moments before, he carried no amount of strength or inspiration within him. The act of addressing the assembly of Templars and requesting their assistance seemed like a prescribed duty, a formality he must endure even as the relentless hammering in his head threatened to split his skull in two. Yet, as the words flowed from Miriam''s lips, a transformation occurred within him. An unexpected current pulled him into its wake and he found himself caught up in the fervor of the moment, woven into the fabric of the energy that permeated the courtyard.

    Faith, pure and radiant, wrapped itself around him like an embrace, a shroud of unwavering belief that eclipsed the physical discomfort. With each ¡®Andraste wills it!¡¯ he cried out, the pain retreated, muted by the overpowering intensity of the scene. Mage''s words acted as a beacon, illuminating the corners of his mind where shadows of doubt and uncertainty had long resided. In that fleeting instant, the raw energy of her address connected with the faith he had once held. His connection to the divine, obscured by the suffering he endured and the weight of command, rekindled with a brilliance that rivaled the lightning streaks across the stormy sky.

    The conviction that the delicate, slight mage who fell out of the Fade was the Herald of Andraste had never fully taken root within Cullen''s heart. Despite her undeniable kindness and gentle nature, he couldn''t help but perceive her as lamblike, possessing a docility that seemed at odds with the grandeur of the title. His eyes, honed by years of battle and discernment, sought a spark within her ¨C an inner flame akin to the fervor that had defined the Maker¡¯s Bride.

    He had read the passages from the Chant of Light about Andraste''s unwavering resolve, her unyielding spirit that had served as a pillar, a beacon of hope in the face of trials. When he first met the mage, he scrutinized her, searching for that strength, the foundation that would lend weight to her proclamation, but he saw none of it.

    However, as he got to know her, an unexpected realization began to take root. The fragility he had once perceived melted away, and in its place, he sensed a latent power, a determination that had simmered beneath the surface. She wasn''t Andraste reincarnate, but he couldn''t deny the potency of her faith, and how it rallied the people around her to a common cause. And as the rain persisted, mingling with the fervor of his own thoughts, he found his reservations giving way to a nascent belief, a belief that the power of Miriam''s spirit would be enough to face the challenges that lay ahead.

    The journey from the Therinfal Redoubt back to Haven unfolded with relative smoothness, though it stretched longer than anticipated due to the army of Templars accompanying them, some of whom were nursing injuries. This increased travel time was further compounded by their lack of provisions, needing frequent stops in villages and settlements to restock their supplies. The silver lining, however, was the palpable change in atmosphere as news of the Templars'' return to their duty and their alliance with the Herald of Andraste spread. The population greeted them with renewed enthusiasm, eager to offer their assistance in various forms.

    Maddox''s integration into the Inquisition was seamless, at least on the surface. The Tranquil''s features were as inscrutable as ever, but the newfound surroundings seemed to exert a stabilizing influence on him. Sadly, he held no knowledge of Samson''s whereabouts or means of contact with him. What he could divulge, however, was the valuable tidbit that his former master also pursued the reversal of the Rite of Tranquility. It appeared Samson was on a mission to dismantle the Chantry''s methods of controlling not only the Templars but the mages as well.

    While both Cassandra and the Commander acknowledged the implications of this endeavor, its feasibility remained uncertain. The Right Hand assumed the responsibility of delving deeper into this matter, as the Rite of Tranquility had long been a part of the Seekers'' domain.

    In the midst of this, an unexpected tension began to surface within Cullen. His prolonged interactions with Maddox, who stood as a living reminder of his time in Kirkwall, triggered an uneasiness he couldn''t quite quell. Irrational as it seemed, he couldn''t shake the suspicion of a condemnation concealed within the Tranquil¡¯s gaze, a notion that played on his mind despite his best efforts to dismiss it. The Seeker detected the undercurrents that coursed beneath his demeanor. Her perceptive inquiry led to an unexpected offer: that Maddox should stay under her watchful eye instead. He hesitated, guilt and relief mingling in his thoughts, but in the end, the decision was made.

    With Maddox now shadowing Cassandra, Cullen felt a reprieve from the ghosts of the past that lingered within the Tranquil¡¯s presence. The respite was short-lived, though, as the withdrawal symptoms took an expected turn for the worse. He found himself once again sinking into the abyss of its relentless grip, plunged into a morass of physical pain and mental turmoil. And that¡¯s when the Herald''s aid materialized.

    Miriam''s unwavering commitment to aid him marked a new chapter in their interactions. She was a fervent healer, dedicating the majority of her waking hours to preparing potions and crafting remedies to ease his suffering. The Commander¡¯s days now unfolded in a sequence of concoctions to drink, ointments to apply, and incense to light. Her presence became a constant, and the sheer volume of attention lavished upon him was both overwhelming and discomforting. Yet, he couldn''t deny the efficacy of her treatments. Slowly, the fog that had clouded his senses began to lift, and the edge of pain dulled enough for him to fulfill his responsibilities.

    Throughout this process, the enchanter offered her magical prowess, though his refusal was swift and steadfast. Magic remained a source of deep-seated fear, a reminder of wounds that would never heal. The very idea of willingly subjecting himself to its touch incited a visceral reaction, the memory of its searing grip on his mind and body still vivid even after all those years. Trying to overcome this fear felt like immersing one''s soul in a corrosive acid bath.

    Her acceptance of his decision came as a relief, a silent bridge forged between them despite his reluctance. It wasn''t lost on Cullen that his decision had made her task more arduous and that his resistance had added an extra layer of complexity to her mission, but she chose to respect his boundaries and navigate his stubborn resolve with patience. He couldn''t help but appreciate her for it, even if his gratitude remained unspoken, confined to the chambers of his heart.

    At last, their journey led them to Haven, but their base harbored not tranquility but the weight of even greater responsibilities. Before the march towards the Breach could commence, a myriad of tasks needed completion.

    The Commander¡¯s first move was to assign Knight-Captain Rylen to work closely alongside the Templar officers. The objective was twofold: maintain the integrity of the Templar Order while weaving it into the Inquisition forces. He understood that the Herald''s promise of an alliance was more than a diplomatic gesture¡ªit was a pact that demanded respect.

    Amidst the strategizing and dialogues, the logistical machinery churned in preparation. Cullen rose to the challenge of accommodating the influx of Templar forces, revising the arrangements to suit the new numbers. More provisions were secured, and the stockpiles bolstered to meet the demands of an expanding army. Additional equipment flowed in to improve the weapons and armor of both Inquisition and Templar warriors, an investment in strength that was essential for the battle ahead. Days melted into nights, each moment dedicated to ensuring that the machine of the alliance was well-oiled and functional. As the Commander¡¯s mind worked tirelessly, calculating and recalculating every angle, his gaze often shifted to the sky, where the Breach loomed as both a harbinger of danger and a beacon of purpose.

    Caught up in the whirlwind of responsibility that surrounded him, two pressing concerns gnawed at Cullen¡¯s mind like relentless shadows. The first was the severed connection with Hawke, a disconcerting void that had persisted since Solas departed from Redcliffe. Despite their attempts, not a single raven, messenger, or scout had managed to return from the village.  The elf¡¯s report provided little solace, revealing that Hawke had uncovered unsettling truths in Redcliffe ¨C rebel mages had sold themselves to the Tevinter Magister. The news sent a ripple of dismay through his thoughts. Did the allure of breaking free of Circles and Chantry control eclipse their sound judgment? He shook his head, refocusing his attention on the document before him. It went on to detail that Solas had abruptly departed to attend to Miriam''s condition, precisely at the moment when Hawke and Fenris were crafting a strategy to liberate willing mages from their enslavement. The uncertainty of their fates, coupled with the silence surrounding Redcliffe, was a source of growing anxiety. Leliana''s deployment of her most seasoned agents to penetrate the area offered a glimmer of hope that the answers would emerge, but the weight of anticipation grew heavier with each passing day.

    His second concern bore the weight of a personal battle. The Herald''s remedies, while offering relief from the physical pain, proved insufficient to stem the tide of erosion in his mind. He began to feel his memory falter, a disconcerting sensation that escalated as stress and responsibility multiplied. For now, it was minor lapses ¨C like when he found himself on the training grounds with no recollection of how he arrived there or staring at a report without recalling what he had been writing. With a somber resignation, he couldn''t help but think that these instances would become increasingly insidious with time. To compound his distress, the apparition of Thomas often haunted him, lurking at the periphery of his vision¡ªan elusive presence that dissipated into nothingness whenever he attempted to confront it. Cullen knew that he should confide in Miriam and entertain any remedy, even magical, in hopes of finding relief. Nevertheless, he remained ensnared by his own inaction, the dread of magic gaining the upper hand.

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    Night had fully descended, shrouding the War Room in a thick blanket of darkness. The solemn tolling of the bells, marking the passing hours, had rung out and faded into silence, leaving Cullen alone amidst the vastness of the War Room. Each painstaking stroke of his quill on parchment felt like dragging a heavy anchor, yet he persevered, knowing he could not rest until his task was completed. As he dipped his quill into the inkwell once more, he noticed a peculiar sensation in his fingers¡ªa numbing chill that crept through his digits and sent a strange, tingling shiver coursing through his body.

    He reluctantly set down his quill and pressed his hands firmly against his temples, closing his eyes briefly to summon the strength to press on. His palms slid down to rub his weary eyes, temporarily providing solace from the strain.

    In the midst of his weariness, the wavering flames of a lone candle on his desk caught his attention. They danced with an erratic, almost frenzied vigor. Puzzled, he glanced around, noting the absence of any discernible draft. An unease began to stir within him, a nagging sensation that something was amiss. Shaking his head vigorously he tried to dismiss it, but the feeling persisted, refusing to be cast aside. "It''s just fatigue," he murmured to himself, attempting to convince his mind that there was no cause for concern.

    When the task was finally finished, he rose from the table and made his way to his tent. Despite the late hour, Haven remained bustling with activity; the Inquisition''s base never truly slept. Stepping over the tent''s threshold, he felt a measure of relief as the nagging anxiety ebbed, reinforcing his belief that a good night''s sleep was all he needed.

    Hazily, the Commander registered that Miriam was supposed to come and check on him, but her absence was most likely because of her demanding schedule, teaching first aid to the troops. Too drained to dwell on this further, he hurriedly shed his armor, stowed his sword on a nearby weapon rack, and collapsed onto the bunk. As he drifted into slumber, distant sounds began to intrude upon his rest. Cullen, perturbed by the untimely antics of his soldiers, found himself already planning how he would sternly reprimand them come morning. Turning onto his side, he made another attempt to drift back into slumber when, suddenly, a blood-curdling screech tore through the air, sending shivers down his spine. With an escalating sense of dread, he sensed a surge of dark magical energy sweeping over him.

    "Poisoned! We''ve been poisoned!" desperate cries echoed from beyond, piercing his ears, and heightening the alarm that had taken hold of him.

    Springing from his bed and seizing his weapon, he hastened toward the entrance. However, as he approached the cloth flap that covered the threshold, he collided with an invisible barrier. The impact unleashed a blinding flash of light before his eyes, momentarily disorienting him. However, he quickly regained his composure, only to look at his surroundings in disbelief. He found himself back in the War Room, seated behind the table, a quill in his hand. The sensation of blood magic vanished, along with the harrowing screams, leaving the room tranquil and silent, just as he had left it a few hours ago. He pondered whether he had merely dozed off behind the desk, but his head throbbed incessantly from the earlier collision, and an intensifying headache was beginning to assert its grip. Setting the quill aside, he pushed himself up from the chair, yet the instant he was on his feet, the pain spread beyond the confines of his skull, spreading like fire through his entire being. His legs faltered, and in a bid for balance, he reached for the War Table, fingers gripping its edge. A dreadfully familiar, putrid tang of sulfur filled the air, assaulting his senses with its noxious presence. His stomach twisted in revulsion and nausea surged, swift and unruly, defying his desperate attempts to contain it. A series of spasms wracked his body, one after the other until he began to retch uncontrollably.

    As the violent vomiting finally subsided, Cullen''s trembling limbs strained to support his weakened form. He staggered to a nearby shelf where Miriam had thoughtfully placed several healing potions for him this morning. His throat parched and raw, he reached for the bottle, opened it, and raised it to his lips, the cool liquid offering a brief respite from the torment that had gripped him.

    The herbal concoction soothed his aching throat, and with each sip, a sense of clarity began to return. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to steady himself, still shaken by the ordeal that had just unfolded.

    "Knight-Captain!" a voice called from behind, jolting him from his thoughts. "As you asked, the body was delivered."

    Body? What body? Perplexed, he opened his eyes, only to find himself surrounded by the all-too-familiar square of the Kirkwall''s Gallows. A Templar pointed toward where a woman''s lifeless form lay. With hesitation, he cautiously approached the body and as he examined her, a wave of anger and intense hatred washed over him. Sprawled upon the dirty, cobbled floor lay Lea Amell. Cullen''s gaze bore into the wretched maleficar''s corpse, regretting only one thing- that he had not been the one to take her life.

    He started to kick her lifeless body in a futile attempt to vent his ire, but just as he poised for another strike, Lea''s eyes snapped open, and her cold hand clamped onto his foot with a vice-like grip.

    "Pathetic Chantry dog, I know that you still want me!" Lea hissed, her voice dripping with mockery, her face contorted into a twisted grimace.

    "Die, you two-faced whore!" he roared in response, his pent-up loathing exploding like a torrent. He lunged at the maleficar, his hands closing around her throat, his fingers tightening in a desperate attempt to crush her windpipe. He relished the desperate wheezes that escaped her struggling form, his heart pounding with a wild elation that revenge was finally within his grasp. He could feel the pulsing rhythm of life beneath her skin, and his grip only grew tighter as he fought to end her once and for all. Yet, as he locked into her fading eyes, a peculiar sensation enveloped him, and the fog that had clouded his mind momentarily lifted. The eyes of the maleficar, into which he had peered with such intense hatred just moments before, now appeared different. They were no longer dark and expressive but rather deep-set and pale. These eyes belonged to someone else, someone for whom he did not feel any animosity. On the contrary, they stirred entirely different emotions within him¡ªemotions he couldn''t quite identify. Following the eyes, the rest of the woman''s face began to change, gradually shifting into a pallid, slender countenance adorned with short brown hair. "Miriam!" Cullen gasped in horror, his hands instinctively releasing their grip on her throat. "Maker, no!" But in the blink of an eye, Amell lay before him once more, her malevolent presence returning with unsettling speed, leaving him utterly bewildered and shaken.

    Overwhelmed, he crumpled to the ground, his vision blurring as the melody of a painfully familiar song whispered softly in the recesses of his mind.

    A-ah, little apple,

    Red, ripe, and sweet,

    He recognized this song as a melody from his childhood, one that his mother had lovingly sung to Rosalie. He also suddenly recalled that he had shared this song with someone special long ago, although the memory of that person had faded, leaving only a bittersweet trace of nostalgia.

    A-ah, little apple,

    A tasty little treat.

    As the lyrics continued, all-consuming darkness enveloped him, stripping away all sensations of pain, fear, and despair, leaving him with nothing but the soothing embrace of a gentle voice.

    Cullen came to his senses lying out on a bunk inside his tent. The morning sun, filtered through the slits in the fabric of the shelter, casting a bright light that pierced through the dimness within. An acrid taste lingered in his mouth and a pulsating ache reverberated through his skull. This pain, however, carried a different quality than before; it seemed to anchor itself around his temple, akin to the sensation of being struck there. He gingerly probed the sore spot with his fingertips, confirming his suspicion as he encountered a tender bump.

    "I see you have finally awoken, good," Leliana''s voice, as cold as ice, echoed from the other side of the tent.

    The Commander squinted against the insistent throb in his temple as his vision adjusted to the light. He turned his head to discern the Left Hand of the Divine seated in a chair, her legs entwined with elegance, and her arms deftly maneuvering a dagger, which twirled between her fingers with a practiced ease.

    "Why are you here?" he inquired, his voice hoarse and laden with the remnants of exhaustion, as he coaxed himself into a sitting position to face her properly.

    "To ask you the same thing, Commander. Why are you here?" Leliana arched an inquisitive eyebrow, her incisive gaze penetrating him like a finely sharpened blade.

    Cullen rubbed his temples with weary fingers, his patience waning as he saw no need for cryptic exchanges. "Because this is my tent?" he retorted with a touch of exasperation. "Spare me the riddles, Leliana."

    With a swift and precise motion, the spymaster caused the dagger to vanish into the concealed folds of her attire. "Very well, straight to the heart of the matter, then," she declared, resettling into her chair with impeccable posture. "Last night, in your delirium, you nearly killed our only means of closing the Breach," she revealed in a tone that left no room for ambiguity. "Had it not been for Lysette''s swift intervention, Thedas would have lost all hope for the future."

    Cullen''s heart plummeted, a paralyzing sense of horror and mortification gripping him. He looked upon his trembling hands, his lips quivering. Could it be... did he truly commit such an act? He recalled the sensation of clutching the maleficar''s neck, tightening his grip with fervor, and the horrifying moment when her visage momentarily turned into Miriam''s. "Andraste, preserve me," he whispered, turning his gaze back to the Left Hand, his expression one of desperation. "Please, tell me the full extent of what I''ve done."

    "I fear that only Miriam can do that, and, honestly, I''d prefer to focus on what you haven''t done," she began, raising her palm and curling her fingers as she enumerated his faults. "You rejected the relief magic could offer you, allowed withdrawal symptoms to spiral out of control, and kept your worsening state a secret from your healer." Her accusatory gaze bore into him as she leaned forward slightly. "That''s precisely why I asked you ¡®why are you here?¡¯ If this is all the Inquisition can expect from you, I''d rather see you relieved of your position."

    He clenched his hands, his jaw tightening as he absorbed Leliana''s words. "If I were still taking lyrium," he muttered, "none of this would have happened."

    "The issue here isn''t your choice to cease lyrium consumption," the Spymaster retorted coolly. "The problem lies in how your decisions have begun to affect the success of our mission. You see, Cassandra is lenient with you because she carries the weight of guilt from everything that transpired in Kirkwall. The Seekers turned a blind eye to the plight of mages for far too long, and it led to disaster. Through your success, she seeks redemption.¡± She paused for a moment, her expression holding a hint of mockery. ¡°And when it comes to Miriam," she continued, a condescending smirk dancing upon her lips, "well, her concern for Templars, even the former ones, knows no bounds."

    Cullen met her gaze with a poignant look but chose to remain silent.

    ¡°As you can see,¡± she concluded with a pointed tone ¡°I am currently the only one within the Inquisition¡¯s Council who maintains a rational perspective on your situation."

    The Commander heaved a heavy sigh and ran his hands through his tousled hair, his expression one of dejection. "What would you have me do?" he asked, his voice laden with weariness.

    ¡°Simply put,¡± she replied, rising gracefully from her seat, ¡°as the Spymaster, do better. As your friend,¡± she huffed with a look of pity, ¡°take care of yourself.¡± With that, she made her way toward the tent''s exit. "Oh, and one more thing," she added before disappearing, "until we''ve sealed the Breach, keep your distance from the Herald for her own safety."

    With the sound of the tent flap falling shut behind Leliana, Cullen found himself alone, surrounded by the echoes of their conversation and the weight of his failures. The Spymaster was right, the mission of the Inquisition demanded his best, and it was time to rise to the occasion. With a resolute breath, he steeled himself for the challenge ahead, it was time to meet his demons head-on.

 Shadow Self

    Amidst the crowded training grounds of Haven, with the relentless winter cold seeping through the layers of her attire, Miriam found herself instructing a group of Inquisition soldiers in the art of first aid.

    Her hands moved with precision as she demonstrated the proper techniques for bandaging wounds and applying healing salves. Her voice, tempered by experience and empathy, carried through the frigid air, falling upon the attentive ears of the soldiers who gathered before her. Each of her words was laden with the weight of responsibility, for in these lessons, lives could be saved or lost.

    However, despite her determined focus on teaching, her thoughts kept drifting back to her last encounter with the Commander. The grip of his hands on her throat and the seething rage that had emanated from his gaze was fresh in her mind. It wasn''t his fault, she knew, and yet the revelation of such deep hatred in a man she had held in high esteem had shaken her.

    Could he really be the same bright and kind soul who had saved her that fateful day? The question had never really left Miriam''s mind, but she had gradually lost the will to ask him about it. After Cullen''s admission that he had given up lyrium and his request for her aid, there had always seemed to be more pressing matters at hand¡ªdiscussions about which remedies were effective, which weren''t, or which symptoms were worsening.

    For a while, it appeared that her non-magical treatments were making progress, but as the days stretched on, it became increasingly evident that he was less than forthcoming about the true state of his mental well-being. They both knew that only healing spells held any promise of relief for his troubled mind, but Cullen''s steadfast aversion to magic had become all too apparent, and she hesitated to push the matter further, fearing that he might refuse her help altogether. Had the Commander been any other patient, she would have maintained a stern and professional demeanor, but her emotions for the man clouded her judgment and led her to show leniency, a lapse that nearly cost her life.

    Everything unfolded with lightning speed during that customary evening checkup two days ago. As she entered Cullen¡¯s tent, she discovered him writhing on the ground, consumed by convulsions and gripped by delirium. She rushed to his side, but the moment her hand touched him, his eyes snapped open, and he lunged at her with an astonishing burst of strength. Panic surged through her as his grip closed around her throat. Her vision blurred, and her thoughts turned hazy, rendering her powerless to summon her magic. Lysette, as was her custom, waited patiently outside, but when the sounds of the struggle reached her ears, she reacted with remarkable swiftness. Bursting into the tent like a force of nature, she wasted no time, delivering a swift and resolute blow with the hilt of her sword to Cullen¡¯s head. Her intervention was nothing short of a lifesaver, as the Commander was knocked unconscious, allowing Miriam to draw in gasping breaths.

    Confronted with the uncomfortable incident, she knew it was her duty to report it to Cassandra and Leliana. After careful consideration, both concluded that prudence dictated she should avoid close contact with Cullen until their mission was completed. Though Miriam harbored reservations about their decision, she could still discern the reasoning behind it.

    The mage continued to craft potions and salves for the Commander, ensuring he received the necessary treatment. However, she refrained from personally delivering them, instead assigning another healer, accompanied by a guard, to check on his condition. This arrangement allowed her to provide her aid while maintaining the necessary distance, as dictated by the circumstances.

    The situation was undeniably frustrating, but she continually reminded herself that it was only a temporary arrangement that would last for a few more days. Soon, they would seal the Breach and she could finally engage in a candid conversation with the man about the inclusion of magic in his treatment. She remembered his words about the complexity of his relationship with the arcane, and she felt a deep empathy for his inner turmoil, but if he was truly committed to overcoming his condition, he would have to set his reservations aside.

    As the evening grew darker and the day''s lessons drew to a close, she made her way back to her cabin, accompanied by her faithful guard, Lysette. Along the way, Miriam took moments to bless the people who approached her, offering soothing healing for the sick among them. While time-consuming and draining, these small acts of kindness were the part of her duties that she enjoyed the most.

    When they finally reached her humble but welcoming retreat, they were greeted by a faint aroma of herbs lingering in the air. The hut bore the unmistakable mark of a healer''s abode, with shelves filled with various vials, bandages, and books on restorative magic. The mage carefully placed her healer''s tools in a neat arrangement on a nearby table, ensuring they were ready for any potential emergencies. Lysette hung her sword on a peg by the door, her expression thoughtful. After that, both of them set about their evening routines. Miriam carefully organized her medical supplies, ensuring everything was in its rightful place, while the Templar tended to the fire in silence. They changed into comfortable attire and prepared a simple meal of bread, cheese, and some salted meat.

    As the night settled in, they both climbed into their respective beds, ready to embrace sleep''s welcome embrace. Just as the tranquility of the night began to wash over Miriam, Lysette shifted restlessly. Her troubled eyes were fixed on the mage.

    "Herald," she began hesitantly, "there''s something I need to confess. I can''t bear the weight of it any longer."

    Miriam turned to face her, concern etched on her features. " You can tell me anything. What''s troubling you?"

    The Templar swallowed hard, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of her blanket. "It concerns Brother Sebastian," she confessed, her words shrouded in the hushed intimacy of the night. "I have never spoken of this before, but the truth is, I am in love with him." In the dim moonlight, Miriam could discern a shadowed expression, one that spoke of turmoil and self-reproach. "When I first learned of Hawke''s disappearance, I felt... happiness, and even more disturbing, for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to envision a future where she never returned, a future where I might have a chance with her man. And now, whenever I gaze upon Sebastian, the relentless guilt gnaws at my very soul."

    A heavy silence hung in the air as Miriam studied Lysette''s conflicted expression, her heart heavy with understanding. She was well aware of the depth of despair that had gripped the Brother following Hawke''s disappearance. The man had grown emaciated, his appetite diminished, and his sleep elusive as he devoted every waking moment to fervent prayers and desperate yearnings to venture out alone in search of his missing friends. Thankfully, such impulsive decisions were always intercepted by the vigilant watch of Mother Giselle.

    With a gentle sigh, Miriam reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Lysette''s shoulder. "We can''t control our feelings, but we can control our actions. If you truly care for Brother Sebastian, be there for him in his time of need. Support him, and let your actions speak louder than your momentary dark thoughts."

    "Miriam," she whispered, her voice trembling with uncertainty, "I make every effort to be by his side, to alleviate his suffering in any way I can. Yet, the feeling persists, a nagging sensation that my efforts fall short and that I ought to do more. The trouble is, I am uncertain about what that ''more'' entails."

    The mage gently squeezed her companion''s shoulder, her touch conveying reassurance. "Until we succeed in closing the Breach," she suggested, her tone infused with fervor, "Pray to the Maker. Pray with all your heart and soul, beseech Him to reunite Hawke with Brother Sebastian. Let your plea be sincere and unwavering." Her voice took on a resolute tone as she continued, "And once the Breach is sealed, if Hawke remains missing, I promise you this, we will embark on a quest to find her. You have my word on this."

    The Templar clasped Miriam''s hand in her own, her palms damp with sweat. "Thank you," she uttered, her voice filled with profound gratitude. "You are a true friend."

    A moment of hesitation lingered as if Lysette were gathering the courage for her next request. Eventually, she spoke, her words laced with a hint of vulnerability. "Would you be willing to pray with me? Right now?"

    Miriam''s smile radiated warmth as she responded, "Of course. For where two pray as His faithful followers, He is there, among them."

    As the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, casting a pallid hue upon the land, the Inquisition finally stood prepared to confront the Breach. Miriam found herself amidst a small assembly of esteemed companions, including Cassandra, Solas, Cullen, and Lysette, all encircled by the stalwart Inquisition soldiers and Templars. The weight of their mission, the magnitude of it all, hung heavy in the early morning air.

    Mother Giselle, clad in the vestments of her faith, stepped forward to bless the gathered forces with the fervor of Andraste''s divine flame. Her voice, resonant with devotion, rang out through the solemn silence as she recited the prayer known to all who stood there,

    ¡°Blessed are they who stand before

    The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

    Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

    Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.

    In their blood the Maker''s will is written.¡±

    The assembled, their heads bowed in reverence, their souls united in a singular purpose, raised their voices as one,

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    "Maker, shall be our shield,

    Guarding us from the abyss,

    Andraste, shall be our sword,

    Striking down the shadows of doubt,

    Her fire shall be our guide,

    Leading us through the darkest of nights.¡±

    With the final words of the prayer, Mother Giselle concluded her blessing, and a solemn hush descended upon the area. "Inquisition, Templars, follow my lead!" bellowed the Commander, his words cutting through the stillness. Without hesitation, their assembled forces began to march, ascending the rugged path that led to the Breach looming high above.

    The echoes of boots against the rocky terrain reverberated through the desolate remnants of the once-hallowed Temple of the Sacred Ashes. As they drew nearer to the Breach, Miriam couldn''t ignore the unsettling sensation that pierced her very soul¡ªan unpleasant chill that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the portal itself.

    In her marked palm, a vibrant green flame blazed with an intensity that defied its ethereal nature. It danced like restless emerald serpents around her hand, as if trembling nervously in the face of the impending confrontation. Tension gripped her, leaving her mouth dry and her body awash in the surge of adrenaline. The memories of her previous attempt to mend the Veil clawed at her from within, pricking her conscience like a thorn. The painful recollections of failure haunted her; the attempt had nearly cost her everything. The thought of experiencing such agony again filled her with dread. Doubt crept in with every step, eroding her confidence. She questioned whether she was truly ready, whether she could bear the strain. She had gained some control over her powers since her previous attempt, but it still left her utterly drained and vulnerable.

    Desperately, Miriam turned her gaze to her comrades, seeking solace and strength in their presence. She scanned their resolute faces, each etched with grim determination and a glimmer of hope. They placed their faith in her, trusting her to mend the gap once and for all. Her spirit swelled, nourished by the strength of the Inquisition and the camaraderie they all shared.

    After navigating the twisted labyrinth of the Temple ruins, they finally arrived at the ominous precipice of the Breach. Commander Cullen swiftly issued orders, positioning the soldiers strategically in anticipation of potential demon attacks. Meanwhile, Cassandra took charge of instructing and organizing the Knights, preparing them for the task at hand.

    Solas, wearing a grave expression, approached Miriam. "Mages would have been far better suited to this task. However, you have chosen to secure the help of the Templars, so we will have to make do with that decision,¡± he said in a polite yet tinged with a barely concealed disdain tone. "The Knights will suppress the Breach''s magic, reducing its power to that of a mere Rift. Only then will I give you the order to close it. Do not attempt it prematurely. Is that understood?"

    The mage nodded in agreement, her heart pounding in her chest, and stepped forward, approaching the undulating emerald tongues of the Breach.

    The portal appeared serene, moving in a slow, cyclical dance reminiscent of the ethereal beauty of the northern lights gracing the night sky. However, Miriam couldn''t shake the feeling that this tranquil facade was a mere guise. The Veil itself seemed to be stretched taut, on the precipice of rupture, as if it could explode into chaos at any given moment.

    An intrusive, thought wormed its way into her mind, whispering that the portal was biding its time, waiting for the power that would unshackle it from the bonds of oblivion, awakening it from its slumber. She shook her head vigorously, dispelling the unsettling notion before it could take root in her consciousness.

    With everyone in position, Miriam heard Cassandra''s commanding voice instructing the Templars to focus their efforts on the Breach. The clanking of armored Knights raising their blades resounded in the air, and in the next instant, a dazzling and overwhelming surge of holy energy suffused the surroundings. Though she wasn''t the target of their attack, the sheer magnitude of the force deployed in the area caused the mana coursing through her veins to dwindle to almost nothing. It was a searing sensation, as if she were drying up from within. She could hear Solas'' growl, a clear indication that he, too, was feeling the impact of this holy power.

    Finally, the elven voice signaled it was her moment to intervene. Miriam extended her hand toward the Breach, and in response, an ethereal cord emerged, forging a connection between her and the Rift''s heart. The emerald tongues of the Breach momentarily froze, as if taken aback by her audacious intrusion. The mage focused all her concentration on the pulsating energy gathering in her palm, determined to assert her will over the Rift. The portal''s fiery essence stirred once more, resisting her efforts and fighting back against her attempts at control. The battle for dominance had begun in earnest. Miriam''s breaths grew shallower and more ragged with each passing moment, her body rapidly succumbing to the draining ordeal. She pleaded with Andraste for the strength to secede, beads of sweat cascading down her face like torrential rain as she pushed herself to her limits. In response to her determination, the flame of the Breach began to falter, dimming in intensity. It was working. She was winning. All she had to do was endure a little longer!

    Suddenly, a sharp screech cleaved through the air, accompanied by a formidable gust of wind that assailed Miriam from behind.

    "Maker preserve us! A Dragon!" Cassandra shouted, her voice quivering slightly.

    Turning around in disbelief, Miriam''s eyes widened in horror as she beheld the monstrous black dragon descending from the sky. The creature''s form was a grotesque sight, with most of its scales replaced by swollen, uneven flesh oozing with a noxious slime. Cullen swiftly unsheathed his sword and assumed a determined fighting stance.

    "Templars, Herald, concentrate on the Breach," he bellowed above the chaos. "We will hold him back!"

    Miriam''s world turned into a chaotic maelstrom of fire and screams, with the acrid scent of burning flesh filling the air around her. She strained to maintain her focus on the Breach as the battle raged on, the sounds of clashing steel and the deafening roars of the monster mingling with the desperate shouts of her comrades.

    The Templars fell one by one to the relentless onslaught of the blighted creature. Their valiant efforts to contain the Breach were gradually eroded by the relentless fury of the dragon''s fiery assault. Flames danced menacingly at the fringes of her vision, and the oppressive heat of the encroaching inferno bore down upon her, suffocating and unrelenting. In a fleeting moment of respite, she felt Solas cast a protective barrier around her, but it proved futile, shattered with contemptuous ease by the dragon''s tail.

    Then, a formidable gust of wind unleashed by the monster''s colossal wings struck the mage, hurling her to the ground. The connection she had so desperately fought to maintain with the Breach was abruptly severed, leaving her gasping for breath, disoriented, and overwhelmed. With her mana depleted and the mark on her hand dormant and extinguished, she was completely helpless. The forces of the Inquisition seemed on the brink of defeat, and a sense of desperation threatened to engulf the mage. It was inconceivable to her that their journey, fraught with sacrifice and determination, would conclude in this nightmarish fashion. The bitterness of imminent failure seeped into her thoughts. Why would Andraste permit them to perish in such a manner? Had her faith not proven strong enough?

    Amid the chaos, the dragon''s grotesque head turned, and Miriam found herself locking eyes with the abomination. In that moment of eye contact, an eerie connection formed between them, as if their minds had become entwined. Beneath the lifeless black void of the dragon''s tainted consciousness, she touched the mind of another being, someone ancient and corrupted, exuding formidable power. At the contact, the dormant green flames on her palm burst back to life and a torrent of foreign and disjointed memories and feelings infused her mind.

    The presence within dragon appeared to recognize her intrusion and responded with a violent surge of magic. It was as though a door had slammed shut in her face, forcibly ejecting her from the creature''s mind, but it was too late, something had irrevocably changed within her.

    Miriam''s left hand quivered and her fingers engulfed in emerald flames involuntarily outstretched towards the Breach. An ethereal cord manifested, forming a connection to the portal once again. However, this time, it was not she who poured power into the Rift; it was the Breach itself that surged energy into her mark. Horror gripped the mage as she contemplated the implications of being inundated with the very essence of the Fade. What if she lost control? What if she became a conduit for the destructive force that had torn the Veil asunder?

    She clenched her fingers into a fist, feeling the bones in her hand creaking from the strain as she tried to sever the connection. Suddenly, a profound stirring coursed through her, imbuing her ego with renewed vigor. No, she thought, she could accomplish this. Andraste had chosen her as the vessel for this power!

    As Miriam allowed the walls of her mental defenses to crumble and fall, a potent surge of raw Fade force flowed into her through the mark. It began with a prickling sensation around the wound, like being pinched by countless needles. Then, it evolved into spasms, with tremors coursing through her entire frame. The force spread in waves, each bringing a sharp pain that somehow intertwined with pleasure. It was a dichotomy of sensations, where anguish and ecstasy danced together as the overwhelming power merged with her body. The verdant hue flowed through her veins anew, causing them to swell and pulsate, yet this time, she felt no fear in its presence. The mage let herself embrace the power, to become one with it, and the feeling was intoxicating. She had never felt so invulnerable, so omnipotent in her life.

    Time seemed to slow down as Miriam rose to her feet, her gaze fixated on the approaching dragon as it prepared to unleash its deadly infernal breath upon her. She noticed Lysette darting before her, shield held high in an attempt to protect her.

    A smile curled upon the mage''s lips, for she knew she required no assistance to deal with this pesky creature. With a confident step away from the Breach, she unclenched her fingers, opening her palm away from herself and the rift spread wide open, a green explosion of energy scattering throughout the entire valley, bathing the surroundings in an eerie emerald light. Hordes of demons surged forth from the pulsating portal, filling the air with their malevolent presence.

    "Maker, what have you done!?" the Knight shouted to her, her voice laden with disbelief and horror.

    Miriam cast a detached gaze upon the woman, her lips sealed in silence. Who was she to challenge the judgment of the Herald?

    A whirlpool of various demons descended upon the dragon, striking it directly in the chest. The creatures swarmed around the colossal beast, attempting to rip it apart. Amusement danced in the mage''s eyes as she watched a group of Despair demons attempt to gouge out the dragon''s eye. The massive creature screeched, writhing in convulsions as it desperately tried to dislodge the attackers. Yet, the demons swarmed like a relentless horde of bees, undeterred by the dragon''s efforts. With a final, desperate maneuver, the dragon launched itself into the air, wriggling and contorting like a snake in its attempt to escape the ceaseless assault. The demons, determined and relentless, followed suit, swarming around the airborne monster until they all disappeared behind the mountains.

    "Miriam! Close the Breach!" Cullen''s shout rang out like a thunderclap, snapping the mage out of her megalomaniacal state. She swiftly turned to face the wide-open Rift. With a determined clench of her hand into a fist, the Breach slammed shut in an instant.

    An eerie silence descended upon the battlefield, broken only by the agonized moans of the injured and the crackling of dying flames. The mage surveyed the desolate, blood-soaked, and ash-covered landscape, her gaze sweeping across the faces of the survivors.  They stared back at her with a palpable mixture of horror and awe, their eyes filled with questions she couldn''t yet answer.

    Excitement still coursed through her, but now it was intertwined with a gnawing fear. The enormity of what she had just done and the power she had harnessed sent shivers down her spine. Miriam''s hands trembled as she gazed at them, her thick emerald veins pulsating with an otherworldly energy. What had she become?

 Big revelations small steps

    Cullen''s face was covered in a blend of sweat and ash that clung to his skin like a second, oppressive layer. A persistent throb emanated from his left arm, a relentless reminder of the beastly blow that had smashed his shield against him. The dull ache radiated through his bones, yet he scarcely noticed the discomfort. Despite their hard-won victory, the atmosphere in the War Room, where the members of the Inquisition Council had gathered with Solas, was tense. An achievement worthy of celebration crumbled under the weight of recent calamities. A colossal dragon, bearing a disquieting resemblance to the Archdemon, had ruthlessly ravaged their ranks, exacting a grievous toll upon both the Templars and the Inquisition''s forces. This, combined with the disconcerting actions of the Herald, cast a dark shadow over any inkling of relief.

    "What were you thinking!?" Cassandra exclaimed, punctuating each word with fervent intensity. Her usual brash temper was now exuberated by the adrenaline still coursing through her veins after the intense battle. Pacing back and forth, her armor boots leaving dirty marks and ashen stains on the floor of the chamber, she scratched at the tender red burns that marred her cheek. The healing potion had soothed the worst of the injury, but the scar would be a lasting reminder of the ordeal they barely survived.

    "It seemed like the right thing to do at the moment," Miriam replied, her voice barely above the whisper. She clutched her amulet tightly as if seeking solace in its presence. Emerald veins crisscrossed through her pallid skin, a mesmerizing and unsettling sight. This affliction was no longer limited to her hands, as it had been before; her entire form had become a canvas for a labyrinthine network of these vibrant green lines, akin to the intricate web spun by a spider.

    "Unfurling the Breach and letting a swarm of demons get through! Did this notion truly strike you as the right thing to do?!" The Seeker''s voice reverberated with a mix of incredulity and anger as she stopped in her tracks, whirling around to face the mage with an intensity that matched the blazing fires of their recent adversary.

    "Not that I am approving of the reckless gamble performed by the Herald," Cullen interjected, a sense of reluctant admission creeping into his voice. "Yet, were it not for her, we''d all be naught but charred remains, and the Breach would still be in the sky."

    Miriam turned her gaze toward him, her eyes filled with profound gratitude, ready to express her appreciation, but her words were preempted by Cassandra.  "She played with forces beyond her ken. We cannot ignore that fact, no matter the outcome. Besides," the Seeker gestured towards the mage with a sweeping motion, her tone heavy with concern. "Look at her, the mark has spread."

    Miriam''s eyes shifted from Cullen¡¯s face to her outstretched palms, regarding the peculiar sight with concern. "I admit, this is not a comforting development." Her voice tinged with a forced cheerfulness that couldn''t quite conceal her unease as she continued, "But at least I am not drained and on the verge of oblivion like I usually am after using the mark."

    "Do you know the cause for this sudden change?" Leliana inquired, her tone measured and analytical. Her mind was undoubtedly working, seeking to unravel the mystery behind the transformation that had manifested in their comrade.

    Miriam''s response came out hesitant, her voice carrying a subtle undercurrent of discomfort, "I am not sure, maybe¡­" she began, but then she trailed off, her sentence left hanging in the air, unfinished. She shook her head, as though making a conscious decision to withhold the rest of her thoughts.

    Unperturbed by the lack of a reply from the mage, Leliana turned her attention to Solas, her request clear and direct. "I think we will all appreciate it if you could offer us some insight into the situation."

    The elf let out a heavy sigh, the weariness of this day evident as he leaned on his singed staff. "During my journeys in the Fade, I witnessed powerful darkspawn mages capable of exerting control over other blighted creatures through the taint.¡± He continued, offering his insight, "Given that the dragon that attacked us succumbed to the Blight''s corruption, I would venture to say that a darkspawn of considerable prowess had commanded the monster during its assault on us. And that this very same darkspawn mage also possesses one half of an ancient elven artifact known as the Orb of Destruction, a relic crafted to harness immense magical power.¡± Everyone in the War Room exchanged perplexed glances. "I believe my explanation must start with the revelation that the mark on Miriam''s hand is another half of this elven artifact," the elf replied, his words slow and deliberate.

    "That can¡¯t be!" Miriam''s voice erupted as a sudden interruption. "This mark," she proclaimed, lifting her left hand before her, "was bestowed upon me by Andraste herself, in the very realm of the Fade where she delivered me from peril!¡± Her palm ignited, a vibrant blaze of emerald flames casting a menacing radiance that enveloped the room. ¡°A heathen like you," she pressed on, her gaze unwaveringly defiant as it bore into the elf, "doesn¡¯t know what he is talking about."

    "Please, Herald," Josephine implored, her voice adopting a soothing and diplomatic cadence, "this is unbecoming. Let us not entangle matters of faith in this." Her eyes shifted between Miriam and Solas, silently beseeching for a reason to prevail amidst the mounting tension.

    Miriam, however, remained stubbornly fixated on the elven mage, "As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods!" she proclaimed with an almost maniacal zealotry, while the flames in her palm swirled and contorted, expanding in size with each passing moment.

    Everyone in the War Room instinctively took a step back from her, and Cullen observed Cassandra''s subtle adjustment of her stance, her posture indicating her readiness to use Templar''s abilities to extinguish the woman''s magic. His instincts screamed at him to reach for his sword, to let the Seeker silence the mage, but he remembered his promise to himself. He would face his fears head-on, and now was the moment to make good on that promise. With purposeful steps, he advanced toward Miriam and raised his voice with authority. "Herald, cease this display at once!"

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    Her gaze wavered as she locked eyes with him. For a moment, it appeared as though she might defy him, her fingers crackling with magic, but then, with a visible struggle, she slowly lowered her hand, causing the emerald flames to relent, their brilliance waning until they dissolved entirely. Her eyes, however, remained locked onto Cullen''s, though they were now clouded with uncertainty. "Commander..." Miriam started, her voice heavy with confusion. "I... I don''t know what has come over me, I swear it."

    Cullen sighed inwardly, a sense of relief washing over him as he observed her willingness to heed rather than oppose. Closing the distance with a gentle step, his countenance softened. "It was a long and stressful day for all of us," he acknowledged, his tone compassionate yet firm. "I understand that tensions run high, but you must keep the magic of the mark under control."

    Miriam''s shoulders sagged, her demeanor heavy with resignation. "Yes, of course, you are right," she conceded. Her attention shifted towards Solas, her voice now tinged with regret. "I offer my sincere apologies for the outburst. My words were beneath me," she admitted, her tone contrite. "I lost control over my emotions all too swiftly. I will endeavor to do better."

    The elf regarded her with a condescending look. "Your apology is acknowledged," he replied tersely, wasting no time on further discussion of the matter. "Now, if you let me continue," he cleared his throat, his expression shifting to one of stern focus. "During our battle with the dragon, for a moment, I felt an echo, a distant resonance of the second half of the Orb coming from the creature." His gaze shifted to Miriam as he continued, "And then our Herald performed her infamous feat of using the demons of the Fade as a weapon." He paused for emphasis before delivering the key insight. "This led me to conclude that her portion of the Orb resonated with the part of the artifact that belonged to the mage controlling the dragon. When the monster drew near Miriam, a momentary connection between her and the darkspawn was established. This event, in turn, granted her greater mastery over her share of the relic."

    "Pray, enlighten us," Leliana inquired, her tone as frigid as a winter''s gust. "Why has this revelation about the Orb of Destruction only surfaced now? And how do you possess such extensive knowledge of it?"

    "If you must know, I gleaned information about the artifact from the spirits within the Fade. Before our encounter with the dragon, I believed that the other portion of the Orb had perished in the explosion," Solas responded, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. "Besides, contemplate what would happen to the elves should humans become aware of our relic''s involvement in the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I could not allow the peril of another Exalted March simply to provide you with this morsel of information."

    While Cullen thought that the nature of the Herald''s mark was hardly something one could dismiss as a mere ¡®morsel of information¡¯, he also grasped the weight of the potential repercussions if this knowledge were to spread. Within the Circles, many problems festered, but racism was not among them. Sadly, the same could not be said for the rest of Thedas.

    "So, if I understand you correctly," Cassandra began, her arms crossed and the rhythmic tap of her soiled mail-clad boot resonating impatiently upon the floor. "One part of this Orb is the mark on Miriam''s hand, and the other part belongs to some powerful darkspawn that, through the taint, compelled the dragon to attack us. And, to compound matters, the explosion at the Conclave is somehow entwined with all of this."

    "That is the essence of it," Solas acknowledged with a calm and measured tone, then turned to Miriam. "I would also like to emphasize that the Orb was not meant for humans. Neither your body nor your mind possess the strength to wield it. Only time will reveal the full toll you shall pay for using the artifact."

    There was a hint of somber inevitability in the elf''s words, something that Cullen didn''t quite appreciate, but surprisingly, Miriam''s face lit up at what he said. "Elves are also the Maker''s children. Andraste, in her boundless wisdom, bestowed upon me this portion of their relic to close the Breach and exact vengeance for the fallen at the Conclave," she proclaimed, her voice infused with newfound hope. "The adverse effects the mark imposes upon me are but trials to test my resolve. Our Lady wishes to ensure that I continually prove myself deserving of her gift."

    Solas shot Miriam an irritated glance, his eyes rolling ever so slightly, but he refrained from offering a contradiction.

    "Pardon the interruption," Josephine interjected, her gaze fixed with a quizzical intensity upon the elf. "You previously said that you believed the dragon was under the control of a powerful darkspawn mage. How could such a thing happen? Darkspawn are known to be mindless entities, slaves to the Archdemon''s will, devoid of independent consciousness."

    Before Solas could respond, Cullen contributed his knowledge to the discussion. "In truth," he began, "that isn''t always the case. Hawke once faced a mage darkspawn who possessed both his own consciousness and the ability to control the Grey Wardens through the taint. I''m not privy to all the details, but after a harrowing battle, she managed to vanquish the creature. It''s a pity that she is currently missing, she might have held more insights about such monsters."

    Just as he mentioned the Champion, the War Room''s door was flung open with a resounding slam. A disheveled and frantic-looking Lysette burst into the room, her voice urgent as she blurted out, "Forgive my abrupt intrusion, but Hawke and Fenris have just arrived at the gates!"

    With a unanimous impulse, the entire assembly within the War Room surged forth from the Chantry and dashed towards the gates, their boots echoing with hurried cadence against the frozen terrain of the village. Approaching the looming gates, they were met with a scene that cut through the somberness of recent events.

    Under the bright moonlight, Brother Sebastian embraced Hawke with a fervor that bordered on desperation. His tears fell freely, mixing with the snowflakes that landed on his cheeks, as Hawke, no less moved by the reunion, returned the hug with equal intensity. Fenris stood nearby, wearing a rare but genuine smile. Despite being coated in snow and appearing gaunt and soiled, the Champion and her friend showed no visible signs of injury.

    The Brother¡¯s voice quivered as he finally spoke. "Hawke, I feared I might lose you," he murmured, his voice scarcely more than a hushed breath. "You, vexing woman, never subject me to such torment again."

    In response, Hawke tightened her grip on him, her arms wrapping around his frame with a heartfelt squeeze, ¡°Not even the cursed Void be keepin'' us apart, me heart!" she announced, her eyes shining with tears.

    Cullen, his heart now lightened by their safe return, released a sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker, you both made it back unharmed. But what in the Void happened in Redcliffe?"

    Fenris''s brow furrowed, his countenance growing grim, "I fear that you may not like the answer."

    Sebastian, at last, released Hawke from his embrace but retained a hand on her shoulder, as if afraid to let go again.

    Hawke, now facing the assembled group, wore an uncharacteristically solemn expression. "Aye, me crew, I be tellin'' ye, the news be as foul as a stormy sea, it be."

 A friend in need is a friend indeed

    Miriam hurriedly packed her healing supplies, her movements swift but precise as she darted back and forth between the shelves of her cabin. Potions, bandages, and salves were quickly assembled into a makeshift kit tied to her belt. It was a sorrowful moment, knowing they would have to abandon Haven¡ªthough "abandon" felt like an inadequate word for a place that would be thoroughly destroyed. She sighed deeply, her mind weighed down by the harsh reality of their situation. She wished desperately for more time to find a better solution than the one Leliana had offered, but it was a luxury they simply did not possess.

    Hawke had revealed that the army of rebel mages corrupted by red lyrium and led by the Tevinter Magister was closing in on their base. With most of the Templars either killed or maimed by the dragon''s attack, they had no means to combat such overwhelming power.

    The Champion also informed them that the primary objective of their attackers was to kill the Herald of Andraste, which lead the Spymaster to suggest  that Miriam could serve as bait and buy time for the Inquisition forces to escape. There was a secret passage that she discovered during her travels with the Hero of Ferelden, that would allow their people to slip away unnoticed. The plan was relatively straightforward: the Inquisition forces would evacuate Haven, leaving behind only a loaded trebuchet and the Herald. As the enemy gathered around the village, Miriam would fire the weapon, triggering an avalanche that would descend upon the entirety of the enemy forces.

    Miriam wasn¡¯t planning to die however, she believed that her mark''s power would not only shield her from the avalanche but also enable her to stay alive beneath the snow long enough for Cassandra to find her using her recently arrived phylactery.

    The Seeker initially had reservations about the plan, considering the value of the Herald''s life given the ongoing threat of open Rifts across Thedas. However, Miriam''s confidence and determination to survive ultimately won her over. She reluctantly agreed to the arrangement, but only if Lysette would accompany her. The Templar would serve as a backup plan, ready to fire the trebuchet if something, Maker forbid, were to happen to Miriam during the invasion of Haven.

    Surprisingly, Cullen volunteered to stay behind as well. He argued that Miriam and Lysette needed someone with experience handling the trebuchet to ensure the success of their plan. He delegated his duties to Rylen, his second in command, and took charge of preparing the weapon.

    The unanimous agreement of the Inquisition Council in support of the Commander''s decision left Miriam suspicious. She couldn''t help but wonder if there was more to their motivations than they were letting on. Then again, she would be lying if she said she didn¡¯t feel relieved knowing that she wouldn''t be alone during those critical moments.

    She had grown accustomed to Lysette''s protective presence, and even during the brief moments when they weren¡¯t together, she couldn''t shake the feeling that something was missing. The Templar didn''t even flinch when it was announced that she would stay behind with her. Lysette''s faith in the Herald was absolute, even though she had disagreed with her unorthodox method of fighting the dragon earlier.

    As for the Commander, while part of her wished for him to be safe with the others, another part of her found solace and comfort in knowing that he would be by her side. She had always felt at ease in the presence of the Templars, and even though Cullen had left the Order, he still remained a living embodiment of its ideals. Of course, the striking resemblance he bore to her childhood friend also played a significant role in her feelings of trust and familiarity.

    With her supplies packed and ready, Miriam nodded to Lysette, and they made their way to meet the Commander at the trebuchet. Passing through the empty village felt surreal. The fires and hearths in Haven were left to burn, a deliberate part of the plan to create the illusion that people were still present in the village. Every torch and lantern were left haphazardly about and anything that rattled was made into wind chimes. The flame danced off the metal as it swayed in the wind, making sounds similar to the clanking of armor that echoed off the buildings. The allusion of light flickering off of every reflective surface made it look as if the camp was rushing about readying for the attack. From a distance, aided by the dark of the night, this ruse would draw the enemy in, luring them into the area and positioning them for the impending avalanche.

    Miriam''s gaze was drawn to her marked hand, feeling the warmth of the emerald flames coursing through her veins. This wasn''t the first time the lives of countless people depended on her, but this felt different. She felt strong and capable¡ªfinally embodying the Herald she was meant to be from the very beginning, the one she had seen in her vision all those years ago. She felt powerful.

    Cullen awaited their arrival with his usual calm and collected demeanor. The trebuchet stood ready, loaded, and aimed. The only thing left to do now was to wait for the approaching enemy forces to draw near.

    "Commander, you know how the trebuchet works better than the two of us," Miriam said, her voice steady. "I will leave it to you to decide when to fire the attack. As soon as it''s done, I am enclosing us in a barrier. Stay as close to me as possible, the smaller the sphere, the easier it will be for me to maintain it."

    "Understood," Cullen replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the first of the enemy forces began to appear. Their black mass spreading like a stain of ink on the pristine white snow.

    "They''re not even trying to be discreet. Such confidence," Lysette murmured, the tight grip on her sword betraying her nervousness.

    "That''s not confidence, that''s foolishness," Cullen replied, drawing his own weapon. "When you underestimate your enemy, you''ve already lost."

    Miriam found herself strangely calm and collected, surprised by her lack of nerves. The energy within her surged with each passing moment, making her limbs feel hot and heavy. Absentmindedly, she noted that her veins were growing in size and emanating a soft, ethereal light.

    "That will be their downfall," she declared. "To underestimate us."

    The enemy forces wasted no time and soon arrived at the gates of Haven. Corrupted rebel mages Fade stepped through the defenses, one after another, their fireballs filling the air and igniting everything around them in mere seconds. The crackle and song of red lyrium were almost maddening as they drew nearer.

    Miriam saw Lysette clenching her teeth, sweat pouring down her face, as the red-infused mages approached like a horde of red madness, chanting "For the Elder One!" and unleashing fire and lightning with wild abandon. Just a few more moments, and they would be within the spells'' reach.

    "Commander?" the mage heard her guard shout in a desperate voice as she stood protectively in front of her. Cullen didn''t reply; his sword was at the ready, and he looked at the approaching enemy with a determined focus, his mouth moving silently as if counting down to something.

    Then, just as it seemed that the next fireball would land directly on them, he swung his sword, and the trebuchet fired with a deafening roar, smashing boulders against the mountain.

    "Herald, now!" he screamed, and Miriam, relieved to finally release her power, enveloped them in a green sphere just as the crushing wave descended upon the village.

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    The avalanche struck her barrier with immense force¡ªa relentless onslaught of snow, trees, stones, and the shattered remnants of buildings. It was nature''s force pitted against the might of Miriam''s mark.

    The sheer power required to sustain the sphere was staggering. If it weren''t for her newfound strength, they would have been swept away in an instant. Very quickly, however, the task of controlling the raw energy became increasingly difficult. It clamored to break free in all directions, and corralling it to maintain the barrier demanded every ounce of her willpower and concentration. Her field of vision narrowed as she focused, her ears deaf to the cacophony outside.

    Finally, the avalanche passed, leaving them buried deep under the snow. Within the sphere, the only source of light was Miriam herself, her pulsating veins glowing in the darkness.

    Lysette let out a sigh of relief, her voice tinged with incredulity. "It seems we''ve made it," she said, her eyes scanning their surroundings in disbelief. However, her relief quickly turned to caution as she turned her gaze towards Miriam.

    "Are you all right?" the Templar inquired carefully, "Your veins look like they''re about to burst.¡±

    The mage barely paid her any attention, her mouth was parched, and she felt dizzy from the intense heat that enveloped her. The energy needed to sustain the spell appeared to be absorbing too little of her power. The mark was allowing too much to flow in and too little to escape. The pain became unbearable, a searing agony threatening to immolate her from within. With a strained voice, she gasped, "It''s too much! I can''t take it!"

    Cullen responded with a shout, his face etched with concern, but the words he spoke were lost to her. As her mind became shrouded in an emerald haze, a profound terror overtook her. She sensed her control slipping away, fading into the swirling green mists. Her body erupted into green flames, engulfing her. As if in response, the protective sphere began to expand outward, stretching until it reached the surface and forming an open expanse amidst the snow.

    "Make it stop, Andraste, please!" Miriam cried in desperation, reeling and swallowed by the viridescent fire. Even in the midst of her agony, she noticed Cullen approaching her. Yet before he could reach her, she felt something strike her head, and the world swiftly faded to black.

    Gradually, the mage began to regain her senses. She found herself lying on a bunk bed inside a tent, her head throbbing at the point of impact, her body sore and drained. The overwhelming sensations of power, agony, and terror had disappeared. What had happened? Where was she? And where were her companions? In her haste to sit up, dizziness overcame her, and she tumbled back onto the bunk.

    "Take it easy. That was quite a feat you performed.¡±  She turned her head to see Cullen entering the tent, his expression neutral as he continued, ¡°Cassandra practically didn¡¯t need to do anything when she arrived with our men."

    He looked unharmed, with no sign of injuries, which eased some of her anxiety. "Thank the Maker, you''re all right. Where are we? What about Lysette?" Miriam asked, her voice trembling slightly.

    "We are in the middle of nowhere, alongside the Inquisition forces that currently celebrate our victory," Cullen continued, letting out a sigh. "Though I''m not sure there''s much to celebrate. I would have preferred a proper, honest battle, but I suppose Leliana''s plan ultimately saved our lives." He settled into a chair opposite her bed. "As for Lysette, she''s fine, albeit rather concerned by all the uncontrolled magic you unleashed."

    Her brow furrowed in deep thought. The undeniable truth was that she had lost any semblance of control over the mark. Was Andraste trying to say something with this relentless trial? Should she invoke her faith with greater fervor? Was this a stark reminder of the dangers of pride, a humbling lesson in humility? Questions swirled within her, but answers seemed impossible to grasp.

    And yet, amid this turmoil, a realization emerged. Perhaps the crux of the matter lay in her insistence on carrying this heavy burden alone. Perhaps it was time to abandon her lonely struggle and seek help. Of all the members within the Inquisition, it was Lysette and Cullen with whom she felt the deepest connection. Her trusted guard would undoubtedly agree, of which she had no doubt. As for the Commander, she couldn''t help but believe that he would not refuse her appeal; after all, they were friends, weren''t they? The shared trials and tribulations they had endured together surely bore the weight of at least camaraderie in his eyes.

    "And you?" she began carefully. "I assume you are concerned about it too."

    He paused for a long, strained moment, his eyes locked onto hers. "When you burst into flames, I was prepared to knock you unconscious," he confessed, clasping his hands together tightly. "I would have done it, had Lysette not acted before me. I''ve witnessed firsthand what untamed magic can unleash... I won''t allow it to happen again. Not on my watch."

    The revelation left her with a sense of chilling clarity. "Is this the true reason why you chose to remain by my side in Haven?" she couldn''t help but ask, her voice hushed.

    Cullen nodded solemnly. "With your grasp on the powers of your mark weakening, we needed to ensure that if you lost control, someone would be there to intervene. Leliana was afraid Lysette might hesitate, considering how deeply she cares for you. Though her worries have been in vain, the Knight was swift to act."

    Still maintaining eye contact with him, Miriam slowly sat up on her bunk. Her fists clenched. The fact that Cassandra and Leliana had lied to her stung, but the knowledge that Cullen and Lysette had been part of the deception felt like a stab of a dagger. "Am I not considered trustworthy enough to be told your true intentions to my face?" Her voice trembled with the intensity of her emotion. "Did you think I would dismiss your concerns without thought? Yes, I struggle to control the mark, but I had hoped that you of all people would be sympathetic, for you understand the torment of a wavering mind." In her anger, she grabbed the collar of her robe and yanked it apart, exposing the fading bruises on her neck. It was a low blow, driven by her pain and her desire for him to share in that hurt.

    Cullen¡¯s gaze drifted to her throat, and his expression turned strained. His hands trembled slightly as he studied the yellow marks on her skin. "I am deeply sorry that I hurt you," he admitted, his voice filled with regret. "It happened because I let my struggles interfere with your task. That won''t happen again, you have my word. However, those are two different matters entirely."

    "In what way, then, are they different? The power of the mark overcame me, just as the clutches of withdrawal overcame you," she continued to ask, leaning slightly forward.

    "Indeed, but the consequence of your magic breaking free..." he insisted, his tone resolute.

    "Is that we are all alive and well, while our enemies are buried under the snow," she finished for him. "I''m not saying that I won''t try to prevent it from happening or that you shouldn''t be vigilant. All I want is your trust, for in my heart, I am certain that Andraste would never bestow upon me powers that would hurt innocents."

    Miriam''s words hung in the air for a moment as Cullen processed them. He looked down, his expression filled with a mix of emotions. Finally, he met her gaze again and spoke softly, ¡°What about the fact that they are hurting you?"

    At his question, her anger dissipated, and she responded with a calmer tone, "As a certain man once told me, ''I shall endure.''"

    He looked at her with a hint of confusion, but his face soon lit up with a faint smile. "That man could only endure because he had good people like you to support him."

    She nodded. "Then I believe he''d be more than willing to return the favor."

    "I am prepared to offer my assistance. But could you elaborate on the nature of the aid you seek?" he replied with readiness, while still obviously harboring some uncertainty about her intentions.

    With each passing moment, the weight on the mage¡¯s heart seemed to lift. "Help me to carry the burden of my mark."

    Her request caught him off guard. ¡°I am sure Solas would be a better candidate for this task.¡±

    She shook her head. "Though he possesses the knowledge, he doesn¡¯t share my faith, and I find no comfort in his presence. It is you who I desire.¡±

    Cullen''s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting upward, and he was suddenly overtaken by a fit of coughing. Observing his response, she quickly realized how her last words might have sounded, and her cheeks blazed with a fervent blush. She rushed to clarify herself, "I don''t desire you, no, I just... Andraste, preserve me!" She exhaled slowly in an attempt to regain composure. "What I meant is that I want your assistance because I consider you a friend."

    He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, a faint uncertainty lingering. "I appreciate your esteem, but I must confess, I''m not entirely sure how I can help you."

    Miriam, resolute in her way, responded, "I''ve mentioned before that I draw strength from my friends, so simply be one."

    His brow furrowed slightly. "That sounds rather vague."

    Her retort held a hint of playful exasperation, "Well, you didn''t exactly make my task of helping you easy, so you shouldn''t expect any less."

    A genuine chuckle escaped Cullen''s lips. "You may have a point there."

    "So, it''s settled then," she declared, extending her marked hand, which emitted a faint glow. She knew he harbored a fear of her magic and had reservations about physical contact. And that''s precisely why she did it, wanting tangible proof of his commitment.

    Cullen regarded her mark for a moment, his hesitation evident, but he eventually reached out and shook her hand firmly. "That''s a deal."

 Eyes Unveiled

    As night fell over the wilderness and the Inquisition came to a temporary halt, Cullen retreated to the confines of his tent. There, amidst the dim glow of a flickering lantern, he sat in contemplative solitude, engrossed in the myriad reports that sprawled across his makeshift desk. According to Solas, in a few days, they would arrive at an abandoned elven stronghold that could become their new base. Once again, the elf claimed that he had gleaned this knowledge from dreams. By now, the convenience of his revelations coming from the Fade had become undeniably suspicious, but at the moment, they had no means of verifying the truth of his claims. One certainty remained: Solas was helping them, and without him, the Inquisition wouldn''t have come this far.

    With a sigh, Cullen moved on to the next dispatch, envying the elf for his nights of adventure and discovery while his were filled with horrid nightmares.

    The paper before him bore Lysette''s name, an official request to become a fully-fledged Templar, with all the responsibilities and consequences that entail. Cullen''s brow furrowed as he pondered this unexpected development. Until recently, there had been no indication that Lysette harbored any desire to climb the ranks, and he couldn''t help but wonder what had happened to change her mind. Such a decision had the power to split one''s life into before and after, and while the Inquisition desperately needed more capable Knights, he was not inclined to allow her to join without making sure she fully understood the far-reaching consequences.

    He rose from his seat and stepped out of his tent, addressing one of the soldiers stationed nearby, "Find Recruit Lysette. Tell her to come to me as soon as her duties allow.¡±

    With a crisp salute, the man hastened to carry out his commander''s orders.

    Returning to his desk, Cullen was about to immerse himself in his work once more when the tent flap was abruptly thrown open, and Hawke stormed in, wearing an enormous grin. He had grown accustomed to her somewhat unconventional manners and chose not to reproach her. "What brings you here?"

    "I be here t'' extend an offer ye can''t refuse. A place at me weddin'' tonight, matey!" the Champion announced with a smug look on her face, reminiscent of a predator who has finally cornered its elusive prey.

    "Wait, what? Your wedding? Tonight?" he stammered perplexed.

    Hawke rolled her eyes with an air of exasperation. "Aye, be I not speakin'' in the common tongue?"

    "But we are in the middle of nowhere!" he exclaimed incredulously.

    She shrugged nonchalantly, "Aye, who gives a barnacle where we be? Me heart''s on board, me mates be here, and the Mother is ready to bind us."

    Cullen paused, taking a moment to process the unexpected news. "I suppose you''re right. But wait, I, umm, I didn''t know that Sebastian had forsaken his vows."

    The Champion let out a hearty laugh. "He''d sooner walk the plank than abandon his devotion to the Maker. We''re havin'' ourselves a pure and chaste marriage, ye savvy?"

    ¡°Oh, I see,¡± he muttered. While such unions were not commonplace, they were certainly not unheard of, particularly among the devout. He smiled warmly. ¡°I''m genuinely happy for both of you. May the Maker''s Bride bestow her blessings upon your bond."

    Hawke returned his smile with a mischievous one of her own, ¡°She''d best, or I''ll give her a taste o'' me boot, I will!"

    He shook his head in mild disapproval, but said nothing. Just as their conversation began to settle, Lysette''s voice intruded from outside the tent. "Commander, may I request entry?"

    Hawke cast a glance at Cullen and then directed her gaze to the entrance. "I be takin'' meself away, lettin'' ye two be discussin'' matters less thrillin''," she declared in a tone that conveyed a hint of boredom. "See ye later!"

    With those words, she briskly exited the tent, leaving the flap ajar.

    He watched her departure, his gaze lingering for a fleeting moment before returning his focus to the waiting Lysette. "Of course, do come inside," he offered, gesturing for her to enter.

    The woman approached his desk, her posture formal as she saluted. "I have been informed that you wished to speak with me, Commander."

    "I received your request to become a full-fledged Knight," Cullen acknowledged, his expression marked by concern. "It''s a weighty decision, one that should not be made lightly."

    "I assure you," Lysette replied with a hint of offense, "I am not taking it lightly. I understand that it implies much more responsibility and..."

    "And sacrifices," he interjected, his tone tinged with bitterness, despite his efforts to conceal it. He let out a sigh. "I do not doubt that you are capable and dedicated, Lysette, but I must admit, this decision took me by surprise. What is the reason for your request?"

    The woman¡¯s voice was determined as she spoke, "Before, I only had to defend the Herald from our enemies, and for that, my skills as a Templar Recruit were sufficient. But now, I realize that I also must protect her from the magic of the mark, if need be. I think that Templar¡¯s abilities are a better solution than a blow to the head."

    Cullen nodded slowly, he couldn¡¯t deny that he would feel more at ease knowing that Lysette could intervene more efficiently if Miriam lost control once again. "It''s a heavy burden you''re willing to bear, and I appreciate your dedication.¡± He studied the woman closely, his eyes on the lookout for any hint of uncertainty. "I just wonder if you fully understand the challenges and sacrifices that lyrium consumption will entail."

    Lysette''s countenance remained steadfast as she replied, "I do, and I made this choice with full awareness. The Herald dedicates her all to our mission, and as her protector and friend, I am committed to nothing less."

    Listening to her firm reassurance reminded him of the fervor he had felt in his youth, the unshakable determination to become a Templar. He couldn''t help but reminisce about the younger version of himself, a naive recruit eager to embrace the Order''s calling.

    He leaned back in his chair. "I remember," he began, a touch of nostalgia coloring his voice, "the day I first joined the Templar ranks. It was as if nothing else in the world mattered. My path was clear, and I thought I had it all figured out, so confident that I could handle it all". He returned his attention to Lysette, his tone grave. "But as the years have passed, I have come to realize that the constant battles to protect the people from the dangers of magic, the loneliness that comes with this calling, and the shackles of lyrium that bind you to this life... the burden of it all is far heavier than the idealized dreams of my youth could have ever imagined."  A heavy sigh escaped his lips. ¡°The cost, to body and soul alike, is immense, and more often than not, everything you give, everything you forfeit, is taken for granted." He paused, his voice lowering. "The decision is yours, just remember that the path you''ve chosen, is not an easy one. You''ll need every ounce of that dedication you possess to weather the storm."

    Lysette met his gaze with a resolute look. "As I said before, I understand the challenges, Commander, and I''m willing to bear them. For the Herald and for the Inquisition, I will endure whatever lies ahead."

    Cullen nodded. "Your determination is your greatest asset. Just never forget that you have allies here, and if ever the burden feels too heavy, you need only to reach out." After a brief moment of reflection, he continued, "Very well, I will grant your request. Rylen will contact the officers of the Order to coordinate your vigil, though I suspect it won''t be feasible until we reach our new base."

    "I understand, and I''m truly grateful," Lysette replied, straightening up as she spoke.

    "One more thing," Cullen pressed, leaning forward with a furrowed brow. "Does the Herald know of your petition?"

    The woman''s demeanor remained calm, though a trace of regret flickered in her eyes as she replied, "Yes, the Herald is aware of my decision. She expressed her dismay that I had concealed my intentions during our mission in Haven. So to prevent any further dissension, I have made my decision and the reasons for it known to her in no uncertain terms.¡±

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    He considered her response and then posed another question, "And how did she respond to your revelation?"

    "With understanding and acceptance," Lysette announced with visible relief on her face. ¡°She even said that it will lightened her load.¡±

    "I see," he concluded in a thoughtful tone. "You may take your leave."

    The woman saluted, then pivoted gracefully on her heels and exited the tent, leaving Cullen alone with his ruminations. He relaxed in his chair, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm on the wooden surface of the table. The mark''s unrestrained magic had, up to this point, only wreaked havoc upon their enemies; that was true. However, deep within his weary mind, a sense of foreboding had begun to grow. How long, he pondered, would their fortune hold? What if all this power were to turn against them? With that thought, the fear of relieving past tragedies began to consume him once more. In an attempt to fight the hold of such bleak speculation, his hand tightened into a fist. Anxiety would not serve him, nor would idle reflection. He needed to focus on the steps he could take to increase their chances of success. Miriam had expressed her yearning for his support and her belief that his friendship could serve as an empowering force. The concept of gaining strength through camaraderie and brotherhood was familiar to him, as it played a fundamental part in the life of the Templar. However, the idea of forming a friendship with a mage remained shrouded in uncertainty. Could he truly set aside the ghosts of his past and forge a genuine connection with someone who wielded magic? Then again, his personal reservations were irrelevant in the face of the Inquisition''s mission. If there was even a remote chance that his support could make a difference, he would seize it without hesitation.

    Cullen''s exposure to weddings was exceedingly limited. In fact, he had only attended a single one in his entire life, and that solitary occasion had transpired well over a decade ago when his older sister Mia had wed Thomas. It had been a traditional and solemn affair, quite unlike the ceremony unfolding before him amidst the snowy mountains. He was sure that even seasoned wedding attendees would find this event to be a spectacle.

    The night was dark, but the sky above was painted with countless stars that seemed to shine even brighter in the cold, crisp air. Torches were scattered around the area, casting flickering light across the snow-covered ground. A curious crowd had gathered, their breath forming small clouds of mist in the frigid air as they eagerly awaited the ceremony.

    Brother Sebastian stood in the middle of the gathering, garbed in his unassuming Chantry robes, and though his nervousness was evident, it could not overshadow the radiance of his smile.

    Facing him was Hawke, adorned not in traditional wedding dress but her usual armor. She practically vibrated with excitement, her anticipation evident in her every move.

    At her side, Fenris, his countenance as enigmatic as ever, stood so close to the Champion that it could be unclear whether Sebastian was about to marry Hawke or the somber elf himself. Fenris''s piercing gaze darted between the bride and the groom, as if he were a vigilant sentinel watching over them on this important day.

    Mother Giselle, holding a ceremonial torch, began the service in a solemn voice, "We have gathered here to witness the chaste union between the Maker¡¯s servants, Marianne Hawke and Sebastian Vael..."

    "Aye, I do!" Hawke blurted out, her eagerness bubbling over before the Mother could proceed.

    Giselle, more amused than angered by the woman''s enthusiasm, chuckled and shook her head. "Well, I suppose we''re getting ahead of ourselves, aren''t we?"

    Laughter erupted from the crowd, and even Fenris couldn''t help but crack a small, almost imperceptible smile, though he maintained his stern posture.

    As the ceremony pressed on, Brother Sebastian, standing before the expectant crowd, exuded an aura of both anxiety and eagerness. His hands, trembling ever so slightly, grappled with a simple ring, a symbol of the union about to be forged.

    At a pivotal moment, Brother''s nervous fingers betrayed him, and the ring slipped from his grasp, tumbling towards the ground. However, just as the jewelry was about to be swallowed by the snow, it was deftly plucked from the air by none other than Fenris. The elven warrior let out a sigh of relief and proceeded to slide the ring on the finger of Hawke''s outstretched hand. Gasps and murmurs swept through the assembly, a collective apprehension hanging in the air.

    "Tradition dictates that it is the groom who should place the ring on the bride''s finger," Mother Giselle murmured with a hint of disapproval.

    "I be carin'' not for tradition, Mother!" Hawke declared with a wide grin. "Nay, not at all."

    With that, she gleefully seized both Sebastian and Fenris in a bear hug, laughter bubbling from her as if she couldn''t contain her joy any longer. The tension instantly evaporated, replaced by a contagious sense of mirth, and the moment was met with a burst of hearty cheers and applause from the amused onlookers.

    While Cullen watched this chaotic mess, he couldn''t help but think that it suited Hawke and Sebastian perfectly. Their wedding, like their unique bond, was an unapologetic reflection of who they were as people and as a couple. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to muse about the possibility of having something similar in his own life. He envisioned a future filled with the warmth of love and laughter, a family of his own. However, he favored a more conventional path, one that reflected the traditional family he had seen in his parents or his sister Mia and her husband. Thomas... He hadn''t witnessed his apparition since his last bout of delirium. It brought a measure of relief, but it was also a source of disquiet. When would those haunting visions return? Was his current state of stability merely the calm before yet another storm?

    His contemplations were cut short as he noticed two familiar figures standing in the jubilant crowd. Lysette, her countenance etched with sadness, and her eyes reddened from what seemed like silent weeping and the Herald, who stood by her side, offering reassurance through a tight squeeze on her guard''s shoulder. It was unusual to see Miriam outdoors without people flocking around her, seeking blessings and healing. However, ever since her mark had unleashed its emerald tendrils throughout her body, many appeared too intimidated to approach her. Their veneration for the mage remained, but it had evolved into adoration from afar rather than the close, personal interactions she had always enjoyed. Cullen couldn''t help but observe the woman''s own melancholy; he knew how much she cherished those moments of direct connection with her faithful followers. Perhaps, he thought, if he showed his willingness to accept her healing magic to help him through his lyrium withdrawal, it might lift her spirits.

    With his mind set, he weaved his way through the festive throng until he stood in front of the two women. As soon as the Herald spotted him, her countenance brightened, and she eagerly moved in his direction. He gestured for them to follow him, well aware that the noisy crowd was hardly conducive to effective communication. The people seemed to part around them, allowing the three to gradually leave the celebration behind.

    In the relative quietness of their retreat, Miriam turned her curious gaze to Cullen. "Is something the matter?¡±

    He felt a sudden awkwardness settle upon him, but he cleared his throat and met her eyes. "I need to speak with you about some personal matters. Would you mind following me to my tent?"

    The mage nodded in agreement, and together, they walked through the camp in silence, each lost in their contemplations. When they arrived at their destination, Miriam turned to Lysette and politely inquired, "Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?"

    The Templar''s expression relaxed visibly, it was evident she craved some time alone. "Of course, Herald," she replied, stepping away and finding a spot to stand guard.

    Once inside the privacy of his tent, Cullen''s gaze unwillingly drifted towards the mage''s visage. The vivid green lines that now traced her complexion seemed to pulse with a life of their own, an arcane lattice that was impossible to ignore. After a few moments, he realized that the woman was looking at him expectantly, with a questioning look in her eyes. "Oh, umm, sorry," he finally spoke, gently tearing his gaze away. ¡°I just wanted to let you know that I''m willing to explore the use of healing spells in my treatment.¡±

    Miriam clasped her hands in front of her, her eyes bright with excitement. "This is wonderful news! Not only will I find the best healer in the Inquisition, but I''ll also make sure that it¡¯s a trustworthy and faithful follower of Andraste''s teachings."

    His brows furrowed. "I was hoping for your personal assistance."

    Her face fell. "I would be glad to, but¡­" she hesitated, and then raised her faintly glowing palms before him "I know that this makes you uncomfortable."

    Cullen ran a hand through his hair, his expression thoughtful. "I won''t deny that it does, but, truthfully, among all the mages, you are the one I trust the most."

    "Really?" Her tone held a glimmer of hope.

    Cullen nodded, a slight smile touching his lips. "Yes, truly. If I''m to take this step, I want it to be with you," he replied, surprised at the sincerity of his own words. It was a simple, unadorned truth that he had somehow failed to realize until this moment. In all his years as a Knight, amidst countless encounters with mages, Miriam stood as an exception. The woman found comfort in his company, and had a deep respect for the Order - a sentiment that defied the established norms of mage and Templar relations. She also had a steadfast faith in the Maker and the teachings of Andraste, which resonated with his convictions as well. And then there was her selfless dedication to his cause, despite her limited knowledge of his reasons for abandoning lyrium. She went above and beyond the call of a healer¡¯s duty, showing a genuine willingness to aid him in his struggle. For these reasons, despite the vivid green web on her skin, the idea of her being the one to cast healing spells on him was less daunting than the prospect of any other enchanter attempting the same.

    She let out a long, heartfelt sigh, her shoulders relaxing as the weight of her anxieties seemed to lift. "It''s such a comfort," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. ¡°To know that you trust me in this delicate matter... despite everything... thank you, my friend. Thank you."

    As the words left her lips, Cullen felt the cracks appear in the walls of doubt and skepticism he had built around the notion of befriending a mage. It dawned on him that the pillars of friendship, such as trust and support, had been present in their relationship for some time, but he had been too blinded by the shadows of his past to see them. Suddenly it felt as if he could genuinely embrace the idea, without the need for pretense. A growing sense of relief washed over him, and at last, a genuine smile graced his face. "You''re more than welcome," he said, his heart lighter. "So, when do we start?"

 Little secret

    Miriam took slow, deliberate steps, the biting cold wind stinging her reddened face. For the past three grueling days, the journey through the Frostback Mountains has been nothing short of an unrelenting trial of endurance. Successive storms had battered them mercilessly, slowing their progress to a crawl and making whatever little provisions the barren, lifeless mountains had to offer even harder to come by.

    With each weary step, the mage''s thoughts turned to the future. By tomorrow, they hoped to have reached the ancient elven fortress, a place where the Inquisition could rebuild and grow. The Breach had been closed, a monumental achievement, but even though the Fade no longer bled into their world, two other threats to Thedas remained. First, the Elder One, a malevolent force that sought to bend the Templar to its will and that had successfully corrupted the mages, was plotting to assassinate the Empress. Secondly, the tainted dragon, a creature of unimaginable power manipulated by the darkspawn magister, was most likely alive and well enough to strike again. The Inquisition''s work was far from over. It was becoming increasingly clear that the trials and tribulations they had faced so far were only a prelude to the challenges that lay ahead.

    The clanking of armor interrupted the mage''s contemplative thoughts. She turned to regard Lysette and the other soldiers dutifully following in her wake, and a pang of guilt coursed through her. The Inquisition council had determined that she would lead the people to their longed-for destination, believing it would boost morale and align with her role as the Harald of Andraste. In her heart, Miriam grappled with a truth she couldn¡¯t admit to her people¡ªit was Solas who truly guided them. Following the elf''s lead while pretending that she was the one receiving divine dreams of their sanctuary weighed heavily on her conscience. It felt wrong, almost abhorrent, to claim this role when she knew the truth. Yet, she clenched her teeth and continued to play along, for she reluctantly understood that it was, regrettably, the most pragmatic decision. Not the righteous one, she admitted to herself, but the reasonable choice given the circumstances.

    The mage''s brow furrowed, the familiar bitterness rising to the surface once again. She couldn''t fathom why the unbeliever had been the one to discover the fortress''s location in the Fade. Why hadn''t the Lady shown it to her instead? What was Andraste trying to convey, if anything at all? She sighed, watching for a moment as her breath formed a small cloud in the air, and then she set her sights straight ahead once again. She knew that the Bride, much like the Maker, worked in mysterious ways, but she couldn''t help but wish that they were a little more straightforward.

    Another gust of bone-chilling wind assaulted Miriam''s lithe frame, its icy tendrils seeping through the layers of clothes. She rubbed her gloved hands together to generate warmth, the sensation of friction providing a temporary respite from the relentless cold. Her gaze drifted to the thick leather gloves, concealing the emerald glow emanating from her veins and the mark etched upon her skin.

    While the wind howled and the snow swirled around her, she closed her eyes and allowed herself, if only for a moment, to revel in the thrum of power within her, dormant yet ever-present. It was intoxicating and inviting, and the desire to reach for it was always there at the fringes of her consciousness, but she was smarter now; the might bestowed by Andraste shouldn''t be trifled with. It had crushed her will the last time she had used it, leaving her with haunting memories of her loss of control. Only Cullen and Lysette had witnessed that moment of vulnerability¡ªher lapse in command over her abilities. If Maker forbid, word of this spreads further than the Inquisition council, people might fear her even more, and she couldn''t afford that, not with so many already avoiding her company.

    It pained her to see the once hopeful gazes of the faithful now clouded with fear. She was still the same person, still the same Miriam, and it frustrated her that they couldn''t see beyond the changes in her appearance. Yet she knew she shouldn''t complain. She was fortunate to have comrades who understood and saw her transformation as a necessary sacrifice, a price to be paid for being able to use the power the Lady had given her more effectively. As long as she had her faith and the support of her friends, she should be able to weather any storm and conquer any obstacle.

    The mage took a deep breath, her lungs aching from the icy air, and opened her eyes. Once again, she grounded herself in their mission. She had a duty to fulfill, a destiny to follow, and she couldn''t afford to be distracted by her inner struggles. Focused, she moved forward, her mind on the path ahead as they made their way through the unforgiving terrain of the Frostback Mountains.

    The white peaks loomed in the fading light as the army, weary from a day''s march through the wild landscape, halted for a much-needed night''s rest. Snow-covered crests stretched out in every direction, their dark silhouettes contrasting starkly against the waning twilight. In the heart of the camp, a tent stood out among the rows of military encampments. It was a sturdy shelter, its fabric reinforced to protect against the elements. Inside, Miriam was fully immersed in her task. A small magical orb of light cast a soft glow over the compact space. Huddled over a makeshift table, she meticulously arranged an array of glass vials filled with various liquids and aromatic herbs. Her fingers moved with precision, deftly mixing ingredients to create potions that would work in tandem with a healing spell designed to improve blood circulation. As the mage worked her craft, her thoughts inevitably drifted to Cullen. He was meant to arrive for his first session of magical healing any minute now. Despite his attempts to appear enthusiastic when she''d informed him of the plan, she couldn''t help but notice the anxiety that had etched lines across his face. This endeavor wouldn''t be an easy one.

    Lysette stood nearby, her gaze fixed on the entrance of the tent. She had offered to stay inside for the session, concerned about any unforeseen events during the Commander''s exposure to arcane, but Miriam had reassured her that everything would be perfectly fine. She wouldn''t tap into the powers of her mark to heal, and she was determined to be fully prepared in case Cullen reacted poorly to her magic. That¡¯s why the Templar was to wait outside, as usual. Her guard didn''t seem entirely convinced that it was the right course of action, but she held her silence, respecting the Herald''s decision.

    The mournful wail of the wind outside was momentarily interrupted by the soft taps on the tent''s fabric. "Lady Miriam, may I enter?" Cullen''s voice called from outside.

    "Please, come in, Commander, I was expecting you," she replied, her voice striving to sound as reassuring as possible.

    The man stepped inside completely covered by the clinging snowflakes. The wintry storm desperately tried to accompany him into the sanctuary of the tent. Lysette, who had been standing guard, saluted the Commander as he entered. She then turned to face Miriam. "I''ll be nearby, Herald," she assured the mage before closing the flap behind herself, leaving the two of them alone.

    Cullen took a painstakingly long moment to brush the accumulated snow from his armor and shake it from his hair. The muffled sounds of the blizzard outside only served to underscore the awkward silence that hung within the tent. Sensing the need to break the tension, Miriam spoke up, her voice steady, "I am well aware that this is no simple endeavor for you. Are you ready to begin or do you need a moment to prepare?¡±

    "I''m as ready as I''ll ever be," he answered, his expression resolute but weary.

    The mage motioned for him to sit on a makeshift bunk in the corner, and he obliged, perching on the edge with a heavy sigh. She retrieved a small flask from the table and began to explain, "This potion is meant to complement a healing spell. It will enhance blood supply to your brain, aiding in the recovery of areas damaged by lyrium. Once you''ve taken it, I will proceed to cast a spell."

    The Commander listened intently as she spoke, his eyes locked onto the elixir. He took a deep breath, accepted the flask, and brought it to his lips, swallowing a gulp of the healing mixture in a single, determined swig.

    Handing her an empty flask with a solemn countenance, Cullen uttered, "Commence, if you will."

    Miriam, her fingers trembling ever so slightly, extended her hand above the Commander''s head. A soft, silvery glow enveloped her palm as she summoned her magic. As soon as the first arcane waves brushed against the man, his jaw clenched, and his entire frame tensed. He looked straight ahead, avoiding her gaze, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

    When the enchantment enveloped Cullen entirely, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, tracing a meandering path down his pained countenance. As his breathing quickened, coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his fingers clawed at the frame of the wooden cot.

    Miriam, noticing these signs of distress, tried to reassure him. "I am nearly finished, it shall not be much longer," she murmured in a soothing tone, but he remained oblivious to her words, his chest heaving erratically as his eyes darted frantically around the tent. Every muscle in his body remained rigid, and his grip on the frame tightened to the point where the wood began to creak under the pressure.

    "Stop it!" His voice, strangled and filled with anguish, escaped his lips. And then, in a sudden, jolting motion, he sprang up from the bunk, his hand making a desperate grasp for Miriam''s wrist. The enchantment broke in a shimmering cascade of light, but before he could seize her hand, the mage was already enveloped in a protective barrier. Cullen immediately retracted his arm, his face etched with mortification and guilt. He stepped back, his chest heaving, unable to meet Miriam''s eyes. His apology came out in a rush, "I am deeply sorry. Forgive me. I simply couldn¡¯t bear it any longer.¡±

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    The woman withdrew her ward and stepped back, giving the man space he needed. Her voice was soft as she replied, "It''s all right, Commander."

    "No, it''s not," he mumbled in a tone tinged with defeat, sinking back onto the cot and burying his face in his hands.

    "Please, don''t be so hard on yourself. To be honest, you handled it much better than I expected," the mage tried to console him.

    He raised his face, the disheveled strands of hair clinging to his pale, sweat-slicked brow, and locked eyes with her. "Am I to be comforted by your low expectations of me?¡±

    Miriam shook her head. "My expectations weren''t low, they''re just realistic. You''re not the first patient I''ve treated with a ¡®complicated¡¯ relationship with magic. I''ve seen all kinds of reactions, and I can assure you that yours was not the most extreme."

    Cullen managed a self-deprecating smirk. "I suppose I''ll find solace in the thought that it could have been worse."

    The mage''s face softened. "I would rather you take comfort in the notion that you will get better."

    "At times... at times it doesn''t feel like it,¡± he confessed, his voice laced with vulnerability.

    "I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here,¡± she intoned reverently.

    A feeble yet genuine smile graced Cullen''s lips. "Canticle of Trials, first chapter, verse fifteen," he quoted. After a brief pause, he added, ¡°Prayers for the despairing have always struck the deepest chord within me."

    "Shall we recite them together?" Her tone alight with conviction, she continued, "I am certain that the Maker will hear our pleas and grant you the strength you seek."

    There lingered a moment of hesitation in Cullen''s bearing, but it swiftly yielded to a nod. Slowly, he descended from the bunk to kneel on the cold floor. The mage joined him in this solemn posture, her hands folded in reverence as she started to recite the Canticle. The Commander began to chant as well, and much to Miriam''s relief, she soon caught the change in his demeanor. His eyes were now closed, his frame relaxed, and the lines of worry on his face appeared to soften as if the words of faith had eased, if only temporarily, the burdens that had weighed upon him.

    The next day, they reached their destination, the imposing edifice of the ancient fortress emerging from the snow-shrouded landscape. Skyhold, as Solas had come to call it, stood tall and proud, a relic of a bygone age, its weathered stone walls standing defiantly against the elements. Eroded by time, cracks and crevices marred the otherwise solid facade, yet its grandeur was undeniable. Miriam''s breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon the massive stone towers and crenelated walls that seemed to defy gravity as they clung to the cliffs. There was much work to be done¡ªrepairing the damaged walls, restoring the crumbling interiors, and securing the perimeter¡ªbut the sight of the fortress standing tall filled her with relief. Here, it would be safe to start anew.

    After a few days of helping to make the space habitable once again, Miriam turned her attention to the fortress''s infirmary. With her sleeves rolled up, she oversaw the cleaning of the room, ensuring that it would soon be a place of respite and healing for her injured comrades. The clinking of glass vials and the familiar scent of medicinal herbs put her at ease as she moved about the chamber. Amidst the organized chaos, a knock at the entrance caught the mage''s attention. The door creaked open to reveal one of Leliana''s agents, a figure shrouded in dark robes. With a deep, respectful nod, the man informed her that the Inquisition council was expecting her presence in the Throne Room. Lysette threw Miriam a questioning look, and in response, she offered a puzzled expression and a shrug of her shoulders. Instructing her guard to continue their work in the infirmary, she followed the agent through the dimly lit corridors in silence, the distant sounds of the fortress coming to life serving as a backdrop to her thoughts.

    They eventually entered the Throne Room, a vast expanse with vaulted ceilings and walls adorned with intricate, though timeworn, tapestries. The mage''s eyes swept across the hall, taking in the long wooden tables and a large stone hearth. Several soldiers were gathered here, sitting on rough-hewn benches as a fire crackled, casting a comforting glow over the space.

    At the head of the hall, next to an improvised throne made of old stone blocks, stood all the members of the Inquisition council, except Hawke, who was probably helping Brother Sebastian convert one of the rooms next to the garden into a small Chantry. They all gazed at her in silence as she approached, instilling an unexpected sense of unease. Once she reached the group, she turned to thank the agent, but he had already vanished.

    "Herald," Cassandra began, her tone grave, "we have summoned you here to discuss your role within the Inquisition."

    Miriam looked at her with a quizzical expression, not anticipating this conversation. As the one bearing the Lady''s mark, she was a part of the council and a beacon of hope for the faithful. She wondered what more there was to discuss.

    Leliana stepped forward, her face as impassive as ever. "With the Breach sealed, the Inquisition''s legitimacy is no longer in question. We can now fully engage in the Game and navigate the treacherous waters of nobility on equal footing. To do this effectively, it''s in our best interest to have an official leader, someone to champion our interests."

    Miriam nodded in agreement, her countenance thoughtful. "That sounds like a prudent decision, but I''m not quite sure how it relates to my role in the organization."

    "After much reflection, we have decided that you will take this position," Cassandra replied.

    "Me!?" Miriam exclaimed in bewilderment. "But I lack experience in leadership. Surely, there must be someone more qualified for such a task."

    Leliana''s annoyance was evident as she responded, "Of course, there are better candidates. Both Cassandra and I have extensive experience in demanding positions. Were it not for the fact that we are also candidates to become the next Divine, one of us would have assumed the mantle of Inquisitor. However, taking the title of Inquisitor while competing for the role of the Most Holy would be seen as a power grab, and we''d face some serious complications. Josephine lacks field experience. Cullen is already stretched thin managing our forces, and Hawke, well, Hawke is Hawke. That leaves you as our sole practical option."

    The mage listened carefully to the Spymaster''s words, her brow furrowing as the implications of the situation became clearer. She took a moment to collect her thoughts before responding. ¡°If¡­If it is the consensus of the council that I take on this role, I will do so to the best of my abilities."

    As she finished speaking, the Commander stepped closer, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Herald, you may be the official leader, but you won''t be making the difficult decisions alone. We will continue to provide our wisdom, just as we''ve always done. This burden is not yours to bear by yourself. We are a team, and we will guide the Inquisition together."

    "Thank you, Com..,¡± Miriam blushed slightly. ¡°I mean, all of you," she added hastily, casting a glance at the assembled council members.

    Josephine beamed with enthusiasm. "That''s settled then, my lady. I''ll begin making preparations for the ceremony. If all proceeds as planned, we should be ready in a few weeks. There''s much work to be done¡ªinvitations to send, repairs to be made, and supply lines to establish. Oh, Maker, I''d better get started!" She curtsied and hurried off to her office.

    Cassandra gave her a brief shoulder pat and an encouraging "I have high hopes for you" before heading in her own direction. The Spymaster, on the other hand, left with a cold stare and a cryptic "Let us witness how fate unfolds."

    As the others departed, Miriam turned her attention to the Commander. "It''s certainly an unexpected turn of events," she mused.

    Cullen''s posture straightened. "Leliana¡¯s words may have given you the impression that you were chosen simply because there weren''t any better candidates available, but this is not the case. Our people see you as the Herald of Andraste, the one who sealed the Breach and provided us with a chance to escape the enemy''s army safely. They would be eager to follow you."

    Miriam felt her face flush with warmth, basking in the praise for her deeds. "Thank you for your kind words, but it''s all by Our Lady''s grace and strength that I''ve been able to achieve what I have."

    Cullen crossed his arms. "Don''t underestimate your efforts."

    Suddenly, the power within the mage stirred, as if awakened by the boost to her ego. Alarmed by the unexpected rush of energy, she quickly pushed it down, burying it beneath layers of restraint. Her fingers gripped the folds of her robe as she sought to regain control. She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably, keen to leave before her struggle became evident. "I will consider your words, Commander," Miriam replied, mustering a strained smile. "Now, if you''ll excuse me, I would like to return to my duties at the infirmary."

    At her sudden change of demeanor, Cullen''s expression became one of perplexity. "Yes¡­Yes, of course, Herald."

    The mage hurried out of the Throne Room, the tantalizing echoes ringing in her ears, growing louder and more intense with each step. The emerald glow of her veins intensified, her garments no longer able to conceal the radiant light. Panic gripped her, she couldn''t let others witness her in this state. In desperation, she dashed into the first abandoned chamber she stumbled upon and slammed the door behind her. Leaning against it, she slowly slid to the floor, her breaths ragged and heavy. In the calm and darkness of the cold room, she marshaled every ounce of her willpower to resist the magic of the mark. After a grueling while, its insistent call finally began to subside. The viridescent light that enveloped her gradually faded, leaving her in blessed obscurity.

    "Why did this happen?" she whispered to the stillness of the chamber, her voice filled with frustration and a touch of despair. Just as she was entrusted with the role of Inquisitor, just as it seemed Cullen was finally starting to open up to her, she had to grapple with this distressing outburst. The timing couldn''t have been worse. Miriam let out a weary sigh and allowed her head to fall back against the door. Her hand instinctively reached for the amulet hanging from her neck. She should inform the council about what happened, but¡­. perhaps it wasn''t necessary. She did manage to regain control after all. Besides, Lysette was about to become a Templar, if the mark¡¯s power got truly volatile, she could rely on her to help suppress it. For a moment, Solas'' ominous words replayed in her mind: The Orb was not meant for humans. Neither your body nor your mind have the strength to wield it.  She scowled in indignation. Heretical nonsense. Andraste would never give her a burden she couldn''t bear. Determined, she rose from the ground. She would not jeopardize all she had achieved with unnecessary concerns. Dusting off her robes, she forced a smile onto her face and opened the door.

 Memories

    Cullen slowly walked through the corridor that seemed to extend into the Void itself. Twisted, grotesque human remains lay strewn along his path, a macabre display of suffering and despair that defied all that was humane. The walls that hemmed him in were a twisted, maddening fusion of Kinloch''s grim stones and the polished gray rocks of Kirkwall''s Gallows. Stripped of his armor and his weapon, he stood defenseless, clad in nothing but a plain, threadbare shirt and trousers. Even his feet trod bare upon the warm, oozing floor, the mixture of blood and filth yielding a muted squelch with each step he took. The air was steaming hot and foul, making every breath feel like inhaling vapor from a boiling cauldron of bile. A haunting buzzing sound blended with the song of lyrium, but even its call was twisted in this nightmarish place, its melody corrupted.

    Suddenly, the corridor veered sharply to the right, and Cullen found himself standing at the dreadfully familiar threshold of the Circle Tower''s Harrowing Chambers. Here, the walls were weeping blood, its rivulets flowing from the cracks between the stones onto the floor. Amidst this sea of crimson, an aged, bald man stood, bearing a maddeningly content smile. Cullen''s eyes locked onto him, and recognition dawned with a jolt of fear and fury. Without hesitation, he lunged towards Uldred, a primal, desperate drive overtaking him. Yet, it took but a casual wave of the mage''s hand to cast Cullen face-first into the sickening pool of gore, his legs betraying him and surrendering to the paralyzing spell.

    Undeterred and consumed by a feral rage, he pressed his palms to the floor and pushed upwards, emerging from beneath the claret liquid with a guttural growl. ¡°Die, die, DIE!¡± he bellowed, all the while dragging himself toward the maleficar even as his numbed limbs weighed him down.

    Barely aware of Uldred''s swift incantation, Cullen''s senses reeled as the blood in the chamber began to coagulate, clotting into chunks that morphed into grotesque human figures. These monsters came from all directions, closing around him like a tightening noose. From behind, one of them seized his hair to wrench him upward until he was forced onto his knees. Other creatures captured his arms and yanked them painfully behind his back, leaving him bound and helpless. His gaze darted frantically from one abomination to another, a horrifying realization dawning upon him. Though composed solely of curdled blood, the features of these entities were unmistakable. They bore the twisted faces of the enchanters he had slain during the Annulment of Kirkwall''s Gallows. "I was following orders, I thought I was doing the right thing!" he cried out as guilt tore at his heart.

    "Who are you trying to fool, Chantry dog?" The maleficar''s voice, laden with contempt, reverberated through the chamber. "You enjoyed cutting them open with your sword and watching their guts spill to the ground, didn''t you?"

    Before he could reply, one of the creatures had him ensnared in a merciless chokehold, rendering him utterly immobile. He had no choice but to endure the sinister grin etched upon Uldred''s face as the mage stepped aside, unveiling Maddox standing behind him, clad in loose white robes. "Step forward, my dear," the maleficar commanded the man, who obediently complied, his expression disturbingly impassive.

    "Leave... him... alone," Cullen managed to choke out, his words strained and rasping from his constricted windpipe.

    Ignoring him, the mage embraced Maddox from behind, resting his chin on the Tranquil''s shoulder. Cullen''s blood ran cold as he watched Uldred''s hands begin to slide over Maddox''s body in a disturbing caress.

    "I know you''d like all mages to be like that," the maleficar murmured, his lips brushing against Maddox''s ear as he kept his gaze fixed on Cullen. "Docile, powerless."

    "That''s... not true," he protested hoarsely.

    "Is that so?" Uldred chuckled wickedly, his hands withdrawing from the Tranquil''s form before violently shoving him towards Cullen. Maddox staggered awkwardly, his feet sliding upon the blood-slicked floor, and he fell in an ungraceful heap. The once-white robes were now completely crimson, saturated with the gruesome fluid that surrounded them. Cullen groaned and made desperate attempts to free himself, but his struggles were in vain and only served to tighten the monsters'' grip. The strain made his vision blur for a moment, and when his sight cleared, the figure prostrated before him was no longer that of Maddox. Instead, it was Lea, her eyes devoid of expression lingering on him. A sun was seared into her forehead, the mark raw and inflamed as if it had been etched only moments before.

    At the sight, wicked satisfaction washed over him. He would have preferred to see her dead, but this was pleasing in its own way. However, his delight was short-lived as Amell, her marred garments clinging to her every curve, rose to her feet with an eerie grace. She moved closer to him, her every step rekindling his fear. Panic, like a vise tightened around his chest, his heart pounding so violently that it felt as if it might shatter. He struggled to breathe, his mouth agape, gasping for air as he helplessly watched the woman draw nearer. To his utter despair, Lea reached out, her arms outstretched, and cupped his cheeks with her blood-soaked palms. Slowly, excruciatingly so, she leaned in, her lips pressing against his in a deliberate, languid motion. His very soul recoiled from the act, but he was ensnared, unable to resist. She continued to kiss him, her arms straying from his face down to his chest, her touch roaming freely, leaving a trail of defilement in its wake. Every second of it felt foul, the abhorrence mounting with each passing moment. Then, her hands descended below his waist, and an overwhelming wave of disgust convulsed his core.

    Cullen''s awakening from the nightmare was abrupt and harsh, the unbearable nausea having pulled him from its depths. With his face contorted in distress, he leaned over the side of the bed and emptied the contents of his stomach. The sound was guttural, the sensation of vomiting bringing waves of pain and discomfort. With nothing left to regurgitate, he collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping for breath and shaking from the ordeal. Disoriented and drenched in a cold sweat, he began to hastily scan his surroundings, only to find himself in an unfamiliar place. The room was mostly empty except for the armor rack, a half-broken small wardrobe with rusty handles, and a small makeshift table beside his bed. The first rays of daylight filtered through a hole in the roof, casting faint patterns on the damaged floor. Panic gripped Cullen as he struggled to make sense of his situation. Where was he? How had he ended up in this place? Had he escaped one nightmare only to be thrust into another?

    Desperation and confusion fueled his attempt to get out of bed, but his trembling legs betrayed him, and he crashed to the floor. In his fall, he sent the small table next to his bed tumbling down with him. As he lay there, his heart pounding, the rank stench of something sour reached his nostrils. Squeamishly, he realized that he had ended up in a puddle of his vomit. Groaning, he gradually sat up, his disheveled senses finally beginning to clear. As awareness returned, he recognized his bedroom within Skyhold. The oppressive weight of dread lifted from his shoulders, and at last, he could breathe easy, knowing that he was indeed safe. He struggled to his feet once more, and though this time he found the strength to stand, his movements were sluggish and labored. Nevertheless, he began the task of cleaning up the aftermath. With each stroke of a cloth and each discarded piece of soiled garment, he sought to rid himself of the vile remnants of the nightmare, to erase any evidence of what had happened. He released a weary sigh. Despite Miriam''s best efforts and his resolve, his mind was still deteriorating. Each day, it took a second longer to remember where he was upon waking from the night terrors. Each day, simple, everyday things felt a little harder to recall. He tried not to dwell on it, though. He knew Leliana was searching Chantry¡¯s records for anything that might save him. He just had to hold on a little longer.

    Cullen was about to climb down the ladder to his office when his attention was drawn to an unfamiliar object on the floor. A small wooden box, tied with a simple cord, had likely dislodged from the table when he inadvertently bumped it. Curiosity piqued, he reached down and picked it up, a faint sense of unease stirring within him. He carefully untied the cord and lifted the lid. Inside, he discovered a commonplace silver coin from Ferelden, bearing an engraving of Andraste''s face amidst a backdrop of flames. There was an agonizing familiarity to the piece, yet he struggled to recall why. As he stared at it, trying to force the memory to resurface, an overwhelming ache clamped around his heart, and, to his astonishment, his eyes welled with tears. Bewildered, he swiftly closed the box and placed it back on the table. With a trembling hand, he wiped away the few stray drops that had managed to escape. Why did it hurt so much to remember? Then again, he shouldn''t have been surprised. Was there anything from his past that failed to evoke pain? Memories of his time in the Order haunted his nights, a relentless torment that refused to let him be. Recollections of his family only brought forth a bitter blend of guilt and longing. What if he could simply forget it all, preserving only enough memories to fulfill his duty to the Inquisition? Wouldn''t that bring some respite? He let out a sigh. It was all mere wishful thinking. He gave the wooden box a long, contemplative look before turning away. Maybe some things are better forgotten. If painful moments of his former life were slipping away, then at least there would be a silver lining to his predicament.

    After several productive hours of work, he received a summons to the War Room. Both Leliana and Cassandra had matters to discuss with other members of the council. Cullen left the tower and made his way to the Great Hall. After spending time within the confines of his office, the vast blue sky and the fresh air felt invigorating. Prolonged periods in closed spaces remained challenging for him, so he was grateful to this impromptu meeting for offering an excuse to venture from his chamber. As he reached the half-crumbling staircase that led to the entrance of the Hall, he noticed a lithe figure of the Herald making its way towards him. Miriam¡¯s hair danced wildly in the wind, and when their eyes met, she offered a bright smile. He couldn''t help but feel relieved. Her rather abrupt departure the previous day had left him somewhat uneasy, so her friendly demeanor now was a welcome sight.

    "Good day, Commander, "she greeted him as they both began ascending the stairs. "I presume you are also headed to the War Room?"

    He inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Indeed, Herald. It appears some matters require our attention." Falling in step beside her, he continued, "How fares the infirmary?"

    "The sick room is managing as well as it can," she replied. "Our healers are working tirelessly to care for the wounded and the ill, but they are facing considerable challenges due to our limited supplies."

    Cullen nodded thoughtfully. "After our meeting, I will have a word with the Quartermaster. We cannot afford to be short of necessities," he remarked. "Our troops should receive the care they need."

    "I will hold your words close," she responded, adjusting a strand of wind-blown hair behind her ear.

    Once they reached the top of the stairs, he exerted his strength to swing the heavy doors open, allowing Miriam to step into the well-lit chamber as she continued, "And how are matters on your side, Commander?"

    "The perimeter has been secured," he started with a note of assurance. "Guard rotations have been established, and we are steadily training the recruits arriving daily. I am confident that, this time, if we face an attack, there will be no room for retreat. We will stand prepared for an honest battle."

