Anne had come to dread bath time ever since becoming a Knight. It wasn’t that she disliked being clean—on the contrary, she relished scrubbing away the sweat and grime of the day. The issue was where the Templars had to do it: the Gallow’s bathhouse, a place where privacy was as scarce as a Qunari without horns.

  While she was bound to the truth, letting anyone catch a glimpse of the commandments etched into her left forearm would be a death sentence. This was why whenever she needed a bath, she had to sneak around like a thief, hoping no one wandered in on her. This time she was extremely careful as well—waiting until the dead of night when even the most dedicated insomniacs were roaming the Fade.

  Entering into the chamber, Anne made sure that the place was empty. Perfect. She moved quickly, her fingers fumbling with the ties of her tunic and the laces of her boots, eager to get the ordeal over with.

  The air in the bathhouse was damp and heavy, carrying the faint scent of soap and mildew, mingled with the acrid tang of smoke from the dim torchlight that flickered weakly against the stone walls. Anne kept her head down, her eyes darting cautiously as she positioned herself near the closest basin, its water faintly rimmed with residue from previous uses.

  Taking a washcloth hanging nearby, she began to scrub, her right hand working in brisk, deliberate motions over her skin. Her left arm, however, was kept angled awkwardly away from the light, tucked close to her body, just in case.

  Suddenly, commandment number five ‘Thou Shalt Uphold the Righteous Cause’, decided to make its presence known. It started as a tickle. Then an itch. Then a full-blown, raging inferno of irritation. Anne gritted her teeth and rubbed at it furiously. "Oh, come on," she muttered, shaking her arm. "Why can’t I get a break!"

  She barely had time to process the fact that the letters had started glowing faintly before a familiar voice rumbled through the bathhouse.

  “You shall not forget your vow, child.”

  Her body froze, the rag slipping from her fingers as a golden shimmer flickered right in front of her. Before she could even begin to hope that she was imagining things, the ethereal form of Valor began to materialize, as if this were a perfectly acceptable time and place for his arrival.

  “No. No, no, no. Not here, not now, spirit!” Anne spluttered, her face flushing as she frantically covered her chest and nether regions with her hands.

  But the damn spirit paid her no mind. He completed his form with an almost smug glow, unfazed by her protests. "There is no need for alarm. I merely came to speak with you."

  "Speak?! I'm—I'm bathing!" Anne's voice rose in incredulity as she curled tighter into herself. The fact that the bastard spoke with Cullen’s voice made the situation even more unbearable. "You can’t just show up when I’m naked!"

  Valor stared at her, apparently utterly baffled. "Your bare form is of no concern. I dwell within your very soul. I have seen all that you are."

  "That is exactly the problem!" the Templar snapped as she slowly backed toward the shelf to snatch a towel and wrap it tightly around herself. "Have you no respect for privacy?” She waved her hand furiously. “Get out! Shoo! Shoo!"

  The spirit crossed his arms, his glowing intensifying. “I cannot and will not ‘shoo,’ insolent child. I am ever with you. Only death will part us.”

  "Well, I know that much, but can you at least, I don’t know, turn around?" Anne gestured wildly. "Or disappear and come back when I'm fully clothed?"

  Valor regarded her for a long moment before, to her great relief, he slowly began to fade. “I simply came to remind you that you have sworn a vow to honor the request of fair Bethany Hawke. The hour has come to fulfill your pledge.” His form nearly vanished. “Five days I grant you. Should you falter or delay, I shall see the vow fulfilled by my own hand.”

  Anne groaned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, go already!"

  And just like that, he was gone. The Templar stood there, staring at the empty space where the spirit had been. The itch and the glowing on her arm subsided, leaving her in relative peace.

  "Of all the spirits I could’ve been stuck with…" Anne muttered under her breath, glaring down at the etched commandments on her forearm. She sighed heavily. In the chaos of everything that had happened, she’d completely forgotten about Bethany’s plea—to uncover the fate of the beggar she had tried to save at the market, the very act of kindness that had landed her in the Gallows. The apprentice was utterly shy—no wonder she didn’t dare to pester her with reminders. Now, Anne wishes she actually would have.

