The rain had followed Cullen for days. It drummed against Gallows’ roofs and pooled in the crevices of the training yard, a relentless gray curtain that blurred the line between dawn and dusk. He stood by the window in Meredith’s office, his fingers resting lightly on the chilled glass, observing the Knights below as they moved through their drills. Their voices, though softened by the rain, carried a stubborn resolve, rising faintly through the downpour.
The room smelled of damp stone and old parchment, mingling with the sharp bite of ink from the unfinished reports scattered across the Knight-Commander’s desk. Meredith had summoned him at morning bells to discuss the Order’s next steps, but midway through, she had faltered, her face drawn with illness. She had excused herself for a moment, though it was plain she was in no state to be working at all. Their forced march to the Chantry in the rain two days ago had seen to that. Yet she pressed on, as she always did. Fever, exhaustion—mere inconveniences. Cullen admired that about her—her relentless dedication, her refusal to yield to weakness.
His eyes wandered to a crack in the windowpane, a jagged line that spidered outward like a frozen bolt of lightning. A Knight-Commander’s office ought not to bear such flaws, yet Meredith never spared thought or coin on such trivialities. There was always something more urgent—always a greater need. He understood. He respected that, too.
Meredith returned to the office, the sharp, herbal scent of elfroot and healing salves trailing behind her. Her steps were measured, her posture as rigid as ever, though the faint flush of fever still lingered on her cheeks. She seated herself behind the desk with a curt nod, her hands folding neatly atop the scattered reports. “That should sustain me for a few more hours,” she said dryly, her voice carrying its usual edge. “Let’s continue.”
Cullen nodded and made his way back to the table, though he couldn’t help but notice the faint tremor in the Knight-Commander’s hands as she reached for a parchment. She cleared her throat and began without preamble. “There’s been a report of a group of young elven apostates on the Wounded Coast. Likely Dalish—their magic must have manifested, and their clan cast them out. We can’t afford to let them roam freely. They are untrained and volatile. A danger to themselves and others.”
The Ferelden’s jaw tightened, a bitter thought rising unbidden. Humans often decried the Circle’s treatment of mages, yet they were blind to the ways other races handled their own. The Dalish, for all their pride, simply cast their mages out when they became too numerous for the clan to handle, leaving them to starve or fall prey to bandits. And the Qunari, they chained their mages, sewed their lips shut, and called it mercy.
For a moment, an image flashed in his mind: he takes the needle, cold and sharp, and drives it through some maleficar’s lips—first the upper, then the lower—yanking the thread to make the process even more painful. The flesh resists slightly before yielding, a faint trickle of blood welling up as the needle pierces again and again, stitching the mouth into a permanent silence. The blood mage’s muffled cries are swallowed by the thread, his madness contained, his power stifled. A grim satisfaction flickered in Cullen’s chest, and the corner of his lip twitched, though he quickly schooled his expression back into neutrality.
Yet Meredith’s sharp eyes managed to catch even that slight movement, and she raised an eyebrow. 'Something amuses you?'"
He straightened, his voice steady. “No, Knight-Commander. Just considering the... complexities of the situation. The Wounded Coast is riddled with caves and crevices—perfect for hiding. It won’t be an easy task to root them out.”
The woman’s gaze hardened, her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of her desk. “Precisely why you and Faith will lead the search. The City Guard patrolling the area has procured some rags that belonged to the apostates. The mabari will have no trouble picking up their scent.”
Cullen nodded, though his mind was already turning over the logistics. “Understood. I’ll take a detachment of seasoned Knights. They’ll be better equipped to handle the terrain and any resistance we might enco—”
“No,” Meredith interrupted. “You’ll take the ones who’ve yet to be tested in the field. This will be their trial by fire.” She reached for a parchment on her desk and slid it toward him. “Here’s the list. Ten names. They’ll accompany you.”
Cullen’s eyes scanned the paper, and his frown deepened as he settled on two familiar names: Anne of Lowtown and Tamlin of Lowtown. The young man, he knew, had served for a little over a year—a Knight of earnest effort, though his duties had been modest so far. This mission, indeed, might serve as a crucible for the boy, a chance to test his mettle against something greater than the routine. But the girl—the girl was another matter entirely. “Anne of Lowtown? She was only knighted a few weeks ago. It’s too soon to throw her into a mission like this.”
