The evening sun, pale and indifferent, seeped through the narrow windows of the Gallows, casting its wan light across the austere stone corridors. Cullen strode briskly through the hallway with Faith by his side, her paws tapping softly on the cold floor. He had spent the last three days, from before dawn until dusk, discussing pressing matters with the Knight-Commander.
Meredith was in one of her intense moods, and this time her sharp, unwavering focus fixated on the persistent issue of increasing the funding for the Templar Order's activities in Kirkwall. The Gallows, while imposing, were perpetually in need of upkeep: from repairing the aging stonework to maintaining the ever-demanding supply of lyrium that fueled the Templars' vigilance.
"Elthina remains obstinate," Meredith had remarked earlier this day, her tone clipped and her steely gaze fixed on a series of ledgers and correspondence exchanged between the Circle and the Grand Cleric. "She insists on funneling the Chantry's donations into frivolities—orphans, alms for the poor. Charity," she had spat the word like a curse. "Resources wasted on those who contribute nothing to the city's security."
"Perhaps if we demonstrate the tangible benefits of increased investment in the Order," he'd uttered, leaning forward in his seat. "We could organize a city-wide initiative—enhanced patrols of the City Guard or public drills. Something visible that reminds the populace where their safety truly comes from."
"I approve of this idea, Rutherford. Handle it.” Her eyes narrowed. “But we must also secure influence and loyalty among the elite—this is the key to ensuring we have the funds to truly safeguard Kirkwall from the threat of magic."
After much deliberation, they had arrived at a plan. The Templars would quietly offer protection to several prominent merchant families in exchange for a steady flow of "donations" directly to the Order. Additionally, they would discreetly leverage their authority to ensure the city's guild leaders and artisans favored Templar contracts over those of the Guard.
Now, free from Meredith's office and its heavy air of command, Cullen allowed himself a moment to exhale. His hand brushed absently over his hair, still slightly disheveled from the morning’s hurried routine, as a low rumble escaped his stomach. Faith’s ears perked at the sound. She barked once, sharply, as if scolding him for ignoring such a basic need. Then came the whine—softer, plaintive, the sound of shared hunger. He glanced at her, meeting those big, expectant eyes. “All right, girl,” he murmured. “I get it. Let’s head to the kitchens.”
He could have requested their dinner be brought to his office, of course, but after three days locked in conversation with Meredith, he craved a distraction. He respected the woman, admired her even, for her tenacity and unwavering commitment to their cause, but her close company for extended periods was… exhausting.
"Knight-Captain," a familiar voice called out from behind him. Cullen turned to see a middle-aged Templar jogging to catch up with him. His expression was bright, though his eyes betrayed a hint of weariness—evidence of a day likely spent on patrols.
“Thrask.” Cullen offered a small, respectful nod. He knew the man well enough—a good soul, a mediocre Templar. Too soft, too lenient. It was a wonder he hadn’t succumbed to the dark powers of the maleficars or the vile manipulations of the mages, much like Samson had.
“Haven’t seen you around the past few days, Ser,” the Knight remarked, falling into step beside him. “Not even at the services.”
The Knight-Captain huffed softly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I missed them not by choice.” He glanced over at Thrask. “But no doubt the Maker understands. The Knight-Commander had pressing matters to discuss.”
The Templar hummed knowingly, offering no further comment. That was a relief. Cullen wasn’t one for small talk—he preferred silence over pointless chatter.
They walked on, the quiet between them settling into something almost comfortable. Almost. For it was impossible not to notice that Thrask’s lips parted now and then, his brow furrowing as if wrangling some thought that refused to take shape. Each time, however, the words faltered, retreating unspoken into the stillness of the corridor.
The man's hesitation grated on Cullen, as indecision often did. He was about to push when they reached the cross-corridor leading to the mages' quarters, and Thrask stopped, turning to face him with a frown. “Permission to speak freely, Knight-Captain?” After the Ferelden gave a curt nod, the man continued, “I couldn’t help but overhear some spirited discussions among the Templars recently. It seems there’s been a lot of interest in command changes. People speculating about how things might look under different leadership.”
Cullen paused, his gaze sharp. “It could be just the usual grumbling.”
The Knight stepped closer, lowering his voice. “It could be, but....” He hesitated, then added, “Sometimes whispers come from somewhere deeper. It might be worth keeping an ear to the ground. You never know who’s planting the seeds.”
He studied the Templar in silence for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the warning. “You’re being careful with your words. Why?”