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    The mage offered him a gentle smile. "I have every confidence that you will ensure our safety," she said. Glancing around to ascertain that no one was within earshot, she added, "I would appreciate an update on your well-being as well. We shouldn''t postpone the healing magic sessions any longer. The spells will only yield their full benefit if administered regularly."

    Pushing back his reluctance, he muttered, "You''re right, of course."

    "Very well, tonight then?" she suggested as they approached entrance of the Josephine''s office.

    "Agreed," he affirmed with a nod before proceeding to knock on the door.

    The last to arrive in the War Room was Hawke, who made her presence known by loudly complaining that life at Skyhold had become unbearably boring. To Cullen''s surprise, Cassandra didn''t seem particularly bothered by the Champion''s behavior. Instead, she decided to get straight to the point and share what she had discovered with the rest of the council. Thanks to her lengthy conversations with Maddox, she had learned that while the Tranquil didn''t know Samson''s whereabouts, he could offer some clues as to the location of the red lyrium mine the Elder One was using for his nefarious purposes. The Seeker believed the site to be somewhere in the Southron Hills.

    Cullen¡¯s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the area. South Reach, a settlement where his family lived, was there. But the Southron Hills spanned a vast expanse, he reassured himself, the likelihood of his siblings being in danger was minimal. Besides, there was no guarantee that they were still in the area, as the last he had heard about them was well over a decade ago when he had departed from Kinloch.

    "Given our lack of knowledge about its exact whereabouts," he suggested, "instead of dispersing our forces throughout the mountains and potentially drawing the enemy¡¯s attention, it would be prudent to send Hawke and her companions to discreetly scout the location."

    "Ye can rest assured, me hearties! We''ll be uncoverin'' that blighted trove in no time, mark me words!" the Champion exclaimed, seemingly genuinely excited by his proposal.

    No one seemed to object, so the discussion swiftly moved on to the next topic, the one Leliana was most eager to discuss. "Herald, I have some very intriguing news for you," she began, leaning slightly over the table with a grin. "Mother Lucia has proven to be every bit as unsavory as I had suspected."

    Miriam''s frame tensed immediately. "Did you find proof of her mistreating the retired Templars?"

    The Spymaster chuckled. "Even better, I discovered that our esteemed Mother has been profiting from the sale of lyrium meant for the elderly Knights, trading it to the Carta for decades now."

    Josephine gasped in astonishment. "How could she have concealed her crimes for so long?"

    Leliana¡¯s lips pursed slightly for a moment before she chose to impart her insight, "Though I have no concrete evidence at present, I am thoroughly convinced that other members of the Ostwick clergy were involved."

    "Apostasy." Miriam spat, her voice trembling with indignation. "Traitors who have forsaken every single one of Andraste''s teachings!" With her fingers clutching the edges of the War Table, she leveled a steely gaze at the Spymaster. "In our Lady''s righteous name, they should face retribution."

    Those unfortunate Knights, Cullen thought, feeling anger simmering within him as well. Men and women who dedicated their lives to service were condemned to spend their last days in filth, suffering the agony of withdrawal. This situation had only been allowed to persist because these Templars were commoners. Even if their families suspected wrongdoing, they lacked the influence to challenge the clergy or the means to care for their loved ones themselves. The Mothers had intentionally singled out the most vulnerable for their machinations. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he realized that this could easily have been his fate.

    "As I mentioned earlier," Leliana began, her gaze unwavering as it locked with that of the mage, "I only have sufficient evidence to implicate Lucia." She paused briefly, her fingers tapping out a rhythmic pattern on the table''s wooden edge as she carried on, "It will take more time to gather the necessary proof against others who are involved."

    "I have grown tired of waiting!" Miriam burst out, her frustration evident in her voice. "How many more Templars will perish under her ''care'' while we continue this search for evidence?"

    "Herald, if we were to act against Mother Lucia right now," Josephine counseled, her voice measured, "she might face punishment, but it could also provide the remaining culprits with an opportunity to eliminate any traces of their complicity."

    "In fact, that is exactly what will happen," Cassandra interjected with a furrowed brow, her arms crossed. "Lucia''s judgment, should it come to pass, will be a rather drawn-out procedure. The explosion at the Conclave left numerous vacancies in seats of power, and this caused internal strife within the Grand Cathedral. At the moment, their own conflicts would take precedence over tackling corruption in Ostwick."

    Miriam''s countenance grew somber, and the emerald glow of her mark intensified. "Are you suggesting that I should once again wait and do nothing?"

    The Seeker raised an eyebrow, her tone firm. "I simply wish that we thoroughly consider every repercussion of our actions."

    "We could be takin'' the easy path, me mateys.¡± Hawke chimed in, her demeanor lighthearted. ¡°I''ve sent Mother Petrice back to the Maker in me days in Kirkwall, so I''m not averse to cuttin'' through the trouble, if ye catch me drift." She winked at Cullen.

    He let out a weary sigh. "You cannot handle this situation as you''ve done in the past," he asserted. "We will not send you or our people to kill the Mother."

    "You do realize that to eliminate her, we do not have to send our agents to do this," Leliana remarked with a satisfied glint in her eye, "we do not even have to get involved¡­ directly that is."

    All eyes were now fixed on the Spymaster, who surveyed each of them before elaborating, "The solution is quite straightforward. We merely need to ensure that the Carta members catch wind of our plans to interrogate Lucia regarding her involvement in the illicit lyrium trade. These dwarves are ruthless, and the mere prospect of such an investigation would be reason enough for them to get rid of the Mother and anyone else she may have conspired with. They wouldn''t take any chances with these women divulging information about their operations in the region.¡±

    Josephine''s brows furrowed, a palpable unease washing over her countenance. "We would be treading a treacherous path, entangling ourselves with the Carta," she pointed out.

    Leliana, with a sly curl of her lip, retorted with an air of self-confidence, "You underestimate me, my friend. I am sufficiently skilled to ensure that the dwarves remain oblivious to our involvement."

    "Yes, let one evil be vanquished by another." Miriam declared, her voice laced with disdain, her words unapologetic. "None of these sinners deserve a fair trial."

    For a moment, Cullen could have sworn he detected a glint of emerald light in her eyes. Yet, with a blink, it disappeared. It must have been the mark''s glow, reflecting briefly in her gaze.

    "Herald, I am sure we could find other ways to deal with the clergy," Cassandra remarked, her concerned gaze fixed upon the mage.

    "I''ve dedicated years of my life to seeking justice through lawful means, and it has proven futile!" Miriam replied, visibly striving to maintain her composure. "Please, you can''t deny me this. I''ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into the Inquisition''s cause, never asking for anything in return."

    "Very well,¡± the Seeker reluctantly conceded. ¡°Let us put it to a vote and see who supports Leliana''s proposal."

    Not surprisingly, the only ones opposed to the plan were Josephine and Cassandra. As a result, the decision was made to proceed with the Spymaster''s strategy. In truth, Cullen would have voted differently if the crimes against the retired Templars hadn''t felt so personal. He may no longer be a member of the Order, but he was far from indifferent to the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. The Knights deserved retribution. Miriam deserved closure. And if the Inquisition has to employ questionable methods to achieve it, so be it.

    The rest of the day passed without any significant events, just more reports, more work, and a persistent headache¡ªthe three enduring elements of his daily routine. By the evening, when Miriam arrived at his office, he was utterly exhausted and in serious doubt as to whether he would be able to endure the session, but he recognized the need to attempt. The Herald appeared to be in remarkably high spirits, humming a tune while she retrieved the potion from her satchel. He had a hunch that the thought of being so close to her goal of avenging the Templars was the reason for her cheerful demeanor.

    Much like the previous occasion, the mage passed him the vial, and he took it in one swift motion, the bitter liquid searing his throat as it descended into his stomach. Anxiety began to unfurl within him, its tendrils creeping and wrapping around his frame like a bindweed. Knowing what was about to happen should have made it less frightening, but somehow the certainty of what lay ahead only added to the dread. As Miriam raised her hands above him, he clutched the arms of his chair, preparing himself for the ordeal. To his surprise, however, she paused. "Why don''t you recite a poem, Commander?" she suggested unexpectedly.

    He looked at her perplexed, his brow furrowing in confusion. "A poem? Now?"

    The mage nodded with a reassuring smile. "It will help to distract your mind, shifting its focus away from fear. It''s a common tactic to assist the patient in getting through the unpleasant procedure."

    "I do not have any verses committed to memory. The path of a Templar did not offer many moments for poetic pursuits," he responded, still uncertain about the efficacy of this approach.

    "And what of songs?" the woman persisted.

    "There was hardly any time to learn them either," he admitted. In truth, there may have been opportunities, but he had never been interested in such frivolities.

    "What about ''The Little Apple Tree''? Do you know it by heart?" She seemed quite determined to have him do her bidding. He hailed from Honnleath, and, of course, he knew that song.

    "It''s a children''s tune, though," he noted.

    "The song''s nature doesn''t matter, it''s the distraction that counts. Go ahead, please," she urged him gently.

    This felt rather embarrassing, he hadn''t sung since... he couldn''t even recall the last time he had. But Miriam was so adamant that it would help that he decided to give it a try. He cleared his throat and started to sing. His voice was rusty at first, the words emerging slowly and hesitantly, ¡°Little apple tree.. oh, my apple tree¡­ In the orchard, in the field, you''re the one for me.¡±

    As he sang, the mage''s hands began to move gracefully, creating intricate patterns that glowed with a soft, silvery light. The room seemed to come alive with magic as the spell began to take form. The enchantment brushed against his skin, and the horrific memories of bloodshed, strife and fear reemerged with relentless intensity. He sealed his eyes shut, fervently grasping onto the words, ¡°A-ah, little apple, red, ripe, and sweet. A-ah, little apple, a tasty little treat. Under the blue sky, the sun shines down so bright. And on my little apple tree, the fruit is just right.¡±

    With each line, his voice gained strength, and the weight of the haunting recollections slowly began to lift. The dread that had once dominated his thoughts was being overshadowed by the comforting memories inspired by the song. Cullen felt a sense of empowerment, a renewed connection to the innocence of his youth. "When the cheeky birds come, to peck at the juicy fruit, I''ll wave them away, and grab a snack to boot.¡±

    His tone was now steady and clear, each word painting a vibrant picture of a peaceful world. For some reason, a distant memory from when he was a mere eight years old came to his mind.

    He stands in the middle of the sun-drenched courtyard of Redcliffe Chantry with a young girl at his side. She is of a delicate, slender frame, her pale eyes showing traces of recent tears. Despite her fragile appearance, her sweaty palm clings to his hand with an unexpected tenacity, as if she seeks refuge, as if she craves protection. With a gentle motion, he releases her hand and reaches into his pocket, retrieving an amulet adorned with the eternal flames of Andraste. Bathed in the bright sunlight, the trinket shimmers as he extends it toward the girl. Her gaze remains fixed on it, brimming with awe and wonder. Kneeling, he secures the amulet around the girl''s neck. As the jewelry settles against her chest, she enfolds him in a heartfelt embrace. Returning the hug, he feels every inch the honorable, strong Templar he knows he is destined to be.

    As the final strains of the song faded into the air, the vivid memory began to fade. Cullen opened his eyes to find Miriam lowering her hands, her spell completed. The mage¡¯s expression exuded a blend of relief and quiet pride as she offered him a smile suffused with warmth. "Well done, Commander."

    Still somewhat dazed from the experience, his gaze meandered across the woman''s countenance, traversing the intricacies of her eyes and the contours of her face, until it alighted upon the weathered, rusty amulet adorning her chest¡­ Could it be? The odds were against it, but he had to find out.

    "Lady Miriam," he began, feeling his pulse quicken, "you once mentioned having a friend from Honnleath. Could you tell me more about him?"

 The best laid plans

    "Lady Miriam," Cullen began, his voice betraying a slight tremor. "You once mentioned having a friend from Honnleath. Could you tell me more about him?"

    Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Miriam''s breath hitched in her throat. Even though this was exactly the kind of opportunity she had longed for, now that it was presented to her, she felt awkward and nervous. "Well, I, um, I don''t know for certain if he hails from that village," she admitted, "but he was the one who taught me ''The Little Apple Tree''. So, I would assume that he has some knowledge of it, or perhaps he has lived there at some point." A pause followed as she swallowed, her mouth suddenly parched. "The truth is," she continued, the words emerging slowly, "we''ve only crossed paths once, so I can''t provide much information about him, but..." She grappled with the emotions surging within her, struggling to convey the profound impact of that singular encounter. Her parents and siblings never bestowed upon her their smiles or shared moments in her company, nor did they sing her songs. She had longed for their affection, but it had always eluded her. So when the boy stumbled upon her, lost and gripped by fear, and proceeded to dote on her with such earnest care and kindness, Miriam had for the first time experienced the semblance of what a loving family might be like. "He... he was a boy, not much older than me," she continued, her voice gentle, imbued with reverence. "We crossed paths in Redcliffe. My family had paused there on our journey to Denerim, and I, in my childish curiosity, became separated from my mother while chasing after a cat. Terrified and in tears, I hid behind some crates and it was then that he found me and reached out to help. He guided me to the safety of the Chantry. He comforted me, he sang me a song, and then he gave me this amulet." The mage¡¯s touch graced the old trinket nestled against her chest. "After all that, he ceased to be merely a stranger to me, he transformed into a friend, a guardian. And despite never seeing him again, he remained a steadfast presence, always protecting me, infusing me with strength through the amulet he gifted me. But why do you ask?"

    Cullen diverted his gaze from the trinket, fixing his eyes upon the woman. She noted that there was a subtle shift in the way he regarded her, "Because I''ve just recalled a memory of aiding a young girl in Redcliffe and,¡± he continued, his voice tinged with a quiet astonishment, "you might find this hard to believe, but I am quite certain it was you. It appears... it appears that I was the one who gave you that amulet."

    A profound joy pierced her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. Her knees gave way suddenly, and she began to falter as if about to faint. Swiftly rising from his seat, Cullen reached out, gripping her elbow to steady her. A knitted brow betrayed his worry as he tenderly guided her towards his chair. Once she was seated, he released her, concern evident in his voice as he implored, "Please, Lady Miriam, compose yourself. If I knew this would upset you so, I wouldn''t have mentioned it."

    The mage shook her head, "Not all tears spring from sorrow, Commander. I weep because I am overjoyed," she murmured while wiping the drops away. "To finally have my suspicions confirmed, it felt... I couldn''t possibly describe how happy it made me."

    Clearly at a loss, Cullen regarded her with an expression that shifted from worry to perplexity.

    "It might strike you as unexpected,¡± Miriam began, trying to explain herself, ¡°but I''ve had a feeling that you were the friend from my past for quite a while now. It started with me noticing certain resemblances between you and the boy who saved me, the shine of your hair in the sun, the color of your eyes... And then, when you mentioned you were from Honnleath, the very village where the song I learned from my friend originated, it only deepened my suppositions."

    "Why didn''t you tell me?" he asked, a slight tilt of his head emphasizing his question.

    A sigh escaped the mage¡¯s lips, her shoulders slumping slightly as she admitted, "I longed to, yet it felt like there was always something more pressing, demanding my atten..." She stopped suddenly, her posture straightening as she corrected herself, "No, those were merely excuses I used to justify my silence.¡± She paused for a moment of reflection before finally concluding, "I think I got caught up in that comforting hope, afraid to destroy the illusion I had woven for myself."

    "Better a bitter truth than a sweet delusion,¡± Cullen remarked calmly. "You should have had more courage, Herald."

    Miriam smiled, recalling how he had encouraged her to be brave during their first encounter. "I will endeavor to abide by that."

    He acknowledged her words with a nod, and then his expression turned pensive. "To be honest, I am quite baffled by the fact that our paths have crossed before."

    "It is no mere coincidence," the mage began, her voice brimming with conviction. "Andraste has granted us the chance to meet once again for a reason."

    "And what reason might that be?" he inquired, a quizzical look playing across his face.

    "At present, the purpose eludes me, Commander,¡± she confessed, feeling the blush take hold, ¡°but I am certain that in due time it will be revealed to us.¡±

    "Then I suppose we shall wait and see," he replied, his countenance softening. "And please, when our conversations are private, you are welcome to address me by my given name."

    "I''d be delighted!" the mage agreed enthusiastically, eager to bring more familiarity into their interactions. "You can feel free to call me by my name as well."

    A smile graced his features, causing his hazel eyes to crinkle slightly at the corners. "As you wish, Miriam.¡±

    The mage¡¯s heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name on his lips. The mere act of him using it felt oddly intimate, warming her from within. She noticed Cullen''s gaze once again drawn to the amulet. "To think that you still have it after all these years," he remarked, making a subtle gesture toward it.

    "It is my most cherished possession, a constant reminder of the first person to show me kindness in a world that felt lonely and cold," she replied, seeking to infuse her words with the depth of gratitude and affection she held for him.

    A faint pink hue graced his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I don''t consider what I did particularly special," he humbly stated. "Any decent soul would aid someone in need."

    His humility was endearing, but she yearned for him to acknowledge his own worth. Leaning in slightly, her voice filled with eagerness and sincerity, she expressed, "I spent hours weeping behind those crates. I''m certain many heard me, yet you were the only one who cared enough to try and find out who was distressed."

    Cullen''s gaze met hers. "I just... I simply did what I thought was right, there¡¯s not much more to it."

    "But there is! There is a grace in your spirit, a kindness that sets you apart from all the others," she insisted with passion.

    He shook his head, a tinge of disbelief in his expression. "For you to continue to hold me in such high regard..." He offered her a fleeting smile. "I just want you to know that your faith in the goodness within me is something I will cherish.¡± Coming down from reaching such a tender moment, Cullen''s face shifted, and she watched his eyes searching his mind for something to stave off the awkwardness, "Um... I suggest that we do not dwell too long on the past when the present demands our full attention."  Following that, the conversation moved from heartfelt confessions to the practical matters of their shared responsibilities. Yet, the air between them felt lighter, as if a newfound appreciation had woven itself into the fabric of their interactions.

    Over the course of the ensuing two weeks, Miriam savored the happiest period of her life to date. She carried herself with an air of unburdened delight, each step imbued with the buoyant energy of a carefree spirit. It felt almost dreamlike that every facet of her life had aligned so harmoniously, like a perfectly composed painting. The mark was barely vexing her, its occasional outbursts now feeble and easily subdued. The morning hours were filled with her engagement in the infirmary, while her afternoons found her relishing the satisfaction of instructing recruits in the art of first aid. And as day gave way to evening, her commitment to Cullen''s treatment served to strengthen the bond between them.

    The Commander still struggled with discomfort during each session of magic, but there was a marked improvement as he gradually gained the strength to endure the entire spell. Miriam held hope that in due course, his aversion to the arcane would lessen, making the process less arduous.

    Another noteworthy development was the fact that their post-session talks grew more extensive with each passing day, covering a range of topics beyond matters relating to the Inquisition or his health. He opened up about his childhood, recounting anecdotes about his siblings and their mischievous escapades. In turn, Miriam shared cherished memories of her life in the Circle and the wisdom she had learned from her dear teacher, Lydia.

    Still, certain subjects remained conspicuously untouched during their conversations. In particular, the man skillfully avoided discussing his time in the Order. His answers were either vague, such as "Few people have fond memories of the Blight", or simply offered general knowledge, like "The downfall of Kirkwall''s Circle was marked by utter chaos". Recognizing the boundary he had set, Miriam refrained from pushing any further.

    One evening, Cullen extended her an invitation for a game of chess. She had never played before, though she held a vague familiarity with the game''s rules, as it had been a common pastime among the mages. Despite her lack of enthusiasm for the game, Miriam accepted the invitation because it was the first time she had seen him eager to engage in something seemingly frivolous. Admitting her inexperience, she warned him that she would make a poor chess partner. Yet, to her surprise, the Commander seemed unconcerned. He casually remarked that she couldn''t possibly fare worse than those he''d played with before, proceeding to share stories of Leliana''s tendency to cheat, Cassandra''s near destruction of the board in a fit of temper, and Josephine''s uncanny ability to talk him out of initiating a combination. Amused and somewhat relieved, she settled opposite him to commence the game.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Predictably, the match concluded with her enduring a resounding defeat. Still, the exchange of light-hearted banter made the experience gratifying. It appeared that Cullen enjoyed the encounter as well, as he suggested they play again on another occasion. Despite not finding chess particularly enthralling, the delight on his face was enough for her to agree to the proposal.

    On the following morning, Miriam received a summons to Josephine''s office. There, she was handed a scroll bearing a broken wax seal. Even in its fragmented state, she recognized the distinct Trevelyan coat of arms. Her brow furrowed, not due to the breach of the seal¡ªshe anticipated no less from Leliana¡ªbut from the stark realization that she had been estranged from her family since the day of her disinheritance. With a hint of apprehension, she carefully unfolded the parchment and began to read.

    Reinstatement Decree

    Be it known to all those of noble standing and faith,

    Let it be proclaimed by the authority vested in us by the grace of the Maker, that the esteemed Miriam is hereby reinstated to her rightful place as a cherished member of the illustrious Trevelyan family.

    After a period of contemplation and discernment, it has been resolved that Miriam shall once again be welcomed into the noble fold of the Trevelyan household. Her past shall be forgiven, her spirit embraced, and she is to be accorded all due privileges, honors, and responsibilities befitting a noble member of our Andrastian community.

    We beseech all those who bear witness to this proclamation to extend to Miriam the courtesies and dignities expected of one restored to a venerable position within our family.

    Let it be so written, and let all records, scrolls, and archives be updated to reflect this decree. Any who seek further clarification or guidance in this matter are invited to consult with the appointed representatives of the Trevelyan household.

    In Maker''s name and under the guidance of His benevolence,

    Bann Trevelyan

    9:41 Dragon

    ¡°Surely, this must be some form of jest," Miriam uttered, her expression one of disbelief as she turned her gaze to the Ambassador seated behind her meticulously organized desk.

    "I assure you, Herald, this is an authentic document. You have indeed been reinstated as a member of the Trevelyan family,¡± the woman replied in a composed and measured tone.

    The mage''s bewilderment swiftly transformed into bitterness. Her family had unceremoniously discarded her over a decade ago, choosing to ignore her existence ever since. It felt as though the old wound, which had scarred but never truly healed, was being reopened. The news unleashed a rush of resentment, hurt, and betrayal that still festered within her, despite the passing of all those years.

    "By Andraste''s ashes! The audacity of these people!" she began, uttering each word with a biting tone. "First, they endeavored to auction me off to the wealthiest suitor. When that plan failed, they allowed me to become an Initiate, but only so that I could restore their reputation after Uncle Roland''s conversion to the Qun." She started to pace back and forth, the mark on her hand causing the burning sensation that was beginning to spread up her arm. "And when that strategy faltered, they discarded me. Cast me aside like an unwanted relic!" She halted, directing her gaze at Josephine, who regarded her with a composed countenance and a sympathetic expression. Miriam knew that the woman did not merit to witness such a vehement outpouring, yet she just couldn¡¯t help herself. "And now, after years of utter neglect, they reinstate me into the fold." The mage chuckled bitterly. "What a coincidence that this occurs just after you dispatch invitations to the nobility and spread the news of my imminent appointment as Inquisitor."

    "The timing does seem to hint at ulterior motives behind their decision, but, Herald, you must also consider the benefits it will bring to the Inquisition," the Ambassador remarked.

    "And what benefit might that be?" she inquired, a tinge of irritation seeping into her tone despite her attempts to rein in her foul mood.

    "It would be considerably more advantageous," Josephine began, her voice as soft as the feather she held in her hand, ¡°for us to navigate the Game and gain the favor of the nobility if our leader hailed from a noble lineage."

    The mage''s body tensed, a furrow appearing on her forehead. "That may be true, but you don''t know my family like I do. The only reason they want me back is to exploit my status for their own gain".

    "As long as their agenda doesn''t interfere with our mission, I don''t see the problem. In fact, I think it''s a great opportunity to demonstrate the generosity of your spirit. Why don¡¯t you invite your family to your investiture as an Inquisitor?" the Ambassador suggested.

    "I have no desire to see my parents, nor do I have it in my heart to forgive them," Miriam declared firmly, placing the scroll on the table with more force than necessary.

    "I understand it might be difficult for you," Josephine began, her voice filled with empathy, "but as an Andrastian," she gestured to the mage¡¯s heart with a pious hand, "you should strive to show grace to those who have wronged you. Surely, you remember the words of Hessarian the Redeemed."

    "I am the penitent sinner who shows compassion in the hope that compassion will be shown to him," Miriam whispered reverently.

    It felt as though a frigid cascade had been poured upon her, cleansing away the anger and cooling the mark. While she couldn''t forgive her family at present, she could certainly pity them. She could offer compassion to power-hungry egoists who would never know true love or friendship. If using her status could bring even a fraction of fulfillment to the void in their hearts, she was willing to permit that. This much she could muster. Taking a deep, steady breath, she spoke, "Pardon my earlier display, Josephine. You are right. However, I would appreciate it if you could extend the invitation yourself. I still..." she twitched slightly, "find the prospect of contacting my family difficult. Still, I assure you, their presence will not affect my conduct during the ceremony. You have my word."

    The Antivan woman nodded and gave the mage a smile as radiant as her golden attire. "Fear not, I will take care of all the arrangements, Lady Trevelyan. May the Maker watch over you."

    Miriam winced once more, the sound of her surname striking her like a blow, yet she mustered a brief and polite "And you, Ambassador" before taking her leave.

    As she exited the Great Hall and descended the stairs to the courtyard, she caught sight of Hawke, Sebastian, and Fenris riding on horseback through the gate. It appeared that the Champion was finally setting out to scout the Southron Hills. Miriam observed for a moment as they moved further down the drawbridge before heading towards the Infirmary.

    Approaching the ward, she spotted Lysette dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, vigorously practicing her swordplay against the dummies. Miriam couldn''t help but be captivated by the sheer display of physical prowess and the finesse with which her guard executed each strike. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing the muscular definition rippling beneath her skin. Lysette''s determination seemed to permeate the air around her, her intensity was almost tangible.

    Yet, amidst the sweat and exertion, there was a serene beauty in her focus, a dedication that elevated her actions beyond mere physical exercise. Miriam found herself unable to tear her eyes away. Lysette was a beautiful woman and a skilled warrior. It was truly a shame that she had fallen in love with a man who could never reciprocate her feelings.

    After a while, noticing the mage standing at the edge of the field, Lysette halted her training. With a slight nod, she began walking towards Miriam. "Herald," she greeted, the corners of her mouth lifting, though the warmth didn''t quite reach her eyes. It was evident the woman was still nursing a broken heart.

    "Lysette," Miriam responded, "I was hoping to have a word with you. The news I''ve received from Josephine is quite astonishing."

    Before her guard could reply, their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of Ser Barris. He approached with a sharp salute to Miriam and then turned his attention to Lysette. "Recruit, the Vigil is scheduled to commence tomorrow at dawn. You are required to accompany me to the Templar quarters for the final preparations."

    Lysette''s expression shifted to surprise, her brows furrowing slightly at the sudden turn of events. "Already? But I thought I had more time," she murmured, her voice tinged with a hint of concern.

    Sensing her friend''s unease, Miriam stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on Lysette''s arm. "Do not fret, my friend. You are prepared, you will prevail," she said softly, pulling the woman into a tight embrace.

    "From your lips to the Bride''s ears," her guard replied gratefully as she tenderly held Miriam with one arm while keeping the other at a deliberate distance owing to the unsheathed sword it firmly gripped. After a moment, Lysette withdrew, glanced briefly at Ser Barris, and with a nod, proceeded to follow the Templar toward the quarters.

    As Lysette walked away, the weight of the impending task evident in her steps, Miriam clasped the amulet around her neck, closing her eyes in a silent prayer for her friend''s success.

    She had only managed to tend to a few patients in the infirmary when a messenger arrived, urgently summoning her to the War Room. Miriam quickly rinsed her hands, issued instructions to the other healers about managing in her absence, and hastened to the meeting. To her surprise, all the council members were already present. They exchanged greetings, yet the atmosphere was tense, and she suddenly felt a wave of nerves washing over her. Cassandra appeared grave. Cullen looked concerned and kept throwing her anxious glances. Josephine was nervously chewing on the tip of her quill, her brow furrowed, while Leliana remained as composed as ever.

    "We were awaiting your arrival, Herald," the Spymaster announced in a measured tone. "I''ve received news from Ostwick. Just as we desired, the Carta has dealt with Mother Lucia."

    ¡°Blessed Andraste! That''s marvelous news!¡± exclaimed Miriam, her excitement tinged with confusion as she surveyed the room. ¡°But why do you all look so somber?¡±

    ¡°I told you this was a mis¡­¡± the Seeker began to murmur but was promptly interrupted by Cullen.

    ¡°Please, Cassandra, what''s done is done. There''s no sense in pointing fingers,¡± he interposed.

    ¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± Miriam inquired, growing increasingly anxious.

    ¡°Here,¡± said Josephine, passing a sheet of paper to the mage. ¡°It''s a copy of the announcement posted a few days ago on the Ostwick Chanter''s Board.¡±

    With her hands trembling slightly, Miriam began to read.

    Be it known to all faithful citizens of Ostwick, that a grievous and sorrowful event has befallen our sacred institution.

    On the night past, a fierce and unrelenting fire did consume the very heart of our beloved Chantry, the Infirmary, where holy women toiled selflessly in the service of the Maker and His people. It is with heavy hearts and somber spirits that we must announce the loss of an esteemed Mother and several Sisters, who, through their unwavering devotion, sought to alleviate the suffering of the afflicted. Their selfless dedication and ultimate sacrifice shall be remembered forever.

    A smile graced Miriam''s lips as she read. At last, the accursed Mother Lucia and her accomplices had met their end. Death by flames might have been too noble a fate for all those sinners, but what mattered was that they would no longer torment the Kni...

    Her heart stopped as her eyes fell on the next line.

    Though we mourn not only the venerable women of the cloth, but all the retired Templars entrusted to their care. These noble warriors, who perished within the flames, now rest in the Maker''s embrace.

 The Inquisitor

    While watching Miriam''s eyes scan the words on the page, Cullen couldn''t help but feel a knot tighten in his stomach.

    "Surely, there''s an error," the mage whispered, the tremor in her words matching the tremble in her hands as she carefully set down the copy of the announcement on the table.

    He took a hesitant step forward, wanting to offer comfort but unsure of what words could ease the pain etched across her face.

    "I confirmed it with my agents, and unfortunately, the news holds true. Few things manage to surprise me anymore, yet Carta''s actions have achieved just that," Leliana stated, frustration threading through her words revealing a crack in her usual stoicism.

    Miriam shook her head, her anxious eyes studying each member of the council. "I''m certain they survived the fires. Andraste wouldn''t forsake her loyal Knights."

    "Do you still believe that the Maker is a merciful God?¡± Leliana inquired, her words filled with both challenge and lament. ¡°After hundreds of the faithful perished at the Conclave? After Justinia, the most devout woman in all of Thedas, died in the explosion?" She fixed her gaze on Miriam''s desperate expression and continued, "Do you not know these words? Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow¡­"

    "Please, stop!" Miriam whimpered as her hands sought to shield her ears.

    Yet the Spymaster paid her no heed. "In their blood, the Maker''s wi¡­"

    "Enough, Leliana!" Cullen interjected, his expression etched with a deep frown.

    "I just wish the Herald would see reality for what it is, not what she wants it to be,¡± replied the red-haired woman, unmoved by his remark. She seemed very determined to cut through any veils of denial or hopeful illusions Miriam tried to shield herself from the truth.

    The color drained from the mage''s face at Leliana''s words, but she didn''t respond to her. Instead, she hurried to Cullen and clutched the cloth of his tabard. "Commander, please, you have to check. Dispatch your men, ensure the truth of it. I cannot... I cannot accept this," she implored, her voice cracking with a rawness that pierced through his heart.

    He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "I promise you, I will send one of our soldiers stationed nearby to verify the information. But for now, it would be prudent if you returned to the Infirmary and tended to your patients. I''ll handle this."

    Miriam''s eyes sought his for a fleeting moment before she reluctantly nodded. Releasing her grip on his tabard, she allowed him to guide her towards the exit of the War Room.

    As soon as the door closed behind her, Cullen fixed Leliana with a stern gaze. "Why this harshness? Can''t you see that she is devastated?¡±

    "She is the Herald of Andraste, soon to be the Inquisitor. We can¡¯t coddle her, she needs to be stronger,¡± the Spymaster replied, her hands folded with a stoic resolve.

    Cullen sighed deeply. ¡°Of course, she must harden herself to become a worthy Inquisitor, but there could have been more compassionate ways to guide her toward accepting the truth." He wished to continue, to say that it was easy for her to pass judgment because she did not know what it was like to work for years towards a goal, giving everything you''ve got to achieve it, only to witness it end in tragedy. Yet, he refrained; the atmosphere was already tense enough.

    Josephine tactfully cleared her throat, ¡°I propose we all compose ourselves. Each of us is undoubtedly distressed by the tragic outcome of the mission to punish Mother Lucia. Yet we cannot dwell on this matter, particularly when the Herald''s investiture is scheduled for the upcoming week. This presents our chance to establish connections with noble families. If everything aligns with our plans, it will provide us with sufficient influence to secure an invitation to the peace talks in Val Royeaux."

    "Shouldn¡¯t Miriam be present for this?" Cassandra observed with a stern countenance.

    "Lady Trevelyan''s presence is not necessary for this particular discussion. I will send her a copy of the report from this meeting later," Josephine responded with a composed demeanor.

    "Why would you suddenly refer to her as Trevelyan? I thought she was disowned long ago," Cullen inquired, his tone bearing a hint of bewilderment.

    "She has been welcomed back into the family recently," the Ambassador explained. "Bann Trevelyan will hopefully arrive in time for the ceremony. I am confident that I will be able to persuade him to become our most generous benefactor."

    "I see," he replied, suspicious of the motive. It was odd to hear her referred to as such, as he simply could not envision Miriam as a member of high society. She was too kind and too sincere for their ranks.

    Josephine continued to steer the conversation, and after approximately an hour of deliberation and planning the event, the meeting reached its conclusion. With a polite nod, he took his leave intending to dispatch a raven to his men stationed near Ostwick. He knew that Leliana''s agents had diligently fulfilled their duties, confirming the demise of the retired Templars. Still, if his affirmation proved essential for Miriam to come to terms with the truth, he would provide it.

    In the following days, Cullen found himself immersed in the task of putting security measures in place for the upcoming event, leaving little time for anything else. Meanwhile, Miriam spent her waking hours immersed in prayer in the Chapel. Despite this withdrawal, she continued to visit him, diligently providing potions and magical healing. But her once-vibrant presence had faded; she moved mechanically, bereft of smiles and conversation. He was eager to offer comfort, but their brief interactions limited his ability to do so.

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    On the eve of the investiture, a raven bearing the reply from his men reached him. The news confirmed what he had expected¡ªnone of the retired Templars had survived. Given the importance of Miriam¡¯s composed demeanor during the upcoming ceremony, he reluctantly opted to withhold the tidings until after the investiture. Although the decision weighed heavily on him, he deemed it the most pragmatic course of action under the circumstances.

    Finally, the day had come. The Grand Hall, adorned with opulent decorations, buzzed with anticipation as nobles gathered for the event. Miriam, draped in luxurious robes intricately embroidered with gold, sat on the throne, her expression unreadable. Her elaborate hairstyle added an extra touch of sophistication, projecting an image of grandeur befitting her newfound role. Yet, despite the opulence of the Inquisitor¡¯s attire, the focal point for the assembled nobles was unmistakably the mark on her hand and the vivid emerald veins that webbed her skin. As Cullen stood among the lords and ladies, listening to their hushed gossip, it became increasingly clear to him that they were regarding Miriam more as an exotic curiosity than as a human being worthy of respect and dignity. His jaw clenched, and he found himself wishing that all these upper-class gabbers were out of Skyhold as soon as possible.

    The ceremony progressed as Cassandra presented Miriam with a symbolic item of power, a golden longsword, representing her authority as an Inquisitor. The significance of the moment resonated through the assembled nobility, punctuated by a round of applause. Then, one by one, the nobles started to approach the throne to greet the new Inquisitor. Bann Trevelyan, who had managed to arrive in time for the ceremony, stood tall and proud at the head of the line as Miriam addressed him with a smile. Bann''s distinguished features exuded nothing but paternal pride as he acknowledged Miriam, clasping his hands around her unmarked palm, and to the outside observer, the reunion between father and daughter would appear heartwarming. But after spending considerable time with the mage, he could see right through this fa?ade of happiness. A subtle stiffness underscored her movements, and while her smile outwardly conveyed warmth, it was undeniably forced.

    Cullen''s observation of the proceedings was interrupted by Josephine''s chatter. His attention shifted to the Ambassador as she skillfully maneuvered her way through the crowd, weaving laughter and smiles into her interactions. How could she possibly enjoy these false pleasantries? His exasperation eased as he remembered that this was why the whole pompous affair had been staged in the first place: to secure the support of the gentry.

    Once the formal greetings concluded, Miriam, her gleaming sword in hand, strode purposefully toward the Grand Hall''s entrance. The doors swung open, revealing a crowd assembled outside, eagerly anticipating her address. The transition from the ornate, controlled environment within the Hall to the expectant throng in the courtyard marked a palpable change in the mage''s demeanor. He saw the mask of composure slip from her face as she stepped forward to take her place at the top of the stairs. Facing the common folk, soldiers, merchants, laborers, and pilgrims alike, her eyes burned with an intensity that made her finally seem alive, and to his surprise, he realized he had missed her fervor.

    Anticipating an inspiring speech from the newly anointed Inquisitor, the assembly waited with bated breath. Unexpectedly, Miriam dropped to her knees, head bowed, and presented the golden sword resting on her palms to the assembled crowd. A collective gasp echoed through the air. "What is she doing?" Cassandra''s bewildered whisper reached Cullen''s ears. In response, he shook his head, his confusion mirroring hers.

    Meanwhile, Miriam started to speak, her voice loud and clear, resonating through the courtyard. "As the Inquisitor, I do not seek your blind obedience, nor do I yearn for your allegiance. All I ask is that you allow me to serve you, faithful children of the Maker. To become your sword and your shield as we face our enemies.¡±

    Silence fell over the scene, casting uncertainty upon the assembly. No one was quite sure how to respond to this unexpected request. Fortunately, it was Mother Giselle who emerged as the harbinger of clarity. Ascending the stairs to join the Inquisitor, she placed a hand on her head and proclaimed, "Rise, the Herald of Andraste. We accept you as our leader, our protector, our Inquisitor!"

    Miriam lifted her head, locking eyes with the Mother. With unwavering determination in her gaze, she stood up, grasped the sword by the hilt, and raised it towards the heavens. A brilliant blue barrier materialized in the sky above the courtyard, creating a protective canopy that extended over the gathered crowd. The ethereal shield shimmered with a celestial glow, casting a calming light over the onlookers below. A resolute voice escaped her lips as she began reciting the lines from the Canticle of Victoria, "Now her hand is raised, a sword to pierce the sun. With an iron shield, she defends the faithful." Pausing briefly, she then erupted with a mighty shout at the top of her lungs, "Let the chaos be undone!"

    The crowd erupted into a thunderous roar of approval. It was a primal and electrifying response, and even the nobility, once reserved and composed, were now swept up in the tide of the Herald''s conviction. Cullen smiled. Of all the members of the Inquisition council, none could match Miriam''s ability to capture the hearts of the people simply by being herself.

    The next morning Cullen stood at the door of the Inquisitor''s quarters, his knuckles tapping lightly on the solid wood. As he announced his presence, Miriam''s urging voice permitted his entry, and he took a deep breath before stepping into her chamber. Part of him wished he didn''t have to be the one to confirm the fate of the retired Templars, but he couldn''t fathom delegating the task to someone else.

    The mage, in her usual robes and with loose hair framing her face, greeted him. He couldn''t help but note that this simple look suited her far better than the regal attire she had worn during the ceremony. She appeared nervous, as though expecting that his visit bore more than casual conversation. Locking eyes with her, Cullen cut straight to the matter.

    "I came to deliver the news from my men," he said solemnly.

    Miriam stilled, anticipation etched across her features. ¡°Please, please tell me that the Templars have endured," she implored, her lips quivering.

    "I am truly sorry," he replied with a heavy heart.

    The mage''s complexion paled, and for a moment, there was a flicker of disbelief. Her breath caught, and a whisper of "no" escaped her lips, so soft it was almost lost in the stillness. "No!" she repeated, her tone becoming more frantic and anguished. With a faltering step, she recoiled, and the room echoed with the agonizing wail, "I am to blame for this!" Her hands grasped at her hair, fingers entwining with strands in a desperate grip.

    To see her in such a state tore at the fabric of his soul. Overcome by a surge of emotion, Cullen rushed to her side, enfolding her in his arms. His voice, filled with sincerity, uttered the words of absolution he wished someone had told him in his darkest hours. "It''s not your fault. You did what you thought was right."

    Caught in his embrace, Miriam began to cry, her trembling form pressing against him. He tightened his grip.  Her fragile presence evoked neither disgust nor haunting memories. There was no dire need to withdraw. Instead, all he felt was a fervent desire to shoulder her pain and bear it away.

 The answer

    Miriam strained to open her eyes, a painful effort that revealed swollen lids that moved with discomfort. The pain persisted as her vision struggled to clear, prompting her to raise a hand and gently rub her eyes. Nestled in the grandeur of her newly acquired Inquisitor quarters, the harsh light of day finally roused her from her slumber.

    In those first moments of awakening, she felt a fleeting sense of bliss, but it quickly dissipated as the memories of the previous night flooded her consciousness. She braced herself for the expected onslaught of emotions - guilt for the hasty decisions that had led to the demise of the retired Templars, embarrassment for her unraveling in front of Cullen, or perhaps anxiety in anticipation of the impending meeting with her father. But to her surprise, an unsettling emptiness prevailed. Instead of the emotional maelstrom, there was an eerie absence of feeling and an overwhelming fatigue. "Oh, Andraste," Miriam murmured, locking her gaze with the emerald flames within the mark on her hand. "Why did you allow my ill-fated decision to condemn the Templars? You knew how fervently I desired to save them... and yet, why has it all ended like this? Why..." No response echoed in the chamber, and Miriam closed her eyes, succumbing to the weariness that enveloped her. She was just so tired of it all.

    With no desire to face the challenges that lay ahead, she shifted and turned away from the intrusion of the day. Seeking refuge from the persistent sunlight, she pulled the blanket over her head and attempted to retreat into the comfort of sleep. However, her quest for rest was abruptly halted by a resounding knock on her door. Miriam tried to ignore it, but the tapping continued, now accompanied by a familiar voice. "Inquisitor," Lysette''s stoic tone cut through the air. "May I enter?"

    The mage sighed, reluctantly emerging from her makeshift cocoon. "Yes, come in, please."

    The door creaked open to reveal Lysette, her new Templar armor gleaming in the daylight. "Good morning, Inquisitor," she greeted, her tone steady.

    Miriam managed a weary smile, slowly pushing herself into a sitting position. "Good morning. I see you''ve completed your vigil. Congratulations."

    Lysette nodded, her eyes filled with pride. "Thank you, Herald." Then her expression changed to one of worry. "Are you all right? I heard of the fate that befell the retired Templars..."

    "I appreciate your concern," the mage interjected, a pause hanging in the air. "It''s just... I would prefer we refrain from discussing it."

    The Templar approached and placed a comforting hand on Miriam''s shoulder. "Be strong."

    Now that she was closer, the mage noticed a distinct change in her friend¡ªshe seemed brighter, more energetic, and exuded a newfound confidence. She could feel lyrium coursing through her veins. The familiar hum of the magical substance soothed and reassured; there was nothing quite like the presence of a true Knight. Miriam put her hand on her guard''s palm. "I''ll try."

    "Good," Lysette replied. "There are matters that require your attention. The Inquisition waits for no one, not even its newest Inquisitor."

    Miriam sighed, "I suppose duty calls, doesn''t it?"

    Lysette nodded. "Indeed, Inquisitor. The day awaits."

    Miriam found herself navigating the corridors of the Skyhold with a burdensome heart. Duty compelled her to resume her usual activities, yet her thoughts wandered, a fog settling over her mind. The weight of recent events clung to her, a persistent shadow that seemed to elongate with each passing hour.

    As the council meeting convened to discuss the forthcoming peace talks, she struggled to maintain focus. The diplomatic intricacies of the impending negotiations at Val Royeaux felt distant, obscured by the haze of her internal tumult. She longed for the solace of her quarters, yearning to retreat beneath the comforting embrace of her blanket and escape the never-ending demands of the Inquisition.

    While the council members filed out of the War Room, Cullen walked up to Miriam, "Inquisitor," he began, "may I have a moment of your time?"

    She nodded. "Of course, Commander."

    He waited a few moments, lingering until the last echo of footsteps had died away, leaving them alone in the chamber. "How are you faring?" he finally inquired, concern etched into his features.

    Miriam sighed, her shoulders sagging as she passed her hand over her face. "I don¡¯t know... I am just... tired."

    Cullen nodded in understanding, sympathy in his eyes. "It takes time and energy to deal with such things. Rest for a while. I can ask the rest of the council to show you some leniency."

    Miriam felt a welling of gratitude within her. "Thank you. Once I conclude affairs with my father, I would genuinely appreciate calling it a day." Suddenly reminiscent of the reassuring closeness they shared the night before, the mage felt the yearning for his comforting embrace once again. She knew that he wasn''t one to enjoy such things, yet she wanted to be selfish, if only for today. "Cullen, may I... I mean, would it be too forward to ask for a hug?"

    A flicker of surprise crossed his features as he shifted slightly on his feet. "Ah, well," he stammered, his composed demeanor faltering for a moment. "I..., of course. I mean, yes, you may ask for that. I mean, a hug."

    Upon his consent, Miriam extended her arms slightly, patiently awaiting his reciprocation. After a moment of hesitation, he cautiously stepped forward, enveloping her in a tentative but warm embrace. "There, um, is that alright?"

    She smiled softly, the shadows clinging to her momentarily dissipating. "More than alright. Thank you."

    Miriam entered her father''s quarters, a heavy ambiance of aged vine lingering in the air. Albert Trevelyan was seated in a large chair, an air of authority about him. "You took your time," he remarked without looking up from his glass.

    She sighed, the painfully familiar weight of her father''s disapproval settling upon her. "I apologize, I couldn¡¯t come to speak with you earlier, Father. Matters with the Inquisition have demanded my attention."

    He scoffed and took a sip of his wine before turning his gaze to her. "What of our affairs, Miriam? Have you forgotten that you belong to House Trevelyan once again, a family that has generously supported your cause?"

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    The mage met his gaze, her expression steady. "No, I haven''t forgotten. I appreciate that you welcomed me back into the family as soon as I became an Inquisitor. I also acknowledge the utter selflessness with which you have supported the Inquisition."

    Albert leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Don''t get smart with me, girl."

    She felt the barb of his words, yet she couldn''t summon the energy for a retort. Instead, she leaned against the edge of a nearby table, the veneer of familial unity unraveling with each passing moment.

    He took another sip of his wine. "You owe me your life. Don''t you ever forget that."

    Miriam sensed the well-known pain in her chest, a mixture of resentment and frustration. "And yet, Father," she began, "what kind of life was it? A life of strings, of being used like a puppet for the family''s whims."

    The Bann''s laughter cut through her words. "Puppet? You were given everything, status, privilege, and a place in society. What more could you want?"

    Miriam''s expression hardened. "Love. I wanted love. Did you know how much I struggled for all these years?"

    Albert''s laughter faded, replaced by a steely gaze. "What could you possibly know of hardship? Do you even fathom the burden of siring a mage? The shame it brings upon a family? My only consolation is your barrenness. At least you won''t be able to spread your taint any further."

    Miriam recoiled, the cutting words inflicting wounds on her soul. The mark on her hand responded, pulsing with a heat that coursed through the emerald veins. This heat turned her pain into anger, and she called upon the mark''s power. Green flames instantly erupted, dancing around her frame. The air in the chamber cracked with the intensity of the arcane power unleashed, the floor, curtains, and furniture bursting into flames.

    The Bann, startled, dropped his glass as he leaped from his burning chair. He stumbled, his eyes wide with fear, as the relentless fire danced around the room, threatening to engulf them both.

    The mage swept up in the tempest of her power, finally felt strong enough to confront her father in the way she had always wanted to but never could. "How dare you address me with such disdain? Me, the Herald of Andraste!" she boomed, her voice echoing with supernatural resonance. The flames seemed to respond to her fury, intensifying their destructive dance.

    "What are you doing?" Albert yelled, desperation tinging his voice. "Stop this madness!"

    "Be silent!" the mage commanded, wrapping the fire around her father so that he could feel the heat without being burned. "If you wish to live, prostrate yourself before me and beg forgiveness, you wretched soul."

    The Bann, driven by fear, fell to his knees. "I am sorry," he pleaded. "Mercy, Miriam, mercy!"

    Still, it didn''t feel like enough. So she raised her hand, ready to unleash the flames upon him, ready to make him feel the searing pain of divine retribution. But as she looked at his face, contorted with terror and tears streaming down his cheeks, a sudden awareness halted her intentions. He wasn''t worth the trouble she would face for seeking revenge. Flicking her fingers, she extinguished the flames and stepped back.

    The viridescent fire may have vanished, but the tension in the room lingered, the embers flickering as Miriam continued to address Bann Trevelyan, who remained on his knees, a shadow of his former authoritative self. "I am no longer the powerless girl you could mistreat with impunity. Is that clear?"

    Albert, still trembling, could only nod in silent recognition.

    Miriam, her anger gradually dissipating, concluded with a stern warning. "You will not exploit our filial relationship for your gain. If I discover that you do... well, you will see what I am truly capable of. As for all that money you donated to the Inquisition, consider it compensation for the years of neglect you have subjected me to."

    With that, she turned to leave, but before she reached the entrance, she glanced around the charred, smoke-filled room. "If anyone asks, tell them you dropped the candle in your sleep, and I saved you from the flames.¡± Then she fixed her eyes on her father. ¡°Leave Skyhold first thing in the morning and hope that our paths never cross again, Bann Albert Trevelyan."

    As Miriam closed the door behind her, she saw Lysette approaching, her eyes reflecting concern. "Herald, are you all right?" she asked, her gaze searching for an explanation. "I sensed magic being unleashed."

    The mage managed a weary smile. "It was nothing. My father accidentally knocked over a candle in his sleep, and I had to cast spells to shield him from the flames."

    The Templar arched an eyebrow, an air of skepticism lingering in her expression. Before she could delve deeper into the matter, Miriam was abruptly seized by exhaustion, faltering in her step. Lysette swiftly caught her by the arm. "What''s happening?"

    "I believe I just need some rest," the mage replied, leaning on her friend for support.

    Lysette nodded decisively. "Let me assist you to your quarters."

    With the help of her guard, Miriam made her way to her chamber. Each step required considerable effort, turning what should have been a short journey into a daunting task. Once in the sanctuary of her quarters, Lysette helped the mage settle on her bed, and with one last concerned look, she left, leaving her to the solitude of her room.

    Nestled under the blankets, Miriam''s thoughts turned to her tumultuous encounter with her father. She had used her powers against him and fabricated a story to cover it up. Those actions should have made her feel guilty. Yet, strangely, the weight of remorse did not fall upon her. Confronting Bann Trevelyan, taking control of the magic within her mark¡ªit all felt wonderful. Too tired to dwell on it any further, she pushed aside the tendrils of concern that sought to entangle her consciousness and allowed the realm of dreams to claim her.

    Standing alone in the chapel, Miriam found herself surrounded by a profound silence. The only light in the sacred space came from a faint glow emanating from the statue of Andraste, which stood solemnly in the center.

    The mage felt a sense of awe and trepidation as she approached the sculpture, whose eyes seemed to stare into the depths of her soul. Kneeling before the imposing figure, she asked the one question that tormented her beyond endurance. "Why, my Lady? Why did you allow the Templars to die? Why did you forsake them?"

    At her words, the atmosphere in the chapel shifted, and the soft pattering of drops echoed through the air. She looked around in confusion, only to realize that the sound was coming from the statue itself. Blood, thick and crimson, flowed from Andraste''s eyes, staining the floor below. Shocked, Miriam rose to her feet, her eyes wide with horror.

    Suddenly, a voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the air. "In their blood, the Maker''s will is written," it intoned, as blood began to pour from the statue in a torrent. Within moments, Miriam found herself ankle-deep in a pool of crimson. Panic set in as the sanguine liquid rose steadily, engulfing everything in its path. She tried to move, but her feet would not obey. The blood climbed up her body, chilling her to the core. Every breath she struggled to take was tainted by the metallic stench.

    In a last desperate attempt to escape, the mage reached for the weeping statue of Andraste, screaming for help. But as her fingers brushed the cold stone, the voice in the chapel rose to a crescendo, drowning out her cries.

    "Blood, blood, blood!"

    Miriam''s eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she emerged from the dream. The haunting echoes of the voice continued to resonate in her mind, refusing to fade away.

    A sharp, searing pain shot through her palm, and as she clutched her hand beneath the blanket, something warm, wet, and sticky smeared across her skin. Panic seized her as she yanked the covers away, revealing the source of her distress.

    The mark pulsed with an otherworldly glow, but this time it wasn''t just the usual luminescence; it was bleeding, staining everything around it crimson. The pain intensified, and, to her horror, the mage realized that the green veins that crisscrossed her body were also beginning to ooze red.

    Summoning her strength, Miriam forced herself to sit upright, her trembling hands hovering over the pulsating mark. With a deep breath, she focused on the magic within her, a healing spell at the edge of her fingertips.

    The incantation was whispered with urgency, the magic responding sluggishly, as if reluctant to heal the wounds. Sweat ran down her face as she poured every ounce of her mana into the spell. Slowly, the bleeding began to subside, and after a few more tense moments, it finally halted.

    Exhausted and drained, Miriam collapsed back onto her bed.

    It seemed her question had been answered, now she knew why Andraste had let the Knights perish. The Spymaster was right, the Maker was not a merciful God. With a heavy sigh, she murmured to the shadows, "So, this is your design, Maker. If you demand blood, then blood you shall have."

 I want to believe

    Cullen sat hunched behind his desk, meticulously perusing the report dispatched by the Champion from the Southron Hills. With tempered satisfaction, he noted that the search for the red lyrium mine was yielding promising results. Hawke, determined as ever, pursued a lead that held the potential to unravel the clandestine network of the Elder One. The news brought a measure of relief¡ªthe sooner they discovered the mine, the sooner they could undermine the resources of their foes. Yet, beyond the strategic implications, he harbored hope that this quest might uncover a trace of Samson. The mere thought of the man stirred conflicting emotions within him. A traitor and a monster who callously administered red lyrium to his brethren, he was also a casualty of Meredith''s merciless tyranny over her own followers. The last image of Samson imprinted on Cullen''s mind was that of a broken man, reduced to the state of a beggar. The specter of addiction had proved insurmountable for him, as it had for every Templar before him, as far as his knowledge extended. The thought chilled him to the bone, but he pushed it aside, relying instead on Leliana''s ability to recover Chantry''s records. He hoped that someone, somewhere, had managed to break free of the lyrium chains, and that they could serve as an example for him to follow.

    A hesitant knock echoed through Cullen''s office, interrupting his contemplation. The door creaked open, revealing a messenger with an urgent countenance.

    "Pardon the intrusion, Commander," the woman began, fidgeting nervously. "But you''re expected at the uniform fitting. It''s taking place in one of the chambers by the chapel. You were supposed to be there after the morning bells."

    Cullen furrowed his brow, perplexed by this unexpected revelation. "Uniform fitting?" he queried, the notion escaping his recollection.

    The messenger nodded, anxiety creasing her forehead. "A note was sent to you two days ago, sir. It detailed the arrangements for today."

    Cullen rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to jog his memory. He couldn''t recall receiving such a note. With a nod of gratitude, he dismissed the messenger, promising to attend promptly.

    Once alone, he sifted through the papers scattered on his desk, his search guided by a sense of growing disquiet. A crumpled piece of paper surfaced amidst the documents, and as he unfolded it, he recognized his handwriting. The time and date for the event were encircled, a detail he apparently had seen fit to underscore. Yet the act of marking the note and the idea of what his uniform-fitting matter was all about eluded him entirely.

    He sighed, weariness etching lines across his features. Closing his eyes for a fleeting moment, he reassured himself that all would be well. The frequent lapses in his memory were troubling, but he had weathered worse storms. Steeling his resolve, he rose from his seat and made his way to the seamstress.

    Cullen entered the chamber, his gaze falling upon Josephine, who stood at the center of the room with an air of regal authority. She seemed engrossed in an impassioned discourse about the significance of the Inquisition council attending the peace talks adorned in special uniforms¡ªa symbolic gesture of unity and solidarity. As her eloquence filled the air, Cullen felt a certain relief; at least now, the purpose behind the uniform fitting became clear.

    His arrival, however, cut through Josephine''s monologue, drawing her attention. With a court nod, she acknowledged him. "Commander, I''m so glad you could make it. We were just discussing the importance of presenting a united front at the Winter Palace."

    Cullen nodded in agreement, glancing past the Antivan woman to find Miriam standing with the seamstress, the mage''s expression betraying a hint of displeasure. He greeted her, and she reciprocated with a gentle smile. Then the enchanter shifted her gaze towards the Ambassador, voicing her reservations about the attire." I am not quite sure that this uniform puts me in a favorable light, Josephine, nor am I used to the confinement of such tight garments."

    Observing Miriam''s petite frame, emphasized by the tailored fit, Cullen couldn''t help but study her more closely. As the mage turned at the seamstress''s request, a moment unfolded where the shirt shifted slightly, revealing the nape of her neck and a part of her shoulder. His gaze lingered, tracing the contours of her pale skin and the radiant emerald lines that extended lower down her back. He wondered what the rest of her body might look like. The notion flustered him, and he quickly averted his gaze, inwardly chiding himself for such inappropriate contemplations.

    The seamstress assured Miram that adjustments could be made, and Cullen joined her, offering his own words of advice, "We should trust Josephine''s judgment in these matters, Herald. The Inquisition''s image is indeed important, even if we find the affair vexing."

    "As you can see, Herald, the Commander, understands the gravity of this matter and places faith in my competence," the Ambassador asserted with a trace of satisfaction in her voice. "I implore you to muster similar confidence."

    With a resigned sigh, Miriam reluctantly agreed. "I will endeavor to comply."

    As the seamstress adjusted the last details on the mage''s uniform, another woman approached Cullen, holding a neatly folded set. "Commander, your uniform is ready. If you would follow me, there''s a discreet area where you can change." He nodded in acknowledgment and trailed behind her as she guided him to the zigzagging wooden divider situated in the corner. As he shed his armor, despite his earnest attempts, the vision of the delicate details of the mage¡¯s exposed shoulder and the tender sweep of her neck lingered in his thoughts, refusing to dissipate.

    Once the fitting had finally ended, Cullen returned to his office, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. To his surprise, the Spymaster, whose usually cold demeanor now softened with sympathy, awaited him by his desk.

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    "Good day, Leliana. What brings you to my office?" he inquired as he approached the woman.

    "I felt it was necessary for me to inform you in person," she began, getting straight to the point. "My agents have painstakingly combed the records of the most prominent Chantry archives through Orlais and Ferelden, searching for any reference to a Knight abstaining from lyrium consumption while maintaining their sanity or studies documenting withdrawal symptoms. Sadly, they found nothing."

    The news landed like a heavy blow, and Cullen felt as if the ground had shifted beneath him. Amid the tumult of emotions stirring within him, he tried to maintain a stoic composure. "Thank you. I am truly grateful for your efforts in this matter. Forgive me, though, as I would like some time alone to ponder this news."

    The woman hesitated as if wrestling with the urge to say more, but ultimately she refrained from it. With a nod, she quietly left, the door closing behind her.

    Alone in the silence of his office, Cullen sank into his chair. As he contemplated his future, a laugh bubbled up from within. It began as a hollow, bitter sound that quickly morphed into anguished sobs that wracked his frame. With his eyes blurred by the tears, he saw Thomas appear before him once more, wounded and battered. For the first time, Cullen didn''t attempt to avert his gaze or dismiss the phantom. Instead, a surge of anger, almost fury, overcame him. He seized objects from his cluttered desk, hurling them at the apparition. The questions spilled from his lips like a torrent. "Is this your punishment for my sins? Are you happy now?¡± he demanded, his voice rising in a crescendo of frustration. ¡°Are you!?"

    Amidst his outburst, a knock on the door startled him, and his gaze shifted towards the entrance. "Commander, may I come in?" Miriam''s voice inquired with concern.

    In desperation, he turned his eyes back to where the vision of Thomas stood, but it had vanished. In a hurried attempt to conceal his vulnerability, Cullen began to wipe away the traces of tears from his face. The last thing he wanted was for Miriam to witness him in such a state. "In a moment," he intoned with haste, his movements brisk as he rose from his chair to retrieve scattered papers from the floor. But a sudden dizziness overwhelmed him, and his legs betrayed their strength, causing him to collapse with a resounding thud.

    The door swung open, and Miriam rushed to his side, her features etched with worry. "By the Lady, what happened? Are you alright?" she asked, kneeling before him.

    His veneer of composure faltered as he struggled to find words. "I... I''m well, merely overcome by dizziness."

    The mage, assuming a supportive stance, assisted him in regaining an upright posture. As Cullen leaned on his desk for stability, she distanced herself, taking a few steps back. "I crossed paths with the Spymaster," she revealed, her gaze scrutinizing the disarray. "She insisted I seek you out in this very moment.¡± She turned her pale eyes to him, ¡°Cullen, what happened?"

    "Leliana found nothing in the Chantry archives," he confessed, his voice betraying a hint of desperation. "Nothing that would give me even a glimmer of hope that the withdrawal won''t take my mind."

    "It''s possible that cases were intentionally left undocumented or simply destroyed when the Templar Order severed its ties with the Chantry," she tried to reassure him.

    Frustration dripped from Cullen''s words as he vehemently shook his head. "I cannot continue to jeopardize my ability to command the Inquisition forces for such a slim chance." He sighed heavily, his frustration giving way to a deeper sense of resignation. ¡°Miriam, despite all our efforts, my memory is fading, reality blurs a little more every day. If my devotion to the cause holds true, I must either relinquish my post or return to the embrace of lyrium."

    In the hushed stillness that lingered, the mage gently broke the silence. "Cullen, when you sought my aid to conquer lyrium addiction, you emphasized how crucial it was to you. Has that changed?¡±

    Cullen''s gaze shifted, and he spoke with pained sincerity, "No, of course not... If only you knew why breaking free from this wretched substance is so paramount to me, you would not question it."

    Miriam, persistent in her concern, implored him with a softness that bespoke genuine care. "Then tell me. Help me understand why this battle is so important."

    Cullen struggled to gather his thoughts; the full story had never escaped his lips. The prospect of laying his soul bare was frightening. Yet, swayed by the mage''s request, a faint glimmer of relief beckoned him from the burden he had carried in solitude for so long. With deliberate steps, he turned and approached the narrow slit in the wall that offered a glimpse of distant ivory peaks and an azure sky. The boundless expanse before him soothed, making the task of recollection more bearable.

    He started at the very beginning of his journey, reminiscing on the fateful decision of his childhood to join the Templar Order. He delved into the Vigil he undertook, the agonies endured within the confines of Kinloch, and the undeniable imprint it left upon his perception of mages and their arcane arts. Despite omitting his shameful longings for Lea and the nature of the visions with which the Desire demon tormented him, the remaining narrative unfolded in unfiltered detail, at least as far as the imperfect tapestry of his memory would permit.

    The tale progressed to the chapter of his relocation to Kirkwall, ascending through the ranks with unwavering loyalty to Meredith''s autocracy, unwittingly bolstering her rule until the onset of her descent into madness catalyzed by the red lyrium. As the conclusion of his story approached, Cullen summoned the strength to turn and confront the woman, "Now you know why I want nothing to do with that life."

    Miriam''s voice quivered as she responded, her eyes welling with tears. "Cullen," she whispered. "You''re crying."

    Embarrassment washed over him as he registered the truth in her words. He brought a hand to his face, trying to erase the evidence of his unguarded emotions, but the mage, with a tender assertiveness, extended her hands to gently halt his attempt. "Let me," she said softly. And as her warm fingers grazed his skin, wiping away the moisture from his cheeks, the embarrassment waned, replaced by a profound sense of solace. Cullen closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean into the delicate caress of her palm, tilting his head ever so slightly. Miriam''s gentle hands, a tender balm, continued to cradle his countenance. "I am grateful for your trust," she murmured. "I see why you need to break the shackles of lyrium. I truly do." A moment of hushed reflection passed before she pressed on. "But, Cullen, the Inquisition needs you. I need you. Please stay as my Commander. We can find a way through this together." Cullen, eyes sealed shut, absorbed her words, an earnest plea threading through the air. "I implore you, do not relinquish hope. Believe that, even if none have weathered the withdrawal''s storm before, you could be the pioneer. The Maker may wield cruelty, but I vow to seek appeasement in His eyes. I will submit to His will, and Andraste will bestow mercy upon you."

    Cullen, stirred to his core by her words, eased his eyes open. The ache for hope seized his heart, and he enfolded Miriam in an embrace, clinging to her as if she were his salvation.

    "Do you truly believe?" he breathed, his fingers tightening on the fabric of her robes.

    "I do," the mage affirmed, her tone resonating with unyielding conviction.

    At her words, his heart, a battleground between despair and hope, leaned towards the latter.

 The reflection

    Miriam''s knees met the chill of the chapel''s stone floor as she kneeled in reverent prayer before the statue of Andraste on the eve of their journey to the peace talks. At her side was Lysette, her head bowed in solemn silence kneeling with the soft clink of her armor. The statue of the Maker¡¯s Bride, with its serene countenance and outstretched arms, seemed to watch over them.

    ¡°O Creator, see me kneel, for I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my heart." Miriam chanted, the hushed murmurs of her whispered devotions echoing in the sacred space. Suddenly, as if in response to her words, a sharp pain pierced through her hand. The mage gasped, her eyes snapping open. The anguish intensified, and blood burst forth from the mark, staining her robes and the floor beneath her.

    Lysette, alarmed, turned towards her friend. "Maker''s breath, what''s happening?!"

    Miriam opened her mouth but gripped by the sudden agony, she couldn''t form coherent words. She dropped to the floor clutching her hand, trying to summon the magic within her to heal the wound. The pain, however, resisted her attempts, spreading through the emerald veins like a relentless tide.

    "Herald, please, tell me what''s wrong!" the Knight pleaded, kneeling beside her.

    The mage¡¯s eyes widened and a strangled cry escaped her lips. Lysette faltered for only an instant. Tapping into her Templar prowess, she stretched forth her hand and invoked a Spell Purge. Instantly Miriam sensed her hand growing numb, as though the nerve endings had dulled and lost their responsiveness. The bleeding came to a halt, however, and the excruciating pain was replaced by an unpleasant tingling.

    "What in the Maker''s name was that?" the Templar demanded, concern etched on her face.

    "It¡­It''s a sign from Him. He speaks¡­he speaks to me in mysterious ways,¡± she managed to mutter regaining her senses.

    Lysette''s countenance darkened. "Even should it be a divine omen, you need assistance. Seek Solas''s expertise on the mark."

    Miriam''s gaze flared with defiance. "I shall have nothing to do with that apostate," she retorted, gradually raising herself to a seated position.

    "With all due respect, Herald, your obstinacy is unwarranted. The elf may know how to alleviate your suffering," the Templar insisted.

    "No!" Miriam snapped. "Swear to me, Lysette. Swear that neither you nor any other shall meddle again. This is between me and the Maker!"

    Lysette hesitated and then reluctantly nodded. "I swear, but I fear you may be making a grave mistake."

    The mage fixed a stern gaze upon her friend. "I place my trust in His guidance. Now help me up. At dawn, we journey to Val Royeaux."

    The Templar assisted Miriam to her feet, blood smearing across her armor as she supported the mage, "Will you, at the very least, consider seeking aid if things worsen?"

    Miriam remained silent, simply tightening her hold on the Templar''s arm.

    Lysette released a sigh, guiding the Inquisitor to her quarters as the echoes of their footsteps gradually faded in the dimly lit chapel.

    The Winter Palace, grandiose and resplendent, perched like a jewel in the heart of Halamshiral, greeted the Inquisition forces with its opulence. Its white marble walls gleamed, adorned with statues of golden lions. Only the Inquisition council had the privilege to enter the palace, however. Lysette, along with the soldiers, remained outside, poised and ready for whatever awaited them.

    As the council passed through the gilded gates of the palace, designed for ceremonial rather than defensive purposes, they were greeted by the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, dressed in sumptuous robes with a demeanor that exuded both charm and authority.

    His dark eyes sparkled with calculated warmth as he extended an enthusiastic welcome to the members of the Inquisition council. "Ah, my honored guests," he exclaimed, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Welcome to the Winter Palace."

    Miriam, with a polite nod, acknowledged the Grand Duke''s greeting. The prospect of being around so many nobles unnerved her, yet Gaspard''s friendly demeanor put her at ease. "Lady Trevelyan,¡± he said, singling out the mage and moving slightly closer to her. ¡°The hero who closed the Breach! A feat that has impressed even the most skeptical among us," he commented with a tone that carried respect as they walked towards the entrance of the palace through the lash garden. Before she knew it, he was walking right beside her, positioning himself so that she was separated from the rest of the council. ¡°Imagine, my Lady, what you could achieve with the full support of the rightful ruler of Orlais." He spoke softly, his voice having a melodic cadence.

    Miriam''s mind drifted into a vision, a tapestry of fire and blood. In her mind''s eye, she saw legions of faithful followers marching under the banner of the Inquisition against the forces of the Elder One. The Chant of Light echoing louder than the cries of battle, bringing deliverance and righteousness in its wake. Meanwhile, Gaspard continued to paint a picture of collaboration. "The Empress''s diplomatic foray into the mage dilemma and the elven unrest have left Orlais vulnerable. As a loyal enchanter and a believer, surely you understand the dire consequences. Together, we could birth an age of order not merely for Orlais but for the entirety of Thedas. I implore you to weigh my words." The doors swung open, admitting them into the heart of the palace. The Grand Duke, with a curt nod, declared, "Find me atop the stairs in the Grand Hall should you wish to converse." Having said that, he tersely extended his farewells to the council members and took his leave.

    "What did he propose in your conversation?" inquired the Ambassador, her tone tinged with suspicion as she led her into a quiet, secluded corner.

    "He spoke of the alliance and made assurances. I won''t deny that his arguments held weight," Miriam confessed.

    Josephine''s smile was a measured response. "Weighted words, carefully tailored to align with your desires. Gaspard is a maestro of the Game, much like the Empress herself."

    "Perhaps he is, yet he''s a man of war, revered by his troops for his valor," Cullen interjected with a stoic demeanor. "Securing his support would significantly fortify our soldiers'' morale."

    "I fear, Commander, that such support cannot be garnered without incurring the wrath of the Empress," came the sobering reply from the Ambassador.

    "Yet," Leliana began, her gaze cold, "our aim is not necessarily the salvation of the Empress herself, but rather the prevention of Orlais succumbing to anarchy in the absence of a ruler. If Gaspard lives and can ascend the throne, our mission could still be achieved."

    Miriam''s heart beat wildly at the revelation, the Maker''s will crystallizing before her. At last, it was the chance to give him the blood he demanded.

    Josephine gasped, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest. "What are you suggesting? That we stand idly by and let the woman perish?"

    "We shall not," the mage declared, as she sought to weave a convincing facade. "It merely implies that, while delving into the depths of the impending assassination, we must also strive to protect the Grand Duke¡¯s image."

    Leliana acknowledged her words with a sly smile. "My agents have already infiltrated the palace. While we await their findings, let us disperse and mingle amongst the nobles. We must not arouse suspicion. Reconvene here in an hour, and may the Maker watch over us."

    Time spent amid the pampered crowd, surrounded by the insipid chatter of aristocratic buffoons, ignited in Miriam a fervent desire to set fire to the entire place. Exhausted by the false smiles, the hollow pleasantries, and the incessant barrage of nonsensical questions about her mark and her viridescent veins, she decided that she had already spent enough time in this cesspool of treachery and that it was the right moment to engage in a more meaningful discourse with the Grand Duke. She needed reassurance that Gaspard was the Maker''s chosen ruler for the beleaguered land. Despite her unwavering acceptance of the path dictated by Him, there was still uneasiness within her.

    Ascending the steps of the Grand Hall, she traversed the plush carpet, its golden embroidery yielding softly under her boots. Her journey led to a secluded enclave with a slightly ajar window, where the Grand Duke stood. His posture was impeccable, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed upon the distant vista. As she approached, despite the carpet''s hushed concealment of her steps, he promptly took note, a content smile gracing his lips. "Inquisitor, I knew my words would stir your heart," he intoned, his voice carrying a measured confidence.

    "They did, Your Grace," Miriam began in a hushed whisper, though the privacy of their conversation assured that no one overheard. ¡°That¡¯s why I want to inform you that the Inquisition is here on a mission to protect the Empress from an imminent assassination attempt orchestrated by the malignant entity known as the Elder One." The Duke, his countenance inscrutable, listened intently as Miriam pressed further, "Do you know of anyone within the court who may collude with this villain, someone who could pose a potential threat?"

    A pregnant silence lingered, stretching the moment into eternity. Then, a chuckle rumbled from the Duke''s throat, breaking the tension. "Incredibly refreshing," he remarked, "to finally meet a noble who speaks plainly." He took a contemplative pause before sharing his insights. "Briala, the elven ambassador present at the ball, is one of the few who harbors genuine ill will towards the Empress," he disclosed, his words resonating with disdain. "The elven rebellion flourished under the Empress''s leniency," Gaspard intimated, leaning in for emphasis. "She permitted them to worship their false gods in the Alienages. Under my rule, every Alienage would become home to a Chantry, securing the true teachings of the Andrastian faith even among the lowest of his children." Miriam absorbed his words, her resolve strengthening as the Duke persisted, "Or perhaps it could be one of the apostates in Celene''s employ." He added with a shake of his head, "This might explain her feeble response to the mage rebellion."

    Horror seized Miriam as the Duke exposed the heretical practices within the Empress''s court. The blatant disregard for Andrastian teachings was abhorrent. "Thank you, Your Grace. We shall investigate. Rest assured, the Inquisition will act in the best interest of Orlais'' future," she declared, a mask of determination etched onto her features.

    "I certainly hope so," the man replied. "You strike me as a sensible, pious woman, Lady Trevelyan. May Andraste guide your path."

    Miriam acknowledged the Duke''s words with a nod, her eyes reflecting a blend of conviction and sincerity. Without lingering further, she turned on her heel, her swift steps leading her in search of Cassandra.

    In her quest, she found the woman engaged in a conversation with a noble whose words seemed to weigh heavily on the Seeker''s patience. Sensing an opportunity, Miriam approached and, with a discreet signal, caught Cassandra''s attention. The Seeker''s eyes flickered with gratitude as she seized the excuse to extricate herself from the man''s company.

    Cassandra joined the mage in a more secluded part of the Hall. "What news do you bring, Inquisitor?" she inquired, her eyes sharp and expectant.

    "Disturbing tidings indeed," she whispered, mindful of potential eavesdroppers. "The Duke has alluded to heretical practices within the court. Briala, the elven ambassador, may be entangled in this web as well. I require you to discreetly safeguard Gaspard. Your Seeker skills could protect him from the apostates, and as royalty, your extended presence at his side would arouse minimal suspicion."

    Cassandra grumbled in reluctant acceptance. "So be it, but be warned, prolonged time together may give rise to unwarranted courtship rumors. I shall endure it nonetheless."

    "Very well. I shall go and apprise Leliana of these matters," the mage responded.

    The Seeker nodded in acknowledgment and proceeded toward the stairs.

    As Miriam traversed the Grand Hall towards the Spymaster, she encountered a gathering of nobles encircling Cullen. The assembly swirled around him like a tightening python, their voices a ceaseless hum of inquiries and inappropriate comments. Cullen''s countenance, typically steadfast, now appeared pallid, his jaw clenched. In the midst of this aristocratic vortex, one woman dared to place her hand on his shoulder, freezing his features in discomfort. He briskly moved his arm, dislodging the intrusive touch, and his steely gaze fixed on the noblewoman. "Madam, I must ask you to refrain from such liberties," he said, his tone polite but stern.

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    Undaunted by the rebuff, the noblewoman attempted to justify her actions with an air of nonchalant charm. "Oh, Commander Rutherford, my intention was merely to express my sincere gratitude for your valiant efforts in sealing the Breach. Just a gesture of appreciation," she purred, fanning herself in a coquettish manner.

    Cullen''s jaw tightened further, unmasked frustration crossing his face. "I appreciate your sentiments, but such gestures are unnecessary. Now, if you''ll excuse me," he replied tersely, attempting to extricate himself from the crowd. However, another woman placed herself right in front of him.

    "Commander, I''ve heard tales of your prowess on the battlefield. Perhaps you could regale us with a firsthand account of the skirmish? The court thrives on such thrilling narratives," she inquired, a glint of anticipation in her eyes.

    Miriam felt the flames of anger surging within her; those people just wouldn''t leave him alone! With unapologetic determination, she forcefully pushed through the throng, disregarding disgruntled huffs and surprised exclamations, her singular focus on reaching her friend. "Commander Cullen," she addressed him with deliberate loudness. "There''s an urgent matter that demands your attention. Excuse us," she added, casting an aggrieved glance at the lingering nobles.

    He acknowledged her approach with a nod, relief spreading across his features. Yet, the expression quickly transformed into one of incredulous shock, his breath hitching. Startled by the sudden change, Miriam surveyed the surroundings, her gaze falling upon the face of a smug nobleman who was brazenly sliding his hand over Cullen''s backside.

    The mage''s anger ignited a furious blaze. "Enough!" she exclaimed. "Don''t you dare lay your filthy hands on him!"

    The nobleman recoiled, indignation crossing his face. "Your words carry the stench of the vilest disre-"

    His words were cut short as Cullen, in a swift and decisive motion, spun around to face the bastard who had dared to assault him. "Consider this your only warning, Your Grace. Any further transgressions will be met with appropriate consequences," he declared with seething intensity, his imposing figure towering over the man.

    The gathering erupted in gasps and whispers as the assembled aristocrats, sensing the impending confrontation, instinctively created a small circle around the unfolding scene, their curious eyes fixed on the escalating drama.

    The nobleman, now red-faced, stumbled backward. ¡°Perhaps a reminder in the art of manners is in order, for it seems you have grievously overlooked your standing within the hierarchy of this esteemed court," he pronounced in a high-pitched voice.

    Miriam poised herself to respond, but a sweeping glance across the murmuring assembly made her acutely aware that they were drawing attention from every corner of the Grand Hall. Summoning her resolve, she quelled her anger and, with it, the power emanating from the mark on her hand. Thankfully, the thick material of her gloves concealed the telltale glow she knew to be radiant.

    As whispers started to circulate, the tension in the Hall escalated swiftly. It was at this precarious moment that Josephine made her entrance, an embodiment of calm and composure amid the burgeoning chaos. "Duke Germain," she addressed the man who molested Cullen with a tone that effortlessly cut through the commotion. "Allow me to remind you that we are all esteemed guests in the Winter Palace. Let us conduct ourselves with the decorum befitting this grand occasion." The crowd hushed, their attention pivoting toward the Antivan woman. "Inquisitor, Commander, dear guests,¡± she continued, ¡°I implore you to remember the purpose of this gathering. Let us not mar this illustrious event with discord." Her manner, a masterful blend of tact and authority, began to pacify the agitated nobles.

    Duke Germain, now somewhat calmed, muttered toward Cullen, "If your delicate Ferelden sensibilities took offense, I regret any inconvenience caused. Let us put this matter behind us, and I graciously permit you to learn from this encounter to avoid future lapses in decorum." With a proud lift of his head, he retreated alongside his entourage.

    As the crowd, still murmuring, gradually dispersed, a lingering tension hung in the air. Josephine looked at Cullen with a strained smile. "Commander, may I trust you to enjoy the evening without incident?"

    He nodded his head reluctantly. "Thank you, Josephine."

    "Herald, Commander," the Ambasador made a small curtsey and hastened toward the nobles with words of appeasement.

    Cullen approached Miriam, incredulity etched into his features, but his muscles seemed visibly more at ease now. ¡°While I am grateful, Inquisitor, the nerve of those pompous, arrogant--,¡± he cut himself off from his building tirade with a long exhale, ¡°I hope Josephine will pacify them. We don¡¯t need this complicating or distracting away from the mission.¡±

    ¡°I long for means beyond mere words to instruct them, to etch a lesson upon their wicked hearts," the mage admitted, still fueled by the lingering adrenaline of her outburst.

    Cullen passed a weary hand over his face. "I share the sentiment, but I fear we are denied that luxury."

    The mage, locking eyes with him, asserted, "Should they insist on tormenting you again... they shall see the consequences of harming those I hold dear."

    Cullen¡¯s expression softened at her words. "Herald," he said, a hint of warmth in his tone, "we have a mission to fulfill. Let''s not allow personal feelings to cloud our judgment. There''s much at stake here."

    The enchanter, though appreciating his dedication, pressed further. "I understand your point, and I agree that our mission is paramount. But there are instances when some matters can''t simply be ignored. What if the roles were reversed? Would you be able to maintain your calm if you witnessed someone behaving inappropriately towards the person you cared about?"

    Cullen furrowed his brow, contemplating her words. "It would be difficult, but I would hope to find a way to address the issue without compromising our mission."

    "And if diplomacy failed, if the actions were egregious? What then?" she insisted.

    There was a shift in his expression, a hardening of his gaze. "I would do whatever was necessary to protect you."

    At his words, Miriam''s heart skipped a beat, and she looked at him with a mix of surprise and hope. ¡°Me?¡±

    As he seemed to realize the implication of his statement, a flush of color tinted his cheeks, and he started to stutter, stumbling over his words. "I...It''s not... I didn''t mean -"

    His utterances were interrupted by Leliana, whose approach went unnoticed in the depths of their conversation. "Commander, Inquisitor, please accompany me to the Vestibule. I have important news to discuss with the council," she declared with an edge of urgency.

    Their discourse, momentarily forgotten, was eclipsed by the Spymaster''s summons. They redirected their attention to her, and she gestured for them to follow. Miriam, hastening to keep pace, declared, "Cassandra is guarding Gaspard, and Josephine is salvaging our reputation among the nobles."

    "I am aware of your endeavors, Inquisitor. You have been rather occupied," Leliana remarked in a tone that teetered between amusement and judgment.

    "The Game has never been my forte. I leave the intricacies of courtly maneuvering to those more adept at deception," the mage retorted.

    The Spymaster smiled slightly but offered no response. The trio moved through the throngs of nobles, their elaborate dresses rustling like autumn leaves, as they moved toward the silent and empty Vestibule. The contrast was striking, the cacophony of the Grand Hall replaced by hushed silence.

    In the secluded space, Leliana wasted no time. "My agents succeeded in intercepting and interrogating one of the agents of the Elder One, an elven servant who was trying to poison the food in the kitchens."

    Miriam noticed Cullen''s brow furrow at the news, his concern palpable. ¡°After a brief yet intense questioning,¡± the Spymaster continued, ¡°the elf confessed that the assault is planned to transpire during the Empress''s speech at the tolling of midnight bells. Regrettably, he perished before divulging any further information.¡±

    Tension hung in the air as they absorbed the gravity of the revelation. Miriam, her mind racing with the implications, turned to Cullen. "We need to fortify the security around Duke Gaspard."

    Cullen nodded, his demeanor transforming into that of a focused and decisive Commander. ¡°We must act swiftly and discreetly to prevent panic among the nobles.¡± After a brief pause, he added, ¡°I''ll alert the palace guards and conduct a thorough sweep of the premises. We cannot afford any bloodshed."

    Miriam felt a sharp sting in her mark as if a needle had pierced it right in the middle. She winced and looked at her hand; the white fabric of the glove was rapidly turning red. The Maker was speaking to her once again, reminding her of His will.

    ¡°But we do, we do have to let it happen,¡± she mumbled. Cullen and Leliana turned to her, their faces registering surprise and concern. Miriam hid her hand behind her back, concealing the evidence of the Maker''s call. She didn¡¯t have the time or patience to explain the intricacies of the manifestation of His will at the moment. Addressing her companions, she spoke with a measured tone, "Leliana was right. We do not need the Empress to survive for our mission to be successful." Her comrades exchanged puzzled glances as Miriam continued, "Gaspard would make a worthier ruler for Orlais, and he has pledged his support to our cause. Our troops will greatly benefit from his expertise as well."

    The Commander contemplated her words, his expression reflecting the weight of the decision ahead. "Choosing sides in Orlesian politics is a dangerous game, Inquisitor. Are you certain the Grand Duke can be trusted?"

    The mage met his gaze with conviction, "His beliefs are in line with the teachings of Andraste, Commander, a sentiment I cannot attribute to the Empress. If we are to stand against the corrupt and the wicked, we will need allies who are as pious as we are."

    ¡°The Empress''s reign is on the wane, and Gaspard would be a more pragmatic choice for the future," Leliana added. "If aligning with him furthers our goals, Celene¡¯s demise may be a necessary compromise."

    Cullen sighed, acknowledging the pragmatism in their words. "Very well. If you two believe this is the path we must take, I will support you.¡±

    ¡°My people will inform Cassandra and Josephine about our decision. Though it may displease them, we possess the majority, and acceptance is their only recourse. We should be primed to address the assassins upon the Empress''s demise, so let us strategize for that," Leliana concluded with a calculated tone.

    The plan was surprisingly simple. Following the death of the Empress and the ensuing panic, Josephine and Leliana''s agents would convene at the Grand Duke''s side. This strategic location within the Grand Hall offered a stronghold for a prolonged defense, guaranteeing the safety of both Gaspard and Josephine. Meanwhile, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra and Miriam would directly confront the assassins before the Inquisition reinforcements could intervene.

    The remainder of the evening was spent in anxious anticipation as Miriam waited for the tolling of the midnight bells. Her hand throbbed with increasing pain, and the bleeding persisted. The gauntlet, now soaked with her blood, posed a growing challenge in concealing the affliction. Her vision blurred from time to time, with splashes of red encroaching in the corner of her eyes, and by the time the bells tolled, signaling the Empress''s arrival to greet the attendees, Miriam was barely holding herself together.

    The Empress entered the Grand Hall with her entourage, draped in a resplendent white gown, a golden mask adorned with diamonds concealing her visage. She executed practiced smiles and moved gracefully through the crowd. The mage, in the sea of nobles, was like a coiled spring waiting to be released.

    As the Empress continued her greetings, the attention of the enchanter was seized by a noblewoman delving into her pocket. Miriam''s heart raced wildly as the glint of a dagger caught her eye. This was the moment they had anticipated, the moment where she would allow the woman to meet her end. Yet, at that crucial juncture, doubt crept into her conviction. It was one thing to discuss such decisions and another to witness their execution. Celene wasn''t a worthy ruler for Orlais, but still¡­ Another sharp sting of pain, a reminder of the Maker''s will compelled her to clench her fist and simply watch.

    Time seemed to stretch into an endless crawl as the noblewoman hurled the weapon into the Empress''s throat. A collective gasp echoed through the Hall as blood spurted from Celene''s neck and she crumpled to the floor. Chaos erupted, transforming the scene into a tumultuous pandemonium. Guards stationed around the Empress rushed towards the assailant, but before they could reach her, the woman slashed her wrist with another dagger, unleashing a bloody spray that rendered them unconscious. ¡°Blood magic," Miriam seethed. Hastily, she yanked off her soaked glove, revealing the glowing, bleeding mark on her hand. With urgency in her eyes, she tried to approach the unfolding chaos, seeking a path through the disoriented nobles and guards to confront the blood mage.

    Yet she was outdone by Leliana and Cullen, who swiftly joined the fray, their weapons drawn with lethal precision. Now, there was no way for her to unleash the mark''s flames without the risk of hurting them. She could forgive herself for scorching the Spymaster or a noble a bit, but not Cullen, never him. So, instead of summoning her emerald flames on the assassin, she wove barriers around her comrades.

    Just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of the Inquisition, a sudden appearance of Harlequins, as if materializing from the shadows, altered the dynamics of the fight. Too many to count, they moved with eerie grace, their attacks distracting the Commander and the Spymaster, allowing the blood mage to inch closer to where Gaspard stood. But thankfully, the maleficar was swiftly intercepted by Cassandra, who sent her into oblivion with the Wrath of Heaven, followed by a swift decapitation.

    Miriam conjured another barrier around the Seeker, who now joined the fight with the Harlequins. The urge to release her flames tingled under her skin, yet the same predicament lingered¡ªher enemies were too close to her comrades. The Harlequins disregarded her and other nobles, their sole focus on reaching the Grand Duke, the last remaining candidate for the throne.

    So she remained at a distance, a vigilant observer of the unfolding skirmish, ensuring her allies remained shielded from harm. Amidst the chaos, she was constantly jostled by nobles attempting to flee. However, the exits weren''t spacious enough for a multitude to leave at once, resulting in a slow and tumultuous escape.

    The clash was fierce, but the seasoned warriors were gaining the upper hand. With the arrival of the Inquisition forces imminent, it seemed the fight would be over before it truly began. A booming voice suddenly echoed in Miriam¡¯s head, the same haunting one from her dream, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" it screamed, clawing at her mind until it forced its way into her consciousness, bringing the chilling realization that the blood of the Empress wasn''t enough for the Maker, he demanded more, so much more.

    Turning her attention to the nobles swirling around her¡ªrunning, screaming, untouched, and unharmed, merely scared¡ªshe felt another stab of pain shoot through her palm. "Let your will be done," she murmured, her lips trembling. At her words, a burst of blood poured from her mark, and the Harlequins, as if compelled by some command, forsook their opponents. Disregarding their own lives, they threw themselves onto the nobles with wild abandon, resembling crazed animals unleashed upon their prey. Miriam stood in a trance-like state, tears streaming down her face as she watched limbs severed, guts spilled and throats slit in a gruesome dance of crimson carnage.

    With the enemy''s focus shifting to the aristocrats, her comrades were able to strike with ease, and when Lysette''s loud voice signaled the arrival of the Inquisition forces, it was only a matter of moments before the Elder One''s agents were obliterated.

    Surveying her surroundings, the mage was in shock at the swift and devastating loss of so many lives. Eviscerated bodies of the nobles lay strewn across the floor, their lifeless eyes and limbs hauntingly still. The marble beneath them gleamed as if the rain had fallen, yet the liquid that adorned it wasn''t clear but red. Dizziness and frailty enveloped her, the urgent voice of Gaspard, barking orders, barely penetrating the fog in her mind. She finally released her barriers, for there was no longer danger in the Grand Hall¡ªonly the silence of the dead and the moans of the wounded.

    Noting that her bleeding had ceased, she scrutinized her crimson-stained palm for a fleeting moment. Then her gaze drifted from her arm to the floor beside her, where the blood she had lost pooled, forming a mirror-like surface. In its reflection, she saw her gaunt face, and as she focused on it, a disquieting revelation dawned¡ªshe was smiling.

 The revelations

    Cullen stood there, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the skirmish. His countenance was a visage of sweat and blood, the latter mercifully not his own; only a few bruises and scratches adorned him, easily remedied by a healing potion. His gaze surveyed the Grand Hall, a witness to the aftermath of the peculiar conflict. The Harlequins'' erratic conduct defied explanation; he had seen soldiers succumb to madness in battle, losing touch with reality. Yet, the simultaneous unraveling of so many, abandoning their objectives and leaving blatant openings in their defense, was an unprecedented spectacle.

    Cassandra drew near, her face marred by bruises yet lacking any significant injury. "Did you sensed it, the Inquisitor¡¯s spell?" she inquired, her voice muted as she sheathed her sword.

    Cullen nodded slowly. ¡°Though my Templar abilities have forsaken me, I can still feel magic when it¡¯s wielded directly upon me.¡±

    The Seeker''s gaze was somber. "No, I am not alluding to the barriers she had cast upon us. She unleashed another spell afterward," she winced uncomfortably. "It felt potent, unnatural."

    Cullen raised a skeptical brow, "Isn''t that how all magic feels?"

    "Well, to some extent, I suppose," Cassandra murmured. "But this one was more pronounced than usual. It''s as if... ughh," she grumbled in frustration. "I can''t even describe it to you. I have never felt anything like it."

    He came closer, his voice now a muted cadence. "Have you considered that it might have something to do with the Harlequins'' sudden descent into madness?"

    "It could be," she paused, "but it would have to be the mark that allowed her to orchestrate such a feat because even maleficars can''t affect so many people and so strongly at once."

    A shiver traced its icy path down Cullen''s spine, his mind recoiling at the mere mention of blood magic and Miriam in the same sentence. "She would never consort with demons!" He said more intensely than intended.

    Cassandra gave him a long, hard look. "Of course she wouldn''t. She is the Herald of Andraste. I am merely suggesting that the only way for her to accomplish this was to tap into the power of her mark in a way she hadn''t attempted before."

    "Lady Trevelyan, are you in good health?" Their discourse was abruptly halted by Gaspard''s resonant voice. Cullen''s gaze swiftly shifted to Miriam; he chastised himself inwardly, ensnared by the conversation with Cassandra, he neglected to ensure her well-being. The Grand Duke, Josephine, and Leliana stood beside the mage, who appeared detached, standing in the puddle of blood, her countenance deathly pale, her lips so blue they seemed black. Cullen rushed to her side, frantically scanning her form for any indication of injury that could account for such a profusion of blood. Yet all he discerned was her left palm, entirely obscured by the crimson stain.

    Cullen reached Miriam just as she finally responded, her gaze meeting his with a dissonant expression. Her eyes bore the traces of tears, yet the corners of her lips were turned up in a smile. "It is done," she said, her voice almost melodic.

    Cullen shot her a puzzled look, but before he could express his confusion, Cassandra approached hastily, her tone tinged with concern. "Inquisitor, what happened to your mark?" She inquired, her eyes scrutinizing the dimly glowing hand soaked in blood.

    Miriam''s gaze shifted to the Seeker, and she calmly asserted, "All is well. The Maker revealed to me His will, and I, in servitude, delivered it."

    Cassandra''s brow knitted in consternation. "What do you mean?"

    Miriam''s eyes held steady on the Seeker as she calmly unfolded her revelation. "In the realm of dreams and visions, His voice echoed, resonating within the depths of my soul. Through pain, He guided me, using me as a conduit for His divine will as I forced the Harlequins to obey His command." She lifted her palm. "Sadly, my body is proving too feeble a vessel for this new power the Maker has given me, so it strains under its weight." She then turned to the Grand Duke, her words hanging in the air like a decree. "But this holds no consequence, for at last, the anointed ruler of His design may ascend the throne of Orlais."

    At Miriam¡¯s latest declaration, Gaspard''s eyes gleamed. "Please reiterate it for all to bear witness!" He proclaimed, his voice resonating with an air of authority. The gathering throng stirred in anticipation as the Duke positioned his hand behind her back, urging the mage forward into the midst of the injured nobles and soldiers.

    ¡°Your Grace, the Inquisitor requires respite," Cullen interjected, attempting to intervene, keenly aware of the strain evident in Miriam''s fragile form.

    "Commander, we need this.¡± Josephine quickly stepped in to halt his attempt. ¡°The Grand Duke is consolidating power, and the Herald¡¯s role is crucial in solidifying his claim among the faithful. It''s a delicate dance in the political arena at the moment. Let Gaspard play his hand now, and once the stage is set, I will ensure the Inquisitor gets the rest and healing she needs." With those words, the Ambassador hastily made her way toward Miriam and Gaspard.

    Cullen let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand over his disheveled, sweat-soaked hair. The mission, a triumph with the Grand Duke saved and no casualties on their side should have brought joy. Yet, the discovery that Miriam could hear the voice of the Maker, combined with her disconcerting newfound abilities and the toll they exacted on her body overshadowed his sense of accomplishment.

    "I do believe her," Leliana declared with conviction. Cullen turned to her in surprise; the Spymaster was the last person he expected to readily accept Miriam''s assertions. "Once, a long time ago, the Maker spoke to me as well," she disclosed, her countenance bearing a rare expression of nostalgia. "I was laughed at, ridiculed, and belittled by all in whom I confided about it, and yet my conviction endured. The Maker bestowed His light upon me to guide the Grey Wardens through the darkness of the Fifth Blight." As she spoke, Leliana''s gaze locked onto Cullen''s, and for a fleeting moment, he glimpsed the same young, innocent, and radiant girl who had rescued him at Kinloch. "Without His guidance, we would never have reached the Circle in time to rescue you," she concluded in a hushed whisper.  Cullen swallowed hard, uncertain of the fitting response to the Spymaster''s revelation. Tales of the clergy and devout who claimed communion with the Maker were not unheard of, but such declarations were often unverified and met with skepticism. It was baffling, to say the least, that the Inquisition was harboring not one but two women who received direct guidance from Him. Yet, if the Maker were to speak with His children, it seemed reasonable for Him to choose such devout souls as Leliana and Miriam. "Besides," the Spymaster continued, her customary frigid demeanor swiftly settling into place, "His guidance has yielded nothing but good on this mission. The Harlequins, in their frenzied assault on the nobles, ensured that we suffered no losses in this battle. Moreover, the aristocrats of Orlais, having now tasted the bitter sting of pain and loss at the hands of the agents of the Elder One, will be more inclined to take an interest in our mission. They are nothing if not vengeful."

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    "It is true," Cassandra affirmed, "but I remain concerned about the extent of the power the Inquisitor wields and the toll it takes on her. Initially, she struggled to maintain control over it, and now, while she appears to have mastered the mark, the bleeding it has caused..." The Seeker gestured towards the disconcertingly large puddle of blood, "She could succumb to it one of these days if this continues." The palpable anxiety in her voice mirrored his thoughts.

    "Speak to her, Cullen," Leliana addressed him once again, her tone firm. "Encourage her to seek help from Solas. He is a fellow mage and an expert on these matters. If anyone could assist her, it''s him."

    "She is not particularly fond of him lately, nor is he of her," he responded, his brow furrowing.

    "The elf has always offered his aid when she required assistance. I am confident that wouldn''t change. And if anyone could persuade her to consult him, it would be you," the Spymaster insisted.

    "As soon as we get back to Skyhold, I will try," he said, his expression a mixture of determination and concern. "I hope she will listen."

    "I am sure she will," Leliana replied with a confidence that he wished he could share.

    To Cullen''s vexation, they found themselves compelled to remain at the Winter Palace for an entire week. Their days were consumed by discussions delving into the intricate nuances of their alliance and the anticipated involvement of the new Emperor in the Inquisition¡¯s future operations, both within the confines of Orlais and beyond. Gaspard, true to form, eagerly offered not only his expertise and men, but his own presence for any forthcoming military endeavors.

    While Cullen respected a ruler who did not shy away from direct engagement in conflict, he could not shake the suspicion that there might be some other motivation for Gaspard''s eagerness to become so personally involved with the Inquisition. Since the very moment Miriam announced him as the ¡®anointed ruler of His design¡¯, he became inexorably attached to her. He pulled her to every conceivable event, ensuring that every soul in Val Royeaux, if not the entirety of Orlais, knew that the Herald of Andraste herself had blessed his rule with the Maker¡¯s guidance.

    The Emperor showed a seemingly genuine fascination with the mark that adorned Miriam¡¯s palm, particularly intrigued by the power it possessed¡ªhow frequently and potently she could summon its abilities, and whether she held command over them at will or awaited directives from the Maker. Miriam, eagerly sharing the details of the divine blessing bestowed upon her, inadvertently steered their meetings into a dialogue solely between she and Gaspard. This tendency, to his increasing annoyance, was only getting worse. It wasn''t Gaspard''s curiosity that irked him, for as the Commander, he comprehended the imperative need to understand one''s forces and those of allies. Rather, it was the manner in which the Emperor scrutinized the mage, a gaze familiar to him¡ªa warrior appraising the finest weapon he had ever seen.

    Miriam, meanwhile, immersed herself in singing the praises of the Emperor''s reign, which began with the public execution of the former monarch''s occult advisors and Briala on the charges of conspiring with the Elder One. Of course, there was no tangible evidence linking them to the assault during the peace talks, but the mere presence of a blood mage among the attackers was enough to implicate the apostates in Celene''s court, while the attempted food poisoning by an elven servant was used to condemn Briala.

    Before the hanging, Miriam delivered a fervent address to the crowd, seamlessly blending divine reverence with political undertones as she praised the virtues of the newly crowned Emperor. She spoke of justice, order, and the need to purge heretics for the greater good of Orlais. With her impassioned speech, the execution became a ritual homage, not only to the Maker, but also to the Emperor''s vision of a renewed and purified Empire.

    As the day of departure finally unfolded, the Winter Palace buzzed with activity. The Inquisition council members, dressed in travel attire, gathered in the courtyard to bid farewell to the Emperor and his entourage.

    Gaspard, adorned in luxurious but practical robes, approached the Inquisition council with a dignified presence. "Esteemed members of the Inquisition," he began, his voice resonating with authority. "I insist that you travel in the comfort befitting your status as one of my honored allies. Carriages have been prepared for your journey. I cannot allow such distinguished guests to endure the rigors of travel on horseback."

    The Ambassador, appreciating Gaspard''s gesture, stepped forward and replied with gratitude, "Your Majesty, we are truly honored by your generosity."

    The man smiled and proceeded to exchange parting words with each member of the council. When the Emperor finally reached Miriam, Cullen couldn''t help but observe the interaction with keen interest.

    "Lady Trevelyan, though the paths we tread may temporarily diverge, know that our hearts remain united in service to the Maker," he declared with a solemn expression on his face.

    Miriam smiled warmly. "Your Majesty, I shall eagerly await our reunion. May the Maker guide you in your endeavors, and may your efforts bring His light to Orlais and beyond."

    Gaspard gracefully took the mage''s hand and placed a reverent kiss upon it. Her cheeks flushed, a reaction not lost on Cullen, who observed the exchange with a subtle tightening of his jaw. The sooner they depart from this place, the better.

    When the carriages pulled away from the Winter Palace, he found himself in the company of Miriam and Cassandra, who shared the opposite side of the cab. Another carriage, carrying Leliana and Josephine, trailed closely behind them.

    As the journey unfolded, the lively chatter among the group gradually dwindled. Miriam, succumbing to the rhythmic motion, slipped into a peaceful slumber, her head finding a comfortable rest on the Seeker''s shoulder. Cassandra, focused and seemingly unfazed, supported her fellow companion while engrossed in a book, the title of which remained elusive, hidden beneath a plain cover. Given Cassandra''s inclinations, he thought it was likely to be a tome related to swordplay or perhaps a religious text.

    The Seeker''s silent absorption in her reading coupled with Miriam''s serene rest, created an atmosphere of quiet companionship amidst the gentle rocking of the carriage, and he soon found himself drifting away.

    Standing among the fragrant blossoms of his family''s apple orchard at Honnleath, he savored the delicate scent of blooming flowers that filled the air. His feet were grounded on the lush grass, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the scene. Somewhere in the distance, the familiar laughter of his siblings intertwined with the warm cadence of his parents'' voices. Miriam was beside him, her delicate fingers intertwined with his.

    "I wish I could turn back time," he confessed, his voice steeped in the somber notes of melancholy.

    "I am afraid I cannot aid you in such a quest," the mage murmured, her words carrying a whisper of sympathy. "Yet, as I stand here with you, I am compelled to wonder, are there any other yearnings that stir within the depths of your heart?"

    Cullen turned to her and gently brushed the stray strands of hair from her face with his free hand. Caught in a silent reverie, his eyes descended to linger on the allure of her lips. There was an undeniable magnetic force, an invisible thread pulling him towards her. Succumbing to the fervor of desire, he yielded, leaning in with an inevitability as palpable as fate itself.

    The sudden jolt of the carriage over a rough patch of road jerked him awake from the dream, his eyes fluttering open to the reality of the cab''s motion. As he regained his bearings, his gaze instinctively sought out Miriam, who was also stirred from slumber by the abrupt movement.

    As their eyes locked, he could feel a flush creep up his cheeks, and his heart quickened its pace. He cleared his throat, attempting to dispel the lingering haze of the dream. "I...uh, we hit a bump," he stammered, the only thing that came to his mind.

    Miriam''s lips curled into a smile. "It seems our dreams couldn''t quite withstand the reality of the road."

    A nervous chuckle escaped Cullen as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Indeed.¡±

    The carriage continued its journey, and in the quiet moments that followed, he grappled with the revelation that his affections, the very emotions he believed himself no longer capable of, had once again become entwined with a mage.

 The gift

    The mage stood alone on the balcony of her chamber, her mind a canvas adorned with the vivid brushstrokes of the recent mission''s events. The crisp mountain air, pure and invigorating, carried whispers of divine approval. The Maker''s will had been executed with precision, the promised blood delivered to Him, a testament to her unwavering loyalty. The new Emperor had secured power under His guiding hand and the purge of heretics from the court unfolded flawlessly; each tainted soul thrust into the Void in a tribute to His glory.

    Miriam allowed herself a moment to bask in the perceived satisfaction of the Maker and His Bride. The throbbing and inflamed flesh around her mark was not a concern, but a mere proof of her devotion. In the silence of her contemplation, she felt a profound connection to the divine, a sense that the heavens themselves were finally acknowledging her efforts. As the grandeur of success unfolded before her mind''s eye, she couldn''t help but anticipate the reward she believed awaited her and, more importantly, Cullen. The withdrawal symptoms that tormented his weary mind, she hoped, would now wane. The Maker, in His boundless gratitude, would surely extend mercy to her beloved friend, absolving him of the afflictions that threatened to unravel the tapestry of his sanity. Miriam''s thoughts turned to Cullen, who, returning from the Winter Palace, had seemed more thoughtful and quiet than usual. His assurance that fatigue from dealings with the insufferable nobles was the sole cause brought her some relief, though a nagging worry lingered. As her mind dwelled on her friend''s peculiar behavior, the memory of Duke Germain''s repulsive advances resurfaced. A surge of anger rippled through her, causing her fists to clench. However, reason quickly prevailed, and she reminded herself that the Maker''s justice had been swift and decisive. The Duke had met a grisly end at the hands of the Harlequins. Miriam allowed a fleeting smile to play on her lips as she savored the image of his lifeless body, retribution served with a dagger to the heart, and the hand that had dared to assault Cullen severed.

    Setting aside those contemplations, she redirected her focus to the looming meeting, the Herald''s mantle settling once again on her shoulders. With purpose, she made her way to the War Room, where the Inquisition council awaited her presence.

    She entered the chamber as the final participant, her comrades already gathered around the expansive map that sprawled across the table. After exchanging brief greetings, she joined them for the ensuing discussion on their next course of action. It appeared that the Champion had finally located the red lyrium mine, a crucial hub in the Elder One''s malevolent designs. But the path to it, wide enough to accommodate the Inquisition forces capable of dealing with the Red Templars and the Venatori guarding the location, was obstructed by the rift. Upon hearing this, Miriam''s spirits soared, her mark tingling with anticipation as a fiery essence within it clamored for release upon the corrupt and the wicked.