“Are you questioning my judgment? Or is it that you’ve grown too soft on the girl? First, you assign her to clean your quarters, then you shuffle her off to the infirmary—cozy, comfortable postings. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were showing her undue favoritism.”
Cullen’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation rising in his chest. He forced it down, his tone measured but firm. “Knight-Commander, I assure you, my concern is for her readiness, not favoritism. She’s untested. Sending her into the field now could endanger her and the rest of the team.”
Meredith’s eyes narrowed, her voice cold and unyielding. “The list stands as it is. The Order does not coddle its Knights, Cullen. They either rise to the occasion or they fall. Do I make myself clear?”
He met her gaze for a long moment, the weight of her authority pressing down on him. “Yes, Knight-Commander. It will be done,” he said finally, his voice clipped. He took the list, folding it carefully and tucking it into his belt.
The woman leaned back in her chair, her expression softening ever so slightly. “See that you prepare them well for the mission. The apostates cannot be allowed to slip through our fingers. Dismissed.”
The Ferelden turned on his heel and strode from the office, fighting the urge to slam shut the door behind him. The mabari that was waiting for him at the door joined him instantly on his way, wagging her tail. He acknowledged her absentmindedly with a few pats on the side.
Meredith’s words lingered, a bitter taste in his mouth. Favoritism. The accusation stung, not because it was true, but because it undermined his judgment. But then again, he knew that it was exactly what would happen when he approved Anne’s request. Maker’s breath, Anne’s request! He had promised the girl to look into Bethany Hawke’s records to uncover the fate of the man she had tried to save on the day her magic was discovered. The memory of her pleading eyes flashed in his mind, and he sighed.
“Come, girl,” Cullen uttered to his hound, who trotted obediently at his side. “Let’s make a quick detour to the archives. See what we can find.” He took a sharp turn to the left, his boots echoing against the stone floor as they made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the Gallows.
The archives were a cavernous room, its high ceilings lost in shadow. Shelves stretched from floor to roof, crammed with scrolls, ledgers, and dusty tomes. Cullen moved with purpose, his fingers brushing over the tags on the scrolls until he found the one marked Hawke, Bethany. He unrolled the scroll with care, the parchment crackling softly in the hush of the chamber.
The first lines were familiar—date of birth, physical description, lineage, and a summary of her talents. Then, details about her Harrowing, recent and successful. At the edge of the page, a scribbled observation caught his attention: ‘Displays exceptional control of her powers, but shows early signs of melancholy. Recommend monitoring for emotional instability.’ A small, clinical judgment, but Cullen knew well enough what it meant. He had seen those words before, buried in the records of those mages who had found life too burdensome to endure.
He turned to the next section to finally find a report by Knight-Corporal Tobias detailing the day Bethany had been brought to the Circle. The mob, frenzied and terrified, had turned on the girl and her family when she tried to heal an injured beggar. He wasn’t surprised. Fear of magic ran deep, and when combined with whispers of blood magic, it often ignited like kindling. The crowd had been merciless, and if it wasn’t for the Knights, the Hawke family’s fate would have been grim.
Cullen’s expression hardened as he reached the part detailing the other group of Knights. They had been dispatched to investigate the supposed victim of Bethany’s blood ritual. The account was brief, almost brutal in its honesty. By the time the Templars had arrived, the beggar Bethany had tried to save had been torn apart by the mob. His remains lay scattered, destroyed by the rage of those who feared he could have a demon inside of him. One of the Knights, however, had been able to identify him—Raleigh Samson, a former Knight, now disgraced, his life reduced to begging after being cast out for smuggling goods to the mages.
The name held him still; his fingers clenched the scroll tighter. He remembered Samson—not as the broken man he had become, but as he had been in those early days in Kirkwall. A good Templar, a decent man, his compassion for the mages his undoing. And now, this. His life, a long descent from duty to dishonor, had ended in savagery, torn apart by the very people he had once sworn to protect. It was a stark reminder of where kindness toward mages would lead—ruin.
Cullen’s hands began to ache, the old fractures in his bones pulsing as if echoing the weight of his own past failures. The scroll in his grip grew heavy, its burden more than physical. Without a second glance, he rolled it tightly and placed it back on the shelf. He had found what he needed. There was no sense in dwelling on it any longer.
