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Chapter Text

Those who oppose thee 

Shall know the wrath of heaven. 

Field and forest shall burn, 

The seas shall rise and devour them, 

The wind shall tear their nations 

From the face of the earth, 

Lightning shall rain down from the sky, 

They shall cry out to their false gods, 

And find silence.

—Andraste 7:19

Sometimes called the School of Power, the Primal School is the second of the Schools of Energy, balanced by Spirit, and concerns the most visible and tangible forces of nature itself. This is the magic of war: Fire, ice, and lightning. Devastation. 

This is what the vast majority imagines when they hear the word "magic." 

—From The Four Schools: A Treatise, by First Enchanter Josephus

Dragon 9:21

In the Ostwick countryside of the Free Marches resided the heart of the Trevelyan family. Their ancient bloodline had survived wars, Blights, Qunari invasions, and various conquests from Tevinter and Orlais, among other efforts to tame and control the barbarian tribes of the Marches. As the melting pot in the north, cultures, and customs collided to produce a loose confederation of city-states who, in the case of war, would combine their strength to combat the enemy. No longer did they wish to be subjugated to a monarch or empire, they simply wished to prosper on their own. This in turn made the Marches and its cities some of the greatest trading and commercial markets in Thedas. With plenty of port cities and a vast fleet of ships, many Southerners looked at them as if they were pirates in the early years of the Confederacy. Now, they were simply businessmen and women with enterprising ventures in capital and goods. Even foreign investors from Orlais, Antiva, and Nevarra sought opportunities to make extra coin from the innovative Marchers. With little restrictions on trade, anyone could profit if they worked for it and knew the market for their services.

Yet, for all the progress, there was a deep reverence for religion at the heart of every true Marcher. The Chantry was a force to be reckoned with in the north, and rightfully so, as some of their wealthiest donors hailed from there. Though not the wealthiest of the great families, the Trevelyans were a name every Chantry cleric knew. It was they who the Mothers in Ostwick depended on when they needed coin, and the Trevelyans never disappointed them. Aside from funds, they also provided the Chantry with new blood either in the form of Templars or bureaucrats. Wielding wealth and religious influence for generations, the family had built itself a sustainable future, and thus was the world Evelyn Althea Trevelyan was born into.

The fifth and youngest child of Bann Drexford Trevelyan and Lady Rhiannon Orianna Trevelyan, Evelyn was expected to either marry advantageously or join the ranks of the Chantry with her cousins. With this expectation looming over her entire childhood, her mother and two older sisters endeavored to mold her into their image. Both sisters, Odette and Ariella, chose to place themselves on the market as eligible brides for the highest bidder, wanting nothing to do with a spartan and chaste life of service in the Chantry. They were well-suited for the life of nobility enjoying parties and gossip, actively learning the rules of The Game. Fortunately for them, they were figures of feminine beauty and charm thanks to their mother's rigorous training from a young age.

As ten-year-old Evelyn sat in the salon of their country estate listening to her mother brag about her two eldest daughters, who sat on either side of their mother like perfect porcelain dolls, she couldn't help but make a face of disgust as she stirred her tea noisily. The clanking of the fine porcelain garnered attention from the matron who eyed her intensely until she stopped.

"And how is young Evelyn progressing in her schooling? Will there be yet another Trevelyan lady the unwed girls of the Marches will have to compete with? My, Rhiannon, I do believe you will monopolize the marriage market in the next decade, I must congratulate you." Great Aunt Lucile was her father's aunt and always had a pulse on the political machinations of the Trevelyan family. With Odette out in society at the age of sixteen and Ariella close on her heels at fourteen, the high precedence they set in the sphere of influence would weigh heavy on the expectations set forth for Evelyn. The thought of which made her antsy, as she now tapped her foot causing her fine dress to silently wave.

"You may need to save such praise until I break this one like one of Drex's Rangers," mother and daughter met eyes with fierce hostility, "Evelyn refuses to cooperate. I fear she's a lost cause and better off in the Chantry." The older women both sighed despairingly and Evelyn's sisters huffed a snotty glare at her. Odette and Ariella were as hard on her as their mother, offering her no sisterly affection or sympathy. The youngest Trevelyan turned towards the window to lean on the arm of the plush chair with a huff of her own wishing she truly was one of the family's horses. At least then she could run free in the pastures basking in the hot sun. Even they would be off having more adventures than she ever would be stuck inside the estate, fighting Tevinter Magisters and bandits with her father's cavalry.

"Young lady," her great aunt's tone was haughty and arrogant, as she leaned on her cane, "you understand that if you do not want to live a life of privilege, you will be sent away to one of service. One way or another you will serve this family. Look at me when I speak to you." The child simply turned her head over in her arms. "While you share more resemblance in appearance with your father, I suppose it has its own charm, and there will still be plenty of men still interested in you. You have the Trevelyan name after all, and that will overshadow your flaws." The aging woman looked her over as if she were a mare they were thinking of breeding. Her wrinkled leathery skin puckered about her over powdered face. The act caused Evelyn to turn her fiery glare at her, being subjected yet again to more scrutiny and criticism, as if her mother's daily tirades weren't enough. Lucile balked back in feigned indignation, "Maker, she's like a wild animal, perhaps it would be better to cut your losses and focus on Odette and Ariella. Forget the clergy, send this one to the Templars with that temper! They'll purge it from her." The woman stabbed her cane in her direction trying to make her finch, but instead, she lowered a predatory look at her, making her great aunt look truly fearful of her.

Having lost patience, Lady Bann Trevelyan ordered her daughter out of her sight. Without care, Evelyn threw down her tea on the table, nearly breaking it, stuck out her tongue at her two sisters for good measure, and stormed out. There was no doubt that she had a temper, one that she equated to the frustration over her hopeless situation. In the hall, Evelyn kicked off her polished shoes at the wall and went running and sliding in her stocking on the marble floor in an attempt to quell her rage. Deep in her heart, she knew she'd have to serve the family, but she had yet to accept it. Her imagination was filled with tales of slaying dragons and harrowing adventures. Marriage? Gross. 

Holidays were starting to become less fun the older she grew, for she was no longer allowed to play with the other children. Instead, she was to accompany her mother and sisters as they mingled, occasionally being introduced to the great families with whom her mother wished one day to be joined with for one advantage or another. Thankfully, Odette and Ariella were the focus of much of the attention, making it easier for Evelyn to sneak away to find Owayne. The two trouble-making Trevelyans liked to spy on Hector as he blushed after all the eligible girls, providing them with much amusement later on when they teased him.

Yet, despite the age difference, he enjoyed his youngest siblings. He was eighteen and every bit the spitting image of their father; tall and slim with the famed modest temper of their family motto. Modest in temper, bold in deed. Evelyn couldn't say the same about herself, for she had a fiery temper hidden within her small frame. Often, their antics played nicely in helping him speak to the young women of Marcher high society. He suddenly became more desirable having a good handle on children and a fierce family loyalty. Evelyn and Owayne were lookouts on a number of occasions when Hector was required to dole out justice for a slight against Odette as she navigated through matches. Unfortunately, their mother had taught the eldest sister how to entice men, and paired with her beauty, it led to many lewd comments about the type of woman she'd be. Hector and some of their older cousins were bound by honor to brawl at balls or in the city, which always caused their father to give the same lecture at dinner after his heir would come home with bloodied knuckles. After which, his ire was leveled on Rhiannon for teaching their daughter such things.

Oddly, Evelyn enjoyed it when her father raised his voice at their mother, for she felt it validated many of her own grievances with the woman. Usually, after he'd storm off and she was left with a satisfied smirk on her face, she'd earn herself a whack from the matron. Yet, it only made her laugh more, causing her mother to yell all sorts of insults her way. Commanded out of her sight and left to her own devices around the estate, it gave her an excuse to find trouble with Owayne.

Evelyn and Owayne were the closest of the Trevelyan siblings, nearly alike in every way. From their looks to personality, most believed they were twins, but he was two years her senior. Being the youngest and at times forgotten by their parents as they schooled the older three Trevelyans, the pair were thick as thieves and always up to their own mischievous machinations. Pranks were their favorite pastime, whether they played them on others or each other, there was always some daily uproar at their Ostwick country estate as to something the dynamic duo had done. Yet, for all the similarities, there was one large difference… Evelyn was always the one to get caught. No matter how much she tried, she was always finding more trouble than she made. The common joke about the household was that the girl could find trouble simply walking to a Chantry service. Her brother was roguish and slippery, with the uncanny ability to sneak about anywhere and away from any situation, leaving his sister to whatever punishment awaited her.

"Drexford! Would you do something about this child of yours? I cannot stand to be in her presence!" Rhiannon's shrill cry did nothing but raise her husband's hackles. Though her mother despised Evelyn, her father doted on her. The man had very little in common with his other daughters - as well as his wife - but his youngest was his darling due to her vast difference from the other females. For one, Evelyn loved her father's horses, not seeing them as filthy disgusting creatures as her mother often said, despite them being their prime source of income. "She was supposed to be taking tea with myself and the Teyrn's wife! I wanted to present her as a future candidate for their youngest son."

"Isn't the boy two? Why on the Maker's green earth would the Lady be thinking of marriage for him now?!"

"She wouldn't be, but she will in the future, and when she is, Evelyn must be her first thought. How else will we rid ourselves of this child? At least married to them, so long as they stay in power, she will secure our standing here in Ostwick while her sisters make greater advances elsewhere."

Standing in her soiled and horse-smelling dress from her morning grooming the horses and dogs in the stable, Evelyn wriggled her toes in her mucky shoes, shifting her weight from heel to toe contently, knowing that her father was not about to scold her for how she chose to spend her morning. Granted, she was explicitly told about taking tea with the Teyrn's wife, but the girl chose to ignore the command. Leveling her mother with a heated glare she aimed to mimic often, Drexford took any snub at his profession harshly, most of all from his wife. Rhiannon was the middle child of lesser nobility whose mother had been just as shrewd in landing her an "advantageous" marriage. As she heard it whispered at parties, her mother had been overjoyed at the match until years later it began to lack the luster it once had. The more she dabbled in politics, the more she realized her elevation to the wife of the most prestigious Horsemaster in all the Free Marches, was still less desirable than that of the fine vineyards and luxury goods of the other nobility. Now, she was determined to raise her daughters up, and in doing so make her own status more desirable. As was the way of all the noble houses around Thedas, but that never made it right in Evelyn's eyes.

Before her father could speak, the child in question decided to seal her mother's coffin in this fight, "Father, what's a spinster? Mother said if I continue to help with the horses, that I'll be the wretched spinster she locks in a closet for every party she throws." Drexford was livid, sputtering like a volcano, while her mother grabbed and hit her. The girl laughed slightly at the hit, for she had received harder while fighting with Owayne. Evelyn deserved it in a sense, but she'd be lying if she said she hadn't completely been ignoring her mother's lessons about The Game. It was the one thing she found would be most beneficial from the matron's teachings since she was always getting into trouble. Catching Rhiannon's hand and pulling Evelyn behind him, the Bann swallowed his temper. Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed.

"Why you little cretin!" Her mother seethed.

Surprised by her harsh language towards the youngest Trevelyan, Drexford's brow drew down, "Rhiannon, calm yourself! You will not speak to any child of mine in such a way."

"Oh, she's your child alright! Fine, keep her out of my sight! We can hire her for a stable hand when she comes of age, for if her mother can be repulsed by her so, no man could stand for her as his wife!" Her mother spun on a heel, the fine silk of her ostentatious gown billowing about her legs.

When she was out of sight, her father turned and looked down at her. While his rectangular face gave her a stern stare, she detected the slighted hint of amusement, "Why must you provoke her so? She is just looking out for your future. And I'm sure you know what a spinster is, for I heard Hector explaining it to you the other day when you asked him after she threatened you with it." A tight cheeky smile spread on her face up at her favorite parent. "You know, I do believe you're too clever for your own good at times. It must come from being the youngest with something to prove, I suppose."

"I don't want to prove anything, why can't I stay and help you here?"

"You are still young and do not yet know what you want from life."

"I know I don't want to sit through another one of Mother's lessons or stupid tea parties."

"Yet, this is what you were born to do. Not all have such a privileged upbringing as you and your siblings. Your belly is always full, you have shoes on your feet, and you have more choices than most. You should be grateful the Maker has been good to us and embrace this life. You only ever get one." They walked over to one of the garden benches and sat under the pergola's shade. The Trumpet Vine was in full bloom twisting and hanging heavily about the wooden frame. "Think of the Greene family."

"The farmers?"

The gentle wave of his steel and auburn hair bobbed as he nodded, "Mhm, they work considerably harder than us to earn their living, and despite having to do back-breaking work, they are paid less for their services. Thus, they do not own such fine things as you, nor do they eat as well. They will be stuck under the label of 'lower class' and looked down upon all their life by people like us."

"But, do we not treat them well? I always greet them as I would anyone."

"We do, but other nobles would spit at them as they pass. We Trevelyans understand that without the Greenes we would not have feed for our horses or flour for our bread. You live a comfortable life at the expense of others' sweat and toil. "

"All that just to make horse feed and flour?" The Bann nodded sympathetically. "I always enjoy playing with the other children, and Master Greene had been kind enough to show us the mill once. I wish we could help them?"

"We do, by buying their goods. I purchase feed from others as well, to spread the wealth, but doing more than that would insult the man’s honor. Not many would take charity willingly, which is why we give regularly to the Chantry. They distribute food and other goods to the needy in Ostwick with our coin. As a great lady, you could do a lot of good by having the freedom and wealth to do so. You may have to bind yourself in marriage, but you'd have plenty of time outside your marital duties to find a way of spending your time… and money, as your mother does." He laughed and rolled his eyes amusingly at his own expense.

"I suppose that isn't too bad, but why must I leave you?"

He smiled sweetly, hugging her shoulders, "That is not for a long time Evie, and by then you may want to have your own life. But I'll not part with you unless I absolutely have to knowing you're in good hands, that I promise you."

Yet, despite his promise, the Maker had other plans for young Evelyn…

It was a hot Marcher day as Evelyn hid from her mother and her guests in their expansive garden. Even though the sky threatened to open up above them, rain was the least of her concerns. In particular, she had been avoiding Lady Thindrel's daughter, Anika, who was visiting with her mother. The lesser noble was several years older than Evelyn and rotten to the core. Cruel as she was lacking in femininity, despite being wrapped tight as a sausage in finery, the girl had it out for Evelyn for some reason.

Upon arriving, Anika stepped from their carriage with her latest new toy - a whip. Evelyn was a small child, with no small amount of courage instilled in her by her two older brothers, yet the hulking figure of Anika made her tremble - and she knew it. She knew it when she taunted Evelyn with it when their eyes met; when she tested it on one of the horses; and then again on an elven attendant. That was enough to send Evelyn flying through the garden lest she be next.

When the storm suddenly blew in, she knew she'd have to return to the house. Passing by the stables on her way, she heard some of their animals making a ruckus. She figured it was due to the storm, but she'd try to quiet them anyway. She loved animals, every kind, they were just so honest and unconditionally loving. Her father was the largest and most well-known Free Marches Ranger breeder on the continent. The Trevelyans fielded the finest company of cavalry this side of the Waking Sea. They had acres of rolling fields and forests to breed and train Rangers. Aside from horses they also had several species of birds, cats, and dogs.

As she entered she heard the whimpers and nervous shifting of the animals coming from the far side of the barn where the kennels were located. At this time of day, the dogs would indeed be there before their feeding time. She picked up the pace breaking into a jog as lightning flashed followed by that loud crack of thunder. She jumped, though it was not at the thunder, but the illumination of splattered blood sprinkled along the dirt floor. Worry overcoming her petite features, she cautiously rounded the corner as an all too familiar laugh echoed through the stables. The sight made her physically sick, stifling a scream from her mouth with her hand. There Anika stood hulking over several of the dogs she had released from their kennels. They were bloodied, whimpering pleadingly for an end to their torture. The horses nearby had not gone untouched either, kicking their legs about. Anika cracked her whip making the dogs skitter and yip from one corner to the next upon seeing Evelyn.

"Finally, something more fun to try this on than your stupid animals." Evelyn stood paralyzed with a flood of emotions overwhelming her little person. Terror, rage, and sorrow were all ten-year-old Evelyn could comprehend at the time, and her body didn't know which to act on. She felt as if she was going to explode while watching Anika stomp ever closer to her.

She locked eyes with one of the wounded dogs. She loved all their animals, but Arrow, as they called him, was special to her. He was born the runt of the litter. Not knowing if he'd survive, she visited him every day to tell him she believed in him, that he'd make it. That just because he was small like her, didn't mean he couldn't grow up to become the greatest hunting dog. Sure enough, he became one of her father's best, to which he gave Evelyn full credit for and allowed her to name him. He was light cream with pure white paws and an angular marking between his eyes. She thought about naming him after one of her favorite desserts but then thought the other dogs would make fun of him for having such a sweet name. He was to be a fierce hunting dog, not a pastry. What about Ghost , she thought, no, too scary . Looking into the pup's bright eyes, the mark on his face became more prominent to her. It only took her a moment to decide upon 'Arrow.' It was perfect and so was he.

Now he was hurting. The memory and the present collided in her mind, and it became clear there was only one thing she could do. No more running. The fear on her face was replaced by primal rage. It became so hot suddenly she felt as if she was on fire. Whatever change Anika saw come over Evelyn made her stop dead in her tracks. Now, Evelyn stalked towards her.

"Stay back! I'm warning you..." Anika's voice sounded rattled. She raised the whip, but seeing that Evelyn wasn't deterred, stumbled backward making her way for the door. Taking a strange pleasure from seeing the fear on Anika's face, her pace quickened and she felt the sting of the whip hit her. The first strike just grazed her cheek. The trickle of blood was liquid fire as it dripped down her face. The second strike she was ready for and she caught it around her forearm. She looked down at the tanned braided leather coiled tightly around her. She hated it. Hated what it did and who wielded it. She pictured it burning so clearly in her mind it was as though it was real. An odd smell wafted into her face, making her blink a few times. The whip was burning, it was actually on fire!

Flame shot up the whip to Anika's hand. She screamed and dropped it after it singed her hand. Evelyn concentrated on the destruction of the whip. She knew she should have been afraid of what was happening, but the release of the flame felt so natural. She didn't hold the rage back, she let it flow freely until ash was all that was left of the torturous whip.

"You're a monster!" Anika screeched at her.

"No." Her voice was strong and calm. "You're the monster." Anika tried to run. Out the door she flew, slipping in the puddles as her heavy footfalls landed clumsily. Evelyn caught her with little effort, taking her down as her brothers had taught her to do. She muddied their expensive dresses, rolling them so she landed on top. Immediately she began throwing punches down on Anika. Rage consumed her as she failed to understand why anyone would want to hurt animals - her animals. Why was it so hot? The world went red as the sight of her wounded furry friends burned in her mind. She deserves this and more . The smell of burning cloth and another unfamiliar scent entered her nostrils. She looked down to see it was Anika's dress and arms that were on fire. Evelyn jumped off her immediately, but the damage was done.

Anika's face was bloodied, the hem of her dress on fire, and the skin on her forearms burnt badly. If it had not been pouring rain, Anika most definitely would have still been aflame. Evelyn wished she still was. It wasn't enough, her rage boiled on, but she knew deep down she had to stop. Her mana threatened to lash out again, but with no target to direct it at, it engulfed her instead. Screaming, a flame shot to the sky as it enveloped her.

After what felt like an eternity, Evelyn dropped to her knees exhausted as the grip of her newfound power diminished. Upon looking up she saw her father, mother, sisters, Lady Thindrel, and several others from the household and the Thindrel servants. Her father was the first to approach, gesturing to the rest to keep away. She watched him carefully studying the concern on his face.

