Cullen rode in silence, his breath steady as Faith moved ahead of him, sniffing the rugged terrain of the Wounded Coast as she tracked the elusive trail of the elven apostates they were pursuing. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and sunbaked stone, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of the sparse vegetation clinging to life in the harsh landscape. The Knight-Captain’s sharp gaze swept across the rugged cliffs and jagged pathways, ever vigilant, his eyes scanning for the faintest trace of movement. The land was treacherous, its shadows hiding more than just apostates—bandits and pirates lurked here, their presence a constant threat.

  Suddenly, something delicate on the ground caught his eye. A small cluster of white flowers, their petals trembling in the wind, stood between the cracks of the weathered rock. He pulled his horse to a halt, his breath catching in his throat. Andraste’s Grace. The rare flower was unmistakable, its petals as white as freshly fallen snow, its form as fragile and exquisite as a whispered prayer. It was a sight so out of place here, so far from the rolling hills of Ferelden, that it felt almost like a sign. Memories surged unbidden—vivid, bittersweet.

  Neria’s silver hair glimmered in the candlelight as she spoke with wistful tenderness of her grandmother to her friends in the Circle’s library, where he stood watch. “She used to dry Andraste’s Grace and tuck it between the garments stored in her chest,” the elf had murmured, tracing the edge of her robe with delicate fingers. “Her clothes always smelled like honey. I miss that.” From that day on, whenever his duties took him beyond Kinloch Hold, he searched for those flowers. He gathered them carefully, their petals as white as her hair, as delicate as her frame, as beautiful as her smile. Never once did he dare give them to her outright. Such a gesture would have been too bold, too revealing. Instead, he left them between her pillow and the covers, a silent offering. Afterward, she would pass him in the halls, the soft, sweet fragrance of Andraste’s Grace trailing in her wake. Her gaze would flicker toward him—just a fleeting glance, a flash of cerulean eyes, brief yet unmistakably deliberate—before a shy smile curved her lips, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But he noticed. He always noticed. And for him, it was enough.

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  A sharp rustle shattered his reverie as Anne rode up beside him, her horse’s sudden movement crushing the delicate blooms beneath its hoof. A flash of anger surged through him, his grip tightening on the reins. His lips parted, a curse forming, but he swallowed it down. It was just a flower. Nothing more.

  “Knight-Captain? Is everything all right?” The young woman questioned, concern flickering across her face.

  He exhaled through his nose, forcing his expression into neutrality. “It’s nothing,” he lied. “Just a headache.”

  She frowned. “A headache? Don’t you have a healing potion in your pouch? I have one—”

  “No,” Cullen interrupted, too sharply. He sighed, tempering his tone. “I do have a potion, but I won’t waste resources on something so trivial. We’re on a mission.”

  Anne hesitated, then nodded, though her gaze lingered on him, uncertain.

  When they stopped for a brief respite, she dismounted without a word, moving toward the rocky outcrop. He paid her little mind—until she returned, dirt streaking her gloves, her hands gripping a hardy green plant.

  “Elfroot, Ser,” she said simply, offering it to him. “Chewing on the roots helps with minor headaches. I thought… well, it’s better than nothing.”

  Cullen stared at her, then at the plant, before slowly reaching out to take it. “Thank you,” he uttered, the words clipped but genuine.

  Anne nodded, her expression softening with quiet satisfaction before she turned away to tend to her horse.

  The Ferelden looked down at the elfroot in his palm. Its broad leaves were sturdy, its thick, long roots tangled with soil. There was no delicacy to it, no beauty, no fragrance. It was a plant of utility, of survival. And yet, something in its quiet resilience, in the way it endured where more delicate things withered, held a certain appeal. His fingers brushed over the dirt-streaked roots, a small, unexpected smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Just in case I do get a headache," he murmured, tucking the plant behind his belt, securing it with more care than was truly necessary.