The man kept his posture rigid. "I wouldn't bring it up if I didn't think it was important, Ser. But I also have no evidence to support my hunch about who's behind this. I simply do not wish to defame anyone’s name without the concrete proof."
“I see.” Cullen exhaled through his nose. “I appreciate your candor, Thrask, and I will take your observations under advisement. Anything else I should know?”
“No, Ser. Only that loyalty still runs deep in most quarters.”
The Knight-Captain straightened. “Understood. Remain vigilant, Thrask.”
“Always.”
The Templar saluted crisply and turned down the hallway. Cullen stood still, his gaze lingering on the retreating figure of the man until Faith’s nose nudged his hand. The hound let out a quiet huff, her yellow eyes glancing toward the hallway ahead, where the faint scent of cooking wafted through the air. Dinner would be over soon, and Cullen had no desire to wrestle with an empty stomach for the third night in a row.
“Let’s go,” he murmured, patting Faith’s sturdy flank.
They made their way toward the kitchens, the scents growing stronger with each step. The air was thick with the earthy smell of porridge, underscored by the savory aroma of beans simmered with potatoes. As Cullen stepped inside, the chatter of voices from the dining hall beyond filtered through the open doorway.
The kitchen itself was a controlled chaos of clanging pots and bustling cooks. The Ferelden moved with practiced ease, heading toward the long counter where steaming cauldrons sat, their contents ladled out by tired apprentices. He grabbed a bowl and filled it with the night’s offering, which, as usual, promised more sustenance than flavor. Next, he reached for a smaller bowl, the one meant for Faith. It was a special preparation, set aside for the Knight-Captain’s hound: a mix of grains, diced vegetables, and bits of offal, the latter giving it an aroma that made Faith’s tail wag.
With both bowls in hand, Cullen passed through to the dining hall. The crowd was already thinning, most having finished their meals and retreated to their evening duties. He scanned the room for a quiet spot and found one near the far corner, away from the largest clusters of benches. He settled there, setting Faith’s bowl on the floor before lowering himself to the bench.
Faith ate eagerly, her mighty jaws working at the stew with audible enthusiasm. Cullen ate more slowly, methodically, his thoughts drifting into a gentle, almost blissful void—a rare reprieve he permitted himself only during meals. The dining hall around him grew quieter, the scrape of spoons and the murmur of voices fading as the last stragglers departed.
Just as Cullen set his empty bowl aside, Faith licking hers clean with a contented snort, he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. A young man approached—red-haired, freckled, with a long face that was drawn into an expression of worry.
“Knight-Captain,” he uttered, his voice low but urgent. “I would like to speak with you. It’s about... well, it’s important.”
Cullen studied the man's face, a flicker of recognition passing over his features. It was the Knight he had pulled from the clutches of a blood mage Idunna, alongside Anne. The memory of the recruit stirred faint embers of vexation and unease in equal measure. He straightened in his seat, the sluggish exhaustion of the day receding, replaced by a cool attentiveness.
"Alright," he said evenly, his brows knitting in quiet concern. He gestured to the bench across from him. "Take a seat, Tamron."
“It’s Tamlin, Ser. Not Tamron.” The young man’s tone was apologetic, yet firm, as though he feared offending his Captain but felt compelled to correct him.
Cullen’s brows lifted slightly in acknowledgment, a flicker of embarrassment igniting within him for having misremembered the name. “Tamlin, then,” he continued, inclining his head. “Tell me about this important matter.”
The young Knight hesitated for a breath, his gaze darting briefly over the dining hall, before nodding and lowering himself onto the bench. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward as his hands clenched into fists on the table. "It's about Knight-Recruit Anne, a close friend of mine. She's also the one who volunteered to do the cleaning in your quarters. She was taken to the cells three days ago, right after the morning service, and I-."
“Why?” Cullen interrupted, his expression darkening.
“Ser Alrik said it was for starting a fight with other recruits at the Chapel,” Tamlin replied, his voice tight with disbelief. “Which is ridiculous. Anne wouldn’t do something like that—I mean, not without a reason. So I’ve been asking around, talking to other Knights and recruits, trying to find out what really happened. But they all say the same thing. Exactly the same thing: that she just started swinging at people out of the blue.” He exhaled sharply and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “First, those stupid rumors about her spread overnight. Then she’s accused of brawling, thrown into a cell—and when I asked the Knight-Lieutenant about her punishment, or when she’d be released, he refused to answer.” Tamlin’s hand jerked toward his face, tracing a line over his forehead. “He also had a nasty wound on his head. An odd injury for someone like Ser Otto, who never leaves the safety of the Gallows.” His gaze locked with the Knight-Captain’s, his eyes steady but shadowed with unease. “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, Ser. Please—look into it.”