  "I'll have to ask the Knight-Captain to look at her records after I've finished cleaning his chambers tomorrow, that's my best chance of finding out what happened to that man," she murmured to herself, her mind already racing through the steps. The thought of involving Cullen made her uneasy. He already had enough on his plate without her adding to his burdens. But he was the only one she could turn to—from all the Knights that held her in good enough regard to consider her request, he was the only one with the rank to access the records.

  And what choice did she have? Valor’s ultimatum left no room for hesitation. Five days. She had five days to unravel this mystery, or the blighted spirit would take control of her body. And Maker only knew what would happen then. Better not to find out. Anne shuddered at the thought, tightening her grip on the towel. She would do this. She had to. There was no other way.

  After a night of exceptionally poor sleep—thanks to a late-night washing, an unexpected visit from a spirit, and the nervous anticipation of getting to clean Cullen’s chambers again, hopefully without an accident—Anne woke up feeling like she’d been trampled by a bronto. Her short hair, unruly and defiant, stuck out at odd angles, refusing to be tamed no matter how many times she tried to smooth it down. She sighed, running a hand through the mess, and resigned herself to yet another day of looking as though she’d been dragged through a hedge backward.

  The morning service in the Gallows chapel passed in a blur of half-heard chants and drowsy nods. Anne’s head bobbed forward more than once, her chin nearly meeting her chest, as the Chantry Sister’s voice droned on like a distant hum. She jolted awake only when the final hymn echoed through the stone walls, its somber notes pulling her back to the waking world. Breakfast in the dining hall was no better—a watery porridge that clung to her spoon like glue, its bland taste doing little to improve morale.

  She ate quickly, mechanically, her thoughts already on the day's tasks. The infirmary awaited, and she was grateful for that. The Knight-Captain’s approval of her position there had been a rare stroke of luck. The place was her sanctuary. She loved the smells—sharp and clean, with the faintest hint of herbs—and the hushed tones of the healers as they moved about their work. Ilara and Bethany, always kind and patient, made the infirmary feel almost like home. It was a dream, really, to be allowed to work there, and Anne cherished it more than she could say.

  But today, the Maker, in His infinite wisdom, seemed determined to remind her that even dreams must be tempered by reality. The morning had barely begun when the news arrived: a shipment of supplies had come to the Gallows. Crates upon crates of healing herbs, bandages, and other necessities for the infirmary had been delivered to the square. And, of course, Alrik’s people couldn’t resist making life harder for those loyal to the Captain. Instead of sending a few sturdy hands to help, they assigned the task to two old, frail Tranquils who looked like a stiff breeze might knock them over.

  Anne’s heart sank as she watched them struggle under the weight of the crates, their faces blank and their movements slow. She couldn’t stand by and let them suffer. Without a second thought, she stepped in, taking the burden upon herself.

  The day became a blur of backbreaking labor. Up and down the stairs she went, hauling crates that seemed to grow heavier with each trip. Her arms ached, her back screamed in protest, and her legs felt as though they might give out at any moment. By the time the last crate was delivered, the evening light had long since faded, casting the Gallows in a dim, amber glow from the torches that lined the corridors.

  Anne sat on a low stool in the infirmary, leaning against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her—too tired to care about propriety. She had long since shed her Templar armor in favor of a simple brown shirt and trousers, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to her sweat-damp skin. Her boots felt like lead weights on her aching feet. With a heavy breath, she wiped the sweat from her brow and let her head thunk against the wall, utterly spent.

  Bethany came to hand her a glass of water, her kind eyes filled with gratitude. “You’re a blessing,” the apprentice said, her voice earnest. “I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t stepped in. Those poor Tranquils… Maker knows they shouldn’t have been given such a task.”

  The young woman waved her off with a tired smile, downing the entire glass in one swift sweep. “It’s no big deal. Someone had to do it, and I’ve got the shoulders for it, don’t I?” She attempted a laugh, though it came out more as a wheeze. Bethany chuckled softly before taking the empty glass and returning to her duties.

  Just as Anne was beginning to relish the brief moment of rest, the infirmary doors swung open with a dramatic flourish, and in strode Tamlin. He greeted Ilara and Bethany politely, though a bit stiffly, but when his eyes landed on Anne, a wide grin spread across his face.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Gallows’ very own Knight-Ogre,” the redhead said, leaning casually against the wall beside her. “How’s the hauling business treating you? I hear you’ve been single-handedly keeping the infirmary afloat today. Or should I say, single-shoulderedly?”

