The night was heavy, the kind of quiet that felt like it was waiting to break. Cullen sat on the edge of his bed, his hands clenched together, his shoulders tense. The room was dim, lit only by a single candle that flickered weakly on his desk. In the corner, Faith lay curled up on her blanket, her breathing slow and steady. She was asleep, untroubled by the worries that gnawed at her master.

  Cullen passed a weary hand over his face, yet it was not merely fatigue that burdened him—no, it was something far heavier, a weight born of duty, ambition, and the ceaseless machinations of men. At the heart of it all stood Knight-Lieutenant Alrik, a man whose relentless drive for advancement knew no bounds. Alrik coveted Cullen’s post with a singular intensity that left no room for scruple. The bastard didn’t stop at anything, bending principles and breaking loyalties whenever it served his purpose.

  The Ferelden leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, the rough texture of the wood grounding him as his mind churned over the day’s events. Alrik, ever scheming, had wielded his family’s wealth and influence like a blade in the dark. Through distant relatives and shadowy connections, he had orchestrated the deliberate delay of a vital shipment—supplies Cullen had personally vouched for—leaving the Order in disarray and casting doubt on the Knight-Captain’s competence. It was a masterful stroke, designed to erode Meredith’s trust without leaving a trace of his own hand in the act.

  And it might have succeeded, had it not been for Thrask. A long-standing patron of the Blooming Rose, Thrask had, over the years, cultivated a network of informants—prostitutes who knew the comings and goings of the city’s elite. Through them, he had pieced together the threads of the scheme, tracing the delay back to Alrik’s second cousins and their trade partners.

  Though in Cullen’s eyes, the evidence pointed unmistakably to the Knight-Lieutenant’s involvement, it was not enough to prove his guilt. Still, the truth had been laid bare before the Knight-Commander, and his reputation was saved. The Ferelden knew, with a heavy but grateful heart, that it was only thanks to the steadfast loyalty of men like Thrask and the other Knights who still believed in him that he had managed to preserve his position so far.

  Yet Alrik was not without allies in the Order either. He had gathered a faction of like-minded Templars, men who shared his disdain for Cullen — not only for his ‘unearned rise through the ranks’ and ‘mongrel pet’ but for something far more ingrained.

  Filth of the fields. Ferelden mudblood.

  That were the names they muttered in hushed voices, believing he would not hear.

  Cullen had always known there were those who looked down on him for his humble origins, but Alrik had turned that quiet contempt into a rallying cry. He had gathered the disgruntled, the proud—the ones who believed a Knight-Lieutenant of proper lineage was better suited to lead. Together, they were a constant thorn in Cullen’s side, questioning his authority at every turn, challenging his decisions, and sowing doubt among the ranks.

  But Cullen could not relinquish his position—not to Alrik. It was not a matter of pride, nor a hunger for power, nor even the fact that the man was, at his core, so morally bankrupt that he had no place within the Order. No, it was something far deeper, something that burned within the Ferelden like an unquenchable flame: the truth. The truth he had witnessed with his own eyes, the truth etched into his flesh and carved into his soul.

  Mages were not merely men and women; they were volatile vessels of power most terrible. Magic was a curse, a force that could twist the purest of hearts and unleash horrors beyond comprehension. It was a truth one could not fully grasp unless they had lived through it—unless they had felt the searing heat of its corruption, heard the screams of the innocent, and borne the scars of its wrath.

  Alrik knew nothing of this. He had not lived through it. He had not suffered, had not fought, had not bled. His world was one of politics and influence, of whispered deals and calculated maneuvers. He cared not for the dangers of magic, nor for the lives it could destroy. And that, above all else, was why Cullen could not yield. To do so would be to betray the truth he carried, the truth he had paid for in blood and pain. It would be to abandon those who relied on him to stand as a shield against the darkness. And so, he would endure, for there was no other choice.

  Faith let out a soft snore, and Cullen glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The candle was almost out now, its light fading. He sighed and walked over to kneel beside her, scratching behind her ears. “You’ve got the right idea, girl,” he murmured. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  He stood and blew out the dying candle, plunging the room into darkness. Faith let out a contented sigh, and the Ferelden lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling for a heartbeat before closing his eyes.