The Knight-Captain strode back to his office to settle into the chair behind his desk, the familiar creak of the wood welcoming him. Faith curled at his feet with a soft huff, her ears flicking subtly in response to the rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpanes. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and dipped his quill in ink, hesitating for a moment before beginning to write.
Knight-Templar Anne,
I have looked into the matter you requested. The man Bethany Hawke tried to save has been found and identified. I regret to inform you that he did not survive the events of that day. While I cannot provide further details, I hope this brings Enchanter Bethany the closure she wanted.
Knight-Captain Cullen
He set the letter aside to dry, his gaze lingering on the words. Neither Anne nor Bethany needed to know who the man was—or exactly how he had met his end. Some truths were better left unspoken.
Next, he wrote to Thrask, his quill moving swiftly across the page.
Knight-Templar Thrask,
I am assigning you the task of preparing the knights listed in the attached note for an upcoming mission to the Wounded Coast. We will be hunting a group of elven apostates, and your experience will be invaluable in ensuring they are ready. Please see that they are properly equipped and thoroughly briefed. We depart as soon as the weather permits.
Knight-Captain Cullen
He leaned back, rubbing at his temple before adding, almost as an afterthought: Send word if there is anything you require before departure.
Having completed the letters, he folded them neatly, adding the list of names he had received from Meredith to the one addressed to Thrask. With a quiet sigh, he summoned a Tranquil to ensure their delivery.
The rain showed no signs of letting up, its relentless rhythm a constant backdrop to life in the Gallows as days passed in a blur of routine—meetings, reports, and the occasional brief respite in his office. Anne came to clean as she always did, her movements precise but lacking their usual energy. When she finished, she turned to him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
"Thank you, Ser, truly," she said, her voice soft but earnest. "For doing what I asked—for giving Bethany the answer she couldn’t stop fretting over. She is upsetthat the man she tried so hard to save passed, but it’s better than spending her days wondering what became of him."
“You’re welcome,” he replied, studying the girl. There was something off about her demeanor, a shadow in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “But… is everything all right? You seem troubled. Are you nervous about the upcoming mission? It’s natural to feel that way, especially for your first important assignment.”
Anne shook her head quickly, her fingers twisting together. “No, it’s not that. I’ll be ready, I swear it. I won’t fail you.” She hesitated, pressing her lips into a thin line like she was trying to hold the words back, but then they spilled out, “And no, I am not alright. I am deeply troubled. But please, please, Ser, don’t ask me anything about it. Just know that it has nothing to do with the mission.”
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Cullen raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild skepticism. An unusual reply, to say the least, he thought. ‘I am not alright, but don’t ask me about it.’ Was it a deliberate attempt to pique his curiosity? Was she playing some kind of game with him? He quickly dismissed the idea as his gaze lingered on her face—her strained, earnest expression told him otherwise. She wasn’t the type for such tricks, and he knew her well enough by now to trust that. Still, it was a peculiar way to respond, and it left him uneasy.
“Very well,” he said, his tone calm. “I won’t press you further. However, once we’re in the field, I expect your full focus on the mission. Your complete dedication is paramount—the lives of your brothers and sisters in arms depend on it. Understood?”
Anne straightened her posture, her expression tightening. “Understood, Knight-Captain. You have my word. I won’t let anything—or anyone—down.” She gave a crisp nod before quickly gathering her things and leaving the room.
As the rain finally relented, Cullen felt the weight of impending duty settle more firmly on his shoulders. The sky, though still streaked with lingering clouds, held the promise of fairer days ahead. He watched from his window as the last droplets slipped from the eaves, disappearing into the damp stone below.
Tomorrow, they would ride out. The younger Knights would face their first true test, and Anne would be among them. Cullen had observed her in training—competent, disciplined, and determined. Still, her lack of field experience lingered in his mind like a shadow. He dared to hope his reservations would prove unfounded, that she would rise to the challenge as he had seen others do before.
A soft nudge at his hand pulled him from his thoughts. Faith, ever his loyal companion, pressed her head against his palm, her warm breath steady and familiar. He scratched behind her ears absently, knowing they would rely on her sharp senses in the coming days. The Wounded Coast was vast and treacherous, and if the apostates had any foresight, they would have covered their tracks well. Even with Faith’s nose, tracking them after days of rain would be no easy feat.