  She groaned, too exhausted to muster a proper retort.

  Leaning closer, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Andraste’s flaming sword, what is that smell? You reek like a nug that’s been rolling in a dwarf’s boots after a month-long trip to the Deep Roads!”

  Anne lifted her arm, revealing a large, damp stain beneath her armpit. She pressed her lips into a thin line and wafted the air toward him. "Go on, take a deep whiff and choke on it, horse-face!"

  Tamlin stumbled back. “You know, Antivan Crows would pay a fortune for something this lethal—probably bottle it and call it ‘Essence of Doom.’ My poor nose may never recover.”

  Anne smirked, an idea for how to get back at him crystallizing in her mind. She crossed her arms and raised her voice just enough to carry across the room. “Senior Enchanter Ilara! You might want to take a look at Ser Tamlin here—seems he’s got a wounded nose.”

  Ilara, ever the diligent healer, immediately perked up, her blonde brows furrowing with concern. “A wounded nose? Ser, what happened? Let me take a look—” She hurried over, already a healing spell starting to form on her fingertips.

  Tamlin stiffened, his grin faltering as the woman stepped closer, the faint glow of magic flickering in her hands. His shoulders tensed, and he took a hurried step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “No, no, it’s fine! Really, I’m fine! Just a—uh—you have nothing to worry about!”

  Ilara wasn’t having it. She advanced, her healer’s instincts in full force. “Nonsense, even small injuries can escalate. Now hold still—”

  Tamlin flinched as her magic neared, and in a swift, instinctive motion, he caught her wrist. Not harshly, but firm enough to halt her hand mid-air. The moment stretched between them, his grip tightening before realization struck and he pulled away from her like she was something hazardous.

  “I—I’m sorry, I have to return to my duties,” he muttered, voice hoarse. His accusatory gaze darted to Anne for just a second before he turned sharply on his heel and strode away, his usual swagger absent.

  Ilara watched him go, rubbing her wrist. She let out a soft sigh. “I should not have pressed him. I ought to have realized and offered a healing potion instead…I do hope it’s not serious.”

  Anne swallowed hard, the victory she had wanted now feeling hollow. Valor stirred inside her, demanding honesty with a woman who was taking the blame for her actions. This time, she didn’t even try to fight it—she had messed up, the spirit was right. “Don’t worry, Senior Enchanter, his nose simply got offended by the smell of my sweat.”

  Ilara gave her a questioning look.

  She sighed. “I was trying to get back at Ser Tamlin for his sharp remarks by playing on his issues with magic. It was a cheap shot and not my best moment. And I’m sorry you got caught up in it.”

  Ilara studied her for a long moment. The young woman braced herself for disappointment or reproach, but instead, the healer simply said, “Your honesty is always refreshing.”

  “I—” Anne’s words were cut off as the evening bells began to toll. Her eyes widened in panic. “Maker’s breath, I’m late for cleaning duty!”

  Hastily muttering her goodbyes to the healer, she scrambled to her feet and took off at a run, her footsteps echoing as she dashed all the way to the storage room. She flung the door open, her eyes scanning the shelves before snatching a bucket, a mop, a bundle of rags, and a stack of fresh linens. Her hands trembled slightly as she gathered the supplies, urgency driving her every move. Hurrying toward Cullen’s chambers she could only hope he would be too occupied to notice her disheveled state and the stench of sweat that Tamlin had so kindly pointed out.

  As she rounded the final corner and rushed toward the Knight-Captain’s quarters, Anne nearly collided with the man and his mabari as they hurried out.

  Lyrium resonance, deep and thrumming, like a song vibrating through her very bones, hit her. It wasn’t just the usual faint hum she had begun to notice from other Templars after she took her vows—his song was thunderous, relentless, filling every space around him. The sheer force of it made her breath hitch. How much of it was he taking!? The young woman barely had time to process it, let alone react, before she registered the insignia of the Knight-Commander stark against the folded note in Cullen’s hand.

  “Anne.” His voice was clipped and distracted, acknowledging her with a brief nod, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. “I’ve been called to an urgent meeting. I’ll likely be there for some time, so once you’re finished, you can head back to the barracks. No need to wait for me.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he was already striding down the corridor, Faith trotting loyally at his side. The mabari gave a quick, sharp bark in her direction—a greeting or a goodbye, Anne couldn’t tell—before disappearing around the corner with her master.