    "In light of the rift''s presence on our path, the Inquisitor''s direct involvement becomes imperative," Cullen declared, his brow furrowing. "I, too, would prefer to be present. There''s a potential opportunity to glean more about Samson''s whereabouts, and I feel a personal responsibility to attend to this matter."

    "I propose that we seek the assistance of the Templar Order in this endeavor, given the nature of our enemies," Cassandra suggested as her gaze focused on the map.

    Cullen nodded in agreement. "I believe they would be eager to contribute. The goodwill shown by the Herald of Andraste has elevated the Order''s standing, resulting in increased recruitment. This mission could serve as a formidable trial by fire for the new Knights."

    After a few more moments of discussion, when every detail found its resolution, Josephine interjected with a composed yet commanding tone, "Now that this matter is settled, it is time to confront another delicate question." She gestured for everyone to follow her, evoking inquisitive glances exchanged among the group as they complied. Within the confines of her office, the Ambassador carefully retrieved a package from one of the shelves, its already breached seal carrying the unmistakable mark of the Emperor of Orlais. ¡°This arrived this morning from Val Royeaux," she explained, a hint of unease in her voice, "an official gift from His Majesty Gaspard to the Inquisitor." With measured care, she placed the package on her table and proceeded to open it.

    Curiosity gripping her senses, Miriam peered inside to discover the most magnificent robes she had ever seen. The deep blue silk created a striking contrast with delicate golden embroidery, portraying the head of a roaring three-eyed lion, flames adorning its majestic mane. The third eye on the lion''s forehead was fashioned in the likeness of the Inquisition¡¯s insignia. As an accompanying accessory, a ribbon of the same hue bore embroidered Canticles from the Chant of Light. The mage''s breath caught in her chest as she slowly reached out, running her fingers gingerly over the garment. The smooth, cool fabric proved pleasant to the touch. "They are beautiful," she whispered in awe.

    "And indeed, quite audacious," Leliana added with an amused tone.

    Miriam, perplexed by the Spymaster''s remark, furrowed her brow. "Audacious? I don''t understand."

    Leliana''s countenance remained impassive as she responded, "Is it not self-evident?"

    The mage''s bewilderment morphed into a subtle vexation. "Not to me, I am afraid."

    Josephine, always diplomatic, stepped forward to provide clarity. "The lion, Herald, has been a symbol of Orlais since the end of the Exalted Age. To position the Inquisition''s emblem not merely adjacent but seamlessly woven into the majestic beast conveys a message beyond mere alliance, it implies union."

    Cullen crossed his arms, his face weighted with concern, as he interjected, "If I understand your words correctly, this means that if the Inquisitor were to wear these robes in public, it would be tantamount to proclaiming that the Inquisition and the Orlesian Empire stand as an indivisible entity.¡±

    The Ambassador nodded. "Indeed, it would be a statement, subtle yet of consequence. In the Game, every little thing has political significance, even seemingly innocuous details carry weight."

    "His Majesty despises the Game, he explicitly conveyed that sentiment to me," Miriam replied with an earnest tone.

    Leliana chuckled. "He could loathe it and yet engage, even excel in it."

    "I believe he is testing us, gauging the extent of what we will tolerate in order to keep his support," the Ambassador contemplated, pinching her chin in thought. "The King of Ferelden would certainly not appreciate it. The Inquisitor''s statements about the new Emperor have already strained our relations with the monarch. As whispers of the image adorning her newly acquired robes spread, it will only add to the burgeoning tension.¡±

    "We could take the gift and just let it languish, forgotten," Cullen suggested, his obvious contempt for the whole affair coloring his words.

    Josephine shook her head. "If we accept the robes and the Herald does not wear them soon, especially at the official events, it would be considered a grave insult."

    "I believe we should allow Gaspard to have his way for the time being. The cost of worsening relations with Ferelden is not excessively steep," Leliana stated, pausing for a moment before continuing. ¡°The country''s political and military might has been on the decline since King Alistair ascended the throne. He is a kind and honest man, but sadly, such qualities do not necessarily make for a proficient ruler."

    "If we yield once, he won''t cease,¡± Cullen grumbled. ¡°He''ll keep pressing for more and more concessions."

    "Indeed, he will. However, we will confront those challenges as they arise. For the present, we stand to gain from Orlais'' military strength and the unwavering support of the Emperor. Let us, for now, play our part," Leliana replied with a composed demeanor.

    Cassandra emitted an exasperated sigh. "I detest the Game, but nonetheless, this is a symbolic gesture, we aren''t truly obligated to anything by accepting it. Thus, I vote in favor."

    "If His Majesty needs reassurance, I do not see why we cannot offer it. The Emperor is the ruler of His design, surely no harm will come to us in professing our unity," the mage interjected with her perspective.

    "I am aware that I must yield to the majority, yet I find this unfolding of events deeply unsettling. We formalized our agreement in the Winter Palace just a few weeks ago, yet he has already begun with these schemes. Gaspard might be a man of war, yet in essence, he is no different from any other noble," Cullen muttered, the final words escaping his lips with a sense of disappointment.

    "That is an unjust claim, Commander. His Majesty distinguishes himself. He is more devout and pious than any of his peers. It''s unfair to lump him in with the others," Miriam countered with a fervent glow in her eyes.

    Cullen seemed poised to reply, his mouth parting, but then Josephine attuned to the brewing tension, gracefully intervened, "Let us adjourn this meeting for now. Herald, here are the robes. I will craft the official response from the Inquisition, extending gratitude to the Emperor for this gift."

    Taking the package, Miriam bid everyone farewell and made her way to her quarters, eager to try on the new attire.

    As evening descended, Miriam approached Cullen''s office with purpose. A gentle rap echoed as she knocked on the door, seeking entry for a healing magic session. Cullen, in response, tersely permitted her access. She found him standing near a table laden with an array of maps and reports, his gaze carrying a furrowed brow as it assessed the new robes enveloping her form and her hair intricately braided with the ribbon that accompanied the attire. "I see you''ve chosen to embrace Orlesian fashion as promptly as you could," he remarked, his tone cold.

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    Miriam''s heart tightened, the trivial matter casting a shadow over their interactions pained her. "I don''t want discord between us. If it truly bothers you, let''s convene another meeting. I''ll alter my vote, and we can decline the gift."

    Cullen''s frown persisted, yet a noticeable softening touched his expression as he observed her. "No, it wouldn''t be proper if your sentiments toward me influenced your decisions as Inquisitor," he paused for a moment, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Forgive me, I shouldn''t have made that comment. Let us begin anew. Good evening, Miriam."

    Relieved, she returned his sentiment with a warm smile. "Good evening. Are you prepared for our session?"

    He nodded. "Of course. Let''s commence."

    As he settled into a seat, the mage approached, extending her hands to start the healing session. However, before she could channel her magic, Cullen''s gaze fixated on the amulet gracing her neck. "With all that embroidery glistening, I didn''t notice at first, but now I see you''re still wearing the amulet I gave you," he remarked in a soft voice. Confused, Miriam furrowed her brow. Why would she have taken it off? It was her most prized possession, a symbol of their shared history and the support she found in him. Meanwhile, Cullen continued to speak, his tone slightly tinged with wistfulness, "It''s such a worn and simple trinket. Against the backdrop of these regal garments, its humble wear becomes more pronounced."

    Miriam''s hand instinctively went to the amulet, fingers tracing the edges. She hadn''t realized how weathered it had become over time. Memories flooded back¡ªthe battles they faced together, the challenges they overcame. It had indeed suffered, but its significance to her remained unwavering. "I never thought of it that way," she admitted, her gaze shifting between the amulet and the elaborate attire. "To me, it''s a symbol of strength and resilience. It might be worn, but it has endured, just like us. I wouldn''t part with it for anything."

    In the depths of his gaze, a fleeting but intense emotion emerged in response to her words, yet it was a brief unveiling of a sentiment that vanished as swiftly as it appeared. "I see, it is¡­ gratifying to hear," he uttered, a smile forming on his lips as he adjusted himself in the seat. "You can start at your earliest convenience."

    Miriam began the healing spell, threading her enchantments with practiced finesse. As the ethereal energy enveloped Cullen, she observed the gradual change in his demeanor. Though far from complete relaxation, it was a marked improvement on previous sessions. His countenance no longer paled, his breath remained steady, and he withstood the entire span of the spell, she dared say, with noteworthy ease.

    With a gleam of pride in her eyes, she finished the session and withdrew her hands to meet Cullen''s gaze. "Judging by your improved reaction, I wouldn''t be surprised if, in time, you found it not entirely unpleasant, perhaps even soothing."

    A contemplative expression settled upon his features. "I doubt I will ever appreciate the touch of magic, but if such a change were to occur, I am confident it would be through one of your spells." A comforting warmth washed over Miriam, yet before she could formulate a response, he clasped both her hands, and posed a question with a sudden gravity in his tone, "May I implore you for a favor?"

    Her brows furrowed in response, a mixture of concern and curiosity at his question. "Of course. What do you need?"

    "I''ve been observing the worsening state of your mark, and I fear that seeking Solas¡¯ counsel might be our best course of action,¡± he started, his tone earnest and troubled. ¡°He has knowledge of magic that surpasses most, and his insights could be invaluable."

    Miriam recoiled subtly at the mention of the elf. "Solas is an apostate, an infidel. His knowledge may be vast, but he has nothing to do with the mark bestowed by Andraste."

    Cullen''s grip on her hands tightened. "I understand your reservations, but desperate times call for desperate measures. We need every resource available to us. Solas may hold the key to understanding and perhaps mitigating the toll of your new powers. Remember, he did extend his assistance to you many times before."

    She shook her head. "Please, do not compel me to revisit my interactions with the apostate. It is a matter that festers in remorse. I should never have sought counsel from one who does not hold reverence for the Maker and His Bride. The complexities of Andraste''s gift should be understood and addressed within the sacred teachings."

    Cullen''s expression softened, and a hint of vulnerability crept into his voice. "Miriam, I care for you, and it pains me to witness you suffer. The Maker, I believe, would know that seeking the advice of an apostate is not for lack of faith but rather for my well-being."

    The utterance of his feelings resonated deep within her as he, at last, spoke the very words she had longed to hear, yet the moment was soured by the fact that it was accompanied by this particular request. A sigh escaped her lips, caught in the tumultuous struggle between her convictions and the undeniable yearning to bring him solace. After a few long moments of deliberation, she reluctantly conceded, "I shall speak with Solas, but I cannot give you any assurances beyond that."

    He exhaled in relief, gratitude evident in his eyes. "Thank you," he uttered, holding onto her hands for a moment longer before releasing them.

    Miriam descended into the dimly lit rotunda beneath the library, the air thick with the scent of old tomes and the fresh paint. There, she discovered Solas finishing the creation of an elven fresco, the strokes of his brush depicting tales of the Inquisition¡¯s history. A conflict resurged within her as the notion of beseeching aid from the apostate loomed, quickening her heartbeat and leaving her throat parched. She stood at the threshold of uncertainty, grappling with the silent struggle, and as she finally gathered the strength to speak, her internal turmoil manifested in the quivering hesitation of her lips. The notion flitted across her mind ¨C if only Solas had converted to true faith, she could accept his help without the bitter taste of betrayal clinging to her. Miriam drew a deep breath, her chest tightening. "Solas," she began as he turned to face her, "will you be willing to accept the salvation that awaits you in the arms of the one true God? To surrender yourself to the Maker and His Bride, and in so doing, save your soul from eternal damnation in the Void?"

    Solas raised an eyebrow, studying the mage with an air of amusement, his intense gaze fixed on her. "Inquisitor," he replied, his voice quiet and deliberate. "Having ignored me since our arrival in Skyhold, you suddenly grace me with your presence and greet me with an attempt at conversion, no less. To what do I owe this honor?"

    Miriam''s countenance stiffened, her jaw tightening. "I urge you to take this seriously. I extend to you a path of salvation," she retorted, her voice resolute, "an opportunity to embrace the light and escape the impending darkness that awaits those who deny the Maker."

    Solas inclined his head, a wry smile curling upon his lips. "Salvation, Inquisitor, is a concept subject to personal interpretation. I opt to seek it on my own terms, free from the whims of gods and their devoted heralds."

    A surge of ire welled within Miriam, the mark on her hand pulsating with an intensified burn. "So, you spurn my offer?"

    "Decidedly so," Solas replied with nonchalance, strolling toward a nearby table to place his brush.

    Inhaling deeply, Miriam tightened her grip, her palm now a clenched fist. "May the Maker extend His mercy upon you, for once the Elder One is vanquished and your services rendered obsolete, mercy shall not be my chosen course."

    He turned towards her, and for the briefest of moments, a trace of disdain painted his face. "Oh, and pray tell, what would be your chosen course then? Would you throw me to the mercy of the Templar Order you restored, or perhaps send me to the gallows as you did with Briala?¡±

    Miriam took a step closer, her voice a vehement declaration. ¡°It is not for me to decide, the Inquisition is governed by its council. But rest assured, I would do everything in my power to ensure that an infidel like you would come to understand the depths of despair."

    "Despair," the elf scoffed, his tone sharpening, "is a luxury I can ill afford. By your leave, Inquisitor." With that, he departed, leaving Miriam alone within the rotunda.

    The mage took a moment to collect herself, the echoes of the conversation lingering in her mind. The nerve of this blighted infidel was astounding, but what more could one expect from someone of his ilk? She unclenched her fists and took several long breaths. Now somewhat calmed, she could acknowledge that, at the very least, she had fulfilled her promise to Cullen. She had engaged in conversation with the elf, even if it didn''t unfold as planned.

    Miriam took a contemplative glance around the space, her gaze falling on the frescoes the elf was painting. The last one depicted her standing before a crowd, her eyes ablaze with an emerald glow, with several bodies hanging from the gallows behind her. Despite her disdain for the man, she looked at his work with begrudging approval; he was depicting the events truthfully. However, she resolved to keep a closer watch on him. Who knew what this apostate was up to? Making a mental note to arrange for more Templars to be stationed in this area of Skyhold, she turned to leave for her chambers.

    The flickering candlelight cast a soft glow across her quarters as she entered, fatigue weighing on her from both the emotional strain and the lateness of the hour. A single letter, adorned with the broken seal of the Ostwick Circle, lay on her table, catching her eye. With a mix of curiosity and trepidation, Miriam opened it, her eyes absorbing the inked passages with growing disbelief.

    "Esteemed Inquisitor,

    It is with a heavy heart that I convey to you the lamentable news of the passing of the First Enchanter Lydia. Her crossing through the Veil was serene, a testament to the Maker''s grace, and we find solace in knowing that she now dwells in His eternal light.

    As the Inquisitor, and the Herald of Andraste you bear the weight of great responsibility, and in this trying time, I implore you to find strength in the divine purpose that guides your path.

    With deepest sympathies,

    Knight-Commander Tobias

    Ostwick Circle of Magi."

    As Miriam absorbed the news of Lydia''s passing, a profound sense of grief enveloped her. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sank to the floor, grappling with the unexpected blow to her spirit. The one who had guided her, the one who had taught her everything she knew, the one who had truly cared and loved her, was no more.

    A sudden surge of anger, a tempestuous emotion, seized her. The ire was directed towards the Maker Himself. She, His devoted servant, had diligently carried out His bidding, adhering faithfully to His will. Yet, what reward did she reap? Was this the divine boon bestowed upon her for her unwavering faith? "WHY!?" she bellowed, the exclamation echoing through the confines of her chamber. "What more do You want? You cruel, merciless¡ª" Her outcry was abruptly stifled, cut short by a formidable wave of pain coursing through her palm. An intense, piercing sensation left her incapacitated, doubled over in an involuntary submission to the tormenting force as blood poured from the mark. The note slipped from her grasp, descending to the floor, its pristine parchment now tainted by the deep hue of crimson, every word submerged except for the phrase, ''Her crossing through the Veil was serene''.

    A chilling realization settled upon her, penetrating the fog of anger that had enveloped her moments earlier. First Enchanter Lydia, her cherished mentor, had been an elderly soul, and the inevitability of her passing was an undeniable decree of mortal existence. The Maker, in His divine grace, had granted her the solace of a serene departure, sparing her from the clutches of prolonged suffering and the anguish of lingering illness. This was the unspoken boon, the reward veiled in the shadows of her grief. "Forgive me," she whispered, her voice a fragile echo in the quiet room. "Have mercy on your unworthy, foolish servant." Yet, as if in denial of her plea, the relentless waves of pain surged through her once more. Blood flowed freely, her body convulsing with each pulse of agony. Summoning her healing magic, Miriam began the incantation, the arcane energy tingling in her fingertips. Fear emerged within her¡ªwhat if the Maker deemed her resistance to the punishment an act of defiance? A silent prayer formed on her lips as she withdrew her spell and embraced the torment, allowing the pain to wash over her like a cleansing fire. The room seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, casting shadows that danced in rhythm with the pulsating waves of suffering. Miriam''s body trembled, her breaths shallow, yet an inexplicable peace settled within her. This was not a punishment, but a crucible through which her spirit would be refined.

 The Blade of the Faithful

    Late at night, Cullen sat behind his cluttered desk in the subdued ambiance of his dimly lit office. The mountain air, chilly and crisp, wafted through the room, causing the flickering candle flames to dance and cast long shadows across the maps and scattered papers that covered every inch of his workspace. His fingers tapped nervously on the worn wood, a rhythmic cadence reflecting the unrest in his mind.

    The same day Miriam recounted the results of her disastrous conversation with Solas to the council, Leliana discreetly approached him. Her expression was grave as she unfolded unsettling news: the maids responsible for maintaining the Inquisitor''s chambers had reported discovering a large puddle of blood on the floor. Miriam''s deteriorating condition and her stubbornness indicated that the council needed to broach the matter of her fate with Solas without her knowledge. Though it didn''t sit well with Cullen, the situation left little room for hesitation.

    After they clandestinely convened to deliberate on a course of action, it was decided that Josephine''s diplomatic prowess would be the most effective means to request aid from the elf, assuring him that the threats made by the Inquisitor were spoken in the heat of the moment and did not represent the intentions of the rest of the council.

    Solas, surprisingly cooperative, offered his help, yet its efficacy proved limited. Without a proper examination, he conceded that he could offer little insight beyond the stark advice to refrain from using the mark until it was absolutely necessary. Delving into its potential, he warned, would only worsen the adverse effects it had on Miriam.

    Yet how could they do that when the need to close the rifts was present and the Maker himself called for the Herald''s powers to be used against their enemies? Weariness etched lines on Cullen''s face as he sighed, his fingers rubbing tired eyes. The complexity of the situation weighed heavily on him, exacerbated by the inconvenient truth that he had found himself entangled in romantic sentiments for the woman.

    He tried to rationalize, reminding himself that such desires were improper; they were in the midst of a war, and she, the Inquisitor, held the revered title of the Herald of Andraste. He tried to focus on the harsh reality that the tapestry of their futures bore the ominous hue of bleakness ¡ªshe bared the mark that threatened her existence, and he was on the precipice of losing his mind to lyrium withdrawal. He even tried to convince himself that his feelings were surely unreciprocated; Miriam regarded him as a dear friend, a hero from her childhood, her love for him boundless but strictly platonic. And yet, against the rationality of his own arguments, the currents of emotion continued to pull him in her direction.

    To his frustration, he wasn¡¯t the only one drawn to her. The Emperor, with an unmistakable and keen interest, went to great lengths to secure favor with the Inquisitor. Following the official gift, there came an unofficial one¡ªa small statue of Andraste masterfully carved from sandalwood, blessed by Her Grace Callista, a Grand Cleric of Orlais. The intention was to provide the Herald with an undisturbed sanctuary for prayer within the tranquility of her quarters. Gaspard then began an ongoing correspondence with Miriam. Each letter served as a detailed report of his efforts to root out heresy and corruption from the vast expanse of the Empire. The mage, her eyes gleaming with fervor, eagerly told all present how His Majesty had uncovered yet another noble family involved in a conspiracy with the Elder One, or in the secret worship of the Old Gods, or even in espionage on behalf of the Qunari. Conspicuously, all of these families had once been supporters of the former Empress. Swift and decisive action followed, with their properties and gold stripped away. The confiscated riches were then divided into three parts: one-third directed to the Empire''s treasury, another to further the Inquisition''s cause, and, surprisingly, the final third allocated to rebuilding the alienages scorched during Celene''s rule.

    Despite the grim spectacle of Briala''s execution, Gaspard demonstrated an ability to rapidly amass goodwill among the leaders of elven communities. His approach involved financial backing and promises of favorable legislative changes, contingent upon their conversion to Andrastianism. Ambitious plans were set in motion, aiming not only for the construction of Chantry buildings but also schools and infirmaries in every alienage. These facilities pledged services to all faithful elves.

    The few dissenting nobles who dared to protest against the Emperor''s policies quickly found themselves accused of treason and dispatched to the gallows. The broader Orlesian populace, however, sang praises for Gaspard. After years of chaos and war, the strict dogmas he enforced did not seem like oppressive bars but steadfast pillars, giving the people of the Empire a sense of stability in uncertain times.

    Cullen sighed wearily and rose from his seat. The hour was late, and tomorrow held final preparations for a journey to the Southron Hills. It was time to call it a day. Ascending the ladder to his bedroom, he shed his armor, the weight of his responsibilities lifted momentarily. Slipping under the covers, hoping there would be no nightmares, he succumbed to the comfort of sleep.

    In the hushed tranquility of Miriam''s quarters, Cullen found himself before her, beholding the delicate embroidery of her new attire, aglow with the moonlight filtering through the balcony. As he observed her with a frown, she met his gaze with an air of serene composure. "Why do you not favor the robes?" she inquired, her words carrying a subtle, inviting cadence.

    Cullen hesitated, his eyes momentarily evading hers. "Because they bring to mind Gaspard each time I see them," he reluctantly confessed.

    A small smile adorned the mage''s lips, her eyes holding a discerning glint. "In that case, you may remove them."

    Cullen''s breath hastened at her proposition, a warm flush painting his cheeks. "Are you... certain?"

    "Absolutely," she whispered, the atmosphere thick with the promise of an imminent, intimate revelation.

    Encouraged, he embarked on the task with slow, deliberate movements, each motion laced with a palpable sense of anticipation. The gentle glide of the soft fabric unveiled the contours of the mage''s form, casting a delicate interplay of shadows on the ethereal fabric of her chemise. His hands moved with a blend of hesitancy and eagerness, his fingers tracing the graceful curves of her shoulders and descending along the inviting path of her arms.

    In response, she took a step closer, bridging the gap between them. Cullen, now standing so close to Miriam, felt the warmth of her presence wrapping around him like a soft embrace. Leaning in, his lips hovered so close to hers that their breaths mingled in a shared rhythm of desire.

    The abrupt knock on the door tore Cullen from the tendrils of his dream. He opened his eyes with a groan, vexed by the fact that the moment of passion had been denied to him once again. "First a bump in the road, and now knocking," he grumbled under his breath. Then, in a louder tone, laced with a touch of exasperation, he added, "Who is it?"

    "A messenger, Ser," came the swift reply. "Documents from Lady Josephine require your immediate attention."

    Cullen sighed, resigned to the reality of his duties. "Wait a moment," he instructed the messenger before reluctantly pulling himself out of bed. Quickly donning his armor, he descended from his quarters to face the pressing matters of the waking world. "Bring the documents," he called to the man, a tone of resignation in his voice as he prepared to face the demands of the day.

    In the muted gloom of dawn, the Inquisition forces, entwined with the Templars, embarked on a journey from the towering fortress of Skyhold to the expanse of the Southron Hills. Miriam, her countenance bright with enthusiasm, took the lead in the procession, with Lysette following closely behind. The Imperial Highway, worn and weathered by the footsteps of countless travelers, stretched out endlessly before them, disappearing into the horizon in an indistinct blur. As the procession advanced, the Highway guided them past quaint villages and homesteads in the Hinterlands, where curious onlookers peered at the Herald from behind weathered shutters.  In due course, the path that had guided them through the serene landscapes of Ferelden transitioned into rugged terrain, and they finally reached the designated meeting point with the Champion and her companions.

    After several days of fervent anticipation, the long-awaited moment unfolded. Silhouettes materialized on the horizon, piercing through the morning mist. However, to Cullen''s utter astonishment, the figures that emerged were not Hawke, Sebastian, and Fenris as expected. Instead, it was the Emperor of Orlais, adorned in battle armor, flanked by a formidable contingent of Chevaliers. Cullen and Cassandra exchanged incredulous glances, and just as bewilderment settled in, Miriam rushed forward. "Your Majesty! What a surprise!"

    "What in the Void is he doing here?" Cullen muttered under his breath as he and the Seeker followed the mage.

    "Inquisitor, the Maker has deemed it fitting to reunite us once more," Gaspard declared with a gracious smile and a respectful nod. He then turned to meet Cullen''s querying gaze with a measured calmness. "Commander Cullen," he began, "we have come to join forces against the encroaching threat of the Elder One. Our common enemy warrants unity, does it not?"

    Cullen''s frustration simmered beneath a stoic facade, "Your Majesty, if I may respectfully suggest, decisions of this magnitude warrant a thorough prior discussion."

    Gaspard''s countenance remained unwavering. "Had the Inquisition seen fit to share details of this mission with me, I would have willingly engaged in such discussions. Unfortunately, such insight was not provided, leaving me no choice but to act swiftly upon its revelation."

    Cassandra, although wary, inquired, "Your Majesty, have you, perchance, disclosed your sojourn in Ferelden to King Alistair?"

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    A subtle tension pervaded the air as Gaspard responded, "Alas, time was of the essence, so I had no chance to do so. But the King, in his wisdom, shall understand that the Maker''s chosen ruler of Orlais must take decisive action when needed."

    "Surely you must be aware of the potential repercussions that arise from crossing Ferelden''s borders with an armored force without the consent of its King," Cullen interjected in disbelief.

    Gaspard, upholding his regal composure, did not yield. "In matters of such gravity, one must set aside concerns for consequences in pursuit of the greater good for Thedas. Let us unite our forces and unleash our righteous fury upon the minions of the Elder One. Once this impending threat is vanquished, we can delve into discussions on the matter further."

    "But, Your Majesty, how did you learn of this mission and discover the exact location of our designated meeting place?" Miriam asked with unflinching bluntness.

    Cullen tensed. It was painfully clear that Gaspard had been spying on them, so one didn''t require expertise in diplomacy to discern that posing such a direct question would inevitably lead to a confrontation. However, it seemed that the Emperor had been anticipating this very inquiry. For he announced his response in a resounding voice, clearly ensuring that his words reached the ears of the Inquisition''s troops. "I did receive the vision from Him, Lady Inquisitor. The place, the time, and the purpose of this endeavor, it all came to me. An extraordinary revelation, indeed!"

    As murmurs of awe ran through the ranks of their forces, Cullen went to great lengths to keep his face from betraying his skepticism. His initial notion that the information had leaked through the Emperor''s spies seemed far more plausible. Yet, that begged the question: how had Leliana allowed this breach? Gaspard must have enlisted formidable experts to circumvent the Spymaster''s defenses.

    While Miriam immersed herself in a spirited discussion with the Emperor regarding divine revelations, Cassandra urgently pulled Cullen aside. "I have my doubts about his claim," she whispered. "Besides, the King will not entertain even a fleeting belief in our ignorance regarding Gaspard''s unannounced arrival on his land. Not when we''ve essentially declared our unity with the Empire with these accursed robes. Alistair will accuse us of orchestrating a military operation on Ferelden''s soil with none other than Orlais. He will perceive it as a brazen affront to his reign and authority."

    "I am aware," Cullen replied in a subdued tone, his voice carrying the weight of frustration. "Yet, what recourse do we have at this moment? We have no evidence to refute his declaration, and we have no authority to order him to withdraw. Also, have a look at our soldiers and the Templars," he gestured towards the radiant countenances of the assembled multitude, fervently discussing the divine revelation that had seemingly touched the Emperor, their spirits soaring in collective conviction. "We may not embrace this narrative, Alistair may remain unconvinced, but they, they have become believers."

    The Seeker gritted her teeth. "He understands the game he plays, I''ll grant him that."

    Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of three figures silhouetted against the crest of the hill. This time, it was the very individuals they were meant to meet. Hawke and her companions descended the slope with a graceful stride, casting a momentary hush over the assembled gathering. As the introductions unfolded, a palpable mix of curiosity and cautious respect permeated the air. Sebastian, genuinely intrigued by Gaspard''s designation as ''the chosen ruler of His design,'' engaged in polite conversation. Meanwhile, Fenris maintained his stoic demeanor, his unwavering gaze revealing little. Hawke, with a dry wit that thinly veiled her indifference, barely navigated the intricacies of the social exchange.

    With the formalities over, attention turned decisively to the mission at hand. The Champion, her tone commanding, revealed that the rift was close and that if they hurried, they could reach it before sundown. A collective understanding propelled the assembled forces forward, venturing into the uneven terrain until they reached the passage at the end of which the tear in the Veil shimmered in the last rays of the sunset. As the group stopped their advances, Cullen addressed his allies, ¡°The rift does not appear to be substantial. The Templars can efficiently deal with any demons that appear, allowing us to secure the area before Miriam goes in to seal it.¡±

    Gaspard, however, intercepted with an air of assertiveness. "If the rift poses a minimal threat, it''s a prime opportunity for the Inquisitor to demonstrate her capabilities. Nothing inspires troops like witnessing the might of their leader," he declared, his voice carrying the resonance of one accustomed to command.

    Cullen''s jaw clenched. Gaspard''s inclination to assert authority mirrored the power dynamics of the Orlesian court. He was poised to protest when, unexpectedly, Miriam stepped forward in support of the Emperor''s idea. ¡°His Majesty speaks the truth. The Maker has honed my spirit for this very task," she proclaimed, her voice resonating with fervent zeal. "It is a chance to reveal the strength bestowed by Andraste, to let people witness firsthand the power that propels our cause." He saw Lysette clasped the mage¡¯s wrist, her eyes imploring, but Miriam delicately withdrew from the Templar''s touch and shook her head with a solemn resolve. Then, her gaze burning with an impassioned fire, she turned towards the assembled troops and bellowed. "Behold, faithful warriors! Witness the power of the one true God bestowed upon me by His Bride." She raised her hand, the mark coming to life with a radiant emerald light that bathed the surroundings in its luminance. "Sing the Chant of Light, my brethren, and let the melody of faith accompany my battle. But heed my words, stay back. The cleansing fires will burn hot!"

    The troops, their faces illuminated by the light, looked upon Miriam with a mixture of awe and anticipation. The Chant of Light began, and even the Chevaliers inspired by Miriam''s fervor, joined in the chorus. Cullen tightened his grip on the sword, praying to the Maker that the unfolding idea wouldn''t culminate in disaster. His eyes were fixed on the mage''s swift approach to the rift. As Miriam came close, the tear widened, and from its depths emerged five shades, their luminous red eyes fixated upon her. As the creatures lunged at the mage, she responded with ferocity, hurling a wave of green flames at her adversaries, the fire twisting and transforming into five arrows that found their mark with the precision of a masterful archer. As the green projectiles hit the shades, they exploded, engulfing the demons in flames that consumed them to a crisp, their bodies dissipating into ash in an instant.

    The rift contorted, and the air suddenly cracked with electricity as the Pride demon emerged from it. Cullen unsheathed his sword, poised to command the attack and join the battle himself. However, a firm hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned sharply to face Gaspard, who regarded him with an intense expression. "Stay back," he ordered.

    Cullen liberated himself from the grasp, retorting, "It''s a Pride demon, she can''t deal with it on her own."

    "Yes, she can. Just look!" The Emperor pointed his gloved hand at the unfolding battle.

    Miriam, undeterred by the potent lashes of the demon, stood ensconced within a barrier of her own making. The flames enveloped her like a shroud, their verdant tongues engaged in a mesmerizing dance within the barrier''s azure hue.

    Her emerald veins began to shimmer, the light flowing through them like radiant rivers, illuminating her features with an otherworldly brilliance. The glow accentuated the contours of her resolute face, her eyes now pools of luminescence. She started singing the Chant, her voice resonating with a distorted quality, akin to ripples on water, weaving into the chorus of the soldiers.

    Cullen, entranced by the unfolding spectacle, observed as the flames surrounding the mage began to intensify and fill the barrier from within until the entire interior became a tight ball of flames. The Pride demon seemed to sense the impending danger, but it was already too late. The sphere erupted in a potent explosion, and though the fires did not reach the Inquisition¡¯s forces, the fine dust and searing wind enveloped everyone gathered in a relentless wave.

    Cullen shielded his face with his hand, protecting his eyes from the onslaught. As the wave passed and the settling dust revealed the aftermath, he beheld Miriam standing proudly in the middle of the scorched black terrain, with no demon or rift in sight.

    The soldiers'' chant transformed into fervent cheers as they threw their hands into the air. Gaspard turned to address them, his resonant voice managing to be heard despite the commotion, "That is the might of the Herald of Andraste, the Blade of the Faithful!"

    "The Blade of the Faithful!" the crowd caught on, repeating it again and again as Cullen watched with concern at the mage. The intensity in her blazing eyes and the pulsating glow of veins beneath her skin gave her an almost ethereal quality. For a moment, he thought that she looked more like a spirit than a woman, and the very notion sent a chill down his spine. To his relief, Miriam''s radiance gradually receded, and the intense glow in her eyes faded. The alien features that had taken hold of her during the battle returned to the familiar face that Cullen knew so well. Once in her usual state, the mage strode confidently toward the soldiers, a triumphant smile adorning her lips.

    The camp buzzed with activity at night, the air alive with discussions about the Herald''s extraordinary might and the vision that had spurred the Emperor to align with the Inquisition¡¯s mission. The morale of the troops was at an all-time high, and the flickering campfires illuminated faces filled with hope and exhilaration.

    Although the rift was sealed, the mighty demon burned to a crisp, and Miriam emerged unscathed, Cullen couldn''t share their excitement. Despite it all, unease lingered within him. Solas had counseled against heedless use of the mark, a caution that proved prescient today. Determined to resolve the issue, he navigated through the bustling camp to have a conversation with the Emperor, recognizing that his schemes to provoke the mage into using her powers needed to be stopped.

    Gaspard stood near his tent, surrounded by the exuberant Chevaliers, lost in revelry. The air hung heavy with the heady aroma of wine. The Emperor acknowledged his presence with a nod, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Commander, the new title I bestowed upon the Inquisitor, ''The Blade of the Faithful,'' seems to be taking root among the people. It is, after all, rather fitting, wouldn''t you agree?"

    Cullen locked eyes with Gaspard, masking the smoldering frustration beneath his composed demeanor. The Emperor''s satisfaction grated on him; it seemed every move the man made was steeped in political calculation. "Your Majesty," he replied, his tone measured but carrying a subtle edge, "might I request a moment of your time to discuss certain matters in private?"

    Gaspard lifted his palm, signaling for the Chevaliers to disperse, and gestured for Cullen to accompany him into the privacy of his tent. Within the confines of the canvas walls, Cullen spoke once again, "I am compelled to make you aware of the toll the mark on the Inquisitor''s palm is taking on her. Unleashing its power only adds to the burden. I implore you, Your Majesty, to refrain from urging her to use these abilities unless it becomes an absolute necessity.¡±

    The Emperor regarded him with a leveled gaze, his expression inscrutable. "Even the finest sword dulls its edge as it cuts through enemies, yet is that reason enough to cease using it?"

    Cullen''s voice took on a stern tone. "Are you suggesting that the Inquisitor is to be treated as a mere weapon, with no consideration for her well-being?"

    Gaspard sighed. "We are all but instruments in the hands of the Maker, shaped for His design."

    Cullen''s gaze bore into the Emperor, the intensity of his scrutiny unwavering. "Is it truly His design, or is it the design of His Majesty?"

    Gaspard''s face remained calm, but there was a clear warning in his tone. ¡°Such questions might lead one down treacherous paths, Commander."

    Cullen, jaw set with tension, retorted tersely, "Your Majesty, I must take my leave, if you''ll pardon me."

    Gaspard smirked. "Certainly, Commander. Your departure is granted."

    Cullen left the Emperor''s presence feeling like a taut string on the verge of snapping. As he strode through the camp, he found himself unable to dispel the haunting notion that allowing Celene''s demise might have been a grave mistake.

 The question

    Miriam stood in the dimly lit tent, the cold morning air barely permeating the heavy fabric. While she was tightening the laces of her robe, Lysette, who stood next to her, was busy fastening the straps of her armor, the metallic echoes resonating with the solemnity of their surroundings.

    "My new title, bestowed by the Emperor¡­" the mage murmured, almost to herself, her voice laden with contemplation. ¡°It seems to resonate well with the soldiers."

    Lysette, immersed in adjusting the last piece of her armor, nodded knowingly. "Indeed, it does. The Sword of the Faithful ignites their hearts far more than the Herald of Andraste."

    A furrow etched itself on Miriam''s forehead as she contemplated the Templar''s words. "But why?"

    Lysette halted, lifting her eyes from her task with a sigh. ¡°A title steeped in war speaks their language, it makes you more relatable to them.¡± A moment of silence passed before her friend spoke again, "But personally, I don¡¯t favor it."

    "Why not?¡± the mage questioned, taken aback by the statement.

    Another pause draped the tent in silence before Lysette replied, her gaze piercing through the dimness, "It doesn''t suit you, Inquisitor. Because you mend the rifts in the Veil, tend to injuries, and protect. You''re the shield, and I take pride in being your guard and friend when you stand in that role."

    Moved by the Templar''s words, Miriam was momentarily lost for a response, but before the silence could stretch further, an announcement from outside the tent disrupted their exchange. "His Imperial Majesty Gaspard seeks an audience with the Inquisitor."

    With a shared glance, the women hastily completed their preparations. The mage straightened her posture, adjusting the folds of her robes, and declared, "I am ready to receive the visitor."

    The heavy canvas of the tent parted, and in strode the Emperor. His eyes met Miriam''s, and he offered a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Inquisitor," he greeted, his voice resonating through the confined space.

    Miriam dipped her head in deference, "Your Majesty."

    Gaspard''s gaze shifted to Lysette, who stood at attention. "Templar, relieve us of your presence if you would."

    Lysette cast a questioning glance at Miriam, who responded with a subtle nod. With a crisp salute to both the mage and the Emperor, she swiftly exited the tent, leaving the two alone.

    Gaspard''s eyes lingered on Miriam, its intensity nearly tactile. "Now that I have the opportunity to thoroughly observe you, Inquisitor, the robes befit you perfectly. After all, I do know how to select attire suitable for one''s standing," he remarked, a touch of self-assuredness in his tone.

    The mage, uncertain of how to respond to such a statement, opted to mirror Josephine''s diplomatic grace. Inclining her head respectfully, she replied, "I appreciate your discerning eye, Your Majesty. Your choice does indeed suggest that you harbor not only political acumen but also a refined taste."

    At her response, Gaspard''s lips curled into a subtle smile. "It is reassuring to learn that you can recognize and appreciate the extensive spectrum of my refined qualities, Inquisitor. And be aware, I am reciprocating the sentiment by acknowledging yours in kind."

    Miriam locked eyes with him, her gaze mirroring curiosity. "Mine, Your Majesty?"

    Gaspard nodded. "Indeed, Inquisitor, it is your piety and unwavering devotion to the teachings of Andraste, your willingness to submit to His divine design that I find most admirable. In the grandeur of court life, I have encountered countless people, yet none can hold a candle to the radiant virtues that emanate from you."

    Miriam, unaccustomed to such direct and earnest praise, felt a flush of warmth spreading across her cheeks. She fidgeted slightly, grappling with the unexpected compliment. "Your words honor me, Your Majesty. I...I am grateful for your kind appreciation," she stammered, her gaze momentarily dropping as she struggled to maintain composure.

    Gaspard''s eyes, intense and discerning, lingered on her. "There is no need for gratitude, Inquisitor. I merely speak the truth as I see it. In a realm filled with artifice and pretense, your authenticity shines like a beacon. It is a rare and refreshing quality."

    Miriam, still blushing, managed a tentative smile. "Your Grace is too generous with his words."

    Gaspard closed the gap between them, a calculated step that brought him into close proximity with the mage. "Generosity is not a virtue I readily dispense," he pronounced solemnly. "When I express admiration, it is reserved for those truly deserving." A moment of silence lingered before he proceeded, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur, "There''s another facet of your character that captivates me, Inquisitor." Miriam, held in suspense, awaited his revelation. "Watching you unleash your powers against the enemies of the Maker ignited a fire within me.¡± Gaspard''s words took on an almost confessional tone, ¡°The pleasure of seeing the demons succumb to the righteous blaze was incomparable." He fixed his gaze on her as if testing her reaction. "Have you, too, experienced a similar sentiment as you witnessed them reduced to mere ash?"

    His question echoed in the recesses of the mage¡¯s mind, and as she pondered them, she found a deep resonance, "Yes, Your Grace. The indescribable joy that ensnares me as I extinguish those who defy the Maker is akin to none other."

    Gaspard''s broad smile unfolded in response to her admission. "I''m pleased to hear that, Inquisitor," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of excitement. "My heart beats fast in anticipation, for I am eager to witness more of your powers as we confront the minions of the Elder One within the accursed confines of the red lyrium mine.¡±

    A subtle shiver traversed her spine, and with zeal, she declared, "I shall endeavor to live up to the expectations placed upon me, Your Majesty."

    With a graceful gesture, Gaspard delicately seized her hand and brought it to his lips, the kiss lingering for a heartbeat longer than social norms would typically establish. Then, releasing her palm with a flourish, he stepped back with a charming smile. "I harbor no doubts, Inquisitor. None at all."

    With that, the Emperor departed, leaving Miriam in solitude within the tent, the warmth of his kiss lingering on her hand.

    The windswept passage to the red lyrium mine reverberated with the rhythmic clank of armor and the subdued murmurs of the Inquisition forces. Miriam observed Cullen, his gaze piercing the terrain with a steely resolve. The air carried a thick, unspoken anticipation, a foreboding prelude to the impending confrontation with the forces of the Elder One. Scouts ventured forth and returned with tidings of a fortified entrance, guarded by both Venatori and the Red Templars.

    After a brief deliberation, the decision was made - the Templars, led by Cassandra, would spearhead the attack. Their disciplined formations and anti-magic prowess made them the ideal vanguard against the Tevinter mages. Following in their wake would be the forces of the Inquisition and the Emperor''s Chevaliers, who would focus on the corrupt Knights.

    When the Templars pressed forward, Cullen unsheathed his sword and signaled for Miriam and Lysette to relocate to the rear of their forces. Amidst the forthcoming silencing techniques the Knights were poised to unleash, the Inquisitor¡¯s presence at the frontlines would be unproductive, as her magical abilities risked being nullified alongside those of the Venatori. Miriam acquiesced reluctantly; unfortunately, in this battle, she served only as a morale booster, relegated to a spectator rather than a participant.

    At last, the Knights and Cassandra charged, their blades singing through the air as they collided with the Venatori. The clash was thunderous, a symphony of steel meeting magic. Arcane bursts illuminated the scene as they collided with the Templars'' steadfast shields, yet the advance remained unwavering. Even from a distance, Miriam could sense the holy energy invoked by the Knights¡ªremains of divine light that intruded upon her, distorting the threads of her connection to the Fade. As the magic of the Tevinter mages waned in the face of this sacred force, Cullen, an astute observer of the unfolding skirmish, raised his hand with a somber gravity. In response to the signaled command, the Emperor and his man surged forward, their battle cry resounding. In unison, the remaining forces of the Inquisition joined the charge. It was there, at the heart of the mine''s entrance, that the battlefield metamorphosed into a chaotic tableau.

    Gaspard, leading the Chevaliers, gracefully maneuvered through the tumult with a skill honed over years of martial prowess. His blade, gliding through the ranks of the Red Templars, bore witness to an almost casual mastery. Amidst the melee, Miriam observed a streak of black hair as Hawke plunged into the fray, her massive weapon delivering powerful blows that sent shards of red lyrium protruding from the Red Templar¡¯s armor soaring into the air. The deadly litany of arrows followed, courtesy of Brother Sebastian perched on a high vantage point, bowstring taut and lips murmuring prayers. Fenris, the brooding elf with lyrium-infused markings, moved like a ghost among the tumult. His gauntleted hand delved into the chests of one Venatori after another, ripping out their hearts with visceral brutality.

    In the relentless advance of the Inquisition, the pendulum of battle swung decisively in their favor. As the pressure mounted, the final Venatori succumbed to Cassandra''s blade, and the Red Templars, with dwindling ranks, hastily retreated into the profound depths of the mine. Victory, unequivocally, belonged to the Inquisition, if only in this initial skirmish.

    With the cessation of the battle and the Knights no longer suppressing magic in the area, Miriam swiftly hastened to the injured soldiers strewn across the battlefield, her hands radiating with the gentle glow of a healing spell. A wounded man and woman, their faces etched with pain and weariness, cast pleading gazes upon their leader. Her healing touch bestowed profound relief, and an air of gratitude enveloped the scene, with murmurs of appreciation and whispered thanks trailing her every step.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    "Thank the Maker for you, Your Worship," one soldier rasped, a faint smile forming on her bloodied lips.

    Miriam nodded, her expression a mixture of determination and compassion. "It is my duty. Your bravery deserves nothing less."

    She moved tirelessly from one injured soldier to the next, tending to their wounds until the immediate threat to their lives subsided. Upon completing her task, she extracted a worn handkerchief, wiping away the sweat that adorned her brow, and then consumed a lyrium potion to restore her mana. Her gaze momentarily shifted to her robes, now bearing the stains of her healing endeavors.

    Somehow, there was a peculiar satisfaction in this familiar role of the healer¡ªsaving lives rather than extinguishing them. Yet, as she reflected on her words to the Emperor, the truth lingered. The joy derived from vanquishing the enemies of faith was undeniable. A dichotomy tugged at her thoughts¡ªwas she a shield, safeguarding lives, or a sword, bringing about the demise of those who opposed the Maker?

    Miriam¡¯s contemplations were abruptly halted by Cullen''s summons, urging her to join the ongoing discussion. She hurried to his side, discovering him with a countenance that bore signs of recent healing, the effects of a just-consumed potion evident in the freshly closed wounds.

    The remaining members of the Inquisition forces assembled around him, the atmosphere charged with tension, and the scent of blood and sweat clinging to the air. In their midst stood Hawke, accompanied by her allies, Cassandra and the Emperor, all poised in anticipation of forthcoming decisions.

    "We have gained the upper hand," Cullen announced. "But we must press on. We cannot afford to give the enemy any respite. We will split our forces¡ªa part will stay here to secure our position and safeguard the wounded, while the rest will venture deeper into the mine to eliminate the remaining Red Templars." Everyone nodded, their expressions grim as he continued, "Hawke, you will command the contingent of our men remaining here. Ensure the area is secure, and be vigilant for any signs of reinforcements. We cannot afford to be caught off guard." The Champion acknowledged the order with a brief nod. She quickly organized the soldiers under her, strategically positioning them to fortify the perimeter and ensure the safety of the wounded, now guarded by Fenris and Brother Sebastian.

    Meanwhile, the remaining united forces gathered and followed the Commander as he led them deeper into the mine. The descent into the tunnel felt like a descent into madness. The red lyrium, once small and innocuous, now manifested as jagged, outgrown crystals that hummed and pulsed with a life of their own. They loomed like grotesque growths, casting distorted shadows on the damp walls of the mine. The rhythmic glow emanated an uncanny resemblance to a beating heart, a perverse mockery of life within the heart of darkness. The atmosphere grew increasingly tainted, a palpable heaviness settling in. Each inhalation became a laborious task, as though she was drawing in the very essence of malaise. Miriam wiped the sweat from her face, the handkerchief was now so soaked that it offered little relief. The mage stole a glance at her companions, and the weariness etched on their faces mirrored her own fatigue. The once-vibrant Emperor and his stalwart Chevaliers now moved as if weighed down by an invisible burden. Cullen, in particular, appeared to be affected deeply. His pallid and taut countenance revealed the toll exacted by the proximity to the red lyrium¡ªa burden she understood to be more weighty for him than for the rest. Miriam, concerned for her friend¡¯s well-being, moved closer to him and pressed her shoulder against his for a moment. The touch was delicate, a fleeting connection in an attempt to show her support. Cullen glanced down at her, their eyes meeting briefly in a silent exchange. His nod, terse but filled with gratitude, acknowledged her efforts before he redirected his gaze to confront the path ahead.

    As the Inquisition forces persevered, they reached a vast chamber where the pulsating red lyrium crystals converged, creating a focal point of otherworldly power. The oppressive atmosphere here reached an almost unbearable intensity, exacerbated by the nauseating stench of rotting meat that permeated the area.

    In an instant, Miriam¡¯s eyes discerned the remaining Red Templars, lost in their lyrium-induced trance, voraciously feasting on chunks of red lyrium. Bloodied mouths, mutilated by the sharp edges of the cursed substance, produced gruesome sounds¡ªa discordant symphony of agony and madness. Cullen wasted no time. He raised his sword, the blade gleaming in the crimson light, and pointed it at the oblivious Red Knights. However, before the attack had a chance to start, a deafening roar, unlike any Miriam had heard before, reverberated through the area. It was a deserted, haunting sound, akin to the primal resonance of an enraged and wounded beast. The ground trembled beneath their feet as a colossal, monstrous figure¡ªa grotesque fusion of corrupted flesh and pulsating red crystal¡ªdescended from the cavern''s ceiling right before them, landing with an earth-shaking thud.

    The Inquisition forces, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of the Behemoth, swiftly regained their composure. Lysette stood right beside her, shield and sword at the ready, while Cullen barked orders to the troops. The corrupted beast unleashed another bone-chilling roar, prompting the Red Templars behind it to awaken from their trance and hastily charge toward the intruders.

    The first wave of Inquisition soldiers rushed forward, yet the Behemoth moved with surprising agility, evading their attacks with unsettling grace. Its massive left hand, shaped like a claw, sliced through the air, striking down multiple soldiers with a single blow.

    Meanwhile, Gaspard and his Chevaliers engaged the remaining Red Templars, now even more frenzied and powerful. Recognizing that unleashing her flames here wasn''t a viable option, Miriam cast protective barriers on Cullen, the Emperor, and Cassandra, fortifying them against the impending onslaught.

    The mage saw the Seeker swing her sword, striking hard against the Behemoth, but the corrupted flesh proved resilient. The beast, in its darkened fury, countered with a brutal kick, hurling the woman against a jagged outcrop. Miriam''s protective barrier, though tested by the brutal force, held resolute. Emerging unharmed from the unforgiving ground, Cassandra''s eyes shone with an unwavering flame, and without hesitation, she swiftly reentered the fray.

    As the battle raged on, the Inquisition forces struggled against the overwhelming strength of their enemies. The insidious red lyrium, a malevolent force coursing through the chamber, fueled and fortified the corrupted while simultaneously sapping the vitality of the valiant warriors. The situation swiftly spiraled out of control as the once-disciplined formation of their troops disintegrated and the battlefield metamorphosed into a swirling vortex of crimson chaos.

    The dwindling numbers of their forces fought valiantly, but their efforts seemed akin to a desperate struggle against the inexorable current of fate. Half of the Chevaliers and Templars had fallen, yet this sacrifice only succeeded in vanquishing a mere fraction of the Red Templars.

    Cullen, Cassandra, and their steadfast soldiers confronted the monstrous Behemoth, pouring their strength into each strike. However, the creature absorbed the onslaught with an ominous resilience, as if feasting upon the despair of the battered warriors. With each blow, it seemed to swell in might, rendering their efforts null.

    In the symphony of chaos, Miriam remained consumed by the arduous task of upholding her protective barriers until, in a sudden burst of swift action, Lysette pushed her aside. The mage stumbled, abruptly pulled from her focused reverie, just in time to witness Lysette confronting the Red Templar with unwavering resolve. The Templar clashed with the foe that had managed to creep up on them, and in an effort to shield her companion, Miriam cast another protective barrier on Lysette. However, with each draining moment, her already dwindling mana reserves diminished further, leaving the mage acutely aware that she wouldn''t be able to sustain the shields for much longer. As soon as Miriam felt the weight of her waning power and the impending doom pressing upon her, a haunting whisper echoed in her consciousness, a word repeated with an unsettling familiarity, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" The voice grew louder and more insistent until it became an undeniable presence reverberating in her mind. A gnawing ache intensified within the mark on her hand, and a slow, agonizing bleed began.

    Desperation painted across her face, Miriam''s thoughts raced back to a memory at the Winter Palace, where she had managed to sway the minds of the Harlequins. Could this be what the Maker urged her to do again? With a deep breath, she drew upon the power of her mark, reaching out to the minds of the Red Templars. Yet, rather than the anticipated connection, she was met with the distorted song of red lyrium. A dissonant melody was swiftly followed by a powerful mind blow, as if a door had been abruptly slammed in her face. Blood burst from her nose, and a sharp pain shot through her head. Collapsing to the ground, Miriam''s concentration shattered, and the protective spells she had so diligently maintained dissipated into the air.

    Amidst the chaos, Lysette, still locked in combat with the Red Templar, cast a worried glance toward the mage''s fallen form. "Inquisitor! Are you alright?" she shouted, parrying a fierce strike from her foe.

    Gasping for breath, Miriam struggled to rise, feeling the blood from her nose passing over her lips. "Pay me no mind, keep fighting!" she cried, her voice strained as the metallic taste filled her mouth.

    The mage, despite the throbbing pain in her head, managed to stagger to her feet. As her gaze shifted to her glowing palm, now profusely bleeding, a new idea emerged in the haze of desperation. What if the answer lay not in the minds of her enemies but in their very blood? She was a healer, accustomed to mending wounds by controlling the vital fluid, but maybe she could use her healing abilities not to cure but to inflict harm. With determination etched on her face, Miriam outstretched both hands¡ªone glowing with the emerald hue of the mark, the other radiating the gentle light of a healing spell. Slowly, she brought her hands together, merging the two energies. With newfound insight, she reached out to the corrupted blood of her adversaries, connecting with it as if it were an extension of her own essence. The sensation was intense¡ªhot, almost unbearably so; red lyrium-tainted blood seemed to scorch her senses. Amidst the searing pain, a crooked smile crossed Miriam''s face. "Let the righteous fire burn the corrupted from the inside!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, unleashing the spell that commanded the blood of her enemies to burn.

    The battlefield convulsed with the impact of her incantation. The Red Templars and the Behemoth, caught in the grip of the mage''s spell, writhed in agony as their blood turned into a seething cauldron within them. Miriam, her body trembling from the strain, watched as her foes met their demise. Black smoke began to rise from their writhing bodies, and they wailed in torment, clawing at their chests as if attempting to rip their very hearts out. The Emperor''s voice cut through the cacophony, shouting, "The Sword of the Faithful gave us a chance! It''s time to strike, servants of the Maker!" With renewed fervor, the Inquisition forces rallied, seizing the opportune moment presented by Miriam''s devastating spell. Swords struck with a newfound sense of purpose as they descended upon the dying enemies. The Behemoth proved to be the final one to succumb. Its eye sockets were void of life, the flames burning away everything within the confines of its crystal shell. The battlefield, once a symphony of chaos, now echoed with the muted aftermath of relentless strife.

    As Miriam''s eyes traversed the chamber, they collided with the earnest and troubled gaze of Cullen. Wondering why he would be frowning at the victory, she felt warm, and wet streaks fall from her cheeks. She passed her hand over her face, puzzled by the unexpected tears, only to find her fingers stained with more fresh blood.

    Confusion enveloped her as she stumbled, weakened, and disoriented. A similar sensation manifested on her jaw, and as she pressed her hand to her ears, she discovered they, too, were wet and sticky. Her head spun, and the world seemed to tilt. She began to fall, but her descent was abruptly halted by Lysette.

    Everything swirled and swam around her, voices and images blending into an undiscernible haze. Amidst the disarray, for some reason, the question resurfaced in her mind: Who am I after all¡ªthe sword or the shield?

 The Letter

    In the dimly lit tent, the air was saturated with the scent of healing potions and the lingering tang of sweat. Cullen sat solemnly beside the cot where Miriam lay senseless, the gauntlets of his armor removed, and his sword set aside with deliberate care. Two days had passed since she saved them with the harrowing spell that had nearly cost her life, and yet consciousness eluded her. Nevertheless, there were signs of improvement in her health. Her once deathly pale complexion now bore a faint return of color, and the ominous dark blue hue was gradually fading from her lips. Cullen couldn''t shake the shudder that coursed through him as he recollected the moment the enchantment reverberated through the area. It was a disconcerting amalgamation of Miriam''s healing magic, interwoven with something alien and potent. He couldn''t pinpoint why he experienced it so deeply; perhaps it was his familiarity with her healing arts or the sheer power of the spell itself. Now, however, he understood Cassandra''s earlier sentiments¡ªthis was unlike anything he had encountered before, and his seasoned experience with various forms of magic only accentuated the peculiarity of the mage''s abilities. He clasped his hands as he recalled how the aftermath of the battle unfolded and how Miriam began to bleed from her eyes, ears, and nose¡ªa morbid cascade of crimson threatening her very existence. Had it not been for the quick thinking of Lysette and Cassandra, both casting a Spell Purge on the mark, the mage would have succumbed to the dire consequences of her own formidable powers. All of this would have been disastrous for morale and even caused fear among the troops, especially the Templars, had it not been for the Emperor''s swift proclamation that the blood shed by the Sword of the Faithful was a divine sign, a testament to the Maker''s favor. According to him, she lay unconscious because she currently bathed in His light for her commendable deeds in the Fade. All of this, of course, was a fabrication, yet one couldn''t dismiss Gaspard''s prowess at weaving lies on the fly, a skill that this time worked in favor of the Inquisition.

    In the quiet confines of the tent, Miriam stirred, whimpering something in her sleep, and a frown etched itself on her face. Instinctively, Cullen reached out, placing his palm gently on her forehead. With the pad of his thumb, he tenderly started to smooth the wrinkles that marred the tranquility of her brow. The moment, however, was abruptly disrupted when the guard stationed outside the tent announced the unexpected arrival of the Emperor of Orlais.

    Cullen promptly withdrew his hand and stood up, ready to welcome Gaspard as he entered the tent. Without sparing even a fleeting glance at Miriam, the Emperor focused his attention on him. "Commander," he acknowledged briskly.

    "Your Majesty," Cullen nodded. "What brings you here?" he inquired calmly, yet beneath his composed demeanor, he could already feel the tension spreading through his body.

    "I had hoped for a brief conversation with you, and so I made my way to your post. Alas, your second-in-command informed me of your presence in the Inquisitor''s tent.¡± A smirk appeared at the corner of Garspard''s lips. "It is indeed remarkable how you take the time to personally care for the woman when such a duty does not fall to you."

    Vexation simmered within Cullen, prompting him to straighten his posture. "If I may ask, Your Majesty, what matter did you wish to discuss?" he retorted, resolutely choosing to ignore whatever the Emperor was trying to imply.

    Gaspard, maintaining his smile, began to explain, "I have fulfilled the mission that the Maker revealed to me in my vision. It is now time for me to depart, for Orlais cannot be left without its ruler for long." With an air of regal nonchalance, he continued, "When the Inquisitor regains consciousness, give her this." He handed Cullen the perfumed envelope, the wax seal bearing the emblem of Orlais.

    The temptation to crumple up the envelope and throw it right back in his face was an overwhelming one, yet, hiding his genuine sentiments beneath a fa?ade of formal courtesy, he merely nodded. "Safe travels, Your Majesty," he said aloud, while his inner thoughts echoed with the added wish that said travels would take the man into the Void.

    With a condescending tone, Gaspard concluded, "If the Maker is willing, the Inquisition will manage well in my absence. Until we meet again, Commander."

    As Gaspard took his leave, Cullen sank back into his seat with a heavy sigh, seeking solace in the prospect of a respite from the man''s presence. He turned the envelope between his fingers, scrutinizing it before his eyes, contemplating the maneuvers the Emperor was orchestrating. The missive could have been easily left next to the Inquisitor''s bunk, yet Gaspard deliberately handed it to him. Was he trying to make some kind of statement with this? The more Cullen pondered it, the more his annoyance deepened. He wouldn''t be truthful if he claimed he didn''t feel the temptation to open the letter. After all, Leliana was scrutinizing every message that reached the Inquisitor. Would it be such a transgression if he were to open it first? His fingers reached towards the seal, but he halted abruptly. With a resolute shake of his head, he admonished himself for permitting the influence of Gaspard''s sordid affairs to permeate his judgment. He carefully folded the letter and stowed it inside the pouch on his belt. He would deliver the letter to the Spymaster, and if she deemed it appropriate, she could then convey it to Miriam.

    Lysette gracefully entered the Inquisitor¡¯s tent, her armor clinking softly with each step. Cullen looked up at the Templar and offered her a nod of acknowledgment.

    "Commander," Lysette began with a respectful inclination of her head. "I wish to extend my gratitude for your watchful eye over the Inquisitor during my brief respite for sustenance."

    Cullen gave her another brief nod and rose. He donned his gloves and secured the sword in its sheath, preparing to resume his duties. However, as a passing Templar took his place, he caught the resonant melody of lyrium emanating loudly and distinctly from Lysette. She vibrated with it; the dosage she had ingested was far exceeding the recommended amount. He felt the familiar longing, his mouth going dry; he could practically imagine the liquid, cool and invigorating, going down his throat. Yet he clenched his fists, pushing the tempting images away and redirecting his focus to the woman before him. Concern etched his features as he spoke, "I cannot help but notice that you are consuming a considerable amount of lyrium. It is a powerful substance that allows you to toil without much respite, but excessive consumption will lead to detrimental effects. You must take care of yourself as well. Perhaps I can find a trustworthy Templar to relieve you of your duty so you could rest properly."

    Lysette''s expression turned momentarily perplexed, but then she gave a small, understanding smile. "I assure you, I am not pushing myself out of a sense of duty alone. I genuinely wish to be the one caring for the Inquisitor, because I consider her to be my friend."

    "I see," Cullen responded, his countenance softening into a more compassionate expression. "But still, take care not to overextend yourself."

    Lysette, seemingly appreciating his counsel, nodded in agreement. "Thank you, Commander. I shall be mindful of your advice."

    As Cullen left the tent, he felt comforted that Miriam had found in the vigilant Knight not only a reliable guard, but a friend who cared deeply for her.

    While he strode through the makeshift camp near the destroyed mine, he couldn''t shake off the nagging concern that the victory, while significant, hadn''t yielded much in terms of information about Samson''s whereabouts. They did find some documents on one of the Red Templars, but they were encrypted, a puzzle that only Leliana''s keen mind could unravel. He hoped desperately that the hidden messages within those papers would finally unveil the location and intentions of the elusive corrupted Knight.

    Lost in his thoughts, Cullen was abruptly pulled back to reality by a stern voice. Cassandra, her expression grave, approached him. "Commander," she greeted, "our scouts have just reported. A caravan laden with slaves for the mine is approaching. It seems the Elder One is still unaware of our success."

    Cullen''s jaw tightened as he processed the information. Not a single living soul was unearthed from the desolate depths of the mine, only the rotting remnants of decay. All previous slaves must have succumbed to the red lyrium or been consumed by the insatiable hunger of the Behemoth. Fortunately, the ignorance of the Elder One was about to allow them to save the lives of the poor people who were heading this way. He swiftly made a decision. "Gather the uninjured Templars and a squad of our soldiers," he instructed, a steely determination in his gaze. "Intercept the caravan, kill the guard, and free the slaves to lead them back to our camp. We will escort them to the nearest safe settlement.¡±

    Cassandra nodded, a grim resolve mirrored in her expression. "Yes, that would be the right thing to do." With that, she hurried off to carry out his orders.

    Cullen had just sent a raven with a detailed report of their mission to Leliana and Josephine when a breathless messenger approached him, brimming with eagerness to deliver the news. "Commander," the man panted, "Lady Cassandra has returned.¡±

    Cullen wasted no time, swiftly making his way to meet the Seeker. He spotted her striding towards him, covered in grime and dust but remarkably uninjured. The lines of tension on his face eased as he approached her. "Lady Cassandra, report, please."

    The woman came to a stop before him, her expression serious but triumphant. "With minimal casualties, we managed to rescue all the people from the caravan," she announced as she gestured behind her.

    Cullen''s shoulders sagged slightly in relief. "Thank the Maker," he murmured, his gaze flickering to the group of people, still looking shaken but surprisingly unharmed. Cullen''s gaze lingered on them, a mix of relief and empathy in his eyes. "They''re in good shape, considering," he observed.

    The Seeker nodded. "Most were taken recently, it seems. They haven''t endured the full extent of the Elder One''s cruelty." After a brief pause, she added, ¡°And Commander, there''s something else. Almost all of the freed wanted to join the Inquisition. They seek retribution against the Elder One."

    Cullen''s spirits lifted even higher. "Good. We welcome them. Those who have witnessed the darkness and wish to stand against it are exactly what we need to bolster our cause. Let them know they''re now part of the Inquisition, and we''ll provide them with the support they require. Meanwhile, I will make the necessary arrangements for their integration."

    Cassandra''s smile broadened. ¡°The fact that we couldn¡¯t save anyone in the mine weighed heavily on me, but this turn of events does offer some solace." She then turned to the rescued people and began addressing them.

    Cullen listened for a moment to her impassioned speech and then headed back to his tent. There was still much work to be done.

    In another few days, the camp near the destroyed mine bustled with activity as the Inquisition prepared to move out. Miriam had finally awakened, much to everyone''s relief, and seemed strong enough for travel. But as Cullen approached, the first thing he noticed was the unsettling sight of the crimson stain enveloping the entire whites of her eyes, a jarring juxtaposition to her pale irises. Concern etched his features, and he approached her cautiously. "Inquisitor, are you sure you''re feeling alright? Your eyes..."

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Miriam offered a faint smile. "This?" She motioned toward her face. "It''s merely a burst blood vessel, a consequence of the strain from the spell. It brings no pain. I tried to mend it, yet it seems the Maker has other plans. Time will be its remedy."

    Cullen nodded, his unease tempered by her reassurance. They were ready to depart for Redcliffe, as some of the rescued folk had decided to stay in the village, hoping to find a measure of safety and purpose there.

    The trek was uneventful, with no major incidents along the way. Cullen found solace in the thought that the worst of their recent challenges seemed to be behind them. Yet, as they settled into the rhythm of the journey, his gaze frequently found its way back to the mage. Despite her assurances, the crimson tint in her eyes remained unchanged. He approached her again, but her response stayed the same. The woman exhibited unmatched stubbornness. However, he couldn''t complain, for he was just as obstinate when it came to admitting his own struggles.

    As they arrived in Redcliffe, those of the rescued people who hadn''t joined the Inquisition bid a tearful farewell to Cassandra and the Templars and dispersed among the villagers. But as the Inquisition prepared to move on, their path forward took an unexpected turn. The man in full battle armor, whom Cullen recognized as Bann Teagan, approached flanked by a formidable force. His announcement hung heavily in the air like an impending storm. "In the name of His Majesty King Alistair of Ferelden," Teagan declared, his stern voice resonating with authority, "the Inquisition is hereby declared a hostile organization. You have one week to depart Ferelden with all your forces. The presence of any agent of the organization within our borders after that time will be seen as a declaration of war." A collective hush fell over the Inquisition members as the weight of the Bann¡¯s words settled upon them. Cullen exchanged a tense glance with Cassandra, understanding the gravity of the situation. Bann Teagan continued, "We respect what you''ve done here, but Ferelden cannot condone an organization that operates without regard for the authority of the crown. By conducting an unauthorized joint military operation with the Orlesian Empire on His Majesty''s land, you have overstepped your bounds."

    Cullen observed Miriam clench her fists. "The Elder One remains a menace. Now is not the time for strife over mere political non¡ª."She stopped abruptly as he laid his hand on her shoulder, giving her a pointed look.

    Maintaining his composure, he then addressed the man, "The Inquisition never sought to defy Ferelden. Our goal is to combat the greater threat to all of Thedas. King Alistair''s authority is not our target, the Elder One is. We only ask for a chance to explain and find a peaceful resolution."

    The Bann''s expression remained stern, unmoved by Cullen''s words. "A week, Commander. Ensure the Inquisition leaves the King¡¯s lands by then, or face the consequences."

    As the forces of the King dispersed, the murmurs of discontent among the Inquisition¡¯s soldiers became increasingly audible. They had risked their lives in the battle against the Red Templars and Venatori, only to be met with hostility and expulsion from Ferelden. Cullen recognized the need to address the growing tension before it escalated further. "Stand down," he commanded. "We will follow their orders. We have a week to leave, and we will do so peacefully." Though grumbles of dissatisfaction persisted, his directive calmed the immediate tension.

    As they made their way through the village, Cullen took it upon himself to send ravens to Skyhold and all the Inquisition posts in Ferelden. His missives detailed King Alistair''s declaration and the order for an urgent retreat from the kingdom. The news, undoubtedly, would spread like wildfire among their ranks. Now, Josephine''s diplomatic prowess was their only hope in salvaging what they could of their relations with Ferelden.

    After the tense journey through the kingdom, they finally crossed the border and arrived at Skyhold, which buzzed with activity as other returning forces from Ferelden joined them. Miriam, visibly exhausted from the journey, retreated to her chambers for much-needed rest, but Cullen, despite his weariness, felt a sense of duty urging him forward. There were documents and a letter that demanded immediate attention of the Spymaster.

    Navigating the familiar halls, he made his way to the rookery, where Leliana usually held court. The Spymaster''s presence was a constant in the quiet space, and as Cullen approached, he noted the grim determination etched on her face.

    "Leliana," he greeted.

    The woman''s cold gaze met his. "Cullen."

    "I trust you''re already aware of the events involving the Emperor during our mission in Ferelden," he remarked, recognizing that the Spymaster''s astute mind was already in motion.

    "Be assured." Leliana''s voice carried a steely resolve. "I shall unveil the traitor lurking within our midst. The Emperor of Orlais may think he''s pulling strings unseen, but he underestimates me. His pawn will soon be exposed, and the consequences will be dire."

    Cullen nodded. "I have full confidence in your abilities. However, there is more to address. I have encrypted documents recovered from a corrupted Knight in the red lyrium mine. I require your expertise to decipher them."

    The Spymaster''s demeanor shifted as she took the papers, scanning them briefly before placing them on the table. "I will find a way. Give me time."

    Cullen then produced the sealed message that had been entrusted to him by the Emperor. He recounted to Leliana the backstory of the missive, and the woman promptly accepted it, breaking the seal with practiced precision. As she perused the letter, an air of tension seemed to intensify. "I expected this to happen, but not so soon," she remarked with concern in her voice. Observing his perplexed expression, she handed him the paper, which read:

    Most Esteemed Inquisitor,

    At this moment, I am compelled to cast aside the cold vestiges of authority and address you with the language of the heart. Amidst the trials of our mission, I have beheld the unwavering flame of your devotion, the steadfastness of your faith, and the divine power that courses through your veins. It is within this sacred context that a sentiment, akin to an unfurling blossom, has taken root¡ªan emotion that dares to transcend the rigid confines of duty.

    Miriam, Sword of the Faithful, I extend my hand to you, not as a command issued from the heights of my position, but as an earnest supplication. Consider a union that exceeds the mere boundaries of an alliance, let it ascend into the realm of shared destiny. Together, with hearts aflame and spirits fortified by the Maker''s grace, we can lead the people of Thedas into an era of light and redemption.

    May His splendor guide you as you think and reflect.

    Yours in faith and sincerity,

    Gaspard, Emperor of Orlais

    Cullen''s hands quivered ever so slightly as he clutched the parchment, the ambient glow of the flickering candle in the rookery casting shadows that danced in tandem with the disquiet within his chest. Suppressing the surge of anger and jealousy, he sought a cool head to analyze the situation. Gaspard''s calculated maneuvers to win Miriam''s favor were apparent since the day he witnessed her powers, but the unexpected proposal of marriage hinted at depths of ambition that unsettled him.

    His mind, now a tempest of conflicting emotions, grappled with the implications of a union between the Emperor of Orlais and the Herald of Andraste. Such a coupling held the power to reshape Thedas, in the most literal sense. Amidst these considerations, he couldn''t help but ponder Miriam''s sentiments on the matter. Did she harbor affection for the man? Would she say yes to such a proposition? "If the Herald agrees to this marriage, what should we do? We can''t allow it to happen. Gaspard would exploit her powers until her last breath, and even in death, she''d be bound to guide the faithful as his eternal consort."

    Leliana''s expression hardened. "Agreed. Allowing the Emperor to amass such power is unthinkable. His timing suggests he''s seeking to secure this union to shield himself. If I unmask his plot, he''ll need Miriam''s loyalty, bound in matrimony, to ensure she stands by him. We must act swiftly. Expose his spy, force the confession, and unravel Gaspard''s deceit before this proposal takes root. We cannot allow the Inquisition to be shackled to the Empire."

    Cullen''s jaw clenched in frustration. "I can''t help but wonder, how do we stand against him when the blighted bastard has guaranteed we have no formidable allies outside his Empire?"

    Leliana''s eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing through the shadows. "True, our options are rather limited at present," she acknowledged, her tone measured. "However, we do not need to oppose him openly just yet. We will find proof of his lies and ensure that the Inquisitor is made aware of them so that she rejects his advances while maintaining the facade of alliance until we have dealt with the Elder One. Once that threat is eradicated, we shall confront the Emperor by means fair or foul."

    Cullen shook his head. "Knowing the Herald," he affirmed with conviction, "the moment she learns of his blasphemous invocation of the Maker''s name, the man will find himself engulfed in the inferno of her wrath. Our alliance, I fear, will be reduced to mere ashes, much like the Emperor."

    Leliana pinched her chin thoughtfully, a moment of contemplation passing before she spoke. "That¡¯s true, her temper is not one suited for the Game." Her eyes then turned to Cullen, scrutinizing him with an intensity that made him uneasy. "There are two alternative courses of action," she continued, her voice measured and deliberate, "to thwart the Emperor''s attempt to wed the Inquisitor."

    "And what might those be?" he inquired, eagerness evident in his tone.

    Leliana''s gaze remained resolute as she replied, "The first involves disseminating throughout Orlais the fact that the Inquisitor is barren. If Gaspard''s potential spouse cannot bestow heirs upon the throne, the matrimonial pursuit will encounter staunch opposition from both nobility and peasantry alike.¡±

    Cullen eyed her grimly. ¡±No, something like this should not be common knowledge throughout the Empire. It''s far too cruel."

    "The only other solution I see then," Leliana continued, "is to ensure her union with someone else." She emphasized her words with a pointed look, directed squarely at him.

    Cullen shifted uncomfortably, a flush creeping across his cheeks. The notion that Leliana might be alluding to him left him feeling exposed in a way he hadn''t anticipated. "Are you implying...¡± he stammered, struggling to articulate his thoughts. ¡°You shouldn''t... I mean, this is not..."

    "Why not?" she inquired, her eyebrow arching in curiosity. "Consider the Herald''s regard for you. While I can''t definitively declare her feelings romantic, there''s undeniable potential there. As for your sentiments, well, I would dare to say that they go beyond mere camaraderie. So why not harness that dynamic for the greater good of the Inquisition?"

    Cullen''s indignation flared. "Our private affairs are just that, private," he retorted firmly. ¡°They have no place in political schemes or power plays."

    Leliana leaned back and studied him with a calculating gaze. "Cullen, I understand your reservations, but of all the options available to us to foil the Emperor''s plans, this one seems the most likely to succeed and the most beneficial for the Inquisitor."

    "It just feels... improper," he grumbled. "Besides, perhaps she will outright reject Gaspard, rendering our concerns moot."

    "I will pray to the Maker that it is so," Leliana murmured solemnly as she deftly took the paper from his hands, folding it with meticulous care before sliding it back into the envelope. Her gaze, laden with concern, met his. "But if she doesn¡¯t..." she trailed off, her tone steady yet tinged with a somber weight. "Just know that you will have scant time to contemplate the path ahead. I hope you know that Gaspard is not one to entertain your hesitations. He will resort to any means necessary to realize his ambitions."

    He knew, of course, he knew, but unveiling his feelings to Miriam was not within the realm of his intentions. Even if he were to entertain such a notion, it wouldn''t be due to Gaspard''s machinations. He refused to sully his pure sentiments with the filth of politics. A dull ache began to throb at his temples, signaling the onset of a headache. "I will leave you to your pressing duties," he uttered.

    Leliana acknowledged his words with a solemn tilt of her head, her piercing gaze lingering for a moment before returning to her task.

    As he turned away, a heavy sigh escaped him, and he began to make his way to his office.

    Upon entering the sanctum of his duties, Cullen sank into the worn chair, his eyes drawn to the pile of documents that had accumulated in his absence. He tried to focus, to immerse himself in the matters at hand, but his thoughts drifted relentlessly to the mage. Closing his eyes briefly, he sought solace in whispered prayer. "Oh, Maker," he murmured his words a plaintive plea that echoed in the silent chamber. "Grant that Miriam refuses the Emperor. Spare her from the machinations of the Game, shield the purity of her heart from the corruption of power."

    The gentle rap of knuckles against the office door interrupted his reverie, heralding the arrival of a messenger bearing reports and missives demanding his immediate attention. With a resigned sigh, Cullen reluctantly opened his eyes, facing the inevitable tide of responsibilities that awaited him.

 The Nightmare

    Miriam meticulously inscribed her thoughts onto the pristine parchment, the ebony ink trailing the quill''s tip as she penned her missive to the Emperor. The past fortnight had unfolded in a cascade of unforeseen events; not only had she been shocked by the utterly unexpected wedding proposal from the Emperor, but during the latest meeting, Leliana shared distressing news. A missive from one of her contacts revealed that all Wardens in Orlais had been summoned to the formidable Adamant Fortress by Warden-Commander Clarel. The summons bore the weight of a final, desperate attempt to vanquish the Blight once and for all, as all the Orlesian Wardens have begun to hear what they believe to be the Calling. Considering the Inquisition''s prior encounter with a blighted dragon, Miriam couldn''t shake the disconcerting notion that beneath the surface of this call to arms, orchestrated by Warden-Commander, lurked the unmistakable fingerprints of the insidious Elder One. This notion weighed heavily on the mage''s mind, even though the task of unraveling the mystery fell upon the shoulders of Leliana and Cullen, who were tirelessly engaged in the pursuit of truth. Meanwhile, Miriam found herself immersed in the task of determining not only her own future, but also the fate of the Orlesian Empire.

    Receiving the Emperor¡¯s letter all those days ago had left Miriam in a state of astonishment; she knew that Gaspard held her in high regard, but she never had imagined that his feelings ran so deep. The idea of marriage had long been relegated to the recesses of her past, an aspect of her life she had abandoned at the age of fifteen, yet the missive served to revive a longing she had thought had been buried and forgotten. While devoid of any passion for the Emperor, she held a sincere reverence for his character; he was an honorable sovereign and a devout servant of faith. The thought of the two of them united as emissaries of the Chant of Light didn¡¯t cause her aversion. Although her connection to him would lack romantic love, it would be imbued with a sacred purpose, a fate she considered rather favorable. But these musings were futile, for there were insurmountable obstacles. She was ill-suited for the role of an Emperor''s consort. Not only because such a destiny was denied to mages by the Chantry''s decree, but more importantly because she lacked the ability to bestow a rightful heir upon the throne. In her response to Gaspard, she candidly acknowledged these barriers, believing that this would mark the conclusion of the matter.

    Contrary to her expectations, the ensuing exchange with the Emperor proved to be anything but an end to their correspondence. With fervent conviction, he professed that the depth of his affection for her was rivaled only by his devotion to Orlais and the Maker. He vowed to beseech the Chantry to grant an exception, allowing their union to be sanctified in the eyes of the Maker. As for concerns regarding progeny, the Emperor''s words carried the weight of unyielding faith. He invoked His boundless mercy, assuring her that those who believed in His benevolence would be blessed in due course. With optimism, he proclaimed that miracles, far greater than the miracle of new life, awaited them.

    Miriam¡¯s hesitations, confronted with his steadfast determination and unshakeable faith, began to ebb away. Yet she was well aware of the nature of the Maker - a deity not known for unbridled mercy. As much as she yearned for a miracle, the hope that she would conceive seemed like an imprudent ember in the face of reality.

    On top of that, there were other concerns that gnawed at her. Despite the passage of time and the exhaustion of potions and incantations, the scarlet hue that had tinted the whites of her eyes not only failed to diminish but had, in fact, proliferated. It had spread to entirely obscure her once-pale irises. She found herself avoiding long glances at her reflection, for between the web of emerald veins and the piercing crimson that now defined her gaze, she was confronted with a visage that was both disturbing and unfamiliar.

    Even more disquieting change unfolded within her sense of taste. She dared not to share it with anyone but everything except blood had lost its flavor. Amidst her meals, she navigated the culinary landscape solely by texture, the essence of taste stripped away, leaving a haunting void. The absence of flavor became so pronounced that, at times, she resorted to biting her own tongue in an attempt to savor anything other than the pervasive nothingness that permeated her every meal.

    Was this part of His divine plan? What purpose could these frightening transformations possibly serve? Were they to endure indefinitely, or would they dissipate like mist upon the dawn once the Elder One had been vanquished and her ordained purpose fulfilled? Questions swirled in her mind, leaving her uncertain about the unfolding circumstances. Until she unearthed the answers, she couldn''t, in good conscience, commit to a decision that held the potential to impact the entire empire. Thus, without disclosing the internal turmoil and reservations she grappled with, Miriam humbly requested Gaspard''s patience. She asked for time to navigate the labyrinth of her thoughts and emotions so that she could arrive at a decision that honored not only their connection but also the weighty responsibilities that lay ahead.

    The Emperor''s last missive has brought his approval, granting her the desired respite, albeit with a subtle plea not to prolong her contemplation unduly. Miriam, touched by his understanding, found herself writing a letter of gratitude. Her endeavor, however, was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door, signaling Lysette''s arrival. With the Templar, carefully cradled in her arms, came a package from Josephine. Several days ago, the Inquisition council engaged in discourse, contemplating the need to shield her crimson eyes from the probing gaze of the world. The Ambassador then promised to procure a mask, its eye openings covered by enchanted glass that would enable Miriam to see clearly, while presenting to onlookers nothing more than a play of iridescent crystals.

    Miriam rose from her seat, acknowledging Lysette''s presence with a nod of gratitude as she accepted the package. Placing it gently on the table, she carefully unfurled the wrappings to reveal the mask within. Its design was both regal and practical, fashioned to conceal half of the face. She studied the mask for a moment, appreciating the intricate filigree patterns meticulously etched into its golden surface. The mage took the mask and placed it on her visage, making sure it fit properly before turning to Lysette. "So, what do you think?"

    "It has a distinctly Orlesian flair, far too extravagant for my personal taste," confessed the ever-candid Knight.

    "True, it may be a tad too much, but I''d rather wear this than endure the scrutinizing glances that seem to paint me on the brink of becoming an abomination," Miriam remarked with a wry smile.

    "Perhaps it''s not too late to seek Solas''s counsel,¡± the Knight began tentatively.

    "No!" Her words sliced through the air with an unintended sharpness, and she immediately felt a pang of guilt. Clearing her throat, she softened her tone. "Forgive me, but I believe it''s a suitable moment for me to conclude my letter to the Emperor. He has shown a generosity of spirit in giving me more time to think about his proposal, so I would like to send him my thanks as soon as I can."

    Lysette sighed in resignation. "As you wish." She turned to leave, but at the threshold of the quarters, she hesitated and turned back. "I''ve been wanting to inquire about this for quite some time, Herald. Why do you hesitate to outright refuse His Majesty?"

    "I understand your apprehension regarding a mage entering into marriage with the Emperor, but..." Miriam began.

    "That is not my concern," the Templar interrupted firmly.

    Perplexed, the mage furrowed her brow. "Then what is it?"

    Lysette hesitated for a moment before responding, her words carrying a hint of awkwardness, "Well, I was under the impression that you harbored affections for Commander Cullen."

    Miriam''s confusion gradually gave way to understanding as Lysette''s words sank in. She realized how easily her interactions with Cullen could be misconstrued. She lifted her hand to gently pass her fingers over the amulet resting against her chest. "I do hold deep regard for the Commander, but in the purest, most innocent sense. And I believe he reciprocates those sentiments in a similar manner. That¡¯s why our feelings for each other have no bearing on the matter of marriage to His Majesty."

    "I see. I am relieved to find that my judgment has faltered," the Knight acknowledged with genuine sincerity. "In that case, whatever path you choose, I truly hope it will lead you to happiness."

    "Thank you," Miriam responded in a subdued tone, her heart touched by the unexpected warmth of Lysette''s supportive words.

    The Templar nodded solemnly. "I shall leave you to your task."

    As her friend left the room, Miriam smiled, her gaze lingering on the door for a moment. Gathering herself, she returned to the table, where her letter to the Emperor awaited a finishing touch. Seating herself once more, she dipped her quill into the inkwell, her hand steady as she resumed her writing.

    The morning sun cast a warm glow across the stone walls of Skyhold as Miriam hurried through the corridors. A hastily delivered message had summoned her to the War Room, where the council was about to convene to discuss the latest developments regarding the Wardens. It seemed that Leliana and Cullen had finally unraveled the mystery of what was happening at the Adamant Fortress.

    As the mage entered the War Room, she found the familiar faces of her companions gathered around the large table, a map of Thedas spread out before them. Josephine stood with poise, her attention focused on the various reports scattered across the table. Leliana, with her calculating gaze, was studying a parchment covered in cryptic symbols, while Cullen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, discussing something with Cassandra. The only absence was Hawke, who, as expected, was fashionably late.

    Good morning, Inquisitor," Josephine greeted with a warm smile, glancing up from her papers.

    Miriam nodded in acknowledgment, taking a moment to exchange greetings with each member of the council with a few words.

    Leliana''s eyes flickered at the elaborate mask adorning the mage''s face. "Lovely choice of the mask, Josephine," she commented. "You have an impeccable taste."

    Cullen, however, did not seem to share the Spymaster¡¯s opinion. "Between the robes and the mask, the Inquisitor looks like an Orlesian," he remarked, his voice gruff. "Perhaps a choice more reminiscent of the Ferelden style might have been wiser, considering our disastrous relationship with them."

    Josephine raised an eyebrow at Cullen. "Finding craftsmen outside of Orlais proved impossible. Only the Empire¡¯s artisans possess the skill necessary to craft the mask with the qualities we have requested. I can assure you, Commander, that I attempted to propose Ferelden themes, but Orlesian artisans firmly rejected the notion of producing a mask with anything other than Orlesian motifs. Our relationship with Ferelden is in such a dire state that what the Inquisitor wears is inconsequential at this point."

    Before Cullen could respond, the door to the War Room creaked open, and Hawke strolled in with a nonchalant grin. ¡°Me hearties! Sorry, I''m late to the party. Did I be missin'' any crucial bits of the grand tale?"

    To Miriam''s relief, the Champion''s arrival drew the council''s attention away from the trivial discussion of her mask and back to the urgent matters at hand.

    Leliana''s countenance darkened as she addressed the assembled group. "Our agents bring dire news. Warden-Commander Clarel has implemented a drastic strategy, ordering the Warden mages to use blood magic to summon an army of demons. Their intention is to make a final stand in the Deep Roads, with the aim of putting an end to all Blights once and for all."

    Josephine''s hand flew to her mouth in shock. "Surely this cannot be true," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

    Leliana nodded solemnly. "The idea wasn''t Clarel''s own. It came from Lord Livius Erimond, a Venatori magister who approached the Wardens shortly after they began to hear the Calling. Given that all Venatori worship the Elder One, it is safe to assume that this is his doing."

    Miriam''s fists clenched at her sides, her heart quickening with a surge of anger. Of course, the tendrils of corruption had spread easily among the apostate mages within the Wardens'' ranks. Known for their deviation from the tenets of Andrastian ideals, the Wardens have always had their arms outstretched to welcome heretics and infidels into their fold. What more could one expect from such a faction? The time has come for her fires to purge the rot of the maleficars and all those who stand with them.

    Cassandra stepped forward. "We cannot allow this madness to continue. It is glaringly obvious that once this horde of demons is assembled, its purpose will not be the conquest of the Deep Roads but the subjugation of Thedas itself."

    Cullen nodded in agreement, his jaw set with resolve. "We must act swiftly, but the task of seizing Adamant Fortress poses a formidable challenge. We will require the full backing of both the Templar Order and the Orlesian Empire to confront the Wardens."

    Josephine''s quill danced swiftly as she began to inscribe something on the parchment that lay on the tablet in her hand. "I will begin diplomatic negotiations immediately."

    Cullen turned to Miriam, his expression serious. "Inquisitor, your presence is important for the morale of our troops. However, you will not be engaging in the battle. I must also stress that you must refrain from employing the powers of the mark unless absolutely necessary, a situation that, with the Maker''s blessing, we hope to avoid."

    Miriam''s gaze hardened as she met Cullen''s stern expression. "Commander, I appreciate your concerns, but as the Inquisitor, it is my duty to lead by example and demonstrate my commitment to our cause. What message would it send if the Sword of the Faithful were relegated to the sidelines?" She paused, briefly surprised at herself for using the title bestowed by the Emperor, but the urgency of the conversation demanded her focus.

    "I understand your perspective, but your safety is paramount. Besides, you can''t argue that using the powers of the mark is detrimental to you," he insisted.

    Miriam shook her head. "The use of the mark is not solely my decision to make, for it is He who guides me. The Maker''s will is intertwined with my purpose, and I must follow where it leads, even if it means facing the risks that come with it."

    "In the mine, you were on the brink of death after the use of your powers." Cullen''s voice was full of concern.

    "Yet, I am still here,''" Miriam insisted, determined to assert herself. "And besides, if it wasn''t for my spell, we would all be a meal for the Behemoth. The risks are great, Commander, but so are the benefits. We must consider the greater good and the victories we''ve achieved through the guidance of the Maker and His Bride."

    "We will have time to discuss this later," Cassandra interjected. "There are more pressing issues, such as the task of contending with hundreds of Warden blood mages. We will need dozens of men armed with the Litany of Adralla to counter their attempts to dominate our forces."

    "Me heartie will sort this out. He''s got a bunch of fiery clergy who can whip up and bless plenty of copies for the battlefront," Hawke announced with a confident grin.

    ¡±Litany of Adralla against crazed maleficars¡­it brings back memories,¡± Leliana murmured with a somber undertone.

    "It certainly does," Cullen whispered, his complexion paling slightly. Then, in a louder voice, he added, "Well, it is time we all get to work then, for the siege of the Adamant is upon us."

    The next few weeks passed in a blur as the Inquisition prepared for the imminent mission. Miriam found herself dedicating most of her time in the infirmary, tirelessly brewing a myriad of healing potions for the soldiers who would soon face the brutal challenges ahead. The atmosphere in Skyhold was tense as people braced themselves for the impending battle.

    Finally, the meticulous preparations were completed, and the unified forces of the Inquisition, led by Cullen, joined with the formidable army of the Empire under Gaspard and the Knights dispatched by the Templar Order. Together, they embarked on a determined march through the treacherous Western Approach.

    Under the relentless gaze of the unforgiving sun, the armored men stoically trudged through the arid wilderness, the scorching heat rendering the burden of their armor even more grueling. Miriam, beneath her mask, felt the beads of sweat trickling down her face. She longed to remove it, but the situation did not allow for such a luxury, especially with so many people around.

    As she heard the Emperor''s booming voice barking orders to his subordinates somewhere to her right, her mind was once again consumed by the weight of his proposal. She feared he would demand her response during the mission, but to her relief, he hadn''t sought her company outside of the council meetings, and even then, their interactions had been sparse. He had acknowledged her mask with a compliment, mentioning that it suited her, but beyond that, there had been a notable absence of any personal attention or display of his feelings. He was indeed a considerable man, and for that, she felt a deep sense of gratitude.

    As they pressed on, the Adamant Fortress gradually materialized before them. Its ancient stones, bearing the scars of time and conflict, stood tall on the precipice of a great chasm. The construction seemed to defy nature itself, towering above the abyss that yawned as deep as the Void.

    Under the watchful eye of the Commander, preparations began in earnest. Soldiers worked tirelessly to erect barricades, set up defensive structures, and dig trenches to impede any potential counterattacks. Tents were set in rows, forming a temporary camp within the protected area. Weapons were sharpened, armor polished, horses groomed, and archers practiced their aim, honing their skills for the precise shots required to pick off defenders along the fortress walls. Siege engines, including trebuchets and battering rams, were inspected and tested to ensure they would function flawlessly during the assault. Medical tents were set up to tend to wounded soldiers, and healers prepared their potions and remedies.

    When night fell, the camp had quieted down, the silence of the night broken only by the crackling of campfires and the occasional clang of metal. Soldiers gathered around their fires, exchanged tales of battles past, and shared words of encouragement, steeling themselves for the trials that awaited them tomorrow.

    Miriam, along with the Inquisition council, convened in the command tent for their final meeting, ensuring unity and clarity among all members regarding the impending morning attack.

    The only point of contention in their plans revolved around her participation in the mission. Despite ongoing debates during their journey to the fortress, a unanimous decision satisfying everyone remained elusive. Cullen and Cassandra advocated for limiting her role to delivering inspiring speeches, while she herself and Gaspard insisted that the Inquisitor couldn¡¯t merely be a spectator in the battle. Hawke, indifferent to the matter, expressed willingness for either option.

    As tensions escalated, the debate was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger. A raven had arrived with a missive from Warden-Commander Clarel.

    Miriam exchanged puzzled glances with the council members. Previous attempts to communicate with the Wardens had been met with silence, with all the ravens sent by the Inquisition never returning. Cullen accepted the scroll handed to him by the messenger and carefully unfurled it. Miriam observed as he scanned the text, a furrow forming on his brows. ¡°Clarel offers a negotiation. She is prepared to discuss matters with the Inquisitor and the Emperor, to advocate for her cause. She will await them at dawn, permitting their entry into the fortress with a small contingent of Inquisition forces," he announced, his words carrying the weight of suspicion.

    "Clarel must have seen our numbers and understood that the Wardens do not stand a chance. She may want to negotiate, but I am sure the Venatori Magister will use this meeting as an opportunity to eliminate the Herald and the Emperor in one fell swoop." Cassandra grumbled.

    "It may indeed be so," Miriam began, unable to veil her excitement, "but it presents a unique opportunity to confront the maleficars and heretics with minimal casualties." Her voice quivered with fervor as she continued, "Once within proximity of the Warden-Commander and the Magister, I shall unleash my powers, searing them from within, much like I did with the Red Templars in the accursed mine. Ponder the multitude of lives among our soldiers that I could spare!"

    "And in turn, you shall bleed to death," Cullen grumbled, his voice weighted with foreboding. "More likely still, both of you will fall under the dominion of the blood mages long before you draw near to them."

    ¡°I be ready to join yer crew, armed with the Litany of Adralla at me disposal,¡± Hawke interjected. ¡°Thanks be owed to me husband, who''s taught me its ways.¡±

    "Perhaps we should entrust Brother Sebastian with the task, in his devout hands, the power would be far more potent. No offense, Champion," Gaspard added his voice to the discussion.

    ¡°No offense be found in me quarters,¡± Hawke chuckled, ¡°But truth be told, me husband be more of an arrow-flingin'' man than a cutlass-swinger. In the close quarters of the fortress, it be me specialty to dance with danger up close and personal."

    ¡°So you do perceive the peril?" Cullen directed his words at the Champion. ¡°Why don¡¯t you oppose this idea then?¡±

    The woman smirked, "I am not one to cower from danger!¡±

    Cullen sighed. "And what of the consequences for you, Herald?" He cast a worried gaze in the mage''s direction.

    Miriam offered him a reassuring smile. "If Lysette accompanies me, she can always mitigate the effects of the mark." She wasn''t entirely comfortable with the notion, but her friend was a Knight and His devout servant, surely, seeking her aid wouldn¡¯t be considered a sin in the eyes of the Maker.

    "And you, Your Majesty? This is a perilous situation. Are you certain it would be wise to risk yourself so?" Cassandra inquired.

    The Emperor''s response came without hesitation as he fixed Miriam with an intense stare. "I have absolute confidence in the Sword of the Faithful," he declared. "She will vanquish the leaders of the Wardens, and we shall hold our ground until the rest of our forces breach the gates and deal with the remaining enemies. Furthermore, I shall take a dozen of the Chevaliers with me. Each of them is worth five Wardens in battle."

    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "Perhaps it is not such a bad plan after all. We accept their bait and turn the tables on them. Losing their leadership would surely demoralize the Wardens greatly. With us fighting from within, the attack on the fortress will cost far fewer lives," Cassandra said, nodding in agreement.

    ¡°This could either go very well or terribly wrong,¡± Cullen muttered.

    Miriam felt the familiar ache of her mark and interpreted it as a divine signal confirming the validity of her idea. "Please, Commander, have faith in us," she urged. "The Maker and His Bride are on our side. I can feel it!"

    A heavy silence draped the tent as all eyes turned to Cullen, awaiting his verdict. He ran his hand wearily through his hair before finally speaking. "They say the Maker favors the bold... Very well, let us proceed. The Herald and the Emperor, escorted by Lysette, the Champion, the Chevaliers, and our man, will venture into the fortress under the guise of seeking a peaceful resolution with the maleficars. At the first sign of the Inquisitor¡¯s spell resonating through the air, I shall initiate the attack." His gaze swept over the assembled company. "May His divine light guide and protect us all."

    With the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, Miriam, the Emperor, and Lysette, flanked by soldiers and Chevaliers, stood ready at the entrance. As the massive gates of Adamant creaked open, a gust of wind swept through, carrying with it a stench of blood and sulfur.

    To her surprise, they were greeted by just one Warden. There lingered an unsettling aura about him, his motions mechanical as he imparted to them that they were expected at the top of one of the Adamant towers. They were led through the fortress''s labyrinthine corridors, which for some unfathomable reason, seemed deserted, devoid of any other Wardens or demons. In utter silence, they ascended, climbing ever higher on the stairs until they reached the zenith¡ªthe rooftop of the fortress''s loftiest tower.

    There, bathed in the scarlet glow of the sun, they were greeted not by the anticipated Commander Clarel but by a man whose robes unmistakably marked him as the Tevinter Magister. Despite his solitary presence, he stood with confidence, a smile gracing his lips as he uttered, ¡°Manaveris Dracona.¡±

    Miriam couldn''t help but clench her fists, a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach as she and her companions took their first steps toward the Magister. Before she could utter a response or unleash her spell, a deafening roar tore through the air. A colossal, blighted dragon, hauntingly familiar to the mage, emerged from beneath the tower. Its clawed limb seized the magister, hoisting him into the air, while the beast employed its massive tail to slam against the tower. With a thunderous crash, the structure began to collapse, sending stones, debris, and screaming people cascading down into the gaping chasm beneath the fortress. As Miriam descended into the darkness, instinct took control, and in a desperate act, she activated her mark to open a rift right in front of her.

    She traversed the tear in the Veil, the world around her contorting into emerald hues and morphing shapes. To her relief, though her vision remained obscured, distorted voices echoed around her¡ªan indistinct murmur of the Emperor invoking the Maker, the fervent prayer of Lysette, and the clamor of soldiers and Chevaliers. And then her fall was suddenly cut short as she slammed into the rock-hard surface.

    Miriam slowly rose from the ground, her senses still reeling from the fall. She gingerly checked herself to see that there were no injuries, and, remarkably, even her mask remained securely in place. Surveying her surroundings, she beheld a landscape painted in hues of green and brown, a familiar surreal terrain that sent shivers down her spine. She recognized this place all too well¡ªthe very realm where she had awakened after the explosion at the Conclave, where demons had assailed her and Andraste herself had come to her rescue. She was unmistakably within the Fade. She should be trembling, for this was a realm unfit for mortals to inhabit in their physical forms. Yet, she could not resist the pure excitement that came with the possibility of reuniting with His Bride. The prospect of basking in her glorious presence once again was worth all the perils.

    From high above, the mage could hear the Emperor''s commanding orders and the hurried footsteps of soldiers. Raising her eyes, she discovered a colossal, flowing rock suspended overhead. "Your Majesty!" she called out.

    In moments, he materialized from the side of the levitating mass, a mixture of relief and concern etched across his features. "Inquisitor, are you unharmed?" he inquired.

    "Yes, surprisingly so," the mage replied.

    Gaspard then turned his attention to their surroundings. "Where are we?" he asked, a note of trepidation underlying his tone.

    "We''re in the Fade," she explained, and a collective gasp swept through the air.

    The Emperor, though visibly paling, retained his composure as he nodded gravely. "We should not linger in this place. Can you conjure another rift for our swift return?"

    "I will make the attempt, Your Majesty. However, I suggest a reunion first. Allow me to weave a protective barrier, allowing each person to descend safely to my location," she proposed. Though a part of her yearned to linger a while longer, hopeful for the divine presence of Andraste, her immediate concern lay with Cullen''s safety. For he likely faced the formidable threat of a dragon at this very moment.

    Gaspard gave a solemn nod, and she heard him give a quick series of orders to the men before he positioned himself at the edge of a floating rock. Miriam held out her hands, and a shimmering barrier enveloped the Emperor. "Now, Your Majesty," she intoned. Without a breath''s pause, he leapt, landing with a resonant thud, but the barrier held, leaving him unharmed.

    Miriam then turned her attention to Lysette, the next in line. The process repeated, her friend enshrouded by a magical shield landing safely on the ground below. Hawke followed suit, trailed by a dozen soldiers and five Chevaliers. As the final soldier touched down, Miriam felt the last vestiges of her mana dissipate. Exhausted but resolute, she surveyed the people. The group was intact, but a pang of guilt gnawed at Miriam. She knew that those soldiers who hadn''t traversed the rift were now lost, their fate sealed.

    Suppressing the surge of emotions, she steeled herself for the task at hand. Drawing upon her mark, she raised her left hand and focused on tearing the Veil, their only path to return to the real world. A sharp pain shot through her arm like a lightning bolt, yet the expected rift failed to materialize.  Undeterred, Miriam summoned the fragments of her resolve and tried once more. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as she poured every ounce of her energy into the mark, the pain spreading like tendrils of fire higher and higher up her arm. Yet, despite her unwavering focus and the escalating torment, nothing happened.

    Panting heavily, Miriam stumbled, her strength waning, and she was caught by the steadying hands of Lysette. The concern etched on the Templar''s face mirrored the tumultuous emotions swirling within Miriam. With a voice strained with frustration and desperation, Miriam mumbled her admission of defeat, her words barely audible amidst the agitated murmurs of the soldiers. "I... I don''t know why... I can''t do it."

    Whispers of uncertainty and doubt began to snake through the ranks.

    "Steady, men!" Gaspard''s voice resonated with a weight of command. The soldiers, shaken by the unforeseen turn of events, tightened their ranks and squared their shoulders.

    "You lack the power to cleave the Veil from the Fade," a voice, weathered and bearing an Orlesian accent, declared with an air of certainty. The group, startled, turned as one, swords drawn, to confront the source of this revelation.

    Before them stood an old woman, draped in Chantry robes that distinguished her as the Divine. The dim light of the crystals protruding from the ground cast a mysterious aura around her, her eyes sparkling with wisdom that seemed to span ages. The soldiers, caught between awe and terror, pointed their weapons at the unexpected figure.

    "By the Maker, it can¡¯t be... Divine Justinia?" Asked Gaspard, his voice tinged with a mixture of disbelief and reverence.

    The old woman smiled warmly. "Ah, my brave and ambitious boy. I never imagined that our paths would cross in such a place and under such circumstances."

    Gaspard, still grappling visibly with the shock, lowered his sword and turned to Lysette. "Templar, do you sense any malevolent energies emanating from this woman?"

    The Knight stepped closer to the old woman, studying her with a scrutinizing gaze and a furrowed brow. "I don''t sense anything nefarious, Your Majesty. It is not a demon before us," she replied finally.

    Miriam came closer to Lysette, ¡°Tell us spirit, why have you taken the form of the Most Holy? The real Divine could not have survived the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.¡±

    The Orlesian woman tilted her head. "Could I not? You deem my survival improbable, yet here you stand, unharmed, in the realm of the Fade. In truth, you scarcely have the time for questioning."

    "What, ye think we''ll just be takin'' yer word for it?" The Champion tightened her grip on her massive maul.

    "I am here to aid you," the woman retorted calmly. Fixing her gaze on Miriam she continued, "I know you do not recall what transpired at the Temple, Inquisitor."

    Miriam felt a knot tighten in her stomach, and the emerald flames on her palm came to life. "Is that your doing, spirit?"

    "No, you forfeited them to the demon in service to Corypheus, or as you know him, the Elder One."

    "Hush yer gibberish, Corypheus be feedin'' the fishes now. I personally gave him a one-way ticket to the Void!¡± Hawke growled.

    "You''ve encountered him? The Elder One?" Miriam asked the Champion, completely perplexed.

    Hawke turned to her, her eyes blazing. "The scurvy dog tried to finish me off moons ago, and hired those Wardens to lure me into the snare. But mark me words, I bested him! Crushed his noggin into bits, I swear on me soul!"

    The old woman shook her head. "He is not so easily vanquished, Champion, after all, he is one of the Seven."

    Miriam suddenly felt weak in her knees. "You mean the ones who brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon the world?" A ripple of gasps traversed the group, and someone initiated a quiet prayer to the Maker.

    "Precisely, and now he wishes to complete what he started thousands of years ago, to enter the Golden City and ascend to godhood." The Orlesian pointed her hand at the mage. "His only obstacle is you."

    Miriam squared her shoulders. "I knew from the beginning that the mission entrusted to me by the Maker was crucial. That''s why His Bride bestowed upon me the mark and saved me from the explosion. That¡¯s why He speaks to me!" She turned to the soldiers. "Do not fear, for His chosen is with you. The Elder One may be one of the cursed Seven himself, but we will emerge victorious, just as we''ve done in all these times before!" Content, she observed the faces of the people brightening at her words.

    ¡°Blast me barnacles! Can''t wrap me head around that scallywag risin'' from the depths again. This time, mark me words, I''ll make sure he''s swimmin'' with the sharks for good,¡± Hawke mumbled quietly to herself.

    "To be counted among those who stood against the primal transgressor, the formidable Magister. My name shall be etched into the Chant of Light," Miriam heard the Emperor murmur, his voice quivering with excitement.

    The mage redirected her attention to the elderly woman once again. "You mentioned that the demon responsible for stealing my memories serves Corypheus. Tell me more.¡±

    The supposed Divine pressed her hand to her chest, ¡°It is called Nightmare, the one who feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.¡± She paused for a moment, "The false Calling that terrifies the Wardens and propels them into the clutches of the Venatori Magister. It is his machination. And all of you have found yourselves within his dominion in the Fade."

    "We slay that demon, and the Wardens cease their heresy. Yet, how do we escape this place?" Gaspard inquired.

    "You lack the power to vanquish the Nightmare, for he has grown too powerful under the influence of the Elder One. Your sole recourse to thwart his designs is to close the rift next to him. By doing so, his segment of the Fade will be sealed, rendering him incapable of influencing the Wardens. This very rift can also serve as your means of escape," the old woman explained.