"Evie?" He stood a few feet from her waiting for a response. "Evie, say something, sweetie."

"I'm sorry father!" Evelyn sobbed. He leaped to her embracing her as she nuzzled her face into his shoulder. He hushed her, letting her know that there was no reason for tears, he just wanted to know what had happened. Between sobs, she told him about the scene she stumbled upon in the barn and what she had done to Anika, but more importantly that there were animals in need of care. His face was one of pure disgust. He turned to his stable hands and told them to see to the wounded animals before shooting a glance at her mother's company. Evelyn's mother was gesturing wildly ordering servants about and trying to help Lady Thindrel comfort her daughter. "I failed you. I am a monster!"

"No, you made me proud," whipping tears and the blood from her cut cheek away, "I don't think a monster would have put herself in harm's way to save innocents."

"But… I'm a … I'm a mage!" She sobbed harder. "Mages are evil. How can I do good when I'm inherently evil?" He pushed her back at shoulder's length, studying her hard.

"Who told you that?"

"Mother Maeve, she speaks to us often at the Chantry about the evils of magic and those who wield it. She says mages cannot help their wicked nature and that even the Maker's light cannot save them." He shook her head at her slowly, and another disgusted look overtook his features.

"Now don't you listen to her. You know I once saw her mount a horse backwards. Would you ever trust the word of someone who can't seat themselves on a horse properly?" A small, but audible laugh broke through her sobs. "I won't lie to you that some mages are dangerous, but I don't believe they are inherently evil. I believe the world has done something to them to make them so. You are good, and will do good my Evie." His eyes glimmered lovingly at her and she knew his words would be forever part of her.

"Drex!" They heard her mother approaching. Her heels clicked, scattering the small pebbles of the courtyard about as she trotted along. "Drexford, I've called the Templars from the Circle. They should be here presently to take that creature away."

"You did what!?" A very familiar rage erupted in her father. "Maker's breath Rhiannon, this could've waited another day or so! Can't you see that Evie is in shock?"

"She almost killed sweet Anika, how can you say that?! The poor girl will never find a husband with those burns on her, she's ruined her!" The two fought back and forth for a bit while the reality that the Templars were coming for her sunk in. To take her away from all she knew. She snapped out of her numb state to hear her father definitively end their spat.

"I want the Thindrels off my property immediately and I never want to see them here again! And I expect a full apology made to me for my damaged property!" She huffed at him but turned and followed his command. He didn't say anything, nor did his scowl waver away from the flabbergasted looks the Thindrels shot his way. Evelyn watched from beside him as the wailing Anika was carried to their carriage. When they were out of sight, her mother and sisters, stomped into the house. Family lines had been drawn.

Evelyn and her father then hurried over to the barn to assist with the animals. They were happy to find that the situation was well in hand, with only superficial injuries to contend with. Arrow greeted her upon entering and she bent to give the dog a big long hug, knowing it could be the last. When things were settled, they made for the house. As they reached the door, a small cart with the clanking of heavy armor skittered to a stop behind them. The Templars had arrived. With a motion for her to stay put, her father went to speak with them. Their private conversation seemed civil and good-humored, ending with her father attempting to discreetly push a coin purse to the senior officer before waving her over.

"Evelyn, this is Knight-Captain Tobias. I've explained what has happened and he's agreed to come back tomorrow." She looked shyly up to the Knight-Captain. He had kind eyes from what she could tell through his graying bushy eyebrows.

"Lady Evelyn, please don't be afraid, though we aren't mages we understand a bit of what you may have experienced today. I'll be back tomorrow to travel with you to the Ostwick Circle, but until then just keep yourself calm and your powers will not endanger you. I am going to quell your powers. It will make you feel tired but you won't be a danger to anyone." Closing his eyes a faint blue glow enshrouded him, and when he opened his eyes, she felt the energy drain from her. She wobbled but her father steadied her. "Templars can suppress magic, as I've just done. Once at the Circle, you'll receive training there to help you control your abilities. Myself and fellow Templars will be with you to make sure no harm comes to you as you learn. Until tomorrow, good evening." He nodded to the two of them and spurred their horse back the way they came. She gave her father's hand a squeeze looking up at him with a smile. He had bought her one more day. One more day to say her goodbyes, soak in her freedom, and ready herself for her new life. To do good.

The next day while she savored her last few minutes at home, Evelyn watched her things be carried and packed on the cart. It was a wonder the rickety wooden wagon could hold two armored men, let alone a scrawny 10-year-old girl and belongings. The horses pulling it were nothing special, probably the cheapest the Chantry could afford just for carting people about. In the pasture across from the courtyard and road, a herd of her father's Free Marches Rangers kicked and bolted playfully in the warm sunlight. Their white and cream coloring stood out against the vibrant green of the grasses and that of the trees in the background. She sighed heavily knowing the horses were to enjoy more freedoms than her in their lifetime.

"Are you ready to go, child?" Unlike what Mother Maeve had always taught her of Circles, Knight-Captain Tobias was kind and gentle. He had not rushed her or treated her as a cursed creature for the few hours he had been on the Trevelyan estate. The other younger Knight accompanying him was happy to sit and wait in the wagon, reclining in the driver's seat and basking in the hot sun.

"May I await my father's return? He went to fetch the rest of the family to say goodbye."

"Of course," he studied her face, all the while keeping a wistful smile aimed at her, "I know this is difficult for you, but you'll find others your age in the Circle who will become as close as family." She knew he was just trying to help alleviate some of the misery clearly painted on her face, but her eyes lingered downwards toward her shoes.

The rhythmic clicks of shoes on the marble floors of the foyer signaled the arrival of the rest of her family. She looked down the line of her kin standing before her wearing a mixture of expressions, though one notable member was missing. In the shadow of the doorway stood Lady Bann Trevelyan glowering over at her.

"Rhiannon, are you coming?" Her father called over, but the woman simply turned on her heel and walked back into the house. Evelyn's brow drew slightly down, and her father was quick to take a knee before her, "Your mother just needs time to accept this. I'm sure by Satinalia she'll come to her senses."

"Father, may we go back inside with mother?" They turned to see both Odette and Ariella looking at their youngest sister up and down with disgust and apprehension. Part of her couldn't blame them, for it was what their mother taught them; to fear mages was the popular opinion. It was her fault.

Drexford's tone verged on a firm command, "You will wish your sister well until we see her next."

"Very well," Odette huffed dutifully, her pretty face conveying no emotion, "may the Maker bless you and keep you, Evelyn."

"Goodbye sister, I hope the Circle isn't as bad as what they all say it is," Ariella added. Scolding the two, their father shooed them back inside, clearly not intending her send-off to be going this poorly.

Hector tried to distract away from the last comment, "Many mages have been a benefit to Ostwick. Remember when fever swept through the city? It was the mages who went door to door healing the sick when the physicians were too afraid."

"Yeah, don't listen to those tea-toilers, Evie. I bet you'll make a great mage!" Owayne seemed the most excited and awed by her new abilities, "I bet throwing fireballs is going to be wicked fun!" She gave him a half-hearted smile knowing he was just trying to cheer her up.

"Thank you, I will try not to disgrace the family further," she looked sheepishly up at her father.

"My Evie," he cupped her cheeks, "I knew you were always special, never destined for this kind of life." He tilted his head back towards the estate making his point. "In the Circle, you'll be free to be as you are, even if it comes with some added security. I know you'll make me proud in whatever path you choose, so long as it is on the side of good." His face drew down the way he always did when he was lecturing them, "You will feel as if you have been condemned as a prisoner, but remember that magic is dangerous, and it is your duty to make sure you are protecting others from it. People will fear you, hate you even, but rise above that and you'll find inner peace."

"Your father's right," the Knight-Captain had been hovering close by, "the Circle, while it will feel confining is one of the finest places to receive an education - expand your horizons. Our job is to help you as you learn to control your magic and your instructors will help show you all the possibilities for good there are for mages. It's not an easy task, but it's not impossible either to become more than what they label you as." He looked up towards the sun, "I do apologize, Lord Trevelyan, but we need to reach the Circle to get her settled in before super. It wouldn't do to miss your first meal, would it?"

She shook her head and looked at what remained of her family. They embraced with kisses and hugs, promising to see each other at the first opportunity. She smoothed her bell-shaped purple dress down over her legs after being lifted into the back of the wagon. 

"Be strong, my girl. You’re a Trevelyan, never forget that, and my daughter. That carries weight no matter what they may say." There was an intensity in his stare; a resolve that she would need to replicate and she would, for she would not be the cause of embarrassment for the family. He blew her kiss, which she returned holding back the tears, for at this moment of parting she couldn't bear to cry in front of her father and brothers. She was strong as they taught her to be, and she'd show them. She'd show all of them and be the greatest mage in all of Thedas, even if she didn't quite understand just what that meant yet.

Chapter Text

Report on Retrieval Mission

Knight-Captain Tobias, 

I write to inform you of the successful retrieval of Sorin Cyrus from his family residence, following allegations of uncontrolled magical activity.

Upon receiving the summons from the Cyrus family, I proceeded to their domicile with all due haste. The family had reported a distressing incident wherein the boy emitted a bolt of lightning upon sneezing, inadvertently striking his father. On arrival, I conducted a thorough assessment and confirmed the veracity of these allegations. The boy, Sorin, indeed possesses innate abilities indicative of a mage.

The family, comprised of his mother, Eliza Cyrus, and his father, Thaddeus Cyrus, exhibited a palpable sense of relief at our arrival. Thaddeus Cyrus disclosed additional personal information during our conversation. He revealed that Sorin is not his biological son but rather the result of an extramarital affair between his wife and an elven heretic formerly employed at their residence. Despite this revelation, Thaddeus, adhering to the principles of Andrastian forgiveness, had endeavored to raise the boy as his own. He lamented that despite his efforts to instill proper values and suppress any potential heretical inclinations, Sorin's manifestation as a mage rendered those efforts futile in his eyes.

The retrieval was executed without incident, and the boy is currently en route to the Circle of Magi for further evaluation and training. The Cyrus family is not expected to pose any future complications, as their relief at our intervention suggests compliance and cooperation with our cause.

I remain at your service and ready to undertake further directives as required.

May the light of the Maker shine upon us all,

Knight-Templar Boris van Meer

Dragon 9:21

A hard jostling from the potholes in the cobblestone just outside of the Circle of Ostwick made her emerge from the safety of her shawl. She had been hiding there since getting a rotten piece of fruit thrown at her by some children when they entered the city. Knowing the Templars were carting in another mage, they were shouting things like 'demon' and 'monster' while making scary faces at her, uncaring of her finery. It seemed becoming a mage was a social equalizer when it came to the fear and hate the populace harbored against them. They ran alongside the wagon hounding her until the Knight-Captain shouted at them. Before that moment, she didn't think the man was capable of making such a roar. Had her brothers had been there, they'd truly know what a monster was if they got their hands on them, but as it was, she was alone.

Her father had said people would hate her, so it should've been easier to accept, but she was away from her protective males and with strangers. Alone. The tears wanted to fall scrunching into a tighter ball trying to block the world out, but she could still hear the people speaking about her. As if they knew her, how dare they? She was a Trevelyan. If they knew, they'd not insult her so.

"Hmph, another mage? Will the Maker not spare us from these monsters?"

"The Templars would do better just killing the lot of them."

The curses haunted her for what felt like an eternity. When the cart slowed to a stop, she heard a metal creak as the gate slowly opened and the Templars exchanged salutes to their Knight-Captain. "We're here, miss. You can come out now," having done this many times before, Tobias must've been used to coaxing young frightened mages out after such a gauntlet. His voice was low and soft, "You're safe behind the gate. They cannot enter here, not without being met by us, and few would dare stand against Templars." He smiled, offering her his armored hand to help her out. Grasping it, when her foot hit the ground, a blinding glare off the armor of the men manning the gate and those stationed about cast them in a heroic light. With flaming swords embossed on their chest plates, she was inclined to believe Tobias' words that she was safe.

Yet, the world waited behind that metal gate. A whole bustling city was carrying out their daily business, and one she'd never be a part of again.

As they unloaded the cart she looked about the vast walled complex that was to be her new permanent home. The sandy stone walls around the buildings were thick and high, assumingly to keep its residents inside. In the very back positioned atop a cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the Waking Sea, was the Tower. It was the focal point of the walled fortress, soaring high above any building she had ever seen. To the left were all the Templar buildings, from the barracks, training grounds, and small chapel. To the Tower's right, was a smaller area seemingly for mages. A lush herbal garden provided some much needed color to the stone structures and dirt yards. There was a small training yard as well, but nowhere near the size of the Templars'. In the far back right was a long hall of sorts, which one could guess was where they fed all the Circle's residents.

"Come, we need to go meet with the First Enchanter and get you robes." Tobias motioned to her to hurry and catch up with him.

Passing through the large doors into the Entry Foyer, the bright light of the sun was replaced by the cool bluish hue of the magelights lining the walls. She supposed it made sense that there was no real fire inside a building that had little ventilation, but all these questions on how the Tower worked would answer themselves in time. For now, her eyes took in everything; the rushing of the students out of the Mess Hall to get to classes; the steady beat of Templar boots patrolling the halls; and the alien crackle of magic everywhere. 

They climbed the winding and seemingly never ending staircases to the upper floors where the First Enchanter waited for them. With a courteous knock, he called in to her to announce their entrance. “Go on inside, I’ll wait for you out here.” She nodded and as she strode forward, he called in, “This is Novice Trevelyan, newly arrived, First Enchanter.” With that, the heavy wooden door shut behind her.

“Come in, child, do not be afraid. Though I suppose it is all very overwhelming.” A petite, spindly woman with dark olive skin stepped out from behind an array of alchemy equipment. Her black hair was streaked with silver, pulled back into a ponytail. Approaching her cautiously, Evelyn clasped her hands in front of her, as her mother taught her. “Welcome to the Ostwick Circle of Magi, Lady Trevelyan - though I suppose you better get used to being called by your skill rank of Novice. I am First Enchanter Lydia, and I manage all of the mage affairs here in the Circle. My counterpart, Knight-Commander Golan Drader, commands the Templars here. I assume your knowledge of life in Circles comes from what the Chantry has taught you?” She nodded with a grimace, but the older woman’s face smiled knowingly, “Well, I suggest you go about your orientation with an open mind. Our Circle is one of the most harmonious in all of Thedas, so consider yourself blessed to find yourself here.”

There was another knock at the door, followed by the reappearance of Tobias and a young boy. “Hello, again Novice Trevelyan, allow me to introduce you to Master Byron Henley. He’s been with us for four years and will help with showing you around.” The boy, Byron, had neat thick black hair and light tanned skin. His eyes were a deep woody brown hue, but a small closed-lip smile brightened his face. She returned his smile, even if her’s lacked some mirth.

“Yes,” the First Enchanter continued, “we find that pairing new mages with our young Templar recruits helps to foster a better understanding of each other and your roles here. Well, I suppose you should be off, the dinner bell will ring soon and you'll need to change into your robes. It was nice to meet you, Novice Trevelyan. Welcome home.”

“You’re in good hands. Master Henley, make sure you conclude your tour before curfew,” the Knight-Captain added.

“Yes, ser!” Turning to Evelyn now, he bid her to follow and with that, they began their descent down the tower. It almost felt odd to be left chaperoned with another child her age. Back at the family estate it seemed like she was always trying to get away from someone. If she had to guess why, she would assume it was because they were being watched at every turn by the statuesque Knights lining the halls. “So, what happened when your magic appeared? Did you freeze your bath? Start smoking from the ears? Zap someone you didn’t like?”

“No, I badly burnt the girl who was hurting my animals, then was almost swallowed by a firestorm.” 

Expecting him to call her a monster or keep his distance, she was surprised when he blinked wide-eyed a few times. “Wow, that’s a new one. You'll have to tell me the full story sometime.”

“You aren’t frightened of me?”

“Well, magic is to be feared, but from you, no, not here surrounded by Knights.” He caught her uneasy frown, “You don’t need to be frightened of Templars, we are here to keep everyone safe.”

His words bumped about in her head, feeling like she saw the Order in a new light being on the other side of things now. She was a mage. This was permanent. This was her new home forever. As her spirits drooped listening to the boy prattle on as they walked and found her a bunk in the girls dormitory followed by a short tour, she had to force herself to eat when the dinner bell rang. Henley explained to her that while everyone had different class schedules, no one was excused from meals. As he went to eat with the other Templars, Evelyn found herself standing alone before at least a hundred mages in her new robes. As the new girl, she just sat at an empty end of one of the tables people watching. 

When a few other quiet mages sat near her, they gave a friendly hello, but ultimately buried their nose in a tome. Some gathered in groups viewing and conversing about curious alchemical ingredients and others simply laughed and chatted to their friends. If it weren’t for the robes and the armored guards, one would’ve thought they were at a normal school. 

Over the next few days, Evelyn made an attempt to speak with some of her peers both in her classes and in the Mess Hall. Though they were a bit too bookworm-like for her more active interests, she came to terms that she really had no choice. These were to be her friends. So many choices had been taken away from her. Thumbing through the Circle rules, it mentioned that mages were not to fraternize with anyone. They could not marry, nor bear children, which to her was inconsequential having happily escaped her mother's schemes. Yet, she was to be a prisoner for the sake of the people of Thedas because she was a danger, as she had demonstrated against Anika back on their estate.

A broiling frustration began making her blood heat thinking about how people could ever think she was evil. That any of the mages were inherently vile. Despite being new, all she saw were people forced to live together under the guard of Templars. If they were so uncontrollably bad, why weren’t they tearing each other apart? Between what the Chantry taught and what she was experiencing in the Circle, clearly there was some kind of misunderstanding. Perhaps, she could show people mages were more than abominations. Her father told her to learn to control her power for everyone’s safety, that it was her responsibility. 

Evelyn took that to heart as she began her formal training. Her first few months of classes were an introduction to all the different forces of magic. As her instructors all told the novices, most mages had at least one school in which they excelled in. As it happened, most of the mages in Ostwick were accomplished healers, able to all but regenerate limbs - which she heard they were working on. It was a noble calling to specialize in Spirit Healing, being called in when traditional medicine could do no more or they helped assist with battlefield wounds. That particularly struck a chord with young Evelyn who wanted to change people's perspective on mages, but there was one huge problem…

… she was the worst healer Ostwick had seen in an age.

“Oh dear, Novice Trevelyan, would you please… just, cease your spell!” Senior Enchanter Ingram’s politely tense face was a familiar one of late. She had paired the students up to practice healing spells, when Evelyn had inadvertently caused her partner to pass out. The Enchanter’s voice was one of patient frustration, “How many times must we go over this, you are to soothe, not slay your patient.” A quick wave of her hand brought the girl back from the Fade, blinking lazily as she tried to orient herself. Evelyn huffed with angry frown, she had been practicing this simple spell for months and still could not get her mana to join correctly with her patient. “You cannot just overpower them, you must ease into the spell.”

Slowly, Evelyn was starting to believe she was not meant to be a battlefield healer. Her mana ran hot, and as the Senior Enchanter told her in the past, her temperament was not suited for healing. Yet, the youngest Trevelyan continued to believe that this was the path to showing her family and the world that mages were good… but she couldn’t do it by failing her Spirit Healing courses. 

Alchemy was easier as were her lessons in defensive wards, but it was the Primal School of the Elements where she excelled. Though she could not for the life of her freeze a cup of water, nor give someone a light shock, she could wield fire. Evelyn could do it so well, her instructors commented that had they not known she only just arrived months ago, they would’ve thought she had already received training. Because of her aptitude and the manner of which she came into her magic, Enchanter Callum agreed to tutor her privately to hone her skill and make sure her mana did not threaten to consume her again. 