  The young woman stood frozen in the doorway, her arms still clutching the bucket, mop, and rags. The weight of her supplies suddenly felt heavier, as did the disappointment settling in her chest. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d been looking forward to this moment—not just the chance to look into Bethany’s records, but the possibility of exchanging a few words, perhaps even a smile, with the Knight-Captain. It was foolish, she knew, to hope for such things, but the abruptness of his departure left her feeling hollow. With a sigh, she stepped inside Cullen’s chambers, closing the door softly behind her.

  The room stood as she remembered it—cluttered, yet not unbearably so, carrying the faint, familiar odors of parchment, ink, and the ever-present musk of a dog. And, of course, lyrium. Even in Cullen’s absence, its ghost lingered, seeping from the sweat-stained shirts and towels, from every fabric that had absorbed the essence of his body as it expelled the blue-tinged liquid. As she stepped into the center of the room, the faint, insistent buzz from the chamber pot reached her ears as well. Her heart clenched. Captain Cullen was clearly consuming far more of the lyrium than was advised—far more than any sane man should. This was wrong. This would unravel his mind far sooner than it ought to.

  Panic rose in her chest, a fluttering, suffocating thing, as she wondered why he would do this to himself. But then she remembered: he was a seasoned Knight-Captain, a man who had seen more battles than she could imagine. He knew what he was doing. What could she, green and inexperienced, possibly understand? She shook her head as if to dislodge the troubled thoughts and resolved to begin her work. There was no use in dwelling on what she could not change.

  Anne set down her cleaning supplies and began her task, the rhythmic motions of sweeping and scrubbing offering a small, temporary reprieve from her spiraling thoughts. Yet, even as she worked, her mind wandered back to Cullen’s hurried departure earlier that morning. What could have been so urgent? The Knight-Commander’s insignia on that note had looked ominous, as all correspondence from Meredith did. Would she even have the chance to speak with him again? What if he was sent on some mission beyond the Gallows and she missed the five-day window Valor had given her? The more she cleaned, the closer she came to finishing; the more certain she became: she would wait for Cullen, no matter how long it took. She will not risk it.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  When she was finally done, the room, though still bearing the faint traces of its usual disarray, now smelled faintly of soap and damp stone. She straightened, wiping her hands on her shirt, and glanced out the narrow window. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale glow slowly swallowed by creeping dark clouds. A moment later, the first drops of rain tapped against the glass, quiet but steady. Why hadn’t he come back yet?

  She tucked all her cleaning supplies and a tight bundle of dirty laundry into the furthest corner and began to pace. Maker knew how long she walked in aimless circles until she finally acknowledged her exhaustion. She needed to sit down, even if just for a moment. But where? The bed was Cullen’s, and even in his absence, it felt wrong to sit there, as if she were trespassing on something private, sacred. The chair behind the desk was no better—it was his space, cluttered with papers and maps, the weight of his rank and responsibilities etched into its very frame. She couldn’t bring herself to disturb it. So, with a sigh, she sank to the floor, her back against the wall. The stone was cold, the chill seeping through her pants and into her bones, and she shivered, pulling her knees to her chest.

  Her gaze wandered the room in boredom when it landed on the blanket tucked into the corner between the bed and the wall. Faith’s sleeping spot. Looking so unresistingly cozy... Anne hesitated for only a moment before crawling over to it. She settled onto the blanket, folding her legs beneath her, and was surprised by the warmth it held, as if Faith’s loyalty and steadfastness had left an imprint in the fibers. The sensation was soothing, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy. Leaning back against the wall, her head tipped to the side. She didn’t notice the exact moment she drifted off, only that one moment she was awake, and the next, she was not.

  She awoke to a loud clap of thunder. The room was dark now, the candles long since burned out, leaving only the faint silver glow of moonlight seeping through the window. Occasional flashes of lightning lit up the space in brief bursts, casting jagged shadows against the walls. Outside, the rain pelted furiously against the glass in a steady, relentless drumming.

  Her body was stiff, curled on the floor, her neck aching from the awkward angle. For a moment, she was disoriented, unsure of where she was or why the floor beneath her felt so warm. Then it all came rushing back—Cullen’s absence, the cleaning, the blanket, the exhaustion. She blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim light of the room.