    ¡°Aye, so we be on a quest to seek the rift, slip past the Nightmare without catchin'' his eye, and seal it from t''other side. Simple as a stroll on the plank, ain''t it?¡± Hawke chuckled.

    ¡°You won¡¯t be able to pass unnoticed, for Nightmare is already aware of your presence here and he is waiting for you.¡± The Orlesian said solemnly. ¡°But do not fret. I shall aid in diverting his attention, affording you a chance." She turned around and commenced walking. "Follow me."

    Miriam glanced at Gaspard, who nodded after a moment of contemplation. "It appears this is our only option. Maker, help us all," he muttered.

    The journey took them through a terrain that proved to be a test of endurance. For one, the group trudged along a path that defied any sense of earthly logic, with parts of ruined buildings jutting out of the ground at absurd angles or suspended in the air as if caught in flight. The very nature of the landscape seemed to warp and twist, and were it not for the old woman guiding them, they would be completely lost. For two, the path was infested with lesser demons and wraiths. Miriam wielded her magic with an adept hand, unleashing torrents of green flames that engulfed the creatures in searing infernos. Lysette, drawing upon her Templar abilities, countered the demons with a Wrath of Heaven. Meanwhile, Gaspard, Hawke, and the rest of the soldiers fought valiantly, their weapons cleaving through the ethereal forms with stoic resolve. Fight after fight they won without suffering any major injuries, but the relentless onslaught of the creatures took its toll on their collective stamina.

    The only figure who was seemingly untouched by the toll of the fighting was the woman who claimed to be the Divine. She moved through the chaos with an ethereal grace, her steps unaffected by the rugged terrain. During the skirmishes, the demons recoiled from her presence, as if acknowledging a force beyond their ken.

    Miriam glanced sideways at the old woman; she was clearly some sort of a powerful spirit, though why she refused to acknowledge it remained a mystery. Gaspard, too, watched their guide''s resilience with a mixture of awe and unease.

    After finishing yet another grueling fight, their bodies marked with dirt and weariness, Miriam found herself with barely any mana left. She watched as Lysette took her last lyrium potion, the radiant glow briefly illuminating the exhaustion etched on her face, and let out a small sigh. The group pressed on, determined to reach their destination.

    Finally, they emerged into a vast clearing, a respite from the chaotic landscape of the Fade. Gone were the jagged rocks, crystalline structures, and twisted buildings. Instead, a brown mountain loomed on the horizon, dominating the serene scenery. A rift pulsated near it, casting an eerie glow on the surroundings.

    The old woman, who had guided them through the Fade, gestured towards it with a sense of finality. Miriam, confused yet hopeful, dared to inquire about the Nightmare demon.

    "Right next to the rift, can''t you see?" the Divine replied with a chilling calmness.

    Dread crept over Miriam as she scrutinized the colossal form more closely. It was not a mountain, as she had originally thought, but a monstrous brown spider. The revelation sent a shiver down her spine, realizing the true size of the creature they had come to confront.

    In the uneasy silence that followed, Gaspard, his expression pale, broke the tension. "That... that thing is the Nightmare?"

    The old woman nodded solemnly. "Yes, the demon born of fears and despair."

    "It doesn¡¯t appear to move, and its eyes remain closed as if it slumbers," murmured Miriam, her voice imbued with an undercurrent of unease that she earnestly tried to veil.

    The old woman had no time to respond before a booming, chilling voice rang through the area, "I do not slumber, you pathetic mortal.¡± The creature opened its dozens of huge pitch-black, round eyes and fixed them on the mage. With astonishing speed, it unfurled its many legs and lunged towards them. Its sheer weight made the ground shake beneath their feet, sending them tumbling.

    The Emperor, resilient in the face of the tremors, was the first to rise, his commanding voice cutting through the chaos. "Stand, soldiers! Formations, now!" He bellowed orders, a beacon of authority amid the disarray. Hawke and Lysette swiftly followed suit, clambering to their feet. The Templar extended a steady hand to Miriam, helping her rise from the quivering ground.

    "Run toward the rift. I will distract the Nightmare for as long as I can!" proclaimed the old woman, her form aglow with a golden light. She ascended into the sky, transforming in to a radiant spirit that looked painfully familiar to the mage. Miriam''s breath caught as recognition dawned ¨C it was the same ethereal figure that had come to her rescue in Haven.

    She stood stunned, her mind reeling in disbelief. All this time she had been so sure that it was His Bride who had intervened, who had saved her from the brink of death. And now it turns out that it was not Andraste, but a mere spirit? Miriam couldn''t fathom it; she refused to believe it!

    Suddenly, the Knight''s firm grip on her arm jolted the mage back to reality. She was pulled forward, dragged along by the determined Templar as they charged toward the rift, the ground trembling beneath their feet.

    As they raced, Miriam caught a glimpse of the golden figure swirling around the monstrous demon, repeatedly striking it from different sides, not doing much damage but drawing the creature''s attention away from their group, buying them precious moments to reach their destination.

    Thanks to the spirit''s valiant efforts, they managed to run past the Nightmare and get closer to the rift, infuriating the demon in the process. The Nightmare¡¯s monstrous form convulsed with rage, emitting a deafening roar that echoed through the air. The sheer force of the roar sent a powerful gust of wind that nearly knocked them off their feet, causing them to stumble. Instinctively, Miriam turned to witness the unfolding pandemonium. The demon, in an act of savage retribution, swung one of its spider legs with deadly precision. The claw pierced the golden figure, and in an instant the spirit exploded into a brilliant light, its essence dissipating into the ether with a silent lament.

    The Nightmare then turned its myriad eyes toward Miriam with a malevolent glint. "Did you truly believe that a mere spirit could rival me?" It sneered. "How naive you are, a fake Herald, a mistake."

    Miriam''s voice quivered as she screamed, "Stop spitting lies!"

    In response, the demon laughed with a guttural sound. "It''s high time you reclaim your memories, and see who you truly are."

    Miriam felt a foreign touch over her mind, and memories surged forth like a relentless river, carrying the weight of all the events that unfolded at the Conclave. The recollections, once stolen, now emerged with staggering clarity and she found herself immersed once more in the harrowing tableau: the Divine''s anguished pleas for salvation, her voice echoing with desperation and fear; the mage Wardens, their eyes swallowed by shadows, anchoring the Most Holy in place; and the monstrous creature, a grotesque mix of man and darkspawn, clutching a mysterious orb in his clawed grasp. Her sudden appearance served as a momentary distraction, allowing the Divine to kick the orb out of the Elder One''s hands, sending it soaring through the air. In an instinctive reaction, she caught the artifact as it hurtled in her direction. In that very moment, a searing pain tore through her left palm, and she felt herself being pulled into the gaping maw of the rift.

    Miriam, overwhelmed, staggered under the weight of her newfound knowledge. The battlefield, the rift, the demon ¨C all faded into the background as the very foundation of her being trembled in the wake of the unveiled past. Not only was she mistaken in her belief of being saved by Andraste, but she also erred about the mark on her hand. The apostate''s words proved true¡ª it was not a divine gift from the Lady but a part of a sinister elven artifact, a heretical tool now firmly embedded in her flesh. Miriam''s heart raced, caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions. Anguish and confusion intertwined, each emotion amplifying the other in a dissonant symphony of despair. The once-clear path she thought she walked had evaporated, leaving her submerged in a sea of uncertainty.

    Someone seemed to shout something, but entangled in the clutches of her internal turmoil, she couldn''t decipher a single word. All sounds and sights merged into a disorienting haze her mind unable to cope with the devastating realization that she was no Herald of Andraste; her power did not come from the Maker or His Bride. She wasn''t the chosen one, she was just a mistake in the Elder One''s plans.

    Her head spun uncontrollably, fingers clawing at her temples as she crumpled to her knees, utterly detached from the unfolding events. Suddenly someone''s blood splashed onto her face and the air filled with the cacophony of screams, shouts, steel clashing, and the crunching of bone. Amidst the tumult, a strong hand seized her by the collar, lifting her from the ground. Another hand forcefully grabbed hers, pulling her forward. Blinded by the crimson stains that obscured the eye openings of her mask, she stumbled and fell repeatedly. Each time, an unseen guide pulled her up, dragging her through the chaos. Finally, a bright emerald light pierced through the marred glass of the mask. At that moment, she felt a shove, and with a disorienting lurch, she was thrust into the rift.

    Miriam fell out of the tear in the Veil, her face meeting the coarse embrace of the sand. Two other thuds indicated that someone else had landed beside her. Amidst the clanking of armor, Lysette¡¯s voice pierced through the disorientation, screaming at her. Once again, she felt a powerful thrust, propelling her upwards, but her legs could barely support her. She struggled to register the words being hurled at her.

    A mailed glove gripped Miriam¡¯s collar tightly, and a slap landed on her cheek, knocking off her mask. The pain and the harsh sunlight jolted the mage out of her trance, and her focus sharpened on the figure of the Templar before her. "Come to your senses, Inquisitor! Close the rift!" the Knight cried, her voice urgent and strained, punctuated by sharp pants.

    Miriam''s frantic gaze swept across the desolate expanse of the Western Approach. Despite the vastness of the landscape, the only other figure present was the Emperor. The mage''s heart quickened with trepidation. "And what of Hawke and the others?" she questioned, her voice laden with a foreboding sense.

    Lysette''s grasp on her robes tightened, ¡°They are holding back the Nightmare, hurry, we don¡¯t have time!¡±

    "No, we have to go back for them, I can''t..." Miriam started to protest, only to be silenced by a firm shake from the Templar.

    ¡°Yes, you can! Do not let their sacrifice be in vain. Close. The. Rift,¡± the Knight demanded.

    Miriam shifted her gaze to the Emperor, who met her eyes with a grim determination. "Do it," he uttered, the weight of the command evident in his voice.

    A crushing sense of guilt settled over Miriam as she reached out her trembling hand and connected with the rift. The ethereal energy surged through her, and with each burst of power directed at closing the tear in the Veil, she felt as if she were nailing the coffin of the people who had placed their trust in her, a false Herald.

    With one last push, Miriam sealed the rift and the collective sighs of relief from Lysette and the Emperor reached her ears. The Templar released her grip, allowing the mage to slump back to the ground. Overwhelmed, she succumbed to the weight of her emotions, and uncontrollable sobs wracked her body. Lysette, attempting to console her, spoke of honor and sacrifice, insisting that Hawke and the soldiers had given their lives nobly to protect the chosen of the Maker and the Emperor of Orlais. But these words, intended to provide solace, felt like a dagger piercing Miriam''s already fractured heart. "No, no, no!" whimpered the mage, her hands tightly gripping her disheveled hair.

    "Templar, scout the area. We must discern our exact location in the Western Approach," ordered the Emperor.

    "Now? Your Majesty, I am uncertain if it would be wise to..." Lysette began perplexed.

    "Have I not made myself clear?" Interrupted the man.

    "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I do not serve you. I serve the Inquisition," the Knight asserted firmly.

    "Given that the Inquisitor is in no state to issue orders at the moment, I hold authority over you. Go and scout the area, Templar," he pressed with a grave voice.

    After a prolonged pause, Lysette finally accepted, "As you wish, Your Majesty. I will return shortly."

    As soon as the Knight walked away to disappear behind the rocks, the Emperor knelt beside Miriam, grasping her shoulders. "In times of trial, one must not display vulnerability to those who follow," he said with reproach. In response, the mage merely hung her head. Gaspard''s hold on her tightened, the metal of his gauntleted gloves digging into her flesh to the point of discomfort. Yet, paradoxically, the pain brought a strange sense of solace, grounding her in the midst of her descent into misery. "Release your hair and look into my eyes, Inquisitor. Behave according to your station." Gaspard''s stern demeanor, though harsh, provided a semblance of structure amidst the chaos that rained within her so Miriam let go of her locks and met the Emperor''s gaze. "Why do your eyes bear the hue of crimson? Is it the machination of the Nightmare?"

    She drew in several deep breaths, striving to compose herself and quell the tears before responding, "No, it happened after I unleashed my powers within the depths of the red lyrium mine." She paused, raising her left hand momentarily, regarding it with a visceral disgust. "It''s tied to this cursed mark."

    "A cursed mark?" Gaspard echoed, clearly taken aback. Despite her best efforts to remain composed, Miriam succumbed to tears and lowered her eyes as she started to recount the memories the demon had stolen from her. As she finished her confession, she braced herself for the expected shock, disappointment, and perhaps even anger from Gaspard. However, when she looked up, she was met with a perplexed expression on his face. "Why would you even believe these lies?"

    "Those memories were real," the mage replied, her voice wavering. "I just know they were once mine. I can''t explain it, but there''s a connection, an undeniable feeling that they belong to me."

    Gaspard''s confusion deepened as he insisted, "Even if they belonged to you, the Nightmare could have manipulated them. It had plenty of time to twist the truth within those stolen fragments. Why are you being so foolish?"

    Miriam''s eyes widened in shock as the Emperor presented a scenario she hadn''t considered. A flicker of hope ignited within her, but fear tempered her enthusiasm. She hesitated, grappling with the newfound possibility, before recounting another piece of her past to him. ¡°There''s something else, Your Majesty. At the Conclave, I wasn''t saved by Andraste, but by the spirit that aided us in our battle against the Nightmare.¡±

    The man paused, contemplating her revelation. After a moment, he spoke with conviction, "Just because Andraste didn''t intervene directly doesn''t mean she didn''t send help. The spirit you encountered, the one with the appearance of the Most Holy, it was sent by the Lady herself. I am sure of it."

    Miriam, torn between the Emperor''s persuasive words and the nagging doubts that clawed at her faith, mumbled something incoherent. The Emperor released his hold on her and removed his mask, the metallic facade joining Miriam''s own discarded mask on the sand. It was the first time she had a clear view of his countenance. He then seized her head, his fingers gripping firmly onto her skin, pulling her closer with an undeniable force. Gaspard¡¯s eyes bore into hers with intensity and fervor as he spoke, "This is a test of your faith! You could crumble and prove yourself a pathetic weakling, or you could rise as a true Sword of the Faithful, unwavering in your convictions." Roughly tracing the contours of her face, he left a trail of tingling sensations in his wake. "Tell me, Miriam, which will it be?"

    At that moment, she saw this ultimatum as a lifeline, a straw she could grasp. Yes, this was just another test of her faith, another trial to endure. Didn''t she receive the vision in the Circle''s Chantry when she was young? Didn''t she also get a sign from Andraste during her Harrowing? She shouldn''t have doubted herself; she wasn''t wrong, she wasn''t delusional, and she certainly wasn''t a fraud. She was the chosen of His making. Doubt had no place in her journey, for she carried the divine imprints of approval and purpose. Closing her eyes for a moment, she inhaled deeply, gathering the last remaining strength from the depths of her soul. With an exhale, she opened her eyes again and uttered, "I am the Sword of the Faithful.¡±

    In a sudden motion, the Emperor tugged at her, and his lips met hers with an almost aggressive resolve. Miriam, though taken aback, found herself strangely detached. She accepted the kiss with a resignation born of weariness, passively yielding to his will, neither resisting nor reciprocating. Gaspard seemed unfazed by her lack of response as his relentless mouth pressed eagerly against hers, carrying with it the unmistakable taste of blood.

 For the greater good

    The blighted dragon, a monstrous embodiment of chaos and destruction, loomed overhead. The air crackled with the acrid scent of burning flesh and the acidic stench of the taint. Cullen''s voice thundered across the battlefield, its urgency cutting through the bedlam and anguished cries. "Archers, to the eastern flank! Aim for its wings. We must bring that beast down before it lays waste to us all!" The archers scrambled to obey, their hands trembling as they notched arrows in haste. They had trained for battles against the Wardens, against their dark magic and twisted demons, but none had anticipated the wrath of a dragon descending upon them. Arrows hissed through the air, but though they found their mark, they did no significant damage. The cursed creature shrugged them off nonchalantly as if they were mere twigs tossed about by children. "Steady, men!" Cullen bellowed, his voice strained with determination. "Hold the line!" His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as his mind raced with thoughts about Miriam, Gaspard, and Hawke... What fate befell them? He had heard the roar of the beast and the ominous rumble of stones, and then, in a matter of moments, the dragon had emerged from the Adamant Fortress and descended upon them with unbridled fury. With the Herald and the Emperor gone, the morale of the troops lay in ruins. In these circumstances, how could they hope to prevail against a creature of such immense power? Cullen felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him, threatening to extinguish the flicker of hope that remained.

    Cassandra rushed toward him, her armor clattering with urgency. She panted, her breaths ragged from the sprint. "Cullen!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arm to steady herself. "The Chevaliers have broken formation. They''re leading the Orlesian army to assault the fortress, convinced that Gaspard is in grave danger."

    Cullen''s brows furrowed, his mind grappling with the absurdity of their decision. "Now!? They have no idea what kind of situation they are charging into, let alone the threat of the dragon! This is madness!"

    The Seeker nodded, her expression mirroring his disbelief. "I told them the same, but they won''t listen. They insist on saving the Emperor, no matter the cost."

    A muffled curse escaped his lips, but before he could fully express his frustration, a horn blared through the chaos of the battlefield. The dissonant sound reverberated through the air, drowning out the roars of the dragon. As soon as the echoes died down, a soldier shouted. "The Wardens are coming from the east!"

    Cullen turned his attention to the indicated direction, from where the Warden mages and the demons were rapidly approaching. "Seeker, assume command of the Templars to confront the maleficars and the demons. Take with you those who wield the Litany of Adralla to protect you from blood magic. I will do what I can to keep the dragon at bay for as long as possible.¡±

    Cassandra gave a grim nod and hurried to carry out his order. The odds were against them¡ªa dragon looming above, Orlesians forsaking them for an assault on Adamant, and now a legion of Wardens, and demons closing in. Yet, amidst the chaos, a peculiar sense of clarity settled within him. "Listen up!" He bellowed to address the soldiers. "We need to distract that dragon and draw it away from the front lines. We must buy time for the others to deal with the Wardens and the demons!" The archers responded with a volley of arrows, aiming to lure the creature away from the main battleground. As the beast turned to face the renewed assault, Cullen shouted orders to his warriors. "Flank it! Keep its attention divided! Move, move, move!" Suddenly, Cullen caught sight of the aged, bald woman clad in the armor of the Warden-Commander. "Maker''s breath," he muttered to himself. "It''s Clarel." The figurehead of the very order they were fighting had managed to slip past the Templars and was now gathering her mana, preparing to unleash an Ice Storm upon them. Ignoring the ongoing skirmish with the dragon, Cullen redirected his focus towards the Warden-Commander. This was an opportunity that rarely presented itself¡ªa chance to confront one of the leaders orchestrating the madness that had befallen the Wardens. "Clarel!" he called out, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "The Wardens were sworn to safeguard the world from the Blight, and now you stand with the blighted dragon. Have you gone mad?!¡±

    The woman stopped her incantation and turned to look at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What in the Void are you talking about?!"

    Cullen pointed urgently at the monstrous creature, which was spitting fire. "Look there! Remember your oath to protect Thedas from such horrors!"

    In response, Clarel''s expression twisted into disbelief. "You''ve lost your mind!" she spat. "That is no dragon, it''s a noble griffon, ridden by a mage Warden!" With a quick incantation, she threw a shard of ice that narrowly missed Cullen''s head as he covered himself with a shield. In the next instant, a bolt of lightning struck him, his sinews twisting and spasming, the stunning impact rendering him immobile and unable to breathe.

    At that dire moment, Fenris emerged from the swirling smoke behind the Warden-Commander and plunged his sword into the Warden''s back.  Clarel''s spell was instantly broken and Cullen sank to the ground, his breath coming in gasps, his muscles throbbing with intense ache.

    Warden-Commander clasped her hands around the blade protruding from her abdomen, her gaze frantic as she locked eyes with Cullen. "You doomed us all," she moaned, her voice strained. "The Blight, we must sto..." Suddenly, her expression froze, transforming from anguished to shocked. "The Calling... it''s gone," she murmured, her words trailing off into a raspy cough. Blood splattered from her lips as she released the sword, collapsing to the ground, and life extinguished from her body.

    The elf hastened toward Cullen, extending his hand to lift him from the ground. Their eyes scanned the battlefield, where the Wardens and the demons persisted in their struggle against the diminishing forces of the Templar Order. Fenris''s brow furrowed in confusion, and he asked with a hint of frustration, "Did she not claim that the Calling was gone? Then why are they still fighting?"

    Cullen, his gaze fixed on the disarray, spoke with urgency, "You must find Erimond and kill him. The Wardens are deceived, they cannot see the true nature of the monster. The Magister distorts their perception, but once he is dealt with, they will realize the truth and turn on the dragon and the demons." The elf gave a brisk nod and plunged into the maelstrom of swirling ash and fire, hot on the trail of the Tevinter Magister. With determination etched on his features, Cullen swiftly ran towards the beleaguered Inquisition soldiers, who, despite enduring heavy losses, valiantly confronted the beast. "Keep moving! Watch for the patterns!" he shouted, his voice strained.

    The soldiers nodded, their expressions grim as they launched themselves at the beast with renewed determination. But the dragon was relentless, its fiery onslaughts driving them back time and time again. Cullen felt the heat bearing down on him, the flames licking at his armor like the tongues of the Void itself. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his shield raised high to deflect the worst of the inferno. The metal grew unbearably hot against his skin, searing into his flesh with each movement. A wave of dizziness washed over him, his vision swimming as memories from his past flooded his mind. He saw himself once again in the Circle Tower, surrounded by demons and blood mages. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur, the cries of his fellow Knights reverberating in his ears as they fell one by one. "No!" he screamed, shaking his head violently to dispel the illusion. "I''m not there!" With a sudden jolt, Cullen snapped out of the trance-like grip of the vision. The present moment rushed back with a visceral intensity just as he found himself face-to-face with the monstrous dragon, its colossal form casting a looming shadow over him. Its eyes blazed with a ferocious fury, and with a deafening roar, it unleashed another torrent of flames. Yet, just as death seemed inevitable, he felt a powerful force slam into his body, propelling him out of harm''s way. It was one of the soldiers, a nameless hero who had selflessly sacrificed himself to save his Commander. As Cullen tumbled to the ground, he could only watch in stunned horror as the brave soul disintegrated into nothingness before his very eyes, consumed by the dragon''s inferno.

    Cullen struggled to his feet, his body rebelling against him as pain emanated from every torn muscle and scorched patch of skin. With a primal scream, fueled by a mix of anger and defiance, he charged headlong toward the beast. The dragon''s eyes, gleaming with predatory intelligence, narrowed into slits as it tracked his movements. With a sudden, ferocious motion, the creature swatted its foreleg. Cullen raised his shield in a reflexive attempt to defend himself, but the dragon''s power was overwhelming. The shield and armor that encased him offered little resistance as the claws tore effortlessly through, shredding tissue and shattering bones in his left limb. The beast''s talons, which had pierced his shield, lodged in it, and the monster, like a cat trying to rid itself of a nuisance on its paw, began to thrash wildly with its front leg. Agony seared through Cullen''s body, a white-hot blaze of pain that threatened to consume him as he was violently jerked in every direction¡ªup and down, left and right¡ªhis maimed arm bearing the brunt of the torment. Groaning, he struggled to free his bloodied limb from the shield straps, but to no avail.  Yet amid the chaos, a surge of adrenaline and sheer willpower overcame him. Gripping his sword tightly, Cullen seized the fleeting moment as the monster''s head approached and, with a swift, desperate thrust, drove the blade into the dragon''s jaw. Sharp steel sliced through the monster''s tough hide, penetrating layers of flesh and sinew until it lodged in the bone. A grotesque spray of black ichor erupted from the wound, showering him with the foul substance that mixed with the crimson essence of his own injuries. A thunderous roar echoed across the battlefield, and with a particularly violent jerk of its foreleg, the dragon''s claws finally broke free, sending Cullen hurtling through the air like a rag doll until his body slammed into a rock, plunging him into darkness as his senses faded.

    His consciousness drifted like a leaf on a turbulent stream, occasionally surfacing to the light before being swallowed once more by the darkness that beckoned him into its embrace. First, he caught glimpses of another Inquisition soldier, seemingly dragging him somewhere with urgency. Strangely, there was no pain, only a pervasive numbness that enveloped his entire being.

    Another fleeting moment revealed Cassandra''s figure standing over him, engaged in conversation with some woman, their words muffled and distant. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of blood, elfroot, and disinfectant. Yet, the details slipped away as quickly as they came, lost in the fog of his mind.

    When he surfaced again, his eyes struggled to focus on the rough-hewn stone ceiling above. The feeble light of dancing candles flickered, casting distorted shadows across the room. As he tried to make sense of his surroundings, he became acutely aware of the heaviness that clung to his limbs, a sensation like molten lead coursing through his veins. Attempting to move felt like navigating through quicksand, and his body seemed reluctant to respond. Blinking against the haze, Cullen''s gaze fell to his right hand, the only place of warmth amid the overall numbness. There, he found Miriam, seated in a chair beside him, her head hanging in a wearied slumber. Her fingers, delicate and gentle, cradled his hand with tenderness.

    "Miriam," he croaked. Trying to form words felt like climbing a steep hill.

    Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a vibrant crimson hue that appeared even more striking as it mirrored the flickering candlelight. "Cullen," she breathed, her voice carrying a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "Thank the Maker, you''ve regained your senses."

    He tried to make sense of his surroundings, his mind a foggy landscape of confusion. "Where... what happened?"

    Miriam''s gaze softened as she met his eyes, her hold on his hand reassuring. "We are at Adamant Fortress. You were injured. Badly. I''ve been tending to you for days."

    He struggled to piece together the fragments of memory. ¡°The battle," he mumbled, feeling his heart quicken. "The dragon, the Magister... Are we safe?"

    Miriam''s lips formed a weary, sorrowful smile. "The battle is won, and the Inquisition stands triumphant. The cost we paid for victory was steep... but I will tell you all about it later. For now, you need to concentrate on your recovery."

    As he tried to absorb her words, the room began to sway like a ship sailing through a storm, and he once again succumbed to unconsciousness. Yet, the warmth of Miriam''s touch lingered, a comforting light in the midst of darkness.

    In the days that followed, Cullen fought against the tides of drowsiness, gradually reclaiming more and more moments of alertness. Each time his eyes opened, he found the mage by his side. The sensation in his body slowly transitioned from the weighty grip of numbness to a heightened awareness of pain. Every breath sliced through his chest with a sharp sting, an unrelenting reminder of the broken ribs, while patches of scorched skin alternated between itching and throbbing. But all this paled in comparison to the sorry state of his bandaged limb, which lay limp at his side, its fingers barely responding to his commands. Miriam, with a pained expression on her face, conveyed that the Maker''s grace spared him from the dragon''s taint, yet the exposure of his wounds to the monster¡¯s corrupted essence was hindering the effectiveness of spells and potions. That was why his ribs remained broken, his skin damaged, and, most importantly, why the crushed bones and severed muscles in his arm rendered it beyond his control. While his other injuries would slowly heal over time, his hand, even when fully recovered, would never regain its former functionality. Using it in battle, such as holding his shield, would remain an impossible task.

    The news had reached Cullen like a cold wind, sweeping through his consciousness and leaving behind a bitter chill. His first instinct, a reflex forged in the crucible of duty, was to step away from his post. The demands of his position required strength, yet now he stood as a commander with not only a weakened mind but also a compromised body. He had become more of a liability than an asset. But as the familiar feeling of failure loomed, he remembered with poignant clarity that for him, the mission to defeat the Elder One was not just about duty; it was about redemption, about proving to himself and others that even with his limitations, he could still make a difference, could still contribute to the cause he believed in so deeply. His new state didn¡¯t change that. While he might no longer be fit for direct combat, his ability to lead and command troops effectively remained intact. Determined, he decided that until the other members of the Inquisition council judged him incapable of fulfilling his duties, he would continue to be the Commander. He would persevere until the bitter end, whether it be his demise or the fulfillment of the Inquisition''s noble purpose.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Eventually, he reached a point where Miriam felt his recovery was sufficient to warrant a detailed report on everything that had happened since she had entered the Adamant Fortress. As he sat in his bed, the mage took the chair by his side and recounted how she and others had been physically in the Fade, how the spirit that looked like the Divine had revealed to them that the Calling had been forged by a demon in the service of the Elder One, and how this Elder One was one of the Seven. He absorbed the barrage of events, trying to decide which was more shocking until Miriam broke the grim news of Hawke''s and the other soldiers'' sacrifice.

    Cullen wasn¡¯t a close friend with the Champion, yet they knew each other for a very long time and had been through some tough situations both in Kirkwall and since their shared involvement in the Inquisition, so he was far from indifferent towards her fate. Yet, even after hearing what had happened, he remained calm. Time after time, Hawke had managed to somehow survive through more perils than anyone he ever knew. No one did see her fall, and there was no body to speak of, which allowed hope to persist. If anyone in the history of Thedas had the chance to survive for an extended period in the Fade and then find a way out, all the while laughing about it, it was her. He wasn¡¯t the only one thinking that way, as Miriam told him that Brother Sebastian and Fenris also rejected the belief in Hawke''s demise. The mage, her gaze drifting into the distance, added that she sympathized with their inclination to grasp at straws. Cullen observed the lingering silence, noting the gravity in Miriam''s expression. Sensing the need to redirect the conversation, he shifted towards the events following his battle with the dragon. "Do you know what happened after I was knocked out by the blighted monster?" he began. "My memories are few and fragmented."

    Miriam''s crimson gaze once lost in the distance, returned to meet Cullen''s eyes. "When we reached the fortress, the battle had concluded long ago," she began. "Cassandra told me that after Fenris struck down the Magister, the Wardens realized who they were fighting alongside and turned on the creature and the demons."

    Cullen chuckled with disdain. "It looks like we managed just fine without the Orlesians."

    Miriam shook her head. "It wasn¡¯t so. Discovering that his Majesty was not within the fortress, the Emperor''s army returned to the battlefield. With united forces, we managed to defeat the demons and wound the dragon enough for it to retreat."

    Cullen leaned back, absorbing the information. "Still, they left us stranded amidst the onslaught. I shall have to speak to Gaspard about this matter."

    Miriam sighed wearily. "Cassandra has already conveyed our grievances, and His Majesty responded that regrettable as it may be, he cannot reprimand his men for prioritizing his safety. After all, his well-being must always be the primary concern of his people."

    Cullen had a multitude of thoughts on the matter, each one a sharp retort to the two-faced bastard, but he knew deep down that there was no point in voicing them. After all, they had no other allies to turn to. "What of the remaining Wardens?" he inquired, changing the topic of the conversation.

    "The Emperor decreed their fate, condemning them to the flames, and so it was carried out," the mage stated matter-of-factly.

    His eyes widened in disbelief. "But you mentioned they ultimately aided us in defeating the demons and the dragon?"

    "That''s precisely why they were granted the noble death by my cleansing flames," Miriam explained in a flat, detached tone. "Had they not acknowledged the error of their ways and repented, they would have faced the gallows like heretics."

    "You... you burned them yourself?" he asked, a shiver coursing down his spine.

    The mage nodded solemnly, her gaze dropping to the mark on her hand. "Yes," she admitted quietly, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "His Majesty said it would be fitting for me to be the one to carry out the sentence...and I agreed. As the Sword of the Faithful, I must be prepared to dispense justice personally.¡± There was a slight tremor in her voice as she continued, the mask of indifference slipping away. ¡°The Wardens did deserve death for their transgressions. I did the right thing, and yet... and yet it lingers heavily on my soul. Perhaps because I didn''t realize that it is one thing to end a life in the heat of battle, amidst the chaos and urgency of combat, and quite another to unleash flames on people with their hands tied behind their backs. His Majesty believes that I must steel my heart, and perhaps he is right."

    Cullen''s expression hardened. That cursed man and his bloody machinations! "Why didn''t you consult me on this decision?" he demanded, his voice filled with frustration.

    Miriam looked at him, perplexed. "Cullen, you were in and out of consciousness, in no condition to discuss anything. Cassandra expressed her disagreement, but I..."

    He cut her off in exasperation: "You should have heeded her counsel! It''s not your duty to carry out executions. And stop calling yourself the Sword of the Faithful, because you are..." His words hung in the charged air as Miriam stood up so abruptly that the chair she was sitting on fell to the floor.

    "What? A mere mistake? A pretender? Is that what you are trying to imply!?" She cried out, her face contorted in anger.

    Cullen, taken aback by her sudden outburst, raised his brows in bewilderment. "No! Why would such thoughts even cross my mind? I just meant that being the executioner, branding yourself as the Sword of the Faithful, it''s..." He was about to say ''Not who you are, but who the Emperor wants you to be'', but thinking better of it, he went on, "A heavy burden, so I''m worried about the toll it''s taking on you.¡± Her expression swiftly changed from anger to profound sadness, and as she seemed to deflate, tears started streaming down her face. "Miriam, what''s wrong?" he inquired, his frustration giving way to genuine concern.

    The mage approached and slowly seated herself at his side. "It¡¯s nothing, forgive me. The stress of it all had the better of me," she said in a hushed tone. ¡°Can you give me a hug?¡± He felt a pang of guilt for his earlier temper, regretting his lack of diplomacy in handling the situation. Sometimes, he wished he possessed even a fraction of Josephine''s talents for tact and grace. Without uttering a word, Cullen extended his right hand and gently drew her closer, his body protesting in pain. Despite the discomfort, he held her firmly, offering what solace he could in their shared embrace. ¡°Your hugs always make me feel better,¡± she murmured. Her words triggered a fleeting memory in his mind, a fragment from Kinloch, where he had uttered the same sentiment to someone. Yet, the details eluded him, leaving only blurred images of bloodied Templar armor and red hair. An unsettling sense of importance clung to the memory, but he couldn''t pinpoint the person to whom he had spoken those words. Blinking a few times to dispel the haze of the past, he refocused on the present, where the mage¡¯s form still trembled against him. Lacking the words to console her, Cullen decided on a different approach. He began to hum the familiar tune of the Little Apple Tree, a melody that had cheered her up in the past. Remarkably, the humming seemed to work its magic. Miriam''s sobs subsided, and in a heartfelt turn, she joined him, her tears replaced by a soft harmony as she began to sing along.

    After weeks of slow recovery, Cullen found himself strong enough to embark on the journey back to Skyhold. By the time he was fit for travel, the Emperor and his army had already departed for Val Royeaux, leaving the united forces of the Inquisition and the Templar Order to make their way back to their mountain stronghold.

    The return trip, though uneventful in terms of external threats, proved to be a silent challenge for Cullen. He found the long hours in the saddle increasingly difficult to endure; his muscles, weakened by his recent ordeal, protested against the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath him. The landscape often became a blur as he grappled with the discomfort. Still, there was a glimmer of progress. His hand, once paralyzed and unresponsive, had regained some semblance of normalcy. He couldn''t lift it over his shoulder or clench his fingers, but the subtle return of mobility was a glimmer of hope. It allowed him to maintain a fa?ade of strength for the troops, a deliberate effort not to diminish their morale.

    As the towers of Skyhold came into view on the horizon, the collective sigh of relief from the troops mirrored the feeling of returning home after a long and grueling campaign. Finally, the fortress''s imposing gates, festooned with banners bearing the symbols of the Inquisition and the Templar Order, swung open to welcome the returning forces. Cullen dismounted with a grace that belied the lingering pain, and after a brief moment overseeing the troops settling back into the familiar stronghold, he turned toward his quarters.

    As he climbed the stone steps leading up to his office, he began to eagerly anticipate some much-needed rest. However, fate had other plans. Just as he opened the door, he found Leliana standing beside his table; she was clearly expecting him. "Cullen," she greeted, her sharp eyes meeting his with discerning intensity. His response was a nod of acknowledgment as he entered the office. "Congratulations on the victory."

    He inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you. It was a hard-fought battle, but we managed to prevail.¡± He paused for a moment. ¡°It does concern me, however, that with no Wardens in Orlais, the Emperor has no significant military force able to oppose him, other than the Inquisition, of course. A strategic move on his part, no doubt, but one that lacks foresight as it leaves the Empire ill-prepared for any future Blights.¡±

    Leliana smirked. "He will likely rebuild the Wardens from scratch, placing his own loyalists in charge. I anticipated this move, and I''m relieved that he lived up to expectations."

    Cullen gave her a weary look. "Why do you seem to enjoy this?"

    The woman''s eyes gleamed. "You are a warrior, surely you understand the satisfaction of facing a formidable opponent."

    Cullen sighed, "Not really. There''s no thrill in it for me. Is there anything else? Forgive me, but I''m a bit tired from the journey."

    Leliana tilted her head. "Yes, there is something more. I''ve managed to uncover the Emperor''s spy."

    Cullen''s weariness seemed to fade as he leaned in with renewed interest. "Who was it?" he inquired, his alertness returning.

    "Marta, an elderly Ferelden woman who has been cleaning the latrines since our time in Haven." The Spymaster stated it with a slight wince. It was likely difficult for her to accept that Gaspard¡¯s spy had infiltrated the Inquisition from the start.

    Cullen furrowed his brow, racking his memory to recall any encounter with this woman, but came up empty-handed. After all, he seldom paid heed to those outside the Inquisition council or armed forces. "Shrewd of him to enlist a Ferelden for this task. How did you discover that it was her?" he inquired.

    Leliana''s lips curled into a faint smile. "A subtle trail of breadcrumbs leading to the heart of deceit," she stated cryptically. "What¡¯s important is that I turned her into a double agent. Gaspard will continue to believe she remains loyal to him, but in truth, she now serves as our eyes within his network. Naturally, she''ll provide him with some information to preserve her cover, but it will be carefully curated to align with our agenda. Once Corypheus is vanquished, we''ll leverage her to expose the Emperor''s deceit."

    "How can you be certain she won''t betray us?" He asked, his tone skeptical.

    "I''ve secured her loyalty," she replied. "Marta has recently experienced the loss of her entire family through a series of unfortunate events, except for her grandchild, who is currently being held in a place known only to me. The old woman won''t take any risks that could jeopardize the safety of her last remaining kin."

    Cullen''s eyes widened in shock. "That''s... please tell me you weren''t involved in those ''unfortunate events''," he uttered, concern evident in his voice.

    The expression on Leliana''s face becomes inscrutable. "Cullen, if you''re to fight a lion, you cannot act as a sheep. We must use every tool at our disposal to achieve victory."

    Cullen''s temper flared with indignation. "Killing and kidnapping innocents, is this the path you''ve chosen to secure victory? That''s not what we stand for, Leliana!"

    The Spymaster met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "If the loss of a few innocent lives today means that countless more will be saved from the clutches of tyranny tomorrow, then it is my duty to make that sacrifice. I was willing to do what others cannot, for the Inquisition, for Thedas. It''s a harsh reality, but that¡¯s the only one the Maker has given us." Her expression softened as she continued, "I don''t revel in these choices, Cullen. Trust that I bear the burden of these decisions with a heavy heart, but I do it for the greater good."

    He swept his hand wearily across his face and shook his head. "Why is it that the gravest deeds always unfold under the banner of the greater good?"

    Leliana''s countenance remained stoic. "Instead of dwelling on my methods, I believe we should discuss the Emperor''s preparations for a wedding with the Inquisitor."

    His heart skipped a beat. "Did Miriam agree to the proposal?"

    "No, she did not. But Gaspard is convinced she will."

    Cullen''s mind raced, a mix of relief and concern coursing through him. "Why is he suddenly so confident?"

    Leliana fixed him with a cold, accusatory gaze, her tone almost incriminating. "While you struggled with the idea of marrying the Herald in order to win the Game, Gaspard made his advances in earnest. Miriam has neither relished nor rebuffed them, an attitude which I suspect was sufficient for him to assume that her consent to their union was imminent."

    "How exactly could you know of this?" He felt the sting of jealousy, though he was determined not to let it show.

    "She confided in Lysette, and the information found its way to me," Leliana responded calmly. "The Templar has been one of my agents for some time now.¡±

    His right hand clenched into a fist. "Do you realize the gravity of this? If Miriam were to find out that Lysette is betraying her trust, it would devastate her."

    Leliana arched an eyebrow. "She won''t discover the truth, and besides, do you really expect me not to use the Herald''s friendship with the Knight to the Inquisition''s advantage?"

    Cullen suddenly felt an overwhelming fatigue, a weariness that seemed to settle into his bones. He couldn''t shake the feeling that the very pillars of the Inquisition were crumbling beneath the burden of murder, deceit, and manipulation. "I... I need to call it a day," he murmured, his voice strained as he addressed Leliana.

    She nodded in understanding. "Of course." As the Spymaster turned to leave, she paused and cast a calculated glance back at him. "Before I go, Cullen, remember this, you have one week to decide. Either you begin actively pursuing the Inquisitor, or I will ensure the news of her infertility spreads far and wide. How the marriage to the Emperor unravels will be of your choosing." With those words hanging heavy in the air, Leliana departed, leaving Cullen to grapple with her ultimatum and the tangled web of choices before him.

    As he sank into his chair, the burden of it all pressed down upon him like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him beneath its weight. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn''t see a way to maintain his pure intentions amidst the convoluted schemes. After all, one couldn''t be surrounded by filth and not get stained. A heavy sigh escaped him as he leaned back in his chair. If the only compassionate way to protect Miriam was by playing the Game, by becoming a piece on the political chessboard, then so be it. He would save her from the Emperor, even if it meant compromising his own ideals. At least he could take solace in the fact that his love for her was genuine, untainted by political motives and that he would never impose himself upon her as that bastard Gaspard seemed to be doing.

    He knew that Miriam did not love him the way he yearned for, yet there was a chance that with patience, respect, and time, her feelings could change¡­ But what if, even after all the efforts, she couldn''t reciprocate his sentiments? Wouldn''t it be unfair for both of them to spend the rest of their lives in such a marriage? After a moment of contemplation, a bitter chuckle escaped his lips as he realized that he was fretting over a future that, in all likelihood, neither he nor Miriam had. As Leliana said, it was a harsh reality, but it was the only one the Maker had given them. In this, he was able to agree with her.

 Confessions

    Miriam, her hands tightly bound behind her back, was dragged through Skyhold''s courtyard by two Inquisition soldiers, heading directly for the pyre. Walking before them, Cassandra, with her Templar abilities nullifying the mage''s magic, carried a torch in her hand. The place was teeming with a frenzied crowd, an indistinct sea of faces twisted in disdain surrounding her as she stumbled through the throng. Each step she took echoed with the cacophony of jeers and taunts, the venomous words piercing through her soul like shards of shattered glass. "False Herald! Pathetic Pretender!" they bellowed, their voices a symphony of scorn and condemnation. "Burn! Burn her!"

    "Please believe me! I am chosen by the Maker! Please!" Miriam screamed in desperation, but her cries fell upon deaf ears, drowned out by the chorus of hatred. Stumbling over uneven ground, her heart pounded in her chest as she frantically searched the crowd for the familiar faces of Cullen and Lysette, hoping to implore for their aid. Yet, when she found them, her friends met her gaze with cold, accusatory eyes, and her words choked in her throat.

    As they reached the pyre, the soldiers swiftly bound Miriam to the rough wooden stake, securing her in place. Cassandra, without sparing her a second glance, confidently wielded the torch, its flame dancing ominously in the air. With deliberate precision, she applied the fire to the waiting logs, the flames eagerly catching, flickering, and then roaring to life, engulfing the pyre in a merciless embrace. Cheers erupted from the crowd as flames spread around the mage, their tongues licking hungrily at her feet, searing her flesh. Panic and agony brought a raw cry from Miriam''s throat, "My Maker! My Creator! I beg you, deliver me!"

    The sky above ruptured, and a sudden deluge of blood rained furiously from the heavens, a crimson cascade that drenched the earth and extinguished the inferno that sought to claim her. The crowd, once fervent in their condemnation, fell to the ground like marionettes with severed strings. The air hung heavy with the scent of copper as a familiar chant started to echo through the air, "Blood, blood, blood!"

    Despite the crimson downpour veiling her vision, she discerned the silhouette of the Emperor emerging through the imposing gates of Skyhold. Draped in nothing but tainted rain, he made his way towards her, callously trampling on the bodies that were strewn across the courtyard. Ascending the pyre to stand beside her, he enveloped her in a tight embrace, his soaked form pressing her against the stake. "Do not heed them, for you are the chosen of the Maker," Gaspard whispered in her ear, his voice sounding almost as the serpent''s hiss. Then he suddenly released her and grabbed her throat. His touch was as cold as death itself, his fingers wrapping around her windpipe with a vice-like grip that robbed her of breath, forcing her to gasp for air. The Emperor''s eyes, voids of darkness, bore into her soul as he uttered a final admonition. "Listen not to the chorus of deceit. Embrace your destiny!" As she choked on the sudden rush of blood that flooded her mouth, a visceral terror consumed her, tearing the veil of the nightmare and hurling her into the waking world.

    With a sharp gasp, Miriam''s eyes snapped open. Her body was drenched in sweat, and the lingering taste of blood clung to her tongue. With a trembling hand, she reached for her amulet, gripping it tightly and pressing it against her chest as she curled into a fetal position under the covers. Those terrible nightmares had been haunting her since the day she fell out of the Fade at the Western Approach. Was the Maker trying to convey a message through these terrible dreams, or was it simply her troubled mind grappling with lingering doubts?

    As she swallowed, feeling the metallic taste of saliva descending down her throat, memories of the time she and the Emperor shared a kiss flooded her mind. His lips bore the taste of blood, and in its aftermath, she was consumed by an icy chill from within, as if all the warmth had been drained from her being. Miriam had never been kissed before, but she knew it shouldn''t have felt like that. Could it be another manifestation of the mark? For a while, she tossed and turned in her bed, the weight of unanswered questions pressing on her mind, denying her the solace of sleep. As the midnight bells tolled, feeling frustrated and with frayed nerves, she decided to seek refuge in prayer.

    Quietly, she slipped out of bed, swapped her wrinkled, sweat-soaked nightclothes for a fresh robe, and put on her mask. Although she had the statue of Andreste gifted to her by the Emperor in her quarters, she made her way to the Skyhold''s Chapel. Its sacred atmosphere held an irresistible appeal for her soul¡ªa unique allure that her own quarters couldn''t match.

    Entering the sacred space, she felt a sense of calm wash over her. The empty, dimly lit room was bathed in a warm glow, the crackling of coals in the eternal brazier providing a soothing backdrop to her thoughts. The air was thick with the scent of candles and incense, wrapping her in a cocoon of tranquility.

    Her eyes fell upon the statue of Andraste, whose serene expression seemed to offer her solace, a silent companion in her time of need. With a heavy heart, Miriam sank to her knees before His Bride, clasping her hands together in prayer. In the sacred hush, she bared her soul and while the Maker remained silent, the burden of her troubles felt somewhat lighter as she relinquished them to the divine.

    Once the mage finished her prayer, she rose from her kneeling position and smoothed her robe. Just as she was about to leave, however, her solitude was interrupted by the distinct sound of approaching footsteps. She turned to meet Cullen''s eyes, his thoughtful expression changing to surprise at seeing her. He looked tired, and his left hand moved awkwardly as he walked. "Miriam," he said, eyeing her curiously. "What brings you here at this late hour?"

    A sigh escaped her lips as she shifted uncomfortably. "A nightmare," she began, her voice betraying her weariness. "It robbed me of my sleep, and I thought seeking solace in prayer might ease the haunting thoughts that linger."

    He nodded in understanding. "It seems that nightmares have become unwelcome bedfellows for both of us today. I, too, have sought refuge here for this very reason.¡±

    He came closer, and for a while they stood side by side in front of the statue of Andraste in a comfortable silence. Miriam contemplated asking Cullen if he wished to be alone or if he preferred her company, when he, still gazing at the statue uttered. "Do you want to become a family?"

    The unexpectedness of the question left Miriam astounded. She turned to face him. "A family?"

    In a swift turn, Cullen directed his attention toward her. He adjusted his tabard and cleared his throat. His words flowed rapidly and with a hint of monotony as if the sentence had been rehearsed. "Yes. I have come to realize the depth of my affection for you, a sentiment that transcends mere friendship. I understand this might come as a surprise, but I want you to know that I''ve thoroughly considered and thought abo¡­¡±

    "I would be honored!" she exclaimed, unable to wait for him to finish. "To have you as my sworn brother is beyond anything I could ever hope for!" His countenance, initially radiant with hope, twisted into a pained expression. The mage¡¯s heart tightened in her chest, sensing a dissonance she had not anticipated.

    Cullen, struggling to maintain composure, began to stumble over his words. "I... I should have been clearer, and I apologize if my words misled you," he said, his voice strained. "I meant... I meant to propose a union through marriage, to create a family of our own."

    "Wait," she mumbled out, her voice betraying both confusion and disbelief. "Did I hear you correctly? You want us to become husband and wife?"

    Cullen, his face now flushed, nodded.

    Miriam''s breath caught in her throat as she absorbed his words. The Chapel seemed to close in on her as she grappled with the unexpected twist of events. "I never thought... I never considered...Oh, Cullen," she stammered. "I hold you dearly in my heart, you know that," she continued, her voice tender yet tinged with hesitation. "You are my hero, my steadfast pillar of strength, and my friend, but I don¡¯t..."

    Cullen''s piercing gaze bore into her, interrupting her words. "Do you harbor feelings of love for the Emperor?"

    Miriam shook her head. "No, I have deep respect for His Majesty, but nothing more. His Majesty, however, holds affection for me, of that I am certain. It is this fondness that beckons me to consider his offer. For within me stirs a selfish yearning, a longing to secure a loving family, to obtain something I thought was forever beyond my reach."

    "Then why won''t you entertain the prospect of marriage with me? Do you think Gaspard¡¯s affection exceeds mine?"

    "No, certainly not!" she declared fervently. Miriam clasped her hands, a desperate plea in her eyes as she endeavored to articulate the intricate web of emotions entwined within her. "You see, I could enter into union with His Majesty and bear no guilt for withholding my heart, but I could not do the same with you. It would be a torment, knowing I cannot reciprocate the passion you rightfully deserve."

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    Cullen processed her words for a moment and then replied with confidence. "I would rather embrace the platonic love you could grant me than endure the pain of watching you wed another."

    His words tug at her heartstrings. Miriam couldn''t fathom why he would be willing to make such a sacrifice. Perhaps, she pondered, if he understood the full extent of what he was signing up for, he might see reason? She removed her mask and looked up at him, fully aware of the eerie way the flames of the brazier would flicker in her crimson eyes. "Even if we were to receive the Chantry''s blessing and you were willing to set aside the desire for progeny," she began, her tone serious, "there remains the matter of the mark and how it affects my body." After a deep breath, Miriam found the courage to utter a confession she had been reluctant to make: "Apart from the visible displays you are already familiar with, there has been another noteworthy change. I have lost my sense of taste. I¡­I can only savor the metallic flavor of blood, Cullen. I cannot fathom what future the Maker may bestow upon me, but the signs do not seem promising. I am telling you this not to burden you, but because I want you to realize that you could find a much better wife.¡±

    He studied her for a long moment, a myriad of emotions playing on his face. Opening his mouth as if to speak, he hesitated, eventually closing it. Instead, he reached out and tenderly clasped her hand. "Miriam, whatever challenges lie ahead, we shall face them together,¡± he declared. "And I fear you greatly overestimate my appeal as a partner. I am just a commoner bearing the weight of a maimed hand and a mind prone to falter," he admitted, his grip on her hand tightening. "Given the intricacies of our circumstances, I dare say we form a fitting pair."

    A surge of warmth tinged with vulnerability coursed through her, but it was swiftly eclipsed by a cold current of fear as she suddenly realized the potential repercussions of her response to their friendship. "Cullen, I...I am¡­" she mumbled, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

    "Miriam," he said softly, "all I ask is for you to give my proposal some thought. Can you do that?"

    In response to his request, the mage managed a weak nod.

    He gently released her hand, offering a brief, appreciative smile. "Thank you."

    Cullen reached for her mask, handling it with care, and delicately positioned it back onto her face. "You should go and get some rest."

    Miriam nodded weakly once more.

    Awkwardly, they exchanged subdued goodnights, and she made her way to her chambers.

    For the rest of the night, her mind was awash with a tumultuous sea of emotions that refused to grant her sleep. Every detail, every word exchanged in conversation with Cullen replayed incessantly in her mind. The revelation of her best friend''s love added a layer of complexity to her situation. The familiarity and security of their friendship became uncharted territory, and the path forward appeared hazy and undefined at his omission. And as she wrestled with her inner turmoil, one terrifying thing became clear: whatever path she chose would irrevocably alter the dynamic of their relationship forever.

    The next day, exhausted from the sleepless night, Miriam found herself putting in considerable effort to focus on her tasks. Despite her best attempts, thoughts of Cullen continued to dominate her mind, proving challenging to set aside or ignore. In the midst of her preoccupation, she forgot to sign crucial documents sent by Josephine. The oversight led to a reprimand from the Ambassador, which she rightfully deserved. As if the paperwork mishap wasn''t enough, her lapse in concentration extended to the infirmary. While attempting to prepare potions, she accidentally spoiled several batches by adding too much elfroot and misjudging the proportions.

    The final straw, however, came in the evening, during the council meeting when the problem of the Venatori smuggling red lyrium into Antiva was discussed. As Cullen elaborated on details and indicated locations on the map, Miriam simultaneously placed her marker near the rift that was also located in that area. Their hands momentarily brushed against each other, which had proven enough to elicit a sudden reaction that compelled her to withdraw her hand as if she were bitten. The motion prompted surprised glances from those around the table, but fortunately, no one chose to comment upon the incident, allowing the meeting to proceed without interruption. She loathed the discomfort that nestled in her chest, finding it absurd and resenting the fact that physical contact with Cullen, her usual source of comfort, now triggered anxiety. Frustrated with herself and the unfolding situation, she struggled to fully engage in the discussion, her contributions becoming minimal, and she swiftly retreated to her quarters as soon as the meeting concluded.

    The heavy wooden door creaked open, unveiling her chambers bathed in the soft, waning hues of the sunset. A faint echo of metal tapping against stone emanated from the balcony, where Miriam was pleasantly surprised to find Lysette. Lost in contemplation, the Knight stood leaning against the railing, her leg tapping rhythmically on the floor as she looked out at the vast expanse of the mountains.

    "Good evening. It''s good that you came." Miriam greeted her friend warmly as she entered the balcony.

    Lysette turned to face her, the sunlight casting a rosy hue upon her polished armor. "Good evening, Inquisitor."

    "Today proved to be quite the trial," the mage began, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion and frustration. "I found myself deprived of sleep, neglected to attend to Josephine''s documents, and mishandled the preparation of potions..." Her recounting faltered, however, as she observed her friend''s uneasy demeanor. "Is something troubling you?"

    "I apologize, I wasn''t entirely present," Lysette replied softly, her gaze momentarily diverted before reconnecting with Miriam''s eyes. She approached, laying a hand on her shoulder. "I came to you today because I need your assistance. It concerns Brother Sebastian."

    Miriam furrowed her brow. "What''s happened?"

    The Knight took a deep breath before pouring out her predicament. "He refuses to accept Hawke''s death. It''s been weeks, and he still clings to the hope that she''s alive. I''ve tried talking to him, but he won''t listen. He won''t even entertain the thought that she''s gone." Her voice filled with desperation as she continued. "Inquisitor, you have to talk to him. He needs to hear it from someone he respects, someone who can make him see the truth. You''re the Herald of Andraste, he''ll listen to you."

    Miriam''s heart went out to the Brother. She empathized with his denial, understanding all too well the comfort one could find in holding onto hope, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Her desire to affirm him mirrored her own longing for validation. "No one saw the Champion die. There''s a chance, however small, that she''s out there somewhere. He has reason to hold onto hope."

    The Templar, seemingly frustrated with Miriam''s response, withdrew her hand. "Reason? This isn''t about reason! It''s about helping a man move on, about giving him the closure he desperately needs. We can¡¯t have such a slim chance to stand in the way of that."

    Suddenly, a suspicion crept over her, suggesting there might be more to the Knight''s motives. "Why are you so eager for him to move on?"

    Lysette began to pace. "I''m trying to help a friend. And if once he''s accepted the truth, he might be open to new connections... I will be there." Her response held a hint of defensiveness as if justifying her actions to herself as much as to the mage.

    Now it was Miriam''s turn to be incensed. She found it difficult to fathom that her friend would contemplate using Hawke''s sacrifice as an opportunity to pursue a relationship with the Brother. "Do you even realize how foul this sounds?"

    Lysette recoiled as if the mage''s words had struck her; however, she quickly regained her composure and declared defiantly, "Is it truly so reprehensible to grasp the opportunity to be with the man I love? Sebastian deserves a companion who could be here for him, not one lost in the Fade."

    Miriam stared at the Templar with wide eyes, her hands moving to emphasize her words. "My friend, this is not the essence of who you are! You are an honorable woman. You are better than this!¡±

    The Knight stopped her restless pacing, her face changing in an instant. All traces of her former fiery temper vanished, leaving behind an expression of weariness and sorrow. She sighed and met Miriam''s gaze with a somber expression. "I have a confession to make, Inquisitor. When the moment came to decide who would stay behind to lead our people against the Nightmare, I... impulsively suggested that Hawke should take the responsibility. To my surprise, she agreed with a cocky smile on her face. I feel the crushing weight of guilt, for there was no real need for her sacrifice, the Emperor could have chosen one of his Chevaliers to lead. And yet, deep down, I am grateful that my instigation has somehow given me the chance to be with Sebastian."

    "What happened to you?" Miriam whispered, unable to reconcile the noble Lysette she knew with the person standing before her.

    "Love," the Knight stated simply.

    "This? This can''t be it!" The mage protested vehemently, her voice rising with conviction.

    "Have you ever been in the throes of hopeless love? Do you truly know how it feels?" Lysette parried, remarkably composed.

    "No, but..." the mage began, only to be abruptly halted by her friend.

    "Then you could never understand me," she asserted. Miriam''s response wavered, Lysette''s statement momentarily robbing her of words. In the ensuing silence, the Templar persisted, her tone measured, "Will you help me, or not?"

    Miriam, still wrestling with the tumult of emotions, shook her head in silent denial.

    Lysette gave her a long, penetrating look, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I understand," she said finally. With a shift in demeanor, she squared her shoulders and adopted a formal expression. "With your esteemed permission, Your Worship, I humbly request to withdraw from your presence."

    She felt a pang of hurt at the formality in Lysette''s tone. "Please, you don''t have to speak like that with me."

    However, Lysette remained resolute, repeating the request in the same flat tone without meeting Miriam''s eyes. "I humbly request to withdraw from your presence."

    The mage sighed, shaking her head. "Your request is acknowledged and granted,¡± she conceded softly. Lysette, maintaining her composed demeanor, inclined her head in acknowledgment before briskly leaving the room.

    For a moment Miriam stood in solemn silence, her gaze fixed upon the door that had closed behind the Knight. ¡°In the solitude of the night, Maferath dwelled in his bitterness, and the Light which once burned within him was extinguished,¡± she murmured, her heart heavy with sorrow as she slowly turned away to gaze at the statue of Andraste, bathed in the colors of the sunset. Much like the Betrayer, Lysette had succumbed to the insidious grasp of jealousy, staining her once pure heart and driving her to commit grievous deeds. Clutching the amulet around her neck, Miriam hoped that the Maker would have mercy on her friend''s soul, for Lysette had mistaken her obsession with Brother Sebastian for love. True love, she knew, was a reflection of the timeless bond between the Maker and His Bride¡ªa love that was selfless, patient, and enduring. It was a flame that could never be extinguished, a beacon of unwavering devotion that illuminated even the darkest corners of the soul. And no selfish desire, no whisper of jealousy, no shadow of doubt could dim its brilliance.

 Family (part 1)

    Cullen jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest as if it wanted to escape the cage of his ribs, the remnants of terror still clinging to his mind like cobwebs in an abandoned house. He tried to briskly lift himself from his bed, the urgency to shake off the haunting images propelling him forward. But his left hand betrayed him, feeling strangely numb and uncooperative as if it belonged to someone else entirely. With a frustrated grunt, he dropped back onto the sheets, his muscles protesting the abrupt movement.

    He lifted his hand to his weary eyes, the dim light of dawn seeping through the dilapidated roof, casting shadows on the rough scars that marked his arm and the old burns etched into his palm. He attempted to clench his fist, yet, as usual, his fingers betrayed his will. Familiar thoughts of inadequacy began to encroach upon his mind. "Maker, grant me strength," he murmured, coercing himself to redirect his focus to the pressing matters at hand.

    He drew a deep breath and rose from his bed, resigning himself to the vexation of diminished dexterity as he commenced his morning routine. With painstaking effort, he reached for his armor, now a daunting ordeal to don. He cursed under his breath, his frustration growing with every awkwardly fastened strap and misaligned buckle, but it would have to do for now. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he managed to secure his armor, its familiar weight offering a semblance of comfort against his skin. Steeling himself atop the ladder for the ordeal ahead, Cullen made his way down the narrow ledge that led to his office, his movements careful and deliberate to compensate for the lack of responsiveness in his hand.

    Finally, with his brow covered in sweat, he reached his table and sank heavily into his chair, the worn leather creaking beneath his weight. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the reports that lay on his desk, the neat rows of papers blurring before his eyes as he struggled to focus. With a weary hand, Cullen reached into one of the drawers of his desk and retrieved a healing potion. Miriam had brought it yesterday during their restorative magic session. As he uncorked the vial and swallowed the concoction in a single gulp, he felt a soothing warmth spread through his body, easing the tension in his muscles. After a few moments, the world seemed a little clearer as the edges of his fatigue were softened by the potion.

    His mind drifted to the mage, and a pang of pain stabbed at his heart; a bitter reminder of the awkwardness that had settled between them since he had confessed his feelings to her in the Chapel. His every touch seemed to make her flinch, his every glance met with avoidance. It was as if she were trying to make herself scarce in his presence. The ache in Cullen''s chest deepened as he grappled with the hurt that swirled within him. He longed for her presence, for the warmth of her embrace, and for her light which had brought him solace in the darkest of times. And as he waited for her answer, it wasn''t her rejection that he feared most, it was the prospect of losing her completely; of his confession driving her so far from him that even their friendship would become impossible.

    He directed yet another curse at Gaspard. If it wasn¡¯t for that bastard, none of this would have happened. With a heavy heart, Cullen shook his head, banishing the lingering thoughts of what might have been. There was no point in dwelling on what-ifs; he had work to do.

    Time passed in a blur of ink-stained pages and before he knew it, the growling of his stomach reminded him of his neglected breakfast. With a rueful smile, he rose from his chair, stretching his stiff muscles as he made his way towards the door. It was time to visit The Herald''s Rest.

    But before he could take a single step out of his office, a messenger from Leliana intercepted him, delivering the news that she was waiting for him. A sense of unease swept through Cullen, pushing aside thoughts of food as he hastened to meet with the Spymaster. As he navigated the winding corridors of Skyhold, his mind raced with anticipation. Lately, summons from Leliana have never promised anything good.

    He entered the Rookery to find the Spymaster speaking in a harsh tone to Lysette, his brows furrowing in concern as he caught the tail end of the conversation.

    "... make peace with the Inquisitor," she ordered, her words echoing with an authority that brooked no argument.

    But the Templar''s defiance was palpable, her stance rigid with resistance. "Our relationship has nothing to do with my duty as her guard!" she exclaimed, her voice quivering with frustration. "With all due respect, it''s a private matter."

    A glint of steel flashed in Leliana''s eyes. "You must decide, either you shall reclaim your role as the Inquisitor''s confidant," she declared, her tone as cold as the winter wind that howled outside the fortress walls. "Or..." She leaned in close to the Knight, whispering something in her ear that caused color to drain from the younger woman''s face. With a shaky salute, Lysette turned and hurriedly left the Rookery, sparing Cullen only a hasty acknowledgment and a terrified glance before disappearing from view.

    He turned to face the Spymaster, his expression troubled. "I urge you to stop meddling in their relationship, it will end in disaster."

    Leliana merely waved away his concerns with a dismissive gesture. "I have everything under control," she replied, her tone cool. Cullen''s frustration simmered beneath the surface, but before he could voice his thoughts, the Left Hand continued, her next words catching him off guard. "I have summoned you to convey news of your family''s impending arrival at Skyhold."

    Cullen''s heart skipped a beat at her words, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. "What? Why would they do such a thing!?" He demanded, his voice trembling with incredulity. But as swiftly as confusion arose, it morphed into a mounting fury. "Involving my family in your schemes crosses a line, it is unacceptable!"

    Leliana''s gaze hardened, her eyes burning with indignation. "Once the news of your engagement to the Inquisitor is made public, do you really think Gaspard will stand idly by? To gain leverage over you, his first move would be to target your family. Skyhold is the only place where I can guarantee their safety.¡±

    A cold shiver ran through his spine as the weight of Leliana''s words settled on him. His siblings had been out of his life for so long that he hadn''t considered how his actions could still ensnare them. A pang of guilt gripped his heart as he realized the potential danger that loomed over his kin. The realization was a bitter pill to swallow, stirring up all the emotions attached to his decision to remove himself from their lives.

    Pinching the bridge of his nose, Cullen offered a resigned apology to the woman. "I''m sorry, I hadn''t considered the potential repercussions on my family," he admitted. "But Miriam hasn''t given me an answer yet. Your action was premature.¡±

    Leliana''s response was unexpected. An almost imperceptible smirk graced her lips as she met his gaze. "You need not worry, Commander. Fate spins as it should."

    Her cryptic words left him feeling unsettled rather than reassured, but his mind was already swirling with unanswered questions that he knew he needed to clarify. ¡°How did you manage to persuade them to leave their home and journey to Skyhold?"

    Leliana''s expression softened slightly as she leaned against the wall, her eyes reflecting a hint of sympathy. "I know that since you joined the Inquisition, you haven''t been in contact with your family," she began, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Am I correct in assuming that you''re not up to date with their current situation?"

    He hesitated, torn between the urge to keep his affairs to himself and a longing to know more about his family. Despite his reservations, curiosity won, and he silently nodded in acknowledgment.

    Leliana''s voice carried the weight of solemnity as she began to unravel the tale of his family. "Their finances teeter on the edge of ruin. Branson grapples with alcoholism, squandering every meager coin he earns on his drinks, and Rosalie is faced with a delicate situation. Having indulged in simultaneous liaisons with multiple men, she finds herself pregnant, with uncertainty clouding the identity of the father. With such a tainted reputation, no one is keen to offer her employment."

    Shock rippled through him, his mind reeling with disbelief. How could his once-innocent, sweet siblings have veered so far from the path of virtue? "And Mia?" he managed to ask, already dreading what might come next.

    "Mia labors tirelessly as a seamstress, barely clinging to the edge of survival," the Spymaster said matter-of-factly. ¡°That¡¯s why when one of my agents extended them an offer of employment and lodging here at Skyhold they all accepted it without hesitation."

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    Cullen''s hand tightened into a fist at his side, a tumultuous storm of sorrow and frustration raging within him. The weight of guilt bore down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into the depths of remorse. For so many years, he had chosen the path of silence, convincing himself that they were better off without him and that they led good lives untouched by his failures. But now, faced with the harsh reality of their struggles, he could no longer deny the painful truth. With a determined effort, he forced himself to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, struggling to regain his composure. ¡°Do they¡­ do they know of my involvement with the Inquisition?¡±

    The Spymaster tilted her head. "They most likely do not, as there have been no inquiries about you thus far. Once they are here, however, I would advise you to speak with them. Given the nature of Skyhold and the close-knit community we foster, it''s only a matter of time before they piece together who you are."

    He nodded slowly, his expression grave as he absorbed the wisdom in Leliana''s counsel. Despite the rising tide of dread at the prospect of meeting his family, he knew that the time had come to confront his past, own up to his choices, and face the consequences with courage and resolve.

    For the next two days, Cullen found himself consumed by a restless agitation as he awaited the arrival of his family. Sleep eluded him, and the relentless pounding of headaches intensified, gnawing at his temples with an unrelenting fervor. His resolve, once steadfast like the cliffs that overlooked Skyhold, now ebbed and flowed like the tide. There were moments when he felt prepared to face whatever lay ahead, his heart brimming with determination to bridge the chasm that he had created between him and his kin. But then, like a sudden squall upon the sea, doubt would assail him with a ferocity that left him feeling utterly adrift.

    In those moments of uncertainty, Cullen found himself alternating between pacing his office like a caged lion and seeking solace in the quiet confines of the Chapel. There, amidst the hallowed halls, he would kneel before the statue of Andraste, his hands clasped in fervent prayer, beseeching for the strength to confront the ghosts of his past.

    On the third day, as he sat in his office, a soft knock disturbed his solitary contemplation. Startled from his reverie, he lifted his eyes to see one of Leliana''s messengers standing on the threshold.

    "Commander," the man began, his voice tinged with urgency, "I bring news from Lady Leliana. Your family has arrived and is settling into the quarters on the second floor of the main building. Their door is marked by the worn wooden sign carved with a roaring bear."

    The collar of his armor suddenly felt tight around his neck. With a silent command to himself to maintain composure, he forced his features into a mask of stoicism and offered a brisk nod of acknowledgment to the messenger.

    When the man departed, Cullen slowly rose from his seat and, with measured steps, made his way towards the main building. As he climbed the stairs, memories of his family flooded his mind¡ªmoments of joy, laughter, and love intertwining with the shadows of his mistakes. Reaching the second floor, he paused before the door to his family''s quarters, his hand hovering uncertainly and his fingers trembling ever so slightly. With a steadying breath, he wrapped his knuckles against the weathered wood.

    At his knocking, muffled voices and the sound of shuffling started to emanate from within. His heart pounded in his chest, anticipation mingling with apprehension as he waited for a response.

    Then, with a creek, the door swung open, revealing a skinny young woman with messy brown hair cascading down her shoulders in wild tangles. Her ragged dress clung tightly to her form, emphasizing the swell of her belly. Cullen tried to reconcile this vision with the memory of his sister as a child but found no trace of the girl he once knew. If it hadn''t been for Leliana''s prior revelation about Rosalie''s pregnancy, he would have never guessed her identity. Her gaze swept over him, assessing every contour before her features melted into a seductive grin. "Hey, handsome," she greeted, her voice husky as she leaned on the door frame with one hand, her other hand resting confidently on her hip. ¡°What brings you here?¡±

    Cullen felt a wave of discomfort wash over him as he struggled to find the right words. "I... I am searching for the Rutherford family."

    Her smile deepened. "Well, you found us," she replied, her tone cheerful. "Come on in."

    With a hesitant nod, Cullen stepped across the threshold, to find himself enveloped by the spacious quarters adorned with simple yet sturdy furniture. Chests and trunks lay scattered about, their contents spilling out in disarray. Before him, he noticed the occupants of the room engaged in various tasks. A blond young man, with a telltale red nose and cheeks, stood near one of the chests, his hands trembling as he rummaged through its contents. Despite his efforts, Cullen struggled to discern any familiarity in the young man''s features, much like his difficulty recognizing Rosalie. This was to be expected, he reasoned, for unlike Mia, who had defied all prohibitions to visit him during his Templar training, Cullen and his younger siblings had last seen each other when he left home at the tender age of thirteen.

    Recognizing his older sister methodically arranging mugs on the shelf, his pulse quickened. Though her once vibrant hair was now completely gray and her back hunched from years of toil, one look at her was all that it took. Even in the face of time and hardship, Mia has remained unmistakably herself.

    At his sister''s feet, the young girl with the unruly bright red hair sat on the floor, her pale fingers tugging at the straps of one of the smaller crates. There lingered a sense of familiarity in her countenance, a spark of recognition that teased at his consciousness, yet eluded his grasp.

    Branson was the first to notice his entrance, casting him an exasperated glare. He swayed slightly on his feet before addressing Rosalie, "Oi, calm your tits, you cursed hag! We barely got here, and you have already dragged some bloke home."

    Rosalie scoffed. "Oh, shut it, Bran. You''re in no position to lecture anyone, especially when you''re stumbling around like a blind mule after a barrel of ale."

    "Enough, both of you!" Mia exclaimed, her voice cutting through the air like a whip crack as she turned to face them. When her eyes inevitably landed on Cullen, her expression froze in shock. The items she had been holding slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground in a cacophony that echoed in the sudden silence that descended upon the room. For a moment, he felt as if time itself had come to a standstill, the weight of Mia''s gaze bearing down upon him like a judgment rendered from the depths of the Void. Finally, Mia found her voice, though it emerged as little more than a whisper, laden with a lifetime''s worth of pain. "After all this time...Is it truly you?"

    ¡°Yes, Mia, I¡­¡± He wanted to continue, to offer some feeble explanation or apology, but the words caught in his throat, suffocated by the enormity of the guilt that enveloped him. While he struggled to speak, Branson, Rosalie, and the girl looked at the scene with bewilderment.

    With a shaky breath, Mia took a tentative step forward, her movements hesitant yet filled with quiet resolve. "You abandoned us," she started, her tone overflowing with bitterness. "You left us to fend for ourselves, to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives! Do you have any idea what it was like for us?¡± He could see the anguish etched into the lines of her face and the betrayal mirrored in her eyes. ¡°The endless nights spent pondering why you left us gave way to years of wondering whether you were even alive!"

    Cullen winced, his sitter¡¯s words landing like a physical blow. "I am truly sorry... And I understand if your forgiveness is beyond reach," he finally managed to get out. "I only ask for the chance to make amends, to try and make things right, if you''ll let me."

    "Mia, who''s this bloke? What''s all this commotion about?" Branson inquired, his words slurred slightly from the effects of alcohol.

    Mia blinked at Branson''s words as if his inquiry had brought her back to the present moment. With a sigh, she turned to their younger siblings, her voice tinged with a weary resolve. "Take Anna," she said, gesturing to the red-haired girl, "and go ask one of the servants to show you around the fortress. I have matters to discuss with this man."

    Both Branson and Rosalie opened their mouths to protest, but Mia''s stern gaze silenced them before they could utter a word. With grumbles of discontent, they reluctantly complied, casting wary glances back at Cullen before exiting the room.

    His sister''s weary form sank onto one of the nearby trunks, her gaze never leaving his as she spoke. "You have a lot of explaining to do," she demanded, her voice laden with a blend of hurt and frustration, "Why did you choose not to reach out to us, despite my efforts to ensure that our whereabouts were always known to the Order?"

    He inhaled deeply, preparing himself to speak the truth, no matter how difficult it might be. ¡°The fall of the Circle, it was partly my responsibility," he began, his voice heavy with the weight of confession. "I allowed myself to show leniency to a mage, and... and it led to catastrophic consequences. Lives were lost. I, too, suffered greatly. It changed me, Mia. The brother you once knew has ceased to exist. The guilt, anger, and fear of magic transformed me into a person I never wanted you to witness."

    Mia''s expression became inscrutable. "So you are telling me that you are to some extent to blame for Thomas'' death?"

    Cullen looked at her in surprise. "Who is Thomas?" he asked, confusion lacing his words.

    Mia''s shock was palpable as she stared back at him, her features contorted with disbelief. "You have to be kidding me," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "Knight-Lieutenant Thomas, my husband!"

    Within his chest, an erratic and frenzied heartbeat surged like a tempest, each throb echoing with a disquieting intensity. His sister, bound to a Templar? Thomas¡­As soon as he attempted to summon memories entwined with that name, a sudden, piercing headache rendered his thoughts asunder. Crimson flashes flickered and swirled before his eyes, engulfing him in a disorienting haze of turmoil. Desperately, he clenched his eyes shut, his hands instinctively reaching to grasp his pounding head, his steps faltering as if on the edge of a precipice. The collar of his armor constricted around his neck like a tightening vice, suffocating him, while bile crept up his throat. Mia rushed to his side, concern etched deeply into her features, but before she could reach him, he collapsed to the floor, consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers. The last thing he heard before succumbing to darkness was the echo of his sister¡¯s voice calling out his name.

 Family (part 2)

    Miriam sat quietly beside Cullen''s bed, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the weathered amulet resting on her chest. Through a crack in the roof, the setting sun cast its faint rays onto the mage''s mask resting on the small table to her right, illuminating it for a fleeting moment. The Commander himself lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, untouched by the soft light filtering through.

    As she waited in the dimly lit room, Miriam''s ears caught snippets of activity beyond the confines of their sanctuary. She could hear the muffled shuffling of feet and the hushed exchange of voices drifting in from the outside. Among them, she recognized the firm yet gentle tones of Lysette, stationed at the entrance to the office, redirecting messengers to Rylen, Cullen''s steadfast second-in-command. The bustle of the fortress continued unabated, a stark contrast to the quiet vigil the mage maintained by her friend¡¯s side.

    Almost a day had passed since one of Leliana''s agents informed her that he had lost consciousness and had been delivered to his quarters. She recalled the frantic tempo of her footsteps as she hurried into his office, her heart drumming a worried cadence within her chest. There, amidst the ambiance of looming bookshelves and flickering candlelight stood Leliana, calm and composed as always.

    The Spymaster''s words resonated in Miriam''s mind, echoing the news that one of the healers had already assessed the Commander''s condition: exhaustion and stress exacerbating withdrawal symptoms. Miriam understood all too well the toll their duties could exact, particularly on someone as dedicated as Cullen. However, she was taken aback to learn that his recent distress stemmed not from his workload, but from a meeting with his family who had just arrived at Skyhold. Apparently, Cullen had requested Leliana¡¯s assistance in locating and bringing his kin to the fortress, expressing concerns for their safety amidst the war with the Elder One. The Spymaster, with a nonchalant demeanor, also noted that the Commander had forgone sleep and sustenance for three days prior to his siblings'' arrival, emphasizing his need for rest and care. Learning that Miriam would be happy to take care of it, Leliana gave her a satisfied nod and quickly left to resume her duties.

    With a heavy heart, the mage glanced at Cullen¡¯s countenance, which once again began to twist as if he were in pain. Miriam couldn''t shake off the guilt that gnawed at her. If only she hadn''t acted like a frightened bird around him, if only she had been more attentive and present, Cullen would have confided in her about his struggles regarding the impending reunion with his estranged family. The mere thought of how much stress he must have been under was enough to make her heart ache. In a moment of vulnerability, when he told her why he wanted nothing to do with the Templar''s life, he hinted that his leniency towards a mage had played a part in the downfall of the Circle, where he served alongside his brother-in-law, who perished in the uprising. He never revealed whether this was the reason for his drift from his family, but Miriam had enough of a discerning mind to connect the dots and form a bleak tableau.

    A pang of sympathy seized her as she imagined the inner turmoil he must have endured while awaiting the arrival of his loved ones. While she fretted over the uncertain future of their relationship, he bore the weight of anxiety alone, grappling with the specter of the survivor''s guilt once more. She, consumed by her own worries, had failed to notice his silent suffering. What a woefully self-absorbed friend she had been!

    With a determined shake of her head, Miriam pushed aside her self-recriminations and focused her attention on easing Cullen''s discomfort. Though no dire ailment afflicted him, the overwrought state of his nervous system demanded attention. With a wave of her hand, she cast a healing spell, channeling her magic to relieve the strain. She watched as the tension melted from his face, his features softening into a peaceful expression.

    As she concluded her incantation, she gently reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her touch light and tender. Silently, she made a solemn vow to herself¡ªto mend their relationship, to bridge the distance his confession had sown. Even though the fabric of their bond might be altered forever, she refused to let the uneasiness between them continue to fester. From now on, they would weather this storm together, just as they always had.

    As she continued to watch over him, her mind wandered back to all they had been through. From their fateful encounter as kids and the battles fought side by side to the quiet moments of solace shared amidst the prayers. She couldn''t deny the depth of her affection for him, nor could she ignore the fervent desire within her to see him happy. With every fiber of her being, she longed to bring him joy. For in her eyes, he was deserving of happiness, unlike anyone else she knew. Perhaps she should entertain the idea of accepting his proposal. Surely, such a decision would lift his spirits, offering him solace and assurance in these trying times. And yet, she couldn''t shake the nagging fear that their union would just cause him more heartache. Lost in her thoughts, she whispered to herself, "Maker, this uncertainty is a torment. Show me the path I must take."

    Suddenly, pain pierced her left hand, and her mark erupted with a gush of crimson, staining her palm scarlet. Startled, Miriam clutched her hand tightly, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it only seemed to exacerbate it. Then, without warning, a burst of emerald flame surged from the mark and engulfed her arms, the fiery tendrils licking at the silk of her robes. Miriam tried desperately to rein in her magic, but to her shock, it refused to obey.

    Terrified and overwhelmed, she staggered to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest. In the blink of an eye, the flames spread across the fabric, sending plumes of acrid smoke into the air. The once elegant folds of the garment twisted and contorted as the inferno voraciously consumed them.  With frantic urgency, the mage rushed to the ledge, calling out desperately to Lysette, who stood sentinel at the entrance to the office. "Lysette! Lysette, please!" she cried out, her voice strained with panic, punctuated by a frantic cough that seized her body as the smoke invaded her lungs. "Help me!"

    With a sense of urgency, the Templar dashed into the room, her eyes wide with alarm at the sight before her. "Merciful Andraste! What''s going on?" she exclaimed as she climbed up the ladder.

    "I can¡¯t¡­I can¡¯t control¡­the flames!" Miriam gasped between coughs, her fingers clawing at the emerald tongues of fire in a futile attempt to quell them. And while their scorching heat didn¡¯t sear her skin, each gasp for air felt like shards of glass scraping against her lungs, her chest heaving with exertion and fear.

    As soon as the Knight was up, she unleashed her Templar abilities, wielding the power to neutralize the magic of the mark. The air crackled with energy, casting a brilliant glow that illuminated the chamber with golden light.

    As Miriam¡¯s connection to the Fade was briskly severed, the tendrils of green flames vanished, as though extinguished by a sudden gust of wind. The sharp sting of pain also disappeared, and the trickle of blood from the mark began to subside. The breaking of the ethereal threads that bound her to the realm of the spirits, however, left her feeling nauseous and disoriented. Her head spinning, she sank to her knees, exhausted and trembling from the ordeal.

    "Are you alright?" Lysette asked, her voice filled with concern as she knelt beside Miriam, her expression etched with worry.

    The mage nodded weakly, her words catching in her throat as she struggled to find her voice. "I... I think so," she managed to whisper, her arms instinctively wrapping around herself as she hunched her shoulders, attempting to shield her exposed form. The robes gifted by His Majesty were reduced to ashes, leaving her clad only in wisps of the charred fabric of her shift. Even her ribbon and boots had succumbed to the merciless flames, leaving behind nothing but blackened remnants. All that remained relatively intact was her amulet, its weathered, soot-covered surface hot against her skin. "Could you give me something to cover myself up?"

    The Knight''s eyes widened in surprise as if she had just realized the mage''s undignified state. She hurriedly retrieved Cullen¡¯s cloak from a nearby chest, moving to drape it around Miriam''s shoulders. "Here, wrap yourself in this. We''ll find you proper attire as soon as possible."

    Miriam nodded silently as she pulled the cloak tightly around herself. The fabric enveloped her like a protective shield, its comforting weight offering reassurance in the wake of the harrowing experience. As she buried her face into the plush fur that lined the garment, a familiar musky scent enveloped her senses. It was an earthy aroma intermingling with the faint tang of sweat and a subtle hint of elfroot. At that moment, it felt as if Cullen himself was holding her close. She glanced worriedly to see if her friend was alright, her heart skipping a beat until she saw the reassuring sight of the Commander still sleeping peacefully in his bed, his features serene despite the tumult that had unfolded around him.

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    With a steadying breath, Miriam turned back to meet Lysette''s gaze with a grateful smile. "Thank you, I don''t know what I would have done without you."

    The Templar cast upon her a long, penetrating look before murmuring with a trace of bitterness, "I am not one to forsake a friend in need, unlike some." Miriam felt the sting of the remark. Shortly after their dispute over Brother Sebastian¡¯s refusal to accept Hawke¡¯s demise, Lysette extended an olive branch, and Miriam eagerly accepted, hoping to move past the disagreement. Yet, from time to time, the Knight would slip in cutting remarks such as these, making the mage wonder if the issue was truly resolved. Before she could utter a response, however, Lysette pressed on, changing the subject. "To see you lose mastery over the mark''s flames so suddenly and completely is profoundly troubling."

    Miriam''s brow furrowed deeply, echoing the reservations of the Knight. "It is indeed worrisome..."

    Lysette''s gaze remained steady. "What exactly happened?"

    The mage paused, her thoughts drifting back to the moment. "I had cast a healing spell over the Commander, and then I was thinking about some personal matters. Nothing out of the ordi¡­" Her voice trailed off as a sudden realization struck her.

    "What is it?" the Templar inquired, her tone edged with concern.

    Miriam''s breath caught in her throat, and a wave of heat washed over her, causing her to break into sweat. "This is it," she whispered, almost to herself. "This is the revelation I''ve been desperate for since the day he confessed his feelings."

    Lysette regarded her with a puzzled expression, her brow knit in perplexity. "I don¡¯t understand. What are you talking about?"

    ¡°Just before my mark began to bleed and the fiery chaos that followed, I was thinking about the proposal from the Commander,¡± the mage confessed, her words pouring forth with a fervent urgency. "I was imploring the Maker to show me the way. And that''s exactly what He did!" she exclaimed, her voice infused with a sense of awe that enveloped her being.

    The Knight¡¯s tone was marked by genuine bewilderment, "I fail to grasp the connection."

    "The flames consumed the robes His Majesty had given me," Miriam explained, her conviction growing stronger with each word she was uttering. "Yet, the amulet gifted by the Commander, though damaged, endured." She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the lingering warmth of the trinket against her skin. "It''s a sign," she declared. "The Maker has shown me the path I must follow."

    Lysette''s expression turned dubious. "It could indeed be interpreted as a sign, but one must also consider that metal tends to withstand fire better than cloth..."

    Miriam shot her a fierce glare. "Nonsense! You''ve witnessed firsthand how my flames dealt with Red Templars and Wardens clad in full armor.¡± Struggling to her trembling feet, defiance surged within her, infusing her with a newfound energy she had not thought possible. ¡°The mere fact that the amulet remained almost unscathed upon me is a divine proclamation, a confirmation that my destiny should intertwine with the Commander''s!"

    Lysette held out a supporting hand, helping the mage steady herself as she led her back to the chair next to Cullen''s bed. "You are right. I shouldn''t have doubted the revelations bestowed upon the Herald of Andraste."

    Carefully lowering herself into the seat, Miriam nodded in acknowledgment. "I understand, and I forgive your skepticism," she replied graciously. "Please go and fetch some clothes and shoes from my quarters. It would be prudent to change here rather than traverse the fortress adorned in nothing but the Commander''s cloak."

    With a reassuring nod, Lysette hurried off to fulfill the mage''s request, leaving her once again alone with Cullen. Miriam relaxed in the chair, her muscles uncoiling as tension ebbed away. She felt as if the somber clouds enveloping her had been parted by the Maker¡¯s benevolent hand, His radiant and glorious light piercing through the gloom and illuminating the path ahead with divine clarity. Lost in her reverie, she barely noticed when Cullen stirred, his eyelids fluttering open to reveal tired yet lucid eyes. With bated breath, the mage watched the flicker of recognition in his gaze, the dawning realization of his surroundings. His voice, hoarse from disuse, cut through the stillness of the room. "Miriam? But I was with Mia just a moment ago¡­I don¡¯t remember¡­" he murmured, confusion evident in his tone.

    She leaned in closer to him, her fingers curling around the edges of the cloak, drawing it tighter around her to ensure that every inch of her body remained veiled. Though it was probably not the most opportune time, she couldn''t help the fervor that gripped her after His revelation, and all she longed for at that moment was to share the good news that was dancing on the tip of her tongue. Yet, before she did so, she felt compelled to shed some light on the events that had taken place. "You collapsed mid-conversation with your sister," she uttered hastily. "Mia''s cries for help alerted one of Leliana''s agents, who happened to be passing by, and then you were brought back to your quarters for respite."

    Cullen reached out a hand to rub his face, the movement slow and deliberate. "By the Lady, I must have given her quite a scare," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper tinged with remorse. "Wait. Why are you wearing my cloak?" he asked in astonishment as he took in her form wrapped in the cloth that belonged to him. As he inhaled sharply, pushing himself into a seated position, a flicker of concern flashed across his features. His senses seemed to be on high alert, likely triggered by the scent of burned residue lingering in the air. "And why is your face covered in ashes? What happened? Are you unharmed?"

    A radiant smile danced upon the mage''s lips. "Fear not, Cullen," she commenced, her voice quivering with excitement. "I bear no injury. What you behold is but the consequence of the Maker''s will manifesting through the flames of the mark. He has unveiled unto me a revelation, decreeing my destiny!" Her patient¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion. Miriam straightened her back, leaning forward ever so slightly. At the remarkable change in her whole countenance from that day when he had proposed, his gaze moved about her form unable to focus on a single feature. With a trembling breath, his eyes widened expectantly as she spoke the words she knew he so wanted to hear, ¡°I accept your proposal!¡±

    A myriad of emotions flickered across Cullen''s face in rapid succession. Shock registered first as if he struggled to comprehend the enormity of her declaration. Then, as realization dawned, joy blossomed in his gaze like a sunrise, warming away the chill of uncertainty that had gripped him moments before. His lips parted, but no words came, his mind seemingly unable to reconcile the sudden turn of events.

    For an interminable moment, silence draped itself over the scene like a shroud, its weight palpable in the stillness that enveloped them. Then, with unexpected vigor, he pushed himself off the bed to kneel before her, though his height meant they were eye-to-eye, and gently pulled her into a tight embrace. "Am I still in the Fade?" he questioned, his voice thick with emotion. "If so, then, Maker, grant me the indulgence to stay within this dream a little longer."

    Miriam''s heart swelled with tenderness, a surge of sentiment that overwhelmed any concern for propriety. With a sudden abandon, she released the cloak, allowing her hands, still marked with ash and dried blood, to reach out and envelop the Commander. "This is no Fade, for I desperately hope to never enter it physically again," she declared, her voice ringing with certainty. Closing her eyes, the vision of the boy from the market, her hero, entered her mind. The comfort that the memory had brought her, along with his gift from all those years ago, suddenly brought forth clarity like no other. If this had been the Maker¡¯s will all along, how had she not put the pieces together sooner? As she fondly fixated on the boy, he slowly grew into a man; the same one that held her. Miriam¡¯s fingertips clutched harder at the fabric of his shirt, whispering, "Let us become a family. Together, under His divine grace, we shall find our own happiness."

    ¡°But is it what you want?¡± he inquired, his words hesitant.

    She paused for a moment to think on his phrasing, for she was quite certain she had just delivered to him her answer. Pulling back but still holding on to his forearms, she tilted her head in question, ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°This all just happened, and while I¡¯m pleased that the Maker has given His blessing, I fear you¡¯re only saying yes because of it,¡± he expressed, his smile waning gradually.

    As she witnessed its retreat, Miriam felt her gaze stare out into a nameless void in deep thought. Was this what she wanted? Peeling away the layers of her most recent revelation, she tried to imagine what would¡¯ve happened had the Maker not given her such a clear sign. Would she have just kept toiling on, hoping for outside forces to intervene in helping make her decision? Or would she have come to accept his proposal naturally?

    Breaking away from her thoughts, a resolve settled in her unmasked eyes. Observing Cullen gazing back into them, unafraid and undeterred by their crimson hue, sparked yet another revelation. ¡°It is my choice. I think when you first posed the question, I assumed it would change things between us, but I see now that my affection had always been there. I honestly believe that having had no one care for me as you have done time and time again, that it is a foreign notion for me to even fathom. Not to mention, I¡¯m¡­ lacking in many areas, as you are aware. I just pray I can make up for it in other ways¡­ to make you happy.¡±

    He sighed contently. ¡°I do not find you deficient in any way. I only ask for your companionship and patience. This is all very new to me too, and I¡¯m still not sure I deserve it.¡±

    ¡°Nor I. Maybe we can find out together?¡± They shared a smile. ¡°At least the Maker approves, even if we don¡¯t feel deserving of it yet.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps, in time,¡± he guided Miriam back to him, pressing a kiss into her hair.

    Reveling in his warmth, she melted into him, ¡°Yes, in time.¡±

 The gift that was forgotten

    "He who finds a wife finds a good thing, and obtains favor from the Maker," Cullen whispered the familiar verse to himself, feeling its weight as he stared at the document spread before him. Sent by Josephine for the Commander¡¯s approval and signature, it was an official invitation to his forthcoming marriage to the esteemed Inquisitor Miriam Trevelyan. A copy of it was to be delivered to the Inquisition''s allies, dignitaries, and heads of the noble houses from near and far.

    The parchment felt both weighty and fragile in his hands. It represented not just an invite, but a tangible symbol of the path his life had taken, the culmination of his efforts to rescue Miriam from Gaspard''s clutches and find his own happiness. Yet, despite the clarity of his intentions and the certainty of his love, he couldn''t shake the lingering sense of disbelief that whispered in the recesses of his mind. As he traced the elegant script with his fingertips, he wondered if this was all too good to be true. It felt as though, at any moment, the illusion would shatter, revealing some cruel twist of fate that would render their betrothal and the plans for the future union null and void.

    If he had been asked to sum up the past few weeks, he would have described them as the most paradoxical chapter of his life. On one side, his relationship with Miriam flourished, surpassing even their previous closeness. The unease that once lingered between them had dissipated, replaced by a harmony that seemed to deepen with each passing day. In the mornings, she would often delight him with a thoughtfully prepared breakfast brought to his office, her gesture ensuring he started the day nourished and energized for the tasks ahead. Nearly every evening was a sanctuary of quiet contentment, as they came together to share tales of the day''s events and bask in each other''s presence. Whether it was joining in prayer within the solemn confines of the Skyhold''s Chapel or sharing lighthearted laughter over a game of chess, every shared moment now felt imbued with an added layer of significance and promise.

    On the other side of the coin lay his family, and the contrast couldn''t have been starker. His once-estranged ties had transformed into something far more antagonistic.

    Mia seemed to have found solace in directing blame towards him for the misfortunes in her life, her demeanor heavy with accusations and resentment in every interaction. It appeared that after his confession explaining why he had severed contact with them, he had become, in her eyes, the singular source of all her hardships. He suspected that what pained her the most was not only his partial responsibility for her husband''s demise, but also his apparent forgetfulness of him. Despite his earnest attempts to explain that his memory loss was a result of withdrawing from lyrium, Mia remained immovable, refusing to grant him forgiveness. With a bitter expression, she spat out that he must have been blessed by the Maker if his withdrawal conveniently allowed him to erase his past sins. Every accusation she hurled his way struck a chord, resonating with the guilt he carried within. He knew that her grievances were valid, that he had indeed failed her in more ways than one. With a heavy heart, he bore the weight of her ire, understanding that it was a penance he must endure.

    Meanwhile, his brother Branson wasted no time in exploiting their newfound connection, shamelessly demanding money to feed his drinking habit. It pained Cullen to see his sibling ensnared by such destructive addiction, but despite his sincere attempts at reasoning or impassioned pleas, Branson refused to even try to break free of his vice.

    And then there was Cullen¡¯s youngest sister, whose reaction puzzled him the most. Instead of accusing him of his transgressions like Mia or trying to exploit their shared bloodline like Branson, Rosalie seemed to be indifferent to her estranged kin. His little sister immersed herself in the bustling atmosphere of the Herald''s Rest, where she spent her days charming the patrons and flirting shamelessly with the men who frequented the tavern. After the knowledge of her lineage spread through the Skyhold, no man dared to approach her, intimidated by the notion of crossing paths with the Commander''s sister. Yet Rosalie remained undeterred, her confidence unshaken by their avoidance. She moved between the tables with an air of self-assurance, seemingly unaffected by the stares and whispers that followed in her wake. Concerned by her behavior, Cullen once attempted to discuss the matter with her, hoping to understand her attitude and perhaps offer some guidance. However, his efforts were met with resolute silence as his sister refused to even acknowledge his presence.

    With a steady breath, he halted his rumination on his family''s issues. At least now, whatever challenges lay ahead, he would confront them alongside the woman who had captured his heart. And as he affixed his signature to the document, he clung to the knowledge that this union held the promise of a future filled with companionship and shared purpose, a journey guided by the favor of the Maker himself.

    After sealing the document, he promptly summoned a messenger. The young man with a determined expression, bowed respectfully before accepting the parchment. "Take this to Lady Josephine immediately," Cullen instructed firmly.

    The messenger nodded earnestly and with a swift turn, darted out of the office, his footsteps echoing down the stairs as he hurried to fulfill his task.

    Left alone once more, the Commander returned to his desk, his mind already drifting back to the reports awaiting his attention. He had barely skimmed the first page when the door to his office burst open with a resounding bang.

    Startled, Cullen looked up to see Branson storming into the room with unchecked fury. "You shoddy piece of crap! What do you think you''re doing?" his brother bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

    Two soldiers hurriedly appeared at the doorway, ready to intervene, but Cullen raised a hand, signaling for them to stand down. "It''s alright, leave us. Guard the entrance so we are not interrupted," he commanded quietly, his gaze fixed on his kin. The men swiftly withdrew, leaving the brothers alone in the room.

    Branson took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides. His face was flushed crimson, though this time it was not from the effects of the drink but rather from the intensity of his anger. "Not a soul in this blasted fortress is floggin'' me any booze today! I know this is all your handiwork!"

    Cullen met his brother''s gaze evenly, his voice calm but firm. "I have tried to appeal to your senses, but your ears have remained deaf to reason. The days of drowning yourself in a bottle must come to an end. I observed your presence at the Grand Hall when my betrothal to Lady Trevelyan was announced, Branson. You are well aware that I have no choice but to intervene on your behalf. Your indulgence now holds sway not solely over yourself, but it tarnishes the reputation of the Inquisitor, who is soon to be welcomed into our family."

    At his words, Branson snorted. "Ah, typical of a hound¡¯s arse like you, ain''t it? Rather put your energy into some blighted wench than show an ounce of care for your own blood!"

    Cullen sighed, feeling his patience wearing thin. "You can insult me all you want, for Maker knows I deserve it, but refrain from disrespecting my fianc¨¦e."

    Branson scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. ¡°Save your sorry act for someone who cares! What I need ain''t your fake remorse, it''s a coin and a decent drink, plain and simple. And you darn well know you owe it to me!¡±

    He met his brother''s gaze, his expression weary but resolute. "I owe you many things, I won¡¯t deny that," he said evenly. "But coin and drink are not among them."

    Branson''s eyes narrowed, his frustration evident as he clenched his jaw. "Oh, so now you''re the one calling the shots, eh? Well, it ain¡¯t bloody up to you to dictate how to make it up to me," he declared with a bitter edge to his voice.

    The Commander pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°Look, I am resolute in my decision. If you have nothing further to add, I would prefer to be left to my work. It''s a concept you might consider embracing here at Skyhold."

    "Easy talk for someone like you," his brother retorted sharply, his voice tinged with a hint of disdain, "but not all of us got the looks to charm our way into a fancy title."

    "You dare insinuate¡ª" Cullen began, his voice low and dangerous.

    "Oh, please," Branson interrupted him, his voice rising in volume. ¡°You expect me to swallow that hogwash about you shagging with the Inquisitor having nothing to do with you snagging the Commander''s seat? If you''re ready to hitch yourself to a wench uglier than a toad and flatter than a board, it''s as plain as the nose on your face that you''re just scrabbling for power however you can!"

    Cullen''s patience snapped like a taut bowstring, his anger boiling over. "That''s it," he growled, rising from his chair and closing the distance until he was mere inches from his brother''s face. "Shut your mouth, or so help me¡ª"

    But before he could finish his threat, Branson''s fist connected squarely with his face. The blow was swift and unexpected, catching Cullen off guard. He stumbled backward, his back colliding forcefully with the edge of the table, sending a jolt of pain coursing through his body.

    ¡°Been schemin'' to stick it to you ever since I realized you dumped us like used rags,¡± the younger man muttered as he absently rubbed the knuckles of his clenched fist.

    The Commander quickly regained his balance, his posture straightening. He suppressed the primal instinct to retaliate. Despite the storm raging within him, he refused to stoop to his brother''s level. "I won''t engage in a brawl with you, Branson, but you''ve crossed the line, and there are consequences to face for your actions. Guards!" The men stationed outside immediately rushed into his office, their faces etched with alarm as they surveyed the scene before them. "Take him away," Cullen commanded with a steely tone, his words carrying the weight of authority as his brother looked at him in stunned disbelief. "Throw him into a cell for a few weeks. And ensure he''s tasked with the duty of cleaning the chamberpots." His gaze remained fixed on his sibling, unwavering and resolute. "Perhaps it will allow you to reflect on your actions and regain some semblance of sobriety."

    The men nodded in understanding, moving forward to restrain his kin, who struggled against their grasp with renewed fury. ¡±Cullen, you bloody wanker, I hope your dick falls off!¡± he shouted, the intensity of his emotion causing his eyes to bulge. ¡°Rotting maggot spawns! Get away from me!¡± Branson''s desperation fueled his resistance as he lashed out, kicking and thrashing against the firm grip of the soldiers restraining him. However, his efforts proved futile against the combined strength of the two trained soldiers, who swiftly dragged him away, his insults and curses fading into the distance.

    Cullen closed his eyes briefly and let out a long, slow breath. He knew his actions were necessary, both for Branson''s sake and for the integrity of the Inquisition, but it pained him that it had come to this. He was also sure that Mia would not approve of his methods of reining in their brother. With a heavy heart, he turned back to his desk, attempting to bury his troubled thoughts beneath the weight of his duties. However, despite his efforts, the conversation continued to haunt him, its echoes reverberating through his mind. Did Branson truly believe what he said, or was it merely an attempt to retaliate for having his drink taken away? How many people saw their union with skepticism, interpreting it as nothing more than a commoner''s attempt to cozy his way into power?

    He pushed aside these intrusive thoughts, reminding himself that he shouldn''t concern himself with the opinions of others and that facing such ugly suspicions was not a new experience for him. In Kirkwall, his rapid ascension through the ranks of the Templar Order had sparked whispers about his alleged liaisons with Meredith. Yet, as time passed, those speculations gradually faded into obscurity. Despite the initial fervor surrounding them, they proved to be nothing more than fleeting gossip, unable to withstand the test of scrutiny and the passage of time. This will be no different.  Besides, during the betrothal announcement at Skyhold, Miriam revealed to the gathered crowd, under the adamant insistence of the Spymaster, that her union with the Commander of the Inquisition forces transcended mere matters of the heart. Rather, she declared it to be ordained by the divine will of the Maker. This proclamation, underscored by the unwavering support of the esteemed figures of the Chantry, undoubtedly influenced by Leliana''s ¡®persuasion¡¯, imbued their bond with a sense of sacred purpose, elevating it beyond the realm of mortal affairs. Though the theatrics and overblown statements of it all made him sick to his core, he also felt relieved that no one who wished to remain in good standing as an Andrastian would dare speak ill of their union.

    Even the Emperor of Orlais had to swallow his pride and admit in his letter to Miriam that if the Maker Himself did not sanction their marriage, he, as a faithful servant of His will, would humbly accept the decree. However, Gaspard¡¯s so-called humble acceptance masked the truth that he had ordered his agents to spread rumors suggesting that the Maker had chosen a different husband for the Sword of the Faithful because she was incapable of providing His Majesty with an heir. Thanks to this manipulation, the twist of events was now perceived by many as a sign of how deeply the Maker and His Bride cared for the Emperor''s well-being.

    When Cullen first learned of it from Leliana, he felt a mixture of anger and frustration. He was furious at Gaspard''s depravity and disheartened that, despite his efforts, he couldn¡¯t shield Miriam from becoming the subject of public scrutiny due to her condition. The mage never broached the topic of those rumors with him. He strongly suspected that her silence stemmed not from a genuine lack of awareness but rather from a deliberate act of feigned ignorance. Yet, regardless of the reason, he resolved within himself that he would not be the instigator of such unsettling discourse.

    The thought of Miriam pulled him back to the present moment, jolting his consciousness into the realization that the gift he intended for her should have already been in the hands of the quartermaster. With purposeful strides, Cullen left his office and navigated his way through Skyhold to Ser Morris'' place of business.

    Barely a week earlier, in conversation with him, Josephine had nonchalantly mentioned the Inquisitor''s impending birthday in a fortnight, predicting the arduous task of composing responses to the deluge of well-wishes sent to Skyhold.  This prompted Cullen to ponder that he, too, wanted to bestow upon Miriam a token for the occasion. It presented a golden opportunity to ensure that the weathered amulet did not remain the only reminder of him in her life. As he considered what gift to offer, his mind drifted to a memory of Miriam accepting his proposal. Despite ash smudging her features and her hair tousled, she exuded a delicate grace, her pale face a stark contrast against the fur lining his cloak. The word ''delicate'' lingered in his thoughts, encapsulating her essence in that fleeting recollection. That¡¯s why, when he mulled over potential gifts for the mage, he wanted something that would protect her amidst the tumult of their lives. Perhaps a piece of armor, he mused, lightweight yet durable. Or maybe a buckler, one she could easily wield on her hand. Yet, as he weighed these options, none felt quite right¡ªthey were all items she was not accustomed to using, nor ones she could efficiently wield without training. Then, like a spark illuminating the darkness, inspiration struck¡ªa cloak crafted from wool. The idea resonated deeply with him. In his mind''s eye, he saw her enveloped in the soft warmth of the garment, its fibers acting as a shield against the biting cold of the Frostback Mountains. It would be more than just a gift; it would be a symbol of protection, a tangible manifestation of his steadfast commitment to keeping her safe and sheltered from harm.

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    Upon reaching his destination, he found the quartermaster poring over a ledger, his brow furrowed in concentration.

    "Good day, Commander," Morris greeted, looking up from his work.

    "Good day, I''ve come to collect a cloak I requisitioned." The quartermaster nodded and rose from his seat, motioning for the Commander to follow him to a nearby storage area. As they walked, Cullen couldn''t help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him. "I trust everything is in order?" he inquired, unable to hide the hint of excitement in his voice.

    "Indeed, Commander," Morris affirmed. "It''s a fine piece. I am sure it will serve its purpose well," he added as they reached the storage area, where the cloak awaited him ready for collection.

    "Thank you," Cullen said sincerely, his gaze lingering on the garment for a moment before he carefully picked it up.

    "It was my pleasure, Commander," the quartermaster replied curtly.

    With a grateful nod, Cullen draped the cloak over his arm, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over him.

    As he made his way back to his office, he ruminated that the robes Gaspard sent to Miriam, the ones destroyed by the flames, were opulent and fit for royalty. Their ostentation was evident, designed for someone who would command attention with a mere tilt of her chin. Crafted by the finest tailors of Val Royeaux, they exuded lavishness and perfection, yet they seemed out of place on the woman he loved. A pious soul will forever be ill-suited to the treacherous world of politics, where even the word of the Maker is treated as just another tool of manipulation amidst grandiose displays of power. In stark contrast, his cloak was humble. Woven from wool sourced from a creature grazing on grass, it was made by someone of modest means. Its length was practical, making it less likely to snag on loose stones or inattentive feet. No jewels were adorning it, nor did it boast materials befitting an Inquisitor. He hoped, however, that his infinitely more modest gift would be the source of an expression he longed to see on her face more often: a comforted smile.