Callum, with the assistance of a Templar, would have her release her inner inferno. Her mana was so elemental that it made her veins glow as if they were lava flows. Her brown eyes flickered with an orange pulse, and even the Templars were weary of her resemblance to a Rage demon. Yet, for each time they broke her control, the stronger she built up her resistance against such a slip. It was a long and painful process, but a necessary one. As her confidence grew, so did her understanding of the magical forces pumping through her. Callum even mused that her mana was like fire, which made her a poor candidate for a healer. But how then was she to show the world the good mages could do looking like a Rage demon?

“You know, I take back what I said before. I may be slightly afraid of you.” Henley had approached her in the garden one day, as her alchemy class went out to gather supplies for their potions. He was shadowing one of the Knights and had seen her inspecting the Embrium.

“Why is that?” She eyed him while still continuing in her task.

“The other Knights talk about your mutation, you know the glowing veins, and if it scares them then what chance do I stand?” His carelessness spiked the forge in her chest making it ignite. “Whoa , is that it?” Evelyn's hard glare at his amusement was answer enough. “I thought it would be worse. It’s just a bit freaky.”

“Gee, thanks Henley. I feel so much better now,” her words were laden with sarcasm. “I can’t help it. Enchanter Callum says it's because my mana is all but actual fire. I’m not sure what kind of good it’ll do me. Everyone just seems to be afraid of me now.”

“Well, I’m still not, you’re just a girl,” Byron crossed his arms looking down at her a bit smug.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Evelyn stood slowly, cradling her basket of plants, “That you’re better than me?”

“Probably at a lot of things,” he looked at her matter of factly while her jaw dropped, scoffing at him.

“I’d like to see that! You name the contest and I’ll beat you every time!”

He gave a wide toothy grin, “Yeah, how about running? Jumping? Push-ups? Sword fighting?”

“Anytime, Henley! You’re just a wannabe Templar anyway, at least I’m already a full-fledged mage. What are you going to do with that practice sword against my flames?”

Having a good sense of humor, Byron was more amused by her taunting than angry at it. He chuckled, “Well, some of us have to work for things in life, Lady Trevelyan , they aren’t handed to us.”

“That does it,” she threw down her basket and tackled him, throwing wild punches. The whole time the boy laughed as they rolled before the Knight he was with pulled them apart. Having not used her magic with no harm done, she was written up and would have some form of punishment in the form of menial labor, while Henly got off without even a slap on the wrist. The Knight did scold her harshly, letting her know such behavior was unacceptable and that in other Circles it was a serious offense. From then on, Evelyn tried hard to control her temper, but it proved harder than she expected - especially since the young Templar recruit seemed to like picking on her.

Oddly enough, through the crucible of their teasing, they found themselves fast friends. They learned to keep their fist-fighting, contests, and sibling-like behavior to the shadows where they couldn’t be caught. Her favorite were rounds in the Library; the first one to cry out to stop not only lost, but had to come up with a good reason as to why they were shouting. Only they were allowed to pick on each other, for if anyone else did, they were not just subject to one but the two of them. As the Ostwick Circle encouraged healthy relationships between mages and Templars, they often found themselves in each other’s company as they grew older. There were still rules that accompanied their friendship, but being young and innocent they played along not fully understanding the larger picture of the Templar-mage dynamic. Henley was taking on more training as the Order forged him into a model Knight, while Evelyn continued to try and find her place in the Ostwick Circle.

In a world terrified of magic, there was very little Evelyn could do with her gift that wouldn’t frighten people. While discouraging, Enchanter Callum tried to help her find ways for her to help. His best suggestion was to simply study the properties of the flame and keep a journal of her development as a pyromancer. According to him, anything more violent would not bode well for her in the future if she didn’t want to be made Tranquil. It was the threat held over every mage, to forever be severed from the Fade and all their emotions. Mages who could not conform, could not be controlled, those too dangerous, or those unlucky enough to get caught breaking rules were made Tranquil. There were only a handful of Tranquil in their Circle, yet none of them were actually from Ostwick. She did hear the stories about them being dangerous mages, wielding powerful magic.

“That one there was a pyromancer,” Henley whispered over to her.

“Are you joking?”

His brow creased down, “No, I’m serious! As I hear it a lot of mages who are gifted in the Primal School just can’t control their nature. It’s like the elements take control over them and they just can’t help their inherent violence.” He paused thoughtfully as she peered up at him, “You won’t be like that though, I’ve heard the Knights say you have talent.”

“And what of them? I’m sure they were just as skilled.” She shook her head, “I need to find a purpose for my magic or I’ll end up like them; too dangerous to be around.” It was a clear warning, one she’d heed. If she could prove herself to be beneficial to the Order, she’d be safe.

Chapter Text

Knight-Enchanter Gavril Croft,

I write to you today, ser, in the hopes that you can help me find the proper tutelage for a young mage we have been keeping a close eye on. The girl is extremely gifted in the Inferno School, and none of us quite know what to do with her, having never seen one of her natural talents before. The novice in question has literal fire in her blood as if she were born a firebird. While I understand that boys are preferable to train over females - especially high-born ones as she is - this one is different, for there is an unbreakable resolve in her for one so young. If I didn’t think she was capable of the physicality or mental fortitude it takes to become a Knight-Enchanter, I would not be wasting your time.

I implore you to consider young Evelyn Trevelyan as a candidate for the Order of Knight-Enchanters. At least let us send her to you to assess her potential. It is my gut feeling you will not be disappointed. I await your favorable reply.

Knight-Captain Walter Tobias

Ostwick Circle of Magi

Dragon 9:23

Over the next two years, Evelyn tried to expand her knowledge of the purpose of magic. Knowing that she was an odd puzzle piece that needed to find her place amongst a wide range of schools and specializations. Henley tried to aid her in her hunt for a purpose, but there were only so many options for someone like her.

“What about working at the forge with the blacksmith? Your magic could get it to the perfect temperatures?”

Evelyn sulked, resting her cheek on the wood of the bench she was laying across in one of the enclaves of the Tower. “That’s not at all exciting.”

“Well,” Henley pushed her legs off, causing her to sit up making room for him, “there aren’t many thrilling options. People are scared of fire for obvious reasons. One spark from you could raze the whole town!”

“Yes, but I can control the flame, even quell it. If there was a fire, I could be very valuable, save some lives even.”

He gave her a hard stare from beside her, “Yes, but they’d never let you out of here to do it.” They gazed at each other with frustration. 

Despite everything he was taught, Henley never seemed to treat her any differently since they met. They were best friends, which wasn’t so odd in Ostwick but everywhere else it was frowned upon. They were both in the Circle not by their own choice but by circumstance. Byron was the son of a family who he explained to her was “poorer than dirt.” Unable to properly care for him, his mother gave him up to The Order at six. Judging from the distant look he always got in his eyes upon talking about it, Evelyn concluded it was a traumatizing experience for him. She had had a time of it herself, but to be so young and torn from a parent was a pain she could sympathize with. Worse was that they promised to visit him, and they never once showed. Henley was alone in the world with no one but his brothers and sisters of The Order - and now, Evelyn.

Slumping back with a huff, she crossed her arms, “Why did I have to be a mage? My father was going to let me join the Templars! I’d be with you and it’d be great hunting down demons and maleficar! But, no! If it wasn’t bad enough, He gives me lava for mana! Why does the Maker hate me?!”

He fell back beside her, his rich brown eyes taking pity on her, “There must be some reason for it. You’re unique, all the Senior Enchanters and Knights say so.”

“They also are afraid of me, Bry.” She turned her head to look up at him. Even though they were both twelve, he was already much taller than her. “Why can’t they just trust me like you do?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, but I have faith in you. You’ll come up with something. You’re the smart one after all.” He nudged her playfully trying to get her to smile.

“Yeah, and what does that make you?”

“The strong one!” He flexed his arms and puffed out his chest. Unable to resist, she poked him hard in the ribs making him deflate and they shared a laugh. When the hour bell rang he shot up, “Maker’s balls, I got to go! I’m late for lessons.” He mussed her hair, making her swat and growl at him. “See you at midday, Evie!”

Leaving her to fix her hair and contemplate her future, it was becoming clearer that she needed help from someone with more experience than a Templar recruit. She had already spoken with her instructors, but none offered her anything she wanted to hear. While she might have to accept such a life in order just to have one, she wouldn’t rest until she had all the facts. In one last attempt to find a place in the Circle of Magi, Evelyn wrote to the First Enchanter asking to meet about her dilemma. 

One day during breakfast, a summons was delivered to her to go to the First Enchanter’s office immediately. Without delay, Evelyn made her way up to Lydia’s office, flashing the note to the Templars who gave her a funny look as she jogged up the steps. Out of breath by the time she reached the top, she stood there a moment trying to catch her breath before knocking on the heavy wooden door. Her knocks echoed both in the hall and within the room beyond it. Beckoned to come in, Evelyn tentatively entered. 

The office was heavily decorated, as if First Enchanter Lydia was trying to forget she was high up in a sandstone Tower. Large tapestries covered three walls, as did bookshelves with various items ranging from books, collectibles, alchemical oddities, art, and everything in between. A spicy scent lingered in the air, reminding her of the market in the bustling city right outside their gate. Sassafras, earthy elfroot, and notes of nutty spices wafted about. Her alchemy station was bubbling away and was no doubt the source of the aroma. Evelyn had heard Lydia was one of the best alchemists in all of Thedas and her workspace spoke volumes of her skill. Around it were painted matching bowls with crushed ingredients, along with a well-used ceramic mortar and pestle. Dots of the colorful dried plants, roots, and nuts were sprinkled about in trails along the wooden table.

“Don’t be shy, my dear, come in, come in!” The aging woman’s eyes were bright and her deep voice was both commanding and soothing. She chuckled, “I always love how students walk into my office as if I’m a witch of the wilds preparing my cauldron for my next victim! I assure you, child, I have much better taste than to eat the likes of you. From what I hear, Novice Trevelyan, if I attempted it, you’d burn my mouth, isn’t that right?” Evelyn was slightly taken aback, only having spoken to the woman once since arriving.

Swallowing hard, having been taught better than to be rude, she found her voice, “Yes, First Enchanter, it seems the Inferno School has claimed me.”

She hummed, musing on the thought, “Fire: primal, scorching, violent, catching. Yet also, comforting, warm, and protective. Are these words in which you’d describe yourself, dear?”

The young mage’s lips pouted out sideways as if she was about to endure another lecture like the ones she used to get back home regarding her temper. “I… um, yes.”

Lydia’s head swiveled to her, her tone cheery, “Why say it as if it is a burden? All of us quirky mages have a place in this world. Just because you don’t seem to fit the mold of the Ostwick Circle of quiet and obedient healers, does not mean you are hopeless.” Evelyn studied the mage as she waved her over to her alchemy table. Removing a flask from over one of the burners, the flame straightened and the two of them watched it. “Since receiving your note, I’ve thought about your predicament and share your concerns. Tell me, have you heard of the Knight-Enchanters?” The young mage shook her head, for this was the first time she had heard such a term. “Knight-Enchanters are the most devoted of the mage specializations doing the Maker’s work. To become one, you must pass the most rigorous tests of faith and discipline. They are a rare breed of noble and mighty warriors who work side by side with the Templars to keep the people safe from magical dangers. While the Templars’ skill is great, some enemies can only be defeated by magic.” The girl’s eyes glistened, enraptured by her words. “Demons, apostates, maleficar, arcane anomalies, and even pitched battles between kings are all dangers that require offensive spells. Does that interest you, dear?”

Shaking her head excitedly, Evelyn couldn’t help but feel the forces of destiny at work. “Yes! It sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted!”

Lydia chuckled knowingly with her deep raspy voice, “Aye, but to achieve it, as I said, you will have to be subjected to grueling training. The Order will seek to break you, then rebuild you in the image of a perfect obedient mage. For this reason, most Knight-Enchanters are men, with few exceptions. Unlike us of the fairer sex, men are less emotionally and physically tough, whereas we are smarter ones. We use our brains over brawn.” Lydia tapped her head giving her a cheeky wink. “It’s the life of a soldier, but you will see more of the outside world than the rest of your fellow mages while doing the Maker’s bidding. Your quick mastery of fire makes you an excellent candidate. Most have to develop the skill, but you have possessed it since birth.”

This could be her chance to prove to the Templars she could be useful; her chance to survive. “Please, First Enchanter, this may be my calling! I want to become a Knight-Enchanter! Please!”

“It’s not a decision to take lightly, Evelyn. However, from what your instructors say, you’ve got the talent and temperament.” Surprised, the young mage gaped at her. “That’s right, I’ve already spoken to them. So, I will make inquiries as to who is taking students. We do not have a resident instructor, but should you one day become a full-fledged Knight-Enchanter, perhaps we will. In the meantime, I would read everything you can of the history of the profession just to be sure it’s for you.”

“I will, First Enchanter, thank you!” Evelyn’s eyes were bright and her spirits lifted as she resumed her day.

Following her meeting with Lydia, Evelyn did just that and raided the library. There was little material in the instruction of Knight-Enchanters, but plenty of historical battle records. Each scroll she flattened was its own battlefield shaped by the words stained across it. Evelyn had read enough to know that mages stood at the back of the battle line, ready to shield or heal soldiers. Knight-Enchanters, however, were mixed in with the foot soldiers. Their fellow soldiers granted them respect as they stood beside them, and revered them after seeing them cut through the enemy with finesse. Though their weapons differed, they became united by a cause and their will to prevail. Account after account inspired her, and she knew then she was destined for this.

Completely obsessed, Evelyn fell asleep among the dusty tomes only waking when a Senior Enchanter found her and told her it was time for the sunrise morning Chantry service. Hurrying down the winding staircase and out into the early light, she slipped into the back of the Circles Chapel. The soft glow of candlelight cast long shadows across the worn stone walls. The air was thick with incense, a sweet, cloying scent that clung to her clothes and hair. As the sermon had already begun, she found a seat near the exit and settled quietly so as not to disturb anyone.

Her eyes drifted over the congregation of mages, a sea of bowed heads and clasped hands, and the Templars who stood vigil at the corners of the chapel. At the front, Mother Lucia’s voice rang out with overly enthusiastic devotion, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd with scrutiny. Evelyn’s gaze followed those piercing eyes until they landed on a small figure near the middle of the room. The boy couldn't have been more than ten, with unruly dark hair and a thin, wiry frame. His slight frame hunched forward as he tried in vain to stifle a yawn. Then his eyelids fluttered shut and his head drooped to his chest. Evelyn’s heart tightened as she watched him. He must be new here; everyone knew that Lucia did not take well due to a lack of interest during her speeches.

For as sedate as the Ostwick Circle liked to claim to be, Mother Lucia was the exception. She reigned Andraste’s fire and brimstone down on anyone out of line. It was all posturing, as Evelyn knew too well from her cousins, no doubt hoping one day to be the next Divine. Until then, her tyranny over the mages would have to suffice.

As Evelyn feared, the Mother's voice pierced the air, cold and unyielding. "You there, boy!"

The chapel fell silent, all eyes swiveling toward the disturbance. The boy’s head jerked up, eyes wide with fear as he realized he was the target of Lucia’s wrath.

"Sleeping during the sermon, are we?" Lucia's voice dripped with disdain as she descended from the altar, her robes whispering against the stone floor with a menacing grace. She reached the boy in a few swift strides, looming over his trembling form. "You ungrateful little wretch," she hissed, her words cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Don’t you understand that through my words, I am offering you a chance to find His light? Don’t you appreciate the favor I bestow upon a mage and a foul half-breed like yourself?"

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. She had witnessed Mother Lucia’s harshness before, but this was beyond reason. Much like her raven locks, her heart was black as the night. The boy’s face crumpled, his eyes brimming with tears as he shrank from the venom in her words.

"You should work twice as hard as the others here because of the heretical blood in your veins," the Mother continued, her voice rising in intensity. "You need to repent for what you are during the sermon, not sleep."

Evelyn could bear it no longer. She rose to her feet, driven by a surge of anger and compassion. "That's enough!" She shouted, feeling her mana come to life at the injustice, spreading heat through her frame and manifesting in her veins and chest glowing with a fiery light.

All eyes turned to her now, the mages murmuring in surprise, the Templars placing their hands on the hilts of their swords, their expressions hardening into a mix of suspicion and readiness. The boy she was defending looked at her in horror, his wide eyes reflecting the hot aura that surrounded her. "Rage demon!" He screamed, his voice cracking with fear. In his panic, bright lightning charges erupted from his fingers, arching wildly and striking the walls and ceiling.

Chaos erupted around them. Some mages hastily cast barriers, their spells forming shimmering domes of protection, while others fled, their robes billowing behind them as they ran. The air filled with the sounds of shouting, the crackling of magic, and the hum of defensive wards springing to life. Then, without warning, the cold, dead force of Silence hit her. It was like the very essence of life had been sucked from her body. Evelyn gasped for air, the fiery light around her snuffed out as if by an invisible wind. Her knees buckled, and she fell backward, the hard stone floor rushing up to meet her. The impact was jarring, but it was nothing compared to the nauseating, withering sensation of having her magic forcibly stripped away by a Templar's silencing spell.

As her vision dimmed and her strength ebbed, she saw the Templars converging on the boy, their faces grim with determination. They relieved Sorin of his mana with the same ruthless efficiency, and he collapsed to the floor, his small frame trembling. Evelyn's last conscious thought was of his terrified eyes before everything went black.

As she slowly came back to consciousness, her mind emerged from the fog of the Fade with agonizing slowness. The first sensation she registered was the biting cold of the stone floor beneath her, seeping through her robes and into her bones. Her cheek pressed against the rough, damp surface, and she shivered involuntarily, the chill mingling with the musty scent of the air around her. Her body ached with a deep, bruising pain, a testament to the rough handling that had landed her in this place. Slowly, she forced her eyes open, blinking against the dim light that filtered through a small barred window.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused at first until the dark outlines of the cell's walls came into view. Each wall bore the same verse from the Chant of Light inscribed in a stark, unyielding script, each word etched deeply into the stone:

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.

She shivered again, but this time not just from the cold. Pushing herself up with trembling arms, Evelyn managed to sit, her back resting against the rough stone wall. The dampness seeped through her clothes, but she barely noticed it now, her mind fixated on recalling what had happened.

She vividly remembered the sermon, Lucia’s venomous words, and the look of terror on the boy’s face as he called her a Rage demon. How long had she been unconscious? Hours? Days?

Suddenly, a faint sound reached her ears, barely audible at first. She strained to listen, her heart quickening as she realized it was the sound of someone crying. The sobs were soft, desperate, filled with the kind of hopelessness she supposed people felt at the gallows.

She pressed her ear to the wall, the jagged stone biting into her skin. "Hello?" She called out, her voice hoarse and trembling, "Can you hear me?" The crying stopped abruptly, replaced by a fearful silence. Evelyn waited, her heart pounding in her chest. "It's alright," she whispered, "I'm... I'm a prisoner too. Please, if you can hear me, say something."

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a hesitant voice replied, wavering and small, "Who are you?"

Evelyn's breath caught in her throat. She recognized that voice. "My name is Evelyn," she said softly, not trying to frighten him more than she already did, "I... I was the one who scared you. You're the boy Mother Lucia... scolded. Aren't you?"

The silence stretched out again, and then the boy spoke, his voice turning desperate, "Go away demon, you will not tempt me!"  

Her voice came back, gentle and soothing, “I am sorry to have frightened you. But I am not a demon. The light that you saw is from my mana, it’s a mutation of mine."

The boy's voice wavered with uncertainty, "Your mutation?"