Cullen furrowed his brows, letting the torrent of words sink in as he pieced it together. He had expected some whispers after the unfortunate incident with the recruit, but part of him still hoped Tamlin was speaking of something unrelated. The chances were slim, yet he had to ask. “What rumors are you talking about?”
The Knight shifted uneasily in his seat, his eyes darting to the side before meeting Cullen’s again. “A bunch of nasty, stupid shi—things, about Anne and you, Ser.” He paused for a moment. “Things that I really, really don’t want to repeat.”
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Cullen didn’t need to hear more—he had spent enough time in the Circles to know the kind of nonsense people could concoct. Naturally, he would deal with the Templars responsible for starting it. They would be scrubbing chamber pots for months between their night patrols through Darktown. That ought to make them think twice before spreading gossip again.
Yet his mind churned, snagging on Thrask’s earlier words. A sense of unease twisted in the Ferelden's gut, whispering that this whole situation with Anne—and the rumors—was somehow tied to the Knights and their talk of "discussing the leadership."
Faith shifted at the Ferelden’s side, her sleek form tensing as her paws tapped faintly against the stone floor. Her restlessness pulled at his awareness, and without thinking, he reached down to pat her head. “Alright,” he said, his tone firm. “I’ll speak with Knight-Lieutenant Alrik about the recruit. This needs to be handled properly.”
Tamlin’s shoulders sagged with relief, the tension draining from him in an instant. “Thank you, Knight-Captain,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Cullen gave him a nod, his face set in calm determination. “Return to your duties in peace, Knight.”
The young Templar stood, visibly steadier now, and after a final nod of thanks, he turned and left, his steps lighter than before. Cullen watched him go for a second, then looked down at Faith, who was still observing the Knight's exit from the dining hall. He sighed and removed his hand from her head. "Time to call Otto into my office. Be on your best behavior."
A pair of yellow eyes locked on him. "Woof."
Cullen sat behind his desk, fingers steepled as he stared down at the neatly stacked reports that suddenly seemed far less important than the nagging unease curling in his chest. Faith lay curled at his feet, her tail twitching as if she could feel the tension radiating from him. A knock at the door broke the silence, sharp and deliberate. In an instant the mabari sprang upright, her body tense with anticipation.
“Enter,” the Ferelden uttered.
The door creaked open, revealing Otto. As always, his expression bore the dead weight of indifference. Yet Cullen's gaze was instantly drawn to the wound on his forehead—a vivid, angry red of it standing out starkly against his pale skin, just as Tamlin had described.
Alrik’s posture was stiff as he approached Cullen’s desk. “Knight-Captain,” he greeted, his voice flat.
“Knight-Lieutenant,” Cullen replied, shifting his gaze from the injury back to Alrik’s face. “I wanted to ask about the recruit assigned to clean my quarters—Anne of Lowtown. I was informed that she was taken to the cells three days ago and is yet to be released. What are her crimes exactly?”
Otto’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Anne? Why the sudden interest in a lowly recruit?” He smirked faintly. “I know that you need a volunteer to clean your chambers, Ser, but I can assure you, another one will not take long to appear. We’ve no shortage of young women eager to prove themselves useful to the distinguished Knight-Captain.”
Cullen’s expression remained stony, unfazed by the layered meaning behind Alrik’s words. “I've asked you a question, Knight-Lieutenant, yet I received no answer.”
Alrik’s smirk faded into something colder. “The girl started a fight with the other recruits in the Chapel. Disrespectful, unruly behavior in the house of the Maker. But even before that incident, she committed insubordination—left her training to do cleaning duties in your quarters before the assigned time.” The Ferelden raised an eyebrow. Anne had told him she had received permission from Alrik to change the time of her shift, so one of them was lying, yet he held his tongue, waiting. “For those crimes, I had sentenced the recruit to twenty lashes.”
The Knight-Commander straightened in his chair. “Twenty?” he repeated, the words heavy with disbelief. “That’s the harshest punishment decreed for offenses of this kind, and even so, it is meant only upon those who transgress time and again. Why such severity?”
“Because beyond the misdeeds I had already reported to you, Ser,” Otto gestured to his forehead, his voice calm yet laced with indignation. “The recruit dared to strike me when I visited her cell. This compelled my decision to impose a harsher sentence for her earlier transgressions, along with an additional twenty lashes and seven days of solitary confinement for willfully inflicting harm upon a superior-ranking Knight.”