  The dream came slowly, like a fog creeping over a frozen lake. Cullen found himself standing in the familiar halls of Kinloch Hold, but the stone walls were encased in ice, their surfaces glistening like mirrors in the pale, ghostly light. Snow fell from the ceiling in slow, silent drifts, dusting the ground in a thin, white blanket. The air was bitingly cold, so cold that he could see his breath clouding in front of him. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were stiff, almost lifeless, yet the numbness was almost a relief. It dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts and muffled the noise in his mind.

  He began to walk; the silence was deafening, broken only by the faint crunch of his boots as he moved forward. The halls were empty, the doors to the mages' quarters hanging open, revealing dark, hollow rooms. He didn’t know why he was here once again, but he couldn’t stop. Something was pulling him forward, something he couldn’t see or name.

  Suddenly his gaze was drawn to a small, leather-bound diary lying on the floor, half-buried in the snow. Cullen froze, his breath catching in his throat. He recognized it instantly. It was Neria’s. His hands trembled as he reached for it, the numbness in his fingers making the simple act of picking it up feel clumsy and awkward. The diary was scorched, its edges blackened and brittle, as though it had been pulled from a fire. He opened it carefully, the pages crackling under his touch. Most of them were burned away, their words lost to ash. But one page remained, its edges singed but the writing was still legible.

  Oh, Blessed Andraste, grant me deliverance from this torture! Loving him is like dancing barefoot on broken glass...

  The words pierced his soul, crushing him under their weight. And then, like a floodgate breaking, the memories came. They hit him in flashes, vivid and unrelenting, each one tearing through the frozen stillness of the dream.

  The first flash was sudden and violent. The snow around him vanished, replaced by charred walls and ashen floors. He was locked in the magical cell, his body a frail, trembling shell, ravaged by withdrawal, by pain, by thirst, by hunger. The barrier of the cell burned against his skin as he pressed his face against it, desperate to see, to act, to do something—anything—to stop the horror unfolding before him.

  Across the hall, Neria was there. Amidst the rabble, she knelt on the floor, her lithe hands bound tightly, the delicate fabric of her nightgown torn and blackened by fire and filth. Her head hung low, her white hair matted and streaked with soot, but even in her state, there was a defiance in the way she held herself, a quiet strength that refused to be extinguished.

  Uldred loomed over her, his face twisted into a cruel smile, a mask of malice that seemed to revel in her suffering.

  “Dance for us, little bunny,” he sneered, his fingers glowing with the sickly red light of blood magic as he reached out to caress her face, the touch both intimate and vile. “Your kind is known for their grace,” he mused, tilting her head so she was forced to meet his gaze. “Show us.”

  Neria’s body jerked unnaturally, her limbs moving against her will as the blood magic took hold. She stood, her feet bare, and stepped onto the shards of broken glass that littered the floor. Cullen’s stomach turned as he saw the blood welling up beneath her feet, staining the ground crimson. She tried to scream, but no sound came out—only a choked, strangled gasp.

  Cullen slammed his fists against the barrier, his voice raw as he shouted her name. “Neria! Stop it, you bloody bastard! STOP IT!”

  But the maleficar only laughed. “You can’t save your whore, Templar. You can’t even save yourself.”

  The second flash came, and the scene shifted.

  Cullen was still standing in his cell, but now he could see more—mages and Templars alike, their bodies twisted and broken, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. Neria was still dancing, her movements jerky and unnatural, her feet leaving bloody footprints on the floor. Her eyes were wide with pain and despair, and Cullen could see the tears streaming down her face. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes and block out the horror, but he couldn’t. He owed it to her to bear witness, to remember what she was enduring.

  “Please, Uldred,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, stop this…”

  The third flash came like a wave of nausea, pulling him deeper into the nightmare, deeper into the agony.

  His eyes were squeezed shut—he was ultimately too weak to witness it all, too broken to endure the sight. But he could not block out the sounds.