She smiled, though he couldn't see it, and adjusted her tone as if speaking to a startled animal. "Yes, some mages have a mutation. My veins just happen to glow like a Rage demon, but I promise you that I am not one."

The boy's voice grew hopeful, yet still laced with doubt. “You swear?”

“I swear on my father's honor I am no demon!” Evelyn replied earnestly.

A long silence followed, and then the boy spoke again, his voice a little stronger this time. "I... believe you."

Relief washed over her, mingling with a surge of determination. "Are you hurt?" she asked gently, pressing her hand against the cold wall as if she could somehow reach through it and offer comfort.

"I don't think so," He replied, his voice shaking. "Just scared. Will they make us Tranquil because of what I did?" His voice wavered with fear and guilt. "I’m sorry, Evelyn, if only I wasn’t such a coward..." His words dissolved into sobs, the sound of his crying breaking Evelyn’s heart.

"No, don’t worry," she said quickly, trying to infuse her voice with as much reassurance as she could muster. "What’s your name?"

The boy sniffled, his breath hitching, "Sorin. Sorin Cyrus."

"Don't worry, Sorin. I promise you, they won’t make us Tranquil. We haven’t committed a crime grave enough for that. Besides, my father is a very respected man by the Chantry. They wouldn’t dare to do it to his daughter."

"Your father will protect you, but what about me? My real father is an elf and a heretic, and the man I thought was my father hates me for it. He won't lift a finger to help me!" Sorin’s voice was filled with despair.

"I will make sure my father helps us both," she comforted him. "It's my fault that you and I got into this mess in the first place."

"You... you don’t hate me for being a half-breed?" he asked hesitantly.

Evelyn frowned at the ridiculousness of the notion. "No, and neither will my father. We are all the Maker's children, after all."

"I'm also a freak. I shoot lightning each time I sneeze," he added hastily as if wanting to test her resolve.

Evelyn chuckled. "If you are a freak for shooting lightning when you sneeze, then what does that make me?"

"A fiery freak?" the boy asked tentatively.

She laughed wholeheartedly, the sound echoing in the small cell. "I'd rather we stick with the original Rage demon, thank you."

A small, hesitant laugh echoed back from the other side of the wall, and for a moment, the oppressive atmosphere of the cell seemed to lift. Evelyn felt a spark of hope ignited within her, small but steady.

"We'll get through this, Sorin," she said firmly. "We just need to stay strong and keep our spirits up."

"How can you be so sure?" the boy's voice wavered with uncertainty.

"My father always says that faith and determination can see us through the darkest times," she replied. "He believes in the Maker's light, and so do I. We'll find a way out of this."

Silence fell between them, but it was a more comfortable silence now, filled with the unspoken bond of shared struggle and mutual reassurance.

After a few moments, Sorin spoke again. "Evelyn, do you think... do you think the Maker is watching over us mages as well?"

"I believe He is," she answered softly. "The Maker knows that we are not all evil power hungry monsters, I just wish that more people also shared that opinion…especially in the Chantry.”

“Me too…” the boy added so quietly she barely heard him.

Time passed slowly in the cell, the darkness pressing in from all sides. But with Sorin's presence, it felt less suffocating, less hopeless. They talked intermittently, sharing stories and fears, their words a lifeline in the oppressive gloom.

“Sorin,” he hummed in reply, “have you heard of the Knight-Enchanters?” When he responded with a no, Evelyn excitedly babbled on about everything she had read. By the end, all the boy could utter was an astonished ‘Whoa.’ “I'm going to be one someday, you watch!”

“Trevelyan,” came a familiar echoing voice, “you know, our Circle was quiet until you came along. And now it seems you've found a friend to make trouble with.” The Knight-Captain was not pleased. Not at all.

“Ser, please let me explain–”

When he came into view of her cell, she jumped up and ran to the door. Without an explanation, he was already unlocking it. When the door swung open he let out a heavy sigh of disappointment, “You better because I just laid my arse on the line before the Knight-Commander and Revered Mother vouching for you, girl! My career is on the line here!”

“I swear, I meant no one harm, but you know how it looks when my temper flares. Sorin, the boy over there,” she pointed around the corner, “only reacted because he thought I was a Rage demon as I’m sure Mother Lucia did. Neither know of my mutation and you know how people freak out when they see it.” Evelyn’s gaze drifted to the ground in shame. She knew better than to react that way, but she couldn’t help it and Tobias knew it too. It was her mana; the insufferable and unyielding fire within that she struggled to fully control and understand. The same spark gripped her suddenly, and his eyes shot up to meet his bushy glower. “What she did was wrong and I could not stand by and let her shame a Child of the Maker just because he’s half-elf. I appreciate your faith in me, but the only thing I’m sorry for is frightening them.”

The Knight-Captain’s tone was grave, “Wrong or not, the Templars on duty Silenced you, that means they saw you as a clear threat. If you do not apologize and take your punishment, they could threaten you with Tranquility.”

“No,” he balked back at her refusal, “and the Revered Mother will not lay a finger on me or Sorin unless she’d like to explain to The Divine how she lost the support of House Trevelyan.” His eyes narrowed on her waiting for her to continue. “I may be a mage but I am my father’s favorite daughter and when he hears I’m to be made Tranquil, not only will our cavalry be at the gates but Mother Lucia may have the honor of telling Divine Justina why one of her wealthiest Chantries is now devoid of funding over such a trivial matter. With all due respect, Knight-Captain, tell them that.”

Within the next few hours, she and Sorin were released and no more was said of the matter. 

When he came to release them, his scolding look was back, “Be careful, Lady Trevelyan, you’ve made enemies today.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Ser, but so has she.”

Chapter Text

A letter scribbled in a hurry

Templars,

Ye must come to our aid, we’ve a mage living amongst us! Me name is Jo, and I'm the butcher in Honnleath . There's a woman in our village living with her boy - a mage! I've seen the proof with me own eyes.

Now, I ain't no scholar, but I know trouble when I see it. And mark me words, that boy is nothing but trouble. Ye can smell it in the air, feel it in yer bones. Every time his mother comes to me shop, something goes wrong. Last time, all me meat went bad overnight. Good meat, mind ye, not the kind ye'd expect to rot so quickly. That's dark magic, plain and simple.

We can't have that kind of evil lurking in our village, bringing curses and misfortune on honest folk. It's bad enough dealing with the usual troubles of life without some cursed abomination running loose. So, I'm begging ye, Templars, come and take that boy away before he brings doom upon us all.

I don't care how ye do it, just get it done. We can't afford to wait until it's too late.

Jo

Dragon 9:22

Cullen was eleven when he saw his first Templar.

It was a bright late spring day when they had come to take one of the children from the village to a Circle. He didn't know the boy well - being older than he - but Honnleath was a small place, where everyone was in each other's business. Standing beside his mother in the market, holding a basket of miscellaneous goods that she was bartering back and forth, he nearly lost his grip on it as the Knights appeared in the village square. There were two of them, almost painful to look at in their glittering silverite armor. Words, rather than full thoughts, floated through his mind:

Mighty.

Righteous.

Dedicated.

Heroic.

It was like watching his imagination come to life after obsessing over stories of Templars since he was younger. The two men clanked as they strode through the throng of people, carefully scanning their faces. They halted briefly to admire the stone golem at the center of the market, unsure of what to make of the statue. When they turned walking up to the stall he and his mother were at, their haggling stopped abruptly and she pushed her fair-haired son back two paces.

"What can I help you with, sers?" The stall owner, Ms. Roache sounded nervous. 

"Is this your home?" The man's valiant voice had a rusty edge to it, but his tone was congenial from behind his helmet.

Following the Knight's finger, the woman paled, "Y-yes, it is, ser."

The two Templars looked at each other sharing an unreadable glance before facing back. "You've got a mage in there." Ms. Roache rounded the stall to plead with him, but the Knight held a hand up. His voice was softer this time, "We are not here to hurt them, but you know Chantry law, they must live in the safety of a Circle."

The woman was on her knees sobbing, "Please ser! He's all I have in this world! There must be another way!" A crowd had begun to form at the display. "He's a good boy, he wouldn't hurt anyone!"

"He's a monster!" The butcher had poked his head out the window of his shop next door, his cheeks flushed with anger. "He can't stay, not unless we want to sleep with one eye open!" The redhead and bearded man shook his cleaver at her.

Shaking a fist back at him, Ms. Roache hysterically screamed, "You bastard! I bet it was you who sent word to the Templars! You’ve always had it out for us!"

"His father was a mage you know?" One of the more irreputable women of the village, one that his mother had always told he and his siblings to stay away from, grasped the tall Knight's polished arm. "Lived as an apostate for years, as I hear it." Surprised by this, the tall Knight turned sharply back to Ms. Roache with a narrowed glare.

"You harlot!" The mother of the mage hollered, and the market suddenly erupted into senseless yelling until it was quelled by a booming voice.

"That's enough! All of you!" The Knight ripped his helmet off in outrage revealing a similar shade of golden hair. His sharp blue eyes snapped to the crowd at their backs, "This is Templar business. By Andraste, if I hear one more insult thrown at either the mage or his mother, I'll give you all something to remember me by." His fist clenched and the metal of his gauntly squealed as if he was actually crushing it. "Now, go about your business and I'll go about mine," he growled. Cullen's mouth parted in awe at the authority that the man possessed to command people in such a way. The word of the Knight was respected, and even Jo, the stubborn butcher, retreated into his shop.

Cullen’s mother was frozen, still holding him by his shirt, when the Templar wheeled around and gave her a once-over. Seeing that she was no threat, his demeanor relaxed as she went to explain her lingering presence, "Apologies, ser. T-this is what I was… um, I can come back."

He held a halting hand out, "Stay, I have no wish to deprive the woman of her income as well as her son today." His words were somber and he nodded to his associate. The other Templar had gone to guard the door of the home during the brief uproar. "Ma'am, this is Ser Randall, he will speak with your son and explain what will happen. You may join them if you wish, but no trouble, mind you. Your son will be leaving with us with or without a goodbye from his mother." The woman sniffled and hurried behind the other Knight into her home. "Randall, I'll stay out here." The edge was back in his voice, making Cullen's blood run cold for a moment, especially when he turned to glare at some of the villagers.

As the respective parties separated, Cullen and his mother found themselves in an uneasy silence beside the Knight. After seeing life had moved on, the blonde Templar peered over at Cullen, seeing him still gawking at him. "Is that your sword? A stick?"

Cullen grasped the thick branch tucked into his belt from the oak tree by their house. He had had a time trying to break it off but managed to after several minutes of hanging and pulling on it. It was the perfect size for him and was thick enough to land a good hit against a groundhog or any of the vermin around the farm. Despite his age, his mother still refused to let him have his own blade, thinking he'd fall on it while playing and skewer himself or one of his siblings.

"Yes, ser."

Looking back to the mage's house with a heavy sigh, the Templar held his hand out signaling to pass it over to him. Handing it over without another word, he looked it over, "I suppose I could work with this." Pulling out a knife and leaning against the stall, he stripped the branch of its bark before shaping the wood into a crude sword. "My father was a blacksmith, so I know the shape of blades intimately." He didn't look up as he spoke, “Why is it boy you don’t have a blade of your own?”

He and his mother exchanged a glance, “I’m not allowed. My mother believes I will hurt someone or myself by accident.” Her pointed look of agreement came with a nod.

"Well, I'm sure your mother will not be happy that I'm doing this, but it'll teach you some valuable lessons. A boy your age ought to be able to defend his mother properly. Is he your eldest, ma’am?”

“No, but he is my eldest son.”

The Knight nodded, still focused on his work, “What’s your name boy?”

“Cullen Rutherford, ser.”

“Well met, Cullen. Now, this gift comes with lessons in responsibility. The first is to respect the authority of those who give it to you, who will be your mother. You do your duty, such as chores and listening to her orders, then you may keep it, otherwise she'll revoke it. Ask any Templar and they'll tell you about how they had to scrub chamberpots before they wielded a sword. The second, that with power comes responsibility - to do right by the world. It will make you have to choose right from wrong and live with the consequences. Lastly, it's a dedication, as devout as reciting the Chant of Light. You have to practice every day and care for your equipment."

Passing his newly crafted weapon over to him, Cullen went to take it but the Knight still held it firmly. "Yes, ser, I will."

Relinquishing the wooden sword to its owner, the man held his gaze, "I'm Ser Donnelly. I've been assigned to this region for the foreseeable future, so if I come back here, do you think I'll find you still caring for that sword?"

The boy's eyes lit up, "Yes, Ser Donnelly!"

"Good, I'll expect a full report Master Cullen on your good deeds in the service of Andraste." The chiseled features of the man's face stared at him hard, before softening ever so slightly with a wink. When the cottage door opened, any mirth was whisked away. Ser Donnelly stood tall glancing again around him with his hand on the pommel of his sword - his real sword. "It's safe," he spoke in a low voice to Ser Randall. "The cart is down the way, let's be quick about it. Ma'am, we'll see your son safely there. He can send word to you once he's settled in."

Saying their goodbyes, the Rutherfords watch on quietly. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder protectively as if they were going to take him too. More interested with his gift, Cullen placed the sword in his belt and placed his hand on its pommel to rest like Ser Donnelly. It felt so natural as if he had been doing it for years. Still awestruck, Cullen couldn't help but see himself in the Templar armor, made easier by the shared hue of his hair with the Knight.

As they passed, Ser Donnelly turned back, "Duty, Master Cullen. Remember your duty."

And so he did. Every day, without fail, during the quiet hours before dawn, when the world was still draped in shadows, Cullen would slip out of his bed and into the dimly lit barn behind their humble home. With only the soft glow of a lantern to guide him, he would carefully unsheathe his gifted sword, the familiar weight grounding him in purpose. In that sacred solitude, he trained tirelessly, his imagination ablaze with visions of himself clad in the resplendent armor of a Templar, defending the innocent and battling against the sinister forces of darkness that lurked in the shadows. Branson, his younger brother, would soon join him, his eyes alight with excitement as they sparred together in mock battles, their laughter echoing softly in the pre-dawn stillness. Sometimes, they would entice Rosalie, their spirited younger sister, to join them, casting her as the reluctant apostate in their imaginary conflicts. At first, she would grumble about being roused from her slumber, but soon she too would become swept up in the thrill of their make-believe adventures, her scowls melting into smiles as they enacted daring rescues and valiant stands against imagined foes. 

The next summer, another mage came into their magic from their village, followed shortly by the arrival of Ser Donnelly. Cullen had not heard until too late that Templars were seen and he rushed through the market, wooden sword on his side, down the path to the travelers' road. The Maker had smiled on him that day, for getting ready to leave was the Templar himself staring the young man down having startled them.

"Well, well, I was wondering if I'd see you before I left, Master Cullen." The Knight relaxed the grip, moving his hand to the pommel.

"You… you remember me?" He struck the dumbfounded look from his face and stood up straight, to mirror the stance of the Knight. "I mean, yes, it is I, Ser Donnelly."

"I never forget a face. And have you kept your word?" The tall blonde Knight crossed his arms with an eyebrow raised.

"I have! I practice every day and have given my mother no reason to take the sword from me." He lied, though it was only one time. He had hit Branson with it in anger a few times after ruining his game of soldiers in the yard one day. Cullen had found acorns and sticker balls from the Sweet Gum trees to use as soldiers and was in the midst of a pitched battle when Bran kicked it all to oblivion. In anger, Cullen reflexively took a swing, cracking him across the back. Naturally, once his younger brother ran to his mother crying that he was hit by the sword, she took it away for a week, though not before suffering his own whack from it in punishment.

"Is that so? Well, I'm glad to hear it! Come, give me your best!" He drew his sword and the two engaged in a quick spar as the other Templar finished loading the wagon. After settling on a match draw, Ser Donnelly gave him an appraising look, "It's been quite a long time since I was last here and to be honest, I'm surprised you held fast in your duty. That is a rare and coveted trait. Tell me, Cullen, where do you see yourself in five years?"

"My father owns the farm and mill here, and one day it will be mine."

"Is that what you want?"

Pursing his lips in a pouty frown, he knew he should say yes. "No." The Knight simply raised an eyebrow in question. "Not since I've met you."

He nodded, taking a step closer and giving him a stern look, "It wasn't my intention to recruit, but the Order does ask me to report on any youngins who show potential. I believe you may just have the potential." Cullen's eyes lit up at his praise. "The problem is, you may be too old. We start physically training recruits by eight years of age. And you are…?"

"Twelve, ser." His disappointment was plastered on his face and imbued in his words.

With a heavy sigh of his own Donnelly thought hard, shifting his weight in the heavy armor. "Look at me, Cullen," the younger blonde obeyed, "if it's what you want, I can ask my superiors to make an exception for you. Make no mistake though, your training will be harder than the other recruits. Some were given to the Order at birth, and they are expected to be the scions of Andraste's Knights; the very best and likely officers having only known the Order as their only family. Have you any formal education? Training of any kind that could recommend you?"

Still crestfallen, he replied, "Only farm work, ser, but I can read the Chant of Light well enough."

"I suppose if you're to be damned, make it doubly damned." Donnelly chuckled then ran a gloved hand down his face. "Well, first things first, I need to clear it with the Knight-Commander. No sense fretting if he's just going to say no, but I'll make a good case, you can count on that." The Knight gave him a confident smile easing some of the shame away from his shortcomings. "I'm going to ask once more because I'm going to go through a lot of trouble for this: Do you want to join the sacred order of Andraste’s Knights? You’d be leaving your family forever to give your life to protecting mages and normal folk alike from magic. This is not something you can quit."

"I'm sure, more than sure!" The strength in his tone was almost unrecognizable.

"Alright Cullen, I hope I don't let you down."

"You won't, ser, and neither will I."

Ser Donnelly chuckled to himself before walking back to the wagon. Hoping up onto the driver's seat, he called back as he steered it around, "Til next time, Master Cullen! Do me a favor and grow another foot, you'll be easier to sell if I can boast of you coming from strong Ferelden breeding!"

Another year passed without seeing Ser Donnelly, as no others from Honnleath showed signs of magic. Becoming more and more discouraged, at thirteen his father was readying to give Cullen more responsibility around the farm. Despite it all, he had kept his side of the bargain and felt accomplished and worthy of his gifted sword. The wood was stained, dented, and chipped in places, but having tried sanding them out, he found peace of mind in the task. Yet, Cullen contemplated leaving it in his bedroom, as his father saw it as a hindrance, but it didn’t feel right to do so. Clinging to his dream by a thread, he kept wearing it.

“Cullen, I don’t think he’s coming back. I’m sorry, son, but things are as they should be.” Even his father harbored some sympathy for him after moping for weeks. “The Maker works in mysterious ways, and while things didn’t go how you wanted, it doesn’t mean it won’t all work out in the end. You still have a future here with us.” Though his words were meant as comfort, Cullen couldn’t help but think Andraste saw him unfit for Her service.

His parents hadn’t been the most receptive to his wish to become a Templar. For one, they tried to scare him by telling him stories of the harm lyrium could do to a non-mage. Memory loss, addiction, and nightmares, among other horrid side effects, were always slipped casually into stories and conversations. While weary of what its usage could do to him, part of him hated more the idea of being maimed or dying meaninglessly on the farm. At least if either would happen to him while in the Templar Order, it’d be in the service of Andraste. It was a more honorable fate, than being simply the week’s gossip amongst Honnleath.

The biggest inconvenience to his father’s grand plan was that it left him short one Rutherford to work the farm. Not only that but as the eldest son, he was poised to inherit the whole business one day. Though still young, Cullen had a prolific work ethic and dedication to his family obligations. Even Ser Donnelly had seen and commented on it. Yet, even with his future secure in Honnleath, he couldn’t help the incessant nagging feeling that he was meant for something more. His mother was always commenting on how much he resembled his father the more he grew, but part of Cullen resented the fact that it only validated his condemnation of the family business. 