The arrangements were made. Thrask had ensured the supplies were ready, provisions packed for what would likely be a long search. The younger Knights had been briefed, their armor and weapons checked, their resolve tested in drills. All that remained now was the waiting—one final night before they departed with the first light of dawn.
Cullen exhaled, rubbing the mabari’s head once more before stepping away from the window. He had done what he could. The rest would be decided on the road, by steel and by faith.
The night was deep, the Gallows wrapped in a hush that even the restless sea could not disturb. A single candle flickered at Cullen’s desk, its flame swaying with the faintest draft that crept beneath the heavy wooden door. He sat at the edge of his bed, rolling a vial of lyrium between his fingers. The crystalline substance caught the dim light, gleaming with a welcoming, blue luminescence.
He exhaled slowly, tipping the vial back, the liquid chilling as it coursed through him. The second dose followed just as swiftly, its frost biting at his veins even harder, but it would ensure his rest was undisturbed. He needed his strength for the journey ahead, and that meant no nightmares—no ghosts clawing at his mind from the past.
Yet, as soon as Cullen lay back and closed his eyes, the dream took him.
The cold was a living thing, burrowing beneath his armor, pressing into his skin, creeping deep into his bones. The vast expanse stretched before him, endless walls of jagged crystal refracting a pale, ghostly light. Frost clung to the air, drifting like fine ash, his breath curling in front of him, a fragile mist that vanished as quickly as it formed.
And then, from the shifting white, she emerged.
Neria.
She was dressed in white, a gown that seemed woven from the very snow itself, its delicate folds barely stirring as she walked. Her long silver hair tumbled down her back, strands dusted with frost. The glimmering flakes settled in her lashes, her cerulean eyes peering through them, searching. As their gazes crossed, she extended her hands towards him, fingers pale and slender.
“Neria, my love, I come for you!” He declared with fervor, his voice ringing clear in the cold air as he strode forth, his boot crunching upon the frost-hardened ground. Yet, as his weight settled, a sharp snap broke the stillness beneath his step.
The ice stirred. Creeping. Crawling. It slithered up his boots, clamping around his ankles, coiling higher with each movement. He tried to step forward again, but the ice held firm, a vice around his legs. His breath quickened, mist curling from his lips, and still, the elf stood there, arms extended, waiting.
“Neria. Neria!” He called out to her as he tried to break free, but every movement only gave the ice more purchase, snaking higher—his knees, his thighs. Tighter. Colder.
Sudden warmth. A wet, damp sensation against his cheek, faint but jarring.
The ice climbed to his waist.
A sudden nudge, sharp against his ribs. His breath stuttered.
The ice was already pressing all around his chest.
A more forceful shove, pressure against his side.
The cold wrapped around Cullen’s throat—choking, unyielding. He couldn’t breathe!
And then—light.
A blinding golden figure—a Templar forged from pure radiance—stepped into the chamber. Its sword burned with searing brilliance, too intense to gaze upon directly. When it spoke, the voice was his own, yet magnified, resounding with the weight of judgment.
"Behold the truth of your weakness, Knight. You barter your honor for fleeting respite, your valor for the hollow embrace of oblivion."
The golden Templar raised its blazing sword high, its searing light scorching the air, and with one devastating swing, shattered the pillar of ice encasing Cullen into a thousand glittering shards, sending him crashing to the ground in a burst of fractured light and chaos.
He woke with a gasp.
Panic. Disorientation. Cold sweat. His breath came in sharp, shallow pulls. The room was dark, save for the moonlight seeping through the window, and his vision blurred as he blinked rapidly, struggling to shake off the lingering haze of the dream.
And then, above him—a face.
A blur of wide eyes, a shadowed silhouette against the dim moonlight. Hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him, voice trembling with urgency, though the words were lost in the fog of his waking mind. His body reacted before reason could catch up, his hands shooting out and shoving the figure away.
A startled cry. A sudden thud as the figure stumbled backward, hitting the cold stone floor. A sharp gasp—pain, shock. Then, a low whimpering sound. Faith.
Cullen blinked rapidly, pushing himself upright as reality came crashing back, his vision sharpening until, at last, he saw her.
Anne.