    Upon returning to his office, he carefully folded the garment, and then placed it into a box he deemed appropriate for a gift. As he set out to find the perfect hiding spot for it, his search was abruptly halted by the arrival of a messenger bearing the documents he had requested from Rylen earlier in the day. Hastily, he placed the container near the ladder, intending to return to it later. However, as he became engrossed in reviewing the records, the box was left forgotten, overshadowed by the pressing tasks at hand.

    The day continued in a blur of activity, but as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky darkened into shades of indigo and violet, it was not his fianc¨¦e who appeared in his office, but his older sister. Mia entered silently, her lips drawn into a thin line, her eyes flashing with intensity. She stopped before his desk and fixed him with a piercing stare, her voice low and laden with accusation. "Do you not think that taking my husband away from me was enough?" she demanded. "Now you''ve decided to imprison my brother as well?"

    Cullen squared his shoulders as he confronted the fiery gaze of his sister. He had braced himself for this confrontation, hoping it might alleviate the burden. "Mia, I took measures this morning to ensure that Bran could no longer procure alcohol in Skyhold. So, he confronted me in fury, hurling insults at myself and, more importantly, at the Inquisitor. Then he turned violent." She began to open her mouth, a retort poised on her lips, but he insisted, his resolve cutting through any attempt to interrupt. "Please, allow me to finish. You understand better than anyone that Bran is in desperate need of assistance. He cannot continue to drown his existence in liquor and languish senselessly in his filth."

    Mia''s eyes flashed with indignation. "You care about Bran''s struggles only because they are a nuisance to you. Who are you to pass judgment on him, let alone confine him like a common criminal!?"

    "I have not imprisoned him," he replied, his tone firm. "I am simply making sure he works and abstains from alcohol. It is for his own good. If he continues on this path, he will only cause more harm to himself and others.¡±

    "You presume to know what''s best for him, yet you''re blind to the depths of his suffering. Bran needs compassion, not your oppressive measures and restrictions." Her tone held an intensity that dared him to challenge her understanding of the situation.

    "I may not know what he''s been through, but I''m sure that caring for someone does not mean enabling destructive behavior," Cullen retorted. "I am trying to help him reclaim his life, to become the man I believe he''s capable of being."

    Mia scoffed, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Your ''guidance'' feels more like tyranny. You''re forcing him into a mold that he''s not ready to fit into. It will only drive him further away."

    Cullen''s expression hardened. "And what would you have me do? Stand idly by while Bran destroys himself? You''ve done that, and it''s abundantly clear that it hasn''t worked."

    The moment the words escaped his lips, Cullen realized his grave error. Mia''s breath caught in her throat, her complexion paling. "You? You of all people accuse me of being a bad sister?" Her voice quivered with hurt and indignation. "How dare you? I shed blood, sweat, and tears while raising them and my child all alone!"

    "Mia, I..." Cullen started, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

    For a long moment, she simply stared at him in silence, her expression a mixture of hurt and anger. "From this moment onward, you cease to be my brother," she declared, her voice quivering with emotion. "Release Bran and erase any memory of having a family. It shouldn''t be a challenge, given that you already forgot Thomas. Once I''ve gathered enough coin for us to stand on our own, we''ll be leaving Skyhold." With a final, resolute glare, she stormed out of his office, slamming the door shut with such intensity that its reverberation surely echoed throughout the whole of fortress.

    He sighed, a weary exhale that seemed to seep out all the strength that he had left, and leaned forward, placing his weight on his hands as they rested upon the table. The polished wood creaked slightly in response, as if echoing the strain of his troubled thoughts. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. He knew that the conversation wouldn¡¯t be an easy one, but it ended up being far worse than he had ever intended.

    Before he could fully fathom the weight of his sister¡¯s words, the door to his office creaked open once again, disturbing the silence that had settled in the chamber. With a heart heavy with apprehension, he half expected the return of Mia, with even more sharp words to throw his way. Yet, it was Miriam who appeared with a tray of sustenance in her hands. The mage entered cautiously, her eyes scanning the room before settling on Cullen. ¡°When I discovered you hadn''t ventured to the kitchen throughout the day, I figured I''d bring you something to eat.¡± The lines etched on her face spoke of concern and compassion as she approached, setting the tray down with a soft clink. ¡°I saw Mia rushing out of your office, she looked decidedly furious. Something¡¯s happened, hasn¡¯t it?¡± He nodded, wincing a bit, as she began to make up his plate. She worked diligently with steady hands, neatly organizing everything in front of him, even going so far as to move his work away as he sat there in silence. Occasionally, she flicked her crimson eyes at him, waiting for a cue, but rather than push him for answers, Miriam allowed the quiet to settle his mind. His family, with the exception of Rosalie, was loud and intense as the complexities of the situation deepened every day. It was wearisome and did nothing for the exhaustion he was already feeling. When the mage accidentally knocked a book off his desk, he started coming back to the present. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    The troubled expression on her face made him smile slightly as she sheepishly replaced the timeworn volume of Genitivi. Here was a woman content to suffer his silence patiently as she cared for him. She didn¡¯t push him to divulge what troubled him, but somehow she knew he simply needed time to sort out his thoughts. "You are a rare woman, Miriam," he whispered fondly.

    She looked down, seemingly holding back a grin as she pursed her lips together. "That''s a very kind way of describing all this," she remarked, gesturing with a marked hand to her face, where emerald veins accentuated the red of her eyes.

    ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant," he interjected hastily, seeking to clarify his words.

    The mage¡¯s quiet chuckle in response betrayed her understanding of his intentions. "You should eat before it gets cold," she advised, her tone gentle yet insistent. As he complied with her command, his first forkful of food caused him to inadvertently bite his swollen lip from the earlier altercation with Branson. A low growl of frustration escaped him as the distinct taste of blood filled his mouth, alerting Miriam to his discomfort. "Cullen, you''re bleeding! May I¡ª" she began, but her words were cut short as she observed his injury more closely. "Andraste''s ashes! This entire area is inflamed. I highly doubt you bit down the length of your chin."

    This time, she didn''t ask for permission to use her healing spell on him, which he figured came with their new relationship status. Accustomed to her magic, he welcomed the familiar sensation without hesitation. As the mage gently tilted his chin upwards, she swiftly concluded mending the minor injury before releasing her hold with reluctance. Her patience had now been tested with this discovery, and he owed it to her, especially considering her earlier tolerance of his silence. "I had an argument with my brother," he confessed, meeting her gaze with earnestness, "and I ordered his confinement in one of the cells." Miriam blinked slowly at him with a calm dissatisfaction. ¡°He took a swing at me.¡±

    "Whatever for?!" she exclaimed, her voice edged with incredulity and a touch of indignation.

    ¡°I ordered that he not be served any alcohol at the tavern in an attempt to help with his addiction. Now I find myself questioning the wisdom of my decision.¡± Leaning against his desk beside him, her eyes bid him to continue. ¡°But I mean, isn''t that what one ought to do?" he continued, his voice tinged with a defensive edge. ¡°Is it not the rational course of action to assist one in overcoming their vice, even if they themselves do not wish for it?" His words poured forth with an increasing fervor, as if a dam had burst within him, releasing a torrent of pent-up thoughts. "I have dealt with countless drunks in the past, but they were soldiers under my command, not family who disregard my efforts." A pained look crossed her face, matching his own. ¡°They don¡¯t want me in their lives,¡± he concluded, his voice heavy with resignation. "And I cannot fault them for it."

    "I can empathize with your situation. Being scorned and exploited by one''s kin for their own gain is a burden I too have carried." A fleeting glint of mischief danced in her eyes as she added, "Although I never entertained the notion of confining them to a cell for it, perhaps it''s a tactic worth considering." Cullen appreciated her intention to inject some levity into the conversation, but his thoughts were clouded by his sibling''s earlier accusations. His frown deepened, betraying his troubled state of mind. At her failed attempt, the mage deflated, looking away from him to a nondescript point in his office.

    His heart skipped a beat as he realized his misstep, prompting him to swiftly attempt to salvage at least one of his relationships on this tumultuous day. "Miriam," he called softly, watching as her hair brushed around her shoulders to face him, her countenance having lost its luster. "Soon, we''ll be family," he continued, his voice earnest, "and I pray to the Maker that I will never bring you anything but the happiness you truly deserve."

    At his words, she placed her hand atop his on the desk, her smile reappearing brighter than before. ¡°I¡¯m already happy.¡± She grasped her necklace, tilting her head in an endearing way as she rubbed it between her fingers. ¡°It seems you¡¯ve rescued me again, my hero, this time from the vileness of politics and empires.¡± Cullen was sure she was alluding to the recent stint of slander against her for rejecting Gaspard. ¡°Now, you really should eat, a commander needs his strength.¡± Pulling her chair around the desk to sit beside him, they settled into the familiar comfort of each other''s presence. Miriam rested her elbow on the desk, a sign of weariness after a long day, her gaze fixed warmly on him as he ate. In these quiet moments, her companionship served as a source of strength, infusing him with a renewed sense of determination to confront the myriad challenges that awaited him each day.

    As the night progressed, and they spent hours in each other''s uninterrupted company, Cullen became wholly engrossed in their conversation, completely forgetting about the gift he had left at the foot of his ladder. He only remembered its existence when Miriam spotted the rectangular container as she bid him farewell on her way out of his office. With a gentle smile, she hurried over to the ladder, offering to carry the box up to his room for him. "I truly don''t mind," she insisted, concern evident in her voice. "Surely, it would be unwise with your arm still recovering."

    Before she could reach for the parcel, he rushed to her side, stuttering protests tumbling from his lips. Closing the distance between them, he intercepted her movement just as she was about to pick up the box. Miriam gasped in surprise as he grasped her hand, and before she could react, he swept her up into a graceful twirl, as if they were dancing at a grand ball. The speed of his movement took her off guard, and she instinctively grabbed onto his chestplate to steady herself.

    "Cullen?!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of surprise and amusement.

    His heart beating wildly, astonished at his own boldness, he struggled to find words. They stood pressed against each other, their eyes locked in a silent exchange, each searching for the other''s reaction. His free arm instinctively wrapped around her lower back, holding her securely against him, while her hand remained clasped in his. Despite the unexpected intimacy, the mage made no move to pull away, seemingly content to remain in his embrace.

    "Cullen?" she called out to him once again, her voice now meek and quiet.

    ¡°I, um¡­ well, that particular box is very heavy. And I, well, I had just dropped it there, but it actually belongs down here.¡± Unaware of the deception, her lips formed an ''o'' of understanding, and her eyes shifted to study their intertwined hands. As she flexed her fingers within his grasp, he felt the rhythm of her breathing deepen. While they stood there, his mind couldn''t help but wonder what she would feel like in his arms without the barrier of his armor. Miriam seemed so fragile yet wielded an incredible power. It was as if he could sense the weight of her burden pulling her down, yet her faith and resolve gave her an unmatched defiance. He would help shoulder her incumbrancer; his affliction be damned, he¡¯d overcome it for her, for she was the only one who cared for him now. Releasing her hand, he gently commanded her attention back to his face, his fingers trailing up her bony shoulder to cup her cheek sweetly.

    Her head found solace in his large hand, and with a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes, as if attuned to his unspoken thoughts. Timidly, she nuzzled into his touch, and his heart swelled with a rush of conflicting emotions.

    A desire to press his lips against hers surged, a longing born from the depth of their connection and the tenderness of the moment. Yet, alongside that desire, doubts gnawed at him, questioning whether she would welcome such a gesture, whether it was the right time to further their relationship.

    Perhaps he should exercise caution, wait for a sign that she reciprocated his feelings before allowing himself to act on impulse. Yet, with each soft exhale from the mage, he felt the allure of surrendering to the stirring of his heart grew stronger.

    His fingers, initially resting against her cheek, gradually slid beneath her chin, lifting it with a tender reverence. His thumb followed suit, tracing a hesitant path along the curve of her lips. It was a gesture filled with reticence and yarning, a silent plea for her to open herself up to something more.  Her eyes fluttered open at the action, and he caught the flicker of nerves dancing in her gaze, a reflection of the same trepidation coiling in his stomach. Yet, amidst it all, there was a glint of curiosity, and dared he hope, perhaps even an invitation?  Summoning his courage, Cullen resolved to brave the unknown, laying bare his own vulnerability in a leap of faith. He started to close the distance between them with agonizing slowness, mindful of giving Miriam the ample opportunity to retreat if she so desired.

    But the mage stood motionless, as if carved from stone, holding her breath until their lips brushed together in an almost imperceptible kiss. The moment that connected their quivering souls felt both eternal and painfully fleeting, stirring within him a yearning for more he could scarcely bear.

    Yet, however fervent his sentiments, he held back his ardor and gently withdrew, allowing space to form between them. "That was... nice," he muttered, his words faltering as he searched Miriam''s countenance for a response.

    She regarded him with a genuine smile, the lines of tension softening in her expression as she met his gaze. "Yes, it was warm and comforting," she affirmed, her voice filled with relief.

    Cullen''s brow furrowed slightly, a subtle pang of disappointment tugging at his heart. While ''warm'' and ''comforting'' were undoubtedly pleasant descriptors, they fell short of the slightly more passionate reaction he had secretly hoped for after their first kiss. Yet, he swiftly pushed aside any lingering doubt, opting to dwell instead on the gratifying realization that Miriam had, in her own way, found solace and joy in their shared moment

    "I''m glad," he murmured softly, a faint curve gracing his lips as a revelation unfolded within him. Despite the terrible start to the day, it was concluding with yet another sign, however subtle, that there existed a chance ¨C a glimmer of hope ¨C that one day she might come to love him as he loved her.

 Consequences

    Miriam stepped out of the Commander''s chambers and donned her mask, feeling the chill of the metal against her flushed face. Relief and joy swirled within her, elusive to capture in mere words. With a sigh, she inhaled deeply, drawing in the frigid air and the myriad scents that permeated the fortress. With renewed vigor, she traversed the Skyhold to her quarters, each step buoyed by an unseen spring, a testament to the weight lifted from her shoulders.

    The kiss she exchanged with Cullen bore no resemblance to the tormented experience she had known with Gaspard. There was no metallic tang of blood, no icy grip that seized her soul from within. Instead, she savored the warmth of his lips and the gentle caress of his breath, enveloping her in a cocoon of tenderness. In his embrace, a delicate balance of strength and gentleness, she found solace, as if her hero were cradling her heart in his tender grasp.

    As the mage pondered the notion of passion, she recalled the often-spoken metaphor of butterflies fluttering in the stomach. Halting abruptly in her stride, she pressed her hand against her midsection, eyes tightly shut, seeking that sensation. Yet, despite her earnest effort, she found no trace of wings in motion nor even the faintest stirrings within. Instead, a vivid image blossomed in her mind''s eye: the roots of a mighty tree entwined around her heart, its branches weaving their way through her being. It dawned on her that, with fervent prayer and nurturing care, the branches of her heart''s tree would begin to bloom. And it would be these flowers that would attract the butterflies, heralding the arrival of passion and fulfillment.

    Elated by this revelation, she felt a surge of gratitude overwhelm her. With purposeful steps, she hastened to the Skyhold''s Chapel to offer thanks to the Maker and His Bride for granting her the chance to embody all that Cullen deserved in a partner.

    The next morning, Miriam stuck to her usual routine as breakfast arrived in her quarters, delivered by a maid¡ªa simple yet filling spread of fresh bread, cheese, and a steaming mug of tea. While, as the Inquisitor, she could have indulged in more luxurious meals, those options only served as stark reminders of her past loneliness within the Trevelyan estate. Opting for modest fare, though, brought forth cherished memories of her time in the Circle, prompting her to consistently choose the latter.

    Once she had replenished herself, the mage made her way towards the kitchens of Skyhold, where the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling meat welcomed her, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans. Despite her inability to taste anything beyond blood, Miriam still found solace in the tantalizing scents that surrounded her.

    With confidence, she approached the cooks, a smile gracing her lips as she meticulously gathered an assortment of food for Cullen, ensuring it was impeccably arranged for delivery.

    With breakfast in hand, she made her way to the Commander''s quarters, her steps steady and purposeful. As she approached the door, she paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. She suddenly felt a little shy, though she didn''t know why. Knocking softly, she waited for her betrothed to answer. The door swung open, revealing Cullen in his customary attire, his countenance lighting up at the sight of her.

    With a nod of acknowledgment, Miriam presented him with the meal she had brought. "Good morning," she greeted him warmly. ¡°I trust you found rest last night?¡± Knowing all too well the torment of nightmares, their concern for each other''s sleep was a familiar refrain.

    Cullen''s expression softened as he accepted the offering, gratitude shimmering in the depths of his gaze. "Thank you, Miriam," he replied, his voice suffused with appreciation. "Your kindness never goes unnoticed. Yes, I enjoyed a peaceful night''s rest with no nightmares, quite the opposite actually¡­" His words trailed off, a subtle blush gracing his cheeks. ¡°And you?¡±

    ¡°No nightmares for me either!¡± the mage uttered with enthusiasm. ¡°My dreams were filled with the beauty of flowers and butterflies dancing in the sunlight, a symphony of passion and joy.¡±

    His eyebrow arched in a subtle but telling manner, but before he could speak, the arrival of a messenger interrupted their exchange.

    The woman saluted Miriam and the Commander before delivering her message. "Knight-Captain Rylen requests your presence at the training grounds, Ser, at your earliest convenience," she announced briskly.

    Cullen''s expression shifted swiftly, his countenance assuming a composed and formal air with practiced ease. "It seems duty calls," he remarked, his eyes flicking towards the messenger, who awaited his response. "I must bid you farewell, Inquisitor."

    "Of course, Commander," she replied with a nod. With a graceful pivot on her heels, she hastened off to attend to her own duties in her quarters, content in the knowledge that, thanks to her, Cullen would at least have the chance to eat breakfast at some point during the busy day ahead.

    Entering the Grand Hall, she found herself enveloped in a sea of nobility, where conversation swirled thickly, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and intermittent bursts of laughter. With a heavy sigh, seeing as the daily trading of secrets and gossip was already underway, it was enough to relieve Miriam of her pleasant mood. Each time she entered their den, she told herself to ignore them, but her personal affairs had been made public and now this was an entirely different game. Despite her best efforts, her heart fluttered nervously, while a faint warmth prickled her skin. Each laugh felt like a jab at her inability to bear children, each glance scrutiny of her emerald veins and masked face. Though Josephine extolled the nobles'' support as invaluable, she found herself yearning for them to depart from Skyhold''s halls, believing they could just as effectively render their financial assistance from the comfort of their estates. Lost in her thoughts as she navigated the crowd, she collided with an aristocrat, causing a flurry of papers to scatter in all directions. "Oh, my apologies!" she exclaimed, but the man brushed past her without a word, swiftly vanishing into the throng. She couldn''t even discern his features¡ªjust a fleeting glimpse of vibrant fabric before he disappeared from sight.

    Bewildered, Miriam kneeled to gather the scattered papers, intending to return them to the Ambassador, who would surely know their rightful owner. As she collected the documents, her gaze fell upon the writing etched across them, immediately recognizing Lysette''s distinctive script. Confused, she hesitated for a moment before giving in to the temptation to steal a glance at the contents.

    Her heart raced as she absorbed the details of the report, disbelief washing over her in waves. The words seemed to leap off the pages, each sentence more shocking than the last. Her friend was describing to someone named ¡®L¡¯ the events that unfolded when they emerged from the Fade at the Western Approach, including the kiss Miriam shared with the Emperor. She had confided in Lysette about that vulnerable moment in private, only to find it now laid bare on paper for prying eyes to dissect and scrutinize. Dismay, like a coiling serpent of venom, gripped her heart. One need not possess genius to discern that ''L'' referred to Leliana. The revelation that the Spymaster had employed her friend as a pawn in her schemes did not surprise her; she had never expected decency from such a woman. Lysette though... Her thoughts spiraled as she grappled with the betrayal of her trust by her friend. What justification could redeem such treachery? Her confusion morphed into anger. The noble who carried the report must have been one of the Spymaster''s agents. If he hadn''t been in such haste, she realized with growing indignation, she might have remained completely unaware of the Knight''s deceit. Wrath fueling her determination, she stormed toward Skyhold''s Garden. This was where her guard often spent her free time, near Brother Sebastian, who tended to the herbs thriving within.

    As she entered the garden, clutching the damning papers tightly in her fist, she frantically scanned the verdant expanse. In a moment, her gaze alighted upon Lysette standing near Sebastian, the very epitome of camaraderie, as they shared laughter amidst the fragrant blooms of Crystal Grace. Standing beside them with a somber countenance was the imposing form of Fenris, his steely gaze fixed on the pair. Annoyance flickered across his features, a silent testament to his disapproval of the scene unfolding before him.

    As she approached the trio, her voice rang out like a clarion call, cutting through the air with a sharpness that silenced the laughter and drew all eyes upon her. "Lysette, we need to talk. Come."

    "Inquisitor, what..." The Templar began, but she was ignored as Miriam grabbed the confused Knight by the forearm and dragged her to a more secluded corner of the garden. Abruptly halting, she turned to confront Lysette.

    "How could you?" the mage demanded, thrusting the papers into her guard¡¯s hands, her voice quivering with indignation. "You were the one I trusted, the one I confided in. And yet, you saw fit to betray that trust, to divulge my most intimate secrets to Leliana."

    Lysette''s countenance wavered, a fleeting moment of fear and surprise flitting across her features as she glanced at the documents. ¡°Where did you¡­how?¡± Yet, she swiftly regained her composure, meeting Miriam''s gaze with defiance. "Why do you assume they were penned by me?" she countered. "It could have been any other of her agents."

    "Do you take me for a fool?" The enchanter snapped, her voice rising with each word, a torrent of emotion pouring from her lips. "Do you dare to think that after all this time I would not recognize your hand? Besides, apart from the Emperor and myself, only you knew of the kiss."

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    Lysette shifted uncomfortably, a fleeting grimace contorting her features before she spoke, her words weighted with resignation. "I acted as duty demanded. If the Knight-Commander decrees obedience to the Spymaster of the Inquisition, I must obey, regardless of my personal feelings. Leliana instructed me to report any significant events happening in your life, and so I did.¡±

    Miriam''s anger brooked no excuses; her heart was raw with the sting of betrayal. "You could have followed her orders, but gave me a simple sign, a whisper of warning about them. That would have sufficed to preserve the sanctity of our friendship. Why didn¡¯t you? Why!?"

    "I couldn''t risk even the subtlest hint of defiance," Lysette countered, her voice firm with conviction. "To disobey the Spymaster''s directives, even in such a manner, would jeopardize not only my standing within the Order but also our cause as a whole." The Templar''s expression softened. "I wish it wasn¡¯t that way," she admitted, her voice tinged with sorrow. "But duty leaves little room for sentimentality."

    Miriam''s countenance hardened, her frustration bubbling over as she struggled to reconcile her friend''s obedience with her sense of betrayal. "So you would sacrifice our friendship for the sake of duty?" she asked, her voice tinged with bitterness.

    "I sacrificed nothing," Lysette countered. "I merely upheld the oaths that bind me, as any true Knight of the Order would."

    "Is that so? How very noble of you," Miriam uttered, each word laced with venomous contempt. How foolish she had been to believe that Lysette cherished their bond as deeply as she did. The Templar likely never regarded her as a friend at all, but merely as the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor¡ªa figure to defend but also one she could deceive if ordered to do so.

    A desire for vengeance surged within the mage, fierce and unrelenting, urging her to repay the betrayal. An eye for an eye. Her lips curled into a smirk, she knew just the secret that, if revealed, would cut Lysette to the core. With a tempest in her heart, Miriam marched back to Sebastian, her every step fueled by a righteous fury. "Brother Sebastian! I believe it is my duty to tell you something," she shouted, her tone commanding attention as she approached him.

    Lysette''s countenance swiftly shifted from bewilderment to dread, her hand reaching out to grasp the mage''s wrist. "Please, don¡¯t!" she implored urgently. However, her plea fell upon deaf ears as Miriam, with a brisk motion, broke free from her guard''s hold.

    "You must know," she pressed on, her voice carrying an intensified fervor, "that this woman," she gestured towards the Templar, "the one with whom you were just moments ago sharing a laugh, is the very same person who proposed that your wife remain behind to confront the Nightmare demon within the Fade. Lysette was well aware of Hawke''s boldness, her readiness for a challenge, and she exploited it!" Shock registered on the faces of both Sebastian and Fenris, their eyes shifting towards the Knight, whose countenance now bore an unmistakable mask of horror. Yet, undeterred by their reaction, Miriam forged ahead. "There was no genuine need for your wife''s sacrifice, Brother, the Chevaliers of His Majesty would have sufficed, but Lysette hoped that this foul deed would give her a chance with a man she had long desired¡ªyou!¡±

    A heavy silence descended upon the garden, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Sebastian''s gaze bore into the Templar with piercing intensity. "Is this true?" he inquired, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. Lysette hesitated, her eyes flitting nervously between the trio before her. "Is this true?!" Sebastian''s voice escalated, infused with a potent mixture of anguish and fury. The Templar''s gaze fell, her hands methodically crumpling the papers into a tight ball, all the while she maintained her silence. "SPEAK!"

    The Knight jerked as if struck, raising her now pallid face to meet the Brother''s gaze, her movements slow and deliberate. "Yes," she confessed, her voice barely rising above a whisper. "I am so, so sorry, Sebastian. I swear I¡­" Before she could finish, the elf emitted a guttural growl, his markings coming to life, and darted forward with lightning speed. In the blink of an eye, his right hand plunged into the Templar''s chest. Lysette''s countenance froze in a ghastly mask of shock and agony, her eyes widening to the point of nearly bulging from their sockets. The documents slipped from her grasp as she instinctively reached out, her hand grasping the elf''s arm in a futile attempt to halt his assault.

    "Stop!" Miriam and Sebastian cried in unison, their voices echoing in a chorus of desperate protest.

    "Why!? She deserves to be punished for what she has done," the elf spat, his voice heavy with a mixture of anger and frustration.

    The mage was about to speak when the Brother put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it as if to tell her to keep quiet. "She does," he started solemnly. "And believe me, I understand your thirst for vengeance. But Lysette is not just any member of the Order. She is the personal guard of the Inquisitor. If you were to take her life, the consequences would be dire. You will be arrested and face imprisonment, perhaps even death."

    "I do not care," the elf announced defiantly, his gaze fixed on the Templar, whose face began to take on a sickly blue hue, her lips turning almost black from the strain. It was clear she couldn''t endure the pressure on her heart for much longer. Miriam, her resolve firm, stood ready to unleash her flames upon the elf if he did not release the Knight in the next few moments. She desired for Lysette to suffer the same pain she had inflicted, not for her life to be taken.

    "But I care, Fenris, deeply," Sebastian''s voice cracked with emotion. "With my wife lost in the Fade and my best friend rotting in the cell, or worse, how am I to go on living? Don''t abandon me..."

    ¡°Kaffas!¡± the elf snarled. He swiftly withdrew his hand from the Templar''s chest, and Lysette crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. Fenris spat contemptuously onto her prone form. "Count your blessings, bitch. If it weren''t for Sebastian, you''d be dead." With that, he turned away and strode from the gardens.

    Meanwhile, Miriam kneeled before the fallen Knight, a spell at the ready to assess any damage, but the Templar slapped her hands away. Lysette then looked up at the Brother, tears welling in her eyes. "Sebastian..."

    "Do not sully my name with your foul lips," he interrupted with a cold, disdainful glare. "You must understand two things, first, I will leave your punishment in the hands of the Maker, and second, I will not waste hate or resentment on a wretch like you. To entertain such sentiments would require me to think of you, and you, you are unworthy of even that. When we cross paths again, for Skyhold is not so vast, I will simply ignore your vile presence, and I expect the same from you." As his gaze settled on the mage, gratitude draped Sebastian''s countenance. "Bless you, Inquisitor, for revealing her transgressions to me. I wish this revelation had graced my ears sooner, but it seems the Maker decreed otherwise. And now, if you would be so kind as to grant me leave." With a fluid motion, Sebastian spun on his heel, a somber air enveloping him as he retreated, leaving the mage to confront the anguished Lysette in solitude.

    As the Templar lay prostrate upon the cool, damp earth, wracked with sobs that reverberated through her frame, her fingers sought purchase in the soil beneath her. With a desperate fervor, she clawed into the ground, the earth yielding to her touch as her mailed fingers dug into its soft surface.

    Miriam, observing the Knight¡¯s turmoil, felt a pang of conflicted emotions gnawing at her heart. She had achieved her objective, yet the victory tasted bitter upon her tongue, devoid of the satisfaction she had anticipated. While she pondered what to do next, Lysette''s sobs seemed to still, her gaze turning towards the mage with eyes brimming with feverish intensity. The Templar rose slowly from the ground, her armor and gloves smeared with soil, and extended a hand towards Miriam, her grip firm yet tremulous. "Come," she commanded, her voice raw but firm, "let us retreat to your quarters." Without pausing for a reply, she pulled the mage to her feet and proceeded to guide her onward.

    Miriam, confounded by Lysette''s inexplicable actions, staggered forward in a haze of bewilderment. "For what purpose?" she ventured, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

    But Lysette offered no explanation, her gaze fixed ahead as if driven by an unseen force. "I must compose a letter," she stated simply. This explanation did little to assuage Miriam''s confusion, but in the absence of anger, a strange numbness descended upon her.

    As they entered Miriam''s chambers, the Knight released her grip on the mage''s hand and made her way to the table with purpose. "Fetch me a quill and paper," she ordered, her tone clipped.

    Miriam complied, handing over the requested items with a perplexed expression. As Lysette swiftly penned something onto the paper and folded it neatly, Miriam couldn''t help but somehow find this whole situation surreal. "Give this to Brother Sebastian," the Knight instructed, laying the missive, its corners smudged with dirt, upon the table. "He will accept it if it comes from you. Denying one''s final plea is a sin of the gravest order."

    Looking at the letter with a furrowed brow, Miriam''s confusion deepened. "Why would you call this your final plea?" she inquired, her voice betraying a tremor of apprehension.

    Lysette didn¡¯t grace the mage with a response as she rose from the table, her movements possessing an air of solemn determination. With measured steps, she made her way toward the balcony, the faint rustle of her armor accompanying her progress. When she reached the balustrade she paused and turned to face Miriam with an intensity in her gaze that mirrored that of the battle. The brilliance of the day''s sun lent an ethereal glow to her features, casting delicate shadows upon her countenance as it danced upon her chestnut locks. "Remember this moment, Miriam," the Knight spoke, her voice carrying a weight that belied its soft timbre. "Know that you bear the burden of responsibility for what is about to happen."

    With a deliberate motion, Lysette leaned back against the rail of the balcony, her form silhouetted against the azure expanse of sky. She closed her eyes and spread her hands, a serene calm washing over her features.

    ¡°Lysette?¡± the mage called with a sudden surge of panic as she made a tentative step toward her guard, but the Knight ignored her. With a fluid motion, the Templar arched her back, and then, with a swift push of her legs from the floor, she surrendered herself to the motion, sliding over the rail with effortless grace.

    For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as Miriam watched, in stunned horror, the empty space where Lysette had stood mere seconds ago. The bustling sounds of Skyhold faded to a distant hum, overshadowed by the deafening silence that enveloped her. Then, a faint thud pierced through the stillness, shattering her stupor like fragile glass, leaving behind shards of shock and sorrow. Miriam''s heart clenched in her chest, her voice trapped in her throat as she dashed to the balcony''s edge. With a grip so tight that her knuckles turned white, she leaned over, desperately scanning the area below for any sign of her friend. A strangled cry escaped her lips as she caught sight of a vivid red against the dull gray of the stone, far below and barely discernible in the distance.

    The mage''s legs gave way beneath her and she sank to the floor, her world crumbling around her. As she huddled against the cold stone with tears streaming down her face, a desperate thought began to take root in her mind. "This isn''t real," she whispered to herself. "I''m in the Fade... None of this is happening. I''ll wake up soon, and Lysette will be right beside me, safe and sound." Miriam forced herself upright, her hands shaking as she brushed away the tears staining her cheeks. Slowly, she turned away from the balcony and retreated to her room, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs. Collapsing onto her bed, she surrendered to the overwhelming fatigue, seeking solace beneath the covers. Curling up beneath them, she murmured into the darkness, her voice barely audible, "Any moment now¡­"

 One stitch at a time

    In the solemn atmosphere of the War Room, Cullen stood amidst the Inquisition''s council, Miriam notably absent, grappling with the weight of recent events. It had been a rough couple of days since the patrol reported to him that the body of the Templar was discovered under Skyhold¡¯s walls, sprawled upon the stones. He vividly recalled how the soldier marked the map, pinpointing with a finger the exact location where the lifeless form had been found. In that instant, the notion that it might be Lysette did not even cross his mind. Despite his earnest endeavors, his thoughts wandered incessantly, pondering whether, months prior, when Miriam beseeched for a guard, choosing a different Knight for her might have steered fate onto a different path.

    "Cullen!?" The sharpness of Cassandra''s voice sliced through the haze of his thoughts, yanking him back to the present moment.

    "Ah, forgive my distraction," he murmured, turning his attention to the Seeker who stood sentinel-like, arms folded across her chest, at the far end of the war table.

    With a weary sigh, the Right Hand spoke, "I had inquired as to the expected length of the Inquisitor''s absence from her duties. While I sympathize with her plight, it is possible to grieve while still fulfilling one''s responsibilities. I believe that earnest labor serves as the road to healing."

    Cullen''s brow knitted in concern as he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. The shock of Lysette''s tragic demise had struck Miriam with devastating force. It had taken nearly an entire day of tireless persuasion to convince her that she had not been ensnared within the clutches of the Fade. And yet, even after achieving this fragile victory, Miriam seemed to falter, as if buffeted by unseen winds, her only plea to him being a desperate request to be taken far from her chambers. At that moment, Cullen had felt a profound sense of helplessness, left with no choice but to usher her to his quarters, where she had since secluded herself, allowing only his presence. "She remains steadfast in her refusal to depart from my chambers. She neither eats nor sleeps, but instead spends her time in fervent prayer," he admitted with a heavy heart.

    The Spymaster''s tone held a glint of disdain, tinged with a subtle hint of irritation. "Allowing her sanctuary within your quarters was unwise from the outset. Such coddling only served to entrench her grief. When the Maker deals a blow, one must confront it head-on, not seek shelter from its wrath."

    Cullen''s gaze hardened into flint, his jaw tightening with tension. "The Maker played no part in this," he countered sharply, his voice edged with accusation. "I warned you repeatedly about meddling in their relationship. If only you had listened."

    Leliana''s eyes flashed for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. "Why, I wonder, am I to bear the blame for the Templar''s reckless decision to end her own life? Let us not overlook," she continued, her voice measured yet steely, "that had Gaspard''s agent not infiltrated Skyhold under the guise of Ser Michel de Chevin, pilfering sensitive documents and orchestrating their ¡®accidental¡¯ exposure to the Inquisitor, she would have remained unaware of Lysette''s ties to me. We all share responsibility for this breach.¡±

    Josephine sighed deeply, her fingers nervously toying with the quill. "In all honesty, we lack concrete proof implicating His Majesty in this matter. What we do know is that a day after the incident with Lysette took place, I received a letter from Baron Desjardins, soliciting assistance on behalf of Ser Michel, who claimed to be fighting a powerful demon in Emprise du Lion. This was utterly perplexing, as the man had been residing with us as an ally for several weeks by that point. Upon dispatching a messenger to summon Ser Michel to my office, I received disquieting news, his chamber stood vacant, bereft of his belongings, and the man himself was nowhere to be found. It is still difficult to fathom how thoroughly the impostor deceived me. His documents on arrival were impeccable, and he certainly looked and sounded the part, though with Orlesians and their masks, one can never be certain of who is truly beneath the facade."

    Cullen''s muscles tensed involuntarily. The man''s cunning escape had been facilitated by his oversight: Skyhold''s vigilant guards had remained predictable in their rotation schedule, unchanged during the impostor''s residence within the fortress. As Commander, the onus rested squarely upon his shoulders; he had become complacent, allowing the schedule to stagnate for extended periods. Such negligence could not be repeated. Bitterly, he had to agree with Leliana''s earlier assertion: they all bore a share of the blame for this failure.

    "When you lack clues to discern the culprit, Josie, look to those who both have the capability and hold a motive to commit the crime," Leliana replied grimly, her voice carrying a weight of certainty. "Gaspard possesses the means to fabricate convincing documents for the impostor masquerading as Ser Michel de Chevin, and he stands to reap considerable benefits from the discord sown between Lysette and the Inquisitor. It would be foolish to think he hasn''t realized the significance of the Knight in uncovering her private affairs.¡± She sighed, her tone bordering on lamentation. ¡°The Templar may not have been the sharpest, I admit, but Maker, was she useful."

    Cullen felt an almost physical urge to comment on her last remark but refrained, knowing it would only escalate the tension between them further.

    "I suppose it was the Emperor¡¯s way of getting back at us for thwarting his plans to wed the Herald," Cassandra murmured to no one in particular.

    "What of the myriad nobles, traders, pilgrims, and recruits who traverse the threshold of Skyhold each day? Can we vouch for their authenticity with absolute certainty?" Cullen questioned, his focus shifting from the motivations of the cursed man to the pressing need to avert further catastrophe.

    Josephine''s response came with a somber shake of her head. "It proves to be a challenging task. For our esteemed guests of noble lineage, I''ve sought the expertise of an individual well-versed in heraldry and the scrutiny of legal documents. However, for those of more modest origins with no papers to speak of, I fear we are left with uncertainty," she confessed, her voice tinged with apprehension.

    Cassandra leaned heavily on the table, her expression grave. "Yet we cannot turn them away. Our success thus far has been predicated on inclusivity. The Inquisition was founded on the principle of welcoming all who seek to stand with us," she asserted firmly.

    "I am well aware of it," Leliana interjected with a weighted tone. "That¡¯s why instead of closing our doors I have reinforced the security protocols surrounding my archives, and my agents are conducting random identity checks on common residents. However, it''s inevitable that we will eventually need to exercise greater discretion in determining who is welcomed into our organization and who is not."

    "Oh, before I forget," the Ambassador chimed in to change the subject, "After consulting with the representatives of the Order, we have reached an agreement regarding the official account of Lysette''s fall from the Inquisitor''s balcony. It will be attributed to a fit of epilepsy, described as occurring while she was peacefully leaning against the balustrade, admiring the beauty of the Maker''s creation. This narrative offers a more dignified and favorable portrayal for all parties concerned. Commander, I would appreciate it if you informed the Inquisitor about this."

    Feeling a slight pang of guilt, Cullen nodded in agreement. He had never been one to prefer a beautiful lie to the ugly truth, but if the latter were to become public knowledge, what good would it do? Miriam would find it even more challenging to overcome her guilt, Lysette¡¯s family wouldn¡¯t receive compensation from the Templar Order, and Sebastian would be burdened with a sense of responsibility. Despite what his principles dictated, this time he found himself in favor of the deception. The corner of his lip twitched; evidently, the mindset of lying for the greater good was beginning to rub off on him.

    "Also, inform the Herald that sooner rather than later, she will have to return to her duties," the Spymaster added. "I am on the verge of deciphering the papers we found in the red lyrium mine regarding Samson''s whereabouts."

    Cullen felt his pulse quicken at the mere mention of the corrupted Templar''s name. Finally, the last tie to his past would be severed. "We will be ready to move out as soon as you know his location," he declared firmly, his voice resonating with determination. As the words left his lips, he couldn''t help but hope that this new challenge might offer Miriam a much-needed distraction from her sorrow.

    ¡°We?¡± Leliana arched an eyebrow, her expression betraying mild surprise at Cullen''s inclusion of himself in the upcoming mission. ¡°Considering your current condition," she said, gesturing towards his left arm. "Don¡¯t you think your expertise would be more valuable here, strategizing and coordinating our forces, rather than in active combat."

    Before he could retort, Cassandra turned to face the Spymaster, her voice carrying the weight of authority. ¡±Do not underestimate the value of Cullen''s presence in any military endeavor. Even without his prowess on the battlefield, his strategic mind and leadership skills are indispensable. We will need him there, Leliana."

    His expression softened slightly at the Seeker''s defense, acknowledging her support with a nod of gratitude.

    Josephine interjected, her voice gentle yet persuasive. "Moreover, given the fragile state of the Inquisitor''s mind, it would be prudent for her betrothed to accompany her, offering much-needed support."

    After a moment''s thought, the Spymaster nodded in agreement. "Your points are well taken," she admitted. "Now, unless there are pressing matters at hand, I would prefer to resume my duties. Gaspard''s agent, posing as Ser Michel, not only made off with my correspondence with Lysette but also managed to steal far more sensitive documents from my archives." Her tone shifted, gravitating towards a more somber timbre as she concluded her remark.

    Cullen''s apprehension deepened as he turned to Leliana. "Would you care to elaborate?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

    Leliana met his gaze with a composed demeanor, her expression becoming unreadable. "No.¡±

    A surge of annoyance welled within him, threatening to spill forth in a demand for respect and further information.  Yet before he could voice his discontent, the Spymaster nodded briskly and swiftly departed from the War Room, her footsteps echoing faintly in the tense silence.

    Left standing there, Cullen couldn''t help but let out a sigh of exasperation. "She truly tests my patience," he muttered under his breath. He glanced around the room, seeking some semblance of understanding or support in the faces of his fellow council members.

    The Seeker, observing his demeanor, approached with a sympathetic smile. "Leliana has always been one to keep her cards close to her chest," she remarked, offering his shoulder a reassuring pat as she made her way towards the exit. "You''ll learn to navigate it in time."

    Would he, though? Cullen harbored doubts. Transparency and trust among comrades were virtues he held dear. Yet, expecting such qualities from the Spymaster was akin to expecting a dwarf to cast spells. He shook his head, a sense of resignation coloring his thoughts, and silently followed Cassandra and Josephine out of the War Room.

    Leaving the Ambassador to her office, he and Cassandra exited the Great Hall, their conversation shifting to training techniques for the recruits as they descended the stairs. After a few moments of conversing in the courtyard, they bid their farewells, and the Right Hand made her way towards the training grounds, her determined stride carrying her away.

    Cullen was about to return to his office when his attention was drawn to the commotion emerging from the Herald''s Rest. Through the open door, he caught sight of Branson and Rosalie exiting the tavern. Rosalie practically carried their brother out of the establishment, his movements unsteady and his gaze unfocused from the effects of the drink.

    A flicker of frustration danced across Cullen''s features as he observed the unfolding scene before him. Hastening his steps, he closed the distance between them. At Mia''s insistence, he commanded Branson''s release from the cells. Though his brother was now free from confinement, the prohibition against selling him alcohol remained firmly in place¡ªyet here he was, evidently inebriated beyond measure.

    As Cullen approached the siblings, he extended a helping hand to his pregnant sister, his expression a mixture of concern and disappointment. "Let me help you carry him. You shouldn''t be exerting yourself in your current state."

    She recoiled, swatting his hand away as though he were a persistent mosquito. "Piss off. My state is none of your concern," she retorted sharply, her tone laced with bitterness as she continued to drag their brother through the courtyard.

    Undeterred by her hostility, Cullen followed closely behind, though he refrained from further attempts to intervene. "Do you know how he managed to get drunk?"

    Rosalie stopped abruptly, shooting him a glare. "I''m the one who bought his drinks! Thanks to your dumb rules, now I gotta tag along every time he wants to get smashed."

    Cullen regarded her in bewilderment. "Why would you do that?"

    "Be-hic-se, y''know, she frick lov¡­ me, ya prick!" Branson''s words slurred as he struggled to focus his gaze. "Go to -hic - Void."

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    "That I do, Maker knows why, though," Rosalie mumbled, a touch of fondness in her voice as she resumed her slow progress.

    Cullen shook his head in frustration, his gaze fixed on his sister. "I don''t understand you, truly, I don''t," he admitted. "What you and Mia are doing is enabling. Your love will get him killed."

    Rosalie paused in her steps. "It ain''t our love that''s gonna get Bran in trouble," she shot back, sounding tired. "It''s you sticking your nose where it doesn''t belong." She took a deep breath before going on. "Mia tried to cut him off booze a few years ago. He got so desperate, he broke into the infirmary and swiped the physician¡¯s alcohol, thinking he could get wasted on that stuff. Nearly kicked the bucket ''cause of it."

    Cullen''s expression turned somber as he listened to Rosalie''s words. He hadn''t considered the lengths to which his brother would go to satisfy his cravings. ¡°It¡¯s this bad¡­¡±

    ¡°Yeah, it''s this bad, so just bugger off," she replied, but there was no anger in her voice anymore, just exhaustion.

    Cullen stood still, watching Rosalie strain under Branson''s weight as she started to struggle up the stairs. For a moment, he hesitated, and then signaled discreetly to a passing soldier, quietly instructing him to lend a hand to his sister without drawing attention. As he observed his command being executed, he contemplated that perhaps he should indeed just ¡®bugger off¡¯.

    After all, he reminded himself, they neither needed nor wanted him in their lives. With a heavy sigh, he turned away, and headed to his office.

    As he crossed the threshold, strains of the Canticle of Penance wafted down from the second floor, carried by Miriam''s fervent voice. "In the flicker of flames, I lay my soul bare, each sin, each burden I can no longer bear. Oh Maker, let the fire consume, let it purify, and cleanse me of sin as it dances high."

    Cullen''s breath caught in his throat as he listened, his apprehension growing with each word. ¡°Miriam?!" he called out to her.

    In response, the next lines of the Canticle resounded through the chamber, ¡±With every inch of skin turned to ash, my guilt is released. In the fire''s hot wrath, my spirit finds peace!¡±

    Adrenaline pumping, he dashed to the ladder and began climbing to his private quarters. In his haste, however, he failed to consider his injured hand, which no longer had the strength to grasp properly. With a sudden pang of pain, he lost his grip and tumbled to the ground with a resounding thump. The chanting momentarily halted, the mage undoubtedly catching the sound of his fall. "Miriam, speak to me!" he implored, his voice filled with urgency. Yet, as soon as she registered his words, she resumed her incantations with even greater fervor, as if spurred on by his plea. Cursing under his breath, Cullen pushed himself upright, his body throbbing with protest. Ignoring the pain, he rose to his feet and repeated the process, this time with more caution and deliberation. Each rung of the ladder felt like an eternity as he ascended, his heart pounding in his chest with every step.

    Reaching the top of the ladder and pulling himself onto the platform, he was met with a sight that confirmed his worst fears. Miriam kneeled in the center of the room, her crimson eyes wide open, her face contorted with agony, every muscle strained as she struggled to maintain the Canticle. Her hands, clad in the rolled-up sleeves of her robes, were stretched towards the heavens, fingers splayed wide as if reaching for something beyond mortal grasp. From the quivering tips of her fingers to the weathered skin of her elbows, the flames licked hungrily at her skin, leaving behind angry red blisters that bubbled and burst with each passing moment.

    For a few fleeting seconds, he stood transfixed, his senses assaulted by the harrowing sight before him. But as the initial shock waned, a surge of urgency gripped his soul once more. He rushed towards the mage, closing the distance between them in a blink of an eye. "Stop!" he shouted, wishing, for the first time in a long while, that he had his Templar abilities to stop this madness. Despite the searing heat emanating from Miriam, he frantically attempted to extinguish the flames engulfing her hands. His mailed palms beat against the fiery onslaught in a desperate rhythm, but it was utterly futile against the magic of the mark.

    She recoiled from his touch, her eyes glazed with fervent resolve, and with a guttural cry, "No, I must atone!¡± She pushed him away with an unexpected force that sent him stumbling backward.

    Undeterred, he persisted, his movements becoming more forceful, and as she struggled against him, he lost his footing in the folds of her robes, and they both tumbled to the floor. His heart hammered within his chest, the pulsation matching the rhythm of their tumult. Cullen wrapped his arms around her, holding her close despite the searing heat of the flames igniting the fabric of his tabard and singeing the fur on his cloak. "You are not the only one whose soul suffers in the sight of the Maker," he declared, his words tumbling forth with haste and intensity. "This madness is not the answer. If it were, then He would not grant me the strength to overcome my struggles. He would not have sent you, whose resilience inspires me each day. You mustn''t allow yourself to be consumed when so many forces stand against us. But if you truly believe this is the path to repentance, then I shall burn with you!"

    His impassioned words seemed to break through her veil of conviction, and as the flames dissipated, she ceased her struggle, her body going limp beneath him. In the ensuing silence, he could discern the rough rhythm of her breath against his neck, and the sickening scent of burnt flesh assailed his nostrils.

    With the utmost care, Cullen extricated himself from the mage, mindful of exacerbating her injuries. Kneeling beside her, he surveyed the aftermath of her self-imposed penance. The skin on her arms, charred and blistered, revealed raw, angry flesh beneath, with wisps of smoke still curling from the wounds. In stark contrast, however, the mark and the emerald veins remained unscathed, their integrity and brilliance undiminished.

    "Maker''s breath, can you heal yourself? Should I fetch a healing potion?" he inquired urgently, adrenaline coursing through his veins once more.

    Miriam''s voice, though strained, held a note of desperation as she whispered, "I can, but if this is not the way to atone for what happened to Lysette, then what is?" Tears welled up in her eyes. ¡°The guilt, it''s consuming me. I''ve prayed and begged the Maker, asking how to set things right, but He remains silent. What if He has turned His gaze away from me?"

    Cullen''s heart clenched at the unfiltered anguish in the mage''s voice. He extended his hand toward her, briefly brushing her cheek to wipe away the tears. "You still bear the powers of Andraste¡¯s mark," he began softly. "Do you not believe that if He were to forsake you, He would also strip you of them? Now, I implore you, heal yourself."

    ¡°But¡­¡± she began, her voice faltering.

    "I am certain that the Maker would not demand such suffering from His child, His Bride¡¯s Herald," Cullen insisted, his voice firm. "Please."

    Miriam hesitated, her brow furrowed as she pondered his words for a moment. Then, to his immense relief, she began to channel healing magic, her hands trembling as they radiated with soft light, shimmering like sunlight on water. He watched as tendrils of golden energy delicately caressed the burns, repairing the damage wrought by the flames. The sweat of effort covered Miriam''s brow, yet her pain seemed to gradually ease, as evidenced by the softening of her features. Finally, the glow faded, leaving behind renewed flesh, albeit marred by deep, uneven ridges. He noted with a pang that her right palm, already scarred by fire before, suffered more visibly than the rest. The new skin there was mottled with discoloration, patches of pale pink interspersed with areas where it had darkened and toughened, and a few of her fingernails were missing. The sight pierced his soul with sorrow, but he did his best to conceal it.

    "I can still feel some pain lingering, but it will pass in time," she whispered, her voice tinged with exhaustion. ¡°I am fine, do not trouble yourself.¡±

    While inwardly acknowledging that everything that happened bespoke anything but fine, Cullen chose his words carefully. "That¡¯s a relief. Now, let''s get somewhere more comfortable." Miriam nodded weakly in agreement, her weariness palpable as she leaned into his supportive touch. With care, he slid his hand beneath her back, assisting her as she slowly sat up, her movements labored. Then, rising to his feet, he took the mage by the upper arm, offering her his strength as he guided her towards his bed. It was a familiar place for Miriam, having occupied it during her stay with him over the past few days. Meanwhile, Cullen himself had slept on a bunk tucked away in the far corner of the room, a small sacrifice made willingly for the sake of her comfort and well-being.

    With measured steps, they made their way to the bed and settled onto its soft surface. For a while, they sat side by side in hushed silence, enveloped in a cocoon of shared tumultuous experience. It was the mage who broke it, her voice a hesitant whisper. "What... what exactly should I do to atone, then?"

    Cullen paused, his brow furrowing in thought as he considered her question carefully. "I will be honest with you," he began slowly. "When you first recounted the events of that day, I did question the wisdom of revealing Lisette''s secret to Sebastian. However, I never once held you responsible for her decision. We each have our roles to fulfill in life, but we cannot bear the burden of every consequence alone."

    Miriam''s gaze dropped, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. "Even if it wasn''t intentional, I triggered that tragedy.¡± Her shoulders sagged, "If I hadn''t sought revenge, none of it would have happened."

    Cullen reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But dwelling on what could have been won''t change anything." His struggles with self-blame lingered in the back of his mind, making it feel somewhat hypocritical to offer such advice. Yet, despite his own imperfections, he wanted Miriam to avoid the same pitfalls he had faced. "I believe your atonement lies not in punishing yourself for what happened, but in learning from it and finding ways to honor Lisette''s memory."

    Miriam looked up, her eyes searching his for guidance. "But how?"

    Cullen considered her question thoughtfully, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "There are many ways to honor someone''s memory," he replied softly. ¡°You can strive to be the best version of yourself, to make choices that reflect the values your friend held dear. You can seek out opportunities to help others, to bring light into the world in Lysette¡¯s name." As he spoke, Cullen could see a glimmer of hope returning to Miriam''s eyes. ¡°Ultimately, it''s about finding meaning in the wake of tragedy and using it to guide your actions moving forward. Lisette may be gone, but her spirit lives on in the memories you hold dear. And by honoring those memories, you keep her legacy alive."

    "I will endeavor to do just that," Miriam uttered. "I shall hold her memory as that of a gentle and noble woman, one who bestowed upon me the gift of friendship, a bond cherished deeply by both. The conflicts that marred our relationship... they have been purged by the flames of Andraste," she concluded, her voice resonating with newfound conviction. "Thank you," she added, her voice filled with emotion. "For showing me the way."

    In response, Cullen gently squeezed her shoulder. "Just promise me, that you won''t harm yourself like this ever again."

    Miriam opened her mouth as if to respond, but her gaze suddenly fell upon the charred fabric of Cullen''s tabard and the singed fur of his cloak. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her eyes widening in alarm as she took in the damage inflicted upon his attire. Turning her whole frame to face him, she reached out to touch the scorched fibers.

    "I... I''m so sorry," she stammered, her voice thick with remorse. "I can''t believe I am only noticing this now. I never wanted to cause you harm!"

    Worried that the fragile sense of relief he had managed to instill in her might shatter once again, Cullen hurriedly interjected, "It''s nothing. Just a few burned patches. There''s no need for you to worry about it."

    "Oh, but your poor cloak," she fretted, her voice laden with self-reproach.

    Cullen tenderly enveloped her hands within his own, his touch delicate as he guided them away from the fabric of his clothing before letting go. "It''s alright.¡± Seeking to divert her thoughts, he shifted the conversation with an inquiry, "Would you care for something to eat? You haven¡¯t taken a bite in days."

    With a soft exhale, Miriam shook her head, weariness etched into the lines of her face. "No, not particularly. I''m just so tired," she confessed.

    "Then why don''t you rest?"

    "I wish I could," she whispered. "But I dare not surrender to sleep since Lysette''s passing. I fear the nightmares awaiting me in the Fade."

    "Would it ease your mind if I stayed with you?¡° He offered tentatively. ¡°Perhaps holding your hand as you drift into slumber?"

    The mage''s countenance lit up. "Oh, would you? Truly?"

    "Of course, I''ll stay right here," he assured her. With gentle hands, he carefully eased Miriam into a comfortable recline on the bed, ensuring she was settled just so. "Just give me a moment while you settle beneath the covers." With deliberate motions, he rose from his seat and crossed the room with purpose, making his way towards the armor rack. There he shed the trappings of his station¡ªcloak, tabard, breastplate, and gloves. As each piece found its place upon the stand, a chorus of responsibilities echoed in his mind, a relentless reminder of the duty left unattended. Yet, amidst the clamor, a singular truth emerged: for now, the needs of his beloved eclipsed all else.

    After completing his tasks, he returned to the bed, removed his boots, and slipped beneath the blanket to lie beside Miriam. As he settled in, the comforting warmth emanating from the woman at his side enveloped him. Cullen¡¯s right arm slid under the mage¡¯s lithe frame, wrapping around her and drawing her close against his chest. His free hand reached out to clasp hers, fingers intertwining to assure her of his presence. He knew that some words from the Chant of Light would soothe her restless heart. "Remember," he whispered, "the one who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world¡­¡± He paused, a silent invitation for Miriam to complete the verse.

    "She shall know true peace," she murmured, her breath a soft caress against his skin. ¡±Thank you, I find comfort in the familiar cadence of sacred text.¡±

    ¡°Sleep tight.¡± Observing her countenance soften and her eyes close, he found himself compelled to tenderly bestow a kiss upon her brow. In the quiet intimacy of their embrace, Cullen couldn''t help but ponder the circumstances that had brought them to this moment. It marked their first instance of sharing a bed, and truth be told, he harbored a wish for this milestone to transpire in the aftermath of their wedding celebration, not emerging from the shadows of a distressing ordeal. But after all they had endured, the simple reality of being together, wrapped in safety and tranquility, felt like an immeasurable blessing. Although the Maker had woven a different tapestry than he had hoped for, he accepted the divine design with gratitude.

    When Miriam''s breathing slowed, her muscles relaxed, and she drifted into sleep, his mind shifted to thoughts of his own nightmares. Their severity had always been subject to fate''s capricious whims. Some nights, they were a chilling wind, freezing him to the core, his bones threatening to snap from the strain of breathing. Other times, they were a scorching inferno, searing his soul with agony, making a branding iron seem like a gentler touch in comparison. Those terrors, however torturous, were not what tested his resilience, for they were brief and would soon escape his mind after awakening. What truly made him fear the impending slumber were the nightmares, which peeled back the deepest folds of his mind and placed him back where he had no desire to live. Where even his most mighty of struggles were doomed to create only worse outcomes for himself or worse, those he had already or had yet to fail. In those moments, he could neither act nor give in to helplessness, for both would only serve to break him further.

    That¡¯s why, before every star-strewn canvas of the night, he embarked on a quest. He would search for a feeling akin to a cool breeze on a hot day or a warm drink when returning from a patrol under the strict supervision of a snowstorm. Not a tangible treasure to grasp or covet, but rather an intangible essence. Her essence. When he found himself enveloped in such a sensation, he surrendered to it, trusting that even if whatever the visions delivered to him that night would shatter him into pieces finer than dust, Miriam would be his dawn''s salvation. She would help piece him back together again like the gentlest of hands reassembling a fragile mosaic. That thought, above all else, gave him hope and offered solace.

    Cullen squeezed the mage''s hand a little tighter, wondering if he was her saving presence as well. Either way, he vowed that when the nightmares inevitably stole her peace and tore at her heart with echoes of past sorrows, he would be there to mend the frayed edges, threading hope through the darkness one stitch at a time.

 Answered prayers

    Miriam stood in the corner of the Grand Hall, her gaze fixed upon the entrance to the pathway leading to her quarters. Her fingers moved with rhythmic tension, clenching and unclenching as she struggled to summon the courage needed to open the heavy wooden door. For several days now, she had resolved to face the world once more and resume her duties. The weight of grief and guilt lingered, ebbing and flowing like waves, yet in those moments when despair threatened to overwhelm her, Cullen''s unwavering support became her lifeline, pulling her from the depths towards the warmth of the sun above. She dared to hope that her life was inching back towards normalcy, save for the fact that crossing the threshold of her chamber seemed like an impossible challenge. The thought of stepping anywhere near her quarters, the very place where her dear friend had met her tragic end, filled her with an overwhelming dread.

    The mage drew in a deep breath, her lips moving in quiet prayer as her hand hesitated over the handle. The sole purpose driving her to confront that threshold once more was the letter Lysette had entrusted to her for Brother Sebastian. Despite her acceptance of portraying the Templar''s passing as a tragic epilepsy accident, she remained steadfast in her belief that failing to deliver the note personally would be a profound disservice to the Knight''s memory, a sin she did not wish to commit.

    As the cold metal of the doorknob made contact with her skin, her legs seemed to turn to lead, anchoring her to the spot as if she were glued to the floor. A heavy, suffocating sensation began to well up within her chest, creeping steadily through her body. Her breath quickened, cold beads of sweat forming on her brow as the sounds of the Grand Hall melded into an eerie cacophony, echoing around her like a haunting refrain: ¡®Know that you bear the burden of responsibility for what is about to happen¡¯. Images flooded before her mind''s eye, and she found herself once more at the scene: Lysette stood resplendent in the glory of the sun, her hands spread wide before she disappeared into the void. "No!" Miriam wailed, rushing forward, only to collide with the door with a resounding thud, stumbling backward in shock and confusion. Gasps and whispers made her turn around, her gaze meeting the wide eyes of everyone in the hall. Murmurs floated among the crowd, with some of the ladies discreetly whispering behind their fans. The weight of their scrutiny pressed down on the mage, amplifying her distress.

    Just as the chatter grew louder and the stares of the onlookers'' became unbearable, a door beside her swung open. Josephine stepped out, her presence commanding immediate attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, I must apologize for this disruption," she said with practiced poise, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. "Please continue with your evening." With a gentle but firm grip, Josephine took Miriam by the arm, steering her away from the curious eyes and through the door she had just exited. Once inside her office, she closed the door behind them, muffling the noise from the hall. "Take a moment to breathe," the Ambassador said softly, guiding her to a chair beside her desk. "Please, have a seat."

    Miriam sank heavily into the chair. She adjusted her mask, which was fit slightly askew after her inadvertent collision with the door, and closed her eyes, seeking a moment of respite. Josephine''s seat creaked softly as she settled behind her desk.  The quiet stretched, and for that, the mage was profoundly grateful. It allowed her to gather the fractured pieces of her composure, each breath an effort towards calm.

    After a while, when she felt more centered, the mage opened her eyes and found herself meeting the Antivan¡¯s compassionate gaze. The depth of understanding and kindness she saw there was a surprise. She had never been close to the Ambassador, her knowledge of the woman was limited to the fact that she was of noble blood and a friend of Leliana¡¯s¡ªa fact that had been enough to foster mistrust.  This revelation, however, infused her with a glimmer of hope, suggesting that perhaps her previous assessment had been mistaken. "Thank you.¡±

    Josephine offered a warm, reassuring smile. "There''s no need for gratitude, Inquisitor. You''ve endured so much of late." Her gaze darted briefly to the mage''s burned hands. " It''s only natural to feel overwhelmed."

    "It has been... trying," she admitted, her voice faltering. "I thought I could endure, to enter my chamber again, but..."

    The Antivan leaned forward slightly, her expression earnest. "It''s normal to take things one step at a time."

    Miriam nodded, the burden of her recent failure still a heavy shroud around her, but slightly less suffocating in the light of Josephine¡¯s understanding. "I know," she whispered, "but I can''t ignore it for much longer. There is a task I must undertake, for Lysette."

    Josephine''s gentle gaze held a hint of inquiry as she spoke, "If it¡¯s a task in which I could be of assistance with, you have only to ask."

    "Lysette... she left a letter for Brother Sebastian," the mage confessed cautiously. "It''s on the desk in my quarters. Even though we agreed to conceal the truth about her passing, I still feel compelled to personally deliver it to the Brother."

    To her astonishment, Josephine''s expression didn''t betray any surprise. Instead, she calmly replied, "I know of what you speak. The letter is no longer in your quarters, it''s in Leliana''s possession."

    Fury surged within Miriam, a torrent of anger igniting like a flame within her. The mark on her hand began to pulsate, its emerald veins glowing with an ethereal light. "Andraste, preserve me, the audacity of this woman! Does her meddling know no bounds? Was it not enough to conscript my friend as her agent? Now she lays claim to the letter as well? No! Lysette entrusted that missive to me, it is her final will!"

    "Please, Inquisitor," Josephine urged gently as if one would a hostile animal. "I am sure Leliana has her reasons, and we must trust in her judgment."

    Miriam shook her head fervently. "Reasons or not, it''s not her decision to make. Lysette wanted Brother Sebastian to have that letter, and I won''t stand by while it''s kept from him."

    The Antivan gave the glowing mark a slightly weary look, shifting uncomfortably. "I just ask you to remember that Leliana is your ally, and I would appreciate it if you approached any disagreements you have with her diplomatically."

    Miriam drew in a deep breath, a silent command to the magic swirling within her to subside, its radiant light gradually dimming. "The woman is just... infuriating."

    Josephine regarded her with compassion, her gaze softening. "I understand your frustration, but perhaps there is a reason why Leliana has taken possession of the letter. She may have insights or concerns that we are not aware of."

    Miriam shook her head, her determination unwavering. "I must confront her and reclaim it. It is the least I can offer to honor my dear friend," she declared, rising from her seat. "Thank you for your assistance and for bringing this matter to my attention."

    Josephine offered a slight smile in return. "You are most welcome," she replied softly. "And before you depart, considering that your birthday is nearly upon us¡­ I had hoped to arrange a party with our esteemed guests to strengthen the Inquisition''s connections."

    Miriam''s eyes widened in surprise as she recalled that her birthday loomed just two days hence. The tumult of recent events had consumed her entirely, and the notion of her birthday had vanished into the shadows of her mind. The mere thought of being thrust into the public eye, however, unsettled her deeply, stirring an unease that gnawed at her very soul. "I would rather not celebrate it at all," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "I am aware of the potential benefits of such an event, but I am not ready for it."

    Josephine looked at her with a knowing look. "I understand," she replied quietly, her words carrying a reassuring tone.  "Then I shall draft a formal statement that, in light of the recent passing of the Inquisitor''s guard, all scheduled celebrations in her honor will be canceled to respect her mourning period."

    The mage felt a wave of relief wash over her. With another expression of gratitude, she bid Josephine farewell and made her way out of the office.

    Once Miriam arrived at the rookery, she quickly found the red-haired woman standing amidst the rows of ravens, her gaze fixed upon the scrolls that she held in her hand. "Leliana," she began, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions churning within her. "I must speak with you." Leliana turned to face her, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. The mage squared her shoulders. "It''s about Lysette''s letter to Brother Sebastian."

    The Spymaster''s expression turned impassive, though a flicker of curiosity still danced in her eyes. "Ah, I see," she murmured. ¡°And what of it?"

    Miriam''s jaw tightened. "You know what of it," she retorted, her voice tinged with accusation. "That letter was meant for the Brother, not for your collection of secrets."

    Leliana looked at her calmly. "The only person who would benefit from the delivery of this note would be you," she observed evenly. "You aim to assuage your guilt, but have you considered what Sebastian would feel after reading those ridiculous lines?"

    The mage¡¯s anger flared. ¡°You had no right to open it," she snapped, her voice laced with indignation. The magic of the mark begged to break free, yet she exerted all her control to keep it at bay.

    "You honestly expected me not to?" The Spymaster chuckled, a glint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Be grateful that I intervened, for the revelation would only deepen his disdain for Lysette and exacerbate matters further. Her ¡®last will¡¯ is nothing but a cascade of lunacy and barbs aimed directly at Hawke."

    Miriam recoiled in disbelief. "You lie!"

    Leliana calmly placed the scrolls she held onto the table, and then reached into one of the drawers, retrieving a folded note covered in dirt. Miriam''s heart clenched as she gazed upon the paper, instantly recognizing it. "Confirm it for yourself," the Spymaster urged, her voice carrying a hint of challenge.

    The mage reached out to accept the note. Should she commit this transgression and verify its contents, or should she ignore Leliana''s words and deliver it to the Brother without opening it? For a few agonizing moments, she wrestled with indecision. Yet, ultimately, the fear of inadvertently catalyzing yet another tragedy proved too overwhelming. With cautious deliberation, Miriam carefully unfolded the parchment, her eyes tracing the familiar handwriting:

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    My dearest Sebastian,

    As I pen these final words, know that my heart overflows with love for you. I have cherished every moment we spent together, every glance that you granted me, every inadvertent touch of your hand that ignited my soul.

    I know you could never forgive me for the choices I have made, which is why I want to part from this world. But I do not despair, my love, for you may hate me now, but in death, our souls shall be united once more. I promise to await you at the Maker''s side, where we shall bask in His eternal light together.

    As for Hawke, know that what I did was not born out of malice, but rather out of a deep-seated belief that you deserve far better than she could ever offer. Your spirit, pure and noble, deserves to be untainted by the disgusting essence of that wretched thing. Let her rot in the Void, for she is undeserving of the love and devotion you have bestowed upon her.

    Yours always and forever,

    Lysette

    Leliana watched silently, her expression that of satisfaction, as Miriam grappled with the truth laid bare before her. With each passing moment, the reality of the situation sank in, leaving the mage to confront the painful realization that the Spymaster was right. "So I pose the question once more," the woman started. "What purpose would Sebastian reading this letter serve? Would it not only inflict further pain upon him? Would it not deepen his animosity toward your friend? And let us not forget the potential consequences of revealing the depths of the Knight¡¯s obsession. Would it not tarnish her memory, ensuring she is remembered not as a tragic victim of circumstance but as a woman consumed by lust for a married man?"

    Miriam didn''t reply; her thoughts were a turbulent sea of emotions. She had nothing to say and no argument to oppose Leliana''s reasoning. Lysette... no, she resolved to remember only the good in her friend. But what should she do? She couldn''t let the letter reach Sebastian. Keeping it herself was unbearable, a constant reminder of her friend''s death, and letting Leliana keep it would be like spitting on Lysette¡¯s grave. The mark on her hand prickled and throbbed, pulling her focus away from her thoughts. Perhaps it was from restraining its magic, or maybe... A sudden realization dawned upon the mage, illuminating her path. It was a sign from His Bride, guiding her to decide the letter''s fate. Feeling a sense of relief wash over her, Miriam carefully folded the paper and held it delicately between her fingers, pinching the corner. "O Flames, swift messengers of heat, carry this letter to Andraste''s seat," she intoned, summoning the emerald fires. The paper ignited, shining brightly for a brief moment before disintegrating into ash that fell to the floor. She watched the ashes scatter, the discomfort from the mark fading away as a profound sense of peace settled within her. The burden of the letter was gone, and with it, a part of her anguish over the Templar¡¯s death. She turned to the Spymaster, who observed her with a mixture of curiosity and respect. "It is done," Miriam said quietly. "Now the letter is in divine hands. Let us honor Lysette''s memory with the love and respect she deserves, not the pain and anger she left behind."

    "You made the right choice. I must say, I am almost impressed." Miriam nodded in acknowledgment and turned to leave, not wishing to speak or linger in the Spymaster¡¯s company more than was strictly necessary. As she took her first step away, Leliana''s voice called after her. "I hope you understand now, Inquisitor. Even when my actions seem deplorable at first, there is always a good reason behind them. I do what must be done for the greater good, for the success of our mission."

    The mage paused, her back still turned to the Spymaster. "Whatever helps you sleep at night," she muttered and resumed her way out of the Rookery.

    The evening shadows stretched long over Skyhold, casting an intricate dance of light and darkness across the fortress. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of rain, a promise of the night to come. As she approached Cullen''s office, the soft glow of twilight illuminated the doorway, creating a serene yet somber atmosphere.

    Pushing open the door, she was met with an unexpected stillness in the empty room. For a moment, confusion clouded her mind, but then she recalled Cullen''s words from that morning. He had mentioned needing to discuss matters with Rylen and had warned her he would be late. With a soft sigh, Miriam moved towards the box standing near his desk. Inside were the reports she had to look through, brought here because her quarters were no longer a sanctuary for work or rest. Gathering a few of the documents, she climbed the ladder with practiced ease and settled onto the bed. The reports spread out before her. Despite the hole in the roof, she found the place cozy, a small haven within the larger, more imposing structure of Skyhold. Cullen¡¯s bed, though simple and only recently used by her, already offered a sense of comfort and familiarity that her lavish bed never could.

    The mage adjusted her position, propping herself up with a pillow, and removed her mask, placing it on a small table nearby. She began to read through the documents, the quiet of the evening enveloping her, broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment as she turned a page.

    However, her thoughts soon wandered to Cullen and all he had done for her lately. Her hand instinctively went to the amulet resting on her chest, the cool metal a comforting presence against her skin. Could she have endured it all without him? Cullen, with his unwavering strength and boundless compassion, had been her rock through the storm. Her hero, her selfless betrothed, who showered her with care and support, who loved her so deeply. His sacrifices loomed large in her mind¡ªthe nights spent by her side, the soothing words when her anxiety peaked, the thoughtful gestures that spoke volumes of his love. She remembered the way he had held her during the darkest moments, his steady presence a beacon of hope and stability. Cullen had given so much of himself, often putting her needs above his own, and Miriam was acutely aware of the depth of his commitment.

    Lost in reverie, the mage found herself yearning to express her gratitude and show her hero just how much he meant to her. Yet, as she pondered the depths of her emotions, she realized the inadequacy of words alone. She longed to find a way to convey the extent of her feelings, to repay his boundless kindness with a gesture he would find equally profound. Suddenly, a notion sprouted in her mind like a blooming flower. What if a symbol of romantic love, such as a kiss on the lips, could become such a gesture? It could serve as an emblem of her attunement to his desires and yearnings. After all, he had been the one to initiate their first kiss and extend the invitation to share a bed. Surely, his heart lamented her lack of initiative. This realization stirred a sense of urgency within the mage, compelling her to take action as soon as possible. And so she resolved that upon her betrothed''s return, she would greet him with a fervent kiss.

    As time dragged on and evening surrendered to the night, her resolve wavered, however, gnawed at by doubts. She had only kissed twice in her life, and both times she had stood there as a passive participant. What if the kiss she intended to offer him was clumsy and unpleasing? She knew nothing of passionate embraces; why had she suddenly convinced herself it was a good idea to attempt one now?

    The faint creak of the office door opening pierced her thoughts, sending a jolt through her heart. "Miriam, are you up there?" Cullen¡¯s familiar voice echoed through the silence.

    A tumult of apprehension and nervousness surged within the mage making her drop her reports. They fluttered in all directions onto the floor and bed. Trying to quietly neaten them, she quickly responded, "Yes, I''ve been waiting for you."

    With hurried motions, she set aside the reports on the table beside her mask and rose from the bed, her heart hammering in her chest. She smoothed down her robes, adjusted her hair, and took a deep breath to steady herself. No, she could do this. She would offer him the most heartfelt kiss she could muster, praying that the sincerity of her affection would compensate for her lack of skill.

    As Cullen ascended the ladder to join her, Miriam''s nerves reached a crescendo, rendering her senses heightened yet muddled. Her breathing was rapidly getting away from her as she willed her body to control itself. His words washed over her like a distant melody, their meaning obscured by the fog of her anticipation.

    As he moved towards the rack to divest himself of his cumbersome armor, the mage realized that the longer she hesitated, the more her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. With a surge of determination, she reached out and grasped Cullen''s arm, turning him around to face her. As he looked at her, perplexed, she swiftly leaned in, her heart pounding like an Avvar war drum. But just as her lips were poised to meet his, the midnight bells tolled, startling her already heightened nerves. She jolted, and her intended kiss veered off course, landing instead as a clumsy peck on the tip of his nose. The mage stumbled back, the moment unraveling in an instant of absurdity. Cullen''s eyes widened, his eyebrows arching in bewilderment. ¡°Miriam?¡±

    The mage¡¯s cheeks burned with a fierce, mortifying heat. She stammered, her words a disjointed cascade. ¡°The bells... I didn¡¯t mean to... I mean, I did, but not on the nose! The lips, I wanted to ki¡ª¡±

    But before she could complete her confession, she felt Cullen''s hand as it cupped her cheek; his touch was a gentle command that silenced her. His eyes, clouded with surprise just a moment before, now burned with an intensity that stole her breath away. In a swift, decisive motion, he closed the space between them, his lips capturing hers with a searing fervor. This was nothing like the tender and almost chaste kiss they had shared in his office. This was like a wildfire, hungry and hot, his lips moving with fierce intensity, exploring and demanding, as if expressing everything he had held back before. His hand moved from her cheek to cradle her neck, the other curling around her waist, pressing her so close to the steel of his armor that it was uncomfortable. Yet the discomfort was overshadowed by an unfamiliar sensation as she suddenly felt the genuine wish to reciprocate, not as a means to show her gratitude or initiative but out of her own desire. The mage melted into his embrace, her hands enveloping his form, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his tabard as she kissed him back, losing herself in the moment, her previous doubts and nerves vanishing. The world around her seemed to blur, leaving only the sensation of Cullen''s lips against hers and his arms holding her as if he would never let go.

    When they finally pulled away, her breathing came in short gasps, her swollen lips slightly parted, and her eyes were wide with blissful wonder. It was as if a legion of butterflies had been unleashed within her, their frenzied dance a testament to the divine response to her fervent supplications to feel passion for her betrothed. Yet Cullen seemed to have misinterpreted her silent awe as an expression of shock and a harbinger of regret. His muscles tensed, and his features darkened with the weight of his perceived transgression. "Forgive me. I got carried away." He began to withdraw, loosening his hold, as if to extricate himself from her embrace.

    Miriam shook her head vehemently, her hands clutching his to keep him close. "No, no," she uttered hurriedly.  ¡°I¡­¡± A smile imbued with pure and innocent joy graced her face, and she bit her lip to hold in a soft giggle.

    Cullen paused, his gaze probing hers for confirmation, and as he beheld the sincerity and excitement in her eyes, a slow, tentative smile spread across his face. ¡°So, you are not upset?¡±

    Buoyed by the surge of emotions coursing through her, the mage felt emboldened to speak her truth. ¡°Not at all, in fact, I find myself wanting more..."

    Cullen''s cheeks ignited with a sudden blush, and he stammered, his words faltering as he struggled to regain his composure. "I am honored, and I would... I would be pleased to oblige. Don''t mistake my hesitation. I, too, yearn for more. However, I¡­.I feel it would be¡­ um, proper to await our wedding."

    Miriam regarded him with a quizzical expression, her brow furrowing in bemusement. "Why should we wait for our union to share another kiss?"

    "Oh, you speak of further kisses, not... not in a sense of..." Cullen''s voice trailed off, the crimson hue on his cheeks deepening almost to the shade of a beet.

    "Sense of what?" the mage prompted, tilting her head inquisitively.

    He cleared his throat. "Nothing, nothing. Forgive me, um... of course.¡± His tone became tinged with a hint of bashfulness. ¡°We could kiss more if you wish."

    Miriam''s face lit up with excitement. Her arms and hand found their natural resting place on and around his shoulders. Her eyes flickered to the scar on his lip before meeting his gaze again. Still feeling shy, but unwilling to relinquish the high of his attention, she asked softly, "Might we indulge right now?"

    Cullen laughed equally as quiet, lost in the intimacy her whisper created. A gleam of joy lit his amber eyes as he leaned in once more towards her lips, murmuring against them, "Your wish is my command."

 Before the Dawn

    The air in the War Room was heavy with anticipation, the tension palpable as the flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. Cullen, together with the rest of the Inquisition¡¯s council, stood in a semicircle around the war table. Everyone''s faces reflected a mix of concern and curiosity, their eyes fixed intently on Leliana. The Spymaster had summoned them all in the middle of the night, an unusual move that signaled the gravity of the news she bore.

    The Left Hand, her posture rigid and expression grave, stepped forward and placed a wooden figure representing the enemy forces onto the map of Thedas spread out on the table. "I have at last deciphered the documents we discovered in the red lyrium mines. Samson, along with the main body of the Red Templar army, has entrenched himself in the ruins of the Shrine of Dumat, deep in the desolate reaches of northern Orlais." The council members exchanged uneasy glances, the name of the ancient Tevinter god evoking memories of dark times and forgotten evils.

    ¡°Has the traitor now become a heretic as well?¡± Miriam¡¯s voice was as cold as the Spymaster''s glare. With deliberate slowness, she removed her mask, slipping it into the pocket of her robes, her crimson eyes reflecting a profound and chilling disdain.

    Leliana shook her head. "He is not using it as a place of worship. He is..." She paused, her voice tinged with incredulity. "I can hardly believe it myself, but my agents report that he is gathering the Tranquil there, restoring their connection to the Fade and then corrupting them with red lyrium."

    "Andraste preserve us," the mage uttered under her breath as Josephine, who had been diligently taking notes, nearly dropped her quill, her usually composed demeanor shattered by shock.

    "So, he achieved his goal... but how?" Cullen''s voice rang out, tinged with disbelief. "The Rite of Tranquility is irreversible, a permanent sentence. Not even the Magisters of the Imperium possess the power to undo it." Looking for answers, he addressed Cassandra, "Do you have any insight?"

    The Right Hand clenched her fists so hard that the leather of her gloves squeaked. "When I joined the Seekers of Truth, I was told that our Order was entrusted with the solemn duty of guarding the secrets of the Rite, only the highest among us being privy to this knowledge." Her eyes moved from one face to another. "Given that Lord Seeker Lucius was slain by the Envy demon, who served the Elder One just as Samson does, we must assume this is how the way to reverse it fell into the enemy''s hands."

    "We have to intervene as soon as possible," Miriam uttered, her voice sharp with urgency. "Mages who have been subjected to the Rite are bound for a reason. They are either extremely dangerous or incapable of withstanding the temptations of demons."

    Cullen furrowed his brow, his mind flickering to Kirkwall¡¯s Tranquil, many branded for the slightest misdemeanor. The ideal of the Rite often clashed with the harsh reality of the City of Chains. He wanted to voice his opinion and argue her statement, but he knew now was not the time to be sidetracked by such discussions. Instead, he turned to the Spymaster, ¡°Do you know why he is doing this?¡±

    Leliana paused, her expression dark and contemplative. ¡°We deprived Corypheus of his mage army at Haven, so this must be his desperate attempt to build a new one. Samson is merely a pawn. The Elder One exploits his hatred for the Chantry and his fervent desire to free both Templars and mages from its grip, twisting these sentiments to his ends.¡± Cullen''s mouth contorted with a grimace. Samson''s concept of liberation was a grotesque parody of freedom. For the Templars, it represented a cruel transition from the frigid chains of their existing bondage to the searing, blistering shackles of red lyrium. And for the mages, it entailed substituting the numbness of Tranquility with the torment of madness.

    ¡°The corrupted Knight is no better than an abomination or a maleficar.¡± Miriam sneered, her eyes flashing with an almost otherworldly intensity as her emerald veins began to faintly glow. ¡°The flames of Andraste are too merciful for Samson, he belongs on the gallows.¡± Cullen shifted uncomfortably, a deep sense of unease settling over him. He had seen it before¡ªthe way her righteous fury would build and crest in a wave of zeal that inevitably crashed down with destructive force, leading her to use the mark with disregard for the consequences.

    Leliana crossed her arms, her expression grave. "I''m afraid that''s another matter we need to address. Samson has been given a new armor, forged from red lyrium, and while I cannot confirm it, rumors are circulating that it is indestructible. It could happen that, neither the flames nor the gallows will avail us."

    "I wouldn¡¯t worry too much about it," the mage interjected with fervent enthusiasm. "If the whispers hold true, I''ll boil him from the inside, just like the Behemoth in the red lyrium mine."

    Cullen''s jaw clenched in concern. "I would rather explore other options first. Calling upon the mark in this way would surely exacerbate the already worrying changes in your body or could even prove fatal."

    "What options?" Miriam asked, her gaze expectant yet tinged with frustration.

    "We shall first confirm the rumors, and should his armor indeed prove indestructible, we will endeavor to unveil its vulnerability before facing him," he proposed, his tone steadfast.

    The Spymaster interjected into their conversation, her voice carrying the weight of calculated pragmatism. ¡°I must admit, I support the Inquisitor''s boldness. Every passing day sees more Tranquil brought to the shrine. If we dedicate months to confirming the situation and then even more time to devising strategies against Samson''s impervious armor, we will lose a multitude of soldiers in the ensuing battle. Such losses could imperil our chances of victory against the Elder One and his dragon. It would be much more beneficial to take the risk and resort to the use of the mark if necessary. The Breach has been closed for good, so even in the worst-case scenario, the loss of the Inquisitor, though significant, would not be catastrophic," she stated matter-of-factly. Then, she glanced at Miriam and added, "No offense."

    The mage nodded solemnly. "None taken. As the Herald of Andraste, it is my duty to safeguard as many faithful lives as possible. I will not shrink from any dangers that may come my way because of it." The red-haired woman smirked but remained silent, her eyes betraying a hint of approval.

    Cullen''s brows furrowed deeply, his concern for Miriam''s safety conflicting with his duty as Commander. As a man, he adamantly opposed even the possibility of endangering her life. Yet, he couldn''t ignore the truth in Leliana''s words. The uncertainty surrounding the armor and the threat of Samson building a new army for the Elder One couldn''t be overlooked. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope pierced the gloom of his mind. "What about Fenris?" he began eagerly. ¡°His lyrium markings grant him the uncanny ability to pass through nearly any barrier. True, he struggled with the one Meredith created when we confronted her at the Gallows, but it remains a possibility worth exploring before the Inquisitor resorts to her powers."

    "Very much so." Cassandra nodded, her agreement firm.

    Josephine, too, seemed to grasp the merit of the idea. "Indeed. Besides, Fenris would benefit from the diversion and a chance to release some of his pent-up emotions. Since Hawke''s untimely demise, he has become particularly brooding, often untoward towards our noble guests. Naturally, he will need to be accompanied by Brother Sebastian, the two have become inseparable in their shared grief."

    "I have no objection to that course of action," Leliana uttered softly, her voice carrying the weight of deliberation, as she placed markers representing the elf and the Brother onto the map. A wave of relief, akin to a sudden thaw after a harsh winter, washed over Cullen. The chances of Miriam needing to wield her powers had just dwindled. "Very well, then," the Spymaster continued. "I propose that we proceed with the swift dismantling of Samson''s plans, with Miriam as our option B in case his armor proves indestructible and presents a challenge for Fenris. Let us vote." Cullen watched as every member of the council raised their hand, and then reluctantly lifted his own. ¡°Perfect. With everyone in favor, the matter is settled.¡± With a graceful motion, she retrieved a set of scrolls from a nearby shelf and extended them towards the Commander. "These documents contain maps of the surrounding area and the layout of the shrine. It is up to you to formulate our military approach."

    Accepting the scrolls, he inwardly invoked the blessings of the Maker, fervently hoping that the elf''s powers would prove adequate if they were needed.

    As the days flew by and preparations for the impending mission intensified, Cullen meticulously studied the documents provided by the Spymaster. In scrutinizing the layout of the shrine, he discerned its imperfections as a defensive stronghold but also noted its strategic positioning, rendering any approach by the enemy visible from afar. Consultation with Maddox also revealed that the shrine had an intricate network of secret passageways, which he was fortunately able to locate, providing Samson with a means of escape should the need arise.

    Contemplating these factors, it became evident that the most prudent course of action would involve deploying a small, agile group comprised of Cassandra, Miriam, Fenris, Brother Sebastian, and a dozen of the Inquisition''s soldiers to infiltrate the shrine through one of the concealed passages and breach the inner sanctum where Samson had entrenched himself. Their objective would be to confront him directly, diverting his attention from commanding his forces.

    Meanwhile, the Inquisition¡¯s army, Templar forces, and Orlesian reinforcements led by Cullen, would surround the shrine. Their task would be to engage the Red Templars and corrupted mages in an effort to neutralize their threat while they are devoid of their leader.

    With the plan finalized and every detail scrutinized, Josephine embarked on a diplomatic odyssey to secure the Emperor''s blessing for the audacious military operation on his sovereign soil. After deft negotiation and skillful persuasion, His Majesty was convinced to offer the assistance of his seasoned soldiers but not to participate personally. Grateful to the Ambassador, Cullen sighed a sigh of relief. He wouldn''t admit it to himself, but the thought of seeing Gaspard and Miriam together again gnawed at him uneasily. It wasn''t mere jealousy that troubled him, but rather a deep-seated apprehension, as if he expected the wretched man to reveal some hidden card that might dash his hopes of uniting with his betrothed.

    A palpable buzz of anticipation filled the air as word spread throughout Skyhold that the date for the mission had been set. The fortress, usually a scene of serene activity, now resembled a beehive of organized chaos, with soldiers drilling, blacksmiths hammering, and quartermasters rushing to and fro.

    Each hour seemed to slip away like grains of sand in an hourglass, until, lying in bed, the Commander reflected that the day of departure was at hand. Tomorrow, they would plunge into the heart of northern Orlais.

    The first rays of sunlight filtered through the hole in the roof, casting an ethereal glow on Cullen''s face, prompting him to frown as he slowly emerged from the depths of sleep. The warmth of the light contrasted sharply with the chill of the early morning air, drawing him reluctantly from the embrace of slumber. He opened his eyes, watching as motes danced in the golden beam, creating a serene, almost magical atmosphere within the room. In the tranquil hush preceding the morning bells, he luxuriated in the rare opportunity of lingering beneath the covers. A precious moment of reprieve before the demands of the day encroached upon his sanctuary.

    Miriam''s body was pressed against his right side, her rhythmic breathing a soothing counterpoint to the silence. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, her brown hair fanning out like a silken veil, its strands whispering against his skin with each subtle movement. Her hand lay gently across his chest, her fingers slightly curled as though she had grasped onto his shirt while drifting into the Fade. He should have been focusing on the mission, thinking about last-minute preparations, but instead, memories of the night when the mage kissed him overwhelmed his thoughts. The bashful curve of Miriam''s smile lingered vividly, her eager lips leaving tender imprints. And oh, the caress of her fingers upon his countenance, each touch igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume all reason... With every recollection, he felt the warmth of desire suffuse his body. In all previous instances when they shared a bed, he had successfully suppressed any hint of longing, burying such yearnings in the depths of his consciousness. However, since Miriam¡¯s desire for intimacy surfaced, the defenses he had painstakingly constructed were becoming increasingly fragile. Today, of all days, they felt especially precarious, teetering on the brink of collapse beneath the weight of his suppressed emotions.

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    He placed his left hand over hers, tracing the uneven skin of the burns with his fingertips for a moment before venturing further. His touch skimmed over the fabric of her shift with a feather-light caress until he reached her shoulder. Then, with a practiced motion, his hand traveled to her back, the soft and thin linen of her garment allowing his fingers to feel the fragile structure of her body.

    This was the point at which he would always stop, a self-imposed boundary he had never dared to cross. But as he gazed into her serene face, contemplating how long they would be in the field without a chance for a proper moment alone, the temptation to explore more of her form proved too tempting to resist. Hesitantly, he let his palm slide down her back. As he reached her waist, the tension inside him rose to an unbearable pitch. He felt hot and clammy, like a string ready to snap, the balance between restraint and desire tipping dangerously towards the latter. Yet he found himself too caught up in the moment to care.

    His hand continued to move, trembling slightly, until it came to rest against the modest flesh of Miriam''s bottom. He paused, his breath catching in his throat, and then squeezed gently, feeling the thrill of excitement shoot through him. The act felt both ill-timed and profoundly right, as if crossing that line had been an inevitability he had resisted for too long. "Miriam," he whispered without even realizing it, savoring the feel of her.

    Suddenly, the mage startled awake, her hand reflexively moving to smack Cullen on the chin, the sharp impact jolting him. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, more surprised than hurt. "I''m sorry, I didn''t mean¡ª" he began, stumbling over his words, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. He realized his hand was still on her backside but couldn''t bring himself to move it, paralyzed by the mortification of being caught red-handed.

    "Andraste¡¯s ashes! I''m the one who''s sorry. I''m not used to sharing a bed with som..." Miriam blinked away the remnants of sleep, her expression changing from remorse to confusion. With a pout, she shifted her body, ¡°What am I sleeping on?¡± Reaching behind her, their fingers met, "Is that¡­ oh!" A pink hue filled her pale cheeks as a conflicted smile contorted about her face.

    In a mere instant, a whirlwind of thoughts besieged Cullen¡¯s mind, offering divergent paths of action. Should he confess his intentions outright, risking fueling her perception of his demands? Or should he fabricate an excuse, allowing their relationship to unfold at a pace more aligned with her comfort? The choice seemed quite obvious, so wrestling with a pang of guilt, he resolved to opt for deceit. "I, um... when you awoke startled, I thought you were going to pitch yourself off the bed," he faltered, the lie tumbling awkwardly from his lips. "It was the first thing I... grabbed."

    ¡°Oh, yes, I see¡­ that makes perfect sense.¡± Their eyes held each other curiously, trying to determine how they were going to untangle themselves. ¡°So¡­ I think the danger has passed,¡± the mage¡¯s voice trailed off in a shy whisper.

    ¡°Right, of course,¡± yet as he went to move his hand, she squeezed it tighter, preventing him from removing it from her posterior.

    ¡°Wait.¡±

    Cullen watched as the pulse in her neck picked up, and her lips pouted out to one side.  Her eyes, however, stubbornly avoided his. "Miriam?"

    Slowly, she lulled upward, her crimson gaze finally meeting his. Her hand still held his in place as she stretched up to press a chaste kiss on his lips. Confused and trying to process what was happening, he found himself wishing that one of them had more experience in these matters. Nevertheless, summoning his courage, he decided to take a chance. Gently lifting Miriam¡¯s bottom to pull her closer, he went to reciprocate her kiss, but his lame arm betrayed him, spasming unexpectedly and jerking upwards. He crushed the petite mage against him, his hand gripping the curve of her buttocks with unintended force. She gasped, their teeth clashing painfully, and her hand shot out to steady herself on his shirt, her fingers clutching the fabric tightly as she tried to regain her balance. When the initial shock ebbed away, however, they found themselves lingering in the embrace, gradually surrendering to the moment. Their kiss deepened, each brush of their lips against the other''s becoming more pleasurable as they discovered a natural rhythm. The awkwardness faded into the background, replaced by a shared moment of intimacy and connection.

    As Miriam parted from him, he noticed her eyes widened, blinking at a fixed point on his chest. "We should... get dressed," she murmured. "I''m sure it would be time for us to depart soon."

    At her words, the weight of their responsibilities and the significance of the day surged into his consciousness once again. "Yes, you''re right." He moved to roll over, but failed to realize his precarious position on the edge of the bed and ended up tumbling off, landing ungracefully on the floor with a loud thud.

    Above him, Miriam peered down, concern quickly melting into amusement as she realized he was unharmed. She glanced back over her shoulder, and a giggle escaped her lips. "Cullen, I wasn''t about to fall off the bed earlier, was I?"

    He hesitated briefly but gauging from her reaction that his earlier concerns were unwarranted, he offered her a sheepish smile. "No, not really."

    The mage''s small smile blossomed into a full grin, illuminating her face with warmth and mirth as she laughed heartily. Caught off guard by her genuine expression of joy, Cullen couldn''t help but be captivated. It was the first time he had witnessed her laugh from the bottom of her heart. Feeling a surge of emotion, he couldn''t resist joining in, his own laughter mingling with hers. At that moment, he reflected that all the instances of embarrassment he had endured earlier had been well worth it.

    As the day unfolded, they immersed themselves in the preparations required for the journey. Supplies were checked and rechecked, maps consulted, and equipment meticulously arranged. Only when every aspect was deemed in perfect order did they finally set forth on their mission, the landscape gradually morphing around them as they ventured ever closer to their destination.

    The road ahead stretched like an endless ribbon, weaving its way through towering mountains, winding valleys, and sprawling plains. The united forces of the Inquisition and the Order moved in lockstep, their footsteps echoing in a steady rhythm that resonated with purpose. Despite the vast expanse of terrain traversed, the journey remained largely uneventful. His only concern was Miriam''s growing restlessness. The closer they got to the shrine, the more fixated she became, her fervent hatred for the place of heretical worship overshadowing all other conversation.

    After weeks of travel, they finally reached their designated meeting point with the Emperor''s forces, a mere half-day''s march from the Shrine of Dumat. With weary limbs and spirits lifted by the prospect of rest, they set about establishing camp amidst the tranquil embrace of the wilderness.

    Tents sprang up like mushrooms, their fabric billowing gently in the evening breeze as soldiers worked in harmony to secure their temporary shelter. A fire was kindled at the heart of the encampment, its flickering flames casting a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow upon the faces of weary warriors.

    Amidst the cacophony of activity within the camp, Cullen sought a moment of solace, his body and mind crying out for rest. Leaning against the steadfast trunk of an ancient oak tree near his tent, he observed the flames, their erratic movements reflecting the tumultuous currents of his thoughts.

    Tomorrow would herald the long-awaited confrontation with the lingering ghosts of his past. With the imminent demise of Samson, the last tie binding him to the haunting memories of Kirkwall would be severed. Though it would not lighten his physical burdens¡ª his mind was already becoming an increasingly unreliable vessel, forcing him to painstakingly document every fleeting memory in a diary lest it slip into oblivion, and his maimed left arm would forever remain useless in battle¡ª there remained the tantalizing promise of emotional emancipation, a chance to free his soul from the weight of some of his past sins.

    Lost in reverie, he barely registered Miriam¡¯s approach. She moved with a purpose, a fervor that contrasted starkly with his introspective lethargy. As she leaned against the gnarled old tree beside him, her shoulder pressed against his arm. Her right foot started to tap a restless rhythm on the moss-covered roots, each beat a testament to the agitation that seemed to radiate from her very core. "Can you feel the fetid miasma that hangs over this place?"  she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper but charged with intensity. "The Maker recoils in disgust as He gazes upon it."

    He glanced at her, unable to see her eyes beneath the mask she wore, yet he was certain of the disdain that burned there, searing in its intensity. Standing beside her, he keenly sensed the raw, unfiltered passion that drove her forward. It stirred his apprehension, his reluctance to allow her to confront Samson resurfacing. He turned to the mage, placing a firm hand upon her shoulder. "Miriam, remember our discussions. You will reserve the mark¡¯s powers for dire necessity, only when all other options have been exhausted."

    Her response was laden with a blend of resolve and acceptance. "I know what we agreed upon. However, it is ultimately within the Maker''s providence to determine our path. I can merely supplicate that His will be done."

    Cullen¡¯s brow furrowed, shadows of doubt crossing his face. Before he could voice his concerns, the Chevalier leading Gaspard¡¯s forces strode forward, the gold of his armor catching the flickering firelight. ¡°Good evening, Commander, Inquisitor,¡± he greeted them with a formal yet warm tone. Then, turning to the mage, he added, ¡°Your Worship, the soldiers of His Majesty seek the blessing from the Sword of the Faithful. Tomorrow we march into a heretical temple, and they need the assurance that His light will protect them from its dark influence.¡± Watching Miriam¡¯s face brighten at the opportunity, Cullen inwardly cursed. Though absent, Gaspard knew precisely how to manipulate her emotions through his people. Ever since the emerald veins had marred her form, the mage had been shunned, no longer approached for blessings. Of course, she would be delighted by the offer.

    ¡°This is wonderful news!¡± Miriam exclaimed, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. ¡°Please, take me to them.¡± She turned her attention back to Cullen, gently clasping the hand that had been resting on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Commander. Everything will be as He wills it. I must go now¡ªthe faithful are waiting for me.¡±

    He reluctantly withdrew his hand. "Go tend to this, but afterward, I strongly advise you to rest. Tomorrow promises to be a challenging day."

    ¡°I shall,¡± she replied with a smile before addressing the Chevalier. ¡°Lead the way.¡±

    The Orlesian gave Cullen a curt nod, then gestured for Miriam to follow him. ¡°Please, Your Worship.¡±

    Cullen watched them walk away for a moment and let out a sigh before heading off to discuss some of the details of tomorrow''s operation with the representatives of the Order. The respite was over; he still had work to do.

    In the early hours of the morning, when the sky was still adorned with stars, Cassandra and her team¡ªMiriam, Sebastian, Fenris, and a dozen of the Inquisition''s forces¡ªdeparted from the camp to infiltrate the Shrine of Dumat through one of its secret passages, the entrance concealed deep within the forest. According to his calculations, they would reach the heart of the shrine at the break of dawn.

    Meanwhile, Cullen stood at the forefront of a formidable force¡ªa coalition of the Inquisition, the Templar Order, and the Emperor''s soldiers. The combined might of these factions was ready to strike, poised for the precise moment when the shadows that still clung to the earth would be pierced by the first sunlight.

    As the minutes ticked by, the tension among the troops was palpable. Soldiers exchanged expectant glances, their breaths visible in the cold air. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant cry of a bird. Cullen''s eyes remained fixed on the sky. He waited for the moment.

    Finally, a subtle ray of light flickered through the dark¡ªif everything went according to plan, Cassandra¡¯s team had reached their position. He raised his sword high, signaling for the combined forces to advance. With a thunderous roar, the army surged forward, their footsteps pounding against the forest floor as they charged toward the Shrine of Dumat.

    The advantage of the shrine''s position became apparent as the Red Templars and corrupted mages unleashed a barrage of spells and arrows from their vantage points. The air crackled with arcane energy as fireballs erupted and lightning arced through the sky, threatening to decimate the advancing forces.

    In the midst of chaos, Cullen''s voice rang out above the din, issuing orders with unwavering authority. The Templars under his command employed their abilities, with Spell Purge dispelling the hostile magic of the incoming onslaught while they advanced steadily toward the enemy lines.

    The rest of the forces engaged the Red Templars head-on. Their blades flashed in the dim light as they clashed in a brutal melee. The air swiftly turned thick with the scent of blood and sweat, the cacophony of battle drowning out all other noise. Combatants fought tooth and nail for victory, each clash of steel echoing the desperate struggle for supremacy on the battlefield.

    While the fighting raged on, Cullen''s own desire to join the fray burned within him. Yet, with each pang of longing, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on his duties as a leader. His arm, which was barely holding the weight of the shield, served as a constant reminder that he could not afford to indulge in the luxury of combat.

    Instead, he channeled his energy into coordinating the efforts of his troops, rallying them with words of encouragement and strategic guidance. Suddenly, as he surveyed the battlefield, he noted all the Templars halt in their tracks, their movements frozen in mid-stride for a split second. He knew the significance of this pause¡ªsomething had caught their attention.

    A seasoned Knight with a scarred face, charged with leading the Templars, rushed to Cullen''s side. His breath came in ragged gasps, evidence of the intensity of the battle. "Commander," he gasped, his voice laced with urgency, "an overwhelming surge of magical energy just emanated from the shrine. It''s unmistakable. It''s the Herald of Andraste."

    Cullen''s heart sank at the news. Miriam... Pushing his emotions aside, he fixed the Templar with an intense gaze. "Order your men to fight harder. We must reach Samson as swiftly as possible. The Inquisitor needs our aid!"

 The dawn is crimson red

    As they stepped into the secret passage, the entrance concealed, hidden behind a thick curtain of vines and moss-covered stones well within the forest, Miriam took a deep breath, feeling the cold, damp air of the shrine fill her lungs. Each inhalation was a reminder of the spiritual rot that festered in this place, and she couldn''t help but feel tainted by association, as though simply being here was enough to stain her soul. The narrow corridor they emerged into was barely wide enough for two people abreast, the walls slick with moisture and lined with Tevinter carvings and faded dragon symbols that seemed to watch their every move. The foulness of it all made her stomach churn, a wave of nausea rising as she fought the urge to retch. She would burn this place to the ground, purify it with her flames as soon as their mission was accomplished.

    The dim light from the torches held by the Inquisition soldiers cast long, flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls. The uneven floor forced them to tread carefully, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly in the confined space. Beside her, Cassandra''s armor clinked softly while she held her sword at the ready, while Fenris moved with a predator¡¯s grace, his eyes scanning for danger. Sebastian brought up the rear, his face a mask of steely resolve. According to the plan, they had to reach a small storage room adjacent to the main hall, where Samson took residence. From there, they would ambush him, swiftly taking out the General. Cullen, leading the united forces, would strike their enemies from the outside. The timing had to be perfect; any misstep could spell disaster for them all.

    As if in response to her thoughts, the mark on her hand throbbed with power, begging to be released. Each pulse sent a jolt up her arm, making her fingers twitch. She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the crimson blood that started to seep from the glowing wound. Worse than the pain, though, were the whispers of the Despair demons, which, sensing the fragility of the Veil in this accursed place, seized the opportunity to torment her.

    "You will fail. You will fall," one of them hissed, the sound like nails on glass making her skin crawl.

    "Unworthy pretender, false Herald!" another screamed, its voice dripping with contempt emerging from the shadows behind her. Miriam tensed, feeling the weight of the accusation bearing down upon her.

    "The Nightmare sends his regards," a third voice, more insidious and venomous, whispered right into her ear. "Lysette''s spirit was so corrupted by jealousy that she turned into an Envy demon." Miriam''s hands instinctively shot to her ears as she stumbled slightly. The words struck her like a physical blow, each syllable a dagger to her soul. That was a wicked lie. It must be! Her guard, despite her sins, was surely by the Maker''s side, basking in His light.

    Cassandra seemed to notice her turmoil and moved closer, her face etched with concern. "Inquisitor, are you all right?" Her penetrating golden eyes, full of anxious scrutiny, fell upon Miriam''s palm, now drenched in crimson. "Your mark," she uttered with a mix of urgency and compassion. "Allow me to quell the magic."

    The mage shook her head, swallowing hard as she fought to regain her focus. "No," she replied, her voice strained but resolute. "I might need to use it at any moment now. We don''t know what lies ahead. I can endure this."

    Fenris cast a wary glance her way, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon the blood. "The mingling of blood and magic unsettles me, it isn¡¯t right," he murmured as if to himself, yet loud enough for everyone to catch his words.

    "What are you insinuating?" Miriam retorted, her already strained nerves snapping, making her emerald veins pulse with a bright glow. "This mark is a divine gift from Andraste, and the blood is a sacred sign from the Maker!"

    Sebastian, who had been a quiet observer until now, suddenly surged forward, placing a firm hand on the elf''s shoulder. "Please, Your Worship," he began, his voice a calming beacon amid the storm, as he deftly guided Fenris to walk behind him, positioning himself as a protective barrier between the warrior and the mage. "Pardon my friend, for you know he hails from Tevinter, where he endured unspeakable torment at the hands of the maleficar. His past distorts his perception."

    Miriam nodded reluctantly, her fury ebbing slightly in response to the sincere apology. "Very well," she uttered, her voice tempered with lingering frustration. "He is forgiven, but I expect such insinuations will never occur again."

    Brother Sebastian inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, and they resumed their descent into the heart of the heretic shrine in tense silence.

    As they moved closer to the hidden entrance to the small chamber adjacent to the main hall where Samson was rumored to reside, the air grew increasingly hot and oppressive. Red crystals began to emerge from the walls, their crimson glow gradually eclipsing the flickering light of the torches, which were soon deemed unnecessary. The mage could feel perspiration gathering behind her metal mask, trickling uncomfortably down her face.

    Cassandra, her countenance etched with concern, led the way with deliberate steps. Her hand rested reassuringly on the hilt of her sword, a silent testament to her preparedness to confront whatever malevolence awaited them ahead.

    At last, they stood before a stone wall that appeared unremarkable in every respect, save for the drawing of a dragon upon it, its wings etched at a subtly different angle than the others they had encountered along the way.

    ¡°That¡¯s the place Maddox spoke of,¡± Cassandra announced. ¡°Inquisitor, he told us that casting a fire spell near it would activate the magical mechanism and reveal the secret door.¡±

    Miriam stepped forward, summoning the veilfire from her bleeding mark, her blue robes already stained with streaks of crimson. Yet, nothing happened. "I don¡¯t understand," she whispered, her voice tinged with doubt. "Was the Tranquil wrong?"

    The Seeker, tilting her head thoughtfully, observed the scene with a contemplative gaze. "Could it be that a common magical fire is required to activate it?"