Cullen’s fists pressed hard against the worn wood of his table. His voice, when it came, was taut with barely restrained fury. “You oversee the training of the recruits and their discipline, Alrik, but you do not hold the authority to seal their fate. Dismissal from the Order—or punishments that might prove fatal—requires explicit, written permission from me or the Knight-Commander.”
Otto, however, remained unmoved, his expression carved from stone. “Forty lashes and solitary confinement do not constitute a death sentence, Ser,” he continued, his tone as dry and calculated as a scribe reading from doctrine. “Not when healing is provided. Which, I might add, is precisely what I ensured. I instructed one of the Knights on duty to administer a healing potion to the recruit as I left her cell. I acted entirely within the mandates of the Order.”
The Ferelden shot to his feet, the chair scraping harshly across the floor. His hands were flat on the desk as he leaned forward. “No,” he uttered, the tremor of anger in his voice replaced with cold resolve. “You’ve overstepped your authority, Knight-Lieutenant. Release the recruit immediately and transfer her to the infirmary. Be advised—this will go before the Knight-Commander, and she will determine what consequences your actions merit.”
The room fell heavy with silence for a moment, safe for the sound of Faith's heavy breathing, punctuated by the low, menacing growl rumbling in her chest.
Otto regarded him with a cold detachment, his tone devoid of any semblance of emotion. “Any further orders, Ser?”
“None for now. Dismissed.”
Alrik inclined his head and turned on his heel without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence in the room felt heavier than before.
Cullen exhaled slowly, his thoughts racing as he stared at the door Alrik had just exited through. Hastily, he scrawled a note to Tamlin, recounting what had happened to his friend and advising him to find her in the infirmary. Folding the message into a scroll case, he handed it to his hound. “Go find Tamlin, girl. Give it to him.”
Faith barked once, sharp and clear, then carefully took the scroll case in her maw and hurried toward the exit. With practiced ease, she nudged the door with her paws, pushing it open before bounding out into the corridor. Her claws tapped against the stone, the sound fading as she disappeared around the corner.
Cullen gathered the scattered reports from his desk, aligning them into a neat stack before setting them aside. After a final glance around the quiet office, he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
His steps were purposeful as he made his way once again to Meredith’s office. He knew the woman would still be awake—even at this late hour. Sometimes, he wondered if she ever slept at all.
The Ferelden stopped before the heavy wooden door of the Knight-Commander's office, his knuckles rapping firmly against it. He waited, hearing only the faint sound of papers shifting before her voice rang out.
“Come in.”
Pushing the door open, Cullen stepped inside, standing straight and formal as the Knight-Commander looked up from her desk. Her brows rose slightly, betraying a rare flicker of surprise. “Rutherford, at this hour? I assume this must be important.”
The Knight-Captain bowed his head briefly before stepping forward. “It’s not an urgent matter, Knight-Commander, but I felt compelled to speak to you about it now.”
Meredith set down her quill and folded her hands. “Go on.”
He straightened his posture. “It concerns Knight-Lieutenant Alrik and a recent incident with a recruit named Anne of Lowtown.” Meredith’s expression remained unchanged, but her gaze hardened as Cullen recounted the situation in detail.
Once he finished his speech, the Knight-Commander leaned back slightly in her chair. For a moment, the room was silent. “Your concern is noted, Knight-Captain,” she said at last, her tone measured. “I will see to it that Knight-Lieutenant Alrik receives a private reprimand.”
Cullen’s brows furrowed. “A private reprimand, Knight-Commander?”
“Yes. This is the first slip in Alrik’s impeccable service record. Whatever his methods, he has brought results time and time again. Discipline among recruits has increased under his watch, and his performance has been exemplary in all other areas. Furthermore...” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You are not unaware of his family’s position, are you?”
Cullen stiffened. “No, Knight-Commander, I am not.”
“Then you know the noble house he belongs to is among the Order’s most significant benefactors,” Meredith continued. “Their support—financial and political—has been instrumental in maintaining the Order’s operations, particularly in these trying times. To act against Alrik publicly risks jeopardizing that support, and I don't believe such a minor offense is worth it."
“With all due respect, Ser. I do not consider this to be a minor offense,” Cullen uttered, his frustration carefully masked behind a composed expression. “The Order’s integrity depends on adherence to its principles.”
The Knight-Commander's expression hardened, her tone cutting. “I am as committed to the Order’s integrity as you are. But leadership requires compromise, even when it is… unpalatable.” She fixed him with a sharp look. “Do not forget that.”