One warm summer day, Cullen made the walk up to the large oak tree; the parent of his wooden sword. Unsheathing it, he held it in his hands as if it were a dying animal; in a sense, it was the death of his Templar dream. He could no longer hold on to the hope of Ser Donnelly’s return, for the more time that passed, the more painful carrying the symbol of his aspiration became. Gazing out across the fields and homestead, reality began to settle into his mind. 

This land would be his; he would live the rest of his days in this one place; doing the same thing day in and day out; he would have a family of his own here and pass it on to his children; he’d marry some boring village girl; and live the rest of his life regretting it all.

Carrying the sword over to the base of the tree, he posed hovering the blade a few feet from the ground, ready to bury the point in the earth. With it, he’d resign his desire to be a Templar. He’d entertain the dream no more. Squeezing his eyes shut tight and gritting his teeth in one last defiant attempt to hold on to his hope, he was about to plunge it deep into the dirt when a voice called to him from the house.

"Cul! Some Templar is here to see you!" Mia called up to him. Freezing in place, his breathing quickened and a smile began to spread on his face.

Racing to the house, scaring the whole bloody chicken coop as he dashed through them, he skipped the two steps up the porch and barged inside. Startling his mother and earning a harsh look from his father, Cullen stood panting on the threshold.

"Hello, Cullen. My, you took my parting words seriously, you've grown into quite a young man."

He tried to hide his excitement but it was hard, and he felt his eyes would pop from their sockets. "Good to see you, Ser Donnelly!" He wondered for a moment if he'd notice the drop in his voice as well.

"Sit, Cullen," the stern command came from his father who sighed with a forlorn displeasure. "It seems, son, the Maker has seen fit to grant you your wish after all." He turned to their guest, "Since he was about eight, he's been saying he wanted to be a Knight. Up until your arrival, it was just a passing daydream." Cullen's heart leaped at his phrasing and hope began to swell in his chest. Despite having sat, he was still breathing out of his grinning mouth.

Donnelly was relaxed, but Cullen could see his excitement at his reaction just barely hidden beneath this facade. "Cullen, I have here a Writ of Conscription into the Templar Order should you feel you are willing and able to uphold the Order's sacred duty. Keep in mind, to become a full Knight you will be given lyrium. For mages, it’s fortifying and refreshing, no different than drinking water; for non-mages its long-term use is detrimental, yet it gives us our abilities. It is a sacrifice we gladly pay in the service of the people of Thedas, to keep them safe from magic." He paused, staring at him with his steel blue eyes, judging if the gravity of his words was being considered seriously. At the mention of lyrium, Cullen’s smile had faded. “You also have a duty to mages. They don’t have it easy, as you saw two years ago when we first met. Our abilities help them learn to control their powers so they can live as normal of lives as possible in the Circle. Demons and maleficar threaten to take their souls for evil, yet it is the Templar Order who is their first line of defense. It is our holy calling, and only the best and purest of heart are considered worthy of knighthood.”

His father’s hard amber eyes carried the weight of this decision in them. It would not only affect him but the whole family. “Son, I trust in the Maker’s guidance, is this what He has planned for you? To be taken from us?” His appeal was impactful, pulling at Cullen’s love of his kin, but something in his core held fast against it.

“I’ll ask only once,” the Knight took a deep breath, “Are you prepared to leave this life behind in service of the Maker and Thedas? I’m afraid in your case, time is not on your side to delay in making a decision.”

Cullen looked to his parents, both seemingly knowing what his choice was going to be before he said it. His reply was nothing but reflexive, coming straight from his heart, "I had years to think it over. I'm ready. I know the risks; I know what will be expected of me. I don't care that I'll be the oldest, for I'll work anyone under the table."

"Hand over your sword," Cullen paused, blinking a few times slowly surrendering it to him as if it was made of glass. After receiving it, it was promptly thrown into the fireplace. Reaching out as if to save it from the flames, he froze and looked at the Knight incredulously. "You're trading your wood sword for a metal one." Cullen ignored the pained expressions on his parents’ faces. “We leave in the morning. Pack only clothing, for the Maker will provide you with all else.”

The hours leading up to dawn passed for him in a blur, moments slipping away almost imperceptibly. Anxiety and excitement coursed through him, intertwining with a twinge of guilt as he witnessed his mother’s tears and the pallor of his father’s somber face. Despite the heaviness of the house, his siblings were brimming with joy. Mia was happy to indulge Cullen’s excited prattling over one last game of chess, simply listening and savoring her last hours with him. Bran was particularly thrilled, eager to boast about his brother's new status as a Templar to his friends. Meanwhile, Rosalie, too young to grasp the full weight of the situation, clung to the simple joy of having her brother’s dream come true. 

Finally, the time had come for him to leave. Cullen gave his mother a tight hug as she wept, her sobs wracking her body. "Don't cry, Mother," he murmured softly. "I'll write often, I promise."

She reluctantly let him go, her hands lingering on his arms for a moment longer. "Be safe, my boy," she managed to say through her tears.

He turned to his father, who offered a brief, stiff hug, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Take care of yourself, son," he said, his voice strained with emotion he was trying hard to conceal.

Cullen nodded in acknowledgment. "I will, Father."  

Next, he embraced Bran. His brother's grin was wide, a mix of pride and excitement lighting up his face. "You’re going to be a great Knight, I am sure!"

"I'll make you proud, I promise," he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

Rosalie was next. Cullen lifted her into a tight hug, her feet dangling off the ground as she giggled. "Be good, Ros," he said, setting her down gently. He ruffled her hair, eliciting a laugh that was a sweet melody amidst the bittersweet moment.

"I will, Cul," she giggled. "Come back soon!"

After the embrace with Rosalie, Cullen turned to his older sister, who enveloped him in a tight hug. "You take care of yourself out there, little brother," she said softly, her voice tinged with both concern and affection. "And don't get too good at chess. I'm sure you'll want a rematch after last night's loss."

He chuckled, feeling a sense of warmth amidst the sadness. "Count on it," he replied, returning her hug just as fiercely. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too," Mia said, pulling back to look at him with a grin. "But don't worry, I'll keep Bran and Rosalie in line while you're gone."

Cullen smiled, grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood. "I do not doubt that," he said, giving her one last squeeze before reluctantly letting go. "Take care of them all, okay?"

"I will," Mia assured him, her smile softening.

Holding back his own tears, Cullen turned to leave. As he was about to close the door behind him, his brother called out to him. "Wait!" Bran rushed over, pressing something into his hand. "For luck, when you really need it."

Cullen opened his palm to find a simple coin, probably something Bran had randomly in his pocket. “Oh, but I can’t–” He stopped himself. The affection in his siblings’ eyes was enough that he slipped the coin into his pocket, despite being told he could only pack clothing. Such a normal and mundane thing as a coin could go unnoticed. Yet, it was anything but that. "Thank you, I’ll keep it with me always," he whispered, the gesture touching him deeply. Giving his family one last, lingering look, he tried to burn the image into his memory, remembering every small detail. With a final, determined breath, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. His new life was about to begin.

Chapter Text

A worn diary excerpt

O Maker, I find myself in the depths of despair once more, and it is to You alone that I can pour out my soul. Today has been another day of solitude and fear, an existence I have come to know too well. My magic mutation made me an outcast, shunned by those who should be my brothers and sisters in the Circle. ’"Bloody Miri," they hiss, their words dripping with contempt.  The Templars watch me with wary eyes, ever ready to strike should I show the slightest sign of corruption.  Why, O Maker, why have You willed it so? What lesson am I to learn from this?

The loneliness gnaws at me, a relentless, hollow ache. In the quiet of my chambers, I beg You, Maker, to send me friends, companions who might understand my plight and share in my burdens. I crave connection, the simple joy of a shared smile, or a comforting word. Yet, such solace remains out of reach, as elusive as the dawn in the darkest of nights.

 Still, I hold on to my faith. I believe that You have a plan for me, even if I cannot see it….

Dragon 9:25

Satinalia was almost upon them, heralded in by the festive decor decking the halls of the Tower. Evelyn was looking forward to finally spending the holiday at the Trevelyan estate, her father having talked down her shrew of a mother into letting her join them. It had been four years since she had been home or seen any of her family. Her father and brothers wrote regularly, but she had not once heard from the other females of the family. With something to excitedly look forward to for once, along with the break from her studies, her stomach was jittery all day and night in anticipation. 

From what she heard, Knights were fighting over the privilege of becoming her Sentinel while out of the Circle. A Sentinel was a Templar guardian for a particular mage. Whether they were a serious troublemaker or, like Evelyn, one traveling outside of the Circle, knowing they would be in for a lavish holiday at the Bann’s sprawling estate, it had become a heated battle of favors and brown-nosing. Yet, for all the bribes and deals being made, it was Knight-Captain Tobias who pulled rank and took the opportunity. When he had informed Evelyn of the decision, she couldn’t help but mimic his cheeky grin, knowing he had just pulled the rug out from the Knights’ feet to spend Santinalia in luxury. In her opinion, no one deserved it more after the kindness he showed to her and every new mage. 

Two days before her father came to rescue her for a few days, a strange memo was passed to her at the midday meal. Sorin looked up expectantly waiting for an explanation, “What is it?”

Drawing in trembling breaths, she couldn’t bring her eyes to move off the parchment, “I… I’m being transferred.”

“Transferred? What do you mean?”

“They want to send me to Ferelden to Kinloch Tower to train under a… Knight-Enchanter Gavril Croft.”

“When?!”

“It says… in two days.” The two shared a look of foreboding doom. Since they had been locked up together in the Circle’s cells, they had been as thick as thieves. Henley even took a liking to Sorin despite their huge personality differences.

“What’s with the grim faces?” Henley's sudden arrival stirred more butterflies in her stomach. With a frown, she handed him the letter. His dark mahogany eyes flicked down to the parchment in his hand reading it over. The new dark stubble on his face helped deepen the intensity of his displeasure the more he read. “Seriously, Evie?!” He threw the paper down on the table and threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “What the fuck am I supposed to do without you?! I’m not sure if you know, but you’re kind of my best friend, besides Sparky here.” Sorin rolled his eyes.

“I don’t like any more than either of you, but… if I don’t there’s no place for me here – for someone like me. I have to go.” 

The silence that followed felt heavy. Sorin picked at his sleeve, his expression unreadable, though his tension was evident. Henley, however, was never one to hold his emotions back. He leaned against the table with a huff, his voice lower now, almost pleading, “You really think there’s nothing for you here? With us?”

Evelyn bit her lip, glancing between the two. She knew Henley’s question wasn’t just about training or finding a place in the Circle. It was about their friendship, their bond, something that had grown deeper than she could have ever anticipated. But she also knew her path was leading her away from this place, whether she liked it or not.

“It’s not that I don’t care about you two,” Evelyn said, trying to keep her voice steady despite the crack threatening to break through. “But I can’t stay. If I do, I’ll just be another mage stuck here, waiting for… for whatever scraps they throw my way. Or worse, decide I’m too dangerous to keep my mana. This is a real opportunity, a way to be more.”

“More than us?” Sorin’s question was blunt, though not without a hint of sadness. It wasn’t meant to sting, but it did. She could tell from his tone that it wasn’t jealousy, but fear — fear of her growing beyond their little world, of her leaving them behind.

“No,” she said softly, her heart aching at the thought. “Not more than you. Just… more than what they allow us to be.”

Henley scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I still think this is bullshit. You’re not some Knight-Eenchanter type. You’re our Evie. The one who burns the pants off people when they annoy us.”

Despite herself, Evelyn laughed, the tension easing just slightly. “I’m not going to stop that just because I’m in Ferelden, you know.”

Henley grinned at that, but it faded quickly, replaced by a frown of frustration. “I just… I can’t believe you’re leaving.”

“Things don’t always work out the way we want them to.” Evelyn could feel her throat tightening as she spoke. Since she had come into her magic people had been patronizing her with the phrase so it felt odd to use it herself. “But I need you two to promise me something.”

Sorin raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. Henley leaned forward, his arms crossed over his chest. “What?” he asked, his voice gruff but curious.

“I need you to be okay. Both of you. I can’t be worrying about you while I’m trying to figure out how to be a Knight-Enchanter.” She forced a smile. “So keep an eye on each other, alright? You can’t let Henley here get too wild.”

Henley let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Oh, sure, because I’m the one who needs supervision. Not the broody one over here.”

“Hey,” Sorin muttered, shooting him a glare, but there was no real venom behind it.

Evelyn stood up, her chair scraping against the stone floor. “I’m going to miss you both,” she said, her voice soft now, vulnerable. “More than you know.”

Henley shot up, wrapping his arms around her before she could protest. His embrace was tight, almost desperate, as if holding her a moment longer might keep her from leaving. “I am going to write,” he murmured into her hair. “Constantly. I’ll send you the worst jokes I can think of, and you’ll laugh because you’ll miss me too damn much not to.”

She laughed, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. “Deal.”

When Henley finally let go, Sorin stood awkwardly to the side, looking as if he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He wasn’t one for goodbyes or emotions. But after a brief hesitation, he stepped forward and pulled her into a quick, stiff hug. It lasted barely a second before he pulled back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Evelyn felt a surge of warmth in her chest. She knew how much Sorin hated physical contact, how hard this was for him, and yet he’d done it. For her. That meant more than any words he could have said.

“I will write too,” Sorin muttered, his eyes flickering away from hers as if the moment was already too much.

As the three of them stood there, a bittersweet silence falling over them, Evelyn felt the weight of the looming departure settle more heavily on her shoulders. She was sad — heartbroken, even — but there was also a flicker of excitement, a small thrill of what lay ahead. Ferelden, Kinloch Tower, the unknown path she was about to tread. She was terrified but also ready.

Finally, Evelyn stepped back, taking a deep breath. “I think I should go and start packing,” she said, her voice steady once more. “I’ll see you before I leave.”

Henley nodded, though the sadness in his eyes betrayed him. Sorin gave a curt nod, his usual stoicism slipping just a little.

As she turned to leave, the sound of Henley’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Hey, Evie?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“You better come back. If you don’t, I’m hunting you down.”

Evelyn grinned, her heart swelling. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

With one last look at her friends, she left the dining hall, her mind already racing ahead to the journey that awaited her — and the people she was leaving behind.

As their caravan entered through the gates of Kinloch Hold on Lake Calenhad, she couldn't help but think back to when she had first arrived at the Circle in Ostwick. The layout of the complex was about the only thing similar to that which she had known for the past four years. Ferelden had shown her nothing but foul weather since making it to port in Jader.

Unceremoniously taken to the Entry Foyer of the Tower and made to wait for quite some time, her feelings for this Circle had not improved. It was cold; the type of cold that seeped into one’s bones. Naturally, her want for any kind of warmth from magic to her sorely missed friends she left behind in Ostwick grew exponentially. It was a teary goodbye between her, Sorin, and Henley – though they’d all deny it, trying to keep the mood light. Despite being torn apart, Evelyn feared missing her friends was going to be the least of her worries as she prepared to start again in a new Circle.

At the age of fourteen, Evelyn was still short and skinny, despite her average growth. She had yet to officially become a woman, to which the healers simply told her that she was a late bloomer. Her breasts were still unremarkable and the constant annoyance of pimples made her look like she had the pox. Though she and her other teenage counterparts all were going through the change, it didn't make her feel any less like a hormonal freak. Some days she looked in the mirror and wished her looks favored that of her mother, who seemed to pass her feminine beauty on to her sisters, with their soft supple curves befitting of their sex. Evelyn's jaw was square and her chin was strong. While she looked more fierce than feminine, at the age where she wished boys would notice her, she wanted to be noted as pretty, not formidable. And yet, the whole reason for being transferred to Ferelden was to train under Knight-Enchanter Croft to see if she had what it takes to join their elite ranks.

"On your feet girl," came the command in a stout Southern accent. The source of the voice was from a tall bearded man with light brown hair, "I take it you are Novice Evelyn Trevelyan from Ostwick?"

"Yes, sir." She folded her hands in front of her looking him in the eyes. Her father had always taught her to do so, for it both reassured people of one's attention and asserted dominance over the conversation. Her attention, however, was diverted for a moment by a tall young man with wavy blond standing to the side of his superior. His face was unreadable, though his amber eyes moved about avoiding her direct stare.

Turning her attention back to the older man, she watched as he studied her for a moment, "I am Knight-Captain Greagoir. Forgive my curiosity, but I expected you to be taller considering how Knight-Captain Tobias described you." She just continued to look at him with indifference, his eyes still taking measure of her. She was used to the scrutiny of others thanks to her upbringing, and stood strong and proud against it. "Well, let's get you up to the First Enchanter's office so he can welcome you. Recruit," motioning the young man forward, "carry her bag." As he reached for her belongings, his eyes finally met hers, "Ah, forgive me, this is Master Rutherford. He is helping me with a few tasks today." Both just nodded to each other in silent acknowledgment.

Leading her up the endless staircase to the upper floor where the First Enchanter's office was located, everything was eerily familiar. The construction and layout of the Circle Tower were the same but it was undeniably Ferelden. Cold, damp, dark, uninviting — everything she had seen so far including the people could be described as such.

When the door to the First Enchanter’s office opened before her it was surreal seeing a completely different room from Lydia’s. Compared to her’s the mage’s office was sparse with few“Irving? The mage from Ostwick is here.” Greagoir called to the man seated at the large wooden desk. 

“Ah, yes, come in Novice Trevelyan.” He stood and rounded the desk. His eyes sagged with a heaviness, yet tried to summon some mirth. “Welcome to Kinloch Tower on Lake Calenhad. A beautiful view, was it not?” Despite nodding, their murky swamp of a lake didn’t measure up to the blue of the Waking Sea and the sunshine of Ostwick. Continuing on he rambled, not having much more pertinent information since she was not new to Circle life.

"Until you pass your Harrowing, you will bunk with the other Novices in the girls' dormitory." He shuffled through an unruly stack of parchment on his desk. Finding what he was after and handing it to her, she saw that it was her old class schedule from Ostwick, just with different instructors and the added training in the yard. "You are here to be accessed as a potential candidate to train to be a Knight-Enchanter. Should Knight-Enchanter Croft accept you as a student, you'll become a permanent resident here, but if not you'll be sent back to Ostwick." The crow's feet by his eyes deepened as he looked her in the eyes intensely. Another scrutinous stare was enough to ignite the fire in her eyes at the constant annoyance. Seeing the spark that resided there, Irving snorted a laugh looking over to Greagoir, tilting his head and sharing a look. "I'm sure it's been quite the long and arduous journey here, so take the remainder of the day to rest, for tomorrow you meet with the Knight-Enchanter. Good luck to you, Novice Trevelyan."

The curving dormitory was just like that of her last home. The Templar recruit – who she had already forgotten the name of because he was so quiet – dropped her bag beside her with a glance and nodded before leaving her to the wolves. Hesitating in the doorway, a voice with a heavy accent called over to her before pushing her to the side to get in, "Ye lost, or wot?"

She turned to find an elven girl, perhaps a little older than herself, standing there, the mop of wild red hair reflecting the ambient light. There was a scrappiness to her, her features telling tales of rough life and misadventures. Freckles dotted her face like a sprinkle of cinnamon, framing eyes that sparkled with a mischievous glint, bright green and full of street-smart savvy. She had the air of a kid who'd seen more than her fair share of the world's twists and turns.

"I'm new actually, just arrived. You don't happen to know of an empty bunk do you?"

"I 'reckon I do," the elven girl eyed her suspiciously, "do you have any odd magey traits?"