  At that moment the door creaked open, followed by the unmistakable sound of wet, slurping footsteps and the soft patter of paws against the floor. A gust of cool air swept in before the door swung shut with a quiet thud. Then came the familiar noises of armor being removed and the distinctive rhythmic shff shff of a furry animal shaking itself dry.

  Cullen and Faith were back.

  Anne stiffened. Well… this is awkward. Wanting to announce her presence with some dignity, she began to crawl away from Faith's sleeping spot, slowly, carefully, trying to move with as much grace as possible—which, given the stiffness in her limbs, was not much.

  Meanwhile, Cullen paced the room, his boots heavy against the floor, his voice low and tight with frustration. “I swear, Elthina summoned Meredith and me to the Chantry in the middle of the night just to prove she could,” he muttered, speaking more to himself than to his hound. “Just to remind us who really holds the reins in Kirkwall. Maker’s breath, I am so bloody tired of these games…”

  Faith huffed in reply and then bounded onto the bed with a burst of energy, her paws sinking into the soft comforter as she landed. Her head tilted to the side, ears perking up inquisitively, as her big, yellow eyes locked onto Anne. Shit. The hound let out a sharp, excited bark that echoed through the room, her tail wagging furiously behind her. The young woman squeezed her eyes shut, holding a hand up to quiet and calm the mabari.

  “Come here and behave yourself, girl!” Cullen commanded sharply.

  Anne, startled, jumped to her feet, moving to obey the order before her mind could catch up.

  The Ferelden’s eyes widened in alarm, his hand flying instinctively to his sword—only to grasp at nothing. It lay on the weapon stand, out of reach. Another flash of lightning slashed through the room, but neither of them flinched. The mabari, ever obedient, leapt from the bed with a soft thud and padded over to Cullen, leaving Anne standing alone, heat rising to her cheeks. The command had been meant for Faith—not for her—but that wasn’t the reason her pulse pounded. No, it was the man before her.

  Cullen was drenched from the storm, his golden hair darkened by the rain and plastered to his forehead. Water dripped from the tips of his curls, trailing down the strong lines of his jaw and neck. His broad shoulders, usually encased in the familiar bulk of his armor, were now bare save for a thin, soaked shirt that clung to his muscular frame like a second skin. The fabric left little to the imagination, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the faint scars that marred his skin—tokens of battles fought and survived. His pants were equally soaked, the fabric clinging tightly to his powerful thighs and—Anne swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry—other areas she tried very hard not to focus on. He was a vision of rugged, rain-soaked exhaustion, and it was doing things to her composure that she wasn’t prepared to handle.

  "I thought you’d left," he uttered finally, his posture easing as he spoke. His gaze flicked to the floor, then back to her, and she could almost see the question forming in his mind. "I didn’t see you there."

  “I—I fell asleep while waiting for you, Ser,” she stammered, forcing herself to meet his eyes instead of the very distracting sight of his form. “I didn’t mean to—I was just—so tired, and I really needed to speak with you today. It’s about apprentice Bethany Hawke.”

  Cullen blinked, rubbing a hand over his face before sighing as if he wanted to complain, but held his tongue. “Can this matter wait until I change?” He picked his drenched shirt off his abdomen only for it to cling even tighter against him.

  “Oh! Yes! Of course!” Anne blurted, nodding so quickly it was a wonder her head didn’t fly off. “I’ll, uh—while you do that, I’ll just go fetch you some warm soup from the kitchens.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  But she was already halfway to the door. “No, no, it’s fine! You’re freezing, Ser, and you probably haven’t eaten all day, and I—I'll just be right back!”

  Before he could protest further, Anne bolted from the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

  She strode down the hall at a brisk pace, willing the very improper thoughts out of her head. Andraste’s burning tits, Anne, get a grip! He was her hero, her savior, not some wet, brooding, ridiculously handsome—she groaned, running a hand over her burning face. Stop that!

  By the time she reached the kitchens, she had almost regained her composure. Almost.

  A small cauldron simmered quietly over the hearth, kept warm for the Knights on night shifts. She grabbed a bowl and ladled some of the broth inside, the comforting scent of herbs and beans filling the air. As she turned to leave, her gaze landed on a small piece of bread someone had left unattended. Anne hesitated. Then, with a shrug, she snatched it up. Faith deserved a treat too, after all.