He wanted to press the issue further, but he knew Meredith well enough to see she would not be moved. “Of course, Knight-Commander,” he said finally, bowing his head in deference.
Meredith gave a small nod, her tone softening just slightly. “Dismissed.”
Cullen hesitated for a moment, then saluted, turned, and walked out of the office.
As he made his way down the corridor, his frustration simmered. He had done his duty, but what had it accomplished? A private reprimand? A quiet word? It didn’t feel like enough. He was almost certain that Alrik would go on, emboldened by Meredith's leniency and shielded by the power of his name. And the recruits would continue to bear the brunt of it.
The next morning, Cullen sat at his desk, a steaming mug of tea untouched beside him as he sorted through reports. His focus was broken by a sharp knock at the door. A courier entered, handed him a folded note, and quickly departed.
The message was brief, penned in the familiar, elegant hand of Senior Enchanter Ilara:
Knight-Captain, your presence is requested in the infirmary at your earliest convenience.
Ilara seldom summoned him for trivial matters, so without hesitation, he rose swiftly from his chair, Faith falling into step beside him, and together, they strode briskly through the halls of the Gallows.
The infirmary was a vast, high-ceilinged space that felt strangely serene despite the suffering it housed. Sunlight filtered through narrow, slitted windows, catching the motes of dust that floated lazily in the air. Rows of cots lined the walls, many occupied by Templars recovering from injuries hunting the apostates or apprentices who had pushed themselves too far with spells. The faint scent of herbs and healing salves mingled with the sharp, tangy smell of the apple vinegar with which the healers scrubbed the floors here.
Cullen entered, his eyes scanning the room. A familiar figure approached—Hawke’s sister, Bethany. She greeted him with a tentative smile, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Knight-Captain, Faith,” she said softly, her tone deferential but edged with nervousness.
The mabari huffed softly in response.
"Bethany," Cullen replied, his voice stiff yet polite. The fact that the Order had taken her in Hawke's absence would ruin their cooperation with Garrett's band of surprisingly capable misfits—a partnership that had proved fruitful time and again. A shame, really, but it was a small price to pay for the assurance that one less mage wandered freely, tempting fate and all but inviting demons to corrupt them.
The young woman motioned for the Ferelden to follow, leading him toward the far corner of the infirmary. Her steps were quick but careful, and she glanced over her shoulder once or twice, as if checking that she was followed.
“Knight-Recruit Anne is this way,” she said, her voice quieter now as she gestured toward a secluded corner. There, the recruit lay on her stomach on a cot, her limp, fragile-looking form partially obscured by the Senior Enchanter bent over her. Beside them, Tamlin sat on a small wooden chair, his expression grim. As Cullen approached, the Knight looked up and stood to salute him but remained silent.
Ilara stood at the head of the cot, her delicate hands emitting a soft glow of healing magic. Her long blonde hair was neatly braided back, the light of her enchantment shining upon her flawless, elegant, and utterly arresting features. Maker, she’s beautiful, the thought surfaced unbidden in Cullen’s mind before he could suppress it. His chest tightened, guilt creeping in as he recognized the betrayal of Neria’s memory. His Neria. She had been a mage too, but not a menace like the others. She was utterly devout, a true Andrastian. There had been no one like her, and there never would be again…
He shook the thought away, forcing his attention back to the Senior Enchanter as she completed her spell. The glow around her hands faded, and she straightened before turning to Cullen with a polite nod. "It's a miracle that the Knight-Recruit is still alive, Knight-Captain, another day in the cells with these injuries and she wouldn't have made it". Her porcelain-like face was composed, but her blue eyes were heavy with sympathy. “As soon as she regained her senses, she has been asking to speak with you. She was very insistent,” Ilara added softly before stepping aside.
Cullen's brow furrowed as he looked down at Anne, who lay with her eyes tightly shut, her bare back a gruesome tapestry of pain, crisscrossed with deep, raw welts that oozed blood and pus despite Senior Enchanter’s efforts. Bruises blossomed around each lash mark, purpling her pale skin. Some wounds had torn into the muscle, leaving jagged edges that would undoubtedly scar. The Ferelden had seen the aftermath of floggings before, but rarely had he witnessed anything so severe.
Faith studied the young woman on the cot as well, her nose twitching as she sniffed the air before letting out a quiet whine.
At that moment, the recruit stirred, her lashes fluttering as her eyes slowly opened. Her green irises were striking, made even more vivid against the bloodshot whites. Her chapped lips moved as she rasped, “Permission… to speak with you… alone, Knight-Captain.”