“My veins glow like fire when I'm mad, but I don't believe that would disturb your sleeping.”

"I suppose. Do ye bathe regularly or have any other smelly habits?"

"Yes, of course, and no."

"Most importantly, do ye snore?"

"No, I sleep like the dead and I'm a heavy sleeper."

The elf hugged her about the shoulders with an arm, pulling her further into the dorm, "Yer bunkin’ with me then! Can never be too careful, sorry for the interrogation, um…?"

"Evelyn."

A gap in her front teeth peeked out from her grin. "Nice to meet ye, I'm Rhetta. Yer a bit old to have just come into yer magic." The girl didn't seem afraid at all speaking her mind.

"I didn't, I transferred here from the Circle of Ostwick to train with Knight-Enchanter Croft. Our Circle is better known for its instruction of the healing arts rather than the offensive. As it is, it has no resident Knight-Enchanter."

The mage gave her an odd look of scrutiny, "Hmm, ye must be pretty talented then. Croft is one salty bastard, I wish ya luck with that. Say, ye talk all fancy, ye one of them nobles?"

"I am high-born, yes, of House Trevelyan. And yourself?"

"No shit, really? Look at me makin’ friends with the fancy shems. Typically, all the snoots stick together like fleas on a rat's arse." Her face scrunched up as she rolled her eyes. Evelyn was well aware of the cliques that formed within Circles. At first, she subscribed to the idea out of the comfort of familiarity, but after a while, she met friends and broke from the other nobles. "I'm from the Ailenage in Denerim. I traded one prison for another. At least they feed ye here though." Evelyn didn't quite know what to say, and an uneasy look drew her face down. "Oh, don't give that look, it's all good, 'innit? Suppose I should be a bit more grateful." Coming to a halt at a nondescript bunk in the middle of the dormitory, Rhetta gestured with her hands, "Ah, here we are, ye can put your stuff in that trunk there at the foot of the bed."

"What bed do you typically take?"

"The top, never did like sleeping down low where the critters could get ya."

"Critters?" Evelyn paused her unpacking to look up curiously at her.

"Oh, not here. Back at the Ailenage, there were rats so big they could eat cats. Nasty blighters." The two cringed, and just as he had finished the dinner bell rang. "Perfect timin’! Shall we? I have another mage for ye to meet. It's always good to have friends, right?"

Walking the dark stone hall of her new home Circle, she followed Rhetta into the Mess Hall. When she was met by savory smells, it was as if her nerves were replaced by her hunger as her stomach growled like a Rage demon. Evelyn followed the elf's lead on what dishes were the best from the assortment of foreign food. They sat with another girl who had been off in the corner alone with her back to the room as if trying to ignore the bustle. As they approached her, Evelyn studied her delicate features sitting across from the two mages.

She was around thirteen years old and appeared frighteningly thin. Deep-set eyes of pale blue peered out from beneath heavy lids while her dark brown hair, braided in a single plait, cascaded down her back, nearly touching the floor. In a general sense, she might have been considered unattractive, yet there was a vulnerability to her that softened her features, lending an air of fragility. As they approached, she tensed, her posture betraying a sense of fear. However, as her gaze met Rhetta's, recognition sparked in her eyes, and a semblance of relaxation washed over her, like a candle flickering back to life in a gentle breeze.

"Miri, this is Evelyn. She's a high-born like you. Just arrived from Ostwick." Rhetta wasted no time in divulging the highlights of their previous conversation.

"It's Miriam, but Rhetta enjoys her pet nicknames for everyone. Welcome to Kinloch, Evelyn." Her voice was soft and serene, almost how she'd imagined The Divine would talk.

Evelyn gave a smile, "Thank you, Miriam. It's nice to have made some friends so quickly only having just arrived."

"Was there a specific reason for your transfer?" Her eyes flickered with concern for a moment to her elven companion, no doubt wondering if she had just been introduced to a troublemaker.

"Oi, wait til' ye hear this!" Rhetta's response did nothing to bolster Miriam's confidence in her innocence. "Go on, tell 'er!"

"I've been recommended for Knight-Enchanter training. I'm here to train with Knight-Enchanter Croft." Miriam stopped chewing and Rhetta bit her lip holding back a snort of a laugh.

Dabbing her linen to her mouth, composing herself while ignoring her neighbor beside her, she inquired brightly, "That's… quite something. I don't think the Knight-Enchanter has taken on a pupil since Abraxas. Rhetta, for instance, is currently honing her skills in the healing arts, while I… by the grace of the Maker, aspire to follow in her footsteps one day." Her voice trailed off wistfully at the end, a faint echo of longing lingering in her words.

"I don't bloody want to be honin’ anything, mate. But they're makin’ us study somethin’, aren't they? And I reckon it's better than spendin’ all day flingin’ fireballs and icicles around," the redhead grumbled, resting her head on the table while playing with her fork.

"You mentioned another mage training to be a Knight-Enchanter?" Evelyn was curious as to who she would most likely be getting well acquainted with soon.

Miriam nodded, "Apprentice Abraxas, he's been Croft's only student for several years now. He's--"

"Fuckin' gorgeous," the elf interjected.

"Language!" Miriam scolded her, "What will Evelyn think of us?"

"It's alright, my father was a soldier, so I'm used to a bit of colorful talk." The Marcher couldn't help but chuckle at the dynamic of the odd couple. "I suppose I'll be meeting him tomorrow then along with Croft. Thanks for the warning though, I'll be sure not to gape at him now." The three shared a laugh as a Templar walked by shaking their head at the three. "Miriam, Rhetta said you're high-born as well. What House do you hail from?"

Her smile faded quickly, replaced with a somber sadness, "Well, I… “ S he paused with a distant look in her eyes. “My family couldn't abide the notion of magic tarnishing their lineage, so they swiftly expelled me, as if I were nothing but a stain to be scrubbed away from their esteemed history . Though it's been two long years since it all happened, and with much soul-searching and countless prayers, I've managed to find it within myself to forgive them," she concluded softly. Yet, despite her attempt to convey a sense of closure, the lingering pain of rejection remained unmistakable in her voice.

"I'm sorry to hear that. It's common in the Free Marches as well, and my mother has yet to speak to me since I entered the Circle. My father, thank the Maker, still writes though."

A wan yet genuine smile appeared on Miriam's face, "You are blessed, truly. I can count the number of high-born mages here who still correspond with family on one hand, and that includes you. Ferelden attitudes are harsh when it comes to magic." Gazing into her pale blue eyes, the two shared an unspoken understanding of the disappointment heaped upon them at the emergence of their magic.

"Can we get back to the topic of Brax?"

The dark-haired girl rolled her eyes at Rhetta, "Truly? That's all she ever talks about, boys. May I hope, Evelyn, that our conversations might be graced with a touch more academia and less hormones?"

Chuckling, the Marcher replied, "I think I can speak on both subjects, so long as you can put up with my inevitable whining over my upcoming training. That's if I last long enough, for according to the two of you I shouldn't unpack my bags just yet."

"Well, I'll be rootin' for ye. You'll be my ticket to speakin' with Brax." Rhetta's large green eyes and red brows bobbed up and down as the other two mages exchanged looks.

As they conversed, a group of other mages passed by, their chatter momentarily breaking the tranquility of the scene. One of them, initially inclined to join the trio, caught sight of Miriam and recoiled in horror. "Maker preserve me, didn't see ‘Bloody Miri’ there," he muttered, prompting the others to murmur a protective prayer.

Rhetta's fiery spirit flared up at their disrespectful behavior. "Oi, bugger off!" she snapped, her tone sharp. The offenders, taken aback by her sudden hostility, quickly retreated, casting wary glances over their shoulders as they departed.

Evelyn watched the exchange with surprise, her expression reflecting her bewilderment at the unexpected hostility directed towards Miriam. Meanwhile, the girl in question simply smiled and waved her hand dismissively, as if to brush off the incident. Nonetheless, Evelyn couldn't help but wonder what this was all about.

“Don’t ye be listen to those lob cocks–”

“Language, Rhetta! Please. ” Instead of looking at the elf, Miriam flicked her gaze at Evelyn clearly seeing the question on her face. Her expression faltered once again. "Maker, I truly wished you would have had the chance to know me better before I had to tell you this, but it seems He had other plans," she lamented. Straightening her posture and clearing her throat, she began talking in a slightly unsteady tone. "You see, when I wield my healing magic, an unsettling phenomenon occurs, my eyes begin to bleed. It's exclusive to the healing school of arcane arts, no other branch triggers it. I want to assure you, I am no maleificar. Andraste herself can bear witness, I would sooner perish than dabble in forbidden crafts," she asserted, her agitation palpable as she sought to reaffirm her innocence. "I underwent rigorous scrutiny by the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander himself, repeatedly tested and even confronted a demon in the Fade without faltering!"

Evelyn recoiled in shock. "But children are forbidden from enduring the Harrowing!"

With a bitter smirk, Rhetta interjected, "Ye wouldn't believe the stuff they pull off just by slappin’ on a different name."

Miriam quickly interjected, clarifying, "It wasn't the Harrowing per se, but rather a test of resistance against demonic influence, designed to safeguard the Circle from any apprentice displaying maleficarum tendencies." She sighed softly, her gaze momentarily dropping before meeting Evelyn's eyes once more. "Despite my best efforts to prove my loyalty and innocence, I cannot deny the truth. Other mages here still fear and avoid me, casting wary glances whenever I pass. I would understand completely if you, too, chose to keep your distance," she admitted with a tinge of resignation in her voice.

Evelyn's expression softened, a flicker of empathy crossing her features as she recalled the challenges she faced due to her own mutation. "Though for different reasons, I can sympathize with people looking at you wearily," she explained softly. "Besides, my father taught me not to judge people based on hearsay or superstition. Until you prove otherwise, I will treat you just as any other fellow apprentice."

Miriam blinked at her in confusion, her disbelief evident in her expression. "Oh, you would? Truly!?"

Rhetta, observing the exchange, slapped Evelyn’s back with a hearty laugh. "I hadda good feelin’ about ye from the beginning girl, and ye didn’t disappoint!" The three girls shared a smile content with the addition to their group of misfits. “Glad to see ye don’t raise your nose at us knife-ears either. Suppose that’s just as bad as bein’ spotted like a blighted toad.” 

“Spotted? You mean your freckles?” The Marcher cocked her head to the side.

“Nah. Me back is literally spotted from the neck to arse.” Turning her head away, she lifted her hair to reveal oval speckles that grew smaller in size the further from her spine they were. The largest were about the size of a coin. Letting her fiery hair fall to conceal the mutation once more, Rhetta huffed in annoyance, “It’s ugly– I’m ugly. Why did the Maker have to curse me so? I don’t got a lot goin’ for me, but what boy will want to tumble wit’ me looking like some creature out of the swamp!”

"Please do not doubt that the Maker loves you, Rhetta. He would never curse His child. All that you have, all that you are, is a gift from Him and should be treated as such," Miriam's voice was gentle, imbued with conviction. "Besides, in His infinite grace, He has granted you the loveliest shade of hair. It truly is a rarity."

Evelyn was quick to echo Miriam's sentiment, her tone warm with sincerity. "Indeed, your hair is a marvel, Rhetta," she chimed in, offering a supportive smile to the elf.

Rhetta, taken aback by their words of reassurance, couldn't help but blush, a bashful smile gracing her lips. The weight of self-doubt momentarily lifted from her shoulders as she absorbed their genuine compliments.”Well, if you two insist it's that beautiful, then I guess it's true.” Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she turned to Evelyn. "You know, E, can I call ye E?" Before she could answer, the elf continued eagerly, "I think ye are good enough to be our friend! What do you say?"

Evelyn, caught off guard by the sudden offer, looked at the girls in perplexity for a moment.

"You shouldn't put her on the spot like that," the Ferelden interjected, her brow furrowing with concern. "Do not feel pressured, Evelyn."

The Marcher was a little bewildered, but she couldn't deny the warmth that bloomed in her chest at Rhetta's earnest invitation. To find companionship so quickly after her transfer was both unexpected and relieving. "Sure, I mean, yes, of course," she replied, her voice filled with sincerity.

Chapter Text

The letter is written on thick, crisp parchment with clean, precise handwriting that never wavers. The script is small and neat, with no wasted space, and each line is measured. There are no flourishes or doodles—just text, efficient and to the point.

Evelyn,

I received your last letter. Ferelden sounds as dreary as expected.

Things here are the same. The Circle continues to be... manageable. Nothing new to report.

I’m sure your training will be intense, but I expect you’ll do well. Just don’t lose focus. The Knight-Enchanter path is challenging, but you’ve always had a way of pushing through.

Write when you can.

Sorin

P.S. Henley insists I include a joke. Here: Why are necromancers always so muscular? Because of all the deadlifting they do…

Don’t ask.

While her first day was spent exploring her new home beside her bunkmate, early on the second day she was slated to meet with her new instructor – Knight-Enchanter Croft. Hurrying to the training grounds, she slowed her walk watching the different groups of Templars run drills around the yard. 

Thinking she'd see the obvious signs of offensive magic being cast about to clue her in on where she needed to be, but she saw nothing. "Excuse me, ser" she caught the attention of the guard at the door, "could you direct me to where Knight-Enchanter Croft holds his training sessions?"

His helmet muffled his deep voice, "That's him there with the white hair." She followed his finger to a man standing with his back to them with grayish-white hair pulled up in a short ponytail. The sides of his head were shaved short, and from her angle, she could see the end of a puckered scar reaching to above his ear.

Evelyn quickly made her way over, not wanting to be late for her first meeting with her infamous instructor. "Knight-Enchanter, ser?" The man looked up from the board of parchment he was reviewing with a grumpy frown. "I'm Novice Evelyn Trevelyan, ser. It's a pleasure."

He dropped the board to his side, narrowing his eyes on her, "That remains to be seen. I've read quite several glowing reports about you from my colleagues in Ostwick." His jaw moved side to side in thought, and she tried her best not to balk at his rudeness. "Stand up straight, Trevelyan," he barked, "let's take the measure of you." He circled her like a vulture bending slightly and looking her over with one brow raised. He fired off questions such as what was her age, weight, and best school of magic, among other inquiries. After a few more rounds, he stood back in front of her clasping his hands behind his back and lowering his voice, "Have you bled yet?" Shocked by his candidness, she stuttered incoherently, making him roll his eyes with an impatient huff, "I'm not asking for your whole medical history, girl, it's a yes or no question."

"N-n-no, not yet."

"Good, that means you're not done growing. You have tall and sturdy kin, I hope? Normally I wouldn’t ask but you’re not Ferelden."

"Y-yes ser. My father and brothers all stand around six-foot and thus far I tend to lean more towards my father's likeness."

He grunted, "I hope so. A small and delicate Knight-Enchanter does nothing to inspire soldiers on the field of battle. There is no such thing as a petite Knight-Enchanter, be they male or female."

Just then a tall young man with chocolate locks jogged over wearing practice armor. His hair was swept around his charming features, including sky-blue eyes and a pronounced chin. His broad shoulders narrowed to a tight set of hips, showing of his fit physique. She couldn't say for sure, but at a glance, he was perhaps two or three years older than her based on the pronounced stubble dotting his jawline. "Knight-Enchanter, apologies for my lateness, but there was a--" He stopped and flashed his judgmental eyes at her, "Who's this?"

"This, Apprentice Abraxas, is Novice Trevelyan. She wishes to become a Knight-Enchanter. She came highly recommended to me by an old friend in Ostwick." 

“A girl?” The two sneered down at her. 

"I'm in the process of determining if she has what it takes to train with us or if I should send her packing." The youngest mage couldn't help the defiance rising in her, feeling her mana pulse to life as she stared back at Croft. "She's got a fire in her eyes, I'll give her that. You know how to fight, girl? I don't think they would've taught you that growing up in your fancy noble house, Miss Priss?" At the news, she was a noble, Abraxas spit at her feet.

"My brothers taught me how to use a sword and I would sneak away from my mother to watch their lessons with the swordmaster. I wanted to be a Templar more so than any other future they had planned for me."

Croft stepped back as if in feigned shock raising his eyebrows, which caused the scar dashed across his eye to elongate down his face. "Well, then let's see what you've got. Knight-Lieutenant Arlo!" She turned around to see the person he was addressing was the Templar in the middle of training their recruits.

"Yes, Knight-Enchanter?" The man's heavy Ferelden intonation was rustic but was one of a brassy tenor. When he turned, Evelyn could make out a heavily broken and blunted nose on the man that matched his heavy cheekbone structure. The man’s sandy hair leaned towards the darker end of the spectrum, cropped short and mussed by the harsh Ferelden wind.

"You got any boys who are barely grasping the concept of swordplay? I need a challenge here for my new recruit." They shared a coy smirk.

"Ha! Zeke! Get your arse over there! The rest of you lot, take a break!" A boy of at least eleven scampered over and she looked from him to Croft with disgust.

Evelyn huffed, "With all due respect, ser, this boy is much younger than I."

He leaned close growling, handing her a wooden sword, he stole off a nearby recruit. "Then prove me wrong, girl."

She grabbed it from him with a lethal look and turned taking a few steps to square up to her opponent. The boy raised his sword with two hands in front, whilst she stood tall greeting him with an opening flourish, bringing the sword to her face before sweeping it to the ground. Then she proceeded to turn sideways, getting in the starting stance with her right hand holding the sword out while the left rested on her hip.

"Seems we have a duelist in our midst, boys!" Arlo laughed, though Croft crossed his arms seemingly now taking her a bit more seriously. "Begin!" Almost instantly, she disarmed the boy, tossing his weapon to the side with a flick of her sword. There was a thoughtful pause, before Croft simply shouted 'next' and the Knight-Lieutenant shoved a larger recruit over at her. He was slightly harder to defeat, but she did so, along with the boy after that. "I'll admit, she's no beginner, Gavril. The only boys I have left are more advanced than what she's shown us so far." Arlo motioned over to a group of boys all at least a head taller than her. Within the mix, she spied the blonde boy who had been there when she first arrived yesterday, what was his name…

"I think it'd be best if we humble her, give her your best from this lot," Croft's eyes darkened. "Let's see if she takes defeat as well as she does victory?" She balked slightly at his words, knowing that she had not gloated once!

Arlo tilted his head as if hesitant to comply, "Rutherford!" The name jogged her memory as he stepped forward, "She's got no armor, so watch the strength of your hits." The boy wore a serious expression, nodding to his instructor before setting his golden eyes on her. 

Croft shook his head, “No, don’t hold back, Master Rutherford.” Evelyn chewed the inside of her cheek allowing their words to affect her nerves. They expected her to give up, they wanted her to so they'd have a reason to get rid of her. They thought she’d be defeated so easily, already writing the match off as a loss for her. The pyromancer’s veins began to pulse with fire at the thought for she did not leave her life in Ostwick behind just to be sent back with her tail between her legs.

The recruit’s stance was solid and grounded, unlike hers which favored agility. He had the advantage of watching her go several rounds, but if he was being trained as the others she supposed she could expect something similar; his hits would be harder, being so tall and his experience having been training with the sword longer than she presumably would cause a greater challenge. Rutherford brought his shield up, resting his blade on the top. All she could see were his hardened amber eyes, and if she hadn't known better, she would've thought he was an intimidating statue.

When the call to begin rang out, his still form suddenly charged her with such speed, that she barely danced out of the way. Setting her feet, she tried a feint to the side, but his buckler blocked it. He was hardly giving her any room to work, and as she spun to dodge a shield bash, a stiff thwack hit her square in the back. She straightened stiffly trying to walk it off, before bringing herself to face him again. Still bony and thin, she had very little natural padding to protect herself. The strike stung, lingering on her flesh as a reminder not to turn her back on him again. The two instructors shared a look, but let them continue. Renewing the duel, she made the mistake of trying to overpower him, which was quickly rewarded by being thrown roughly into the dirt at sword point.