  The walk back took longer than she expected, each step a careful balancing act as she cradled the bowl of soup in her hands. The young woman moved at a snail’s pace, hyper-focused on not spilling a single drop. The last thing she wanted was to show up at Cullen’s door covered in broth like an idiot.

  When she finally reached his chambers, she exhaled in relief and knocked. "Knight-Captain? May I enter?"

  There was a brief pause before his voice came through the door, calm and steady. "Come in."

  Anne pushed the door open and stepped inside, her eyes immediately finding him bathed in the warm, flickering glow of countless newly lit candles. Cullen was seated behind his desk, dressed in fresh clothes—a simple red tunic and trousers. He looked noticeably more at ease than before, though the exhaustion still clung to his features. His hair, still a little damp, had been brushed back.

  She stepped forward, practically giddy at the thought of feeding the Knight-Captain. Though as she walked, she noted that the once-pristine surface she had scrubbed clean mere hours ago was now ruined—dirtied with mud and rainwater, all her previous efforts for naught. And yet, she didn’t care. She carefully placed the bowl on his desk, along with a spoon. "Here. Fresh from the kitchens."

  Cullen looked at the offering for a moment before giving her a tired but genuine smile. "Thank you." He picked up the spoon and took a tentative sip.

  The young woman watched, a little too intently, as his eyes slipped shut for a brief moment, his shoulders easing as the warmth of the broth spread through him.

  "Good?" she asked, trying and failing to hide her eagerness.

  He exhaled slowly. "Better than good." Anne felt an absurd amount of pride at that.

  A soft whuff caught her attention, and she turned to see Faith sitting beside her, gazing up expectantly. "Alright, alright, you too." She crouched and offered the mabari the piece of bread she had snatched earlier. The hound took it delicately from her hand and chewed with clear satisfaction.

  Cullen chuckled, watching the exchange. "Well, it seems you've officially won her over."

  The young woman beamed, scratching behind Faith’s ears. "You hear that, girl? We’re friends now."

  Faith huffed in approval.

  As Cullen continued eating, Anne grabbed a cloth and set to work cleaning up the puddles, mopping up the mess without a word. By the time she had finished, the Knight-Captain was setting aside his empty bowl, looking at her expectantly. "You said you needed to talk to me?"

  The young woman hesitated, suddenly a little less sure of herself now that the moment had arrived. "Yes, Ser. As I mentioned before, it’s about apprentice Bethany Hawke," she began carefully. "She’s really worried about the man she was healing when the crowd attacked her. She doesn’t know if he made it, and it’s been weighing on her."

  Cullen's brows drew together slightly, his expression unreadable.

  Anne pressed on. "I was hoping—if it’s not too much trouble—you could go through her records and see if there’s anything about him. Just… to find out if he survived." She looked at him earnestly. "I’d be forever grateful if you could do this for her."

  Cullen leaned back slightly, considering her request. He didn’t reply immediately, and Anne’s stomach twisted with nerves. She knew she was asking a lot—digging through records wasn’t exactly something the Knight-Captain had time for.

  After a long pause, he exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping idly against the desk. "I suppose… finding out the man’s fate is an appropriate request." His lips pressed into a firm line before he gave her a small nod. "Alright. I’ll look into the records in the next few days."

  Relief flooded through Anne, and she straightened, smiling brightly. "Thank you, Knight-Captain. Truly. You don’t know how much this means to me—and to Bethany."

  Cullen offered her a tight-lipped smile in return, his eyes softening, but there was an unmistakable weariness in his gaze. He cleared his throat. "It’s late. You should return to the barracks."

  Anne blinked. "Of-Of course, you’re right, Ser. I’ll head back.” The giddy warmth from earlier dimmed slightly, though she couldn’t blame him. He needed his space and probably some much-needed sleep. Gathering her supplies, she went for the door. “Good night, Knight-Captain." She then turned to the faithful hound. "Good night to you, too, Faith."

  The dog gave a soft, sleepy whuff of acknowledgment before heading to her blanket.

  Cullen nodded, giving her a small smile. "Good night, Anne. And… thank you for the soup."

  With a nod and another smile, Anne slipped out of his chambers, quietly closing the door behind her. The moment she was out in the hall, the cool air greeted her, and she let out a long sigh, letting her shoulders relax.