  Wet squelches of Neria’s steps as blood spattered the floor in rhythmic splashes, the gurgling moans of abominations, the whispering hisses of demons, and the low crackle of dark magic; they all slithered into the depths of his tormented mind, coiling there like serpents. And the stench—Maker, the stench—rotting flesh, blood, sweat, filth, and death, thick enough to choke him.

  "You ungrateful Chantry dog!" Uldred’s voice rang out. "I made this show for you, and you dare not to look? Open your eyes, Knight, or I’ll finish your whore off!"

  Cullen forced his swollen, crusted eyes open. The lids felt like lead, but the pain of seeing was worse than any physical torment.

  The walls, slick with pulping gore, pulsed like a thing alive all around them.

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  Neria was no longer alone.

  The desire demons circled her, their movements fluid, languid—like dancers at some unholy revel in the Black City. Their claws trailed over her as they passed, cutting, slicing deep into her arms, her back, her legs. Fresh rivulets of blood trickled down her torn flesh, mingling with the filth and sweat that clung to her. What little remained of her gown was soaked through with crimson, its shreds plastered against her frail body. Her eyes—those brilliant, defiant eyes—had lost their fire. They were dull now, glassy, unfocused as if she hovered on the precipice of oblivion.

  Tears burned hot in Cullen’s eyes, carving a path down his gaunt, unshaven cheeks. His broken, bloodied fists pounded against the magical barrier, the pain lancing up his arms, shooting through his fractured bones. But nothing could compare to the agony clawing at his heart.

  "Neria…" His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse, trembling. "Please, no… please…"

  And then—

  Her eyes met his.

  For one fleeting moment, there was recognition. A flicker. A spark. She was still there. Still fighting. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak.

  Suddenly, the doors to the chamber burst open with a deafening crash.

  A dwarf, stocky and grim, charged in first, wielding a massive axe that glinted in the dim light. His face was twisted with fury, and without hesitation, he launched himself at Uldred. Beside him, a red-haired woman raised her bow, her arrow already loosed before she had fully stepped inside. And there, towering over them both, was a Qunari—a massive figure wielding a two-handed sword, its blade gleaming like a harbinger of death.

  Cullen’s tortured mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. But his eyes never left Neria.

  The dwarf roared and swung his axe in a wide, furious arc toward Uldred. But the maleficar was quicker, his movements unnaturally fluid, and with a flick of his wrist, he conjured a shimmering barrier that deflected the blow with a resonant clang. The room erupted into chaos, a cacophony of steel meeting claws, the low thrum of magic vibrating through the air, and the snarls of demons and abominations clashing with the battle cries of the newcomers. It was a maelstrom of violence, each moment stretching into an eternity of struggle and fury. And then, in one final, horrifying instant—a breath suspended between life and death—it happened.

  The Qunari charged forward, his sword raised high, but it wasn’t Uldred or the demons he was aiming for. It was Neria.

  "No! No! NO!" Cullen screamed, his voice tearing through the air. “She is not one of them!” But it was too late. The Qunari’s blade swung down, cleaving through the elf’s neck in a single, brutal stroke. Her body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and her head tumbled after it, rolling to a halt just inches from Cullen’s cell.

  The world froze. Everything stopped. The sounds of battle, the clash of steel—all of it faded into the background, swallowed by the ringing in his ears. His chest tightened as he sank to his knees, staring at the severed head.

  Her eyes… Those empty eyes continued to hold him, trapping him in their gaze.

  And then, she blinked.

  Cullen woke with a start, his body jerking upright in the darkness. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his skin slick with sweat despite the chill in the room. For a moment, he remained motionless, battling the storm within, willing his breath to calm, his heart to cease its furious pounding.

  A soft whimper broke through the haze of the nightmare still gripping him.

  Faith.

  In an instant, he became aware of his hands, his fingers clenched tightly around her, his grip too firm—too harsh. She had been nudging him, trying to wake him, and he had latched onto her without thinking. Guilt surged through him as he quickly loosened his hold, pulling his hands away as if burned. “Maker, I’m sorry!”