"Give her one last chance, Rutherford," Arlo somewhat scolded at the quick and decisive round.

Her eyes glanced at those around her as they laughed and shook their heads at her pathetic attempt. The fire inside didn't abate though, and even though in the back of her mind the words of the Trevelyan motto echoed there, she let her rage out from its guarded cage. The young mage gripped the sword with two hands now to handle Rutherford's strength and planted her feet in defense. His eyes squinted at her seeing the change, as a snarl perked up the corner of her lip slightly. Taking the initiative, she flew forward in a flurry of quick attacks, battering his shield. Evelyn tried to step around him and feint again, but it was no use. In a desperate attempt just to get one hit on him, she slid as she was in his buckler's blind spot, popping up on his dominant side. Surprised, he slashed sideways, opening himself up. Ducking from the swing, she grabbed his breastplate and headbutted him.

What seemed like a good idea in her head, turned against her as they both staggered back. While he shook it off still on his feet, Evelyn fell flat on her bottom in a daze, hissing at the pain. Opening one eye, she found herself at the point of his sword again, accepting defeat with a heavy sigh.

"Ho, ho, she's got spirit Gavril! Gotta give 'er that." Arlo chuckled, "Well fought, Master Rutherford." The boy squinted in some discomfort, rubbing his forehead and looking at her as if she was touched in the head. The Knight-Lieutenant clapped the boy on the shoulder and the whole gaggle of recruits went back to their training leaving the mages to themselves.

"Didn't think that last move through, did you, girl?" Croft held out his hand as he helped her up. "You fight politely enough, but you won't be fighting duels of honor. Try that on a blood mage and they slit your throat from ear to ear." His tone suddenly darkened, lowering his face to hers, "You'll be fighting maleficar who aren't afraid to break every commandment set forth by the Maker to corrupt the innocent. They will summon demons so vile, that they make even the most seasoned Templar shit their breeches. They will not simply seek to kill you, but steal your soul for their dark twisted purposes." His eyes burned with intensity. He paused to give her time to conjure the images in her mind, "Is this still the path for you?"

She swallowed hard, steeling her voice for a controlled response, "Yes, Knight-Enchanter, it is." He could try and scare her all he wanted to, but what he didn’t know was that she had little choice. She’d either be thrown to the demons or severed from the Fade.

Abraxas scoffed, "Not many Knight-Enchanters are women."

"But the ones who are, are exceptional," Croft quirked an eyebrow at her as if seeing the potential. Sighing heavily, "Arlo was right, there's a fire in you. It may take some coaxing, but by Malefrath’s sword, I'll rip it out of you." Her brow knitted together realizing her first few years in Ostwick were spent doing the opposite. "Every morning you are expected to attend physical training with the other Templar recruits. You've already met one of your instructors for those sessions, Knight-Lieutenant Arlo. I will inform him that you will be joining him from now on. They start promptly at sunrise, don't be late. Just because you're a noble of the fairer sex doesn't mean you will get treated any differently from the other recruits. Brax will act as your student mentor and help you adjust to our vigorous training schedule," the Apprentice let out an annoyed huff. "Don't be ashamed to quit at any time, this path is not for everyone and very few mages ever hold the coveted rank. Brax is correct though, not many of us are females, it's just the way of things."

"I won't be quitting, ser." Though there was conviction in her words, he gave a look of disbelief.

"Then I look forward to you proving me wrong, Trevelyan."

Chapter Text

The letter is written on crumpled, slightly stained parchment that looks as if it has been pulled from the bottom of a bag. The ink is often smudged, the handwriting large and hurried, looping across the page with reckless abandon. In the corner of the letter, there's a doodle of a female Templar with exaggerated bosoms, panicking as her breaches burn.

Hey Evie,

Brace yourself for this one. I’d apologize in advance, but I’m not sorry at all.

Why do sneaky rogues prefer leather armor? ... Because it’s made of HIDE!

I’ll wait while you recover from that one… Is Ferelden treating you well? How’s Knight-Enchanter Croft? Is he as uptight of a prick as I imagine, or does he at least crack a smile every once in a while?

We all miss you, by the way. Sorin’s been his usual broody self, but I’m working on getting him to smile. No success yet, but I’ll let you know when I break him down. Write back soon. I’m still your favorite Templar, aren’t I? I better be.

Henley

"So, Evie… how was yer first week?" Rhetta tilted her head to match the angle of Evelyn's resting on the table. The novice pyromancer groaned in reply, attempting to pick her head up so she could shovel some food in her mouth for nourishment. Her body had taken a beating the last seven days, feeling as if she had been trampled by her father’s Rangers. "Is there a Templar's shield out there wit’ a matching dent to the bruise on yer face?"

With an unamused look, she sat up with a wince at the protesting of her aching shoulders and upper back, "No, but there is a Templar recruit with one. I thought I told you about that?"

"Must've slipped yer mind after you smashed it on that bronto's skull," the elf descended into a fit of laughter at her jest and Miriam subtly joined her.

"Croft still won't let anyone heal it? Sweet Andraste, it looks painful!" The novice healer cringed, waving a hand before the dark blotchy bruise. Over the past few days since the injury, it had changed color daily, but always got darker. It was just off-center on the right, and the swelling even gave her a black eye. "Did he mention why?"

"Because it was a mistake. One that could cost me in real battle, so I'm paying the price now in practice rather than later."

Just then, Master Rutherford walked by shadowing one of the full-fledged Knights. As he followed close to his mentor, he did a double-take to stare at her in passing. His bruising wasn't as bad, but there was still an elongated dark purple mark there. Averting her gaze back down, she mumbled an ' oh no ' causing Rhetta with all the subtlety of an Archdemon to spin around.

Upon seeing his matching injury, she burst out cackling again, "You tried to headbutt him? Maker's balls, ye might as well have tried it against a stone wall! Everyone knows Rutherford is as thick as they come!" As if knowing they were speaking about him, Evelyn watched as the blonde looked away blushing. His well-defined jaw flexed in annoyance like Henley’s did, but his mortification was clear.

She scolded her elven friend, "Keep your voice down, would you! I do have to see him everyday!"

"Just because he is a devout Andrastian doesn't mean he's thick, " Miriam chided, "in fact it's admirable. It would be wrong for a Templar dedicating their life to Andraste's Holy Order not to be."

"Pff, it's more like the place they send unwanted children or the violent ones." Rhetta retorted. Though she didn’t agree, Evelyn let it go as guilt ate away at her remembering his face.

During the afternoon training session, Evelyn felt like she owed Rutherford an apology for Rhetta's behavior. Despite not knowing if he was able to hear what was said, it didn't sit right with her. On one of the few water breaks that they had, she placed her pride aside and approached him. Having just dumped a cup of water over his head, he was leaning against the armory’s wall shaking out his wet blonde locks. Even with how short his hair was, the water was making the ends curl slightly. She found it odd that he was that hot in the chilly weather, but she supposed her northern temperament made her more sensitive to the cold.

"Um, excuse me, Master Rutherford." Turning his head to the side he froze for a moment eyeing her over his shoulder from head to toe before standing to face her. "Hello, I'm sure you remember me," she pointed to her forehead and his.

"Yes, I have a constant reminder of you," at his words he became flustered, "n-not of you particularly, just of the incident, that is." His lips pursed together slightly and he seemed put off by her company.

"I'm sorry about that, though if it makes you feel better, it probably hurt me more than it did you." She gave him a wan smile.

He crossed his arms, narrowing his gaze down on her, "Are you saying I'm thick-headed?" The way his golden eyes deflated, caused her to believe he had heard this of himself before - even before Rhetta.

"Yes– I mean, no! You probably do have a thick skull, considering your bruise is lesser than that of mine, and you are larger than me, but you are not thick-headed. " He glowered at her, as she internally cringed at her rambling. Come on, Trevelyan! You were raised better than to speak like some uneducated churl. "That came out wrong." She cleared her throat and lifted her chin, "My apologies, for the injuries and my friend's laughter earlier. I hope she didn't cause you any offense. She can be slightly unrefined at times. I do not believe you are thick-headed."

"Oh, no, she didn't, I was just… trying to keep up with my mentor," he scrubbed at the back of his wet hair nervously. It seemed he had heard them, but preferred not to let her know it bothered him.

"Right, of course! I just didn't want you to think we were speaking out of malice about you."

"Out of what?"

"Malice?" She paused waiting for recognition, but there wasn't any. "Meaning speaking ill about you…" Evelyn began to cringe realizing that he may not be as educated or had the opportunity in his upbringing, and was embarrassing him once more.

"Oh, yes, I knew that. " He obviously didn't, but she was happy to let it go. Her father had taught her not to judge people based on their lot in life.

Evelyn shrugged, "Sorry, it was probably my accent. I'm sure you don't hear a Marcher one around here often." Her polite smile was enough to calm his nerves a bit as his gaze finally met hers. "I'm Evelyn Trevelyan," she held her hand out but he just stared at it leaning away as she was about to smear rashvine on him.

"I'm Cullen, but you shouldn't--"

"Hey! Separate you two!" A nearby guard barked harshly at them before rushing over.

Surprised by the interruption, the young mage sought to explain the situation as she would if she were back in Ostwick. Holding her hands up, she spoke normally, "Sorry, ser, we were just--"

"Step away, mage ," the command in his tone was clear, as was the threat behind it as she felt the pull of his powers readying itself.

Rather than say more, she backed away in cold shock, but Cullen stepped between them. Standing at attention before the Knight, he defended her actions, "Ser, she was apologizing for the wound she inflicted on me during sparring. Nothing more."

By this time, Lieutenant Arlo had appeared to see what the issue was, "What's all this then? Rutherford, explain yourself!"

"Ser, she was simply apologizing for…" As Cullen explained the situation, Evelyn couldn't help but wonder what the big commotion was about. She had shook hands with Templars and mages alike back home. She and Henley roughhoused without anyone thinking she was attacking him. For Maker's sake, it was just a handshake! There was a greater fear of mages in Kinloch as she was coming to realize. "… she in no way was channeling her magic. I'd stake my life on it, ser."

Arlo looked to her as she chewed on her bottom lip embarrassed and slightly perturbed, "Trevelyan, I'm not sure what lax rules they had in Ostwick, but in Ferelden , mages do not touch Templars unless sanctioned by an instructor. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ser. Apologies, I was not aware." For good measure the Knight still poised to Silence her yanked her arms out and pushed up her sleeves checking for signs of blood magic. Patting her down from head to toe leaving no part, nor pocket, unchecked until he was satisfied there was no foul play intended. Leaving her feeling slightly unnerved and violated by the sudden physical inspection, the young mage and trainee exchanged pained looks before they were sent in opposite directions.

Abraxas was quick to pull her aside, with a hard jerk on her shoulder. "Seriously? What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking of apologizing and introducing myself."

"Introduce yourself to a Templar in front of everyone? " He whispered harshly, "They are not your friends, they are your superiors. If you want to be a Knight-Enchanter you must obey them blindly. They make the mold and you squeeze into it, in whatever way you can. If you don't, well you'll be stuck behind these walls the rest of your days. Or worse…" She knew what worse, was; worse was why she was in Ferelden training to be the most dangerous of ranks. 

Seeing she was getting upset, he grasped her shoulder again facing her away from the yard. "If you want to talk to Rutherford, you do it in private. So long as you don't make it so bloody obvious as you just did, no one will bother you about it." 

“One of my best friends in Ostwick was a Templar. No one ever cared that we were always chatting or in each other’s company. This is… strange and rigid.”

He sighed when she gave him a huff, "Look, some here do interact with them, just not openly. Most Fereldens hate and fear magic. You take a chance when you try and talk with them, and coming from the Free Marches some may try and take advantage of you.”

“What do you mean?”

His radiant blue eyes bore into hers as he bent over slightly, “Just… stay away from the older Knights, like the ones older than me.” She guessed that he was around seventeen or eighteen years of age. “Rutherford’s harmless, from what I hear. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful with who you fawn over.”

Evelyn shook her head in protest, “You’ve got it wrong, I’m not–”

“Even that Knight who yelled at you, I know for a fact he's fucking an Apprentice Healer, but you'd never know because he does it quietly and discreetly. The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter cannot do anything to you on rumor alone. There's enough going around about Gregoir and Enchanter Wynne to damn the two of them, yet nothing official is ever done. It's as if they know fraternization is bound to happen. I mean what do they expect."

She didn’t ask for a lecture or the latest gossip from the Apprentice. As much as she appreciated his watchful eye, acting much like a big brother, he came off as abrasive most times. While she was used to being an unwanted presence at times, having experienced it with her kin, it was no less grating. "I simply sought to–"

"Save it for Croft. No doubt he's already heard and hunting for you now.” Seeing her shoulders slump, he gave her a playful jab. “Buck up. If he sees you moppy he’ll definitely thrash you."

"Thanks." Evelyn looked over her shoulder at Cullen, who seemed to be getting the same lecture from two of his brothers. He was shrugging a lot, probably explaining to them that it was all the crazy mage’s fault.

"Just follow orders and keep your head down. Only when you obtain the rank will you get an ounce of respect from anyone? I mean, look at Croft–"

"Where is she?!" The two mages cringed at hearing their mentor’s roaring voice bounce off the walls.

"Andraste save me–" Before she could finish her prayer, Croft grabbed her and pushed her off towards the mage's training yard. Evelyn stumbled, catching herself before smacking her face off the ground. Yanking her back up, he dragged her the rest of the way there by her shirt. She could feel his mana spiking at how angry he was, yet he said nothing until they were away from the bulk of Templars.

“Are you trying to give them a reason to brand you?!” His pale face was flushed red with anger, “Look at me, Trevelyan!” She obeyed, though trying to hold back tears, knowing it would only make things worse for her; Abraxas had told her such. “This is not some bloody holiday for nobles to meet and play The Game! You’re not here to make friends, you’re here to show the Templars you’re capable of becoming a disciplined weapon for them to deploy.” Evelyn swallowed hard as he stepped closer, lowering his voice to a growl, “We are mages, girl. Hated, reviled, and feared; not all may see you that way, but start assuming everyone you meet here believes you one step from possession.”

Gazing at him seriously, knowing he was truly trying to help her, she replied, “Y-yes, Knight-Enchanter. I will.” 

He pursed his lips together, “You’ve seen the Tranquil here, correct?” She nodded. “I want you to take a good hard look at a few of them next time. Three were former students of mine who failed too far into their training, and another six were candidates who I rejected to teach because they were too dangerous.” He couldn’t quite hide the slight guilt that crept into his tone with that last sentence. It was subtle, but there—like a crack in the armor he always wore around his words.

Evelyn swallowed hard. The thought of the Tranquil, their hollow eyes, and soulless expressions haunted her now more than ever. She’d seen them around the Circle, of course, but never once had she considered that they might have once stood where she did—full of potential and promise, only to end up as shells of their former selves.

It was a lesson she wouldn’t forget. Couldn’t forget.

Croft’s sharp gaze lingered on her, watching, weighing her reaction. His expression was unreadable once more, the brief flicker of guilt gone, replaced by the usual hard-set lines of discipline and authority. "Go to the library," he said abruptly, his voice low but commanding. "Find a book titled Death of a Templar ."

Evelyn blinked, surprised at the shift in conversation, but nodded nonetheless. Gavril paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if choosing his next words carefully. "The Templars here in Kinloch..." His voice trailed off for a moment, his brow furrowing as if something troubled him. Then, his gaze hardened again. "Just read the book."

He turned away as if that would be the end of the conversation, but then he added, "If you’re smart enough, the book will do more than just inform you—it’ll make you see. You’ll understand what they see, and feel the weight of their choices. You’ll walk in their armored boots, if only for a moment. The Knights of the Order aren’t just guards standing over you. You’ll be serving alongside them, depending on them. And you need to grasp what that truly means." Evelyn nodded once more, and as she turned to leave, Gavril’s voice cut through the silence one last time. “Don’t let this Circle take your soul, girl. It’ll try.”

The library and its archives had its own floor due to it being so vast, and even then there was another floor dedicated to preserving the knowledge of Thedas. Most of the Circle’s students could be found in the main library, where they kept the most used books for classes. It was usually bustling with people coming and going with mages studying quietly at the long tables placed about. The area housing lesser-used tomes or archived works was kept in lower lighting so as not to fade the ink on the parchment. Some were hundreds of years old, and the stored scrolls on the shelves seemed to stretch forever. It was a cataloging challenge for even the Tranquil who tended the cold storage. 

And naturally, it was the most popular place to conduct one’s more intimate affairs, as she heard it said.

Having asked about her query, the young lady had been directed by one of the Tranquil to the back quieter sections of the main library. She had been scouring the shelf for some time, with no luck beginning to think that the Tranquil were not all perfect. Only around five foot and four inches, the higher shelves were proving difficult to reach. With no stools around as far as the eyes could see, Evelyn was forced to reach up on the tops of her toes to graze her fingers along the bumpy book bindings, squinting at the titles. With a huff, she even began jumping up and down to try and divine any information off the spines. 

For the life of her, where was…

Someone cleared their throat quietly beside her. Looking to the other side of her upstretched arm she spotted Master Cullen. Freezing, she watched him curiously. "Can I be of assistance?"

Weary of why he was speaking with her after their previous conversation went so poorly, her eyes never left him as she pointed to the shelf. "I, um, am looking for a book called Death of a Templar . Do you see it up there?"

He hummed in thought, running his rare amber eyes all about the upper levels of the shelf. As he searched, he lowered his voice further, "I'm sorry, for today." Evelyn halted, simply staring blankly at the tomes listening to him. "It's just… odd that you'd try to get to know me. That's not the expectation we’re taught."

"I’m a person like anyone else here, why should I not expect to be treated as one and in turn, treat you as one and not just a Templar."

"We are taught to distance ourselves from our charges."

"Is that a polite way of also saying you believe the Chantry when they say mages are inherently evil? Does that make it easier for you to look upon us like monsters?" He swallowed hard, glancing over to her despite her non-combative tone. She sighed, "I was taught the same by the Chantry Sisters. I don't feel like I want to hurt people though." Holding her hands out and looking them over, Evelyn felt her mana coursing through her veins. It tingled, but in a comforting way as it warmed her. It wasn't malicious, nor was she.

"Where you’re from–”

“Ostwick, in the Free Marches,” she interjected.

“Right, Ostwick, do they really allow you to casually touch your Templars?"

"Yes, for no one ever was harmed from a handshake. Our Templars treated us a bit more like real people too. In fact, the first friend I made was a Templar. To this day he’s one of my best friends. He even writes me here."

Cullen’s brow creased, "Not all mages – especially in Ferelden – have been so accepting of their fate. But it’s still true that magic is dangerous, as are those who wield it."

She frowned at his implications, "And yet, not all mages are out to harm you. I'm certainly not, for I want to fight with you and the other Templars against demons and maleficar. To do some good."

He scowled at her, "I've never heard a mage say that."

"Well, how would you like it if I said all Templars were cruel and oppressive?"

Cullen took offense as she predicted, "We're keeping people safe, including mages! The ‘cruelty’ you speak of is the misunderstood distance we place between us and our charges. We aren’t cruel. I'm not."

"Then how do you suppose we learn to trust each other?" He stared at her blankly. "I say I'm not out to harm you, and you say you're not cruel. I know nothing about you, but you don't seem the type that hates mages. I guess that's the risk involved in getting to know people; giving them some trust to either break or build on."

"Why do you want to get to know me? Oh," he poached a book from the very top shelf, “here it is.”