  What a night.

  As she walked down the dimly lit corridors of the Gallows, her steps led her to the storage room. There she started to put her cleaning supplies and dirty linens where they belonged, the task taking her behind the stacks of spare blankets and unused cots piled high. She dusted her hands off on her trousers, planning to finish quickly and head straight to bed. But just as she turned to leave, the door to the storage room creaked open.

  Anne stopped mid-motion. It was rare for someone to come here at this time of night. She could hear the faint sound of footsteps—two pairs. Then came a woman’s soft, honeyed laughter, light and melodic, followed by the sounds of passionate kissing. A moment later, the unmistakable thud of something heavy being dragged across the floor broke the silence—the door was being barred, sealed shut.

  Great . Of course, her luck would have her stuck in here while someone’s off having a midnight romp.

  She had half a mind to make some ghostly noises just to scare them off, but she wasn't particularly keen on the idea of doing anything before she knew who she was dealing with, as that could backfire spectacularly. So she listened, trying to place the voices, yet it was hard to make out exactly who they were at first. They moved deeper into the storage room, their voices growing clearer with every step.

  “I was waiting the whole day for this, my dear Sebastian,” the woman uttered.

  Anne’s brow furrowed. She knew that voice. It belonged to the middle-aged, portly Sister with a prominent mole on her nose—the one who delivered daily sermons to the Templars. What was her name again? Marta? Yes, Marta. So… Sister Marta was in here for a late-night tryst? She couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. After all, wasn’t it just rich that the woman who preached so fervently about moral purity was now tangled in her own web of hypocrisy? And who is exactly Sebastian? A new recruit, perhaps? Or maybe someone far more unexpected, someone who would make this scandal useful for the Knight-Captain… She couldn’t just walk away and miss this opportunity.

  Fabric rustled in the dim light, followed by the soft clink of a belt.

  "Our love is reckless, my lady, but I am willing to risk it all for you," the man murmured with a slight accent, though his voice was eerily familiar.

  "Sebastian, my darling, enough talking. Take me already," Marta purred, her tone thick with impatience.

  Anne cringed so hard she nearly turned inside out, yet she carefully shifted her weight to peer around the stack of supplies and get a glimpse of the pair. The flickering torchlight barely reached the far end of the storage room, but as the couple moved, she caught sight of a flash of red hair and a long, freckled face…Tamlin!

  The young woman quickly retreated behind her cover. Why was Sister Marta calling Tamlin ‘Sebastian’? And why was he speaking like some pompous noble from who-knows-where? She had no idea, and frankly, she didn’t care to find out. Whatever game the two of them were playing while tangled up in each other was of no use to her or Cullen or anyone else, for that matter. All she wanted now was to get out of here.

  She edged toward the exit hoping against hope that she could slip out unnoticed. But the door was blocked by a large crate that had been shoved in front of it. Moving it would make too much noise, and the last thing she needed was to alert the lovers. Besides the obvious trouble of Sister Marta discovering she’d been eavesdropping, there was also the fact that she’d already been enough of an arse to Tamlin today. Ruining his chance at getting laid would be overkill, even for her. No, she’d have to wait it out, no matter how much she despised the idea of being an unwilling witness to this spectacle.

  Returning to her hiding spot, Anne curled up tighter, as if she could will herself into nonexistence. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms hard against her ears, desperate to block out the sounds emanating from the other side of the room. But it was no use. The storeroom’s acoustics amplified every movement, every breath, into an inescapable echo. Her stomach churned with disgust. Maker, please, let this end quickly.

  But it didn’t. She was forced to endure it, her body tense, her mind recoiling, until, in the midst of their coupling, a strangled, breathless sound cut through the air. “An—” Tamlin choked, his voice catching before he abruptly silenced himself.

  The young woman’s eyes snapped open, her heart pounding violently in her chest. Had he just—? No. It couldn’t be. It had to be something else—someone else. I’m imagining things. I must be.

  A sharp, furious intake of breath came from Marta. Then a vicious slap. "What. Did. You. Just. Say?"

  “N-Nothing, my lady,” Tamlin stammered as his rhythm came to a halt.