    Miriam furrowed her brow; she hadn''t tried to summon her own flames since her early days in the Circle. "I''ll try..." she murmured, opening her palm in front of her. She summoned her mana and attempted to shape it into flames, just as Lydia had instructed her all those years ago. The sensation was uncomfortable, like trying to stretch a numb limb.

    Straining and with labored sounds escaping her lips, she managed to produce a small, flickering flame that danced erratically in her palm. With a sigh, she moved her hand closer to the drawing. As it approached the etched dragon, the monster''s lines began to glow brightly, and with a low, grinding rumble, the stone wall started to shift, ancient mechanisms creaking as they moved, revealing the hidden entrance with a slow, deliberate motion. The air thickened with more heat, and a strong, pungent odor wafted from the newly revealed room. Instead of the empty storeroom they had anticipated, they stood at the threshold of an impossibly vast chamber. The ceiling soared high above, lost in shadows, and the walls were lined with colossal lyrium crystals, jutting out at irregular angles, creating a surface of jagged, glowing spikes that illuminated the space with an eerie light.

    Hundreds of corrupted mages filled the chamber, their eyes glowing with an unnatural red light. Their faces contorted in visages of agony and derangement, their bodies bent and shaking as they intoned a guttural chant that reverberated through the room like the pulse of a malignant heart. The heretical symbols strewn across the floor glowed faintly in sync with its rhythm. In the center of the room, a massive altar rose from the ground, adorned with crumbling statues of dragons, their features worn smooth by time and stained with old blood.

    Miriam, along with the others, watched in shock as the mages turned in unison to face them. There was no surprise in their gazes. They had been expecting them.

    Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she observed Cassandra''s hand tightening on the hilt of her sword, her muscles coiling with readiness. Her own heart raced, and she instinctively began summoning protective barriers, her mana flowing smoothly as she recited familiar incantations. Fenris, his lyrium markings beginning to glow faintly, positioned himself to strike. Brother Sebastian aimed with his bow, his expression etched with grim determination.

    Then, in an instant, time lurched forward, accelerating with such ferocity that it left Miriam disoriented. The Inquisition forces surged from the narrow passage, their armored bodies clanging together as they stumbled and jostled for position. Shouts of alarm and determination filled the air, a cacophony almost drowned out by the collective roar of the corrupted mages, ¡°The new world! The new god! The red storm will rise!¡±

    Weapons were drawn, shields were raised, but the disarray was palpable. The Inquisition¡¯s formation broke like a wave against a jagged shore, their ranks struggling to coalesce in the face of the unexpected onslaught.

    Miriam¡¯s barrier shimmered into existence just as the first wave of fireballs reached them. The collision filled the room with deafening sounds and smoke, the fiery impact against the protective shield echoing like thunder. The air crackled with energy, and the heat was almost unbearable, but the barrier held firm, a glowing testament to the Inquisitor''s will and skill.

    "Hold the formation! Stand firm, shield to shield! " Cassandra shouted, her sword flashing as she sent the Wrath of Heaven into the cluster of enemies, taking out multiple mages at once.

    Miriam gritted her teeth, her concentration strained as she struggled to maintain the integrity of her spells against the assault. Beside her, Fenris wove through the melee with deadly efficiency. His great sword cleaved through corrupted flesh and bone, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. Behind him, Brother Sebastian released arrow after arrow, each finding its target amidst the chaotic fray.

    Inquisition soldiers, cloaked in shimmering protective magic, fought with desperate valor alongside their leaders as they edged closer to the altar at the chamber''s heart. Their clashes with the enemy were fierce, their resolve unyielding despite overwhelming odds. Yet with each passing moment, the number of soldiers dwindled. Not even the most fortified incantations could withstand the unrelenting onslaught of lightning bolts and shards of ice. The ebb of battle slowly but surely appeared inevitable, pushing harder against their fragile defenses.

    ¡°There is too many of them!¡± The Seeker''s voice pierced through the tumult, strained with urgency. ¡°Fall back! Retreat into the passage!¡±

    Amidst the swirling chaos, Miriam''s mind raced. They couldn''t give up¡ªnot now, not ever. She hesitated to unleash her flames, fearing it might compromise the barriers she was upholding, yet with each fallen soldier, her burden lightened¡ªa spell less to concentrate on. With only a handful of the Inquisition¡¯s men left standing, the power within her mark could finally be unleashed against the throng of corrupted mages. "Burn, vile creatures, burn!" she screamed as torrents of emerald flames erupted from her outstretched hands. The fires, twisting and dancing with an otherworldly fervor, wove through the chaotic battlefield, their tongues of flame licking hungrily at corrupted mages, heretical symbols, and the sinister altar alike.

    In mere moments, the cries of agony and defiance were overwhelmed by the roaring conflagration. The air grew thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh, mingled with the hiss of heretical symbols dissipating into the void. Through the haze of smoke, her companions watched with a mix of unease and awe as the last of the corrupted enchanters succumbed to the emerald flames and the remnants of the altar crumbled into ruin.

    Miriam stood amidst the smoldering aftermath, her chest heaving with exertion, rivulets of crimson falling from the mark on her arm. She licked her dry, parched lips, the motion slow and deliberate. Despite her exhaustion, the sight of the charred remains of the fallen enemies filled her with an almost sensual satisfaction, a thrill that coursed through her body and made her shiver. Each blackened corpse, each twisted and burned figure, was a testament to her power and His glory.

    "That was... a timely intervention," Cassandra finally breathed, her voice filled with relief.

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    The mage nodded proudly, but the moment of triumph was swiftly overshadowed by a sudden, searing pain that knifed through her abdomen. Clutching her stomach, she doubled over in agony, a strangled cry escaping her lips before she retched violently, blood and a foul-smelling, black liquid spilling onto the floor.

    The Seeker rushed to Miriam''s side, her face etched with concern. "Inquisitor, what''s happening? Are you injured?"

    She shook her head weakly, the pain still gripping her in relentless waves. "I... I don''t know," she managed to gasp out between breaths.

    The Right Hand''s eyes widened with alarm. "It must be the mark," she exclaimed urgently, her hand steadying Miriam''s trembling form. "Let me dispel its magic."

    Before the mage could respond, however, the iron door at the far end of the chamber burst open with a resounding crash. Red Templar Marksman surged through the opening, took aim, and released a barrage of arrows.

    Summoning every last remnant of mana still coursing through her, Miriam cast barriers around Cassandra, herself, Brother Sebastian, and Fenris. Her vision blurred from the effort, but the spell shimmered into existence, the protective wards glowing faintly as they took shape. Forgive me, she thought; unable to muster enough energy to shield the remaining soldiers. As the arrows flew, they struck the unprotected men with deadly precision; their bodies almost instantly transforming into grotesque versions of pincushions as they fell. The sight tore at her heart. I failed to protect them. The voice of Despair like a chilling wind brushed against her skin ¡°Pretender¡­¡± Still convulsing from the searing pain in her midriff, she reached for the lyrium potion at her waist and downed it in one swift motion. But almost immediately, her stomach rejected the elixir, and the blue liquid spilled onto the floor, wasted. Maker¡¯s breath! Now she had no way to replenish her powers.

    The Seeker seized Miriam¡¯s arm, her grip firm and resolute. "We must move, now!" she ordered, pulling her back toward the passage. Fenris and Brother Sebastian flanked them, covering their retreat. The ceaseless rain of arrows battered the weakening barriers, each impact echoing like a death knell.

    As they finally neared the narrow entrance the elf growled, his lyrium markings glowing with renewed intensity. "Once we are inside, go! I''ll hold them off as long as I can."

    "I won''t leave you!" Sebastian shouted, notching another arrow and firing into the advancing Marksman.

    "We have no choice!" Cassandra snapped, her voice cutting through the chaos. "The Inquisitor''s our prio--"

    Her words were cut short as the magical door to the passage suddenly began to close, its movement accelerated far beyond the leisurely pace of its opening. The Seeker''s eyes widened in alarm, realizing they were about to be sealed off from escape. Before she had a chance to react, the air around them darkened and distorted, and four Red Templar Shadows materialized in an instant. Their arms were grotesquely transformed into sharp shards of red lyrium, gleaming with a malevolent sheen.

    The first one lunged at Miriam, its jagged limb slicing through the damaged barrier. The crystal struck her temple, covered by the metal of the mask, and what should have been a piercing blow became a slashing one, the edge cutting through the skin of her forehead. Blood poured down the mage¡¯s face from the gush, the cracked mask clattering to the floor as the shock and pain shattered her concentration, causing the protective barriers she held to dissipate.

    Cassandra intercepted the next blow aimed at Miriam, her shield absorbing the impact with a resonant clang. Moving with fluid precision, she countered immediately, her sword slicing through the air with deadly intent. The Shadow, unprepared for the Right Hand¡¯s swift response, succumbed to the lethal sweep of her blade.

    Brother Sebastian, skilled as an archer but less so in close combat, faltered as the Red Knight targeting him closed the distance with swift, precise strikes. With a deft maneuver, the Knight sliced deep into Sebastian''s side, where his armor provided scant protection. Its sword dragged mercilessly across the Brother¡¯s stomach, leaving a gaping wound in its wake. With a sharp cry of pain, Sebastian collapsed, his bow slipping from his grasp as he instinctively clutched at his eviscerated abdomen. He crumpled to the stone floor, the agony of his injury etched on his face.

    "No!" Fenris roared, lunging at the enemy, his hand phasing effortlessly through the creature''s armor to crush its heart in swift retribution. Yet in the next heartbeat, he was ambushed from behind by another monstrous foe. Its sword-shaped hands impaled the elf''s shoulders, causing his limbs to instantly go limp and his sword to drop. Then the Red Knight planted his leg behind Fenris'' back, and with a powerful push, he forced the elf forward. With a painful growl, the warrior slipped from the sword-like appendages, blood spurting in all directions from his wounds as he tumbled a few meters across the ground.

    Meanwhile, Miriam swayed uncertainly, her head swimming from the blow to her temple and the screeches of the demons. ¡°You failed! FAILED!¡± Another wave of agony wracked her midriff, forcing her to collapse to the floor, her stomach convulsing as it emptied itself in another gruesome display of black and crimson. A sound akin to a rotten cabbage being kicked reached her ears, and she lifted her head just in time to see Cassandra''s blade buried in the head of a Templar Shadow, saving the elf that lay defenseless, his face twisted in pain and fury, from a deadly strike. But before the Seeker could draw breath, arrows rained down once again, three of them piercing her armor and finding their mark in her back.

    The Right Hand staggered, her movements unsteady from the injuries inflicted upon her. With a guttural growl, she wrenched her weapon free from the creature, its lifeless form collapsing to the stone floor in a heap. She pivoted swiftly, confronting the remaining Shadow Knight with a fierce determination etched upon her face. Yet before she could regain her footing, the Templar Marksman, swiftly trading their bows for short swords, finally closed in on her amid the chaotic melee. The clamor of battle surged around the Seeker, a whirlwind of clashing steel and shouts, and Miriam lost sight of her companion in the tumultuous fray.

    One of the Red Knights charged at the mage, his armored form a blur of crimson and steel. His hand was raised high, his sword poised to deliver a death blow. Calling upon the Maker, she reached deep within herself, straining to tap into any last reserve of mana or power in her mark. Yet she found only emptiness. Her strength was spent. All she could do was meet the Templar¡¯s gaze with defiance, her spirit unyielding even in the face of imminent peril. "Rot in the Void!" she spat, blood and a dark liquid oozing from her mouth as she uttered the curse.

    As the blade swiftly descended toward her head, a low, grumbling voice from behind the Knight commanded, "Stop." The word, though quietly spoken, carried an undeniable authority. Instantly, all the Red Knights halted, freezing in place as if bound by an invisible force. The Knight before Miriam removed his sword and turned his attention to the source of the voice behind him. ¡°I want them alive. Their bodies will make a fine garden for red lyrium. It would be a fitting ''screw you'' to the Chantry and its faithful to see the Herald of Andraste, the Right Hand of the Divine, and esteemed Brother Sebastian used in such a manner."

    Emerging from the throng of Red Templars, a pale man with thinning dark hair and bloodshot eyes stepped forward to stand before Miriam. His presence was commanding, his armor distinct from the others¡ªa red lyrium crystal protruding from his chest, pulsing rhythmically. His eyes locked onto the mages, a twisted smile curling his lips as he surveyed the scene before him. "How do you like the rearrangements I''ve made inside my humble abode, Herald?" he questioned, his tone dripping with mocked reverence. "I was expecting your eventual arrival, you know. Ensuring that no matter which way you bastards emerged, I could give you a proper welcome." A short burst of laughter boomed through the chamber. "Cullen, that holier-than-thou prick," he continued. "Did he really think I wouldn''t account for the fact that you captured Maddox, who knew the shrine''s layout?" The man''s demeanor exuded a mix of smug satisfaction and calculated menace, his eyes gleaming with a predatory gleam as he regarded Miriam with unsettling intensity.

    Meanwhile, the mage paid him little heed, her mind filled with haunting whispers of the demons that reverberated through her consciousness like a relentless drumbeat, "They are all dead¡­ dead¡­ dead¡­" Her heart pounding, she frantically scanned the surroundings in search of her companions. A surge of relief flooded through her as she caught sight of all three, encircled by the Red Knights, grievously wounded and unconscious yet still holding onto life. Their pallid faces and shallow, laborious breaths spoke of a dire struggle against impending oblivion. The demons lied, but time was of the essence; without swift intervention, their survival hung by a thread.

    "General Samson, what of the elf?" came a question from one of the Red Templars who stood over Fenris, his form sprawled in a pool of his own blood.

    Miriam''s mind snapped to attention at the revelation, and her senses heightened as she focused on the figure of the General. So, this was the monster who corrupted the Knights of Andraste, the wicked heretic they had come to confront. Her jaw clenched with steely resolve, her mind made up that she would see him dead, even if it meant it would be the last thing she ever did.

    Samson''s smile faded, replaced by an almost sympathetic expression tinged with contempt. He stepped closer to the fallen warrior and, with the tip of his boot, lifted Fenris''s head. "Stupid bastard," he muttered darkly. "I knew him from my time in Kirkwall. He escaped slavery in Tevinter only to become a Chantry Brother''s lapdog. If he''s such a fool, let him share Sebastian''s fate."

    Samson gestured with a wide arc, encompassing the corrupted Knights standing around him, their eyes glowing with the same red lyrium-fueled madness pulsing from his chest. "But we are not as delusional as this elf," he continued proudly, his hand clenching into a fist. "We didn''t exchange one master for another. Corypheus will allow us to take control of our own destiny and forge our own path, with red lyrium in abundance for all of us. And those who dare stand in our way," he sneered, eyes flickering with unsettling fervor, "will fall."

    Barely listening to Samson''s tirade, Miriam''s mind raced, searching for any advantage she could seize. Her eyes scanned the smoke-filled chamber, searching for a weapon, a strategy, or anything else that could give her the chance to kill the wretched man.

    Then her gaze fell on it¡ªa sharp shard of red lyrium, so very close, probably splintered from the Red Templar Shadow''s sword arms during his earlier melee with Cassandra. It gleamed faintly amidst the ash and blood that coated the floor, a small yet lethal fragment amid the chaos. It was just the right size to fit discreetly into her hand, its edges razor-sharp and capable of slicing through flesh or finding its mark in an enemy''s vulnerable point¡ªbe it throat or eye socket.

    Samson''s voice droned on, oblivious to Miriam''s silent plotting. She edged closer to the shard, her movements cautious and deliberate. The Red Templars, enthralled by their General''s words, remained unaware of her subtle approach. With precise timing, Miriam seized the shard swiftly, her fingers closing around its jagged edge. The red lyrium felt hot and foul in her hand, yet despite her aversion to its corrupted essence, her flesh seemed to absorb the energy, revitalizing her with an unnerving strength. She could feel the vile power coursing through her veins¡ªa sickly warmth that both repulsed and invigorated. Suddenly, the screams of Despair demons echoing in her mind were drowned out by the deafening roars of Rage. Anger, white-hot and all-consuming, surged within her like a rising tide, blinding and overwhelming. Her breath quickened, her vision narrowed, and every beat of her heart thundered with the raw, primal fury that now controlled her. "Shut your foul mouth, Samson, and prepare yourself for retribution!"

    The General turned to face Miriam with an amused smirk, stepping casually away from Fenris. Closing the distance between them, he reached out, intending to seize her throat. His gloved hand, however, slipped on the mixture of blood and black, viscous liquid that coated her skin, causing him to recoil in disgust. Swiftly adjusting, he grabbed the mage by her robes instead, lifting her from the floor to bring his face closer to hers. "Oh, and what could you possibly do?" he taunted, his voice laden with mockery as he tightened his grip. "Look at yourself, pretender. Stripped of your powers, you''re nothing but a rotting half-abomination!"

    "DIE!" she bellowed, and with a swift, powerful motion fueled by fury and red lyrium, she plunged the shard into Samson''s eye. The crystal¡¯s edge found its mark, burying deep into his flesh with a sickening crunch.

    Samson recoiled momentarily from the shock, but the gruesome wound seemed to faze him little. With a snarling grimace, he began to pummel Miriam with his free hand, each blow of the mailed glove landing with a brutal force that drove the breath from her lungs and filled her vision with stars. She fought to summon the flames once again, but the power in the small shard was pitifully insufficient to replenish her mark.

    When she was reduced to a half-conscious, bloody mess, Samson finally released her, letting her crumple to the floor like a rag doll. He reached up with a twisted grin and yanked the lyrium shard from his eye socket with a squelch, blood and viscous fluids streaming down his face. "Pathetic," he sneered. "You can do nothing against the power the Elder One has granted me." As he spoke, the large red crystal on his chest began to glow, casting a blood-red light over his surroundings. The flesh on his face, grotesquely torn, started to knit itself back together, the wound closing with an unnatural speed as if it had never existed.

    Miriam, struggling to keep her head up, watched it all unfold through her rapidly swelling eyes. Though her body was battered, rage still vibrated through her being. Spitting a broken tooth out of her mouth, she mumbled through split lips, each disjointed word a jab of pain. "Maker ¡­ my witness ¡­ you will die." She outstretched her bloody, trembling hand toward him, repeating like a mantra, "Die, die, die!"

    Samson sneered down at the mage, his expression twisted with disdain as he kicked her hand away. "Your feeble threats mean nothing," he scoffed, grinding his heel into the ground beside her. Towering over Miriam, he raised the hand that held the red lyrium shard and squeezed it in his fist, crushing and grinding the crystalline substance into a fine dust that scattered into the air.

    The mage winced in pain and frustration, her body shaking with the effort to rise when a Tranquil entered the chamber with an unsettling calmness, his expression devoid of emotion. "General Samson," he announced loudly but impassively, "the Inquisition and their allies, led by Commander Cullen, have breached our defenses and have entered the shrine. They will be upon us shortly."

    A slow, calculating smile crept across Samson''s face, a blend of anticipation and excitement glinting in his eyes. He turned to his Red Templars. "Knights, let us show these Chantry dogs what true strength is!" The corrupted Templars straightened, their eyes glowing with the madness of red lyrium. Samson¡¯s words ignited a fervor among them, a collective anticipation of the battle to come. The General¡¯s smile widened as he turned his attention back to Miriam. "Prepare yourself, pretender. You and your precious Commander are about to witness the true power of Corypheus¡¯ chosen."

 The abyss will gaze back into you

    The corridors of the Shrine of Dumat sprawled before the united forces, wide and winding, their emptiness punctuated by the red lyrium crystals jutting from the walls like malignant growths. Occasionally, a dragon carved into the ceiling loomed overhead, watching with stone eyes. The maps Leliana had provided were of little help; the layout was only vaguely similar as if the shrine had been recently and hastily rearranged. Some walls bore the marks of new construction, while others stood ancient and worn, the juxtaposition adding to the disorienting atmosphere of the place.

    Many brave men and women had perished to get them inside as quickly as they had, and Cullen dared hope that the initial emptiness of the shrine would herald less fierce fighting. But his optimism was quickly dashed as Red Templar Marksmen and corrupted mages flooded the corridor, charging at them with vengeance. The Commander gripped his sword tighter, his left arm barely able to hold his shield aloft, the old injury from his battle with the blighted dragon was a constant reminder of his limitations. "Form up!" he bellowed. The Templars and Chevaliers swiftly responded, their shields locking together to form a wall. Arrows whistled through the air, thudding into the shields as the Inquisition forces advanced steadily.

    When the barrage of arrows ceased, it was instantly replaced by a torrent of lightning bolts, fireballs, and ice shards surging toward them. The shield wall, though less effective against offensive magic, still provided a degree of protection. Sensing this, the corrupted enchanters adopted a different approach. Runes began to appear beneath the soldiers, forming into Ice Mines and Searing Glyphs.

    Screams echoed through the ranks as ice spikes and jets of flame erupted from the floor, impaling and burning his men before they could react. Yet, the Inquisition soldiers, seasoned in combating arcane threats, held their formation. They used the brief pauses between spells to fire their own arrows with deadly precision, taking down a dozen corrupted enchanters whose barriers were not strong enough to withstand the attack.

    Having prevailed through their defenders, they finally closed in on the enemy.  "Knights, silence the mages. Chevaliers, handle the Red Templars," Cullen commanded, his voice as unyielding as steel. The Emperor''s warriors surged ahead, their swords and hammers ringing out as they clashed with the red-armored foes. The Templars focused on annulling the magic, their abilities a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. ¡°Inquisition, now!¡± Cullen gestured with his sword toward the enchanters. The soldiers moved with grim determination, their training and discipline shining through. They cut down Samson¡¯s corrupted mages, now defenseless, as the Knights severed their connection to the Fade.

    The fierce fighting continued, and Cullen aided where he could, finishing off wounded enemies with precise, efficient strikes. Each engagement was a challenge, especially after several heavy blows to his shield sent spasms of pain shooting through his left arm.

    When this wave of attackers finally ceased, a moment of uneasy peace settled in the corridor. They stood ankle-deep in gore, the stone floor slick with blood and strewn with the remains of the fallen, the walls scorched and gouged by the destructive spells that had been hurled at them.

    Cullen¡¯s breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation mingling with the acrid scent of blood and smoke. His muscles burned with exertion, and sweat poured down his face, mingling with the dirt and grime of battle. His thoughts flickered toward Miriam. She had used the power of the mark, a move they had agreed was only for the direst of situations. His heart clenched. His betrothed was fearless and determined, but also reckless when her fervor to fight heretics took hold. She might have ignored their agreement, driven by her unyielding resolve. Or worse, the rumors about Samson''s indestructible armor could be true. Either way, it was a dire situation, which meant there was no time to rest, no time to falter. He straightened, rallying his remaining strength. "We push on," he announced, his voice hoarse but resolute. "The inner sanctum is near. Prepare yourselves." The soldiers, though weary and bloodied, responded with determined nods.

    The Commander led his men through the vast, labyrinthine corridors of the shrine, their expansive breadth almost dizzying, guided not by the useless maps Leliana had provided but by his own instincts and the intensifying oppressive presence of red lyrium. Each step they took was met with increasing suffocation from the heat and the ever louder hum of the crimson crystals.

    The corridor they were marching through ended abruptly, leading into a wide bend. As they approached, a sudden, guttural roar reverberated ahead, instantly seizing everyone''s attention. From around the corner dashed a massive figure, both humanoid and monstrous¡ªthe Behemoth. Though smaller than the one encountered in the mines, its formidable presence threatened to further dwindle their already depleted ranks.

    Before they could prepare, the monster was upon them, its colossal left fist crashing down on the Templars at the vanguard, sending Knights sprawling. The swords and hammers of the Chevaliers and the Inquisition''s men struck the Behemoth''s red lyrium armor, but their blows barely made a dent. With each swing, the creature retaliated with overwhelming force, shattering shields into splinters and rending armor into scrap metal. "Hold the line!" Cullen''s voice thundered over the chaos. Nearby, a Chevalier swiftly raised his shield, deflecting a bloodied piece of breastplate hurtling toward them like a deadly projectile. His men, shaken but resolute, tightened their formation, their movements precise and calculated amidst the frenzied melee.

    Cullen''s eyes darted around the space, searching desperately for anything that could give them an edge. And then, by the grace of the Maker, he noticed it¡ªthe Ice Mine on the floor behind them, miraculously untouched thus far. Images of soldiers impaled on ice flashed through his mind, and a plan began to take shape. "Lead it this way!" he shouted, his voice carrying authority as he pointed toward the barely visible runes on the floor. The soldiers hesitated briefly, uncertainty flickering in their eyes, but understanding dawned swiftly. They turned and began a calculated retreat, their feigned withdrawal designed to draw the Behemoth into the trap.

    The monstrous creature charged after them like a raging bronto, its fury blinding it to the impending danger. The soldiers maneuvered deftly, circling the Ice Mine while maintaining a distance. At the critical moment, as the Behemoth closed in, the men at the rear veered aside, leaving the creature no time to halt its momentum, and the Behemoth stepped squarely into the rune-marked area.

    The runes on the floor ignited with a brilliant blue light, and spikes of pure ice erupted from the ground with lethal precision. The Behemoth bellowed in agony, its lyrium-infused body pierced and immobilized by the chilling magic. Its colossal form thrashed violently, but the trap held fast, gradually sapping its strength. "Now! Strike with all you have!" Cullen''s voice boomed, commanding his troops to action. The soldiers rallied, attacking the monster with renewed vigor. With each strike, the Behemoth weakened, its red lyrium armor cracking under the combined assault of magic and steel. Cullen watched, his heart pounding, as, with a final, shuddering roar, the monster collapsed.

    As the din of battle faded, the only sound being the moans of wounded soldiers echoing through the corridor. Cullen released a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he¡¯d been holding, his shoulders sagging momentarily with relief. But there was no time for celebration, no luxury in victory. The mission was far from complete.

    With healing potions hastily distributed among those who could continue, they pressed forward, their footsteps reverberating through the tense stillness of the corridor. Soon, the path opened into a medium-sized chamber, where every inch of wall and ceiling not ensnared by pulsating red lyrium was adorned with intricate carvings depicting dragons and inscriptions in an unfamiliar language.

    At the chamber''s far end stood a heavy iron door, its presence imposing and ominous. Cullen could feel the concentrated dark power emanating from beyond it¡ªan ominous aura of crimson crystals that seemed to seep into his very soul, sending a shiver down his spine. Miriam¡ªshe had to be alive. They had to stop Samson and put an end to this nightmare. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for what lay ahead. "We''re almost there," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.

    Just as they reached the center of the chamber, the shadows around them seemed to writhe and twist, coalescing into dark, menacing forms. The air itself seemed to distort as figures emerged¡ªTemplar Shadows, clad in tattered remnants of their once-proud armor, their bodies elongated and limbs adorned with jagged red lyrium crystals. "Close ranks," Cullen shouted. "Defensive formation!" The chamber echoed with the shuffle of feet and the clink of armor as the soldiers prepared for the impending onslaught.

    The monsters circled them for a tense moment, their movements sleek and predatory, before launching into an assault that seemed almost supernatural in its speed. Their sword-arms cut through the air with deadly precision, each strike aimed with the intent to maim or kill.

    To Cullen''s left, a Chevalier was skewered by a crimson blade, his cry abruptly silenced as he fell to the ground. The Inquisition soldier beside him reacted swiftly, her sword swinging in a powerful arc that cleaved through the Shadow''s head with devastating force. The creature''s form staggered, then joined the bodies that had already started to litter the floor.

    ¡°Defensive formation!" Cullen roared once again, trying to keep his forces from breaking. The Templar beside him was caught off guard, a crimson blade slicing across his neck with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering Cullen''s face with warm, sticky droplets. The Knight clutched at his throat, eyes wide with shock and agony, before collapsing to his knees. Reacting swiftly, the Commander surged forward, his heart pounding in time with the chaotic symphony of battle. His shield, bearing the scars of previous skirmishes, rose to intercept the second, devastating blow aimed at the fallen Knight. The impact resonated like a thunderclap, the force behind it was staggering. Pain exploded through Cullen''s arm, a fiery lance that sent tremors down to his very bones. His grip faltered, and the shield, battered and dented, slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. Undeterred, Cullen managed a swift counter-attack, driving his sword upwards to spear the approaching Shadow through its chin. Then, with a powerful kick of his leg, he sent the creature sprawling backward. "Get him a healing potion!" he commanded, his tone urgent as he gestured towards the fallen Knight. A nearby soldier nodded, reaching for his pouch, only to discover it empty.

    ¡°Maker¡¯s breath,¡± the man murmured, his expression desperate, as he turned to his Commander. Cullen grimaced, attempting to move his left hand to reach for the potion pouch at his belt, but it remained lifelessly hanging at his side, unresponsive to his commands. Frustration welled up within him as he cursed under his breath, gesturing to the soldier to retrieve the potion himself.

    The soldier nodded briskly and swiftly retrieved the flask from Cullen''s belt and administered it to the injured Knight, his movements efficient and practiced.

    Now only one healing potion remained in his pouch.

    The Commander''s mind was a tempest, swirling with the weight of their predicament. His men and their resources were dwindling, consumed voraciously by the relentless battle. His left arm remained useless at his side, the searing pain of moments before now supplanted by a cold, numbing tingling. He had no further time to dwell on it all, however, as the battle continued in a swirl of movement and blood. A Chevalier to his right, his armor stained with the blood of his fallen comrades, lunged at a Shadow, his sword piercing the creature''s chest. The monster let out an inhuman shriek and crumpled to the floor. The Chevalier turned, only to be impaled by another monster from behind, his lifeblood pooling around him.

    "Rotate positions!" Cullen shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony of battle like a clarion call. "Pair off and defend each other''s flanks!" The soldiers responded quickly, forming pairs and covering each other''s weak points. The Shadows'' attacks slowed, their surprise advantage diminished by the coordinated defense. The Commander watched as his forces adapted, their movements becoming more fluid, their strikes more precise. "Focus on their limbs! Sever their sword-arms!" One of the Shadows lunged at Cullen, its sword-arm aimed at his chest. With his shield gone and his left hand limp, he raised his sword to parry the blow. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed. The Templar beside him saw the opening and struck from the side, severing the monster''s arm. The creature let out an inhuman shriek before Cullen silenced it, slicing its head from its shoulders in one swift motion.

    As the battle raged on, the united forces held their ground, their strategic fighting technique turning the tide. One by one, the corrupted creatures fell, their crimson forms littering the floor until, at last, the final abomination collapsed.

    Cullen looked around at the remnants of his forces. Many had fallen, their bodies strewn amidst the shattered remains of the Shadows. But those who still stood had eyes that reflected the same grim determination that burned within him. "Secure the area," he commanded, his voice strained and worn as he sheathed his sword and tucked his left arm into his coat like a sling. "We must regroup before we breach the do--"

    His words were abruptly silenced by the creak and groan of the iron hinges turning. In an instant, his sword was back in his hand, ready.  The doors swung open slowly before them. From within, a noxious wave of air assailed them, the scent of blood, decay, and charred flesh so potent that it made his eyes water. "Forward with steady resolve," he murmured to his men. "We''ve overcome greater challenges. This is no different."

    As the soldiers regrouped, they made their way cautiously into the chamber. Passing the threshold revealed its contents in all their horror. At its far end, Red Templar Marksmen stood poised with bows drawn, their distorted faces illuminated by the flickering light of red lyrium crystals that covered the walls. They were surrounded by the aftermath of carnage: ash and blood smeared across the floor, bodies of their corrupted fallen comrades piled grotesquely in a corner¡ªsome charred beyond recognition, others with limbs gruesomely severed. His heart sank at the sight of Cassandra, Fenris, and Brother Sebastian lying unconscious near that gory pile. They were gravely wounded; their breaths shallow and labored.

    Before the Marksmen, standing tall with a smug smile, was Samson, instantly recognizable to Cullen despite the time that had transpired since they last saw each other. In his chokehold, tightly pressed against his side, was Miriam, her face contorted in a visage of wild, animalistic rage. A deep gash marred her forehead, her right eye swollen shut. Her feet dangled barely above the ground, her hands clawing desperately at Samson''s arm, which was clamped around her neck like a vise. Blood and a dark, viscous liquid mingled, trickling from the corners of her mouth and staining her torn robes. She seemed oblivious to their arrival, too engrossed in her desperate struggle for survival.

    A surge of fury and determination engulfed Cullen as he took in the scene. Every instinct screamed for action, yet he knew any hasty move could seal both theirs and Miriam¡¯s fate. His jaw clenched, his mind racing with plans and prayers to the Maker for a way to turn this grim tableau in their favor.

    Samson''s pallid, bloodshot gaze swept over the united forces, a dismal panorama of dwindling numbers and wearied countenances. Then his eyes, heavy with a somber, almost morbid curiosity, fixed on Cullen, noting with satisfaction that the Commander''s left hand was tucked into his coat, bereft of its customary shield. A crooked smile slithered across the General''s face, widening as if in mockery of their shared history. "Cullen, it''s been a long while," he murmured, his voice laced with a dry, mirthless chuckle. "The last time our paths crossed, you carried yourself with such insufferable arrogance. And now, look at you! Weak, pathetic. It defies belief that once I was compelled to grovel at your feet."

    He was obviously relishing the opportunity to confront Cullen under these dire circumstances. The bitterness was palpable, and the Commander, with sudden, illuminating clarity, realized he could exploit it. Cunning and dirty tactics¡ªthe very methods of the Spymaster he so despised¡ªwould be his way out. Winning in a fair fight was a hopeless dream when Miriam and his comrades were held hostage, their lives hanging by the thread of the archers'' arrows. Steeling himself, he met the General¡¯s gaze squarely. "Release the Inquisitor and her companions, and face me like a man, Samson. I will show you who is truly weak and pathetic here."

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    The General laughed, a cold, hollow sound that echoed through the chamber. "Broken, desperate, and outmatched, yet as high and mighty as ever. Very well, then. Let''s make this interesting. A duel, just you and me. To the death."

    Cullen felt a grim satisfaction welling up within him. He knew he stood no chance against the lyrium-infused man, especially in his current state. But victory was not his aim; he sought to manipulate the situation, to force Samson to release Miriam and create an opportunity for his soldiers to gain a more advantageous position on the battlefield. "I accept your challenge," he declared, his voice imbued with a calm that belied the storm within. Turning to face his comrades, he saw confusion and doubt in their eyes, yet he held their gaze with fierce determination; he needed to convey his plan without arousing Samson¡¯s suspicion. Drawing a deep breath, he began to speak, his voice carrying a resolute authority. "Soldiers, we stand on the precipice of a decisive moment. In this chamber, our fates will be sealed. But remember, we have faced greater odds before, and emerged victorious through our unity and strategy." He paused, ensuring his words sank in. The soldiers'' eyes began to reflect a glimmer of understanding, though their expressions remained guarded. "Samson," he continued, addressing his enemy but still speaking to his men, "Let us fight not just with our arms, but with our wits and our spirit." Turning back to his troops, he locked eyes with the leaders of the Templars and Chevaliers, hoping they would grasp his hidden meaning. The men nodded subtly, their postures shifting almost imperceptibly as they readied themselves.

    The General rolled his eyes. ¡°Enough of the chatter. Let¡¯s get to it.¡± With casual cruelty, he dropped Miriam to the ground. She hit the dirty floor hard, gasping for breath, her crimson eye, the one still visible, wide and wild. Her gaze fixed on Cullen, but it seemed as though she looked through him, her mind clouded with pain and anger.

    Cullen pressed his lips, firming his grip on his sword, feeling the familiar weight in his hand as he made his way to Samson. Once he was close enough, the Red Templars and Marksmen moved with military precision, forming a tight circle around the two men, creating an impromptu arena. The tension was palpable, the anticipation crackling in the air.

    The General stepped forward, his weapon reflecting the light of a red lyrium crystal pulsing on his chest. "Prepare to be humiliated. This will be over quickly."

    The Commander raised his sword. "We''ll see about that."

    The duel commenced with a clash of steel that reverberated through the chamber, each strike a testament to the intensity of their conflict. Cullen moved with agility, his blade meeting Samson''s with precision, born of years of training. Yet, despite his skill, he knew his true battle lay beyond the arena. As they circled each other, exchanging blows, his mind was sharp with calculation. His gaze flickered subtly, assessing the movements of his soldiers around the periphery of the chamber. The Red Templars, fixated on the duel unfolding before them, were oblivious to the strategic rearrangement happening under their noses.

    Cullen feigned retreat, drawing Samson deeper into the dance of combat. He needed to prolong the fight, to give his soldiers the time they needed to gain a tactical advantage. Every extra second counted.

    Samson pressed his advantage with relentless ferocity. His strikes came faster and harder, testing Cullen''s defenses. In a momentary lapse of concentration, the Commander miscalculated, his guard faltering just enough. With a breathy chuckle, Samson seized the opportunity. His blade sliced through the air, catching Cullen off-guard. The sharpened edge met flesh, carving a deep, searing path across his left eye.

    All went black for a moment, pain exploding like fire as Cullen staggered backward, fighting his instinct to press his functioning hand to the wound. Blood poured down his cheek, the world spinning in disorienting chaos as he fought to maintain his balance and stay on his feet amidst the agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

    "You are no match for me, Chantry dog!" the General announced, his voice dripping with disdain.

    Cullen gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the pain. ¡°You''re right," he said, his voice strained yet unwavering. His vision was slowly returning through his one remaining eye. "I am no match for you."

    Samson sneered, raising his weapon for another strike. "Finally, something we agree on."

    "But there''s one thing you forgot," the Commander continued, narrowly avoiding the hit. "I''m not alone."

    At that moment, the united forces, who had been quietly positioning themselves around the chamber, attacked. The sudden assault caught the General''s forces off guard, breaking their formation and creating chaos.

    "You cheating bastards, do you think this will save you?" Samson spat, his voice ringing with venomous rage. "I''ll kill you all!"

    The Chevalier¡¯s hammer swung with brutal force, crashing against Samson''s skull and sending him sprawling to the ground. Cullen didn''t linger to see the outcome; his attention was solely on Miriam. Sprinting through the chaos, his heart pounded with urgency as he saw her struggling to rise amidst the battlefield''s debris.

    He reached her side in swift strides. Kneeling beside her, releasing his grip on his sword momentarily, he withdrew his last remaining healing potion. "Drink this," he urged, his voice edged with concern. The chaos of battle faded into the background, his focus entirely on the woman before him, her safety paramount above all else.

    ¡°Cullen?¡± Miriam¡¯s expression flickered with a glimmer of recognition as she finally focused her gaze. "No. You take it!"

    "But you''re badly injured too," he insisted, his worry for her eclipsing his own pain as he pressed the bottle to her split, bleeding lips.

    "I am not injured," she growled as her eye darted above him. "I am enraged!"

    With surprising strength, she pushed him to the side. Caught off guard by her reaction, he fell to the floor, barely noticing the sword slicing through the air just where his head had been mere seconds before. The sound of breaking glass and a clatter of metal followed. Samson stood above him with a grin, no injury in sight. "You should know better, Cullen," he chuckled, raising the sword high once again. "I¡¯m not so easily defeated."

    The Commander''s mind raced, the world narrowing to the blade poised to strike. His own sword lay on the floor, and he could feel the pulse of his heartbeat in his temples, the throbbing pain where his left eye had been flaring. "Maker," he whispered, desperation coloring his voice, yet his eyes never left Samson''s as he reached for his fallen weapon.

    The General''s grin widened. "He doesn¡¯t care about you," he taunted, kicking the sword away from Cullen''s grasp. "He never did."

    As Samson¡¯s sword descended towards the Commander¡¯s head, time seemed to slow. Cullen''s right hand shot out instinctively, in a futile attempt to shield himself. But then, with a blur of movement, Miriam threw herself in front of him.

    The mage''s cry pierced the air, her body absorbing the blow meant for Cullen. The sickening crunch of the blade biting into her flesh reverberated in his ears, and she fell to the ground, her blood pooling around her.

    His world shattered. Rage, sorrow, and guilt collided within him, igniting a fierce, desperate strength. With a guttural roar, he lunged for his sword, adrenaline surging through his veins. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he rose, the weapon now an extension of his wrath.

    The General¡¯s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through his smug facade. He swung his sword towards Cullen, but this time, the Commander was ready. He parried the blow with a ferocity that drove Samson back, the clash of their blades ringing out like a death knell.

    "I¡¯ll kill you!" Cullen bellowed. His strikes came faster, each one fueled by the burning need for vengeance.

    Samson, caught off guard by his renewed vigor, struggled to regain his footing, his taunts falling silent as he focused on defending himself.

    As Cullen fought, he felt an overwhelming surge of dark, primal magic flood the chamber. It was a heady mixture of Miriam''s healing arts intertwined with an ancient, indescribable power. The magic''s intensity swelled, its tendrils winding around his very soul, feeding his rage and amplifying it until it was all-consuming. Each breath he took, every beat of his heart, felt singularly focused on one purpose: to maim and kill the heretics.

    The pain in his left eye vanished as the flesh knitted itself back together, the wound closing seamlessly. The numbness in his left arm dissipated, replaced by a burning heat that coursed through it. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the ease and strength that had returned to his limb as he yanked it free from his coat. Yet all of this felt inconsequential. His mind was a razor, honed and deadly, fixed solely on ending the life of his enemy.

    Cullen wasn''t the only one feeling the surge. Every Inquisition soldier, Templar, and Chevalier descended upon the Red Knights with a frenzy that defied reason. Through a strange detachment, he noticed that his men¡¯s eyes had turned void black, filled with primal, ravenous hunger. He then felt it too¡ªthe overwhelming need to tear the foul heretics and traitors to shreds, to taste their blood.

    The tide of battle shifted in an instant. The united forces of the Inquisition fought with wild abandon, ignoring their injuries. The air was thick with the raw power coursing through them, binding them into a single, relentless force. They moved as one, driven by an insatiable, dark urge that knew no mercy, no fear¡ªonly the imperative to destroy.

    "This blighted bitch!" the General hissed, his voice fraught with both indignation and fright as he gazed upon the battlefield. The Commander seized the moment of chaos to deliver a powerful blow against the man''s red lyrium crystal protruding from his chest, causing him to stagger.

    "Faithful of the Maker," Miriam''s words resonated in his mind. "It''s time to unleash the wrath of the righteous!" For a split second, he felt a flicker of concern about having someone else''s voice in his head, but it was swiftly drowned out by another wave of blinding anger and an insatiable thirst for blood.

    Throwing his sword aside, Cullen rushed toward the General, rage driving him to squeeze the life out of the man with his bare hands. He leaped, slamming Samson to the ground, and straddled him, raining down blows until the man no longer tried to defend himself. Then, with unnatural strength, Cullen began tearing away pieces of the General''s armor. The fused metal and skin ripped apart, exposing raw, bloodied flesh beneath.

    Others joined in. Inquisition soldiers bit into Samson, their teeth tearing away chunks of muscle and sinew. Blood sprayed from the wounds, and Cullen''s senses were overwhelmed with elation. The sounds of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoed in his ears, and the vision in his eye blurred with tears of joy. Samson¡¯s screams turned into gurgles, then silence, as his body was ravaged by the relentless assault.

    Amid the carnage, Cullen''s eye was drawn to the still-beating heart within the ruin of his enemy''s chest. It pulsed with a steady rhythm, a stubborn symbol of life clinging to the remnants of a destroyed body. With a swift, brutal motion, the Commander reached into the gore and ripped out Samson''s heart. The organ quivered in his hand, slick with blood. He held it aloft like a trophy. A pang of hunger seized him, and his mouth watered. Something deep inside him screamed in protest, but he ignored it, distracted by the drum of his own heart beating in anticipation.

    He brought the heart to his lips and took a savage bite, feeling blood trail down his chin. He felt as though he were drowning, suffocating under the weight of his own ecstasy. His eye closed for a moment, savoring the sensation. Nothing had ever compared to this¡ªthe sheer satisfaction of consuming the very essence of the heretical life.

    As he finished his gory meal, Cullen licked his mailed glove clean, savoring the lingering taste of blood. The rage and elation that had consumed him began to subside, leaving behind a pleasant numbness. His left hand fell limp once again, and the pain where his eye had been returned with a dull throb. Detached, he surveyed the battlefield, now littered with the bodies of the Red Templars. What little remained of Samson had been picked clean by some of the Inquisition¡¯s soldiers, while others feasted on the remains of the Red Knights. This should have made his stomach churn, shouldn¡¯t it? And yet, it didn¡¯t.

    His gaze found his betrothed, slowly pushing herself up from the ground, alive and defiant. His eyes traced the grievous wound inflicted by Samson, a deep gash running from her shoulder to her waist. The wound was covered by a layer of pulsing black slime, which seeped down to the floor, mingling with blood. From there, it crept toward the lifeless forms of the Red Templars, enveloping the crystals protruding from their bodies and drawing their corrupt energy into the mage.

    The mark on Miriam¡¯s hand, once glowing with the ethereal green of the Fade, had turned abyssal black. Her veins were now dark as night, enlarged and draining the color from her skin to a deathly pallor. As she rose smoothly to her feet, Cullen saw her face. The swelling, bruising, and injury vanished, leaving her eyes voids of pure blackness.

    At that moment, the transformation in the mage briefly stirred memories of Lea Amell''s ominous, maleficar gaze. Yet, before the notion could root itself deep, calm washed over him once more. It was Miriam who stood before him, the embodiment of Andraste''s teachings, steadfast and resolute¡ªnever one to dabble in forbidden blood magic.

    The mage approached with measured steps, her countenance radiant. "My faithful betrothed! It was a triumph, the way we vanquished those vile creatures. The Maker smiles upon us. He rejoices!" Her voice rang out with conviction as she drew nearer to Cullen, still perched upon the remnants of the fallen General. Extending her hand, she gently assisted him to his feet, a warm smile gracing her features. "Allow me to deal with Samson once and for all. The Maker has revealed the way to me."

    The Commander nodded in silent acknowledgment and stepped back, allowing Miriam to take charge. With a deft wave of her hand, she directed the Inquisition soldiers around the fallen General to disperse. As she approached, her gaze fixed on the torn breastplate lying next to the slowly regenerating body.

    Extending her left hand over the bloodied armor, Miriam''s palm revealed a darkened mark from which a viscous black slime began to ooze. It slithered down her fingers with deliberate purpose, enfolding the red lyrium crystal embedded within the breastplate. The slime formed a pulsing conduit between her and the shard, channeling its volatile energy. A slight tremor ran through the mage, a soft moan escaping her pale lips as she absorbed each pulse through her mark.

    The crystal, initially resistant, shimmered defiantly with a bright light as if grappling against its fate. Yet the struggle was fleeting, the brilliance swiftly fading into oblivion. The slime retreated from its conquest, withdrawing back into Miriam''s mark, leaving behind only a cracked, lifeless stone. The regeneration of Samson¡¯s remains ceased with it.

    "It is finished. He is truly dead. Victory is ours!" Miriam proclaimed, her voice ringing through the chamber. In response, primal, triumphant roars erupted from their comrades.

    Meanwhile, the mage withdrew her hand and turned towards Cullen, her presence humming with the distorted resonance of red lyrium. Her eyes were twin pools of ink, her form laced with black veins, pulsating with the same viscous slime that adorned her chest. Vile, dangerous, corrupted...his thoughts stumbled to a halt. How could he entertain such notions after she had nearly sacrificed herself to protect him, after she had secured their victory? As Miriam drew nearer, an inexplicable allure emanated from her, the distorted song of red lyrium now sounding strangely melodious, irresistibly drawing him in.

    In a swift motion, he closed the distance between them, seizing her waist and pulling her closer. The metallic clang of his armor met her frail form, and in the obsidian depths of her eyes, he glimpsed his own reflection, finding his one remaining eye transformed to match hers. The mage cupped his face gently in her hands, drawing him nearer still. She leaned in, running her tongue over his chin, tasting the lingering essence of Samson''s blood, and smirked at him provocatively.

    Desire eclipsed any numbness or indifference he had felt. The world around them blurred into insignificance; the only reality was the burning need coursing through him, the desperate yearning to be closer, to be consumed by the dark flame that she was. Unperturbed by their surroundings, uncaring of who might witness their union, Cullen kissed her fiercely. Their lips met in a violent clash, a battle for dominance and surrender. He tasted the coppery tang of blood, the sickly sweet decay of death, and the intoxicating, almost electric essence of lyrium on her lips.

    Miriam''s hands roamed from his face to his breastplate, and he sensed a phantom caress against his skin, the armor no longer a barrier but a conduit for her touch. He felt her fingers trailing lower, a promise of more, a threat of everything.

    Their kiss deepened, becoming something primal¡ªa dance of tongues and teeth, a mingling of blood and breath. She bit his lip, sharp and sudden, a jolt of pain that only heightened his desire. The taste of his own blood mingled with hers, creating a heady mix that made him dizzy and eager for more. Yet much to his frustration, Miriam drew back slightly, her breath warm against his skin, and whispered, "Let me share the strength of the Maker with you, my love.¡± Her voice was a soft caress, a promise of something wondrous, and his disappointment vanished.

    She took his limp left hand, her fingers deftly removing the mailed glove. He barely registered the action, too lost in the sensation of her touch. She pressed his bare hand against the slime-covered wound on her chest. The slime was warm and gave way with a slight resistance, like a dense gel, wrapping around his fingers with a gentle, consistent pressure. The warmth of the substance spread through his hand, and just as during the battle, strength, and vitality surged through his veins, his limb coming alive with an almost painful intensity. He watched, fascinated, as the veins on his arm darkened to black, swelling, and his skin took on a bluish hue.

    Before he had time to process this transformation, Miriam pressed her marked palm over his left eye. The sensation was even more intense, the heat spreading through the left side of his face. He felt something growing, an alien, yet marvelous sensation. When the mage finally removed her hand, he realized with shock that he could see. She had regrown his eye.

    His reflection in her dark, knowing eyes was complete; both eyes now mirrored hers, and his left hand pulsed with an unnatural power. He felt whole and more himself than ever before.

    Cullen met her gaze, a fierce gratitude and undying loyalty burning within him. "Miriam," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. He didn''t have the words to express what he felt, but he knew she understood.

    The mage smiled, a smile that spoke of shared power, shared devotion to the Maker, and a future intertwined. "Together, my love," she murmured, her lips brushing against his. "We are unstoppable."

    And in that moment, Cullen knew it to be true.

 The Harbinger of His Return

    A few hours had passed since Samson''s defeat, and now Miriam stood before the shrine of Dumat, her figure trembling with exalted anticipation. The wound on her chest had healed, the remnants of the dark slime transforming into a patch of flesh that formed a scar as black as the void, a darkness so profound it seemed to drink in the light around it. To preserve her modesty, she had wrapped the exposed area in the tattered remains of a fallen soldier¡¯s cloak, a grim yet fitting veil for the mark of her trials. Behind her, the remaining faithful warriors gathered. Cassandra, Fenris, and Brother Sebastian, tended to yet still unconscious, were carried by the Chevaliers, who formed a protective line at the rear of the formation.

    The mage knew she was a vessel of His might, a conduit of His divine retribution. The red lyrium crystals she had absorbed within the shrine, each one''s corruption purified by the grace of the Maker, would now serve a holy purpose: reducing the profane construction to rubble. She marveled once again at His infinite wisdom, which had bestowed upon her the ability to harness the power of red lyrium through the mark of Andraste. Thanks to it, she could not only turn the enemy''s weapon against them but also share her fervor with the faithful, instilling in them a righteous wrath against His foes. With this new divine power, she had even regrown her betrothed¡¯s eye and healed his tainted limb, mending what for any other healer was irreparably broken. With the Maker¡¯s help, truly, nothing was impossible.

    Her senses attuned to Cullen standing beside her and his heartbeat echoed within her, rapid and fervent, matching her own breathless anticipation. Since the moment she had bestowed upon him the divine grace that restored and empowered his body, a bond had formed between them. Through this link, his feelings, his sensations, everything was laid bare, ready for her to perceive if she wished.

    With the remaining forces in position, Miriam took a deep breath, ready to unleash the might that would shatter the foul construction. "My dear faithful warriors, step back!" she commanded, her voice firm.

    Her men obeyed, retreating slightly as the mage raised her left hand. From the obsidian mark on her palm, a viscous black slime began to ooze forth, weaving and coalescing into a longsword¡ªan exact copy of the one she had wielded during her investiture as the Inquisitor. The blade formed swiftly, its surface shimmering with a dark sheen. As it solidified, Miriam wrapped her fingers around its hilt and closed her eyes, letting the Maker''s hand guide her.

    The world around her dissolved into a vision, vivid and overwhelming. She saw the entire area consumed by black flames, the dark fire sweeping across the land, purging and cleansing all it touched. Amid the inferno, from the ashes of the old, the Golden City began to rise, its gleaming spires piercing the sky with divine brilliance.

    The Chant of Light resonated through the air, so powerful and intense that it felt like it would tear her apart. The sacred hymn reverberated in her very bones, its sound so loud that her ears began to bleed. Despite the pain, she felt a profound sense of awe and reverence.

    From within the City, she sensed a presence of immense power, so mighty she knew it could create or destroy entire realms with a single breath. Yet, there was no fear in her heart, only a deep, abiding peace. She understood in that moment that the Maker had returned to His city, and His gaze fell upon her with a sense of satisfaction. He was pleased.

    Miriam''s dark eyes snapped open, the vivid vision still searing in her mind. Warm rivulets of blood traced a path down her jaw and neck, a visceral reminder of the absolute truth in the revelation that had engulfed her moments before. She knew what she had to do. The path was clear, and the Maker''s blessing was upon her.

    The mage''s hand clenched around the sword, its weight a solemn burden as she held it aloft, her voice piercing the stillness like a bell tolling in a desolate square. "Behold," she cried out, her words resounding with fervent conviction as the sword ignited, black flames leaping along its length. "The Sword of the Faithful, bearer of death to the impure and heretical!"

    In response, above them, the heavens twisted and churned, dark clouds swirling in a tumultuous dance. From the roiling darkness, black fireballs began to rain down, crashing into the earth with explosive force. The shrine, already weakened by battle and the passage of time, groaned and trembled under the onslaught, its stones crumbling and breaking apart.

    Miriam felt the raw, electrifying power surge through her veins, His divine presence guiding her every move with an unyielding force. In one swift, decisive motion, she plunged the sword deep into the soil, the earth trembling beneath the strike. Instantly, the towering wall of black flames burst forth from the ground with an unstoppable ferocity. The inferno surged forward, a tidal wave of shadow and fire, its heat so intense that the air itself seemed to burn. The flames roared with a deafening crescendo, an elemental force of destruction that crashed against the half-destroyed shrine with an overwhelming impact.

    The shrine of Dumat stood no chance.

    The black flames consumed everything in their path; stone, wood, and the drained red crystals disintegrating into ash, the very essence of the place being wiped from existence, as if it had never been.

    Miriam stood tall amidst the leveled area, feeling the power coursing through her black veins, an incredible rush of energy that made her feel invincible. She watched as the grey particles, remnants of what once was, slowly fell and swirled in the air, a silent testament to her might and the divine wrath she had unleashed. She couldn''t help but bask in the glory of it all, the sense of purpose and accomplishment that filled her being.

    Behind her, the gasps of awe from the soldiers formed a chorus of reverence.

    The sword in Miriam''s hand shimmered briefly, its black flames fading as it transformed back into the viscous black slime that seamlessly absorbed into the obsidian mark on her palm. She turned to face her followers, their fervent shouts of "The Sword of the Faithful" resonating like a hymn of adoration. Her gaze swept across their faces. Their loyalty was unwavering, their belief in her unshakeable. As her eyes traveled over the crowd, they finally settled on Cullen. His black eyes held not only admiration but also a flicker of something deeper, something more primal, as they lingered on her bloodied neck.

    Miriam''s lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile as she caught the hunger gleaming in her betrothed''s dark eyes. She could feel the intensity of his longing, the familiar craving that surged within him. The blood of heretics held a powerful, tantalizing sweetness, yet it paled in comparison to the elixir that was the blood of the pure and righteous. This thought sent a shiver through her, conjuring vivid images in her mind. She pictured Cullen pressing his mouth against her neck, trailing his tongue along its length, savoring her sanguine fluid until he reached her ear and caught it between his lips, his tongue deftly at work.

    A faint tremor passed through him and she wondered if, like her, he could sense the emotions she projected. The idea thrilled her beyond measure. If the Maker had entwined their souls so intricately, then nothing was stopping them from binding their bodies as well. She yearned to ask him right here and now, but no, she couldn¡¯t. Not yet. That would have to wait. The faithful were gathered, expectant, awaiting her words. She had a duty to fulfill¡ªa revelation to deliver.

    She raised her hand in a gesture of command, silencing the chants. The men fell into a reverent hush, their eyes fixed on her intently. "My brave warriors," she began, "the Maker has bestowed upon me a revelation of unparalleled importance!" The crowd leaned in, their eyes wide with anticipation, hanging on her every word. "On this land that we have cleansed, a Golden City shall be built," she proclaimed, her voice ringing with conviction. "Its glory will shine so brightly that the Creator Himself will forgive the sins of His children and return to us. But know this: the City will not simply appear. It is you, the faithful, who must build it from the gold most pure. Your hands will shape its walls, your devotion will fuel its rise!"

    For a moment, silence reigned. The warriors stared at her, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief. Then, as the full weight of her words settled upon them, a frenzied cheer erupted from the crowd. The air filled with their shouts of jubilation, a wave of fervent energy that surged through the assembly.

    Miriam''s gaze turned to the distant horizon, where the last rays of the setting sun bled across the heavens in shades of crimson and gold. No longer was her role confined to confronting the Elder One or dispatching His enemies; her destiny now resonated with a far grander design. She was chosen to be the harbinger of the Maker''s return, she would usher in an era of renewal and redemption and nothing would stand in her way.

    As night settled over their camp, it cloaked them in a cool embrace, the stars above twinkling like distant, silent sentinels bearing witness to the day''s triumphs. Miriam, bubbling with the excitement of their recent victories, sat at her desk inside her tent. With a quill in hand, she set to work on her report for Leliana and Josephine. Her words flowed as she recounted the success of their mission, the awakening of her new powers, and the profound revelation about the Golden City.

    When she finally set down her quill, the mage leaned back, her thoughts wandering through the echoes of the day''s extraordinary events.

    She recalled Cullen, standing resolute before her as she addressed the troops. Now, with her duties complete, it was the perfect moment to address her personal affairs.

    Deciding she needed to be more presentable before seeking out her betrothed, Miriam removed the piece of cloak that was wrapped around her chest, letting it fall to the floor. Her battered robes followed, slipping off her shoulders and pooling at her feet, revealing the thin shift beneath. She peeled the shift away, its fabric torn and stained from the battle.

    Walking to the basin, she picked up a rough rag, dipping it into the cool water. She began scrubbing at the dried blood and the rest of the slime that clung to her skin. The water in the basin turned black as she worked, the grime slowly giving way to reveal her pale skin underneath. She felt the slight sting of old wounds, but pressed on, determined to cleanse herself.

    After washing away the last remnants of dirt, the mage dried herself with a fresh cloth, her skin emerging radiant and unburdened. She turned to her new set of clothes, neatly folded and waiting. The linen shift and her usual dark blue robes were laid out. Once, these robes had been the perfect blend of simplicity and utility, their color and cut suited to the demands of her duties. But now, they seemed out of place. Her new status, earned through trials and divine intervention, demanded something more fitting. Opulent robes of pure white and gold¡ªsymbols of her connection to the Maker''s grace and her role as a vessel of His might. The thought filled her with a quiet resolve. She would request such a garment as soon as they reached Skyhold.

    Once she was dressed, the final task remained: re-braiding her disheveled hair. Miriam untied the grimy ribbon and tossed it onto the growing pile of old clothes. With a thoughtful sigh, she began to comb through her locks with her fingers, untangling the knots and smoothing out the strands. As she worked, she couldn¡¯t help but feel how the braid, was no longer fitting as well. With a decisive flick of her wrist, she let her hair fall loose, letting it cascade freely. It was remarkable how quickly it had grown; just under a year ago, Cullen had cut it short, and now it flowed down to her waist. A small smile played on her lips as she admired the length. Perhaps it was another of the Maker¡¯s blessings. With a sense of completion, she knew she was at last ready to go.

    As Miriam emerged from her tent, she was greeted by a scene of eerie stillness. The camp lay in an unnatural hush, its inhabitants sprawled in unconscious heaps upon the ground. Soldiers, who had only moments ago been engaged in their tasks and conversations, were now unmoving, their breaths rising and falling in a steady, rhythmic dance. Torches and campfires burned brightly throughout the camp, casting a warm, flickering light that made the scene almost surreal.

    The mage¡¯s heart raced as she rushed to the nearest one, a young woman in Inquisitor''s armor, swiftly checking for her vitals. The woman¡¯s breathing was steady, her pulse strong, but she was ensnared in an unusually deep slumber. A thin trail of black, tar-like substance oozed from beneath her closed eyelids.

    With a quick, practiced motion, the mage extended her hand and swept the dark, viscous slime from the woman¡¯s cheek. It was unmistakably the same matter that coursed through her own black veins, the very essence she wielded under the mark of Andraste.

    Miriam let out a breath she hadn¡¯t realized she was holding, her shoulders relaxing as the tension drained from them. The chaos before her was unsettling but ultimately benign. The divine wrath she had channeled through her warriors during the battle with Samson was ebbing from their bodies, the result manifesting as a deep, unnatural slumber. Despite the disarray, she reassured herself there was no cause for alarm. The scene, though disconcerting, was merely the aftermath of their power¡¯s withdrawal.

    She stood there for a moment, the glow of the campfires casting shadows across her thoughtful face. The question nagged at her mind: would sleeping on the ground cause her people to fall ill? But the night was warm, and the soldiers, clad in their armor, would not suffer from the cold.

    Her concern eased, she moved quietly through the camp, her footsteps soft against the earth. Her faithful warriors deserved their rest, and she was determined to grant it to them, if danger appeared, she and Cullen would be more than enough to repel the attack until she could rouse them once again.

    Finally, Miriam arrived at the Commander''s tent. The canvas flaps fluttered gently as she pushed them aside and stepped in, her eyes gradually adjusting to the muted light within.

    As she stepped into Cullen¡¯s tent, she was met with an unforeseen, yet very captivating sight. There, in the corner, with his back turned to her, stood her betrothed, clad in naught but a pair of plain trousers. He was engaged in the simple act of cleansing himself at the basin. Water, tainted with the dust and toil of battle, cascaded down his back, etching the sinewy contours of his frame. Miriam observed, transfixed, as the droplets lingered momentarily upon his skin, their descent a languid dance before vanishing into the fabric of his pants. She found herself longing to trace the path of those water droplets with her own fingers, to feel the strength and warmth of his body beneath her touch. With a sudden rush of warmth, she imagined pressing herself against him, feeling the solidity of his form enveloping her, the heat of his skin mingling with hers.

    Her reverie was abruptly interrupted when Cullen turned around, water glistening on bare chest. Miriam¡¯s gaze was immediately drawn to his eyes¡ª still dark, but no longer the abyssal black they had been. The power she had shared with her betrothed was waning, though its grip lingered, fading more slowly than it had with the others. This was likely due to the fact that she had also infused him directly, channeling even more of her strength into him as she healed his wounds.  "Miriam," he uttered in surprise, "I did not hear you come in." He hesitated, a pensive shadow flickering across his features.  "Yet... I felt you, somehow. Just like during your speech to the soldiers."

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    Miriam¡¯s heart leaped, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "That is a marvelous news, my love." She moved closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing. "It means our souls are bound together by the grace of the Maker!"

    Cullen¡¯s brow furrowed deeply in bewilderment as he regarded the mage, a storm of confusion and curiosity playing across his countenance. Before he could voice his perplexity, Miriam hastened to explain. She spoke with an earnest fervor about the inexplicable connection she had felt after healing his wounds¡ªhow she could sense the rhythm of his heartbeat, how she could, if she chose, attune herself to his innermost emotions.

    Cullen¡¯s gaze grew even more astonished as if he were encountering a revelation too profound for mere words. ¡°A bond that connects people in such a way,¡± he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence and awe, ¡°I have never heard of anything like it... It must be the Maker¡¯s will.¡± His eyes, dark and searching, seemed to embrace the mystic truth she had unveiled, accepting it as an undeniable sign of divine intervention.

    Miriam took the washcloth from his hand, her touch lingering just a breath longer than necessary before placing it on the edge of the basin. ¡°It¡¯s not merely His will,¡± she said softly, her voice imbued with a sense of certainty. ¡°It is His gift to us, a testament to the blessing He bestows upon our union.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s gaze was earnest as he continued. "Though, it¡¯s not that I can attune to your emotions at will, as you do to mine," he admitted. "For me, it¡¯s more a matter of¡­¡± He trailed off, his voice fading as he searched for the right expression. "I sense ripples of what you feel¡­echoes, perhaps..."He paused again, frustration flickering across his face. ¡°It¡¯s hard to articulate. Words seem inadequate to capture the experience."

    For the mage, the declaration was of little consequence, her blessing was destined to be greater¡ªshe was His chosen, after all. What mattered was that now they could pursue their desire for each other freely. Her fingers wandered languidly over his chest, their touch a whisper against his skin as she gazed up, eyes heavy with intent. ¡°And just moments ago,¡± she murmured, ¡°what did those echoes stir within you?¡±

    Instead of responding with words, Cullen¡¯s hand reached out, encircling hers on his chest. Their fingers intertwined in a tight embrace, and he bent down, his lips pressing softly against her forehead.

    Miriam¡¯s initial spark of passion gave way to a flicker of disappointment as the chaste kiss lingered, almost mocking in its restraint. A pang of longing gripped her heart with a cruel, relentless intensity. The mere brush of his lips could never quell the tempest roiling within her soul. ¡°Is this truly all that I¡¯ve managed to awaken within you?¡± Without waiting for his answer, she seized him with unrestrained fervor, her hands slipping beneath his arms and finding their place upon his back as she pressed her body firmly against his. The mage¡¯s leg, moving with a calculated fluidity, slid between Cullen¡¯s and pressed against his groin. His breath hitched and in that moment, she captured his lips with an ardor that was as boundless as her own inner torment. She sensed the Commander¡¯s initial surprise at her boldness quickly melt into a passionate response, his desire, raw and fervent, washing over her in hot waves. His arms, strong and commanding, encircled her waist with a fierce, possessive embrace as if he sought to bind her very essence to his own.

    Her fingers traced along Cullen''s wet back, the slickness of his skin heightening the intimacy of the moment. Meanwhile, his right hand descended over her backside, gripping it so tightly it was painful. Miriam¡¯s gasp was lost amidst the fervor of their kiss, and she embraced the sensation with deep, personal satisfaction, for it was an honest and unfiltered expression of his need.

    Caught in the passion of their embrace, the mage¡¯s movements became chaotic, driven by an urgent, reckless desire. Cullen, on the defensive, struggled to keep them together as she tried to steer them toward the bunk bed. But as she maneuvered backward, her foot caught on a supply bag carelessly abandoned on the floor. And what should have been a simple descent onto the bed spiraled into a disordered tumble. Their limbs tangled and breaths intermingling, they crashed onto the frame with all the force of their combined weight. The impact was jarring, the wooden slats splintering and collapsing beneath them with a sharp crack. In an instant, the adrenaline and shock pushed aside their earlier desire as they lay amidst the wreckage, hearts pounding.

    Cullen lay atop her, his form instinctively shielding her head and back with his hands. A moment of uneasy mutual regard passed between them, each scrutinizing the other for signs of distress or harm. Finding none, the absurdity of the situation finally hit them.

    With a resigned sigh, Cullen released Miriam and sank onto his back beside her. "Maker¡¯s breath," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration and a wisp of bitter amusement. "This is the consequence of two souls allowing themselves to be swept away, pursuing what they should not."

    The mage turned her head to look at her betrothed. Although the farcical nature of their mishap had not dampened her spirit, the sense of remorse she detected in him certainly did. She furrowed her brow. ¡°What do you mean by ¡®trying to pursue what they should not¡¯?¡±

    Cullen pushed himself up from the ground and extended a hand to Miriam, helping her to her feet. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t lay together before the marriage.¡±

    Miriam regarded him with disbelief. ¡°Why should we wait for a piece of paper signed by some Chantry Mother when the Maker Himself has already sanctified our union by binding our souls? In His eyes, we already belong to each other. Whatever intimacy passes between us cannot be contrary to His will.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s expression grew more earnest, his voice carrying a tone of firm conviction. ¡°I agree with you, my heart, but for me, the formality is important. It¡¯s not merely about the document or the ceremony; it¡¯s about honoring tradition and the weight of what it represents. My grandparents, my parents, they all adhered to these customs. It¡¯s how they showed respect for the vows they took. I want to follow the same path that has shaped my family and my beliefs.¡±

    Miriam sighed deeply, a heavy, almost sorrowful sound, as her frustration gave way to resignation. She couldn¡¯t truly grasp it¡ªthese notions of family paths and traditions seemed so distant, so irrelevant to her. What were such things in the face of the Maker¡¯s will? Yet, if these things mattered so greatly to the man she loved, she could do nothing but yield ¡°If it means that much to you,¡± she said slowly, her voice softened by the weight of his declaration, ¡°I can accept it.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s relief was palpable as he drew her into a tender embrace. ¡°Thank you,¡± he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity. ¡°I promise you, this does not lessen my love for you, nor does it diminish the significance of the bond He bestowed upon us.¡±

    Miriam nestled closer to him, her voice a soft whisper in the dim light. ¡°I know.¡± After a brief pause, she continued, "I suppose instead of trusting that the Maker''s blessing would suffice for you, as it did for me, I should have asked."

    Cullen tightened his embrace. ¡°Don¡¯t fret, my heart. Such a situation is without precedent, and we didn¡¯t have the opportunity to deliberate on it all.  Besides your intentions were clear to me, yet I was too enraptured by the moment to act with discernment and halt it.¡± He cast a fleeting glance at the bag over which she had stumbled. ¡°Despite everything, I am relieved that we managed to find clarity between us.¡±

    Miriam pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. ¡°I¡¯ll write to Josephine and order her to arrange everything for our wedding,¡± she said, her voice resolute. ¡°That way, we can celebrate as soon as we arrive at Skyhold.¡±

    Cullen tilted his head. ¡°I dare predict she¡¯ll insist on a few months at least, just to ensure the grandeur of the ceremony matches your status.¡±

    The mage scoffed, her expression firm. ¡°I don¡¯t care what she requires. I am the Sword of the Faithful, Herald of Andraste, and the Harbinger of His Return. She wouldn¡¯t dare make me wait.¡±

    He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. ¡°You truly are extraordinary,¡± he began, his voice laced with admiration. ¡°Your determination, your passion, your power¡ªit¡¯s all so¡­ captivating. I can¡¯t help but feel incredibly fortunate that soon you will be mine.¡±

    Miriam¡¯s lips curved into a faint smile. ¡°I am already yours, my love,¡± she replied softly, gently removing his hands from her face. She took a step back, putting some distance between them. ¡°Now, stop uttering such sweet words and get dressed. My willingness to respect your decision does have its limits.¡±

    Cullen chuckled, shaking his head as he moved back to the basin. With quick, practiced motions, he cleaned his back and arms, wiping off the dust from their fall. Grabbing a clean cloth, he dried himself before heading to the chest where his fresh shirt lay folded. As he reached for it, he hesitated, his expression shifting to one of concern. ¡°Why didn¡¯t the guards check on us when we fell and broke the bed?¡± he wondered aloud, more to himself than to Miriam. ¡°Surely, they must have heard the noise¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s because everyone in the camp is in a deep slumber. It¡¯s a withdrawal effect from the blessing I shared with them during the battle at the shrine,¡± the mage said, her tone casual.

    Cullen¡¯s eyes grew wide in disbelief. ¡°They¡¯re what!?¡± he exclaimed, his voice filled with alarm.

    Miriam¡¯s gaze remained steady, her confidence unwavering. ¡°They¡¯re simply resting after the exertion,¡± she said reassuringly. ¡°But there¡¯s no need to worry. I¡¯m convinced that the two of us will be more than capable of standing watch tonight.¡±

    Cullen hastily pulled on the clean shirt, his movements sharp and frantic. Without a word, he bolted out of the tent, his heart pounding in his chest. He paused at the entrance, staring in stunned silence as he took in the sight of the guards and soldiers sprawled out on the ground.

    He turned back to Miriam, and she felt the sharp sting of his anger. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you say something sooner?¡± he demanded, his voice tense. ¡°We could have been attacked! With everyone in this state, we¡¯re completely vulnerable.¡±

    The mage regarded him with a questioning look, her brow slightly furrowed. She raised her left hand so he could see the pulsing darkness of the mark. ¡°Did you forget the might I command?¡± she asked, her tone calm yet firm. ¡°We are far from defenseless.¡±

    Cullen opened his mouth to argue, but Miriam turned her palm toward him, making a clear stop gesture. ¡°My decisions are not up for discussion,¡± she said with authority. ¡°The faithful will sleep, and we will keep watch. This is how it must be.¡± Her tone brooked no further disagreement, leaving the Commander with no choice but to accept her directive.

    The mage''s gaze softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. ¡°Don your armor and join me,¡± she instructed. ¡°The power of the red lyrium I consumed will sustain us through the night. We will guard the camp together.¡± Cullen, acknowledging the finality in her words, turned from the entrance and made his way to the armor rack. With a resigned determination, he began to strap on his armor.

    Miriam gave him a satisfied nod, then turned and exited the tent. It was time for her to return to her duties.

    The night passed uneventfully as they patrolled the camp, the red crystals Miriam consumed at the shrine of Dumat, keeping her wide awake and alert. Cullen remained tense and silent, his displeasure evident in the set of his jaw. His lack of faith in her decisions vexed the mage, but she resolved to be generous, to overlook his doubt. After all, he was her betrothed, and she could forgive him this.

    As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the Commander''s exhaustion became undeniable, his steps growing unsteady. Miriam watched him with mounting concern, noticing the first droplets of dark slime forming in the corners of his eyes. This wouldn¡¯t do¡ªshe needed him resolute, needed him strong. It was time to share the Maker¡¯s grace with him once more, to fortify his spirit and bolster his strength.

    She turned to Cullen, her voice commanding. "Remove your left gauntlet."  He hesitated for a moment, but then his hand emerged, and she clasped it firmly in hers. The mark on her palm responded instantly, black slime oozing forth and seeping into his skin, merging with his own veins. The dark substance snaked up his arm, and he closed his eyes, relishing the sensation as the raw energy surged through him, hot and invigorating. The black slime slithered back beneath his eyelids, retreating to the depths from which it had come, and once the process had run its course, he opened his eyes anew. They revealed themselves as deep and unfathomable as the abyss, now suffused with a piercing, newfound certainty, sweeping away all vestiges of doubt with an almost divine clarity.

    Cullen slipped the gauntlet back on. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to taste the power you¡¯ve shared with me in battle,¡± he said, his voice a low, eager growl. ¡°Now, I almost wish someone would dare attack us, just so I could rip those heretics limb from limb¡ªfeel their throats give way beneath my teeth.¡± His gaze burned with a fierce intensity, the thirst for violence radiating from him like the heat of a forge.

    Miriam couldn''t help but marvel at her betrothed, the way his temper flared so violently yet with such focus. The sheer ferocity of his wrath, the hunger in his eyes, it would be a waste to let all that simmer uselessly. "My love, the faithful will be awake soon. Go scout ahead, find those who would dare oppose us. Hunt to your heart''s content."

    Cullen grinned, a flash of teeth as he relished the thought. Without another word, he turned and rushed out of the camp, his movements swift and precise, like a predator unleashed. The mage watched him go, the shadows of dawn beginning to stretch across the landscape. She knew he would find them, those unfortunate enough to cross their path. And when he did, the wrath of the righteous would not be wasted.

    A thrill coursed through her as she imagined him in action, the power she had given him driving him to new heights of savagery against His foes. The faithful would soon awaken to find their enemies vanquished, their camp secure. And she would await his return, eager to see the results of the gift she had bestowed upon him.

    Miriam didn¡¯t have to wait too long. After making several rounds around the camp, ensuring everything was in order and the faithful were beginning to stir, she sensed his presence before she saw him. The familiar, intoxicating aura of power reached her first, and when she turned, there he was¡ªCullen, striding back into camp.

    He was drenched from head to toe in blood, the crimson liquid clinging to his armor and dripping from his disheveled curls. In each hand, he dragged severed limbs, trophies from the heretics he had hunted. The crystals of red lyrium jutted out from the torn flesh, glinting in the early morning light.

    The mage¡¯s breath hitched as he approached, her senses overwhelmed by the rich, coppery scent of heretical blood. Cullen came to a stop before her, his eyes still burning with the remnants of his fury, though now they held a gleam of satisfaction.

    ¡°Are you injured?¡± she asked, her voice laced with concern.

    He shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his bloodied lips. ¡°I encountered a group of Red Templars not far from here,¡± he replied, his voice low and rough with the thrill of the hunt. ¡°They are no more.¡±

    With a grunt, he tossed the severed limbs at her feet, the red lyrium pulsing faintly within the dead flesh. ¡°A gift for you, my heart.¡±

    Miriam¡¯s lips curled into a smile, pleased by his offering. ¡°You spoil me,¡± she replied, her tone teasing, though the hunger in her eyes was real. She reached out, allowing the black slime from her mark to ooze forth, tendrils of darkness slipping from her hand to envelop the severed limbs. The red lyrium crystals pulsed brighter for a moment, and then the energy began to drain, absorbed by the slime, flowing into her.

    She sighed in satisfaction as the power filled her, the crystals dimming as they were consumed. When the last of the black liquid retreated into Miriam''s mark, leaving only the faintest trace of darkness on her skin, Cullen''s hand moved with a sudden swiftness. He grabbed her neck, his fingers rough as he tilted her head upward, holding her just under the chin.  He slid his bloodied, mailed thumb over her lips, the metal cold and slick with the blood of their enemies. ¡°I wonder,¡± he murmured, "if you taste of lyrium now, as you did at the shrine."

    Miriam¡¯s eyes sparkled with amusement. Without breaking the eye contact, she parted her lips and slowly passed her tongue over the path his thumb had traced, tasting the metallic tang of blood. "Find out."

    That was all the invitation he needed. With a growl rumbling deep in his chest, the Commander surged forward, his lips crashing against hers with a force that left no room for gentleness. His kiss was punishing, bruising, more an assertion of power than an expression of passion. His hand gripped her jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to make her bones ache, forcing her mouth to open wider. He thrust his tongue in, and she was taken aback by the complex symphony of flavors that unfurled. It wasn¡¯t just the usual sharp, iron tang of blood that met her senses but also a rich , subtle sweetness of raw flesh, mingled with the vibrant, spicy essence of her own power resonating back to her.  She marveled at the sensation of tasting something beyond blood for the first time in what felt like an eternity, but she wasn''t about to give him the upper hand so easily.

    With a swift, decisive motion, she bit down on his tongue, feeling the soft tissue tear beneath her teeth, a crimson ribbon unfurling into the kiss. Cullen responded with a shudder, his body arching slightly as if trying to escape the sting yet drawn inexorably closer. The duality of pleasure and pain wove through their connection, and Miriam sucked on his wounded tongue, drawing the blood into her mouth, savoring her dominance. She continued until she felt that the pleasure he once derived had been overshadowed by the discomfort she was imposing. Then, reluctantly, she released him.

    Pushing him back, she created just enough distance to assert her control. Her fingers traced over his lips, pressing firmly as she focused her healing magic. A soft, golden glow enveloped her hand, mending the torn tissue in his mouth. She wanted her betrothed to remember this- this moment of pain and power. A clear reminder humming through their bond, that for all his physical strength, it was she who held dominion, she who commanded the course of their intertwined fates.

    Cullen¡¯s gaze bore into her, his black eyes aflame with a fierce, possessive light. He had no objections, no resistance, only a deep, consuming focus on his own sensations. ¡°You taste even better than the last time,¡± he whispered, his voice hoarse.

    A satisfied smirk played on the mage¡¯s swollen, blood-stained lips. "Oh, I have no doubt. Don¡¯t worry, there will be more¡ªmuch more¡ªfor us to savor." Her words dripped with glee, for the feast they had just indulged in was but a prelude to the things yet to come.

 Doubt is for the weak

    Cullen felt the first signs of trouble as the faithful began to stir from their slumber, their movements sluggish and uncertain. He could see the confusion in their eyes, the way they blinked against the harsh light of morning, still groggy and disoriented from the withdrawal of the Maker¡¯s blessing. As they slowly regained their senses, the memories of the battle with Samson and his minions came rushing back, overwhelming their fragile minds. The realization of what they had done¡ªconsuming heretical flesh¡ªhit them like a hammer.

    Fear and revulsion swept through the camp. Some of the soldiers began to scream, their voices breaking under the weight of their horror. Others retched violently, unable to stomach the memory of what they had ingested. A few clutched their heads as if trying to erase the images burned into their minds. Yet, it wasn¡¯t just the battle that haunted them. As they looked around, searching for guidance, their gazes fell upon the Inquisitor and the Commander. When they saw the deep blackness of their eyes, a new wave of panic surged. It was the final blow to their already frayed nerves.

    Cullen¡¯s lip curled in contempt as he watched the reactions. His black eyes swept over the camp, his expression hardening with every whimper and panicked glance. He could see the cracks forming in their ranks, small now but with the potential to shatter them completely. How many would stand firm, he wondered, and how many would be lost to the fear of what they do not understand?

    Miriam''s eyes, dark as the abyss, flared with a fury that sent a palpable shockwave through their bond and Cullen¡¯s jaw clenched, his own anger flaring. The panic that had spread among the faithful was an affront not just to her, but to the very will of the Maker. The time for indulgence was over.

    "Everyone, assemble!" The Inquisitor¡¯s voice cut through the clamor like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

    Soldiers, Templars, Chevaliers¡ªall scrambled to obey, the fear in their eyes now mingled with confusion and the weight of authority bearing down on them.

    The camp fell silent as Miriam stood before them, her presence towering despite her small, slender frame. "You quake before the will of the Maker?" she began, her voice trembling with righteous fury. "You cower in the face of His divine plan, unable to see beyond the veil of your own fear? Shame upon you!"  The words struck the assembly like a thunderclap, soldiers shrinking under her gaze. Yet, Miriam pressed on, her voice rising with each word. "Everything that happened at the Shrine of Dumat was by His design! Every drop of blood spilled, every battle fought, every morsel of flesh consumed¡ªit was all the will of the Maker! And we, blessed as we are, have been chosen to carry out His will! Do you doubt it? Do you doubt me!?" Her eyes scanned the crowd, daring anyone to meet her gaze, to challenge the truth she laid before them. No one moved. No one dared. "The transformation you see," she continued, her tone turning almost reverent as she gestured to herself, "is not to be feared. It''s a blessing¡ªa sign that I have been touched by the Maker twice over. I am His chosen, marked by His hand to lead you to the glorious day of His return!" The soldiers and Templars shifted uneasily, some nodding in hesitant agreement, others still grappling with the enormity of what they were hearing. But Miriam would not let them falter. "Know this," she uttered, her voice now a dangerous whisper that carried over the assembly. "Those who doubt, who allow fear to taint their hearts, are not pure of faith. They are not worthy of the Maker''s grace. And so their destiny is clear: they will perish in the flames, purified by His divine justice."

    A hush fell over the crowd, the weight of her words sinking deep into their bones. The mage''s gaze swept over them one last time, her eyes ablaze with the certainty of her conviction. "Choose now," she commanded, "faith or flames. There is no middle path. You stand with me, or you burn."

    The united forces remained motionless, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. Miriam stood unwavering, her chest rising and falling with the intensity of her proclamation. "So, which will it be?"

    For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, a single, tentative voice broke through. "Faith!" The cry was shaky, uncertain, but it spread like wildfire, igniting the others. Soon, the shouts multiplied, voices layering over one another until the word thundered from every corner of the gathering.

    The Inquisitor nodded her expression a mix of stern approval and quiet contemplation. "Good. Let''s see if time will prove the strength of your conviction."

    The next conflict arose the very same day when Cullen accompanied the mage to the small infirmary tent, where their injured companions awaited her healing touch. The tent was steeped in silence, the air heavy with the mingled scents of herbs and salves. Cassandra, Sebastian, and Fenris occupied the bunk beds that lined the three sides of the square tent, their forms still and bandaged, lost in unconsciousness. Miriam''s gaze swept over each of them, a contented smile gracing her lips. She took a steadying breath, murmuring, ¡°This should be the last of the healing they need.¡±

    After tending to the Seeker and the elf she moved to Brother Sebastian who was lying on the right side of the tent. As the mage channeled her magic into him, he stirred, emerging slowly from the depths of unconsciousness. His mind was still clouded, struggling to surface from the haze. When his eyes finally fluttered open, they locked onto Miriam. A fleeting moment of shock and fear crossed Sebastian¡¯s face, but he swiftly tempered it, replacing his initial reaction with the calm reverence he had always reserved for the Herald of Andraste. He met her gaze with a steady if somewhat strained composure. ¡°Your Worship,¡± he uttered slowly. His gaze drifted down to the black veins that traced her skin, matching the mark. ¡°What has transpired since the battle? You¡­ you look changed¡­¡± Suddenly, Sebastian¡¯s voice wavered, his words trailing off as his eyes darted around the tent, panic flickering in their depths. Desperation took hold, and he struggled to sit up, his movements frantic as he searched the space. ¡°What of Fenris, Your Worship? Is he alive?¡±

    Miriam continued her spell, leaning in with practiced care, her hand pressing gently over Sebastian¡¯s chest to help him relax against the bed. Her voice was a soothing murmur, rich with reassurance. ¡°Do not fear, Brother. Your friend is out of danger and recovering well.¡± She took a step to the side and gestured toward the sleeping elf on the opposite side of the tent.

    A deep sigh of relief escaped Sebastian as he sank back into the pillow, the weight of his anxiety lifting. Seeing his calm, Miriam seized the moment to share the events he had missed. Her voice took on a fervent edge as she recounted the battle with Samson, the Maker¡¯s blessing bestowed upon her, and the vision of the Golden City yet to be built. Sebastian nodded slowly, choosing, albeit with cautious resolve, to place his faith in the belief that this was indeed the will of the Maker.

    The moment of calm was abruptly shattered by a sharp gasp. Cassandra, groggy but alert, stirred from her unconsciousness. Her eyes snapped open, the fog of sleep quickly giving way to the sharp clarity of her Seeker¡¯s instincts. She took in Miriam¡¯s transformed appearance, hovering over Sebastian with crackling magic at her fingertips. ¡°Stay back, abomination!¡± she screamed her voice a fierce growl as she thrust out her hand, unleashing Silence.

    Cullen, standing nearby, reacted with reflexive urgency. He drew his blade, ready to confront Cassandra and strike her down if necessary. Yet, instead of quelling the magic that danced around Miriam¡¯s hands, the Silence fell flat, its power ineffective against the vibrant force now surging through the Inquisitor. The magic remained, shimmering protectively around the Brother.

    Miriam¡¯s expression twisted into one of pure indignation. Her gaze blazed with an intensity that seemed capable of scorching worlds as she stepped away from Sebastian and advanced on the Seeker. The Right Hand, looked up in shock, her wide eyes reflecting the failure of her abilities.

    The mage¡¯s hand lifted, and her healing magic twisted into dark flames that swirled ominously around her palm. ¡°You dare to call His chosen an abomination?¡± she hissed, her voice imbued with barely contained fury. ¡°To attempt to strip me of my magic after all I have done for you?¡± The promise of retribution was clear in her tone. ¡°For your insolence, you will¡ª¡±

    ¡°Please!¡± Brother Sebastian¡¯s voice cut through the charged silence. He extended his hand toward Miriam, gripping at the edge of her robes. ¡°Your Worship, I beg you, show mercy. In the name of the Maker, be generous in your spirit and forgive this transgression.¡±

    For a moment, the air hung heavy with the threat of violence. Miriam¡¯s hand remained poised, the magic pulsing dangerously at her command. Cullen, his sword still drawn, stood ready to execute her order if she chose to give one.

    But Sebastian¡¯s plea seemed to reach something within his betrothed. The furious light in her eyes flickered, and her hand, still crackling with arcane energy, slowly lowered. She turned her gaze to Sebastian. ¡°Mercy¡­¡± she echoed, the word hanging on her lips as if she was tasting it. The mage returned her gaze to Cassandra, who met her eyes with a tumultuous mix of emotions¡ªdefiance, confusion, and just beneath it all, a glint of fear she couldn¡¯t quite hide. Miriam¡¯s jaw tightened, and for a long, tense moment, it seemed she might burn the Seeker anyway. But then, with a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let the magic dissipate, the flames snuffed out before they could claim their victim. ¡°Very well,¡± she said, her voice cold and clipped. "For the sake of a true faithful such as Sebastian, I will show mercy this time. But let it be known¡ªthis is not forgiveness. This is the last warning,¡± she continued, her tone dangerous, ¡°Any who defy me will be cast into the flames, regardless of who they are.¡±

    Cassandra, still lying on the bunk bed, gave a reluctant nod, though her eyes remained sharp, unyielding. ¡°Despite how you look, you¡¯re clearly not an abomination, yet,¡± she said, her voice strained. Her gaze snapped to Cullen, her eyes widening in disbelief. ¡°Maker¡¯s breath! You too!? Will someone tell me what in the Void is happening here?¡± she demanded, her eyes flicking between the three of them.

    But her words went unanswered.

    Cullen sheathed his sword, though his grip on the hilt lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Miriam, making sure she wouldn¡¯t change her mind.

    Sebastian, who had held his breath throughout the confrontation, finally released the folds of the Inquisitor¡¯s robes, murmuring a quiet "Thank you". Exhausted, he sagged over the edge of his bunk, his hand hanging limply as though all the strength had drained from his body.

    Miriam took a final look at the weary man, her expression unreadable. "Brother," she said, her voice firm but without the earlier fire, "tell this brazen woman everything I¡¯ve shared with you. Make sure she understands the will of the Maker. And when Fenris wakes, he must know it all as well."

    The man nodded weakly, he didn¡¯t need to be told twice.

    As Miriam turned toward the exit, her steps deliberate and unhurried, Cassandra struggled to rise from the bunk bed. Weakened by her injuries, she stumbled and fell back. ¡°Inquisitor, Commander, you can¡¯t just ignore me!¡± she called out, her voice sharp with frustration.

    Miriam didn¡¯t break her stride. ¡°We can, and we will,¡± she responded, her voice cold, not bothering to look back. Cullen moved quickly to catch up, his boots crunching softly on the ground as they stepped outside.

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    He remained silent, matching her pace without a word. Though Miriam didn¡¯t glance at him as they walked, he could feel the waves of approval emanating from her, acknowledging his readiness to strike down the woman who had dared to insult her.

    In the days that followed, as their companions regained enough strength for the journey back, the time came to return to Skyhold. During this period, Cullen seldom crossed paths with Brother Sebastian or Fenris; both preferred their solitude. Cassandra, however, persisted in seeking him out during the rare moments he wasn¡¯t at Miriam¡¯s side. Her concern was palpable, her unease growing as she tried to broach the subject of what was unfolding. After several fruitless attempts, the Seeker finally gave up, retreating to spend most of her time in seclusion with the Brother and the elf. It was just as well, for Cullen was growing weary of her incessant prying. The order was to ignore her¡ªnothing more. But if she continued pressing him, he was ready to end her meddling for good.

    The route the Inquisitor chose to journey back to Skyhold was neither the shortest nor the most practical. Miriam had deliberately taken a path that wound through treacherous territories and corrupt lands, far from the beaten tracks that might have offered safer passage. It was a route that took them through as many clusters of corruption as possible¡ªareas tainted by red lyrium, strongholds of corrupted Knights, and forgotten ruins where the Venatori had their encampments. This was not merely a return; it was their own Exalted March.

    Each time they approached a suspicious stretch of land, scouts were dispatched to search for signs of corruption and locate any traces of His enemies. In too many places, the signs were unmistakable: veins of crimson crystal creeping through the earth, or red armored figures patrolling with a deadness in their eyes.

    Whenever such foulness was found, Miriam made sure it was cleansed. She and Cullen would go together, a deadly pair. She would share her strength with him before each battle, her divine energy coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses, and filling him with a power that seemed to burn from within. It was more than enough. Together, they were unstoppable, cutting through the corruption with ruthless efficiency.

    But it wasn¡¯t always just the two of them. Occasionally, a contingent of Inquisition soldiers joined them in battle, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension as they witnessed the formidable power wielded by their leaders.

    On one such occasion, they confronted a particularly entrenched cluster of corrupted Knights guarding a vast cave brimming with red lyrium crystals. The battle was fierce but swift; Miriam and Cullen surged through the ranks of Red Templars like a tempest, their combined might devastating everything in their path. The soldiers¡¯ primary task was to ensure that no stray Knight escaped the fray, their focus intent on securing the area and preventing any retreat.

    After the fight, as the dust settled and the last of the corrupted fell, Cullen moved toward one of the fallen heretics. With eager anticipation, he knelt beside the corpse of a Knight. A toothy grin spread instinctively across his face, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he prepared to feast. Without a moment''s hesitation, his teeth and hands tore into the throat of the Red Templar.

    The soldiers, their faces smudged with grime and sweat, watched in a mix of grim acceptance and unease. Most had grown accustomed to the gruesome spectacle, understanding it as a necessary part of their new reality. However, one soldier, his face pale and eyes wide with revulsion, could no longer contain his horror. He staggered back, his hand clutching at his stomach. ¡°This¡­ this is madness,¡± the man muttered, his voice shaking as he watched the Commander devour the tainted flesh. ¡°How can this be right? How can this be what the Maker wa--¡±

    He had no time to finish his words before Miriam¡¯s eyes snapped toward him, burning with a wrath that seemed to darken the very air around her. With a flick of her wrist, black flames engulfed the soldier in a blazing inferno. His screams were brief as the fire consumed him, reducing him to ash in mere seconds.

    The other soldiers froze, their faces pale as they stared at the smoldering remains of their comrade.

    The mage looked around at the remaining soldiers, her voice cold and implacable. ¡°Doubt is for the weak! And there is no room for weakness among His faithful. Those who falter will be consumed by the same fire that devours the heretics. I have warned you of this.¡± Her tone shifted to one of commanding finality. ¡°Now, fall back into formation.¡±

    The soldiers, trembling but obedient, did as they were told, their resolve steeled by fear. No one dared to look back at the pile of ash. No one dared to speak. No one dared to question.

    Cullen, unfazed by the spectacle, continued his feast on the flesh of the fallen Red Knight. The scene barely registered in his mind, overshadowed by the satisfaction of his meal.

    Meanwhile, Miriam moved with purpose toward the cave. The bright crimson light emanating from its entrance consumed her as she vanished inside. For a long while, she remained deep within, as the red brilliance slowly dimmed, until at last, the cave became nothing more than an ordinary shadow against the darkening sky.

    When the Inquisitor emerged from it, her skin was aglow with a faint crimson light. Cullen¡¯s jaw dropped, a piece of the Knight''s windpipe falling from his bloodied mouth as he watched in awe. The red shimmer that enveloped her made her appear both deadly and divine, a living embodiment of the Maker¡¯s will.

    Her voice, slightly distorted by the power she wielded, rang out with an almost ethereal resonance. "Rejoice, true believers! The mark bestowed by Andraste has flourished beyond mortal comprehension," she declared, her tone carrying the weight of authority. "Behold, for I now can consume the red lyrium in quantities unmatched, its power flowing through me like never before!"

    The soldiers responded with forced, lackluster cheers.

    Miriam¡¯s eyes flashed with irritation at their tepid enthusiasm. With a sharp gesture, she extended her blessing once more, waves of power surging through the area. In an instant, the soldiers¡¯ eyes turned black, their demeanor shifting to one of unbridled joy.  They erupted into fervent cheers, shouting ¡°Glory to the Sword of the Faithful!¡± with such intensity that their voices eventually gave out, leaving them breathless and spent. Satisfied with the renewed celebration, the Inquisitor decided that it was time to regroup with the rest of their forces.

    As they journeyed on, Cullen''s focus was entirely consumed by the power radiating from the mage. The crimson light that clung to her skin like a divine aura ignited an intense craving within him. He yearned to absorb her essence, to feel her power searing through him, to be wholly enraptured by his betrothed, his Herald, his everything.

    As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the encampment, the united forces hastily established their makeshift camp for the night. The air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat, the chill of dusk beginning to settle in. Cullen struggled to hold himself together, his thoughts dominated by a relentless, all-consuming need. No matter how much water he drank, his mouth remained dry, his throat parched. But deep down, he knew it wasn¡¯t water that he craved. The voice in his mind, once a quiet murmur, had swelled into a roaring storm. Each insistent command to draw in the power felt like a thousand sharp pricks against his sanity, pushing him ever closer to the edge of madness.

    Finally, as Miriam¡¯s tent was erected amidst the sea of canvas and firelight, he could bear it no longer. He stormed through the camp, his eyes fixed on her like a predator stalking its prey. He spotted the Inquisitor near a group of the Chevaliers, engaged in conversation that held no importance to him¡ªhis world had narrowed to a single point of focus.

    Without a word, he reached out and seized her arm, pulling her away from the conversation mid-sentence. The Chevaliers looked on in shock, but Cullen did not care; nothing else mattered. Miriam didn¡¯t resist, her eyes meeting his with an understanding. She could feel the raw, unbridled desire radiating from him, and she knew the time for restraint had passed.

    As they reached her tent, he yanked the flap open with his free hand, the rough fabric straining under his grip, and hurled Miriam inside. The mage laughed as she was propelled forward, stumbling over the uneven ground and nearly losing her balance. ¡°Eager, are we?" she chuckled, a note of satisfaction in her voice as she turned to face him. He rushed in after her, the flap of the tent snapping shut behind him, sealing them off from the outside world.

    His hands shook violently with barely restrained urgency as he clawed at his gauntlets, ripping them off and flinging them aside with disregard. The moment his fingers touched Miriam''s face, they were rough, his grip unsteady but unyielding. In the dim light of the tent, the faint crimson glow of her skin was more pronounced, even more alluring. The black veins that ran across her countenance pulsed with heat and power under his thumbs, their energy almost burning against his skin.

    He attacked her skin with his lips, kissing those dark veins that yielded under the force of his mouth, sparking with power as he pressed harder, more fiercely, as if trying to draw out every ounce of energy she held within her. Miriam stood still, a coy smile playing on her lips, her eyes half-lidded as she watched him unravel. But her stillness only drove him further into madness. Every touch, every taste of her power, only left him craving more. It was like trying to quench insatiable thirst with a single drop of water.

    Frustration roared through Cullen, and with a guttural snarl, he tore at her robes, his fingers curling into the fabric with the single-minded purpose of exposing more of that glowing skin, more of the power that he craved. The fabric resisted only for a moment before it tore under his strength, the sharp rip echoing in the confined space of the tent. He continued to pull, tearing the cloth away until the front of her robe was destroyed, hanging in tatters as her bare chest was revealed, glowing faintly in the darkness.

    His eyes barely glanced over her breasts or the web of thickened veins that marbled her body. No, his gaze was drawn to a wide scar that crossed her chest, a jagged line of twisted black flesh that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

    Miriam caught the intensity in his gaze, her eyes softening with almost affectionate warmth. "I will share it all with you, my love," she whispered, her voice calm and certain. "You do deserve it."

    As she spoke, the black scar began to weep, thick blood oozing from the wound. But this was no ordinary blood¡ªit shimmered brightly in the dim light of the tent, and with it came the unmistakable, intoxicating melody of pure lyrium. The moment the sound reached Cullen''s ears, his pupils dilated, his breath catching as the music wrapped around his mind, pulling him in, drawing him closer to the source of that irresistible power.

    He pounced on her, and they both fell to the ground, Miriam¡¯s gasps and the impact barely registering as he buried his face in the oozing scar, his mouth seeking the crimson liquid. It was unbearably hot and thick. It was power. It was life.

    The mage moaned beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair, her fingers gripping tightly as she urged him on. Cullen bit down hard, his teeth sinking into the blackened tissue, and the blood sprayed into his mouth. The lyrium''s call swelled within his mind, rising to a fever pitch that obliterated all thought, all reason. It became everything, a cacophony that drowned the world, suffocating even the whispers of his own conscience. As the moment of excruciating intensity reached its climax, the reality around him shifted, and he was cast into an abyss where all sense of time and place had dissolved into a murky haze.

    Suspended in a black void he was stripped of everything, naked, and exposed to the cold emptiness around him. A sickening vulnerability gripped him, his skin crawling with the uncanny sensation of unseen eyes boring into him from all directions, though no one was there. He strained to move, to speak, to reach out, but his body remained inert as if it had been severed from his will.

    With growing unease, Cullen observed that tattered chains started to appear across his body. They were not chains of iron but something far more elusive¡ªwisps of blue, ethereal and ghostly, as if they barely clung to his form. He sensed, in the depths of his mind, that a single motion, a simple shake, would free him from their feeble grasp. Yet, despite his desperate will, he couldn¡¯t do it.

    A cold dread settled deep in his heart as the chains began to stir, their faint blue hue darkening, tainted by red that slithered along the links like a living serpent. The shattered restrain started to re-forge itself with a menacing determination, each segment snapping back into place with a sharp clink. As the now crimson chains tightened their grip around him, they grew searing hot. They twisted and coiled, spreading across his chest, up his arms, and down his legs, binding him in a web of unbearable heat.

    He gasped, struggling against the iron grip, but the chains only tightened, drawing out his suffering as they burrowed deeper into his flesh. They reached his neck, then slithered upward, encircling his throat until every breath became a desperate, choking gasp. His heart pounded in his chest, faster and faster, as if trying to outrun the inevitable. Yet, the chains converged upon it too, their molten tips pressing into his chest until they found their target.

    In one agonizing moment, they pierced through, enveloping his heart in a searing vice, their heat flaring up like a tempest until they burst in to flames. The inferno surged forth, an all-devouring beast, ravenous not merely for his flesh but for the very marrow of his being. The vibrant tapestry of memories¡ªonce so full of color and life, the faces and voices that had etched themselves into his soul¡ªnow dwindled to mere cinders, scattered into the abyss to be lost forever.

    In the midst of this ceaseless torture of flames, the torment became unbearable and so, with a kind of agonized relief, he surrendered to oblivion as his consciousness sank into the unfathomable depths of darkness.

 The ultimate confirmation

    The sun blazed high over the horizon, its fierce rays casting a golden glow upon the scorched earth below. Miriam rode at the forefront of the united forces, her eyes aflame with fervor. Her warhorse, a towering beast of pure white, snorted and pawed at the ground, sensing the triumphant energy that radiated from its rider. The path behind them was littered with the corpses of heretics, their twisted forms a testament to the Maker''s justice.

    The Inquisitor could feel it¡ªa deep, thrumming power coursing through her veins. The red lyrium she consumed had become like a sacred wine, its intoxicating strength amplifying her gifts. She no longer merely wielded power; she was power. The blessings she granted upon the faithful now lingered for days, a sign that the Maker''s grace was flowing through her without end.

    As she reveled in this sense of righteous fulfillment, a wave of heat washed over her, and she turned her head slightly to see Cullen riding close beside her. He was a striking figure, stripped down to the bare essentials¡ªno armor, only simple trousers and a shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled arms that glistened with sweat. Since the moment he had come to his senses, having fainted from the overwhelming power of her blood, he had transformed¡ªboth body and mind honed by the divine fire that coursed through him now. The Cullen of old was gone, replaced by this sharpened tool of the Maker''s will.

    The mage smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile. He had taken her betrothed and re-forged him, like a master smith at the anvil, hammering away impurities until only the strongest, most resilient steel remained. Her beloved was faster now, sharper, even his memories had undergone the Maker''s touch, scoured clean of the dross of his former life. The chains of his past¡ªthe family that he abandoned, the agonies of Kinloch and Kirkwall¡ªwere shattered, left behind like slag on the forge floor.

    What remained were the memories the Maker had chosen to preserve: Cullen¡¯s fated encounter with her at Redcliffe as children, and his time with the Inquisition. Miriam knew there were gaps even there¡ªsubtle voids where He had deemed certain memories unworthy or frivolous. Like what his favorite foods were or what hobbies he once enjoyed. But Miriam was more than pleased. Such trivialities held no value in the grand design.

    ¡°Soon, we will return to Skyhold, my love,¡± she said, her voice laced with quiet anticipation. ¡°I received a raven from Josephine this morning. The Emperor awaits us at the fortress, overjoyed by the glorious news that the Golden City will be built within his realm. He¡¯s eager to offer all the gold Orlais can muster for this sacred endeavor and will assist the Ambassador in seeking contributions from other nations. Even Orlais lacks the wealth needed for such a grand task.¡± The mage noticed the subtle flicker of disdain that crossed her betrothed¡¯s face at the mention of Gaspard. It was a small thing, a momentary tension in his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes. But she was too absorbed in her thoughts, too busy spinning out the possibilities of what lay ahead, to give it much attention.  She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. ¡°I can scarcely imagine what it would be like to stand in His presence, to breathe the same air as the Creator of all, to hear the Chant of Light from the sacred lips of Andraste Herself.¡± Opening her black eyes, she met Cullen¡¯s gaze, her resolve steely. ¡°But first, we must find and kill the Elder One and his dragon. None of this can come to pass until that abomination is destroyed. I say we task Leliana with locating him, and once we have his whereabouts, we march¡ªno hesitation, no delay. Without Samson to command the Red Templars, they are now in disarray. The Venatori numbers are also dwindling. The timing couldn''t be better.¡±

    Cullen nodded, his expression firm. ¡°As you wish, my Herald. I will ensure the army is ready to march the moment we have his location.¡±

    Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from behind. A soldier, clad in the Inquisition¡¯s colors, appeared before them, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. He stopped a respectful distance away, bowing his head low before speaking.

    "Beg pardon, Your Worship," the soldier began, his voice careful. "Could I trouble you for a moment? There¡¯s something important I need to talk to you about, and it¡¯d be best if we did so alone.¡±

    Miriam paused, studying him with a gaze as sharp as a drawn blade. She noted the subtle twitch at the corner of his eye, the nervous fumble of his fingers as he struggled to maintain composure. "Of course," she replied, her tone even, though an undercurrent of intrigue wove through her words. "We will be making camp soon. Find me in the Command Tent; you may speak then."

    The soldier¡¯s relief was palpable as he bowed once more. ¡°Thank you, Your Worship,¡± he said, his voice steadying as he turned and hurried back toward the column of soldiers marching behind them. As he retreated, Miriam watched him go, her mind already returning to her previous musings.

    As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the land in hues of gold and deepening shadow, the Inquisitor signaled for the column to halt. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, setting up camp with the ease of those who had done it countless times before. Miriam and Cullen made their way to the Command Tent, its canvas flaps billowing slightly in the evening breeze.

    Inside, the tent was lit by the warm glow of a lantern. Maps and reports were spread out across the central table, meticulously arranged for their upcoming planning session. Miriam approached the table, her fingers instinctively tracing the edge of a map as her thoughts drifted to the logistics ahead. The routes the Inquisition would establish to transport gold from across Thedas to Orlais were already taking shape in her mind.