  Faith gave a small huff and licked his hand, her warm breath ghosting over his fingers. She didn’t shy away, didn’t retreat from him. No matter how often he woke in the middle of the night, broken from whatever horrors replayed in his mind, she was always there. Always patient. Always enduring.

  With a shuddering exhale, he reached out again—tentatively this time—his touch softer as his hand glided over her black fur. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

  Faith pressed closer, her warmth a balm against the jagged edges of his waking dread. Her eyes searched his, questioning him in her way, a low whine escaping her as if to ask how deeply the night had wounded him this time.

  He swallowed hard, the ache in his throat near unbearable, the weight of unshed tears threatening to break him. The nightmare had stripped him bare, leaving him raw and exposed, as though the past had clawed its way back to the surface, reopening wounds he had spent years trying to heal. He forced himself to breathe—slow, deliberate breaths. In, then out.

  "It’s all right, girl," he whispered, though the words felt hollow. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, and he felt the familiar pull of it—an undertow threatening to drag him beneath... He knew exactly what he needed to prevent himself from sinking too deep into the abyss.

  His hand found Faith’s side. “It’s all right. Truly,” he murmured, his voice soft yet firm, as he nudged her gently toward her usual place in the corner.

  She hesitated.

  Even in the dim light, he could see the flicker of doubt in her yellow eyes, the way she lingered, ears flicking as if she could hear the falsehood woven into his words. But after a moment, with a quiet huff, she relented, circling once before settling onto her blanket.

  Still, her gaze remained on him—watchful, patient. Waiting.

  Cullen dragged a hand down his face, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet, the chill seeping into his bones as he pushed himself upright. His muscles protested, stiff with exhaustion. The Ferelden’s gaze landed on the desk, the small lyrium kit resting there like an old trusted friend.

  His fingers trembled as he reached for it. The vial glowed faintly in the dim light, the blue liquid sloshing inside like liquid fire. He hesitated, his grip tightening. He had already surpassed the recommended dose for the day—doubled it, even… It didn’t matter.

  Right now, he needed silence.

  With a practiced motion, he downed the lyrium in one swallow. It burned its way down his throat, cold and sharp, before spreading through his veins like frost creeping over glass. Almost instantly, the tension in his body began to unwind, the sharp edges of his thoughts dulling. The pain and darkness were still there - he could feel them, coiled deep within his soul - but now they seemed distant, muted, as if they belonged to someone else.

  He exhaled, long and slow, staring at nothing. Faith rested her head on her paws, watching him with quiet concern.

  Outside, the night stretched on, indifferent to the ghosts that haunted him.

  The morning light filtered through the narrow windows of Cullen’s office, casting a golden glow over the stacks of reports and correspondence cluttering his desk. He sat with a cup of lukewarm tea in one hand, the other shuffling through the latest pile of paperwork. The demands of his position never seemed to end, and today was no exception.

  As he waded through the dreary expanse of a particularly tedious report on weapon requisitions, something on the edge of his desk caught his eye. A folded piece of parchment, crisp and unassuming, lay there, neatly sealed with a small disc of wax. The imprint displayed the unmistakable insignia of a Knight-Templar, and below it, his title was inscribed as a recipient in precise, formal script. He recognized the handwriting immediately: Anne’s.

  Cullen set down his tea and carefully broke the seal, unfolding the parchment with a faint sense of curiosity. Anne had only been knighted a few days ago and was meant to be taking it easy, doing simple tasks around the barracks while her body adjusted to lyrium. What could she possibly have to write to him about in such a formal manner? He began to read, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in her words.

  Knight-Captain Cullen,

  I write to submit two requests that I believe will allow me to better serve the Order and support your command.

  First, I request assignment to the infirmary. Having spent considerable time there, I can attest that it remains consistently understaffed, particularly in light of recent incidents. You may recall the situation involving Knight-Templar Eda and Senior Enchanter Ilara. It is my intent to ensure that such occurrences do not repeat themselves. My presence alone may serve as a deterrent, and if not, I will act by protocol to safeguard those under my charge.