  "Nothing?" The word dripped with venom. A pause—then a sudden, sharp sound, like hair being yanked. Tamlin let out a muffled grunt of pain. "You absolute disgrace." The woman’s voice turned to a snarl. "Do you even hear yourself? Again, you moan your sister’s name while you're inside me? Again, you ruin everything!"

  Anne clapped a hand over her mouth before a noise of shock could escape. She felt the blood drain from her face. What… what had she just said? But Tamlin didn't have a sister, neither he nor anyone at the orphanage ever mentioned her existence.

  “I—sorry. Ugh. Just ignore it,” Tamlin mumbled, his fake accent slipping away as panic edged into his voice. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t mean to?” Another vicious yank, another grunt of pain. “You inbred mongrel. You are as sick and sinful as your father," the Sister spat. "Lusting after your own kin—just like that wretched, disgusting man who sired you!"

  Silence.

  Why didn't he deny it!? Why? Why!?

  After a long, trembling pause, Tamlin whispered, “I’ll do better… I’ll be the best Sebastian Vael I can be—for you.”

  Marta scoffed. “Yes, you will. Or I swear I’ll make sure everyone in the Gallows and beyond knows what a sick wretch you are. Including your precious harlot sister, of course.” Her tone shifted, dripping with mockery. “Oh, she’d be thrilled to hear all the sordid details you spilled during your confession to me at the Chapel, when you were too drunk to know what your foul mouth was spewing. How the desire demon the maleficar summoned only had to whisper the truth you already knew—that you’re nothing but a sniveling pervert. That you hunt for your sister’s dirty laundry, sniffing her filth while you pleasure yourself. That you—”

  Tamlin made a strangled sound—part fury, part shame. "Enough! Shut your damn mouth! Just—shut it!”

  "Why should I?" The Sister cooed, sickly sweet. "I haven’t even gotten to the best parts yet. Imagine the girl’s face if I told her, imagine her horror when she learns that all this time, you—”

  A sudden scuffle. A sharp gasp. Then, a choking wheeze.

  Startled, Anne picked out from her hiding place. Through the flickering torchlight, she made out Tamlin’s silhouette—his hands wrapped tightly around Marta’s fleshy throat as she lay pinned beneath him.

  “I said shut your bloody mouth, bitch,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “I’m sick of your threats, your scheming, and this whole bullshit of playing Sebastian. I'm done downing potions so I can get hard enough to fuck you, you blighted hag. You make my skin crawl.”

  The Sister clawed at his grip. "Go on. Kill me." she whispered, hoarse but taunting. "Do it. I’m not afraid. I’ll gladly watch from the Maker’s side as they drag you to the pyre for my murder, as you scream and writhe, engulfed in flames, you bastard. They’ll see you for what you are—a filthy, twisted monster. And I’ll be there, smiling, as you burn."

  Tamlin’s fingers twitched, and for a moment, Anne thought he might actually do it. She was poised to intervene, her muscles coiled like a spring, when suddenly his hands fell away. He staggered to his feet, his movements jerky and unsteady, and yanked his pants up with trembling hands. Fumbling with his belt, he secured it in quick, uneven motions, his face pale.

  Marta coughed, rubbing at the red marks on her neck. She inhaled sharply, her expression twisting into something both smug and disappointed. Slowly, deliberately, she rose to her feet. She smoothed out her robes, composed herself, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost pitying. "You should be grateful to me, you pathetic little worm. I let you pretend, just for a few moments, that you’re someone else—someone worthy. Someone clean."

  Tamlin stood silent, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped.

  "If you ever act up again, I will ruin you. Do you understand me?"

  He didn't answer, just stared at the floor as if in a trance.

  “Waste of flesh,” the Sister huffed as she turned on her heel and stomped away, her chantry robes swishing behind her.

  Anne pressed herself deeper into the shadows. The crate scraped against the floor as Marta pushed it aside, and the door creaked open. With one last muttered insult, the woman stormed out.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then Anne heard it—a shaky breath. A sniff. And then, Tamlin let out a broken, quiet sob.

  After what felt like an eternity, he cleared his throat. His footsteps retreated, slow and unsteady, and the door creaked shut behind him, leaving the young woman alone in the suffocating silence.

  Through the whirlwind of disbelief, she struggled to process the overwhelming revelations crashing over her. What in the Maker’s name had she just witnessed? And more importantly, what was she supposed to do with it all?