    In a moment Cullen came to stand beside her. His expression was one of calm readiness, but as he looked at the maps, his eyes sharpened with focus. "These routes," he began, breaking the silence, "we¡¯ll need to account for possible ambushes. The more gold we move, the more tempting a target we become."

    The mage nodded, her fingers pausing on a particularly risky stretch. ¡°I was thinking the same. We¡¯ll need to secure additional patrols here¡ªand here.¡± She pointed to a few key locations on the map.

    Cullen leaned in, considering her suggestions. ¡°We could also use decoys. Send smaller, less valuable shipments ahead to draw out any would-be attackers. It might give our main convoy the time it needs to move safely.¡±

    A smile tugged at the corner of Miriam¡¯s lips. ¡°A clever diversion, my love.¡± She shifted a few of the markers on the map, adjusting their plans. ¡°And for the high-priority shipments, perhaps we could enlist a few mages, accompanied by the Knights, of course, to create protective wards. It would add another layer of security.¡±

    Cullen nodded, clearly pleased with the idea.

    As they continued their discussion, the sounds of the camp settling down for the night started to filter through the canvas walls. Suddenly, the low murmur of voices outside grew louder, and the flap of the tent rustled as one of the guards stepped in. ¡°Your Worship, Commander,¡± the woman announced, her voice steady. ¡°The soldier who asked for an audience with you has just arrived.¡±

    ¡°Send him in.¡± the mage replied, her expression composed.

    The guard stepped aside, and the soldier from earlier entered the tent, his demeanor cautious and anxious. He bowed deeply to Miriam and Cullen, his gaze flickering nervously as he straightened. ¡°Your Worship, Commander,¡± he began, his voice shaky. ¡°Thank you for seeing me.¡±

    Miriam¡¯s eyes narrowed curious of what he was about to reveal. ¡°You have our attention. Speak.¡±

    The soldier hesitated, glancing at Cullen as if seeking reassurance, then back at the mage. ¡°It¡¯s the Templars, Your Worship. A few of them... they¡¯re planning to run off.¡± He swallowed hard, his fear showing in the tremble of his voice. ¡°I... I overheard them while I was... retching in the bushes, after trying to stomach what was left of the heretics.¡± He cast his eyes downward, shame coloring his tone. ¡°Begging your pardon, my body¡¯s too weak to keep their flesh down, but I¡¯m praying to the Maker that one day I¡¯ll be strong enough.¡± His voice wavered as he continued, ¡°They don¡¯t want to be part of the Order no more, not with an Inquisitor who¡¯s...¡± He trailed off, his courage faltering as he struggled to find the right words.

    Miriam¡¯s eyes flashed with impatience. ¡°Who is what?¡± she demanded, her voice sharp.

    The soldier¡¯s face paled, and his hesitation became unbearable. Cullen, his patience already thin, moved swiftly. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The soldier gasped in shock, his hands scrabbling at the Commander¡¯s unyielding grip.

    ¡°Speak!¡± Cullen commanded his voice a menacing growl.

    The man¡¯s eyes bulged with terror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. ¡°Ab-abomination,¡± he managed to choke out, the word barely escaping his lips.

    Miriam¡¯s reaction was instant, a surge of fury erupted from deep within her. ¡°An abomination!?¡± she spat, her voice trembling with the force of her anger. First Samson, then Cassandra, and now the Knights dare to call her this?

    The soldier, still suspended in Cullen¡¯s grasp, flinched at her words. Commander¡¯s grip relaxed slightly, and he allowed the man to drop to his knees, gasping for breath. But his gaze remained locked on Miriam, awaiting her next command.

    The Inquisitor¡¯s chest heaved with the intensity of her emotions. The Templars, those sworn to uphold the laws of Andraste, now turning against her? It was unforgivable. ¡°They will pay for their insolence, for their treachery!¡±

    Cullen¡¯s face was a mask of cold resolve. ¡°What are your orders, Inquisitor?¡±

    ¡°Find these traitors,¡± she declared. ¡°Make an example of them. Let them all see what happens to those who slander and betray the Maker¡¯s chosen.¡±

    The Commander''s lips twisted into a smile as he seized the soldier by the collar, hoisting him to his feet with effortless strength. "Come, you will lead me to those who bear the weight of these crimes."

    A flicker of uncertainty crossed the soldier¡¯s face. ¡°Will¡­will the Maker reward me for telling you this? When... when He comes back to us?"

    "Yes," she assured him, her voice resolute. "The Maker sees all, and He rewards those who serve Him with a pure heart. By speaking the truth and acting righteously, you bring yourself closer to His grace. When He returns, you will be blessed beyond measure. Those who uphold His will and sacrifice in His name shall be granted a place of honor in the Golden City."

    The soldier¡¯s face brightened as his shoulders squared with newfound resolve. After giving the mage a sharp salute, he followed Cullen out of the tent, his steps certain and light with a spring in his stride.

    The mage took a few slow, measured breaths, drawing in the cool evening air to steady her racing mind. The betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, but she knew better than to let it disrupt her plans. The Knights who had shown their true colors were but a handful among the thousands in the Templar Order¡ªrotten apples in a bountiful orchard. She would not let their corruption taint her resolve. Cullen, she was confident, would exact a vengeance so thorough, so undeniable, that it would send ripples of fear through anyone who dared think of betraying their cause or dishonoring her. She didn''t need to dwell on it further. Determined, she turned back to her maps and charts spread across the table.

    Naturally, her betrothed did not disappoint. After a few hours, he returned, covered in crimson stains, and with news. The Knights had been interrogated thoroughly, and after a few broken bones to guide their tongues, had confessed to their intentions to desert and to have spreading venomous slander against the Inquisitor.

    Confronted with such undeniable evidence, the representative of the Templar Order could do nothing but bow to the inevitable. The Commander of the Inquisition, now vested with the authority to execute justice, did so without hesitation.

    The very next day, the allied forces moved towards Skyhold with their ranks shadowed by a cart bearing the spoils of Cullen¡¯s work: the dismembered bodies of the traitorous Knights. A big sign was crudely hammered to the cart, its stark letters proclaiming to all: ¡°Would-be deserters and slanderers of the Maker¡¯s Chosen.¡±

    The rest of the journey back to Skyhold passed without incident, and as they crossed the gates into the Keep, they were met with a welcome worthy of the Maker¡¯s Chosen.

    Trumpets blared, their triumphant notes echoing across the courtyard, as rows of soldiers snapped to attention, their armor gleaming in the midday sun. Flower petals rained down from the battlements, a cascade of color that swirled around them like a blessing from the heavens.

    The Chevaliers, resplendent in their polished armor, lined the courtyard in a display of Orlesian grandeur. One of them, a tall and gallant figure, approached Miriam with a courteous bow, extending his hand to assist her from her horse. Yet, before she could even consider accepting, she felt the unmistakable heat of Cullen¡¯s anger radiating from beside her.

    With a swift, fluid motion, the Commander dismounted and strode over, his expression darkening as he pushed the Orlesian aside with a forceful shove. "I¡¯ll take care of this," he growled, as he reached up to help Miriam down himself. The tension in the courtyard was palpable, the Chevaliers stiffening at the sight of their comrade''s humiliation.

    But before the situation could escalate, a group of Orlesian servants, dressed in their finest silks, swept in with exaggerated smiles and effusive greetings. They fawned over the Inquisitor and Cullen with such enthusiasm that the awkwardness of the moment was buried beneath layers of praise and over-the-top friendliness. The group, their voices dripping with honeyed tones, ushered the pair through the courtyard, up the stairs, and into the Grand Hall.

    Inside, the grandeur only intensified. The Hall was a sea of Orlesian nobility, their golden masks and elaborate garments reflecting the light of the chandeliers. At the far end of the room, standing near the throne, was the Emperor himself. His arms were outstretched in a gesture of a friendly welcome, he had undoubtedly personally orchestrated this entire spectacle.

    To Gaspard¡¯s left, Leliana stood stern and cold, her eyes like daggers as she observed the scene with quiet intensity. On his right, Josephine, pale and visibly nervous, clasped her hands together, her smile strained as she tried to maintain her composure.

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Miriam moved through the throngs of nobles, her chin lifted high, she felt the palpable waves of terror radiating from their smiling faces. Beneath the layers of powder and rouge, the cold sweat of fear clung to their skin, betraying the anxiety that their carefully composed expressions sought to conceal. These were not the same nobles who once murmured their jests and whispered rumors behind her back. Now they looked upon her and dared not utter a single word of dissent.

    Their bows were deep, almost exaggerated, as if lowering themselves further might shield them from the judgment they feared was imminent. Their eyes flickered with a mixture of reverence and dread, never lingering too long on Miriam¡¯s face, as if fearing that meeting her gaze might seal their fate.

    Cullen, walking beside her, exuded a formidable presence as well, his steps were measured, deliberate, each one echoing with the weight of authority. The nobles parted before them like a sea, creating a path lined with forced smiles and trembling hands clutching the edges of gilded garments all the way to the throne.

    As they neared the trio, Gaspard stepped forward with a wide smile, his face alight with joy as he greeted them. "Sword of the Faithful and Commander of the Inquisition," he declared, his voice carrying through the hall. Miriam inclined her head, accepting his words with the dignity of one who knew she was a living symbol of the Maker¡¯s favor, while Cullen limited himself to a brisk nod. "The Chevaliers, loyal servants of the Empire, have borne witness to your triumphs. They spoke of your righteous wrath, how you laid low the blasphemers and obliterated the vile Samson, a fiend unworthy of His light.¡± His gaze then turned to the mage. ¡°You have been blessed by His divine favor, your eyes unveiled to the sacred vision of the Golden City that must rise from the ashes of sin within my dominion. As the ruler anointed by His hand, it is my sacred duty and profound honor to marshal all the strength and resources within my grasp to aid you in fulfilling this holy mandate."

    As he was speaking, a flicker of displeasure passed through the mage¡¯s thoughts. She remembered the Emperor¡¯s past transgressions, particularly the cruel rumors he had spread about her infertility. But she knew well that the Maker¡¯s work required patience and the ability to overlook old wounds when His will demanded it. So, with a calculated poise, she extended her hand for the Emperor to kiss ¡°Your Majesty, I eagerly anticipate the great deeds we shall achieve in His name. For the return of the Maker rests in our hands.¡±

    But before Gaspard could even lean forward, Cullen¡¯s hand shot out, seizing hers in a vice-like grip. Instinctively she turned to face him and his black eyes bore into hers with a sharp, almost feral intensity. Without a word, he squeezed her hand painfully, forcing it down, before releasing it.

    A sly smile curled on the mage¡¯s lips as she turned to the ruler of Orlais once again. "My apologies, Your Majesty. It seems I¡¯ve momentarily forgotten that my betrothed prefers I reserve such gestures for him alone."

    The Emperor¡¯s expression flickered with surprise, his lips pausing mid-smile. But years of the Game had honed his diplomatic skills, and he swiftly masked his emotions with a gracious bow. "No apology necessary," he replied, his gaze shifting briefly to Cullen before returning to her. "It is only natural that such affections remain within the bounds of your union. I appreciate the reminder that some loyalties are best kept close to the heart."

    Suddenly, Leliana stepped forward, her voice slicing through the courtly chatter like a well-honed blade. "There is much to discuss," she said, her tone brisk and businesslike. "Please accompany me to the War Room, Inquisitor."

    Miriam, still savoring the lingering warmth of Cullen¡¯s grip, turned her gaze toward the Spymaster. "It will wait. You will wait. We¡¯ll meet there at dawn tomorrow," she replied, her voice calm but unyielding, allowing no room for dissent. There was indeed much to discuss, she had so many orders to give, but she would no longer be rushed, commanded, or belittled¡ªthose days were over. The Inquisition was hers to lead, and the ever-irritating redhead who had been doing as she pleased for so long would either submit to her authority or be cast aside.

    Leliana¡¯s eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, but her response was measured. "As you wish, Inquisitor. Josephine and I will go find Cassandra. I¡¯m sure she will have much to share with us."

    The mage nodded in response, her mind already shifting to the next matter at hand. ¡°Before you go, Josephine, have the preparations for my wedding been finalized?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Inquisitor,¡± the Ambassador began, her tone respectful, yet with the slightest edge of tension. "The wedding could be celebrated in a few days, as you wished. I took it upon myself to ensure everything would be perfect. The garments have already been ordered from the finest seamstress in Orlais. She has your measurements from when we had the uniforms made for the peace talks at the Winter Palace, so there will be no need for adjustments."

    ¡°Good,¡± Miriam replied, her tone still firm but with a trace of warmth. ¡°We¡¯ll proceed as planned.¡±

    The Antivan allowed herself a small, relieved smile, though the tension in her shoulders didn¡¯t fully ease. ¡°Is there anything else you require, Inquisitor?¡±

    Miriam shook her head slightly. ¡°That will be all for now. Go, and we¡¯ll reconvene tomorrow.¡±

    The duo exchanged their farewells with the Emperor and Cullen before stepping out of the Great Hall. The mage¡¯s eyes lingered on their retreating figures, her brow creased in contemplation. The Spymaster¡¯s apparent acquiescence was one thing, but expecting her full obedience was naive. Perhaps bestowing the Maker¡¯s blessing upon her might be a prudent move for the future. Her reverie was interrupted as Gaspard cleared his throat, his sound carrying a hint of theatrical flair.

    Miriam turned to face him. ¡°Your Majesty?¡±

    The Emperor¡¯s eyes glimmered with something that she couldn¡¯t quite place¡ªanticipation, perhaps. "There is something I wish to present to you," he continued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "A token of my... appreciation."

    The Commander chuckled sardonically. "Another set of robes for the Maker to set aflame perhaps?"

    Gaspard, surprisingly, chose to disregard the biting remark with a studied indifference. His face a mask of smooth, inscrutable calm, he gestured for them to follow him. "Come. I am certain you will find it to your liking."

    The Emperor guided them to the right side of the Great Hall, where a heavy door led down into the Undercroft¡ªa place Miriam had heard of but had never before ventured into. As they descended, the stone walls, once smooth, grew rougher and more cavernous, a tangible shift from the grandiosity above. The air grew hotter, and the familiar, sweet melody began to resonate in her ears, stirring a thrill of recognition within the mage.

    When they reached the heart of the chamber, Miriam''s eyes widened in a mixture of awe and exhilaration. A broad smile spread across her face as she took in the sight before her: rows upon rows of carts, each brimming with gleaming red lyrium, casting shifting patterns of crimson across the walls. ¡°Your Majesty,¡± the mage uttered, her voice tinged with genuine admiration, ¡°this is... incredibly thoughtful.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous. ¡°You think you can buy her favor with this?¡±

    Gaspard''s demeanor remained unruffled, his tone calm and measured. ¡°Commander, I assure you, this is not a matter of seeking favor. Orlais has always understood the intrinsic value of power, and I see no reason why the Sword of the Faithful should ever be lacking in it. Going forward, I will make certain she has the strength necessary to lead effectively. Surely, you can appreciate the benefit of that.¡±

    Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but Miriam quickly placed a firm hand on his arm, her touch grounding him. She enjoyed the way his jealousy revealed the depth of his feelings, but not when it threatened to interfere with her mission. Through their bond, she let her vexation ripple toward him, a silent reminder of their shared purpose.

    Cullen¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in his body palpable, but he conceded with a small, reluctant nod. The fire in his eyes dimmed, though it didn¡¯t vanish completely, and he took a step back, letting Miriam take the lead once more.

    ¡°Your Majesty,¡± she began, her voice carrying the weight of conviction, ¡°I understand the significance of this offering. It was you who told me back at Adamant that the Sword of the Faithful must be sharp, unyielding, and ever-ready to strike against His enemies. And for that lesson, I am grateful.¡± The mage¡¯s gaze swept over the carts of red lyrium. ¡°With this,¡± she continued, her voice softening as if speaking to the very essence of the lyrium itself, ¡°I can strike down all who would threaten His return. This is more than a gift, Your Majesty. It is a covenant between Orlais and the Inquisition.¡±

    Gaspard¡¯s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with approval. ¡°I look forward to witnessing the dawn we will bring together, Inquisitor.¡±

    After the exchange in the Undercroft, they returned to the Great Hall. Gaspard, ever the consummate politician, seamlessly resumed mingling with the gathered aristocrats. Cullen exchanged a few terse words with Miriam before excusing himself to attend to his duties. Meanwhile, the mage, choosing to give her betrothed time to cool off and uninterested in socializing with the nobles, headed to her quarters.

    It had been a long time since she last entered that room, but she no longer felt the dread that had once kept her away. The Maker had fortified her spirit, and the memories of what had happened to Lysette there no longer tormented her. His blessing had become her armor.

    When she pushed open the door to her quarters, she found them immaculate, as though no time had passed since her last visit. The bed was neatly made, the tapestries undisturbed, and the scent of fresh herbs lingered in the air. It was as if the room had been waiting for her, a sanctuary prepared to receive its occupant once more.

    Miriam took her time, cleansing herself of the dust and weariness from the road. The warm water soothed her muscles, and as she dressed in fresh robes, she felt renewed. She then sat at her desk, meticulously reading through reports, her mind sharp and focused.

    As the evening settled, the door creaked open, and a servant entered, her movements delicate and precise. An elven girl, she hesitated, her hands trembling as she set the tray down on the table before Miriam. The girl¡¯s eyes barely lifted from the floor, as if the very act of being in the room was a burden too great to bear.

    The mage glanced at the food. She wasn¡¯t particularly hungry, yet there was something undeniably inviting about the dish and the steaming cup of tea that accompanied it. After a moment¡¯s hesitation, she allowed herself to indulge, savoring the warmth that spread through her with each bite.

    The servant, having completed her task, bowed deeply. Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she said, ¡°I¡¯ll return for the dishes later, Your Worship.¡± With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Miriam alone with her thoughts and the quiet crackle of the flames.

    Just as the mage finished her meal a strange weariness began to creep over her, starting as a slight heaviness in her limbs that soon grew into an overwhelming sense of fatigue. She frowned, her movements faltering as she tried to shake off the sudden exhaustion. But the more she fought it, the stronger it became. It was as though a great weight had settled over her, pressing down on her shoulders, her eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.

    Miriam¡¯s thoughts became sluggish, her vision blurring as she struggled to stay awake. She managed to rise to her feet, but her legs felt like lead, barely carrying her the short distance to her bed. Her heart pounded with confusion and a faint sense of alarm, but her body was betraying her, pulling her irresistibly toward sleep. She collapsed onto the bed, the soft linens crumpling beneath her as she fell, barely conscious of her surroundings. Her eyelids fluttered, trying desperately to stay open, but it was no use. The last thing she registered was the sensation of the world tilting beneath her, and then she was sliding, sinking into darkness.

    Miriam¡¯s mind floated in a serene void, adrift in an obsidian sea. The darkness was warm, enveloping her in a comforting embrace, as though she were cradled in the arms of Andraste herself. Her thoughts were quiet, peaceful, and she felt as though she could linger here forever, lost in the tranquility.

    But then, something subtle and unsettling rippled through her¡ªa faint tremor, like the first shiver of wind before a storm. It was distant, almost imperceptible, yet it disturbed the stillness, sending a pulse of unease through the calm.

    In the midst of the void, a light flickered. At first, it was a mere pinprick, barely noticeable against the vast expanse of darkness. But it grew, its glow intensifying, spreading.  She felt a force tugging at her, pulling her away from the comforting embrace of the darkness.

    It was gentle but insistent, and reluctantly, Miriam let herself be drawn toward the light, her mind slipping from the peaceful void and back toward reality. The world around her shifted, and suddenly, she was hovering above her own body, her consciousness suspended in the air like a wisp of smoke.

    Below her, the familiar sight of her quarters came into view. The dim light from the candles flickered, casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. Her body lay on the bed, motionless, her face serene. But something was wrong¡ªterribly wrong. She wasn¡¯t alone.

    Solas stood at her bedside, his expression calm but intensely focused. His hands hovered above her left palm. The sight of him, so close, filled her with a surge of anger and disgust, emotions so fierce that they roared through her like an inferno, threatening to consume her.

    The flames of her rage flickered, begging to be unleashed upon the vile apostate who dared to invade her space, but she remained trapped in this strange, suspended state, unable to move, unable to speak. All she could do was watch, helpless, as Solas studied the mark, his eyes filled with an inscrutable intensity.

    A wave of dread crashed over Miriam as the realization dawned on her. The elf wasn¡¯t just observing¡ªhe was doing something to the mark. His lips moved silently, forming words she couldn¡¯t hear, but their power resonated through the air, a dark, insidious force that sent shivers down her spine.

    The mark on her hand pulsed faintly as if stirred by his foul incantation, and to her mounting horror, she watched as the sickly green light of his spell began to coil around her palm.  Solas¡¯ expression remained calm, almost serene, but there was a tension in his posture¡ªa subtle sign of the immense effort he was exerting. His hands, hovering just above the mark, began to glow with a soft emerald light. The glow intensified with each passing moment and the air around him started humming with power, thick with the weight of whatever spell he was weaving.

    Within the mark, the dark tendrils of the slime began to writhe violently, twisting and coiling in an anguished struggle, desperately fighting against the light pouring from Solas¡¯s hands. She could feel it¡ªevery inch of that battle between the divine and the heretical, a war waged within her own flesh. Stop! Maker, no! The words clawed at her throat, but only a strangled gasp escaped, leaving her powerless as the searing light continued its relentless assault on His blessing.

    As the spell reached its peak, the mark erupted in an explosion of black slime, splattering directly into Solas¡¯s face and blinding him. The elven mage was thrown off balance, stumbling back as his incantation fell apart. His expression twisted with frustration as he frantically tried to wipe away the thick, inky substance to regain his vision.

    The slime continued to ooze from the mark, cascading onto the bed before spilling over the edge and spreading across the floor. There, it began to coalesce, its shapeless form slowly taking on structure.

    The viscous substance writhed and twisted, as though guided by an unseen will. Gradually, it shaped itself into a tall figure that, while still amorphous, began to exhibit distinct features. From the darkness, two horn-like protrusions emerged, jutting out from what could be discerned as its head. Another set of horns unfurled from its back, curving menacingly.

    Solas, who had finally cleared his eyes, looked up at the figure, and for the first time, Miriam saw him truly terrified. His face went deathly pale, and his breath caught in his throat as he whispered, ¡°It can¡¯t be¡­ Elgar¡¯nan¡­¡±

    The figure turned its gaze toward the apostate, and as it spoke, the voice that echoed through the room was a deep, resonant sound in a language foreign and ancient. Yet, despite the strangeness of the words, Miriam understood them with chilling clarity. ¡°So, you recognize me, old friend,¡± the figure intoned. ¡°Did you think you could steal her from me? Did you believe you could sever the bond that ties her to her true purpose?¡±

    It was the same voice that, since her first vision in the Chantry of the Ostwick Circle, had spoken to her so many times. This voice guided her through her journey, filling her with a sense of purpose and direction, shaping her path until this very moment.

    It was the voice of the Maker!

    Miriam¡¯s heart raced, a tempest of awe and vindication swirling within her. The Maker, the Creator of all, had come to her aid! Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden, as the immense weight of His presence enveloped her. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of grace that left her gasping. The vile heretic who had dared to try poisoning the sacred gift of Andraste would now confront the full, unyielding fury of His wrath.

    Solas took an involuntary step back, his face contorted with disbelief. ¡°You were banished, sealed away. This isn¡¯t possible!¡±

    The figure took a deliberate step forward, its presence towering over the elven mage with an overwhelming sense of absolute authority. The very air seemed to crackle with its force. ¡°You¡¯ve meddled for too long, Fen''Harel,¡± the voice rumbled, deep and resonant, filling the room with a commanding intensity. ¡°But your interference ends here.¡±

    The dark figure raised its arms, and a blinding aura enveloped him. The air crackled with power, a force so immense that it seemed to stretch the very fabric of reality.

    The elf fought to shield himself, conjuring a barrier against the impending onslaught, but it was a futile effort. With a deafening roar, a tremendous blast of energy erupted, shattering Solas¡¯ barrier as if it were made of glass. The force rushed towards the apostate with an unstoppable, ravenous fury, a wave of power that collided with the elf, throwing him backward towards the balcony with a ferocious thud. The blast was so potent, so overwhelmingly powerful, that its residual force spilled across the entire room, engulfing everything in its path. Miriam felt her ethereal form being torn apart, her mind fragmenting under the sheer weight of the energy. The chamber seemed to implode and expand simultaneously, her perception spiraling into chaos. And yet, as the boundaries of her consciousness collapsed, her last coherent thought was one of exalted triumph.

 Lies and Allies

    Cullen sat behind his desk, eyes skimming the reports, but his focus was elsewhere. His hands were steady, yet his mind simmered with unspoken fury, a storm of thoughts he couldn''t escape. He could see it so clearly¡ªGaspard, kneeling before him, powerless. Cullen¡¯s fingers would press into the man''s skull, feeling the slight give of flesh under his grip. His thumbs would dig deeper, finding that perfect point of resistance just before everything gave way. There would be a moment¡ªa brief, satisfying moment¡ªwhere the Emperor''s smug, scheming eyes would widen, right before his life would be extinguished forever.

    Then he heard the blast. A deep, thunderous boom, muffled by the thick stone walls of the tower. A heartbeat later, he felt it¡ªan unstoppable force rippling through the room. The shockwave hit like a physical blow, rattling the wooden beams above and sending a jolt through the floor beneath him. The reports scattered off his desk, tossed like leaves in a storm.

    His hand gripped the edge of the desk, steadying himself as the tower groaned under the pressure. The door shuddered violently on its hinges, dust raining down from the ceiling in soft streams.  His pulse quickened, the momentary haze of his thoughts vanishing in an instant, replaced by a sharp, calculated awareness. Outside, beyond the heavy door, he could already hear the muffled sounds of shouts and the clang of armor.

    Cullen sprang from his chair, his hand closing around the familiar grip of his sword in one smooth motion. He burst from his office, the door slamming against the wall with a hollow crash. His breath came in sharp gasps as he stumbled to a stop, heart hammering. The courtyard lay before him, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, yet no sign of the enemy marred the night. No shadowy figures scaling the walls of Skyhold. No clash of steel. Just smoke. It curled like a living thing, thick and sinuous in the pale moonlight, drifting up from the west wing. His chest tightened. The Inquisitor¡¯s quarters!

    A cold spike of fear gripped his chest, sharp as a blade. His thoughts froze, smothered in sudden panic. He couldn¡¯t think¡ªcouldn¡¯t breathe. But then, instinctively, he reached for the bond. His eyes fluttered shut, and he cast his senses inward, searching for that essential tether.

    There. Faint, but still present. Miriam was alive.

    Relief crashed through him, warm and overwhelming, but it was fleeting. The tension returned just as swiftly, coiling in his gut. What in the Void was happening?

    Soldiers were already rushing toward the scene, while the panicked populace of the fortress scattered in every direction, screams filling the air. ¡°Form ranks!¡± he barked at the nearest soldiers, his voice cutting through the chaos. ¡°Fortify the defenses, and get the civilians inside!¡± The men and women of Skyhold¡¯s guard snapped into action, their training taking over as they moved with purpose.

    The smoke thickened, turning the air dense and acrid as Cullen pushed through towards the main building, his gaze sharp, sweeping for any hint of an enemy. So far, nothing. Maybe they weren¡¯t under attack at all. But he couldn''t afford to assume. He needed answers¡ªand fast. Most of all, he needed to know Miriam was safe. ¡°Sergeant, you¡¯re in charge here!¡± he shouted to a nearby officer, barely slowing his pace. ¡°If anything changes, signal immediately!¡±

    A hard-faced woman with steel in her eyes snapped a sharp salute. "Aye, Commander!"

    He nodded, though his thoughts had already moved on.

    As Cullen strode into the Great Hall, chaos greeted him. Nobles lay scattered across the floor, groaning in discomfort, their finely tailored robes in disarray. Furniture was overturned, chairs and tables thrown askew. A few of them muttered questions or called out for help as he passed, but their words didn¡¯t register. He didn¡¯t care. His focus was a razor-sharp edge cutting through the noise. He had to reach Miriam.

    Cullen skidded to a stop outside the door to the Inquisitor¡¯s quarters, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. His fingers trembled as he flung the door open, stepping into the narrow passage that led to the ladder. No hesitation¡ªhe launched himself upward, boots clanging against the rungs as he climbed to the third floor, urgency driving him faster with each step.

    When he reached the top, he froze. The door to the Inquisitor''s room hung askew, torn from its hinges, and shattered across the stone floor. Smoke and dust swirled in the air, but there was something more. Magic.

    The air pulsed with raw, seething power, thick enough to make every breath feel like a weight in his lungs. Cullen gritted his teeth as he stepped into what was left of the Inquisitor¡¯s chambers, his skin crawling beneath the oppressive energy that lingered like a living thing.

    The right side of the room was simply gone¡ªobliterated. Where the balcony had once stood, there was nothing but jagged remains of stone and splintered beams, the walls and floor ending abruptly in a yawning void. Moonlight spilled through the gap, mingling with the smoke that still curled lazily through the shattered space.

    He forced himself to look past the destruction, eyes sweeping left. There¡ªbeneath the wreckage of an overturned bed, a dark shape caught his attention. His heart seized. A mass of slime. Thick, viscous darkness, swirling like living tar. Miriam.

    Without thinking, Cullen lunged forward, his hands moving with frantic speed as he tore at the overturned furniture, flinging shattered wood and stone aside. Each piece he cleared made the dark shape beneath more visible, his heart pounding louder with every second. He worked feverishly, clearing the last of the debris that had fallen over the mass of black, until finally, it lay exposed before him. He hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brushed the surface.

    At his touch, the substance rippled, then seemed to pause, as though it recognized him. The swirling slowed, and the oppressive weight in the air lifted. Then, almost gently, the dark mass began to peel away, falling to the sides in thick, slick folds.

    Beneath it, Miriam lay unconscious, her chest rising and falling slowly. She was uninjured, untouched by the blast. Before he could react further, the remaining black slime began to retract, quickly slithering back, drawn into the mark on her hand like a snake returning to its den. In moments, the room was still again, save for the sound of Cullen¡¯s shaky exhale.

    He knelt beside her, and his hand moved, almost instinctively, to brush against her cheek. Her skin felt deathly cold beneath his touch. Scrutinizing the mage with mounting concern, his initial relief faded into unease. Yes, she was unharmed on the surface, but her breathing was unnaturally slow and shallow. The black veins that once wove through her like dark rivers of magic now lay shriveled and lifeless, like roots left to wither in a sun-scorched desert. It was clear now¡ªshe had been drained, her power sapped to a dangerously depleted state.

    His mind raced, thoughts scattering like shards of glass as he desperately sought a solution. Red lyrium. His betrothed needed red lyrium¡ªimmediately, and in vast quantities. But where could he¡ªA sudden image cut through the chaos, vivid and sharp: carts brimming with red crystals, their glow faintly pulsating in the dim light. That blighted Emperor! The very gift he had condemned was exactly what Miriam needed at this moment. He had to get her to the Undercroft, and he had to do it quickly.

    He slipped his arms beneath the mage, cradling her limp form against his chest. Hurriedly he navigated through the debris, his heart pounding as he carried her down the narrow wooden stairs.

    As he reached the bottom, the Great Hall greeted him still in disarray from the chaos that had erupted earlier. Just as before he moved forward dodging debris and people alike, and in a moment the entrance to the Undercroft was almost within reach. Just a few more steps.

    Then came the familiar foul voice. ¡°Commander Cullen!¡±

    He paused, jaw tightening, and turned his head slightly. Not far behind, approaching with long, hurried strides, was the Emperor himself, flanked by the rest of the Inquisition council. They looked as worried as the situation called for, but something in their eyes gave Cullen pause. Their expressions weren¡¯t just laced with concern¡ªthey were probing, suspicious. Especially the Spymaster¡¯s. Leliana¡¯s gaze locked onto him as if trying to see through him, measuring every detail of the situation. There was no warmth in her expression, only cold calculation.

    ¡°What is happening here?¡± Gaspard inquired, voice smooth but with an edge. His eyes flicked briefly to the mage¡¯s limp form in Cullen¡¯s arms.  ¡°Is Miriam all right?¡±

    Cullen flinched at the sound of his woman¡¯s name on the Emperor¡¯s lips. How dare this snake address her so casually? It took every ounce of restraint to suppress the surge of fury that threatened to consume him. The words that followed tasted like ash, but he forced them out, sharp and cutting. ¡°My betrothed and I need to get to the Undercroft,¡± he growled, his voice low but trembling with barely restrained anger. ¡°Now.¡±

    The Emperor¡¯s eyes widened just slightly at Cullen¡¯s tone, but he didn¡¯t flinch. Instead, he studied him carefully. But Cullen wasn¡¯t in the mood for games.

    His eyes flicked to the council members behind Gaspard, then back to the man himself. Until he knew exactly what happened in the Inquisitor¡¯s quarters he couldn¡¯t trust any of them. ¡°You¡¯re all going to stay here,¡± he continued, his voice hard as iron. ¡°If anyone follows us¡ª¡± His gaze darkened, his eyes locking onto the Emperor with a deadly intensity. ¡°I will kill them.¡±

    The threat hung in the air, as sharp and final as the blade at Cullen¡¯s side. There was no hesitation in his words, no room for doubt. He would do it, and they all knew it.

    For a moment, Cassandra looked as though she might challenge him, but then a flicker of something¡ªuncertainty, perhaps¡ªcrossed her features. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing.

    Behind her, Leliana face remained impassive, but Cullen could see the tension in her posture. Josephine, standing beside her, glanced at him with wide, frightened eyes but remained silent. They knew better than to push him right now.

    Cullen turned without another word and carried Miriam toward the heavy wooden door. With his hands full, he shifted slightly and pushed it open with his shoulder. The door groaned under the force, its hinges creaking in protest before it finally gave way, swinging open to reveal the cold, dim stairwell beyond. He descended into the darkness, leaving the Emperor and the council members behind¡ªalong with whatever judgment they might pass.

    At last, the stairwell opened into a cavernous chamber beneath the fortress, vast and echoing, lit only by the faint glow of the red crystals so proudly presented by Gaspard earlier this day. Cullen paused, standing at the threshold, feeling the raw energy thrumming in the air¡ªlike a heartbeat pulsing just beneath the surface. Miriam stirred slightly in his arms. It was as if she could feel it too, the energy reaching for her, pulling her closer. Cullen took it as a sign. He was on the right path.

    He carried her to the center of the chamber, his boots echoing in the emptiness as he walked. Carefully, he lowered her onto the cold stone floor, her head resting gently in the crook of his arm until she was settled.

    "Blessed Andraste, I hope this works," he whispered. Cullen wasn¡¯t sure if he was speaking to Miriam or himself. Maybe both. He wasn¡¯t a mage, nor was he the chosen of the Maker. The intricacies of magic were a language foreign to him, and he had never fully grasped how Miriam¡¯s mark functioned. He remembered how she had absorbed the power of red lyrium in the past¡ªalways through the black, viscous substance that came from it, each time a conscious choice on her part, a willing embrace of the power it offered. But now? Now, things were different. Miriam was unconscious. But he had to try something.

    Cullen reached out and grabbed one of the crystals from the nearest cart, its surface smooth and hot under his fingers. A jolt of energy shot through him immediately, as if the crystal recognized him, resonating with blood in his veins. His vision blurred, the world shifting in and out of focus. But he held on, pulling the crystal free from the pile.

    Kneeling beside the mage, he placed the shard on the floor right beneath her marked palm. The Commander watched, his brow creased in concentration, willing something¡ªanything¡ªto happen. But nothing did.

    The shard continued to glow faintly, pulsating with its alluring red hue. Miriam¡¯s hand remained still, unmoved by the energy it had once drawn so easily. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing, searching for answers. Maybe it just needs more time. Yet, moments passed¡ªagonizingly long¡ªand still nothing. The red lyrium sat there, inert, and Miriam lay motionless. His chest tightened as the realization sank in¡ªthis wasn¡¯t working. Suddenly, a flicker of memory ignited within him. He recalled the battle with Samson, how the black slime had flowed not only from Miriam¡¯s mark but also from the scar on her chest.  Hope surged within him. Maybe it wasn¡¯t just the mark that could draw the power; perhaps the scar held the key as well.

    Taking the crystal under her arm he tore at the top buttons of her robe and pressed it against her chest. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the red light began to seep into her, the glow spreading beneath her skin like veins of molten fire. Her body jerked, the drained crystal falling to the floor as her back arched off the stone, the magic surged through her. ¡°Miriam!¡± he called out, gripping her shoulders, trying to hold her steady as her body convulsed. The light grew brighter, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, until suddenly it vanished and her eyes flew open. Her frame stilled and her breathing, once erratic, steadied.

    Slowly, she turned her black gaze to him, her expression weary but alive. ¡°Cullen¡­¡± she whispered, her voice faint yet determined. ¡°I need more.¡±

    Cullen shot to his feet, feeling the glimmer of control for the first time since the chaos had begun. He moved quickly, rushing to one of the nearby carts overflowing with red lyrium. He grabbed the side of the cart and tipped it over, spilling the glowing shards onto the stone floor beside the mage. The crystals tumbled in a cascade of red light, piling up within her reach.

    Miriam, now in a seated position, leaned forward, her body weak but her resolve strong. Her left hand, trembling slightly, stretched toward the red pile. As her fingers neared the shards, a familiar, dark substance began to seep from her mark¡ªthick, black slime, alive with purpose. It moved toward the lyrium to latch onto the crystals.

    He watched in relief as her body began to draw in the power. Miriam¡¯s breathing grew deeper, steadier, and her posture straightened, strength returning to her frame.  Cullen knelt by her side once more, his eyes locked on her. ¡°Is it enough?¡±

    The mage didn¡¯t look at him at first; her focus was entirely on consuming black slime as it continued to devour the pile of red. Finally, she shook her head, her voice stronger now. ¡°More... a lot more.¡±

    The Inquisitor consumed cart after cart of red lyrium, the black slime weaving in and out of the pile of shards, devouring them. And it wasn¡¯t until she had taken in nearly all the lyrium the Emperor had gifted her that she raised a hand, signaling that it was enough.

    As the black slime retracted into her mark, leaving the remaining piles untouched, the mage sat there for a moment, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Cullen let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding, his body sagging slightly with relief. ¡°Now, can you tell me what in the Void happened?¡±

    She opened her eyes, dark and steady now, and pushed herself to her feet. Cullen reached out to help her, but she waved him off, standing on her own, her posture firm. ¡°It was Solas,¡± she hissed, her voice seething with anger. ¡°That blighted heretic must have poisoned my food. Laced it with something that made me fall into a deep slumber. I couldn''t wake up, couldn''t move. And then¡ª¡± She swallowed, her voice thick with the memory. ¡°He tried to destroy my mark, Cullen. He was trying to rip it away from me." She glanced down for a moment, her fingers gingerly tracing where the mark rested. "That¡¯s why my power was fading. Why I was so weak."

    Cullen¡¯s heart dropped like a stone. His body went rigid, his jaw clenching hard. Solas? The man who had stood among the Inquisition¡¯s ranks from the very beginning? He¡¯d nearly forgotten the elf¡¯s presence, writing him off as nothing more than an apostate¡ªa heretic to devour once his aid was no longer needed. He considered him harmless. And now, this? The realization crashed over him, a bitter wave that mixed anger with self-reproach. He had underestimated the elf. That mistake made his blood boil stronger than the betrayal itself.

    Miriam''s eyes widened as she continued, wild with fury and something else¡ªsomething reverent. She drew in a breath, her voice lowering to a trembling whisper. ¡°But the Maker Himself came to my aid.¡±

    Cullen blinked, his mind spinning. ¡°The Maker?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± she replied, her tone filled with unshakable certainty. ¡°I saw Him stand before me, my love. I felt His presence. I heard His voice. He came to me, in that dark moment. And He killed the heretic¡ªburned him with a divine light that no mere mortal could stand against.¡±

    For a long moment, Cullen could only stare at her, trying to comprehend the weight of what she had just revealed. The Maker¡ªHe had acted. Not through visions, not through whispers in her head or blessings. No, this was direct, tangible. The raw immeasurable power he had felt, the destruction of her quarters¡ªeverything now clicked into place. ¡°If only for a moment He came back to this world to protect you¡­¡± Cullen breathed, awe coloring his words. ¡°My betrothed has been touched by the Maker¡¯s own hand, blessed beyond measure. Only Andraste herself stands higher in His favor!¡± With that, he pulled Miriam into a fierce embrace. ¡°My only regret,¡± he growled, his voice hardening, ¡°is that I wasn¡¯t there to tear that foul heretic apart myself.¡±

    Miriam returned his embrace, her voice calm yet laced with grim satisfaction. ¡°He would¡¯ve deserved every strike, and more.¡±

    They stood together for a brief moment, wrapped in each other''s arms, the gravity of what had just transpired settling over them like a shroud. Then, with a shared nod, they knew what had to come next. Without a word, Cullen and Miriam turned toward the door, their footsteps echoing as they made their way to the Great Hall.

    As they entered, all eyes fell upon them. The Emperor stood at the head of the room, his gaze expectant, while the members of the Inquisition council turned to meet them, their postures stiff with anticipation.

    Leliana, ever watchful, stood like a shadow at the edge of the gathering, her face a mask of cold precision. Josephine, her diplomatic poise slipping, blinked at Miriam in surprise and confusion. Cassandra paced in a small circle, her expression tight, as if she were trying to hold onto something¡ªsome certainty¡ªbut it was slipping through her fingers. Gaspard¡¯s eyes meanwhile were alight with enthusiasm, as if this all were some grand story unfolding just for him.

    Miriam stepped forward, her presence commanding the Hall. ¡°Gather in the War Room.¡± It wasn¡¯t a request, and no one dared question her. They followed her without a word.

    The War Room¡¯s heavy doors closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the Skyhold. The air within was thick with tension, and all gazes turned to the Inquisitor as she took her place at the head of the table.

    Miriam drew a deep breath and spoke, recounting the same events she described to him in the Undercroft.  Leliana¡¯s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her hands resting loosely at her sides. If she had any reaction, it was carefully concealed. Josephine¡¯s hand flew to her mouth, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ How could this be?¡±

    Cassandra had stopped pacing, now standing frozen, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. The Seeker¡¯s face betrayed a flicker of uncertainty as if she were trying to reconcile her faith with the sheer magnitude of what had happened. For a woman who had built her life on certainty, it was a blow. ¡°You¡¯re saying Solas was behind this¡­ and that the Maker intervened? Himself?¡± She shook her head slowly, her tone filled with something akin to disbelief, but beneath it, there was a tremor of fear¡ªfear that her understanding of the world was fracturing.

    Gaspard, on the other hand, was grinning. Grinning. Cullen could feel the heat rising in his chest at the sight of it. ¡°A divine battle unfolding before us! What a tale this will be for the ages to come!¡± The Emperor practically vibrated with enthusiasm, his excitement barely contained. ¡°An elven apostate, that treacherous dog, defeated by the Maker¡¯s own hand! Marvelous! This will only cement our cause!¡± The man¡¯s glee was insufferable. This was no Game, no opportunity for political gain.

    Miriam, however, kept her focus, her voice sharp and unwavering. "Solas proved to be a far greater menace than we ever imagined," she said, cutting through the mounting reactions in the room. ¡°This was our mistake. We made the grave error of thinking an apostate, a heretic, could ever be useful to us. A dangerous gamble, one that almost cost us dearly.¡±

    Her eyes hardened as she glanced around the table, her voice growing colder, more commanding. ¡°No longer will we suffer such delusions. From this moment on, the Circles will be reinstalled, and every mage will return to their rightful place under the strict control of the Templar Order. Those who refuse, those who cling to their so-called freedom¡ªwill be branded as heretics. And heretics,¡± she continued, a glint of fire igniting in her eyes, ¡°will be dealt with by cleansing fire.¡±

    There was a stunned silence. It was Cassandra who broke it, her voice rising in an explosion of defiance. "This is not your decision to make, Inquisitor!" she spat, stepping forward, her fists clenched. ¡°This is a decision for the Divine! The Inquisition cannot dictate such policies without the sanction of the Chantry!¡±

    Miriam¡¯s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. The fires in her eyes flared, literal flames flickering into life around her hands as the power she commanded surged. ¡°The Divine?¡± she said, her voice low, dangerous. ¡°What is a mere Divine compared to me? You think I¡¯ll bow to some distant cleric when I¡¯ve been touched by the Maker Himself?¡±

    Cassandra¡¯s face twisted in anger, but Miriam took a step closer, her presence like a storm looming over the Seeker. ¡°You have a tendency to forget who you speak to,¡± the mage hissed, her voice like molten steel. ¡°I hold the favor of the Maker. The Divine is a child playing at piety. Question me again, and I¡¯ll see to it that you are reminded of your place. Perhaps the flames that purify heretics would be also fitting for those who question my will.¡±

    Cassandra stood rigid, torn between fury and disbelief, her muscles tensing as if preparing for a fight. But even she couldn¡¯t ignore the raw power radiating from Miriam, the sheer force of her presence. Her defiance flickered, but her jaw remained tight.

    Before Cassandra could respond, Gaspard clapped his hands as he practically leaped into the conversation. "I¡¯ll arrange everything with the Orlesian Chantry.¡± He gave a slight bow toward Miriam, clearly reveling in the political power shift. "Leave it to me. I¡¯ll make sure they fall in line. After all, the Chantry needs guidance, and you, Sword of the Faithful, are the perfect one to provide it."

    The fire in Miriam¡¯s eyes softened, though it didn¡¯t fade entirely. She turned back to the rest of the council, her voice calm once again, though the underlying threat still lingered like smoke from a flame that had yet to be fully extinguished. "As for the mages already serving within the Inquisition, they will be presented with a choice. They may either return to the Circles, where they belong, or they may choose to stand with us¡ªbut only if they pass a trial by hot iron. They must prove their faith in the Maker beyond question. Only those who emerge from the trial with their spirits unbroken by pain, their loyalty to Him and His purpose unwavering, will remain in our ranks."

    The silence in the War Room deepened as she continued, her words chilling in their finality. "Even then, each mage who is allowed to stay will be under constant watch. A Templar sentinel will be assigned to them¡ªday and night. These sentinels will not falter. At the slightest hint of doubt, any sign of betrayal, they will do what must be done. The mage will be killed without hesitation." Miriam''s eyes shifted toward Cullen. ¡°Commander, I want you to arrange this. Speak with the representatives of the Order and choose sentinels from among the Knights most faithful. I want only those who know no pity, no doubt, and no weakness to the lust with which the flesh tempts. They must be beyond reproach, unyielding in their purpose.¡±

    Cullen met her gaze. "It will be done. I will make sure there would be no leniency for either mages or the Templars who guard them.¡±

    Miriam nodded and turned to lock her gaze on Josephine. "Ambassador, see to it that my quarters, damaged in Solas'' cowardly attack, are repaired immediately. I expect everything to be in order for my wedding to the Commander. It will take place in three days."

    Josephine blinked, her diplomatic instincts struggling to reassert themselves, but her shock was still evident. "Three days?" she asked, her voice hesitant. "Lady Inquisitor, I haven''t seen the full extent of the destruction yet, but judging by the blast we all felt, it will be impossible to have everything rebuilt in time. The scale of¡ª"

    Miriam¡¯s eyes narrowed, a flicker of fire reigniting in their depths. "You will see it done," she uttered, her tone sharp and icy, "or you are opposing the union of me with the Commander, a union decreed by Him." She let the words linger, the threat hanging like a blade over the Ambassador¡¯s head. ¡°Think very carefully before you speak again, Josephine."

    The Antivan''s face went pale, her fingers tightening around the edges of her parchment. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, nodding stiffly. "I¡­ I will do my best, Lady Inquisitor," she managed, her voice strained but compliant.

    Miriam didn¡¯t linger on her any longer. Her focus shifted to Leliana, who had remained silent, her expression inscrutable. "As for you," the mage said, her tone lighter but no less forceful, "your task is to devote your resources to finding the Elder One. Every spy, every contact, every whisper in the shadows¡ªI want his location. Once the wedding is celebrated, we will begin preparations for battle.¡±

    Leliana inclined her head slightly. ¡°Of course,¡± she said, her voice calm and collected, but there was an edge to it. ¡°I¡¯ll see to it immediately. We will have answers before the time comes.¡±

    Satisfied with her command, Miriam turned back toward Cullen. For just a brief moment, her gaze softened, her eyes finding his with tenderness. ¡°And then,¡± she said quietly, her voice carrying a reverent tone, ¡°we can finally begin to build the Golden City.¡± The words hung in the air between them, heavy with promise, but it was fleeting. Almost immediately, the edge returned to her voice, her authority sharp as ever as she addressed the room at large. ¡°Everyone, return to your tasks. I will go with the Ambassador to inspect the state of my quarters. I need to see how much work is needed¡ªand how many workers I should bless so they can labor tirelessly day and night.¡±

    The Inquisitor and Josephine were the first to step out of the War Room, the mage¡¯s movements sharp and decisive. One by one, the rest of the council followed, their expressions tense, seemingly eager to escape from the Sword of the Faithful¡¯s presence.

    The Commander was about to leave too, when he felt a firm grip on his hand. Instinctively, he twisted sharply, his muscles coiling in preparation for a fight¡ªonly to find Gaspard standing behind him, his fingers wrapped firmly around Cullen''s wrist.

    ¡°Commander,¡± the Orlesian murmured, his tone suggesting more than just a casual interruption.

    Cullen yanked his hand free. "What do you want?" he growled, his patience already fraying.

    Instead of replying directly, Gaspard glanced down at his own hand, rubbing his palm with a curious smirk. "You¡¯re one hot man," he remarked, amusement lacing his voice.

    Cullen¡¯s eyes narrowed, fury flaring. ¡°What did you just say?¡± The words came out low, almost a snarl. He stepped toward the Emperor, hand instinctively reaching for Gaspard¡¯s collar, ready to put the man in his place.

    The Orlesian chuckled, raising his palm casually as if showing Cullen a minor injury. ¡°I mean it literally,¡± he said, his grin widening. ¡°You''re burning hot to the touch even through the gloves.¡±

    Cullen froze mid-motion, his hand stopping just shy of Gaspard¡¯s throat. A flicker of confusion crossed his features, his anger momentarily replaced by bewilderment. His gaze dropped to his own hands. The warmth¡ªthe heat, really¡ªthat had radiated from his skin ever since he¡¯d tasted blood from Miriam¡¯s scar had never been an issue for her. She seemed to welcome it, relishing his touch even more than before. But this - this was the first time anyone else had laid a hand on him, and the fact that it caused the Emperor a sting of pain was further proof that his bond with Miriam was unique, consecrated. No one else could touch him as she could.

    ¡°But I guess that¡¯s what happens when you''re bound to a woman blessed by the Maker Himself,¡± the Orlesian¡¯s voice interrupted his thoughts.

    Cullen¡¯s jaw tightened, irritation resurging. ¡°Is that what this is about? Miriam?¡±

    ¡°Ah, yes and no, Commander. I¡¯ve simply noticed a bit of¡­ tension between us. Perhaps a bit of animosity? I was hoping we might address it. Whatever the reason for your¡­ disapproval, I think it would be wise to put it behind us.¡±

    Cullen folded his arms across his chest. ¡°Is that so?¡±

    Gaspard chuckled, shrugging as though it were a trivial matter. ¡°Come now, we¡¯re on the same side, are we not? Both of us serve the Maker.¡± His gaze flickered toward the door where Miriam had left. ¡°I¡¯m ready to acknowledge that I may have misjudged you.¡±

    The Commander raised an eyebrow but remained silent, watching Gaspard carefully.

    ¡°You see,¡± the Orlesian continued, taking a few steps back and leaning against the war table, ¡°when I first heard of you¡ªFerelden-born, Templar-trained¡ªI assumed you were just another bumpkin.¡± His words were casual, as if describing a minor inconvenience. ¡°But I¡¯ve seen now that you¡¯re far more¡­ capable than I gave you credit for. You outplayed me. You secured yourself not only a position of influence but a woman unmatched in all of Thedas.¡±

    Cullen snapped. The words struck him like a hammer to the chest. Before he even registered what he was doing, he surged forward, grabbing Gaspard by the collar of his ornate coat. His grip was tight, knuckles white, as he hauled the Emperor closer, fury burning in his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m nothing like you!¡± he growled, his voice low and seething. ¡°I¡¯m not playing the Game. I don¡¯t care about political power or manipulation. My relationship with Miriam is sacred. It¡¯s blessed!¡±

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    The air between them crackled with tension, but Gaspard¡¯s expression remained disturbingly calm, almost amused, despite Cullen¡¯s outburst. ¡°There¡¯s no need to keep up the pretense,¡± he said evenly. ¡°We both know how these things work. I am well aware how your Spymaster orchestrated the entire incident with the burning of the robes that I gifted to the Inquisitor.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s breath caught in his throat, anger coursing through him. "What are you talking about?"

    Gaspard, still disturbingly composed, gave a small, knowing smile. ¡°Why continue with this charade, Com¡ª¡±

    Cullen squeezed harder, cutting off his words. ¡°I¡¯m not playing your damn Game,¡± he hissed through clenched teeth, his fury spilling over. His grip tightened the fabric of Gaspard¡¯s coat twisting in his fist. He could feel the pulse of blood in his ears, the heat rising in his chest¡ª

    Then a sharp pain blossomed against his side.

    He stiffened, his rage interrupted by the sudden, unmistakable sensation of a blade pressed to his skin. Positioned perfectly, the point rested between his ribs, the edge just shy of piercing flesh. One small movement and it would sink into his heart.

    Gaspard¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter, his free hand holding the dagger as steady as if he were simply holding a quill. ¡°Careful,¡± he whispered, voice cool as ice. ¡°One wrong move, and we end this conversation rather permanently.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s grip loosened instinctively, his hand slackening on the Emperor¡¯s collar. But he didn¡¯t let go. His breath came in shallow bursts, the adrenaline still flooding his system, his mind racing. He could feel the tip of the dagger pressing ever so lightly into his skin¡ªa warning, not yet a wound.

    ¡°I¡¯m not playing,¡± Cullen growled, his voice still edged with fury but now tinged with a dark, simmering restraint. His eyes locked onto the Orlesian¡¯s, burning with defiance.

    Gaspard raised an eyebrow, amused by Cullen¡¯s stubbornness. ¡°Really?¡±

    He could feel his pulse pounding against the blade, and yet, even with the threat of death hanging in the air, he refused to back down. ¡°I am asking you one last time, what are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°Very well, Commander. Since you insist,¡± the Emperor began, ¡°You see, I know that it wasn¡¯t divine intervention from Him that burned the robes. The Maker did not ordain your union with the Inquisitor. I have proof, that your Spymaster and your now dead heretic worked together to stage the entire thing.¡±

    ¡°Solas and Leliana?¡±  Cullen questioned incredulously.

    "The very same," Gaspard continued smoothly, his voice dripping with confidence. "The apostate crafted a potion¡ªa carefully balanced mixture designed to make the mark on the Herald¡¯s hand unstable. Not immediately, of course. The potion was perfected so that Leliana knew precisely when the reaction would occur, down to the moment." His lips curled into a dark smile. "It was almost too easy to administer. Just a few drops in the Inquisitor¡¯s food, enough to be absorbed slowly into her system. And your Spymaster didn¡¯t stop there. She ensured that during the last laundering, the Inquisitor¡¯s robes were treated with a highly flammable compound. Invisible to the eye, harmless¡ªuntil it met the right catalyst." He paused, his tone shifting, now tinged with a grudging respect. "A delicate plan, executed with precision."

    ¡°You¡¯re telling me they risked her life for this?¡± Cullen¡¯s voice broke through the room, sharp and bitter. ¡°That¡¯s absurd!¡±

    ¡°Is it, though?¡± Gaspard replied, his smirk faint but unmistakable, like the shadow of a sword before it strikes. ¡°Lysette was always there. Always beside her. Poised to silence the mark if things went too far. The Inquisitor was never truly in danger. And that¡¯s just the beginning,¡± he added. ¡°If what you say is true¡ªthat you weren¡¯t part of the Game¡ªthen it means your fainting that day was also planned. They gave you just a small push to bring you into the Inquisitor¡¯s care. To keep her close.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s world tilted as Gaspard¡¯s words began to sink in. His mind scrambled, desperately trying to piece together that moment¡ªthe sudden, inexplicable weakness while he was speaking with¡­ someone. A woman, though he couldn¡¯t recall who. He had always chalked it up to exhaustion, assuming he''d simply overworked himself. But now, his breath quickened, betraying the rising panic he was trying to keep at bay. ¡°You¡¯re lying!¡± he growled, though even as the words left his mouth, a cold dread curled in his chest. Knowing Leliana, a part of him already feared that Gaspard might be telling the truth.

    Gaspard chuckled softly, a smug glint in his eyes. ¡°Say what you will, Commander. But deep down, you know the truth. Despite the Inquisition¡¯s proclamations to the faithful of Thedas, the Maker has nothing to do with your marriage.¡±

    Cullen¡¯s hands trembled. Had everything truly been orchestrated so carefully? Had his and Miriam¡¯s relationship been manipulated? No, impossible. The Emperor was lying. He had to be. ¡°You said you have proof, show it to me!¡± he demanded, barely containing the storm of emotion raging inside him.

    ¡°Very well, Commander. But understand, I¡¯m not stupid enough to bring the original here.¡± The Emperor slowly, deliberately sheathed the dagger, though he kept his eyes locked on Cullen''s. With a calculated motion, he reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a slim, thread-bound journal. ¡°Here¡¯s a copy, I took the liberty of duplicating the relevant parts. The original is well-hidden, somewhere safe, ready to be made public if¡­ unfortunate circumstances were to befall me.¡± His eyes gleamed with a thinly veiled threat. ¡°You can keep this if it makes you feel any better.¡±

    Cullen snatched the copy from Gaspard¡¯s hand, the motion quick and sharp, like a reflex. As his fingers flipped through the pages, his stomach twisted tighter with each turn.

    It wasn¡¯t Leliana¡¯s handwriting that filled the pages¡ªno, the penmanship was different. But the phrasing, the code words... it was all unmistakably Spymaster¡¯s. Cold. Calculated. Perfectly methodical. Each sentence, a blueprint of deceit.

    The potion.

    The treated robe.

    The timing of his fainting.

    Every step, every small nudge toward her desired outcome, laid bare on the parchment before him. Cullen felt the blood drain from his face, his vision blurring at the edges as a memory surfaced¡ªsharp, sudden, unavoidable. The incident with Gaspard''s agent. The man, posing as Ser Michel de Chevin, had infiltrated Skyhold, slipping through their defenses like a shadow, and stealing sensitive documents. Cullen remembered the chaos that followed. Some of the stolen papers had been exposed ¡°accidentally¡± to Miriam. And that, in turn, had led to Lysette¡¯s suicide. But there was something else stolen that day. Leliana had refused to share what it was and Cullen had never pressed her on it¡ªtrusted that whatever it was, the Spymaster had it under control...His eyes snapped back to the pages in his hand. Was this the missing piece? Had those stolen documents contained the foundation of this twisted manipulation? Should he question Leliana about it now? Yet what was the point, she would never assume her guilt. Maker, what if it all was true¡­No, no, no!

    ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± he repeated, though even as he said it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his certainty. ¡°This... this is just a ploy. You¡¯re trying to ruin our wedding!¡±

    Gaspard gave Cullen a calm, almost pitying smile. ¡°Oh, Cullen,¡± he said softly, as though speaking to a child, ¡°I¡¯ve no interest in the Inquisitor as a wife any longer. Believe me, I¡¯ve come to realize that the power she shares with her husband will be bound to burdens far heavier than I¡¯d ever choose to carry.¡± He spoke with the kind of ease that made the whole conversation feel like a business deal. ¡°No, I¡¯ve no desire to wed into that... complication.  Alliance. That¡¯s what we should be considering. We¡¯d fare far better as allies, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± He gestured casually toward the damning notes in Cullen¡¯s hand. ¡°Look at it, Cullen. Look. The people around you?¡± He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just above a whisper. ¡°You can¡¯t trust anyone In the Inquisition council. They¡¯re treating you and Miriam like pawns. Each and every one of them.¡±

    Anger surged through Cullen like a wildfire, uncontrollable and consuming. His hands crumpled the journal in a death grip before throwing it to the floor. Gaspard¡¯s words echoed in his mind, twisting, mocking him as he grabbed the Emperor by the coat once again. The truth. Allies. Trust. Lies. Lies. All of it¡ªlies. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring with the red haze of rage.  He wanted to tear Gaspard apart, shred the smug bastard to bits. But then¡ªMiriam. Without the Emperor, defeating the Elder One would take far longer. Building the Golden City could be delayed for years. She would never forgive him for ruining everything.

    She¡¯ll turn away from you. The thought hit him like a blade to the chest. If she abandoned him... if she left him...But the fury needed release. It demanded it.

    Cullen shoved Gaspard to the side with such force that the man stumbled backward, colliding into a bookshelf. Then he turned to the war table, where months of carefully laid-out maps and figures were arranged in a meticulous plan. His fists came down with a fury he couldn¡¯t hold back¡ªonce, twice, again¡ªuntil the wood splintered beneath the force of his blows. The sharp crack of the table snapping echoed through the room, drowned only by the sound of his own labored breaths.

    His knuckles split open, blood mixing with the fractured remains of the table, but still, he didn¡¯t stop. Blow after blow, he smashed the wood until the table was nothing but shards beneath his hands, a ruin of broken pieces scattered across the floor.

    Chest heaving, hands bloodied, Cullen slowly straightened and turned to face the Orlesian. His hands hung at his sides, dripping crimson, but his voice¡ªwhen he spoke¡ªwas cold, mocking. ¡°Is it you I¡¯m supposed to trust then?¡± The question dripped with venom, his eyes narrowing as if daring the man to answer.

    Gaspard opened his mouth, but before he could speak a word, Cullen cut him off with a roar that shook the chamber. ¡°Get out!¡±

    For a moment, the Emperor hesitated, then¡ªwithout another word¡ªhe turned and left, his footsteps fading into the tense, suffocating silence left in his wake.

    Cullen stood there, staring at the ruined table, his breath ragged, blood dripping from his split knuckles and mingling with the broken splinters. The rage still burned in his chest, but now¡­ now there was only the hollow echo of it. No. He would not let Gaspard poison his mind. Not with this. Cullen tightened his fists, feeling the sting of the open wounds on his hands. He and Miriam had been brought into this world for each other. The Maker Himself had bound their lives together. It was Cullen who had saved her as a child, brought her out of darkness, and they had found each other again after decades. How else could he explain the way she loved him now? Loved him not just as a friend, but as a man. She had chosen him, wanted him. And the bond they shared¡ªthe one that no mortals had experienced ever before? That was proof enough. Miriam was his, just as he was hers. Gaspard¡¯s words¡ªhis scheming¡ªmeant nothing. He could see it now, clear as day. The Emperor claimed to have no interest in Miriam, but Cullen saw how he looked at her. Just like all the other snakes, all the other men who lusted not only after her body but after her power. But they would get nothing. None of them.

    She¡¯s mine. And if she ever left him¡ªif, somehow, Gaspard''s lies reached her and she believed them¡ªif she chose to walk away from him¡­Cullen''s thoughts darkened. If Miriam decided to leave him, if she betrayed everything they had built, everything the Maker had destined, then he would kill her. He would take her life, Gaspard¡¯s, and then¡­ his own. There would be no world left for him without her.

    But that was a worst-case scenario, of course. For now, he just needed to be patient. He had to endure, let Gaspard play the Game, and once the Golden City was built, and victory was theirs¡ªthen he would rip open his chest and savor his heart.

    For now, he had to wait.

    Cullen¡¯s breath began to slow, the intensity of the moment ebbing. His hands, still bloodied and raw, reached down for the crumpled journal on the floor. It felt heavier than it should have as he gripped it, a physical weight of lies and poison.

    With purposeful steps, he turned and left the War Room. He barely registered the looks from soldiers and servants as he passed. His mind was focused on the only place where the lies could be purged, burned away in sacred flame.

    He entered the quiet sanctuary, the flickering light of candles casting shadows on the stone walls, and neared the brazier standing before the statue of Andraste.  Standing before it, Cullen looked down at the journal in his hands. It felt wrong even to hold it here, in this place of faith, where truth should reign. The lies within the pages, the manipulation, the deceit¡ªit all had to be reduced to nothing. Only then could he cleanse himself of the doubts Gaspard had tried to seed.

    With a steady hand, he held the journal over the flame. The edges of the parchment caught quickly, curling and blackening as the fire consumed it. The words¡ªthose insidious words¡ªwere swallowed by the flames, turned to ash.

    Cullen watched, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath as the fire did its work. As the last remnants of the journal crumbled, a part of him felt lighter.

    Let the lies burn, he thought, his eyes fixed on the flames.

    The days leading up to the wedding passed in a haze of nervous anticipation, each moment stretched thin with tension, but nothing of note happened. The body of the heretic wasn¡¯t found, not even a single shard of bone. Though if the Maker himself unleashed his might upon him, it wasn¡¯t surprising.

    The Inquisitor¡¯s quarters had been fully restored, their grandeur painstakingly rebuilt by a crew of laborers. But that victory had come at a cost¡ªnearly a dozen workers had perished in their relentless drive to complete the restoration. Some had fallen from great heights in their haste, while others had worked themselves to death, collapsing from sheer exhaustion.

    Meanwhile, Cullen attended to his duties with his usual sharp attention, though his focus was split. Every spare moment, his eyes lingered on the Emperor, watching for any sign of treachery, any whisper of the conversation they had shared. Yet the snake behaved as though it had never happened. He kept his distance from Miriam, never once approaching her with the lies that had once danced so easily on his tongue. Gaspard didn''t even try to speak to Cullen again about that damning conversation as if the whole thing had been nothing more than a passing breeze.

    He found himself both relieved and unnerved by the Orlesian¡¯s sudden silence. There was always the nagging sense that something would happen, something to set his fears into motion. He had become painfully eager for the days to pass. He wanted it over¡ªwanted the ceremony, the vows, the wedding night. He wanted the official title of Miriam¡¯s husband, to be bound to her before the world. Once that happened, no vultures circling her power¡ªwould ever be able to take her from him.

    Finally, the day had come. The moment Cullen had been waiting for, the one that felt like it had taken an eternity to arrive.

    He stood in the Great Hall, his heart pounding beneath some stupid Orlesian jacket Josephine had prepared, the weight of the occasion pressing down on him like never before. The Hall was filled with rows of nobles, their silks and jewels gleaming in the flickering torchlight, and tables adorned with extravagant food and drink. Musicians played softly, their melodies a backdrop to the murmured conversations and hushed whispers.

    And, of course, there were the Chevaliers¡ªtheir golden armor gleaming, their presence a constant reminder of Gaspard¡¯s watchful eye. The Emperor himself sat among them, surrounded by his court, his expression unreadable, yet ever-present like a shadow Cullen couldn¡¯t shake.

    But the Commander¡¯s gaze was not for them. Not now. His focus was entirely on Miriam, standing beside him, radiant in her white dress, her presence filling the Hall with power that made everything else fade into the background. She looked at him with eyes that held the weight of their shared past, the battles they¡¯d fought side by side, and the bond the Maker had forged between them.

    Mother Giselle stood before them, her voice calm and steady as she led the ceremony. The words of the Chant drifted through the Hall, sacred and eternal, weaving their way into Cullen¡¯s heart. Every vow spoken felt like a stone being lifted from his chest.

    And then, at last, it came.

    ¡°With the blessing and decree of the Maker Himself, in the sight of all who witness this day, I now pronounce you husband and wife.¡±

    The words hit Cullen like a wave, crashing over him, washing away the tension that had been coiling in his chest for days¡ªno, for months. It was done. They were bound. Officially. Publicly. Forever.

    For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to exhale, truly exhale. His hands reached for hers, and as they locked together, a calm spread through him. The storm inside him that had raged for so long finally stilled.

    Miriam smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through a clouded sky. Cullen returned the smile, his heart pounding not with nerves, but with a deep, overwhelming sense of belonging.

    As the ceremony concluded, the Great Hall erupted into a forcefully joyous celebration. Nobles mingled, laughter and clinking goblets filling the air as the musicians picked up their pace, the melodies weaving a tapestry of festivity around them. Cullen and Miriam were swept into the center of it all, hailed as the stars of the evening, the embodiment of hope and unity.

    At first, Cullen found himself reveling in the celebration. He even danced with Miriam, their movements awkward and clumsy, yet her laughter ringing like a bell in his ears made it worthwhile. He accepted well-wishes and congratulations from every corner of the Hall, his heart swelling with pride, knowing they all had to acknowledge his status now.

    But as the hours passed, the exuberance began to wear on him. The music pounded too loudly in his ears, the stench of perfumes clawed at his nose with an almost oppressive intensity. Candles and gold glittered too brightly, making it hard to see, while the sour tang of alcohol lingered in the air, thick enough to churn his stomach. And then there was the Emperor¡¯s presence that made everything worse. He could swear he saw those detestable eyes flick toward his wife. Flick, and then linger. Far too long for his liking.

    The night dragged on, and though the hour approached the darkest part before dawn, the festivities showed no sign of slowing. Enough. He¡¯d endured this long enough. His eyes shot back to Miriam standing now near the edge of the Hall, surely by this point she would feel his frustration. And yet, she still lingered there, vexing him with her distance, her aloofness.

    Suddenly the mage shifted slightly, and as she did, the fabric of her gown slipped, just barely, off one shoulder, revealing more of her pale skin. His gaze followed the curve of her collarbone, down to the hollow of her throat where the black veins pulsed softly, teasing him, beckoning him. He could imagine his lips there, could almost taste the power that surged beneath her flesh. The thought of taking her, of their bodies entwining, their blood mingling as they became one¡ªsent a shiver through him. He wanted her. Now.

    Suddenly Miriam turned, her eyes locking onto his. For a single heartbeat, the noise, the lights, the entire world seemed to  still. Her gaze, sharp and knowing, pierced through the haze of the celebration. A slight curve touched her lips, the barest hint of a smile¡ªsatisfied, deliberate.

    Cullen felt it acutely through their bond, a subtle pulse of amusement, a challenge wrapped in warmth¡ªshe was teasing him. She had waited for him, patiently, honoring the promise they had made, abiding by his wishes not to lay together until the wedding. But now, it was time for her to set the rules. If he wanted to claim her, he would have to work for it. He could practically hear her voice in his mind, playful and daring: Catch me if you can.

    He strode forward, his eyes locked on his wife, the rest of the Hall blurring into insignificance around him. He pushed past nobles, uncaring as he bumped into them, the clatter of spilled drinks echoing in his wake. Meanwhile, Miriam danced through the Great Hall with effortless grace, slipping in and out of the clusters of guests as if she were water, untouchable and fluid. Every time he thought he was gaining on her, she would twist, disappearing through the crowd as though she knew every beat of his pursuit.

    Cullen quickened his steps, determination simmering beneath his calm exterior. He saw his chance, saw her drifting toward one of the Hall''s corners, and for a moment, he thought he had her. But just as he was about to reach her, the mage pivoted, spinning smoothly around a pillar. The train of her dress brushed against his leg in a tantalizing caress, the fleeting contact sending a shiver up his spine. The faint scent of red lyrium and blood lingered in the air, intoxicating and dangerous, pulling him deeper into the chase.

    Yet she was too quick, slipping away with a fluid grace that made his efforts feel almost clumsy. It took him a second to realize why¡ªhe could sense it now, the tingle of magic in the air. She was using a lesser form of Fade Step to stay just out of reach. This little rascal!

    As if in response, she threw a glance over her bared shoulder, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. The wink she gave him felt like a dare, a challenge. Wait until I get to you, he thought, his determination burning hotter than ever.

    He surged forward like a bronto, but in his single-minded chase, he failed to notice the edge of a grand table set with an array of delectable treats. His foot snagged on the edge of the tablecloth, sending a cascade of pastries tumbling to the floor. He stumbled, arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance.

    The room seemed to slow for a moment as Cullen teetered dangerously, almost falling face-first into the dessert display. He caught himself just in time, his hands bracing against the table as he steadied himself.

    The sudden commotion drew the eyes of nearby guests, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion as they turned to witness the unfolding scene. Cullen, however, paid little mind to their stares. As he scrambled to regain his footing, a grin broke across his face, wide and unabashed. In that moment, the embarrassment of the stumble faded, replaced by a spark of exhilaration. He quickly picked up his pace, moving forward with renewed energy.

    Finally, Miriam reached the door to her quarters, her fingers grazing the surface as she paused to glance back one last time. Her gaze was molten, alive with promise, and Cullen felt a rush of heat course through him. The desire to end the game, to claim what was rightfully his, surged within him.

    She slipped through the doorway, but just before the door could shut, his hand slammed against it, stopping her retreat. She laughed softly, pushing against the door for a brief moment. But this time, she was outmatched.

    Stumbling back from the door, Miriam let out a soft gasp. She was still playing, even now, backing her way up the stairs with her usual elegance.  His leonine stare didn''t waver matching her step-by-step up to her quarters. ¡°I have to say, using magic to dodge me? Cheeky move, my heart.¡±

    Miriam¡¯s lips curved into a coy smile. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, she turned and raced up the remaining stairs. Her gown billowed around her like a cloud of shifting silk, its movement almost mesmerizing. This time, however, she used no magic to aid her flight.

    A low growl of satisfaction rumbled from Cullen¡¯s throat. He surged forward, the sound of his boots pounding against the stairs echoing through the stairwell as he closed the distance with ease.

    With effortless strength, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest like a proper bridegroom carrying his bride. She made no move to resist; instead, her arms wrapped around his neck, and her lips sought out the sensitive patch of skin just beneath his ear. She suckled on it hungrily, clearly intent on leaving a mark that would linger long after the moment.

    Cullen¡¯s breath hitched, a mix of shock and pleasure coursing through him. The sensation of her warm mouth, combined with the scrape of her teeth, was electrifying. But Miriam didn¡¯t stop there. After the kiss, her tongue trailed up to his ear, moving in a slow, deliberate motion. Each wet, warm stroke sent a jolt of sensation straight to his core. Cullen¡¯s grip tightened around her, pulling her even closer, as he struggled to hold onto his composure.

    He could feel her heartbeat fluttering rapidly against his chest, a rhythmic pulse that matched the rapid beat of his own heart. ¡°If you keep this up,¡± he managed to rasp, his voice coming out in a rough whisper, ¡°we will not make it to your room.¡±

    ¡°I might just see that as a challenge,¡± she murmured, her velvety voice brushing his ear with a shiver-inducing warmth. With renewed intensity, she pressed her advantage.

    Desire fueled his ascent up the remaining stairs, his urgency culminating in a swift kick that flung the door open with a resounding crash.

    Once inside, Cullen set his wife down, only to pivot her against the nearest wall, pressing her face against the rough stone. She braced herself, her hands instinctively finding purchase, and a sly smirk danced on her lips even as he pinned her in place. He captured her wrists firmly, his front pressing against her back, eliciting a soft, unexpected sound from her¡ªa mixture of surprise and delight.

    Releasing one of her wrists, Cullen tugged down the shoulder of her gown, his lips trailing a heated path along her neck. He recalled the intensity of her earlier kiss, and with renewed fervor, he turned his attention to one of the prominent black veins pulsing at her throat. Pressing his mouth against it, he drew her skin into him with a fervent, eager suction, igniting a spark of desire that raced through them both.

    A wave of sweet power surged through him, the taste rich and intoxicating, electrifying his senses. With each pull, he drew deeper from that elusive essence, amplifying his primal urge to claim her, to consume her wholly. He yearned to unravel her until all that remained was pure, unbridled surrender, a raw vulnerability that promised a connection beyond words.

    Miriam''s head fell back, resting against him, her earlier smugness and smirks vanishing like mist. ¡°Do as you wish, my love,¡± she uttered her voice a quiver of anticipation. ¡°I feel everything¡ª¡± Her breath was stolen away by the involuntary roll of his hips. ¡°Ah, as I said, everything. Take me as you will. Tonight, I am yours to command, Commander. Consider it my wedding gift.¡±

    His heart skipped a beat, ignited even more by the thought of her¡ªobedient, pliant, as she had once been before the weight of her titles before her power made men tremble and Gaspard hunger for her favor. But suddenly, a sobering realization struck him, halting him in his tracks. His lips stilled against her neck, the warmth between them interrupted. Back then, she had only seen him as a friend, uncertain if she could ever return the depth of his passion. She had entertained the Emperor¡¯s advances, allowed herself to be courted by that detestable bastard. No, her obedience will only serve to re-open his wounds and remind him of those foul times.  When he claims her, it would be as the embodiment of His might, a vessel who can break him as easily as she does those who defy her.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want submission. I want the fire that burns within you¡ªthe flames that consume everything in their path. I¡¯ll take nothing less.¡±

    Miriam looked slightly baffled for a moment. ¡°Your desires change as quickly as the tide.¡± A soft chuckle escaped her lips.  ¡°Very well,¡± she continued, her voice taking on a sultry edge, ¡°I shall give you what you¡¯ve asked for.¡±

    A surge of power exploded from his wife, and a barrier hit Cullen, sending him sprawling across the floor. He blinked, dazed, trying to make sense of what had just happened. As his mind struggled to catch up, he lifted his head to meet her eyes, shock, and confusion warring in his expression.

    Miriam, her cheek marked with the imprint of the stone wall, took a step forward, the protective spell around her dissipating into the air. Her gaze was fierce, unwavering. She raised her hands, and dark flames erupted around him, coiling in a swirling mass. He felt the heat rising, saw his clothes begin to smolder, the fabric curling away and turning to ash. "Stop!" he demanded, scrambling to his knees as his pulse quickened. His hands darted to his body¡ªhis chest, his arms. No pain. No burns. The flames consumed his clothes, bit by bit, but left him unscathed.

    Cullen looked up at the mage again, his confusion fading as her gaze bore into him. She was biting her lower lip, her black eyes trailing over his now almost exposed form, lingering with a slow, smoldering appreciation. The sight of her focused on him, combined with the crackling heat of the flames, sent fresh sparks of longing through him.

    The Commander leaped to his feet, lunging at the mage as their bodies met with a satisfying thud. His lips crashed against hers, a fervent collision that was more bite than kiss, as he sought her mouth with an insatiable intensity. Miriam responded with equal fervor, her teeth sinking into his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, until she tasted the metallic tang of blood.

    All the while, the flames that had licked at Cullen¡¯s clothes began to spread, their blackened tendrils creeping outward like serpents, coiling around them both. Heat surged, and the fabric surrendered to the blaze, disintegrating into soft, fragile ash. In seconds, they stood fully exposed, the cool air of the room stark against the searing heat that coursed between them.

    Cullen felt every inch of her lithe form pressed into him, her skin against his like living fire. His hands roamed freely over the smooth expanse of her back, dragging along the contours of muscle and bone. His wife¡¯s hands wove into his hair, fingers curling tightly into the strands. She pulled, hard, the pain shooting through his scalp like lightning¡ªa shivering current that raced through his veins, pooling hot and heavy in his lower abdomen.

    Miriam, instantly aware of the firmness of him against her, let out a low, breathy moan, muffled by the fierceness of the kiss. Her hands began to move, tracing the ridges of his chest and abdomen as they descended with the deliberate intent to take him in her grasp.

    The Commander¡¯s muscles knotted with tension. Though the allure of her hands working their magic was undeniable, right now he yearned for something else. He wanted his first climax as a married man to come from being inside his wife, not merely from the stimulation of her touch. Having never lain with anyone before, he felt this moment was a milestone that deserved nothing less than the deepest, most intimate bond anyone could share.

    He broke the kiss with a ragged breath, his hands gripping her waist as he pulled her away from him with ease. ¡°Not now,¡± he uttered while, in one swift, effortless motion, he lifted her, the mage¡¯s swollen, bloodied lips emitting a surprised "Oh" as her feet left the ground.

    For a moment Cullen held Miriam suspended in the heated space between them, before he hoisted her onto his right shoulder, her form draping over him like a prize claimed in battle. She hung there, her legs dangling down one side, her long hair tumbling down the other, the strands whispering against the bare skin of his back. Cullen felt the subtle tremor in her frame as she clung to him, shallow gasps escaping her lips. ¡°Why not?¡±

    His hand, cupped beneath her knees, keeping her steady, and with a few quick, determined strides, he reached the bed. ¡°I know you can feel my desires. Won¡¯t you humor me?¡± He loosened his grip and dropped Miriam onto the soft covers, her body falling onto the plush surface with a light, breathless gasp. Her hair fanned out across the pillow, framing her flushed face as her chest rose and fell in rapid, excited breaths.

    In a heartbeat, Cullen was on the bed, his knees sinking into the soft mattress with a faint squeak from the wooden frame. His movements were swift as he reached for Miriam¡¯s legs, parting them with ease. He dragged her closer, pulling her body toward him, a mix of hunger and determination in his every motion.

    ¡°I can change your mind,¡± the mage murmured attempting to sit up. ¡°I have a feeling I¡¯ll be naturally good with my hands.¡± Her arms reached out in a bid to connect with him, but he pushed her back down. The contact was almost violent in its force, the linens compressing under her as she was forced to settle once more. She huffed, her breath escaping in puffs, her eyes alight with a fierce blend of defiance and passion. His wife tried to sit up a second time, only to be pushed down again as he moved over her, positioning his body between her legs as her thighs instinctively parted even further to welcome him.

    Cullen shifted his hips, the sensitive tip of his arousal now touching the heated, welcoming entrance of her body. "We''ll find that out after I¡¯ve taken you."

    Miriam stilled, her breath coming in heavy, her nerves finally betraying her despite everything. Truth be told, he would be no different if his own anxiety weren¡¯t overwhelmed by his urgent need to possess her¡ªto claim her from the Emperor and all others who sought her sacred power. For a heartbeat, their black eyes locked in a connection so deep, in an understanding so profound, that only they,  could truly comprehend it, and then, with a decisive thrust, he drove himself into his wife.

    Miriam''s bloodied lips parted in a sharp cry of pain, her body arching beneath him as her hands flew to his back. Her nails dug into his flesh, biting deep, a visceral reaction to the shock of the intrusion.

    Despite the force of his initial thrust, he found himself unable to fully penetrate her. His wife¡¯s petite frame presented a challenge in claiming her, one that only sharpened his resolve. A fierce determination blazed in his eyes as his right hand gripped her hip tightly, fingers digging with possessive urgency. He thrust again and again, each movement met with her strained cries, mingling with his own guttural moans as her body slowly yielded to him. Finally, the exquisite tightness enveloped him fully, and for a moment, he paused, savoring the overwhelming sensation of being completely buried within her before resuming his rhythm.

    Miriam''s breath hissed through her clenched teeth, her brows knitting together as her eyes squeezed shut. Her fingers, pressing against his back, suddenly flared with searing heat, as if ten branding irons were scorching his skin, burning their way down his ribs. Pain burst through him, sharp and overwhelming, but Cullen didn¡¯t falter. He grit his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath the onslaught, but rather than slowing him, the pain fed something primal within, and with an almost feral determination, he began to slam into the mage with a punishing force.

    Tears started to spill from beneath Miriam¡¯s eyelids, rolling down her cheeks, her form stiffening beneath him, her body instinctively pulling away with each forceful thrust, though there was nowhere for her to go. Yet, Cullen didn¡¯t care. The world outside his own  faded away¡ªhis wife¡¯s pain, her fingers burning deep into his flesh, the scent of blood and scorched flesh¡ªnone of it mattered, for he was lost in the moment of chasing the intoxicating high. Time became a blur, the moments merging together, each thrust, each breath, blending into a singular, burning desire.

    Then, in the haze of it all, there was a shift.

    Miriam¡¯s black eyes snapped open, and her hands slid from his scorched back to his chest. Her fingers hovered for a moment, and then, from the mark on her left hand, black slime surged forth, snaking over her skin. The dark tendrils crawled up her left arm before splitting, mirroring the movement on her right hand, twisting and coiling around both palms as they solidified into sharp obsidian-like claws at the tips of her fingers. With a sudden, vicious movement, the mage drove her newfound talons deep into his pectorals, her fists clenching tightly.

    Cullen¡¯s world shattered in a moment of blinding pain. His eyes widened, a guttural roar erupting from his throat as his body jerked violently. Blood splashed from the deep wounds she¡¯d carved into him, spilling over her hands and splattering across her face, dripping onto her breasts, and pooling in the hollow of her throat. Yet, each drop of crimson that left his body only seemed to ignite a searing pressure in his groin, a relentless, throbbing force that coiled tighter with every heartbeat. It was as though the intensity of his pleasure was a living beast straining against the confines of his body.

    As his blood continued to pour onto the mage, the black scar on her chest began to writhe, coming alive as it hungrily absorbed it, as though feeding off his very life force. Miriam''s form convulsed, her back arching sharply as her head tilted back, exposing the curve of her neck. Her lips parted once more, but this time, the sound that tore from her throat was no cry of pain. It was a raw, primal scream of pure, unrestrained ecstasy.

    Cullen¡¯s fingers plunged into his wife¡¯s mouth, trembling with desperation as he fought to stifle the rising clamor. The noise that escaped her cut through the air with enough force to carry beyond the walls¡ªto where prying ears could hear. The Emperor could hear. His heart thundered at the thought. It was unbearable, intolerable. That voice, that cry, belonged to him and him alone. No one else had the right to hear those intimate, broken sounds.

    Her teeth clamped down on his fingers, biting hard but he pushed deeper, forcing his hand to gag her screams. The sensation of her hot, damp mouth around his fingers added to the frenzy of the moment, his entire body becoming a taut string, every muscle wound tight as his rhythm became erratic.

    When a breaking wave was just at the edge of his control, his bruised, bloodied fingers slipped from the mage¡¯s mouth, trailing down to grip her throat, slick and warm with his blood. Miriam¡¯s hands abandoned their desperate clutch on his chest, clawing at the arm now cutting off her air. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ mine. Only¡­ mine. Say it,¡± he rasped, voice barely more than a ragged mumbling.

    A keening sound escaped his wife, her lips shaping a breathless ¡®yes¡¯.

    That single word sent Cullen over the edge. His hips pressed flush against hers, holding her there as his pleasure detonated within him, like a storm unleashed from the heavens.  His vision blurred to white as a half-gasp, half-groan escaped him. He let go of the mage''s throat, letting her suck in desperate breaths as her claws lost their grip on him. His body convulsed, overcome by the all-consuming fire of release. Every nerve blazed, a wildfire of sensation surging through him, leaving him utterly spent, hollowed out, and adrift in the fading echo of pure, unrestrained ecstasy.

    When the storm finally began to ebb, his muscles relaxed, a deep, bone-weary satisfaction settling in its place. Bloodied and burned but utterly sated, Cullen slumped against the mage, his breath coming in slow, heavy pants as he tried to recover. Until now the pinnacle of his pleasure had been the indulgence in the flesh of the heretics, but today, he had tasted something greater. The exquisite rapture of spilling into a woman¡ªno, not just any woman. His woman. His wife. His love.

    The world slowly drifted back into focus, and he became aware of the said woman beneath him, her chest rising and falling in time with her own unsteady breath. Cullen winced as the sharp pain of his injuries flared, now unshielded by the haze of passion that had dulled it. A low groan escaped his lips as he shifted, the ache coursing through him.

    Miriam turned her gaze to him, her black eyes soft, yet filled with a quiet intensity. ¡°Cullen,¡± she whispered, her voice hoarse.

    No further words were needed.

    With a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the ferocity of what they had shared, he leaned in, brushing his lips softly against hers. His fingers threaded through her long, dark hair, pulling her closer as he held her there, the bond between them heavy with promises of things to come.

 Enemies or Kings

    Miriam walked with purpose, her boots echoing on the stone floors as her fingers ghosted over the Inquisiton¡¯s banisters. Her robes¡ªpure white trimmed with gold¡ªswirled around her in the cold, whipping in the drafts like holy banners. Her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing as she approached the chamber guarded by the two armored Templars, their faces hidden behind visors but their presence unmistakable: grim, disciplined, and bound to a purpose they did not question.  Miriam¡¯s sharp gaze caught the flicker of their eyes, but they did not falter as they saluted her entrance.

    Inside the chamber torches cast flickering shadows on the worn stone, their pale light dancing off the silverite suits of the Knights standing at rigid attention. The smell of iron, sweat, and lyrium lingered heavy in the air, like the aftermath of a battlefield. Each Knight was a monument to sacrifice, their faces etched with battle scars, their eyes cold with the weight of duty. By their sides stood the mages who decided to remain with the Inquisition¡ª the broken, the remade, the ones who had survived the trial by hot iron. They wore their burns and brands with grim pride, their faces hardened by the knowledge that they had been judged and found worthy.

    As Miriam entered the room, silence descended like a shroud. She stopped at the center, her gaze sweeping over the gathered. "The Sword of The Faithful salutes those who have endured!" she began, her tone fervent. "Each of you has passed through fire and steel, through agony and sacrifice to emerge as something more. Something greater!" She paused, letting the words settle over them, watching as their postures shifted, rigid backs now slightly straighter, heads held higher. " You stand before me as chosen. Chosen to serve the Maker, chosen to aid in His return to this broken world." The Inquisitor¡¯s voice swelled with purpose. She stepped forward, pacing before the gathered like a general inspecting her troops. "You will bleed. You may die. But know this¡ªevery scar, every drop of blood, every sacrifice will bring you closer to Him. This is the price of the honor you have earned. The honor of serving in His name." Her eyes blazed, burning with the fervor of a true believer turned to the enchanters. "Now kneel!"

    One by one, they obeyed, each pair stepping forward with military precision. The mages, their eyes fixed on the ground, knelt before her. The Templars, like their armored sentinels, remained standing, their faces unreadable.

    Miriam stepped forward with deliberate grace. As she passed before the gathered, she paused briefly before each mage, her eyes steady, filled with a quiet intensity. One by one, their hands, trembling with reverence, reached for the hem of her robes. They touched it as though it held a spark of divinity, their fingers quivering as they brought the cloth to their lips. Their voices, raspy with awe yet strong with conviction, rose together in a unified declaration. "Maker, your light burns within us. Your will be done. We stand as your sword, your flame. May we serve until the end of all days."

    After that, the Templars began to recite the Chant of Light, but it wasn¡¯t a prayer¡ªnot really. It was something more primal, more raw. Less a hymn to the Maker and more a battle cry, filled with the sharp edge of determination. A pledge. A vow to fight, to bleed, to die¡ªall in His name.

    The words, ancient and solemn, reverberated off the cold stone walls of the chamber, growing louder, fiercer. Miriam  closed her eyes, letting the weight of their devotion crash over her like a tidal wave. Each syllable resonated deep within her, not just words but a promise, forged in fire, sharpened by suffering.

    Soon, she thought, soon the Chant of Light will echo from every corner of the world. From the darkest slums to the grandest palaces, it will be heard. The Maker will rise, His presence felt in every breath, every stone, every soul. And He will walk the land once more¡ªwith Andraste at His right hand and her with Cullen at His left.

    The Templar¡¯s voices swelled, a rising crescendo like the howl of a coming storm. Miriam opened her eyes and looked down at them, then at the mages still kneeling beside them. Their faces now glowed with a fierce, unwavering zeal. Their eyes met hers¡ªburning, resolute.

    They were ready.

    Once the ceremony concluded, Miriam stepped out into the cool embrace of the evening air. The soft orange hues of dusk draped over Skyhold, casting long shadows along the battlements. She spotted the Commander immediately, standing with his arms crossed, a steadfast presence never straying too far away from her. He was bathed in that same amber light, a figure of both strength and beauty. "Are you satisfied with the new pairs?" he asked falling into step beside her.

    ¡°I am.¡±

    Cullen nodded, the faintest sign of relief in his posture. ¡°Good.¡± He glanced at her, his expression softening as he added, ¡°You¡¯ll lead them to glory, my heart.¡±

    She offered him a small smile, but it quickly faded as they neared the tavern. From inside the Herald¡¯s Rest came the sounds of raucous laughter, slurred songs, and the clatter of mugs against wood. It grated against the solemnity of what she had just experienced¡ªa jarring reminder of a world divided between sacred duty and debauchery.

    For too long, she had chosen to look away, pretending the rot hadn''t seeped into every corner of this place. But no more. This tavern would no longer be a den of indulgence, no longer a pit of obscene songs, where distractions flowed as freely as the drink. It would be a place of solemnity and purpose.

    No ale, no wine. That time was done. What lay ahead demanded more than mere strength of arms. Steel and shields could break, but conviction? Discipline? Unity? These were the true weapons of the Inquisition. The men and women sworn to their cause didn¡¯t need the haze of alcohol clouding their minds. They needed focus. They needed prayer. And by the Maker, they would have it.

    Her thoughts were interrupted when her eyes caught on a figure stumbling toward them¡ª Cullen¡¯s brother. The man was swaying as he walked, clearly drunk, his clothes disheveled and stained with a spilled drink. The mage¡¯s brow furrowed slightly, sensing trouble even before Branson drew near.

    "Well, look at this," the man slurred, his voice thick with intoxication. His bleary eyes flicked from Miriam to Cullen, and his lips curled into a sneer. "Ahh, the mighty Commander, eh? And his... his holy wife, thinkin'' they¡¯re so high ¡®n mighty, too good for the likes o¡¯ us! Didn¡¯t even bother with an invite to their fancy weddin''! Like we ain¡¯t important enough to stand in their blessed presence!"

    Cullen tensed beside her, his body stiffening at the insult. He shot Branson a glare, his expression darkening. There was no recognition in the Commander¡¯s eyes¡ªthe memories of his family had been wiped clean by the Maker, along with the painful past that had once haunted him.

    Branson stumbled forward, a bitter grin on his face. ¡°What¡¯s this? You ignorin¡¯ me now?¡± He jabbed a finger toward Cullen¡¯s chest, his voice growing louder, more belligerent. ¡°Actin¡¯ like you don¡¯t even recognize your own flesh and blood? Or has that blasted lyrium finally turned your brain to mush?¡±

    Cullen¡¯s jaw clenched, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening with restrained fury. His eyes blazed a cold fire behind them. ¡°You¡¯re no kin of mine, you blighted bastard,¡± he growled, voice low and dangerous. ¡°I don¡¯t know you. Get out of my sight before I forget why I haven¡¯t drawn steel.¡±

    Branson''s laugh rang out, sharp and grating like the turning of rusty hinges. "Maybe your wife can help me out then?" he mumbled, his gaze shifting, landing squarely on the mage with a gleam in his eye. "I bet she¡¯s got some gold on her, nice and holy, eh? The Inquisition¡¯s gotta spare a few coins for a poor soul down on his luck, don¡¯t they?¡±

    Before she could move, Branson stepped closer, his hands already pawing at her robes, fingers greedily searching for a purse.

    Cullen sprang into action immediately, pushing his brother away with a forceful shove. In a blur, his sword came free in a flash of steel, piercing through the man¡¯s gut with brutal precision. The blade slid in effortlessly, a sickening squelch accompanying the motion as blood poured forth, soaking the ground beneath them. Branson¡¯s eyes widened in shock, the drunken haze lifting as he looked down at the blade now buried deep in his stomach.

    Cullen twisted the sword viciously, and his brother gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground, the blade sliding free with a wet, slick sound. His body convulsed as it hit the dirt, blood pooling rapidly around him, staining the cobblestones crimson.

    "Don''t you dare touch my wife." The Commander growled as he raised his sword for a finishing blow.

    "Cu--" Miriam started, instinctively reaching out to stop him. But she hesitated, her hand hovering in midair as she watched Branson writhe on the ground, choking on his own blood. This was for the best, wasn¡¯t it? This foul man¡­ this drunkard¡­ he was nothing but a shadow of a painful past, a tether to a life her husband no longer needed. Her hand fell back to her side, her gaze hardening.

    The blade cleaved through Branson¡¯s neck with a crunch, severing the head clean from the body. Blood sprayed across the ground, his form twitching once before going still.

    Gasps echoed through the courtyard as soldiers and onlookers began to gather, drawn by the chaos that had broken out. Miriam, feeling the weight of their stares, decided to bring some clarity to the situation. "This wretched creature dared to lay hands on me. Such insolence cannot go unpunished. He has paid for his arrogance with his life," she declared, her voice calm and fierce, her eyes scanning the faces before her, daring any to challenge her judgment.

    No one did.

    Miriam felt the hunger through their bond, a gnawing emptiness that wasn¡¯t her own. It pulled at her thoughts, strong and insistent. She glanced at her husband and caught the gleam in his black eyes as he stared at the corpse, a predatory hunger flickering there. He took a step forward, reaching out for the body, and her heart quickened. No. That would be a step too far.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Before Cullen could lay a hand on the flesh, she acted. With a swift, deliberate motion, the mage raised her hands, her fingers crackling with the energy that surged through her mark. Power surged like a wave breaking free. Cullen instinctively recoiled, his eyes narrowing as he stepped back, the bond between them vibrating with his unspoken question. Black flames erupted from her palms, twisting and curling in the air like living shadows, licking at the remnants of Branson¡¯s body.

    The courtyard was filled with the sharp hiss of flesh searing, the acrid stench of burning meat thick in the air. Smoke rose as the body crumbled, the blood that had stained the ground evaporating in seconds, turning to steam. Within moments, there was nothing left¡ªno trace of Branson but a patch of scorched earth, blackened and smoldering.

    Miriam lowered her hands, her breath steady. ¡°You couldn¡¯t be the only one punishing him, my love.¡± She surveyed the faces in the crowd around her, once again, ¡°Return to your duties. We have much to prepare for, and the Maker¡¯s work is not done.¡±

    At her words, the soldiers turned away, their expressions a mix of respect and trepidation as they hurried to resume their tasks.  A few of the braver onlookers lingered for a moment, eyes still wide as they processed the spectacle. But as she locked eyes with them, her gaze unyielding, they lowered their heads and hurried off, eager to put distance between themselves and the grim scene.

    Once the crowd had thinned, Cullen finally sheathed his sword with a deliberate motion, the metal sliding into its scabbard with a satisfying click. He stepped toward her, his demeanor shifting from tension to a softer intensity. As he approached, his hands moved to brush over her frame, tracing the spots where Branson had dared to touch her.

    ¡°Damn him,¡± he cursed under his breath, his fingers lingering as if trying to erase the stain of that moment, to purge her of the foul man¡¯s essence. His touch was both protective and possessive, the warmth of his hands sending a shiver down her spine.

    The mage smiled content, feeling the heat of his presence envelop her. ¡°You can go ahead to my quarters,¡± she said, her voice a sultry whisper. ¡°I¡¯ll let you remove the lingering touch of that man¡ªnot with your hands, but with your lips.¡±

    Cullen''s eyes darkened, a flicker of desire igniting within them. ¡°You¡¯re not going with me?¡±

    She leaned in close, her hand brushing against his chest. ¡°Just one more task to take care of. I¡¯ll be with you before you know it.¡±

    The Commander stepped back, his brow furrowing as concern flickered across his face. For a moment, it seemed like he might protest, but he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. ¡°Alright¡­Just don¡¯t take too long. I¡¯ll be waiting.¡±

    ¡°I know you will,¡± she uttered, though he was already walking toward the main entrance of the Great Hall, his figure framed against the fading light.

    As the Commander disappeared into the fortress, Miriam¡¯s expression hardened. With Branson gone, the last thing she wanted was the rest of Cullen¡¯s siblings causing more trouble, pestering him with their presence. They were a distraction he didn¡¯t need.

    She turned on her heel and headed toward the Rookery where she knew she¡¯d find Leliana. The Spymaster rarely rested, and this evening would be no exception.

    It didn¡¯t take long to find her, Leliana stood cloaked in her usual calm, a map of their operations spread before her. She barely looked up as Miriam approached, though her sharp eyes flickered with curiosity.

    ¡°There¡¯s something I need you to handle. Quietly,¡± the mage said, her tone direct, wasting no time with pleasantries.

    The Spymaster raised an eyebrow, but her hands stilled, folding in front of her. ¡°Of course Inquisitor. What is it?¡±

    ¡°Branson is dead,¡± she stated bluntly, watching as Leliana¡¯s cool demeanor faltered ever so slightly. ¡°Cullen ended him for daring to lay his filthy hands upon me.¡± She stepped closer. ¡°And I want nothing to do with his remaining family. Their presence will only invite tension, questions, and drama we simply can¡¯t afford.¡±

    ¡°His own brother?¡± Leliana murmured, her voice dropping to a near whisper. ¡°How¡­ tragic.¡±

    Miriam¡¯s expression darkened, and her voice became a razor''s edge. ¡°He was nothing more than a drunk and a fool. Cullen had every right to put an end to his arrogance. Now, I need you to ensure that his family is gone¡ªdo whatever it takes. I want them out by tomorrow.¡±

    Leliana¡¯s eyes narrowed as she absorbed the request. She nodded slowly, though her voice was careful. ¡°I understand your wishes. I¡¯ll ensure it¡¯s done. Tomorrow morning, they will leave Skyhold¡ªno questions asked, no incidents to disturb the peace. They will never trouble you or the Commander again.¡±

    The mage watched her closely for a moment. ¡°Good,¡± she said finally, her voice low.

    Their conversation was interrupted by one of the Leliana¡¯s agents slipping into the Rookery, his expression tight, as though bearing urgent news.

    ¡°Nightingale,¡± he uttered, dipping his head respectfully as he handed Leliana a folded missive.

    Without a word, she opened it, her eyes darting across the page in quick, efficient movements. ¡°Inquisitor, we¡¯ve just received the location of the Elder One¡¯s stronghold. It¡¯s an ancient fortress in the heart of the Arbor Wilds.¡±

    Miriam paused, a slow smile spreading across her lips, a flicker of satisfaction lighting her eyes. ¡°Finally,¡± she whispered, her tone infused with a sense of triumph. She straightened, her demeanor shifting back to one of authority. ¡°We¡¯ll discuss the details at tomorrow¡¯s meeting. Make sure everyone is prepared.¡±

    Leliana nodded. ¡°As you wish.¡±

    Without another word, the Inquisitor strode from the Rookery. The battle she had been anticipating loomed ever closer. Soon, it would crash down upon her, and she would face it with sword and flame. But not yet.

    Something else tugged at her thoughts, pushing aside the weight of war and duty. Her mind drifted toward the closed door of her quarters, where a different kind of conflict awaited. There, within those walls, the air would thicken with heat, and she would face the storm of passion¡ªraw, consuming, inevitable. The clash of bodies, the surge of desire, and the descent into that intoxicating abyss where pain and pleasure intertwined, each fueling the other, pulling her deeper until the world outside no longer existed.

    A battle of its own, and one she was eager to surrender to.

    Over the next few weeks, the halls of Skyhold buzzed with purpose as preparations for the final assault began in earnest. Blacksmiths worked through the night, hammering steel into shape. Scouts mapped out treacherous paths, and soldiers readied their weapons, sharpening swords with a nervous anticipation. War councils were held daily, where strategies were drawn on worn-out parchments, each ink stroke a step closer to the endgame.

    Everything was going perfectly according to plan until one day Josephine walked into the War Room with a paled face. "The King of Ferelden refuses to donate their gold to the Golden City," the Ambassador said softly, her voice straining to remain calm. "He believes that the Inquisition¡¯s reach¡­ stretches too far. He will not fund the return of the Maker."

    For a moment, the room seemed to freeze, as if the very air had thickened. Miriam¡¯s gaze darkened, her body tense as fury rolled through her black veins like wildfire. "Fool," she spat, her voice low but trembling with barely contained rage. "He refuses the Maker¡¯s will? He dare deny Him?" Her hands clenched at her sides, her mind racing. She knew King Alistair was a weakling, a coward¡ªbut this?

    She felt a presence at her side. The Emperor of Orlais, poised and refined in his ornate robes, stepped forward with an air of quiet confidence. He inclined his head toward her, his tone rich and smooth as he spoke. "Do not trouble yourself, Inquisitor," Gaspard said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Those who will not offer their gold are nothing more than heretics. And heretics¡­" His voice dipped. "...should have no say in the fate of this world. If they will not give us what we need, then we shall take it."

    Miriam¡¯s rage stilled, tempered by the Orlesian¡¯s words. Yes. He was right. His will would not be stopped by heretical kings and their greed. This was a holy mission. Whether the gold was paid willingly or forcibly extracted was irrelevant. "We will take what is needed," she said, her voice resolute. "Ferelden will bow, whether they wish it or not."

    Her gaze swept the room, and there was no immediate challenge, but the Commander stood silent in the corner, his face tight with obvious discomfort. His posture was rigid, his hand flexing unconsciously near the pommel of his sword.

    His eyes flicked between her and Gaspard, the muscles in his jaw working. "I don¡¯t like it," he finally muttered, his voice low, rough. "But¡­ the Emperor has a point. We need those resources. The Maker¡¯s cause must come first." He didn¡¯t meet the Orleisian¡¯s gaze as he said it, and Miriam could feel the reluctant bitterness radiating from him.

    Now she was expecting to hear complaints from others on the council, but as she looked around, there was only silence. No resistance, no objection¡ªjust the quiet acceptance of what must be done.

    They were disturbingly obedient. Too obedient, perhaps. Miriam noted the oddness of it, a whisper of unease curling at the edges of her thoughts. But she pushed it aside. It didn¡¯t matter. Not now. Not when they stood on the precipice of destiny. "The Elder One waits in the Arbor Wilds," she said, her voice resolute. "And once he is defeated, Ferelden will learn what happens to those who stand in the way of His return."

    The council bowed their heads in perfect synchronization. The decision had been made, and now there was only the task ahead.

    Preparations resumed in earnest, the wheels of fate turning, and soon the disciplined, lethal force came together, ready to strike.

    Miriam stood on the balcony above the Great Hall, looking down as the duos of mages and Templars formed ranks below at the courtyard. The enchanters in their ragged, worn robes holding tight to their staffs, and the Knights in tarnished but still gleaming armor, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords, their fingers occasionally brushing against the lyrium vials strapped to their belts. Each pair moved in unison, the lingering distrust of old grudges now overshadowed by the greater cause. They would fight together. And they would die together if the Maker willed it.

    Behind them, the Orlesian army, and the Emperor¡¯s personal retinue of the Chevaliers, arrayed in perfect order, carried the banners bearing the golden lion of the Empire.

    Miriam turned as Gaspard approached her, his steps measured and regal. His ornate armor inlaid with gold and crimson, was a stark contrast to the simple, battle-worn gear of the Inquisition''s troops. He carried himself with an effortless air of superiority, a monarch prepared for conquest.

    "Your forces look¡­ impressive," he remarked, his voice smooth, his eyes scanning the gathered army below. "Mages and Templars fighting together at last. The Maker¡¯s hand is truly upon you, Inquisitor."

    Miriam cast a quick glance his way. A single, precise nod followed¡ªjust enough to acknowledge him.

    The Emperor''s smile curled at the edges. His hand swept toward the assembled Orlesian forces, their armor catching the light like a rippling sea of molten silver and gold. "Together, we will carve through the heart of this darkness. And once it''s done, Ferelden¡ªand all who dare stand against us¡ªwill bend."