She sat on the floor, her hands splayed where she had caught herself, her expression a fragile mix of surprise and hurt. Faith had nudged her side, then turned to Cullen with eyes darkened by reproach.
Anne swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry to have startled you, Ser. But Faith—she came to me in the barracks, dragged me here.” She hesitated, uncertainty flickering across her face. “You were screaming. A woman’s name.” Cullen’s fingers tightened against the blankets. “You were so pale, Ser. Gasping for air, your lips turning blue, and I—I got scared.” Her breath hitched. “I was only trying to wake you.”
The remnants of the dream clung to him like frostbite—the crushing cold, the ice winding tight around his throat, the desperate reach for Neria that always, always fell short. The golden Knight’s words pounded in his skull, relentless as a war drum: You barter your honor for fleeting respite, your valor for the hollow embrace of oblivion. Cullen’s chest ached, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers twisted in the blankets, white-knuckled. “Leave me,” he ground out, the words scraped raw from his throat.
“But, Ser—”
The Ferelden’s eyes snapped open, blazing with fury. The weight of the nightmare, the shame of his weakness, the unbearable knowledge that she had witnessed it—it all boiled over, snapping what little control he had left.
“Are you bloody deaf?” He snarled, voice rough with rage. “Or simply too thick-skulled to take a damned order? Get out!”
The young woman recoiled as if slapped, momentarily frozen on the floor. She blinked rapidly, battling the tears that threatened to spill. Then, with a strangled gasp, she pushed herself up and bolted from the room.
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the ragged sound of Cullen’s breathing. But the shame that curled in his gut only fanned the embers of his temper into a roaring flame, and his gaze turned to the only other soul in the room—Faith.
“And you,” the Ferelden spat, his voice sharp. “What in the blighted Void were you thinking, dragging her here?” The mabari let out a low whine, shifting slightly. “The girl is under my command, damn you! She cannot—she must not—see me like that!” Faith’s tail tucked low, but Cullen pressed on, the heat behind his eyes burning, his voice cracking. “And if I would not wake, then bite me! Sink your Maker-damned teeth into my arm! Rip me from that cursed nightmare, but don’t—don’t bring others to witness it!” His voice wavered at the last, and suddenly, the fight bled from him. He dragged a shaking hand down his face, his shoulders sagging.
Faith, her ears flattened and her large, solemn eyes locked on him, padded softly to his side before leaping onto the bed, gently resting her head on his lap as if to offer whatever small comfort she could muster.
Cullen exhaled shakily, his fingers ghosting over her black fur. The anger had burned itself out, leaving only the bitter taste of regret behind.
“…Damn it. I'm sorry, girl," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I shouldn’t have shouted at you."
The hound let out a quiet huff, nudging his hand as if to say she forgave him. The simple, unwavering loyalty in her eyes made his throat tighten.
"But you mustn’t—ever—reveal my weakness to others again. You’re the only one I can trust with this, Faith. The only one who sees." His fingers stroked along her ear, his tone quieter now. "No one else."
The mabari gave a soft, rumbling sound of understanding, pressing closer.
Cullen exhaled heavily and leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. "Anne… the girl only wanted to help. Just like you. And I tore into her for it."
His jaw tightened. She had looked so small when she fled, eyes glistening, shoulders shaking. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll make it right,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow, before we leave for the mission.”
His gaze drifted to the empty lyrium vials on the table. A knot tightened in his stomach as he stared at them, the weight of their emptiness pressing heavily on his chest. Even two are no longer enough to keep the nightmares away... How long had it been since a single vial could quiet his mind? How long until even three wouldn’t be enough? The thought sent a ripple of unease through him, but he pushed it aside, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to dwell on it further. He would manage. He had to.
The crisp morning air in the Gallows courtyard buzzed with activity—armor clattered, voices murmured, and knights moved with purpose as they prepared for the mission. Cullen stood near the stables, his stern expression masking the lingering weight of the previous night’s events. Beside him, Faith sat poised and alert, her ears twitching and sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with unwavering vigilance.
Cullen’s gaze drifted across the courtyard, settling on Anne, Tamlin, and Thrask as they emerged from the gates and made their way to the stables, engrossed in conversation. He couldn’t help but notice the changes in them since their last meeting. Tamlin looked thinner, his frame more gaunt, while Anne’s eyes were puffy and swollen, betraying the night spent in tears. As their conversation with Thrask drew to a close, the older Templar moved on to address others in the group, offering last-minute instructions.