  Second, I respectfully request to continue maintaining your quarters. I understand that such duties typically fall to the Tranquil or recruits and that my rank makes this request unconventional. However, given the current state of affairs within the Gallows, I believe it is prudent that you have someone you trust in this capacity. Your quarters are private spaces, and I would see them handled with discretion and respect that befits your station.

  I recognize that this may be met with scrutiny or serve to rekindle rumors you have worked diligently to quell. If so, I will face whatever criticism arises. Those of true consequence will understand the necessity of trust in uncertain times; those who do not will find no shortage of other matters to gossip about.

  With the highest respect,

  Yours in service,

  Knight-Templar Anne of Lowtown

  Cullen read the letter twice, his expression shifting from curiosity to contemplation. The first request was straightforward, and he had no reservations about granting it. Anne’s dedication and integrity made her an ideal candidate for the infirmary, and this role was also well-suited for a Templar beginning their service, offering a position of lower risk while they honed and mastered the powers bestowed upon them by lyrium. It was the second request that gave him pause.

  He leaned back in his chair, the parchment resting on the desk in front of him. Anne’s reasoning was sound, and her loyalty was beyond question. But the implications of allowing a full-fledged Knight to clean his quarters were not lost on him. Alrik and his followers would seize on it as evidence of favoritism—or worse.

  Cullen exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his tight curls, his fingers catching on the knots of tension at his scalp. Anne had spoken the truth—those who despised him had long since decided what they thought of him. Whether he allowed her to continue cleaning his quarters or not, their opinion would remain unchanged. And yes, trust was a rare thing in the Gallows, a luxury he could scarcely afford to turn away. If her presence in his chambers meant one less knife at his back, one less betrayal waiting in the dark, then perhaps it was a risk worth taking.

  Besides, Faith had taken to the girl—that much had been obvious. He could still see the mabari’s eyes watching Anne, the slow, deliberate way she had licked away the former recruit’s tears in the infirmary. And then there was that moment, fleeting yet strange, when Faith had placed his hand over Anne’s head, urging him to offer some measure of comfort beyond words.

  The Ferelden grimaced at the memory. Maker’s breath, why had he scratched behind Anne’s ear? A gesture so natural when soothing Faith, yet wholly inappropriate when extended to a fellow Templar. The girl had not recoiled, had not laughed nor looked at him with scorn—but that did not make it any less absurd. Then again, he thought wryly, when had he last offered kindness to anyone but his loyal hound? Years, surely. Long enough that such gestures felt foreign and clumsy.

  Cullen glanced down at Faith, the mabari beside him watching her master with unwavering focus, her head tilted slightly as if already sensing he was about to say something.

  “What do you think, girl?” He murmured, running a hand over the dog's broad head. “Anne wants to keep tending to my quarters. Says I should have someone I trust handling it.”

  Faith, with the certainty only a mabari could possess, let out a single, resolute bark.

  Cullen remained still, watching her. No hesitation, no doubt. Just a simple truth, spoken in the only way she knew how.

  “Then it’s decided.”

  He reached for a quill and a fresh piece of parchment, dipping the nib into the inkwell with a decisive motion. His response was brief but clear.

  Knight-Templar Anne,

  Your request to be stationed at the infirmary has been approved. Given your familiarity with its operations and the ongoing need for capable personnel, I trust you will fulfill your duties with diligence and professionalism. Ensure that protocol is followed at all times, and report any incidents directly to me.

  Regarding your second request, I acknowledge your concerns and the reasoning behind them. While I recognize the potential for speculation, trust and security take precedence over perception. You are permitted to continue maintaining my quarters; however, this remains a voluntary arrangement. Should you reconsider or encounter any issues as a result, you are to inform me immediately.

  Knight-Captain Cullen

  He sealed the letter with his own insignia and set it aside to be delivered. As he did, he felt a strange mix of relief and unease. The decision was made, and he would stand by it, but he suddenly couldn’t shake the feeling that this small act of trust would have larger consequences—consequences he would have to face sooner or later.

  For now, though, he pushed the thought aside. Whatever came next, he would face it with the same determination that had carried him this far.