    Before she could reply Cullen strode up to her, his face as grim as ever, though his gaze flicked warily toward the Orleisan before turning back to her. ¡°The troops are ready,¡± he said, his voice firm. "The scouts report no significant resistance along the roads. The Elder One¡¯s forces and his dragon will be waiting for us in the Wilds. We will have to be swift and decisive."

    ¡°Good,¡± Miriam uttered, turning back to the Emperor. "I trust you¡¯re also ready?"

    Gaspard smiled again, that cold, confident smile. "As ready as ever, Inquisitor. The Maker¡¯s will shall be done."

    With a final glance over the gathered forces, the Inquisitor raised her hand and a war horn sounded in the distance, a long, mournful note that reverberated through the fortress. The men below began to stir, the rows of soldier, mages, Templars, and Chevaliers tightening into formation.

    Miriam¡¯s black eyes narrowed toward the distant horizon. Whatever stood in their way¡ªbe it enemies or kings¡ªwould burn. "Let the Maker judge us all," she whispered.

    And with that, the armies of the Inquisition and Orlais began to march.

 Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall

    The wind whipped across Cullen¡¯s face as he rode, his grip tight around the reins of his warhorse. The metallic creak of armor filled the air, mingling with the low hum of soldiers behind him. Not far ahead, Miriam led the troops with a firm hand; her lithe frame almost lost against the armored soldiers, but her presence was undeniable. Cullen¡¯s thoughts were elsewhere though, swirling with anticipation and the weight of what was to come.

    He heard the soft clink of the Emperor¡¯s armor before he saw him approach. Gaspard guided his horse with easy confidence, his steely gaze fixed ahead before he turned it toward Cullen, eyes gleaming with an almost practiced warmth. The Orlesian emperor gave him an approving nod, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

    "It is a relief to know that I do have your ear after all, Commander," Gaspard said smoothly. "The Seeker, the Chantry Brother, and his elf. They did not accompany us. Wise, indeed."

    Cullen barely contained the anger that roiled just beneath his calm exterior, his jaw tightening as he turned to meet Gaspard¡¯s gaze. "Their absence has nothing to do with you," he said, voice clipped, each syllable strained with suppressed rage.

    "Of course, of course," the Emperor replied, his tone oily. His smile deepened into something conspiratorial, as if he were in on a joke Cullen wasn¡¯t, and with a wave of his hand, Gaspard nudged his horse forward, cantering away with ease toward the Orlesian lines, leaving the Commander fuming in his wake.

    Cullen¡¯s hand tightened around the reins, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to keep his breathing steady. The Orlesian thought himself clever, whispering venom behind a smile, but he was wrong. Cassandra, Fenris, and Brother Sebastian hadn¡¯t been left behind because of his council. Their absence had been arranged by Cullen; it was true, but for entirely different reasons.

    Well, maybe not with Cassandra; the Seeker was indeed too suspicious of her compliance with the decision to invade Ferelden. After her relentless questioning of every decision, every moral thread of their mission, her sudden change of heart felt very...off. Truth be told, he would rather just seal the Seeker''s fate, but killing her now would create unnecessary problems. Nevarra''s politics were complicated enough without a grudge over the death of a member of the royal family. And with war brewing on Ferelden''s borders, the Inquisition didn''t need any more enemies. Leaving Cassandra behind was the easiest way to put some distance between them while he tried to figure out what she was up to.

    As for Sebastian and Fenris, he just didn''t want two more men circling his wife. Especially the handsome Brother. Sending the two of them out on a fool''s errand to look for Hawke, along with a few soldiers, had been an easy fix. Sebastian had been overjoyed at the assignment, his eyes brimming with gratitude. He had even shed a tear. Fool. The search for the Champion would take them far away from the Inquisition and far away from Miriam. Exactly where Cullen wanted them.

    The rest of the march passed in silence, much to the Commander¡¯s relief. Gaspard, satisfied with whatever game he thought he was playing, kept his distance, retreating to the Orlesian vanguard. Cullen¡¯s fingers slowly relaxed on the reins, though the tension never fully left his body. The Emperor¡¯s games were like a festering wound¡ªone that would have to be dealt with eventually¡ªbut for now, the march to the Arbor Wilds continued smoothly.

    The Inquisition¡¯s army moved through the foothills with disciplined ease, but as the sun dipped behind the thickening trees, the terrain began to shift. The outskirts of the Arbor Wilds were treacherous¡ªa dense jungle, the air thick with moisture, and the smell of decay. The towering trees created a canopy that blocked out the sun, casting everything in a dim, green haze. Roots twisted beneath their feet, vines curled like grasping hands, and the deeper they went, the more difficult it became to maneuver the horses. Eventually, the jungle became so overgrown that they were forced to dismount from their horses and push forward on foot.

    Cullen¡¯s breath was steady, his eyes sharp as they entered deeper into the Arbor Wilds. The constant rustle of leaves, the sharp snaps of twigs in the distance¡ªnone of it was natural. He could feel it in the air. His enemies were here, somewhere, watching. Waiting. His sword was loose in its scabbard, ready to be drawn at a moment¡¯s notice.

    And then, as expected, they struck.

    The first ambush came suddenly¡ªVenatori and the Red Templar monstrosities emerging from the trees like phantoms, striking from the cover of the thick foliage. The Red Knights were particularly relentless, their twisted, lyrium-riddled forms charging the Inquisition¡¯s lines with reckless abandon. Cullen was ready, though. He had drilled his soldiers well.

    "Shields up! Brace!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

    The soldiers obeyed instantly, raising their shields as the Venatori''s spells crackled through the air, lightning and fire slamming into their defense. The clashing of swords followed, brutal and fast. Cullen''s own blade moved with deadly precision, cutting down one heretic after another.

    Through the smoke and chaos, he caught sight of Miriam. She was ahead, burning down the Venatori even before the Templars had the chance to Silence them.

    As the battle raged on, he felt the pull, the gnawing need in his gut. The Red Knights around him fought and died, and with each body that hit the ground, Cullen felt it growing stronger, a craving he could no longer deny. The Red Templars were nothing but meat to him now¡ªmeat to be torn into, to be consumed.

    In the next moment, he gave in.

    A Red Templar charged him, sword raised high. Cullen parried the blow easily, slashing across the man¡¯s chest. Blood sprayed, and with a growl, he grabbed the dying Knight by the throat. His fingers dug into the man¡¯s skin, feeling the thrum of life and the power of red lyrium. With a feral snarl, Cullen¡¯s teeth sank into the Templar¡¯s flesh, tearing a chunk free.

    Blood¡ªhot, thick, and coppery¡ªfilled his mouth, and the hunger roared to life within him. He fed, vicious and unrelenting, feeling the surge of strength and power that followed. The red lyrium sang through the blood, and Cullen welcomed it, feeling it burn through his veins.

    As the battle continued, he tore through the Red Templars like a beast, yet his soldiers fought on at his side, unperturbed, now used to the spectacle and too focused on their own survival.

    By the time the ambushes had been repelled and the bodies of Venatori and Red Templars littered the jungle floor, Cullen stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. His garments were stained with blood, his hands slick with it. He wiped his mouth, feeling the last remnants of the Templar¡¯s flesh between his teeth. He glanced toward Miriam. She was feeding, though not on the flesh. The red lyrium was her feast, and with each crystal she consumed, she grew stronger.

    As the Inquisition regrouped, preparing for the next wave, Cullen allowed himself a small smile. The Elder One didn¡¯t stand a chance.

    Eventually, after several more ambushes, the jungle thinned out, and they approached the ancient fortress where the enemy had set up a base. Towering trees gave way to ancient stone columns, half-buried in the earth, and the path widened into a crumbling courtyard. At its center stood the ruins¡ªa half-broken structure carved from obsidian, its surface crawling with dark veins of corruption.

    There, on a rooftop, was Corypheus. Though Cullen had never encountered him before, the twisted monstrosity matched exactly how he had always envisioned the Magister responsible for the Blight.

    His army stretched out before the ruins¡ªa grotesque legion of Red Templars and Venatori, standing shoulder to shoulder, their eyes aflame with hatred. To their right, perched atop a nearby column, loomed his blighted dragon, growling low and menacing.

    Miriam stepped forward. Cullen moved beside her, his sword in hand, while the Inquisition¡¯s forces fanned out around them, readying for the final assault. To their left, the Orlesian army¡ªled by Gaspard and his Chevaliers¡ªstood in formation. The two armies faced each other for what felt like an eternity, the tension crackling in the air like a storm about to break.

    Corypheus raised a clawed hand, and his voice, deep and otherworldly, echoed across the soon-be battlefield. "You come, Inquisition, to face your doom. You bring your armies, your soldiers, your pitiful hope. But hope has no place here. Only your death."

    Miriam¡¯s eyes locked onto the ancient magister, and Cullen felt the surge of fervor ripple through their bond. Her voice rang out, burning with zeal. ¡°Finally, the Maker grants me the chance to burn one of those responsible for the Second Sin against Him!¡±

    Corypheus sneered, his rotting lips curling into something resembling a twisted grin. "You, the one who feasts on red lyrium, who draws strength from the very corruption you claim to oppose. How fitting that you should lead His army¡ªa pretender flying the banners of a nonexistent god."

    Miriam¡¯s face twisted with anger. ¡°Blasphemer! Your heresy will be silenced, and you will pay for it in blood!¡± Her eyes darkened, and with a swift, commanding motion, she summoned her power. Black flames erupted from her hands, curling around her fingers, twisting in the air like living shadows. The dark fire spread, flowing over the weapons of the Inquisition and the Orlesians alike, setting their swords, arrows, and spears alight with a power that burned not with heat but with pure, destructive energy. The soldiers stared in awe as their weapons ignited, the dark flames dancing along the edges of their blades, a searing fury fueling their hearts.

    With a wave of Corypheus¡¯ hand, the battle erupted. His Red Templars charged in, their monstrous forms crashing into the ranks of the Orlesian¡¯s soldiers. The Chevaliers, shouting battle cries, met the corrupted Knights with their lances lowered, thundering forward in perfect formation. The ground shook beneath them, and the clash of steel on steel filled the air.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Above, the dragon let out a deafening roar and launched itself into the sky, its massive wings beating the air and sending gusts of wind rippling across the battlefield. As it swooped toward the Inquisition¡¯s forces, the mages raised their staffs casting shimmering protective barriers. Burning arrows flew from the archers striking the dragon¡¯s hide. The beast bellowed as black flames seared its wounds, but it soared overhead, unleashing torrents of fire in its wake.

    ¡°Inquisitor, we¡¯ll handle the beast! Focus on the Elder One!¡± Cullen shouted, pointing his flaming sword toward the magister. ¡°Mages, assist Her Worship! Templars, deal with the Venatori!¡±

    Miriam moved swiftly to follow his orders, and around her enchanters joined the fray. Cullen struggled to keep track of what happened to them next as the dragon landed with a thunderous crash, its massive form shaking the earth beneath him. The last time he had faced this monster it had left him broken and powerless.

    But now things were different. He was different.

    The dragon roared again, a wall of sound that threatened to tear the sky apart, and lunged forward with terrifying speed. Its jaws snapped one of the soldiers in half and crushed two more under its claws.

    "Hold the line!" Cullen roared, his voice booming over the battlefield. The men raised their shields just in time for the dragon''s tail to sweep across the ground, smashing into their defenses and throwing them aside like rag dolls. The Commander himself sidestepped the blow, his sword flashing black as he slashed at the beast¡¯s leg. The dark flames hissed against the dragon¡¯s scales, burning through the outer layer, but it only served to enrage the creature further. With a shriek, it spun toward him, its maw wide as it spewed fire.

    Cullen threw up his shield as the flames came at him. The heat barely affected him, so he held on and pushed back, getting closer and closer to the creature.

    Eventually, he was close enough to swing his sword again, driving it deep into the dragon¡¯s exposed underbelly, feeling the jolt of impact as black blood erupted from the wound. The beast howled in agony, thrashing violently as it tried to dislodge the blade.

    The red lyrium pulsed inside the Commander, sending waves of power through him. Yanking the sword free, the flames spiraling around him and charged toward the dragon¡¯s head.

    The dragon shrieked and reared up, slamming Cullen into the ground with its tail. Pain flared through his body, but the lyrium kept him going. He pushed himself up, blood trickling down his face, and with a guttural roar, he threw his sword with all his strength. It struck true, burying itself deep into the dragon¡¯s throat.

    The creature staggered, its movements sluggish as the flames from his sword spread, consuming its neck and spilling down its body. With a final, echoing roar, the beast collapsed, its massive form hitting the ground with a resounding crash.

    Cullen stood, chest heaving, staring down at the monster that had once made him feel so powerless.

    As he yanked his sword from the dragon¡¯s throat, the black flames still swirling around it, he glanced toward the battlefield. It was a scene of devastation. Bodies littered the ground, their armor torn and bloodied, and the air was thick with smoke.

    Gaspard bloodied but unyielding, fought alongside the Chevaliers, their gleaming armor now smeared with dirt and blood as they carved their way through the last of the Red Templars. The Venatori were nearly finished as well, their lines broken and scattered by the Templars.

    But it was Miriam who drew Cullen¡¯s gaze. She stood atop the crumbling ruins, silhouetted against the dark sky, black flames dancing around her. At her feet lay the bodies of fallen mages, those who had sacrificed themselves to clear a path for her, to give her the chance to strike at the heart of the enemy. Their bravery and devotion had brought her within range of Corypheus.

    Even from a distance, Cullen could see her straining. Her body trembled and blood dripped from her nose and ears, staining her robes. She was pushing herself to the very edge of her power, and it was taking its toll. But her focus remained locked on the figure before her¡ªthe twisted magister who had brought so much ruin.

    The ancient creature stood surrounded by dark magic, eyes blazing with contempt as he hurled spells meant to crush the Inquisitor. But Miriam held firm, her black flames swirling with intensity, pushing back against his onslaught.

    With a defiant cry, she unleashed a torrent of fire, the black flames roaring as they consumed the air between them. The flames met Corypheus¡¯ magic in a violent clash, sparks flying as the two powers battled for dominance. For a moment, it seemed as though the magister¡¯s power would overwhelm her, but Miriam gritted her teeth and pressed on, summoning every last drop of strength she had.

    The flames intensified, spreading over Corypheus like a living shadow, engulfing him. He let out a guttural scream, his body writhing as the black flames tore through him, unraveling the power that had allowed him to defy death for centuries.

    With one final burst, the flames consumed him entirely, leaving nothing but ash and a hollow echo on the wind.

    Miriam stood still, her arms falling to her sides, her body trembling violently from the strain. Blood streaked her face, and her chest heaved with labored breaths. For a moment, it seemed as if she might collapse, but she remained standing, staring down at the spot where Corypheus had fallen.

    The battlefield had gone silent.

    The Elder One was dead. It felt surreal.

    Cullen''s gaze softened as he looked at his wife, admiration, and concern warring in his chest. For a brief moment, there was only the sound of the wind, carrying with it the weight of the battle and the lives lost. Then, a cheer rose from the surviving forces, weak at first but growing stronger with each voice that joined. They had fought and bled for this victory¡ªand it was theirs.

    Cullen wiped the blood from his brow, his hand trembling slightly as the adrenaline faded. The battlefield around him was a scar on the land¡ªbodies scattered, weapons abandoned, and the smoke of dying fires rising into the darkening sky. He exchanged a grim look with Gaspard as they navigated through the carnage, making their way toward the crumbling ruins.

    Miriam had already come down from the roof. Her robes bore the marks of battle, and she wore a weary smile when she spotted them. Cullen¡¯s own lips twitched into a grin as they reached her. He opened his mouth to offer congratulations for their hard-won victory, but before he could speak, one of the Inquisition archers approached the mage from the shadows, her hood pulled low over her face.

    ¡°Your Worship, you need to know this! I saw the apostate spying on us during the fight,¡± the woman said urgently, her voice tight with fear.

    Miriam¡¯s brow furrowed, her sharp black eyes narrowing as she stepped forward. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her tone laced with suspicion.

    "The heretic¡­ Solas," the archer whispered, the name almost a curse on her lips. Cullen¡¯s attention snapped to her, a chill running down his spine at the mention of the elf. ¡°I saw him standing there,¡± she pointed toward the left, where the ruins bled into the wilds beyond. ¡°Watching the battle with a smile on his face. As soon as it ended, he vanished¡ªinto the jungle. It was only moments ago."

    "Solas?" Gaspard''s voice was sharp, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "He¡¯s supposed to be dead!"

    Miriam¡¯s face paled further. ¡°And you¡¯re certain it was him?¡± Her voice was tight, taut like a string about to snap.

    The archer nodded, her gaze flicking nervously between them. "I know what I saw. I¡¯ve been with the Inquisition from the start¡ªI know what he looks like."

    The mage¡¯s expression hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°We need to go after him. Now.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s send scouts first,¡± Cullen urged, stepping closer to her and placing a steady hand on her shoulder. ¡°You need to rest. You¡¯re barely standing, and you¡¯ve already given everything to¡ª¡±

    ¡°No!¡± Miriam snapped, jerking her shoulder free from his grasp, her voice trembling with anger and frustration. Her eyes blazed, filled with a fierce conviction that made Cullen step back. ¡°After what he did, I have to find him. Myself. That foul thing somehow survived the fury of the Maker Himself, defying all that is holy. This... heretic mocks the Creator with every breath.¡±

    She raised her hand toward the sky as if summoning a higher power. ¡°It is my sacred duty¡ªour duty¡ªto finish what He started. The Maker¡¯s judgment is not something that can be delayed or passed off to scouts. Solas will not escape again. Not this time.¡±

    Before anyone could stop her, she dashed off in the direction the archer had pointed. Cullen and Gaspard exchanged glances, both knowing the risks, but also knowing that there was no stopping her now. Miriam''s determination was a force unto itself, and there was no doubt she would march headlong into the wilds, alone if she had to. ¡°Damn it,¡± the Commander muttered, turning to the remnants of their forces. ¡°Gather anyone who¡¯s still able to fight. We¡¯re going after the Inquisitor.¡±

    Gaspard followed suit, barking orders to the remaining Chevaliers and Orlesian soldiers. The battle had left them with few able-bodied warriors, but those who could still wield a sword fell in behind them. With haste, they followed Miriam into the dense jungle.

    The trees towered overhead, their gnarled branches weaving into a thick, impenetrable canopy that swallowed the sky. Shadows clung to every crevice, twisting the forest into an ominous labyrinth. The path Solas had supposedly taken to retreat deeper into the Arbor Wilds lay before them, unnervingly clear. Too clear.

    It wasn¡¯t the subtle, near-invisible trail one might expect from a nimble elf. Instead, it looked as though a bronto had barreled through, heavy and clumsy. His unease prickled like the hairs on the back of his neck, instincts screaming that something was wrong. But Miriam marched ahead, determined, her gaze fixed forward, ignoring the growing tension in the air. She didn¡¯t want to hear it. Her steps were relentless, the pace unforgiving, even as weariness etched itself in the slump of her shoulders.

    Finally, they came upon a clearing deep within the jungle, and there, amidst the tangled branches, stood a massive mirror, its surface glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. It hummed with strange energy, casting eerie shadows on the surrounding trees.

    The Emperor¡¯s finger pointed at that thing, his voice laced with shock. "It''s an ancient relic... elven in origin. The Orlesians had found them scattered throughout ruins across the Empire but always broken. I¡¯ve never seen one intact. And certainly not... activated."

    Before anyone could respond, the hooded archer from before seemed to materialize beside them. ¡°Your Worship," she began, "I¡¯ve heard legends¡ªold stories of elves using these... devices to travel. Perhaps the heretic used it to escape.¡±

    Cullen spun on his heel, his glare sharp enough to cut. ¡°And how is it, exactly, that you know so much about this?¡±

    The archer didn¡¯t flinch under Cullen¡¯s piercing gaze. Her expression was unreadable beneath the hood, her posture unnervingly calm. ¡°I¡¯m just sharing rumors, Commander. That¡¯s all.¡±

    The mage glared at the structure, her lips curling in disgust. "Heretical artifacts," she spat. "Of course, he would use something like this." She muttered a quick prayer to the Maker, her voice low and strained. "We need to follow him."

    Cullen¡¯s hand came up once again, this time more insistent. "Wait. We don¡¯t know what that thing is, how it works, or where it leads. If the heretic is still alive, then we¡¯re walking into something dangerous¡ªsomething unpredictable. We underestimated him once already. We can¡¯t afford to make that mistake again. We need to be careful."

    Gaspard folded his arms, watching the mirror with skepticism. "I have to agree with the Commander. I¡¯m not one to shy away from battle, but this¡­ it reeks of danger. We should at least test it, send someone through first."

    "The chosen of the Maker will not fear, will not falter. His fire is with me," Miriam shot back, her voice ringing with unwavering conviction as she glared at both of them. The intensity of her faith radiated through every word, her eyes burning with righteous fury. "Enough of this time wasting," she snapped, her gaze locking with Cullen¡¯s, daring him to challenge her again. "If we wait any longer, we may never find him again." Her voice rose, "I command you to follow me!"

    Before Cullen could say anything else, she turned, fade stepping toward the ancient elven artifact. "Miriam, wait!" he shouted, lunging forward, but she was already at the mirror. Her hand brushed the surface, and it rippled like liquid. In an instant, she vanished into its shimmering depths.

    The Commander froze, dread coiling in his chest as the artifact stilled once more. He barely registered Gaspard¡¯s shout from behind him. "The Sword of the Faithful had paved the way for us!" the Emperor bellowed to the men, charging forward with the rest of their small force close behind.

    Cullen¡¯s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he raced toward the mirror, heart pounding in his ears. He steeled himself for whatever lay beyond the veil, and with a final breath, he plunged into the unknown.

 The fall

    Miriam stepped out of the shimmering surface of the heretical artifact, her boots landing softly on the strange, floating ground. The portal rippled behind her like water disturbed by a stone, casting brief reflections of the world she had just left. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. The air here was thick, unnaturally heavy, and the very atmosphere buzzed with palpable, unsettling energy. For a fleeting moment, she thought she had somehow returned to the Fade¡ªthis place had the same disorienting lack of reason, but no. This wasn¡¯t the Fade. This felt worse.

    "This reeks of Solas..." she murmured under her breath, her voice swallowed by the vast, echoing emptiness around her.

    Cullen was the next to step through, his eyes already scanning their surroundings, vigilant and tense. His brow furrowed the moment he took in the sight before them. Chunks of stone and masonry floated in the air, suspended as though gravity had forgotten them. Platforms, disjointed and irregular, were connected by spiraling stairs, tangled in green vines. Strange statues stood sentinel at odd intervals, their gazes unreadable. Paths twisted and turned, defying any logic or reason, curling off into impossible directions. One spiraled up toward a sky that seemed too far away; another disappeared into a yawning black abyss, its end hidden by darkness.

    And mirrors. Dozens of them, scattered throughout, just like the one they had stepped through. Reflections of the impossible landscape flickered in them, warped and strange.

    Behind him, Gaspard stepped through the portal at the head of the rest of the men who were with them. His usual commanding stride, though his face betrayed the briefest flicker of confusion before settling into a hard, calculating mask. The Emperor was not a man easily shaken, but even he could not dismiss the eerie, unnatural nature of this place.

    "By the Maker..." Cullen breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. "Where are we?"

    "In the Fade," Gaspard growled, his tone low, simmering with unease.

    "We¡¯re not in the Fade," the mage uttered, her voice firm though she wasn¡¯t entirely sure. "It¡¯s different. The Fade... has a dreamlike quality. A fluidity. But this¡ªthis place feels... constructed." She could feel it in the air¡ªthe dark tendrils of Solas¡¯ magic that seemed to coil and twist, almost alive. It clung to her skin like oil, thick and unnatural.

    The Emperor took a step forward, his boots clicking on the path beneath him as if to test its stability. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. ¡°We need to keep moving,¡± he said, his voice hard. ¡°Standing around gawking like lost sheep won¡¯t get us anywhere.¡±

    Miriam gave the man a pointed look for his audacious remark. But he was right. There was no sense in lingering here. ¡°Follow my lead,¡± she commanded.

    They began to move forward, picking their way across the suspended platforms and narrow bridges in tense silence, their forces trailing behind, as disoriented as their leaders. The Inquisition soldiers and Chevaliers alike cast uneasy glances at their surroundings, whispering among themselves, but no one voiced their fears aloud.

    After what felt like an eternity of wandering through the maze¡ªturn after disorienting turn, each path twisting in ways that made no sense¡ªMiriam stumbled around a sharp corner, and her breath caught in her throat. There, in the distance, standing atop a long set of stairs, was a figure framed by yet another mirror.

    Solas.

    He hadn¡¯t changed since she last saw him¡ªhis robes still hung around him in the familiar drape of an apostate, his expression as unreadable as ever. Yet the weight of his presence pressed down on her like a deep ocean current, overwhelming from all sides, threatening to crush her beneath its sheer, unbearable force. Her legs trembled. Not from fear¡ªat least not entirely¡ªbut from the raw, soul-crushing power that radiated from him, filling the space between them like a storm waiting to break.

    But all her emotions were quickly drowned by rage. Fury, white-hot and consuming, erupted from the depths of her being, surging through her black veins like wildfire. "You blighted heretic!"

    Black flames burst to life in her palms, crackling and snapping as they danced along her arms, turning her rage into something tangible. She didn¡¯t think, didn¡¯t hesitate. In an instant, she fade-stepped forward, disappearing in a blur of magic and fire, rushing toward him, her one desire¡ªto burn him alive, to end him¡ªdriving her every movement. Behind her, Cullen and Gaspard shouted commands and their forces surged forward, weapons drawn, their armor clanging as they charged toward the elf.

    Solas stood perfectly still, his expression calm as she closed the distance between them. Her flames blazed hotter, her heart pounding in her chest. Miriam could feel the magic thrumming in her veins, the promise of destruction at her fingertips. She was halfway up the stairs¡ªclose enough to see his eyes flash blue¡ªwhen the sound reached her. Screams. Desperate, horrified screams from behind.

    It was not the sound of soldiers in battle. It was the sound of men dying in terror, their voices twisted by something far worse than the edge of a sword. The bond she shared with Cullen resonated with fear, and Miriam¡¯s blood ran cold, her instinct to fight overridden by the primal need to know what was happening. She halted her advance, her body still crackling with magic as she turned sharply.

    What she saw turned her stomach to ice.

    Gaspard, the once-proud Emperor, stood frozen in mid-step right before the stairs, his mouth open in a silent scream, his entire body turned to stone. His features were locked in an expression of utter shock, his hand still gripping his sword, frozen as if reaching for an enemy that no longer existed. But it wasn¡¯t just him. Every single one of their soldiers¡ªtheir forces, hardened warriors, and Chevaliers alike¡ªhad been transformed into statues.

    Miriam¡¯s heart lurched. Her breath came out in shallow gasps as she scanned the battlefield. To her immense relief, she spotted Cullen standing alone amid the sea of statues, his sword still raised. He, too, was shaken, his eyes wide with disbelief, but he was the only one still untouched by the spell. He locked eyes with her, and at that moment, Miriam heard a hissing sound, as if the air itself were being torn apart. Searing agony shot through her left arm, accompanied by a sickening, wet noise that echoed in her ears.

    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    She looked down.

    Her hand had been severed clean above the elbow, the stump pouring blood. Her wide eyes tracked her detached limb lying on the ground, fingers still twitching as the dark flames dyed out in the dirt.

    Time seemed to stretch as the mage stared at the gruesome sight, her mind struggling to catch up with the reality of it. The pain was excruciating yet distant as if her brain had numbed itself in an attempt to shield her from it. The shock froze her in place. The power, that overwhelming presence from Solas, pressed down harder now, suffocating and relentless, as if the world itself were collapsing in on her.

    ¡°Miriam!¡± Cullen¡¯s voice cut through the haze of pain, sharp and desperate, but it sounded so far away. She could see him moving, rushing toward her, but every movement was sluggish, like the air had thickened, trapping them in this moment of horror.

    She turned her gaze back to the elf. His eyes glowed, power swirling around him like an invisible storm as he slowly descended towards her, calm, unflinching.

    Rage bubbled up in her chest once more as she tried to close the wound, but she was so weak¡ªso utterly drained by the loss of blood, by the crushing weight of Solas¡¯s power¡ªthat her magic barely surfaced. Staggering forward, she reached out with her one good hand, her breath ragged. ¡°Maker...¡± she whispered as her legs gave way beneath her. She fell to her knees, her hand pressing into the cold, fractured steps. Her blood smeared across the stone as she gasped, ¡°Please... help me to burn the heretic. Please...¡±

    And then something stirred.

    The black veins across her body pulsed, oozing inky slime from her stump. The mark on the severed hand also began to leak the same dark essence. The black liquid gathered on the stairs beside her. It moved with purpose, coiling and twisting as if it had a mind of its own. It was forming, growing into a vaguely humanoid shape, dark and trembling, like a creature waking from a slumber.

    The familiar presence washed over her. The Maker. He had come to deliver her once again! Relief surged through her chest, her heart beating wildly as she looked up, her vision blurred by tears.

    But something was wrong. The figure¡¯s form was unstable, trembling as though it lacked the strength to fully manifest. It wavered, shifting, its edges dissolving into shadow.

    Solas¡¯ voice broke through the tension, cutting through the air like a blade. "Elgar¡¯nan, she drained the mark¡¯s power while battling Corypheus. And don¡¯t you remember, old friend? In my realm, I reign supreme." He raised his hand, and the fragile figure struggling to take form erupted into flames. Unnatural and cold, blue fire enveloped the dark substance, its cerulean tongues eviscerating it with terrifying speed.

    ¡°Stop, Maker, NO!¡± Miriam¡¯s scream tore from her throat, raw with panic, but there was no time for more as Solas¡¯ flames surged toward her. They licked up her severed stump first, forcing their way into her black veins, twisting and writhing beneath her skin as they burned the slime that filled them. Her blood turned to ice¡ªfreezing and burning at once. The mage gasped, unable to cry out any longer, her body shaking under the assault.

    Behind her, she heard Cullen¡¯s voice, a desperate scream that cut through the chaos as the connection, a gift from the Maker that had bound them together through battles and love dissolved in the inferno of the elf¡¯s magic.

    ¡°No¡­¡± she whimpered, the word barely escaping her lips, strangled by the agony. She forced herself to turn, her body screaming in protest, to witness the moment Cullen collapsed. His form tumbled down the stairs, each thud echoing in her mind, until he crumpled at the bottom, motionless beside the statue of the Emperor.

    The sight felt like a dagger to her heart, but she had no time to grieve as the black scar across her chest¡ªthe one earned in battle with Samson¡ªerupted with fresh agony. It felt as though it had been ripped open from within. Blue flames surged from the old wound, bursting from her skin like molten fire. With a gasp, the mage¡¯s hand slipped on the blood, and she fell, her body rolling down the stairs, the world spinning around her until she came to a halt against Cullen¡¯s still form.

    Miriam¡¯s heart pounded in her chest, frantic, desperate, but the fire in her veins was relentless. It had already crept up her face, crawling toward her eyes, searing her skin. There was a moment¡ªjust a heartbeat¡ªwhere she could still see the world, see Solas standing above her, watching her suffering with a gaze that held neither malice nor mercy. ¡°I will cleanse you of all corruption,¡± he said, his voice soft, steady. ¡°And ensure that Elgar¡¯nan can never reach you from the Fade again.¡±

    Miriam let out a final, strangled scream as the blue flames erupted from her eyes, blinding her in an instant. Her world dissolved into the sea of darkness and pain, but then¡ªjust as she thought she had reached the peak of agony¡ªsomething far worse unfurled. Her connection to the Fade began to fray.  The threads that had once been so vibrant, so tightly woven into her soul, were coming undone. Magic, the source of her power, her identity, was slipping away, and with it, her emotions.

    First to go was the anger. The rage she had worn like armor, the fury that had given her the strength to fight against His enemies, dissolved into nothing. She no longer cared to fight. No longer cared to win. What once burned so fiercely within her now lay cold.

    Next went her faith. The belief in the Maker¡ªthe one truth she had clung to all her life¡ªvanished as if it had never existed. The Maker, His Bride, the divine whispers she once cherished¡ªthey were no more. She was no longer chosen; there was no guiding hand, no sacred presence watching over her, no promises of glory and salvation. What had once been pillars of hope, certainty, and pride in her soul crumbled, falling silently into the abyss.

    Just like that, one by one, all her emotions bled away, leaving behind nothing but a hollow void. And yet, as everything else fell away, one emotion remained¡ªstubborn and resolute, refusing to be silenced.

    Love.

    The image of Cullen¡¯s face lingered in her mind, a bright flame flickering against the gusts of a relentless wind. His presence¡ªstrong, unwavering¡ªhad been her anchor, the one truth in a world that spun out of control. He was the rock in her chaos, the light in her darkest hours. She had clung to him with the desperation of a drowning soul, reaching for the memory of his strength, the warmth of his touch, and the quiet comfort of his smile. It was all she had left, and she held onto it with trembling hands, terrified of losing that last thread of him.

    But the harder she clutched at the memory, the faster it slipped through her fingers, like sand pouring through an open palm. Every detail blurred, every sensation dulled, until her feelings for her husband began to fade. Still, Miriam fought¡ªoh, how she fought¡ªstraining against the inevitable, clawing at the remnants of what once had been. And yet, despite her struggle, the gut-wrenching moment came. She felt it like a punch to her core, that last ember of emotion sputtering, that final flicker of love growing dim.

    When it was gone she felt a terrible hollowness settle in her chest, a silence so vast it seemed to echo. She was utterly, devastatingly empty, as if her very soul had been drained, leaving behind nothing but a shell.

    As the Tranquil lay on the cold, unforgiving ground, her broken body ablaze, the agony that once roared through her veins faded to a distant, insignificant hum, a mere whisper as her vital systems began to fail. But just as her life threatened to slip away, the blue flames that had consumed her began to wane. In their absence, something new emerged¡ªa subtle sensation, a gentle warmth brushing against her ravaged flesh. Healing magic.

    The spell wove through her body, tender and persistent, seeping into her wounds, coaxing her back from the edge of oblivion. And so, instead of death, a dreamless sleep wrapped its arms around her, pulling her down into its dark, silent embrace.

 A new beginning (part 1)

    The cobblestone streets twisted and turned like a maze around him, narrowing and stretching into strange shapes in his disoriented mind. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, each step feeling like it was pulling him further from the truth, from... something. Something important. But what? He couldn¡¯t remember.

    His heart raced in his chest as he tried to piece together anything ¡ª his name, how he got here, even the reason why his legs were moving. Nothing came. The harder he tried to remember, the more his mind seemed to lock up, refusing to reveal any answers. He stumbled forward, eyes darting around the village square, where villagers passed by, their faces swimming in and out of focus like wraiths. Some of them glanced at him, curious or perhaps suspicious, their murmurs growing louder. Or was it his mind playing tricks? The sounds were overwhelming, each one sharper and more menacing than the last.

    He noted that crimson chains appeared across the square, long and creeping, wrapping around the buildings and the people, enclosing him. He felt it then ¡ª a rising panic, the chains were coming for him! His head throbbed, and a song began to echo inside his skull. He couldn¡¯t understand the words, but they hissed, furious and demanding. His pulse quickened, and suddenly, he couldn¡¯t breathe. His vision swam again, and the song grew louder. He turned his head, desperate to find a way out, anywhere to hide. There ¡ª behind a stack of wooden crates piled against the side of a shop.

    He stumbled toward them, his legs weak and unsteady. He crouched behind the crates, curling into himself, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. His hands shook uncontrollably as he pressed them to his head, trying to block out the song, trying to stop the trembling that had taken hold of his body. A sob broke from his throat, tears spilling down his cheeks. He didn¡¯t know why. Was it the fear? The confusion? The hopelessness?

    Then, a soft voice pierced through the suffocating haze.

    ¡°Why do you weep, good sir?¡±

    His head jerked up, startled. Standing before him was a little girl, frail and slight, her pale face framed by thin wisps of dark hair. Her eyes, small and pale, seemed far too wise for her young age, and she tilted her head curiously as she looked down at him.

    ¡°I... I can¡¯t... I don¡¯t remember,¡± he stammered, his voice broken, barely holding back the sobs. ¡°I don¡¯t know who I am. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening... the chains are coming after me.¡±

    The girl¡¯s expression softened. She stepped closer, her small, delicate hands folding neatly in front of her. ¡°Everything will be alright,¡± she said, her voice calm and gentle. ¡°You¡¯re scared. But you don¡¯t need to be. I can help you.¡±

    He blinked, still shaking, his breath hitching. ¡°Who a-are you?¡±

    ¡°I am Love,¡± she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

    He stared at her, struggling to make sense of the words, his mind too fogged, too jumbled to understand. But there was something about her¡ªabout her presence¡ªthat calmed him. Yet doubt still lingered. ¡°How¡­ how can you help me?¡±

    The girl simply smiled¡ªa small, knowing smile¡ªand that¡¯s when he noticed the amulet hanging around her neck. A simple thing, yet somehow striking. Engraved on its surface was the unmistakable symbol of Andraste¡¯s undying flame. As soon as he saw it, something within him stirred, a memory just out of reach, flickering like a candlelight in the wind.

    His trembling hands reached out instinctively, his fingertips brushing the trinket. ¡°I... I don¡¯t understand,¡± he whispered.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to,¡± the girl said, holding out her hand to him. ¡°Come, let me help you.¡±

    Hesitant, he took her small hand in his. The moment they touched, the world exploded into a blinding light. It swallowed him whole, and in an instant, the song, the chains, the fear¡ªit all vanished. He felt warm, weightless, floating in an endless sea of gold¡­

    He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the haze of the dream that clung to his vision. Above him, the night sky stretched vast and quiet, a scattering of stars barely visible through the thin canopy of trees. The cold night air clung to his skin, and he could feel a dull throb pulsing through his left eye. He instinctively reached up to touch it, finding that his left arm was sluggish as if fighting his command. When his fingers grazed the edge of a rough bandage wrapped around his head, the pain bloomed sharper, and he winced. What happened to me?

    Before he could even begin to sort through the jumble of fragmented thoughts, a calm voice to his right cut through the stillness.

    ¡°You¡¯re awake, then.¡±

    He turned his head sharply, his body tensing with alarm. His vision swam for a moment, and when it cleared, he found himself staring at a man sitting a few feet away from him, just beyond the dim light of the small campfire. He was an elf, middle-aged by the looks of him, with pale skin and a bald head. His robes were tattered and worn, patched in places with different fabrics, and a piece of wolf''s jawbone dangled from a string around his neck, the bone darkened and weathered from wear. The elf''s expression was calm but guarded, his light eyes studying him intently as if waiting for his next move.

    The man opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His throat felt dry, and he swallowed hard, trying to push through the fog in his mind. ¡°I¡ª¡± He finally managed, then hesitated. ¡°Where... where am I?¡±

    The elf¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained even. ¡°We¡¯re a few miles outside Denerim, by the eastern road. You¡¯ve been unconscious for a while.¡±

    The man blinked, struggling to piece together any kind of coherent thought. His head pounded, and every attempt to recall something only led to more confusion. ¡°I don¡¯t... I don¡¯t remember.¡±

    The elf''s posture shifted as he leaned slightly forward. "You don¡¯t remember what?"

    ¡°Anything¡­ I don¡¯t...¡± He shook his head in frustration, the motion sending another wave of pain through his skull. ¡°I don¡¯t even know who I am.¡±

    The elf let out a slow breath, and the wary look in his eyes softened. He glanced at the fire, as though weighing his words carefully before speaking. ¡°That¡¯s not surprising, given the condition I found you in.¡±

    The man¡¯s gaze snapped back to the elf. ¡°You found me?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± The elf shifted closer, resting his hands in his lap. ¡°You were lying on the road, unconscious. I thought you were dead at first. Bandits must have hit you, judging by the state you were in.¡±

    ¡°Bandits...¡± his voice trailed off. His mind was blank, offering no clues.

    The elf nodded. ¡°There wasn¡¯t much left on you¡ª just a few scraps, nothing of value.¡± He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Your left eye... I did what I could. But it''s gone."

    The man raised a shaky hand toward the bandage again, his fingers barely brushing the cloth. His stomach churned with anxiety, but the elf¡¯s calm demeanor kept him grounded for now.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± the elf continued quietly. ¡°The blow to your head was severe, so it doesn¡¯t surprise me that you¡¯ve lost your memory.¡±

    The man stared at him for a long moment, his thoughts scattered. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    The elf smiled faintly. ¡°My name is Theron. I used to be an herbalist... of sorts. Now, I am little more than a wanderer, drifting from one place to the next. You see, unlike a human soldier like yourself, an elven herbalist has little chance in the city. There is no place for one such as me there outside of alienage. So I shall test my fortune elsewhere, as the winds and the fates allow.¡± He glanced at the man¡¯s arm, the one that wasn¡¯t responding properly. ¡°I hope your master will still be willing to keep you in his service."

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    Theron¡¯s gaze lingered on him, cautious, before he spoke again. ¡°You¡¯re a soldier, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    "Soldier..." he repeated, the word tasting strange on his tongue. It echoed in his mind, familiar yet off-kilter, like a pair of boots that fit but still pinched in some places.

    Theron nodded slowly. ¡°While there is no armor, no sword on you now,¡± he gestured toward the man¡¯s arms. ¡°Your hands are scarred and calloused in a way that speaks not of a laborer¡¯s trade but of one familiar with weapons.¡±

    The man lifted his hands before his eyes, turning his palms over as if they might hold the answers he couldn''t grasp. His fingers were thick with calluses, his knuckles scarred¡ªthese were not the hands of a farmer. They had wielded steel, not plowshares. He tried to clench his fists, but his left hand only got halfway there. ¡°So... I might be a soldier,¡± he said, his voice unsteady as he let down his hands. He blinked, frowning slightly, then glanced at Theron. ¡°Did you say I found work in the city?¡±

    Theron met his gaze. ¡°Yes. At least, that¡¯s what you told me when you first woke up. You were half-conscious at the time, but you mentioned it before passing out again. You and your wife were headed to Denerim. A wealthy merchant there hired you. It was a good position, or so you said.¡±

    The man felt a chill run through him. He was married? He had no memory of it, no female face that he could recall, no name, nothing. But deep inside, the thought stirred something raw. ¡°My wife...¡± he muttered. ¡°Where is she?¡±

    Theron inclined his head gently. ¡°Turn to your left.¡±

    The man winced as he shifted his body, the movement sending sharp pain through his head. His bandaged eye limited his vision, but as he slowly turned, his breath caught in his throat.

    Lying not far from him, on another crude bedroll, was a woman. Frail and gaunt, she looked impossibly fragile, her skin pale and sickly. Long strands of white hair splayed across the ground, dull and tangled. But it was the bandages that drew his gaze, a thick wrapping covering her eyes completely, and beneath them, burn scars traced jagged lines down her face, across her neck, and over her exposed skin. The wounds were fresh, still red and angry, twisting over her like cruel, lashing marks. Her chest was heavily bandaged, her breathing shallow but steady. Her left arm ended abruptly just above the elbow, the stump wrapped in cloth that was stained with old blood.

    There was no spark of recognition, no comfort in seeing her face. She was a stranger¡ªyet the sight of her, broken and fragile, struck him like a sword to the chest. ¡°What... what happened to her?¡± he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips. Tears threatened at the edges of his vision, but he forced them down. ¡°Was it... was it the bandits?¡±

    ¡°I would guess so. It seems a Fire Bomb went off while they attacked you¡ª judging by the damage, I¡¯d say she took the worst of it.¡±

    The man swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the woman beside him while Theron continued quietly, ¡°The fact that she¡¯s still breathing is nothing short of a miracle. I stabilized her as best as I could. But she¡¯s been unconscious since then. It could be days before she wakes. It could be longer.¡±

    ¡°She needs a healer,¡± he murmured, more to himself than to the elf.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Theron agreed. ¡°A skilled healer, at that. I¡¯ve done all I can for her, but without proper care...¡± He didn¡¯t finish the thought, but the implication was clear.

    The man nodded, though the ache in his chest didn¡¯t lessen. He reached out with his good hand, hesitating for only a moment before gently resting it on his wife¡¯s shoulder. ¡°We need to get to the nearest Chantry,¡± he said, his voice firmer now. ¡°They can help her. They have to.¡±

    Theron¡¯s expression softened with a touch of pity, but he shook his head slowly. ¡°I¡¯m afraid her injuries are far too severe for a Chantry Sister to handle. Burns like those... they¡¯ll need more than just prayer and basic healing potion. She needs a skilled healer, the kind only coin can buy.¡±

    The man¡¯s face fell, his hope quickly deflating. ¡°But... I don¡¯t have any¡ª¡± He paused, frustration tightening in his chest. ¡°How am I supposed to pay for it?¡±

    Theron watched him carefully, then spoke with quiet deliberation. ¡°The rich merchant that had hired you, the one you were heading to. Perhaps he might be able to help.¡±

    The man¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Yes... I could ask him for a loan that I could pay back through my work!¡± But his shoulders sagged as the reality set in. ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t remember his name or where to find him. I could wander the capital for days and get nowhere.¡±

    The elf gave a small, sympathetic nod, then reached into the folds of his tattered robes. He pulled out a weathered cloth pouch, the edges frayed and stained from wear. He held it out to the man. ¡°This was among the few possessions the bandits left behind. Maybe there¡¯s something in here that can help.¡±

    The man stared at the pouch, a strange feeling bubbling inside him. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out and took it, the rough fabric warm from the elf¡¯s hand. He wasted no time, pulling open the drawstring and emptying the contents onto his lap. A few old rags, a half-used piece of soap, and... two letters.

    With shaking fingers, he unfolded the first letter. The parchment was creased and worn, but the ink was still legible.

    To Whom It May Concern,

    It is my honor to recommend Reid Miller, former Captain of the Guard of Whitewood, for any future position requiring leadership and skill in the protection of valuable persons and property. Captain Miller served with distinction during his tenure, demonstrating not only a keen understanding of military tactics but also an unwavering dedication to his men and the safety of our town.

    During his time with us, Captain Miller successfully thwarted multiple bandit incursions and was instrumental in maintaining peace during a period of recent unrest. His judgment is sound, and he is a man of high moral character.

    Any employer would be fortunate to have such a man in their service.

    Commander Arlen Dorev of Whitewood

    His heart pounded in his chest. That''s who he was! ¡°My name is Reid Miller,¡± he uttered aloud. Yet the sound of it felt wrong. It was like looking at someone else¡¯s reflection in a cracked mirror. There was no time to dwell on it, however, so Reid set the letter down and hurriedly opened the second one. This letter was newer, the ink crisp, and the paper well-kept, though creased from being folded.

    Captain Miller,

    I write to confirm my interest in hiring you as chief of security for my trade route between Denerim and Highever. Your reputation precedes you, and I have no doubt that you will serve my interests well, just as you have served Whitewood with honor.

    Upon your arrival in Denerim, do not hesitate to make yourself known at the Drunken Hounds Inn located near the city gates. Mention my name, and the proprietor will ensure you are well taken care of before you make your way to my estate in the Market District. I trust this arrangement will be satisfactory.

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    May the Maker bless your travels.

    Sincerely,

    Master Vernon Maren

    Reid stared down at the letters in his hands. ¡°Master Vernon Maren,¡± he whispered. His eyes shifted to the woman lying beside him, her chest barely moving, each breath a fragile, fleeting thing. Reid clenched his jaw as if sheer force could untangle the confusion roiling in his mind. His memories were a shattered mosaic, pieces scattered far beyond his grasp. But he didn¡¯t need to remember it all¡ªnot yet. He just needed one solid truth, something to anchor him amid the storm. And that truth rang in his mind with unmistakable certainty: He couldn¡¯t let her die.

    His gaze shifted, his focus locking onto the elf watching the scene. ¡°We¡¯re leaving.¡± He started to rise, his legs weak beneath him, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his every movement.

    Theron rose to his feet, stepping closer to put a hand on Reid¡¯s shoulder. ¡°No. You need to rest, at least until morning. The roads are dangerous under the cover of night. You¡¯d only doom both of you.¡±

    Reid shot him a hard look. His whole being ached to move, to do something other than sit helplessly by her side. ¡°I can¡¯t just¡ª¡±

    ¡°You can.¡±

    For a moment, Reid hesitated, the urge to argue bubbling up inside him. But the logic in the elf¡¯s words was undeniable. His strength was barely enough to stand, let alone carry his wife all the way to Denerim. After a reluctant sigh, he muttered ¡°Fine.¡±

    The elf moved closer, pulling a flask from his belt and handing it to Reid. ¡°Drink this,¡± he said softly. ¡°The herbal concoction will help you to regain your stamina while you slumber.¡±

    Reid took the flask and drank the cool liquid greedily until it was gone. It was bitter, but it soothed his dry, parched throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing slightly as the bitterness of the drink lingered. He handed the flask back to Theron. ¡°Thank you for saving our lives. For your kindness. I wish I had something to repay you with...¡±

    The elf looked at him for a moment, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He tucked the flask back into his belt, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. "You will repay me by just staying alive, now rest."

    Reid nodded and lowered himself to the bedroll. He turned onto his side, lying closer to his wife. His hand reached out on instinct, grasping the edge of her robes, holding it tightly as if that simple touch could keep her tethered to him. His eyes fluttered closed, and the weight of exhaustion overcame him, dragging him down into sleep.

    At the first light of dawn, the soft glow of the sun filtering through the trees, Reid stirred awake. The uneasy slumber had done little to ease the tension in his chest, but his body felt much stronger¡ªthe elf¡¯s potion proving effective.

    Reid¡¯s hand was still gripping the edge of his wife¡¯s torn, bloodstained robes. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he let go and glanced toward Theron. The elf stood quietly at the edge of the clearing, his belongings already packed¡ªa small, humble bundle slung over his shoulder as if he was ready to depart.

    The man rose awkwardly from his bedroll. "Thank you again, for everything," he said, his voice sincere but edged with uncertainty. "If the Maker wills it, we¡¯ll meet again, and I¡¯ll repay your kindness."

    Theron regarded him for a moment, one eyebrow arching upward in mild amusement. "Why so eager to get rid of me?"

    "I¡¯m not! You did tell me you were leaving the capital, so I just thought..." He faltered, suddenly unsure of his words. To be honest, the idea of being left alone made him nervous. He had no weapon, no memories, and a woman barely clinging to life under his care.

    Theron let out a long, quiet sigh, his expression softening as he looked between Reid and the woman resting beside him. "After spending so much effort saving you both, I must admit, I¡¯d feel more at ease knowing you reach your destination safely. It would be a shame if it was all in vain, wouldn¡¯t it?"

    Reid blinked, then smiled, that smile that comes when words fail and all that is left is gratitude.

    Theron¡¯s lips quirked into a half-smile. "Then, let¡¯s be on our way." He glanced at the rising sun. "The road ahead won¡¯t wait for us."

    Reid nodded and proceeded to tie together the few rags he had left, fashioning a makeshift sling. He secured his wife firmly against his back, her weight light yet burdensome all the same. ¡°We¡¯ll make it,¡± he whispered to her, though she gave no sign of hearing him.

    The elf led the way as they set off, the path winding through the dense forest gradually turning into more traveled roads as they neared the capital.

    Hours passed as they trudged forward, the day warming and the sun climbing higher into the sky. Occasionally, they passed travelers or carts, some sparing a glance at the odd trio, others ignoring them entirely. Reid¡¯s limbs felt heavy by the time the towering walls of Denerim came into view. The city gates rose before them, and beyond them, the sprawling mass of streets and buildings stretched out like a maze. The capital was alive with noise and movement, a stark contrast to the wilderness they had left behind.

    The guards eyed the small group with suspicion, but eventually waved them through after a thorough inspection of the letter he got from the merchant.

    Once inside, they made their way to the inn Vernon had promised would be waiting. Reid''s legs threatened to buckle more than once, but the sight of the Drunken Hounds sign hammered to the post was enough to keep him going.

    Finally, they reached the inn. It stood quietly between two larger buildings, unremarkable and weathered by time. The inn''s wooden walls, once sturdy, were now faded and worn, the kind of place that had seen too many seasons and too few repairs.

    The sign above the door swung lazily on rusty chains, its paint long faded, but just clear enough to make out the image of two mabaris clinking jugs of beer together in a cheer. Reid stared at it for a moment, his exhaustion making everything seem a bit surreal.

    But the elf urged him to enter, and as they did, the smell of fresh bread and the low murmur of conversation greeted them. It wasn¡¯t a large place, but it was busy, and the patrons seemed to be a rough sort¡ªmercenaries, traders, and a few ladies who looked like they belonged to less savory professions.

    The innkeeper¡ªa broad-shouldered man with a thick beard¡ªnodded at the mention of Master Vernon. Without asking too many questions, he tossed a key across the counter, grunting, ¡°Room¡¯s upstairs.¡±

    The elf caught the key, and they made their way up a creaky set of stairs.

    The room was sparse, with just three bunk beds lining the plain walls and a single window that let in a shaft of light. Untying the makeshift sling, he carefully lowered his wife onto one of the bunks, Theron¡¯s steady hands helping to guide her fragile body. She stirred faintly, her eyelids fluttering, but didn¡¯t wake. Her breathing was still weak, each shallow breath making him wince with worry, though there was a steadiness to it, a rhythm that gave him comfort.

    For a long moment, he just stood there, watching her. The thought of leaving her, even for a short while, twisted something deep inside. But what choice did he have? Dragging her under the unforgiving blaze of the midday sun, through the crush of bodies in the crowded market¡ªit wasn¡¯t even a real option, was it? Especially when he didn¡¯t even know if the merchant would be at the estate to meet them.

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep watch,¡± Theron said quietly, reading the hesitation on Reid¡¯s face.

    He nodded, grateful for the elf¡¯s presence, and turned toward the door, pausing only to give the woman one last glance. Then, with a deep breath, he headed out, making his way into the crowded streets of Denerim.

    The Market District buzzed with life as Reid wove through the throng of people. Merchants called out, their voices vying for dominance over the hum of conversation, the clatter of carts, and the sharp bark of  stray dogs. His eyes roamed the stalls, searching for anyone he could ask for directions to Master Vernon¡¯s estate. But then he stopped short.

    In a small, polished mirror hanging from the edge of a trinket stall, he caught a glimpse of himself¡ªa stranger, worn and weary. He stared, unable to look away. A man with short, curly hair, greasy and matted, so streaked with gray that its original color was lost to time, stared back at him. Dark bags under his one remaining brown eye gave his face a haunted, tired look, while a fresh bruise marred his cheek, and an old scar cut across his lip like a memory half-buried.

    Reid lifted a hand to his face, feeling the rough texture of his weathered skin beneath his fingertips. The reflection didn¡¯t answer any of the questions his mind struggled to form, but for a moment, he felt as though he had found a piece of himself¡ªhowever damaged and unfamiliar it might be.

    A sudden gust of wind swept through the market, carrying with it a sharp, metallic scent that jolted him from his reverie. Reid''s gaze snapped to the source, where a butcher¡¯s stall stood only a few paces away. Fresh carcasses hung from iron hooks, their crimson surfaces glistening in the bright light. The butcher, a thick-armed man with a practiced, steady hand, brought his cleaver down on a slab of meat with a dull thud, splitting bone from flesh in one clean stroke.

    Reid froze, his stomach twisting violently. A wave of disgust rose up within him, followed swiftly by something deeper. Revulsion. Guilt. The feelings slammed into him, unexpected and overpowering. His chest tightened, and without realizing it, he moved his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the surge of nausea.

    His thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of the reaction, but the intensity of the emotions left no room for logic. The faces of the market blurred as the feeling of self-loathing crawled beneath his skin, its source elusive but undeniable.

    Reid staggered away from the butcher¡¯s stall, clumsily pushing through the crowd until he found the rough stone wall of a nearby building. He leaned against it, pressing his forehead to the cool surface as he struggled to breathe, each inhale ragged and shallow.

    For what felt like an eternity, he stood there, waiting for the storm within him to pass. Slowly, the intensity of the emotions ebbed, leaving him drained and bewildered. He swallowed hard, wiping the sweat from his brow, forcing himself to take deeper breaths.

    ¡°Andraste preserve me, what... was that?¡± he muttered under his breath. He had no idea why the sight of raw meat had triggered such a violent reaction, but pushing himself off the wall, he straightened up, regaining his composure. His wife was still waiting for him, and the clock was ticking.

    He came to the nearest vendor¡ªan old woman with a stall of spices¡ªwho looked like she might know the area. ¡°Maker blesses you, good woman,¡± he uttered, his voice rough from the earlier strain. ¡°I¡¯m looking for Master Vernon¡¯s estate. Could you point me in the right direction?¡±

    The vendor gave him a curious look but didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Aye, Master Vernon. His estate¡¯s on the far side of the district, near the western gate. Follow this road here,¡± she pointed down the street, ¡°take a left at the second corner, and keep walking straight. You¡¯ll know the place when you see it. Big, stone building. Can¡¯t miss it.¡±

    Reid nodded his thanks, offering a strained smile, and turned in the direction the woman had indicated.

    Soon he stood before the estate, its towering stone walls casting long shadows in the midday sun. The place exuded wealth and power, but not ostentatiously so¡ªit was a fortress, more functional than grand, yet there was no mistaking the influence behind its thick iron gates. Merchants and cityfolk hurried past, many with their heads lowered, clearly aware that this was a place for the powerful. Above the gate, intricate carvings in the stone hinted at Master Vernon¡¯s long-standing place within Denerim¡¯s elite.

    Reid approached the gate with a mix of apprehension and determination. His mind was still clouded from the previous day¡¯s events, but he had to focus. Whatever had happened to him, he couldn¡¯t afford to let it show here. As he reached the gate, his left hand, still aching and unresponsive, remained hidden beneath his back. He gritted his teeth and lifted his right hand to knock.

    The door swung open almost immediately, revealing an elven servant of striking beauty. His features were sharp, almost too perfect, with red hair pulled back into a tight braid and piercing green eyes that studied Reid with a cool, detached interest. The elf wore a simple yet pristine tunic, his demeanor one of quiet confidence. "Yes?" he asked, his voice smooth and soft, almost too refined for a servant.

    Reid cleared his throat. "My name is Reid Miller. I¡¯m here to see Master Vernon." He reached into his pocket and carefully pulled out the folded letter he had received, mindful to use only his good hand. "I am expected."

    The elf¡¯s eyes flicked briefly at the letter before nodding curtly as he took it. ¡°I will take this to the Master.¡±

    Without another word, the elf closed the gate with a firm click, leaving Reid standing alone in the street once again. The silence pressed down on him, and the wait stretched on, each passing moment gnawing at his nerves. His mind spun with doubt¡ªhad he said something wrong? Would Vernon even see him, or had the gate just been closed for good?

    His hand moved instinctively to his face, fingers fidgeting with the bandages covering his left eye. The wound still throbbed beneath the wrappings, a dull, constant reminder. ¡°Please, Maker,¡± he whispered, feeling the weight of his prayer settle heavily in his chest. ¡°Don¡¯t let this be the thing that turns him away.¡±

    Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gate creaked open once again. The elf reappeared, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Master Vernon will see you. Follow me."

    Reid followed the elf through the courtyard and into the estate. The inside was as functional and severe as the exterior, but impeccably maintained. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries depicting merchant caravans and ships, but there was little in the way of comfort or luxury.

    As they passed through long corridors and into the heart of the estate, Reid''s eyes occasionally caught glimpses of servants moving with silent efficiency, though none paid him any attention. Eventually, they reached a heavy oak door at the end of a dimly lit hallway. The elf knocked once, then opened it without waiting for a reply, gesturing for Reid to enter.

    Inside the well-furnished chamber, Master Vernon sat behind a wide wooden desk, his thin, wrinkled hands folded neatly in front of him. The old man was a study in contrasts¡ªthough his body looked like little more than bones covered by taut, weathered skin, his bright attire was immaculate, and his silver hair and beard were trimmed with meticulous precision. His gray eyes, sharp and assessing, studied Reid from the moment he entered.

    Vernon¡¯s expression shifted from curiosity to mild surprise as his gaze swept over Reid¡¯s disheveled, dirty appearance and the bandaged head. ¡°Reid Miller,¡± he said slowly, his voice dry and raspy with age. ¡°I did not expect you to arrive¡­ quite like this.¡±

    Reid bowed his head slightly. ¡°Master Vernon, I beg your understanding,¡± he started, his voice strained. ¡°My wife and I were attacked by bandits on the road to Denerim. They took everything from us¡ªour coin, our belongings¡­ We barely made it here alive.¡± He hesitated for a moment, forcing his expression to remain calm. "My wife was gravely injured, and I have no means to pay for her healing. I know this may be bold of me, considering we¡¯ve only just met, and you¡¯ve already been generous enough to pay for our stay at the inn. But I must ask for your further kindness¡ªif you could advance me enough coin to hire a healer, I swear I will repay you in full once I begin my duties."

    For a moment, the room was silent. Vernon¡¯s eyes narrowed, and Reid could feel the weight of the old man¡¯s scrutiny as he considered the request. There was a flicker of something behind those calculating eyes¡ªsomething that made Reid¡¯s skin crawl, but before he could dwell on it, Vernon spoke. ¡°Very well. I am not without compassion.¡±

    The sound of rustling parchment echoed in the still room as the old man pulled out his contract from one of the drawers in his desk. Vernon¡¯s bony fingers smoothed out the edges of the document with practiced precision, his sharp eyes glinting as he reached for a quill.

    "Let¡¯s make some adjustments," the merchant murmured to himself, dipping the quill into ink and scribbling on the parchment. His hand moved with ease, and he hummed softly while adding lines and making annotations in the margins.

    After a few moments, he finished, blowing lightly on the ink to dry it before setting the quill aside.  Then, with a smile as polished as his appearance, he slid the contract across the desk toward Reid. "There we are. This should be more than enough to help you with your¡­ unfortunate circumstances."

    Reid made his way to the desk and took the contract eagerly, his hands trembling slightly as he gazed upon it. His eyes skimmed over the sum of money being offered. It was generous¡ªfar more than he¡¯d expected. Enough to pay for the best healer in Denerim, enough to buy a good set of armor, a decent sword, and supplies to replace everything the bandits had taken. For a moment, a surge of gratitude swelled in his chest. This was more than just a lifeline¡ªit was a new beginning.

    But then his eyes stopped on the details of the repayment plan. His brow furrowed as he saw the interest rate¡ªan impossibly high percentage. He read it again, certain he must have misunderstood, but the numbers didn¡¯t lie. At this rate, it would take him at least a decade, if not longer, to repay the debt¡ªassuming he could scrape by on meager wages while still meeting the monthly payments. The terms were suffocating. He would be trapped, forever clawing at the surface just to keep his head above water.

    Reid hesitated, lifting his eyes to the merchant. ¡°Master Vernon,¡± he began carefully, choosing his words with caution. ¡°The sum is generous, and I¡¯m grateful for your help, but¡­ these terms.¡± He glanced down at the contract. ¡°The interest¡­ it¡¯s quite high. It would take me years to repay this. I¡ª¡±

    Vernon¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. If anything, it widened. "Ah, but you must understand," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "I am compassionate, yes, but I am not a fool. I take risks when I offer my aid to you, and risks come with a price. The contract is fair. After all, I¡¯m offering you a way out of your current predicament, am I not?" The merchant leaned forward slightly. "Of course, you are free to walk away," he continued, his tone deceptively gentle. "But if you do, I will have no choice but to inform the innkeeper that your room is no longer yours. And I imagine it will be¡­ difficult to find another job in Denerim under such dire circumstances."

    Reid''s stomach twisted in knots. If he turned down Vernon¡¯s contract, where would they go? The streets? What then? Who else would lend him money for a healer? He had no other connections, no favors to call in. His mind raced, spiraling through bleak possibilities, each more hopeless than the last. The decision felt difficult, but in truth, it had already been made. There was no real choice here. He clenched his jaw. "Very well, I¡¯ll sign it."

    The glint in Vernon¡¯s eyes sharpened, satisfaction gleaming in his wrinkled face. "A wise choice," he said smoothly, sliding the quill toward him.

    Reid hesitated for just a moment longer, then, with a deep breath, he took the quill and scrawled his name at the bottom of the contract.

    The ink dried quickly, sealing his fate.

    Vernon smiled, folding the document neatly and placing it in a drawer. "Good," the old man uttered, his voice almost too pleasant now. "I¡¯ll arrange for the funds to be delivered to you by evening. And, of course, I¡¯ll send word to a healer immediately for your wife. I expect you to report to me and begin your duties tomorrow at first light."

    The servant elf reappeared in the doorway, silent as ever. Vernon nodded toward him, signaling that their business was concluded.

    Reid stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. He bowed his head slightly in thanks, though his throat felt tight as he forced the words out. ¡°Thank you, Master Vernon.¡±

    The old man did not reply, waving him off with a dismissive hand.

    The elf servant moved without a sound, the door swinging open in silence as Reid slipped through. Once he was beyond the threshold and away from the quiet weight of the old merchant¡¯s calculating stare, he let out a long breath, unaware he''d been holding it.

    It could have been worse. The thought steadied him. He¡¯d done what he came for¡ªsecured a healer and enough funds to keep him and his wife afloat. For now, it was enough.

    As he stepped through the wrought-iron gates of the estate and into the open world beyond, Reid looked up at the bright sky, squinting against the sharp, unfiltered light. Hope stirred within him, tentative but alive. With the Maker¡¯s help, the healer will mend her wounds, and she¡¯ll wake up. And when she did, she would finally tell him what the empty spaces in his memory refused to yield.

 A new beginning (part 2)

    Miriam drifted up slowly from the deep, empty void of her dreamless state. No light greeted her; it never would again, and she knew this. But her other senses sharpened as she grew aware of the world around her. She lay still, half-sunken into a lumpy mattress, her skin damp and clammy. The smell of old blood clung to her, mingling with the sour stench of unwashed bodies.

    Breathing steadily, she noticed the pain flickering at the edge of her consciousness: a wound on her chest throbbed, and a phantom weight lingered where her left arm used to be. Yet these sensations were no longer fears or sorrows¡ªthey were facts, like items on a list that demanded attention.

    Around her, a quiet murmur of sounds seeped through. Muffled voices, the low hum of conversation, and scattered laughter floated nearby. From somewhere below came the clink of tankards and the scrape of chairs against the floor. She let the sounds and smells wash over her, cold and indifferent, as she pieced together where she might be.

    A shift of fabric, subtle but near, drew her attention. "I have awakened you from your slumber,¡± came the low, measured voice of Solas. His tone was calm, almost clinical. "But you are still gravely injured."

    Miriam turned her head slightly toward the sound, but her movements were stiff, her body slow to respond.

    "We are in a room of an inn, in Denerim,¡± the elf continued. She could hear the soft crunch of dirt beneath his boots as he stepped closer. "Cullen is absent right now, and it will take some time before he returns." There was a pause, and Miriam sensed more than heard the way Solas regarded her. "While we wait, we should talk. There are things you must understand about what has happened and what lies ahead."

    The Tranquil remained silent while the elf weaved a tale drawn from times older than any human record. His words fell like a slow, somber rain, laden with truths too immense to bear all at once. He spoke of a world where magic roamed freely, as essential to his people as air itself. In that time, an order of elven mages had risen, god-like in power, feared and worshiped as the Evanuris. Yet, in their exaltation, these mages had become cruel, their tyranny absolute, until they started to enslave their own people.

    And then, as he described it, one rose to defy them¡ªa lone soul, a figure both feared and revered, known as Fen¡¯Harel. He was driven not by ambition but by an anguished love for his kin. To end their suffering, he sealed the Evanuris away, a single act that shattered the world irrevocably. In severing the Evanuris¡¯ hold, he had created the Veil, dividing the realms of magic and the living.

    Solas¡¯ voice darkened as he continued that one of the Evanuris, Elgar¡¯nan, had wielded a power unlike the others¡ªthe gift of foresight. Though he could not see the exact future, he glimpsed its many branching possibilities, each path a variation of what could be. For ages, he waited in his prison, watching, seeking the one opportunity that would allow him to break free. And that chance had come when Corypheus grasped an ancient elven artifact¡ªone capable of piercing through the Veil itself.

    And so, Elgar¡¯nan stretched his shadowed hand across races and lands, threading his whispers into the minds of countless mages. He showed them visions of grandeur, cloaking his dark intentions in dreams of a future radiant and triumphant. Elgar¡¯nan knew well how to stoke the fires of ambition, how to twist the strings of their hearts until they played a tune that suited only his design. But among all the mages he tempted, among the endless threads of fate he wound into his own scheming web, the one that ended up interrupting the ritual of the Elder One was Miriam.

    And in that instance, her fate was sealed. One part of the elven artifact became bound to her, engraved in her very hand, etching a force upon her spirit that would drive her, even without her consent, into waters deeper than her soul could fathom.

    Now Elgar¡¯nan¡¯s influence was solely concentrated on her, and through the mark that amplified her connection to the Fade, he seeped into the mage like a toxin, slow and unrelenting, bending her thoughts, and gradually turning her will towards his own grim purpose. Day by day, she was driven deeper into his design, each step a descent into darkness. And Elgar¡¯nan, closer now to his goal than ever, watched as the plans for the portal that he will use to escape from his prison took shape¡ªthe Golden City, the site of blind faith and blood, risen by those who believed they were serving the Maker.

    Solas paused for a moment as if giving her time to gather her thoughts after such a revelation. "Now that your mind is clear, now that the fog of delusion has lifted, I believe you will finally see the truth," he uttered, his words calm but heavy with an undercurrent of something far more resolute. "You were never the Chosen of the Maker. You were never the Herald of Andraste. No divine hand guided you. You were simply another weak, foolish human, one who stumbled blindly into the snares of temptation and corruption."

    A trace of pity, perhaps even a reluctant compassion, surfaced in his voice as he continued, though his tone did not soften. "Yet, I do not place all the blame at your feet. After all, the taint of the Evanuris¡ªtheir poison¡ªwould be impossible for a mere nobody like you to resist. How could you, when even my people fell beneath its weight?"

    Solas¡¯s harsh words slipped past Miriam like water running down bare stone, leaving no trace of themselves in her unfeeling mind. Her response came at length, in a voice so flat, so wholly stripped of feeling, that it seemed like the monotone echo of a distant, fading bell. "Judging by my recollections, it is as you say." There was no defense, no denial. Only the bleak recital of a life unraveled. The Nightmare revealed to me that the one who saved me from the Fade was not Andraste but the spirit of Divine Justinia. I ignored this truth at the time. It was too painful to accept, and I suppose I should thank you that I no longer have the capacity to feel such pain. The current revelations would have caused me great anguish.¡±

    She shuffled through her other memories with the mechanical precision of a mind processing facts. "The way the mark has carved its effects into my body, the unnatural cruelty with which I wielded its power¡ªall of it falls so far outside the teachings of Andraste as to mock them." Her right hand went to gingerly touch the stump of her left arm. "The figure that emerged from the mark, the one I believed to be the Maker¡­ it was not light, not warmth, but dark matter. It is a sign, as clear as any, that I was mistaken."

    "I must confess, I am... relieved, yes, to find you so very reasonable. It is, however, a grave misfortune  for you that I was forced to sever your connection to the Fade to achieve this clarity." There was no mockery in the elf¡¯s tone, only a grim acknowledgment of what had become necessary.

    "Then, if reason is indeed our shared ground, may I ask you something in return? Why did you spare me and Cullen during the fight? You killed Gaspard without hesitation, and the others¡ªall of them. It would have been logical to kill us too."

    "Ah, that is the second part of the tale, the part you are now prepared to understand." The Tranquil heard the rustling of a fabric once again. "As it became clear to the Spymaster that your power was not, in fact, from the Maker, she sought me out. Leliana needed someone who could see the truth for what it was¡ªand act on it, unsentimentally. We came to an agreement. Once the Elder One was defeated, one of her agents would lure you, Cullen, and the others into the Fade. There I would eliminate you all. It was decided that this would be the most¡­ effective way to halt the plans of Elgar¡¯nan and prevent the truth from emerging." Solas¡¯ voice grew sharper, almost as though he found some disdain in the memory. "Leliana knows that if the truth were to spread, there would be no greater scandal. It would shatter the Inquisition. So she arranged a story, one that would preserve her organization¡¯s purity in the eyes of the world, even if that purity was no more than a shadow."

    The elf sighed. "After Corypheus fell, the world was told that the Inquisitor, her valiant husband, the Emperor of Orlais, and their forces, all perished in glorious battle. A righteous, noble sacrifice, marked so greatly by the Maker¡¯s grief that He chose, in His sorrow, to withdraw from mankind once again. A bittersweet ending to your tales, which provides a perfect explanation as to why the Golden City would remain unbuilt."

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    "Then why are Cullen and I still live?" she inquired, still awaiting his answer to her primary question.

    ¡°Patience, if you will.¡± Solas¡¯ voice grew darker. ¡°Even as we speak, Leliana proclaims that the spirit of the Inquisitor has appeared before her, anointing her as the next Divine. But not merely a Divine¡ªoh no, an Enlightened Divine, a being untouchable, beyond all question or reproach. And as for Orlais, its new Emperor will be none other than Michel de Chevin. Yet he is but a piece on her board moved by her hand, his will bent to hers alone. And so the Inquisition and Orlais alliance would continue, stronger than ever. At least, for a time.¡±

    ¡°I think I understand now,¡± Miriam said, her voice an echo of cool, calculated logic. ¡°You kept Cullen and me alive solely as leverage. A measure to keep Leliana¡¯s ambitions in check.¡±

    Solas chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. ¡°Precisely. I have designs of my own for Thedas, you see, and I suspect that sooner rather than later, the Enlightened Divine and I will find our paths entangled once more. When that moment comes, I intend to hold the means to bring her reign to an end, should it prove... necessary.¡±

    ¡°I see... but Leliana is a formidable woman, with her own network of spies. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s only a matter of time before she learns that we are alive?¡±

    ¡°Rest assured, I¡¯ve taken every precaution,¡± the elf said, his tone calm and confident. ¡°She won¡¯t uncover your survival so easily. I arranged a switch. Your garments have been placed on the bodies of Reid and Elowen Miller¡ªa quiet, unassuming couple from a modest village deep in the Fereldan hinterlands. The deceased were charred beyond recognition and presented to Leliana as proof of your demise. Meanwhile, you and Cullen will now assume their lives.¡±

    He paused, letting the weight of their new reality settle in. ¡°Reid was a foundling, raised by a Chantry Sister. He was quiet, capable, and hardworking¡ªa lad with no aspirations of grandeur, destined for a simple life. Elowen, too, was a Chantry child, having grown up alongside him. As is often the way with orphans, the two developed a protective and steadfast bond. With time, that closeness blossomed into love, and they wed as soon as they could. They had no family to speak of, no inheritance to anchor them, only each other. But together, they made a life¡ªa simple one, but full enough for them." He took a measured breath, his tone shifting to one of firm instruction. ¡°And that is how you will live here in Denerim: as a quiet couple, intent on keeping to themselves, content to remain unnoticed. Make no waves. Be content with a life in which you are invisible.¡±

    The elf¡¯s voice grew more authoritative. ¡°Understand, this is an act of mercy. I could have cast you both into a cell and been done with it. But I value freedom above all else, and so I¡¯m offering you the chance to live out your remaining days in relative comfort. You have only two options¡ªso make your choice wisely.¡±

    She paused to reflect on her choices. A life of freedom¡ªalbeit constrained¡ªwas far more preferable. From a practical standpoint, it made sense to have more opportunities to be of use. Her medical knowledge and skills could still serve a purpose, even if that purpose was now less clearly defined. ¡°Yes,¡± she said at last, her voice flat but resolute. ¡°I will play the part of Elowen Miller.¡± Yet even as she agreed, her thoughts turned to her husband. He wouldn¡¯t take kindly to such a plan, to living under a false name, hiding behind a fabricated past. ¡°But what of Cullen? He won¡¯t like this. He¡¯s not suited for this kind of deception.¡±

    ¡°Cullen¡­ is a curious case.¡± Solas¡¯s voice softened. ¡°The red lyrium within him should have consumed him when the bond between you had disappeared. It should have destroyed his mind completely, twisted him into nothing more than a mindless Red Templar, like so many before him. And yet¡­ something unexpected happened.¡±

    "Unexpected? What do you mean?"

    ¡°When your connection to the Fade was severed, your love for Cullen left an echo¡ªan intense, resonant longing. A loss so profound that it created ripples within the Fade. That emotion, fierce and undeniable, called to a spirit of Love, drawing it to you. And as it drew closer, it grew curious about Cullen, the one who had inspired such depth of feeling. Spirits are, by nature, drawn to intensity, to the truths of emotion, and this one found Cullen¡­ worthy and decided to accompany him.¡±

    ¡°But how? Only mages can be possessed, and he isn¡¯t¡ª¡±

    Solas placed a hand on the Tranquil¡¯s shoulder to silence her. ¡°This spirit did not possess him. She merely accompanies him, observing, protecting, existing alongside him in ways that you humans always fail to understand. Your husband was teetering on the edge of madness, of dissolution. But the spirit of Love, recognizing something worth preserving in him¡ªsomething pure¡ªchose to stay. And by her nature, she tempered the madness. What is even more fascinating is that her presence keeps the effects of the lyrium withdrawal at bay, though for how long it would last, I cannot say.¡±

    Miriam was silent, her mind trying to absorb the impossible. ¡°Is he aware of her company?¡±

    ¡°No. He may find her presence while in the Fade, or feel a sense of warmth at unexpected times, but to Cullen, it would seem like a passing feeling or a strange dream.¡± A note of empathy, rare and unguarded, crept in Solas¡¯ voice. ¡°And as for you, Miriam, perhaps it is fitting that the spirit who saved the man you loved was drawn to him by what lingered of your own emotions, even after they were stripped from you.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps, yet I still don¡¯t see how being accompanied by the spirit of Love would make him willing to live within this falsehood. Besides, it¡¯s entirely possible that Cullen, burdened by the weight of his own transgressions¡ªtransgressions born from the very corruption I willingly infused him with¡ªwould want nothing to do with me.¡±

    ¡°It seems, by some strange stroke of fortune, red lyrium stole his memories before Love found him¡ªa mercy, if one can call it that.¡± The elf added swiftly.  ¡°I have already persuaded your husband that he is Reid Miller, and now, Miriam, your path is laid bare before you: play along, be who he believes you to be. Act as normally as you can manage¡ªno more, no less.¡±

    The Tranquil nodded, and they spoke a while longer, Solas imparting the finer details of their new identities, sketching out the contours of the life they would now inhabit. Miriam listened, trying not to miss a thing.

    And then, just as his voice fell silent, they both froze. A sound¡ªa faint, unmistakable creak on the stairs¡ªcut through the air. ¡°Remember all that we¡¯ve discussed, Miriam,¡± the elf murmured. ¡°Now, go back to sleep.¡±

    She barely had a moment to process his words before she heard the snap of his fingers¡ªa sharp, final sound that seemed to ripple through her thoughts. In an instant, she was pulled under, slipping back into the depths of slumber.

    Soon enough, a familiar sensation of the healing magic began to swell within the Tranquil, urging her wounds into quiet submission. With each passing moment, the sharp edge of her pain blunted and softened, subsiding to a dull ache that almost felt like peace. She felt herself growing lighter, as though she could finally rise from the weight of her own brokenness. As she basked in this newfound relief, she became aware of a conversation unfolding nearby. The hushed tones of voices drifted toward her, carrying snippets of concern and relief.

    "Sir," an unfamiliar female voice said, steady, measured, bearing the tone of authority. "Your wife¡¯s life is no longer in danger, but there are things you must be prepared for. Her sight is lost, irrevocably.¡±  A silence followed, after which the woman added, ¡°For her other wounds, I will leave you several healing salves and potions to speed up the recovery.¡±

    ¡°Thank you¡­ Thank you for your efforts.¡± Cullen uttered. Miriam could hear the tremor in his tone, the way it quaked under the burden of the news.

    "Reid,¡± she whispered quietly.

    But he heard her; she felt that he did¡ªa stirring of air, the hesitant shuffle of feet moving closer. ¡°You¡¯re awake?¡± His voice was laced with hope and a desperate plea for connection. ¡°You¡¯re really awake?¡±

    "I am," she murmured, turning her face toward the sound of him.

    ¡°We will give you two a moment,¡± Solas announced, and the echo of two pairs of footsteps retreated steadily until the door closed with a muted thud, sealing them alone in the quiet room.

    Gingerly, Miriam lifted her right hand, groping through the air until his hand met hers, steady and warm. She heard the floor creak as Cullen kneeled beside her. ¡°How are you feeling?¡± he inquired tentatively.

    "Stable. The pain is manageable. However, losing my sight and my left arm will significantly limit my usefulness, which is unfortunate."

    The fabric of his bandages brushed against her fingers as he brought her hand to his brow. ¡°Don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t speak of yourself that way,¡± he whispered. She stayed silent, careful not to wound him further. After a moment, he went on. ¡°There was¡­ so much I wanted to ask you when you woke, so much I had planned to say,¡± he faltered, ¡°but now¡­ I just... I¡¯m simply grateful you¡¯re alive.¡±

    It was clearly an emotional moment for her husband, and she had already unsettled him with her assessment of her situation. So, instead of saying anything, Miriam simply squeezed his hand in an attempt to soothe his restless mind. It seemed to work; Cullen released a faint sigh of relief that brushed softly against her skin.

    She resolved to choose her words more carefully from now on, to master the phrasing that would calm, reassure, and even delight him. And later, drawing from her memories, she would try to shape her voice to mimic the warmth of joy, the brightness of hope, and the ease of gentle amusement. Could one fake such emotions convincingly enough to make them real, if only in his eyes? She thought she could. Yes, it was just the beginning. A tentative beginning, but she dared to entertain the notion that it was, perhaps, a promising one.

 Epilogue

    Their small hut, like countless others crowded near the Alienage, was a testament to a life stripped to essentials, built from the plainest materials and softened only by the barest comforts. The rough wooden frame supported walls of wattle and daub, branches crisscrossed and plastered with thick clay, dried to a gritty, uneven finish. The roof above, thatched with straw and patched over the years with bundles of dried reeds, sagged under the weight of rain and time, shielding little more than it could hold back.

    Inside, Reid stood beside the simple, weathered armor stand, methodically strapping on his armor. Each piece clinked softly as he buckled and tightened it with practiced care, his movements precise despite the limitations of his left hand. It was a modest set, scuffed and dented from years of service to Master Vernon¡¯s household, but still sturdy enough to keep him protected in the city¡¯s rougher parts, where he sometimes had to venture. Leaning against the stand was a sword, its hilt wrapped in leather smooth from countless battles. Though the blade was chipped and dulled in places, it remained well-cared for, a piece of pride amidst the otherwise humble trappings of his life.

    He glanced over at Elowen, sitting at the low, uneven-legged table, its surface scarred and blackened by the ash from the hearth beside it, sorting through the herbs with a look of focused contentment. ¡°Spindleweed for ailments of the lungs, foxmint for a restless stomach, and witherstalk to prevent conception,¡± she murmured to herself as her one good hand moved delicately, fingers grazing over the dried leaves before she held each bunch close to her face, brushing the sprigs beneath her nose to catch their distinct scents.

    Having lost her sight, her remaining senses had sharpened, especially her sense of smell. Now, with a single breath, she could not only identify each herb but also judge its quality, knowing instantly whether it was fit for a potion. With only one hand, the work took patience and time, but that didn¡¯t seem to trouble her. The methodical task, the rhythm of sorting and sifting, brought her satisfaction¡ªa small comfort in their challenging lives.

    Despite her limited options, Elowen had insisted on doing something, anything, to aid with the household¡¯s meager income. There was a grace to her persistence, a resolve to contribute that Reid admired. Her work for the Sisters¡ªassessing the quality of the herbs donated to the Chantry and arranging them into easy-to-use bundles¡ªearned little, but those few extra coins could mean a loaf of bread or a fresh candle. And each coin mattered, with what he owed to Master Vernon weighing on him as it did. The debts from when he first came to the capital had clung to him like a shadow, eating away at his wages before they even reached his hand. Yet they had found a way to manage, and for that, he was grateful.

    As Reid fastened the last strap of his armor and adjusted his eyepatch, a bright ray of morning sun streamed through the small window, casting its light upon Elowen, who remained absorbed in her herbs. Her silvery-white hair caught the sunlight, transforming it into threads of moonlight that shimmered delicately, exuding a soft glow that rendered her almost otherworldly. For a brief instant, time suspended itself, and he found himself transfixed, breath caught in his throat. How curious it was, he thought, that even after all the years they had shared, despite the scars and burns that marred her form, every time he looked at her in moments like this, she seemed as achingly beautiful as ever.

    A surge of affection welled up within him, and he felt a sudden urge to be close to his wife, to feel her warmth before the day''s long stretch took him away. He stepped toward Elowen, and as she heard him approach, she tilted her head ever so slightly. ¡°What is it?¡±

    Reid paused beside her and reached out, his fingers hovering near the luminous strands. "It''s just, the light¡­it suits you, Wen,¡± he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. ¡°You look radiant." His fingers brushed lightly through her hair, letting the soft locks fall through his calloused fingers.

    Turning her face toward him, Elowen paused in her work, though her unseeing murky eyes rested somewhere just beyond his shoulder. "Would you like to kiss me?" she inquired, as straightforward and unguarded as ever.

    Reid chuckled under his breath, finding her bluntness endearing, though it had once left him fumbling for words. Her directness was one of the quirks he had come to appreciate, a reminder of his wife¡¯s unfiltered spirit. "Yes," he replied, smiling, "I would."

    His hand moved to cup her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. Slowly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a soft, lingering kiss. Her steady hand found its place on his arm, and she responded with a quiet sweetness that made his heart ache in the best way possible.

    After a moment, he pulled back, pressing his forehead against hers, breathing in the soft scents of herbs that clung to her skin. He was reluctant to leave the simple, comforting intimacy of her presence, but duty called, as it always did, and with one last gentle touch to her cheek, he pulled away. "You¡¯ve got me stalling here, love. I should be on my way."

    Elowen nodded, her hand already returning to her task. ¡°Be safe.¡±

    "I''ll be back before dark," he assured her as he walked over to the cloak hanging on the rusty hook near the entrance. Draping the thick fabric over his shoulders, he glanced back at his wife engrossed in her work and left.

    As he stepped out of the door, the cool, mist-laden air enveloped him, carrying the scent of stale wood smoke and the sour stench of excrement from the alleys. The familiar mix clung to the neglected corner of Denerim, as constant as the cobblestones beneath his worn boots. A lone crow cawed somewhere above, and he drew his cloak closer, heading down the street in the direction of the Martyr¡¯s Square. Passing through it was his best chance of reaching the Market District before the usual morning crowds made the lanes almost impassable.

    When he reached the square, he stopped taking in the scene before him. Two guards were scrubbing the cobblestones around the towering statue of the Martyr of Ferelden. Blood, most likely pig¡¯s, stained the base and had splashed up onto the statue itself, where a tall man in heavy armor held a sword high, a helm shaped like a lion head obscuring his face. His shield was raised, eternally mid-guard, and even as stone, he seemed to emanate a fierce, solemn energy. Reid noted, with faint interest, the weariness of the guards, muttering to each other as they worked, red-rimmed eyes betraying their exhaustion. The blood wasn¡¯t fresh; whoever had vandalized the statue must have done it under cover of night.

    The Martyr, made in likeness of Cullen Stanton Rutherford, had been a point of bitter controversy since its erection a few years ago, following the Landsmeet''s decision to honor him as a hero. According to the official story, Rutherford had sacrificed himself in a final battle against a dark Magister named Corypheus¡ªa battle that the rest of his companions, including his wife and the Emperor of Orlais, had allegedly done nothing to win. The narrative cast his wife as a delusional zealot who had bound him to her by lies and treachery, while the Emperor was portrayed as a mad tyrant, both of them reduced to mere bystanders in the grand martyrdom of the Ferelden hero.

    It was a tale that had taken hold of the young generation, who revered Cullen as a symbol of Ferelden¡¯s strength and pride¡ªsomeone who had stood tall against world-shaking evil and paid the ultimate price for it. To them, he was a legend, a shining figure in a land often overshadowed by Orlais and its imperious might. Reid had heard the praises in the taverns and streets: how Cullen was the true power behind the fall of Corypheus, how his sacrifice had spared the world from greater ruin. To these folk, he was a hero, the embodiment of Ferelden¡¯s grit and resolve.

    But not everyone shared that view. He knew that well enough. There were plenty who despised the statue and the man it represented. Whispers of darker truths circulated through the country¡ªthe rumors of Cullen¡¯s madness, of his kin-slaying, and cannibalism. Some called him a butcher, others a shame upon Ferelden, a man who had lost his humanity long before his final stand. Those who held to these beliefs vandalized the statue whenever they could, scrawling accusations of his crimes or dousing the monument in blood to remind people of the other side of the story, the one that, in their eyes, the Landsmeet had conveniently silenced.

    Reid didn¡¯t care, though¡ªnot one way or the other. It wasn¡¯t that he was indifferent to the idea of heroes or to the notion of truth. But there was too much weight on his shoulders¡ªdebts to Master Vernon, the constant grind to keep his household afloat¡ªto let himself get swept up in the debates of dead men and their legacies. Heroes, villains... in the end, none of it put food on the table or kept them warm during winter.

    Turning away from the scene, Reid tightened his grip on his sword belt and continued down the narrow streets, leaving behind the square, the statue, and the arguments of those who had time to worry about such things.

    As the imposing gates of the Vernon¡¯s Estate came into view, he steadied his breath. He could already anticipate the merchant¡¯s displeasure¡ªan unspoken storm waiting just beyond the grand doors. Vernon was a shrewd man, one who tolerated no extra expense and valued profits above all else. Yet with the world changing as it had under the rule of Divine Victoria, the costs of securing even a simple trade route had skyrocketed, and Reid knew Vernon was on the verge of exploding.

    It had been nearly eight years since the Spymaster of the Inquisition had ascended to the Sunburst Throne to become Enlightened Divine Victoria, turning Thedas upside down with her radical reforms. Her influence on the Chantry and its doctrine had been profound¡ªeven blasphemous, some would argue.

    Victoria had dismantled the Circle system reestablished by the Inquisitor, leaving towers empty and seals broken, with the Harrowing abolished and mages freed. No longer confined or treated as abominations waiting to happen, they were citizens¡ªprotected, with rights and a place in society that did not come with shackles. But her vision for change didn¡¯t end there. The priesthood, once exclusive and locked to tradition, now welcomed all races into its ranks. The Chantry itself had been rededicated to the principle of charity, the ancient Canticle of Shartan was restored to the chant, and for the first time in ages, marriage was permitted within the priesthood¡¯s walls.

    It was more than reform. It was a new vision for Thedas itself, yet change, as ever, brought its consequences¡ªmany of them dire and more deadly than even Victoria had foreseen.

    All over Thedas, entire parishes broke away from the Orlesian Chantry, refusing to acknowledge a Divine who had ¡°forsaken tradition.¡± Fanatical sects arose, each louder and more extreme than the last, preaching against the "heresies" of the Sunburst Throne. Assassinations became a whispered tool of opposition, with clerics and reformists alike vanishing without a trace. Amidst the chaos, the merchants and nobles who had once filled the Chantry''s coffers with gold turned their backs, refusing to support an institution they believed had betrayed their ideals. Donations dried up, and soon many Chantries faced the harsh reality of dwindling resources, struggling to maintain their very existence. Without the ample support of the elite, orphanages shuttered their doors, and food lines for the destitute grew painfully short. The poor¡ªthose whose lives Victoria had sought to improve¡ªfound themselves more desperate than ever.

    Freed from the Templars'' oversight, mages no longer shared the unifying threat of the Circle of Magi. With their chains broken, they scattered¡ªand with their newfound freedom, chaos followed. Some turned their powers to healing, scholarship, and defending the innocent. Others, however, seized entire towns, establishing sanctuaries they claimed were essential for protection against "peasants conditioned by centuries of fear."

    In these sanctuaries, power had no leash, and the mages turned to blood magic as often as they breathed. Their bloody rituals wore the Veil thin, tearing at the boundary between worlds. Soon, the neighboring villages found themselves defenseless, overrun by abominations, demons, and maleficarum. Entire communities vanished overnight, leaving nothing but scorched ruins and twisted remains that told silent stories of horror.

    The Templars, meanwhile, lacked the strength to maintain order or stop the chaos from spreading. They were tired and fraying at the edges, their numbers dwindling with every passing year. Recruits were rare¡ªfew saw any honor in a life tethered to a certain addiction, a lifetime of half-lives and early deaths in service to an Order that had become little more than glorified city guards.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    The decision to open the priesthood to all races was meant to be a groundbreaking stride toward inclusivity, a bold rejection of the rigid traditions that had defined Andrastianism for centuries. But the act challenged deeply held beliefs and stirred resentment among the old guard. The backlash was swift and merciless. Riots erupted across the major cities, with furious mobs storming the Chantry temples where these newly ordained elves and dwarves served. By dawn, the sanctuaries lay in ashes, reduced to smoldering ruins, and the bodies of the non-human Brothers and Sisters lay scattered, bearing silent witness to the cost of change.

    And Divine Victoria? She did not sit idly by as the world she had worked so hard to reshape threatened to shatter around her. She turned to the Emperor Michel himself. With the Orlesian ruler her puppet in all but name, Imperial troops flooded the streets, sword and shield meeting any protest with ruthless violence. Public floggings, stonings and executions became the order of the day in many cities.

    Meanwhile, Victoria wielded her spies with precision, sniffing out sedition in every corner of Thedas. Messages were intercepted, whispers silenced before they could become shouts. Merchants who dared speak against her found their businesses mysteriously bankrupt, their ships sabotaged, and their homes burned to the ground. Nobles who questioned her decrees soon found themselves stripped of titles and lands, entire families exiled or executed on charges of treason.

    In the end, they still called her many things behind her back¡ªheretic, tyrant, and defiler of faith. Yet none dared to confront her openly.

    Reid held a personal grudge against the woman¡ªnot for her sweeping reforms or her iron-fisted cruelty, but for a simpler, more immediate reason. While bandits had always been a nuisance, they became emboldened by mages who had chosen to ally with them, unleashing nature¡¯s fury on Vernon¡¯s caravans. Lightning, fire, and even hailstorms rained down on the guards, enabling thieves to seize valuable goods. Vernon, of course, painfully aware of his dwindling finances and faltering business, directed his frustration about it toward Reid for years.

    His thoughts were interrupted by the guards at the door offering him a brief nod as he passed. Inside the room, he found Vernon hunched over a ledger, brow furrowed and fingers drumming a rapid, irritated rhythm on the desk. The man didn''t look up as he entered.

    "I received your latest report on another attack on the eastbound caravans," the old man began, his tone brittle with accusation. "Thirteen guards dead, half the goods lost. I am starting to wonder why I pay you at all."

    Reid held his expression steady, his gaze fixed and unyielding. This wasn¡¯t their first conversation like this, and Vernon¡¯s clipped manners and casual disdain had long since worn thin. "I¡¯ve been insisting we hire some local mercenaries, ones with experience dealing with mage raiders. But you refu¡ª"

    ¡°Excuses, excuses,¡± Vernon¡¯s voice rose, a flush creeping up his neck as he finally lifted his gaze to meet Reid¡¯s. ¡°How many times do I need to tell you that you need to figure out a way to protect my caravans without bleeding my coffers dry. If you can''t handle the task at hand, maybe this isn¡¯t the right line of work for you.¡±

    What followed was the familiar back-and-forth, a dance of frustration and reason. Vernon stood firm, unwilling to part with more of his precious gold for security, while Reid insisted that he couldn¡¯t conjure miracles without proper funding. The discussion spiraled, as it always did, into Vernon promising to dock Reid¡¯s pay for incompetence and Reid retorting that then he would simply wither away from hunger, leaving Vernon scrambling to find a replacement willing to work for the paltry wages he was offering. And just as always, the meeting concluded with the merchant hurling curses at him as he made his way out of the office to resume his duties.

    After endless hours poring over maps, negotiating with mercenaries, and trying¡ªyet again¡ªto stretch Vernon¡¯s stingy budget to cover the cost of more guards for the trade routes, the estate had quieted. Another day was over, and it was finally time to head home and find solace in the small comfort of his own space.

    Yet, as he approached the courtyard, something caught his eye. He saw one of the handlers, a grizzled old man named Joran, crouched by the side of an aging mabari, his fingers tangled in the coarse, graying fur along the dog¡¯s neck. The mabari, named Bo, leaned heavily on his handler, one of his hind legs dragging slightly across the ground, his head drooping in exhaustion. His muzzle was flecked with white, and his teeth, once sharp and formidable, were now loose, some of them already missing. Bo¡¯s eyes, though still filled with life, had grown cloudy, the light in them dim as the years weighed him down.

    Joran looked up as Reid approached, his face drawn and streaked with the traces of silent tears. He gave him a resigned nod. "Vernon¡¯s orders came in today," he whispered, voice thick with grief. "Wants him put down. Says a dog that can¡¯t guard his post is a drain on the estate.¡±

    Reid felt a pang of anger at Vernon¡¯s callousness, a man who saw value only in coin and utility. To him, the mabari was nothing more than an aging asset, a cost on the ledger. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said softly, his words meant for both, the hound and the human.

    Joran nodded, returning his attention back to the hound. ¡°It¡¯s not the first time I¡¯ve had to let one go because of illness or age,¡± he admitted. ¡°But Bo¡­ he¡¯s different. He¡¯s been with me since he was just a pup. Always at my side, rain or shine. We¡¯ve watched each other¡¯s backs more times than I can count. He doesn¡¯t deserve to go like this¡­ I¡¯d take him, keep him comfortable for what time he¡¯s got left, but my babe has a bad cough every time she is near the hounds...¡± The handler took a deep, trembling breath, and in his desperation, looked up at Reid yet again, hope flickering briefly in his eyes. ¡°I know it¡¯s a lot to ask, but could you¡­ could you take him? He¡¯s a good dog, a good boy¡­¡±

    Reid stared at the old man, his mind racing. Taking in a mabari was no small responsibility¡ªhe¡¯d need care, time, and, more importantly, food. Coin for which, quite frankly, Reid didn¡¯t have. Their household was already stretched thin; adding another expense was an utterly irresponsible thing to do. Yet, as he looked down at Bo, who gazed back with those loyal, cloudy eyes, he realized he simply couldn¡¯t refuse. He kneeled down and placed a hand on the hound¡¯s head, scratching behind his ear. ¡°I¡¯ll take him,¡± he said softly. ¡°He deserves a warm place by the fire, someone to look after him in his old age. I¡¯ll make sure he¡¯s cared for.¡± At his words, the mabari¡¯s whole body relaxed under the touch, as if he knew he was in safe hands.

    The handler exhaled, relief mingling with sorrow. He placed a hand over his eyes as he struggled to find his voice. ¡°Thank you, Reid. I ¡­ I¡¯ll be forever grateful.¡±

    He gave the man¡¯s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ¡°You can come see him anytime you like.¡±

    The handler nodded, offering a faint, sad smile. With a final pat, Joran released Bo, his hand lingering a moment too long, as if unable to fully part with his old friend. "Take care of him, boy," he murmured. "Take care of him like you took care of me."

    The old mabari gave a soft bark in reply, and Reid gently coaxed him to his feet.

    As Reid guided the hound down the winding path toward home, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder how he might explain his decision to Elowen. In truth, he wasn¡¯t overly concerned; it was almost certain she¡¯d agree without hesitation. In all of Thedas, he could scarcely imagine a more agreeable soul. He was blessed, without a doubt, to have such a calm and understanding woman by his side¡ªsomeone whose patience and grace seemed endless, even in the face of his sometimes impulsive choices.

    He glanced down at Bo, who panted softly, moving with that familiar mabari dignity despite his limp. ¡°Come on, old boy,¡± he murmured as they neared the poorer part of the city.

    In the distance, he could already make out the thatched roof of their small hut.

    As they reached the door, Reid could see the soft flicker of candlelight spilled through the small window, casting a welcoming glow as the sun dipped below the horizon. He exhaled a small sigh of relief; everything was in order. The Sister had been by.

    Sister Marta came every evening, her arms laden with bundles of dried herbs for Elowen to assess and sort for the following day. By the time she left, she''d collected the bunches his wife had arranged, but her work went far beyond delivering herbs. In her infinite kindness, Marta had taken on nearly every household chore, aware of how much Elowen struggled to manage alone.

    Together, the two women made a team. Elowen would prepare vegetables and bring them to Marta to chop, then stir the pot while the Sister tended the fire to ensure the food cooked evenly. Sister Marta also took up the broom daily, sweeping the dirt floor while Wen wiped the crumbs and rests of the herbs from the table, making the humble hut as tidy as possible. Even the more tedious tasks - emptying the chamber pot, scrubbing the sparse laundry¡ªwere shouldered by Marta without ever being asked. And each evening, before she departed, the Sister would light the candles near the windows. In the hours after dusk, this light gave the confirmation of occupancy, a subtle yet effective deterrent against the bandits that sometimes prowled near the city¡¯s edge, wary of a home whose owners were inside.

    Reid led Bo up the path to the hut, his heart racing just a little as he opened the door. Inside, the familiar scent of herbs and bean stew greeted him. Elowen stood by the hearth, stirring a pot with a practiced grace, her movements sure and steady despite her lack of sight. Her long white hair was tied back, and her face, though she couldn¡¯t see him, lit up the moment she heard the door creak open. ¡°Reid?¡± she greeted warmly, her voice as soothing as ever. ¡°Is that you?¡±

    He gave Bo a reassuring pat before stepping inside. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s me, love.¡±

    She tilted her head, listening carefully before sniffing the air. There was a pause. ¡°You¡¯re not alone.¡±

    Reid swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat as Bo gave a low, tired whine, his large body shifting beside him. ¡°Wen, I¡­ have a mabari with me.¡± He led Bo further into the hut, the old dog panting as he settled down on the floor, exhausted from the walk.

    Elowen¡¯s left the big wooden spoon she was using to stir the stew and stepped closer, extending her hand carefully. Reid gently guided her palm to Bo¡¯s head, letting her feel the fur beneath her fingertips. She knelt beside the dog, her fingers moving with practiced sensitivity over the hound¡¯s muzzle and body.

    ¡°This is Bo,¡± he explained, watching as Elowen¡¯s fingers traced the outline of the mabari¡¯s ears. ¡°He¡¯s an old hound who¡¯s served the estate for years. Vernon¡­ he ordered him to be put down, said he was no longer fit for his duties. But the handler¡ªBo¡¯s handler¡ªhe asked me to save him, take him in.¡±

    Elowen¡¯s hands stilled on the hound¡¯s neck, and she sat quietly for a moment, processing his words. Reid knew that though she couldn¡¯t see Bo¡¯s tired, clouded eyes or his limping hind leg, she could feel every bit of his frailty beneath her touch. "And you couldn''t bring yourself to say no," she said calmly; there was no accusation in her tone, just a statement of fact.

    Reid sighed, crouching down beside her. ¡°I couldn¡¯t help it, Wen. He¡¯s a good dog¡ªloyal, kind. I know it¡¯ll stretch our budget, and I know we¡¯re barely getting by as it is. And I should have asked you first, especially since you¡¯ll be the one taking care of him while I¡¯m out, and I¡ª¡±

    She rested her hand gently on his arm, halting his words. ¡°It¡¯s alright.¡± She turned back to Bo, running her fingers through his fur, her touch soft. ¡°You did the right thing.¡±

    Bo gave a satisfied sigh and settled down on the floor. Elowen rose, her hands finding Reid¡¯s arm again. ¡°It¡¯ll be good to have the company. And besides, we all deserve to know peace in our final years.¡±

    Reid¡¯s chest swelled with gratitude as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. ¡°You¡¯re too good to me, you know that?¡±

    She shook her head gently, returning his embrace. ¡°No, Reid. I think it¡¯s you who¡¯s too good to me.¡±

    He chuckled, a soft, rumbling sound. ¡°Then let¡¯s just agree that we¡¯re made for each other.¡± With a reluctant sigh, he slowly released her, his hands lingering a moment longer. ¡°Now, let me shed this cursed metal, and then, finally, we can sit down and share a meal.¡±

    Elowen nodded and let him go to unfasten his armor.

    Piece by piece, Reid set down his well-worn breastplate and bracers, followed by his cloak, its edges frayed and speckled with mud. When he finished, they settled down to their meal: a thin, watered-down stew of beans, a few potatoes, and some carrots. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling enough for two people at the end of a long day.

    Reid poured a bowl and set it aside to cool for Bo while they ate. By the time they¡¯d finished, the hound was sitting up expectantly, his eyes fixed on the food. With a grin, he placed it in front of him, and Bo eagerly dug in.

    Reid¡¯s smile faded, though, as he watched the dog lap up beans and potatoes. ¡°You know, Wen,¡± he murmured. ¡°He won¡¯t last long on what we¡¯re eating. Hounds like him need meat.¡±

    Elowen paused for a moment as if sifting through thoughts before settling on something solid. ¡°Sister Marta¡¯s husband,¡± she began, ¡°he¡¯s a butcher. Always had a soft spot for hounds, that one. Treats his mabari like it¡¯s his own kin. If I mention Bo¡¯s situation, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll spare some chicken necks or legs. Might even part with a few slices of pig skin now and then.¡±

    Reid relaxed, the worry lifting a bit as he nodded. He reached over to pat Bo, who was licking the last scraps from his bowl with a satisfied grunt. ¡°Let¡¯s hope so.¡±

    As they finished tidying up after the meal, it was time to turn in for the night. Their bed, tucked in the far corner of the room, was simple and worn, its rough-hewn planks creaking under even the gentlest touch. The mattress¡ªlittle more than straw bundled in fraying cloth¡ªoffered meager support, and the single blanket, once a deep hue, had long since faded, its warmth now a distant memory. But they had learned to make do, spending their nights wrapped tightly around each other to chase away the creeping cold.

    By the hearth, Bo had curled himself into a ball near the glowing embers, his form seeking the last warmth of the fading fire. Reid knew, however, that as the night deepened and the embers dimmed, the cold would settle in, and Bo would feel it in his old bones. So, once they were tucked under the covers, he turned to Elowen, his voice soft. ¡°Would you mind if Bo slept with us? Just until we can get him a good, thick rug?¡±

    ¡°Of course not. He needs the warmth as much as we do,¡± she replied instantly.

    Reid patted the space beside him, his left hand tapping the bed softly as he called out, ¡°Come here, Bo.¡±

    The dog lifted his head, blinking up at him with tired, questioning eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he slowly rose, padding toward the bed. With a bit of effort, Bo hoisted himself up, his paws sinking into the worn mattress as he settled down beside Reid. He pressed close, resting his large, grizzled head on Reid¡¯s side, letting out a contented sigh.

    Reid smiled softly, wrapping one arm around Elowen, drawing her even closer as he pressed a gentle kiss into her hair. His other hand reached down, finding Bo¡¯s thick, weathered fur, his fingers resting there in a silent bond with the old, faithful creature who had now become a part of their small family. The three of them lay there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the night, cocooned in their shared warmth. And as Reid closed his eyes, feeling the rise and fall of breath on either side of him, he felt, in that simple moment, an unspoken peace and comfort he wouldn¡¯t trade for anything in the world.