Seizing the moment, Cullen motioned for Faith to stay and stepped toward the two knights. “Knight-Templars,” he acknowledged with a curt nod. “Anne. A word.”
The young woman flinched almost imperceptibly before nodding in silent agreement. She followed him to a quieter corner of the courtyard, her steps hesitant but deliberate. Tamlin’s sharp gaze tracked their every move until Cullen raised a brow in his direction. Caught, the young man quickly averted his eyes, his attention snapping to the horses as if suddenly fascinated by their movements.
Once out of earshot, Cullen turned to the young Knight. “About last night,” he began, his tone measured, careful. “I spoke out of turn. My words were harsh, and I regret that. You were only trying to help, and I should have recognized it.”
Anne’s eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, he feared she might burst into tears once more. “What a relief!” She exclaimed, her voice rising, but as he lifted a hand to temper her tone, she continued, softer. “Knight-Captain, I—I couldn’t bear the thought of you being angry with me, of you hating me. I just—I couldn’t—” She broke off, twisting her hands together in a gesture so helpless, so painfully earnest, that Cullen was struck by a fresh wave of guilt over his outburst the night before. “You mean so much to me, Ser. The thought of losing your trust, your regard, terrifies me. To me, you’re… you’re more than just my Knight-Captain. You’re everything I—I don’t even know how to say it properly. You’re everything, Ser.” Her face flushed crimson, as if the weight of her confession had only just struck her. Her eyes darted away, unable to meet his gaze, and she took a shaky step back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice so faint it might have been mistaken for the rustle of the wind. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just...”
As her words drifted into silence, the Ferelden couldn't shake the sharp sting of discomfort. This wasn’t just respect or fealty anymore—it was something deeper, something far more personal. He recognized it all too well. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to him—young Knights, their hearts still untampered by the harsh realities of their duty, conflating loyalty with longing, admiration with infatuation. It was a dangerous line to tread, one that left him feeling both discomfited and perplexed. He had never sought this, never encouraged it, and yet, like the slow turning of the seasons, it always seemed to find him.
He would not allow it to take root.
“Anne, look at me,” he commanded—firm, but not unkind.
She obeyed, her eyes searching his face, brimming with fragile hope.
“Your loyalty and integrity are beyond question. I do not take them lightly. But you must understand—my role in your life is that of your captain, nothing more. It will never be more.”
Her face flushed deeper, the hope that had briefly brightened her gaze flickering, then fading. She parted her lips to speak, but he pressed on.
“We are the Knights of Andraste. We have pledged ourselves to a cause far greater than any single soul among us. There is no room for this—whatever it is you believe this to be—within the bounds of our lives.”
Her face fell, tears spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back. “I know,” she choked out, her voice raw, trembling. She scrubbed at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand, as if she could erase the evidence of her weakness. “I know, Ser. I’ll… I’ll stop. I’ll bury it, cast it into the Void if I must. Just—please, don’t look at me differently for this. Don’t let this be the thing that strips me of your trust. Let me remain your loyal Knight, unwavering and true.”
Cullen sighed, his expression softening slightly despite himself. “Anne, you have merely misplaced your heart, and I won’t hold that against you. But from now on, I need you to understand where the boundary lies—and to never step beyond it again.”
Anne nodded—a stiff, deliberate motion, as if forcing herself back into the rigid discipline expected of her. She straightened, shoulders squaring, pressing her lips together in a tight line as she willed herself into composure. “Will do, Ser.” Her voice was steady, though a faint tremor betrayed her.
He studied her a moment longer, then gave a curt nod. “Good. Return to your preparations. We depart soon.”
Anne cast him one last glance, her face still flushed, then gave a final nod before turning sharply on her heel. Her stride toward the stables was precise, purposeful as she threw herself into the task at hand. He watched as she joined Tamlin, helping secure the packs to the horses, her movements brisk and efficient.
Cullen released a slow breath, relief creeping in—it was over. One less thing to worry about.
He turned, ready to make his own preparations, his thoughts already shifting to the danger ahead. The Wounded Coast awaited. The mission was calling. And it was time for him to answer.