Handing it to her, she was still stuck on his last question. "Why not? I don't really know many people, let alone Templars. Do you know any mages well?"

His nose crinkled up, as his voice harshened, "No, and I'm not supposed to."

Evelyn hummed in disappointment, "That supposedly doesn’t stop some people. Well, then I apologize for being a bother to you." She turned from him and walked away clutching the book, only then remembering her manners. “Thanks, by the way,” she whispered with a bit of sass from the end of the aisle. 

Kinloch was certainly different from Ostwick, and though it brought her sadness at the way Cullen reacted to her overtures of friendship, she also knew it was not his fault for what they - the Chantry - taught him to think and feel about mages. Having apologized to him and settled her guilt, there was no further need to bother him if that was what he wished. 

Evelyn slipped into her room, the door clicking shut behind her. A quick check revealed that her redheaded roommate was nowhere to be found, gifting her a bit of solitude from the turmoil seemingly raging around this accursed Circle. Together with the massive tome she brought from the library, she sank onto the edge of her bunk, her legs curling beneath her. Croft would expect her to finish Death of a Templar in a couple of days, he always had those expectations, always pushed her like that.

The cover illustration—a dying Templar, rain-soaked and alone on a battlefield, the forest looming like a judgment—gave way to the first page. Her eyes scanned the preface, the words written in bold, grim strokes:

"Living comfortably amongst material possessions, it is easy to misunderstand the true meaning of uncontrollable hate. Failing to understand the power of fighting against pure, unfaltering beliefs, against foes that listen only to their soul. Uncontrollable hate. Influenced and thus removed from innocence. The scar is permanent and internal."
— Ser Andrew, Knight of Andraste and Templar Archivist, 9:4 Dragon

Evelyn paused, the words settling in her mind like stones dropped into deep water, rippling out but never quite breaking the surface. She let out a long, slow breath and leaned back, her head resting against the cold stone wall behind her. A quiet chill crawled up her spine, not from the wall’s coldness, but from the emptiness that lingered in her chest.

Henley’s terrible jokes. Sorin’s disapproving, long-suffering sighs that always followed. She’d give anything to hear them right now—to have them with her. Yet, she knew it would be years before that could happen again. Years . That thought was like a bolder lodged in her heart, too heavy to move, too big to ignore.

There was work to be done—so much work—but the urge to reach out, to touch something real, something familiar, overwhelmed her. She snapped the tome shut with a decisive thud and slid out of bed.

Her desk sat in the corner, a lonely island in the otherwise spartan room. She took a seat, pulled out parchment and ink, and let her frustrations pour out onto the page in hurried strokes. Letters to her friends back in Ostwick. Here, at her desk, she could pretend she was still with them.

When she was done, her hand ached, but the knot in her chest loosened just a little. Yet once the ink dried, the reality crept back in. She was still here, trapped in a place that felt as cold and unforgiving as the battlefield on the cover of her book.

Succeed, or wear the brand. There was no in-between.

Chapter Text

Evelyn,

I got a letter from my mother—yes, an actual letter. And no, I don't expect another one; you know how she is, and her husband wouldn't be thrilled.

She wrote because, apparently, my real father wants to contact me. Somehow, he tracked her down, and she thought I should know. I'm not sure what to do. He's an elf, a heretic, and, honestly, a stranger. I can't imagine what talking to him would be like. And yet, part of me wants to know what kind of person he is, why he's reaching out now, after all these years. Would he even be allowed to write to me in the Circle?

I'm not asking for advice, really. I just needed to say it to someone. Don't tell Henley, okay?

Sorin

On that fateful day, Evelyn felt the first sharp pangs ripple through her belly, entirely unprepared despite knowing this day would come eventually. She was highborn, after all, a daughter of noble blood, raised to meet most things with dignity—but nothing could have prepared her for the strange, warm sensation of blood sliding down her thighs. Mortified and all too aware of the small, telltale stain creeping through her trousers, the mage clutched her middle, gritting her teeth as a raw ache flared in her abdomen. She had to make it to the infirmary before anyone noticed.

The hallways of the Circle were both familiar and painfully far as she hurried, a flush of shame creeping up her cheeks. When she finally arrived at the infirmary, she was greeted by the calming presence of Enchanter Wynne, an elder mage known throughout the Circle for her wisdom and wry honesty.

"Ah, Evelyn," Wynne greeted her, setting aside her papers with a raised brow. "What brings you here, child?"

She shifted uncomfortably, feeling her face heat up even more. She had always been taught to keep her composure, to never speak of such things. But living in the Circle, she'd seen the way others spoke with ease about matters that her family would have found scandalous. Still, words failed her now, and all she managed was a stammered, "I... um... I—" before a fresh spasm tightened in her belly, and a faint line of red bled through her trousers, making the situation obvious.

Wynne took in the scene with a deep sigh and a warm, knowing smile. "Ah, of course. I'd forgotten—you're highborn. Well, my dear, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." She set her hand on Evelyn's shoulder. "This is natural. Let's get you sorted."

Evelyn, with a mixture of embarrassment and relief, allowed herself to be led further into the infirmary where the enchanter gave her some privacy to clean herself up and then gave her a fresh set of pants to change into, along with some cotton and wool to prevent further blood stains. When she was ready Wynne guided her gently to one of the low cots nearby. "The pain is normal and will pass after a few days. The important thing to remember is that from now on your body will have changed, as will your opinion of your peers. It can be a particularly dangerous time for young Circle mages."

"I think I understand, Enchanter." Her meaning was not lost on her. Her friends were becoming frenzied over crushes and gossiping about all the forbidden acts of love they had heard of happening. Rhetta was the worst always running about for the latest scandal, but thankfully Miriam added reason to such topics of discussion. Evelyn had not been immune to such stirrings, but having been a late bloomer she was afraid she was going to lose her mind to her hormones, voicing such concern to Wynne.

The aging mage, chuckled, "There is nothing wrong with such feelings, you just need to be cautious in how you act on them. You know Circle Law, but I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that we know of the secret trysts happening. It is in our nature to love and want love in return, and no matter how much the Chantry tries to control us that will not change. There is only so much the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander can control when they lock so many of us away in close quarters. So long as you are discreet about it, the Templars have no reason to take action, for they too are guilty of the same affront."

Evelyn's eyes widened at the admission that the Circle leadership knew of such things going on and that they themselves had participated in such acts. She supposed that it was rather odd to think that the Senior mages and Templars were chaste after all these years. In passing, she had heard plenty of lewd conversations from mages wondering how they knew and had done such things. It was expected from the Templars, who were allowed out of the confines of the Circle to visit various establishments and some even were able to have families. Evelyn's experience with such yearnings was minimal at best aside from passing daydreams, but she was disciplined and had faith she would not be misled to disaster by desirous urges.

There was one problem... aside from Miriam and Rhetta, all her other friends were boys – Henley and Sorin included. She just got along better with the masculine sex; perhaps it was because she couldn't stand her female relatives and grew up idolizing her brothers.

"I don't mean to frighten you, and I know you to be an intelligent girl," she sighed knowingly, "just practice discretion is all." With a friendly pat and smile, she added, "There are always supplies for your cycle here, from tonics to wool and cotton. And it would be wise to try and keep track of it so you know when to prepare for it."

"Thank you, Enchanter Wynne, truly. And for your warning."

She smiled politely, "See you in class tomorrow. Be sure to practice your healing as much as your fighting, Novice Trevelyan. I know you find Spirit Healing tedious, but it could save your life one day."

The pyromancer finally cracked a smile, "I'll try between physical training. Speaking of, w-what should I say to Knight-Enchanter Croft? I'm late for training because of this and he'll skin my hide."

"Oh, you leave Gavril to me. Collect what you need for the next few days. I'll have a note sent down ahead of you." With that, Wynne left the young 'woman' to raid the feminine supply cabinet.

When Evelyn finally appeared down in the training yard, her friends were relieved to see her, as if worried something had happened. In the past few months, she made it a point to discreetly speak to a number of Templars who seemed approachable. Finding some of them to be more open-minded than others, the ones who didn't snub her were easy to befriend. She had heard there was a new Brother in the Circle's Chantry – Brother Devons – who spoke of tolerance when it came to mages. She wondered if his influence had something to do with the change in some of the younger Templars and recruits.

Cullen had made it a point to admit that some of the things she said that day in the Library rang true to him. Graciously accepting it as an apology, she was happy to see he wasn't a hopeless cause. He even introduced her to his bunkmate, Tristan Reid, who took credit for making the tall blonde see reason after hearing about their debate. Reid reminded her a lot of Henley but with the pale Ferelden complexion. He was painfully chatty, needing to know every detail about everything. Evelyn had a suspicion that he was a dealer of banned contraband within the Circle. He had a shiftiness about him with an eagle eye. He was always standing in the shadows, giving unperceivable nods at people as they passed.

She wondered at first how the two became friends with two contrasting personalities. Despite Reid's 'dealings', he was a devout Andrastian. He and Cullen shared a bench at services, both on their best Chantry boy behavior. He also seemed to have a soft spot for mages. He had a low yet steady voice with very little inflection. With a dry sense of humor and optimistic nature despite his dark countenance, Evelyn found him intriguing.

Making it out of the Tower doors she paused trying to see how much of the morning session she missed. Having already split for their specialized lessons, she began to walk towards the mage's armory when Reid passed her walking in the opposite direction, "Whatever happens... I won't let you live it down." With a wink he continued on, but Evelyn tripped over her feet realizing what he was eluding to.

As she hustled over to her instructor, she observed Brax's tense expression. "Congratulations, Trevelyan!" Croft feigning amusement, crossed the yard to meet her and she wore a sour look on her face, "Enchanter Wynne sent word, maybe now you'll start looking like a real warrior. Better late than never, I suppose." Mortified and hoping none of her peers were putting the pieces together. He stalked over to stand before her, though he spoke as if he were addressing the whole training grounds, "Wynne asked that I go a bit easy on you today, but that will not be happening." Before she could protest that she had nothing to do with the contents of the note, he leveled a knife hand at her. "I don't care whose idea it was that I grant you leniency for something that has been plaguing females since the dawn of time, but like all those before you, you'll survive!"

"Yes, Knight-Enchanter." She felt her blush deepen wondering if her mana too was pumping away in her veins at how hot she was. From her peripherals, she could see the two female Templars-in-training stifling giggles at her.

Marrian Vale and Eda Witfield. They were the only two other females in the batch of recruits that Evelyn trained with. The two were thick as thieves and at times it was hard to figure out what they made of the mage. They didn't speak to her much but watched her closely which was unnerving at times.

There was one thing that Vale and Witfield exuded, and that was arrogance. Having grown up surrounded by nobles all vying for dominance over the others, the airs they gave themselves were nothing she hadn't contended with. Vale had the type of superiority complex of most beautiful girls. Her cold blue cat-like eyes shifted about looking for things for her to scoff at along with her short sidekick. Witfield was petite and a bit round for a Templar. She was stuck to Vale like a fly on druffalo shit, clearly trying to ride her coattails – though for what purpose, Evelyn couldn't guess.

After a long and embarrassing morning of training, she and her student mentor headed into the Tower. As they strode through the Templars heading in the opposite direction towards their barracks, Evelyn felt the icy glare of Vale and Witfield on her.

"Steer clear of them," Brax whispered over to her. "I don't like the way they eye you these days." For whatever reason, the Templar duo suddenly had become intolerant of Evelyn and it had not gone unnoticed.

"I'm not sure why?"

He gave her a bit of a sly look, "You're a threat. People like you, like moths drawn to a flame. Friendly, pretty, and a promising Knight-Enchanter is a dangerous combination for two girls with no potential. Even Arlo likes you better than them."

And it only got worse from there. Soon glares would be the least of her concerns...

Over the next few months, Evelyn was growing into young womanhood at a rapid pace. Her legs constantly ached as if the Maker was elongating her Himself pulling at her with both hands. Each month saw her an inch taller, catching up with Abraxas and the other Templar boys she was training with. She quickly surpassed the handful of female Templars, which again, earned her no clout among them. Yet, she was suddenly more of a physical presence, especially for the instructors who took her more seriously.

Thankfully, she was taking after her father, as her frame had an athletic build rather than that of a supple female suited to pass her days embroidering cushions. Her waist pinched in, her shoulders and hips broadened revealing an appealing and firm hourglass figure. Her breasts didn't see much growth, but she began to build muscle more quickly, especially on her lower half.

She did begin to notice how differently others began to treat her. It made her self-conscious when she caught people blatantly looking at her and then whispering over to their friends. Evelyn was above average in beauty – nothing like her sisters, but she wasn't being groomed to be a wife any longer. Social pressures aside, she tried to remember that when she heard others call her a 'hot head' or 'draconic.' The blemishes that came with such a change did nothing for her confidence, but she took heart in knowing none of her peers seemed to have escaped such markings either. Some of the other mages wore powder and clay to reduce their appearance, but she ultimately refrained having no use for it during Croft's rigorous days of training.

In fact, the one time she had, he humiliated her so cruelly she swore inwardly she'd never touch the stuff again. After that, she became known as a bit of a tomboy, despite coming into her own natural female charms. Used to harsh criticism daily, her carefully crafted stone-cold Knight-Enchanter face, as she referred to it, was being worn more and more. It made some of the mages avert their gaze in passing, whispering that she was becoming more and more of a mindless weapon like Abraxas. When the duo were together – which was often – the air around them seemed heavy.

Abraxas began warming up to her more from their shared circumstances. He took a bit of pity on her having gone through the same thing himself but alone. Their relationship grew in the adversity, and Evelyn knew if things got tough he'd have her back, and she his.

Her fellow Knight-Enchanter-in-training had passed his Harrowing and was now accompanied by a Templar Sentinel. These Knights were assigned to guard a specific mage for various reasons but in Brax's case, it was because he was learning powerful and dangerous spells; the kind that could kill Templars. Ser Orin Dane was selected to watch over the cryomancer, as no volunteer stepped forth. As much as the female Templars sneered at Evelyn, the males did the same to Brax – not all, like his new Sentinel, but most.

Dane was a level-headed sort, seemingly unfazed by most things. Cool under pressure combined with his corn-fed Ferelden form, he matched his charge in height, though surpassed him in bulk. He was kind to Evelyn, though made no real attempt to get to know her despite the time they spent in each other's company. Yet, when not watching his mage, he was often observing her. Having Brax's warning about older Templars ringing in her ears, she decided not knowing him was for the best, just in case his wandering eyes were not entirely academic.

Breaking her from her thoughts, the two mages looked to see Rutherford and Reid conversing with the new Sentinel. "Don't be jealous boys, Trevelyan here will need a Sentinel in a few years."

"Congrats on the new post, Dane," Rutherford offered up, always the polite one. "Sentinel posts are few and far between, you're very fortunate."

"Yeah, until your fingers are frozen off," Reid scoffed with a sly smirk. "You're a Sentinel for a Kinght-Enchanter, not a young mage sneezing snowflakes."

"Let's go, Brax. You too Evie." Sharing a look, the two mages obeyed following their new babysitter as he flexed his new authority. From the way Brax chewed his lip, she knew he was still getting used to his shortened leash. As for her, she went along with the Sentinel's orders, and as long as he was around Templars, Vale and Witfield kept their distance. Even if Dane wasn't her Sentinel, he was held to a higher standard of vigilance over mages. There would be serious consequences if an incident occurred on his watch.

Knowing that one day she'd have the same, Evelyn hoped whoever it was would be the reasonable sort.

Chapter Text

Dragon 9:27 (16 yrs old)

Though more refined and disciplined, the page is still messy in areas where the author did not allow the ink to dry. A number of lines were struck out, and the uneven folds, rather than being redone, were left as is.

Dear Evie,

It's two years today that you left me and I have to say, I'm still angry with you.

My vigil is coming up, and while I'd never admit it to Sorin-sparky-pants, I'm a bit nervous. I know I'll pass and all because I'm  ME , but it's the biggest moment of my life! I could really use some of your positive reassurance here because Sorin's matter-of-factness is not what I need. I wish I could just hear you say 'everything will be fine' because I fear I'm forgetting what you sound like.

You better not be laughing at me... even if you were I can't hear you with a sea between us – and a lake, right? Might as well be the bloody Frostbacks too!

Sorry, the two years thing has me feeling sentimental. I know it's an odd request but... if you know someone who can do your likeness justice, have a sketch done for me. Please? I'm sure you look even more like a crazy-fireball-thrower now! Do you still have your long hair or have you burnt it off yet?

The best Templar you know (still),

Henley

P.S. No jokes for you. I'm still mad and  I know  they are your  favorite  part of my letters.

"Another letter from yer friend in Ostwick? And wot is that?" Rhetta was leaning over Evelyn as she read her latest letter from Henley. After a rainy morning session, it left her hair in a knotty mess and the elf was determined to finger comb it out for her. Having her friend in such a state was an affront to the copper-haired mage's desire for feminine beauty in all things, including her friends if she could help it.

Evelyn unfolded the extra page tucked into his letter, her smile widening in astonishment as she took it in. "It's him! He had a sketch done of himself." Her fingers hovered over the artist's careful work, mindful not to smudge the lines, as she admired Henley's familiar yet transformed face. He looked more like a man now, his dark stubble shadowing a strong jawline, his thick neck and shoulders adding to the impression of rugged maturity. Her friend had always been tall and broad, but she hadn't expected him to grow into this. He was... handsome. Unmistakably so.

"That's him?" Rhetta remarked, her tone a mix of amusement and indifference. "He's no Brax, but if you like tall, rugged Knights, I suppose he'll do." It was clear her distaste for all things Templar outweighed any appreciation for their looks.

Evelyn gazed back at the sketch, something stirring in her chest. Her voice came out softer, almost absent-minded: "Rugged indeed..." Her heart quickened, the idea taking root that he wanted her to see this, to know how he had changed. He needed her reassurance, her words to bolster his confidence. The thought that her opinion mattered so much to him sent a rush of warmth through her. She reread Henley's words, turning them over in her mind. Was there more hidden beneath his playful tone, something left unsaid? But why was she even hoping for that?

Maker, get a hold of yourself, she thought, shaking her head. This is ridiculous.

"Rhetta," Evelyn said at last, meeting her friend's eyes, "could you draw me so I could send something back to him? You've got an excellent eye and talent."

A smirk curled at her lips, "Aye, and I'd make ye look gorgeous for yer man. Good thing that won't be hard to do."

"No, I want it true to me."

"E, ya are beautiful. I won't lie 'bout that."

She scoffed, "Sure, look at me. My hair is a mess and most people think I'm on a Templar's leash." Next to her Evelyn looked like a dirty grub in her practice clothes. She didn't wear the long robes of a mage, but the tunic and breeches of the Templar recruits. Though the pants clung to her form, the shirt was flowy and made her look boxy despite the belt above her waist. Always sweaty with her hair up in a messy way, Evelyn prioritized getting it out of her face for physical training in the morning. Whipping around practicing with her staff later on, it was also a safety measure to keep it back so as not to burn it off as Henley joked about.

"Yer too hard on yerself, Evie, I've heard of several people sweet on ye. Wot about that time we were in the Alchemy Lab and ye helped that boy when his flask exploded! He couldn't stop starin' at ye the rest of the class," she wriggled her eyebrows up and down.

Chuckling before letting go of a heavy sigh, the pyromancer replied, "That's because a piece of the glass cut my head, and he was concerned I was going to bleed on him. Apparently, the sight of it makes him faint."

"Well, yer hair is certainly a hot topic." Since becoming a woman, the ends of her mahogany locks were bleaching blonde. The fade was creeping higher and higher but faded halfway up her long wavy strands. It was certainly a different sort of mutation, as the Senior Enchanters believed it was caused by the combination of puberty and her mana. It was not uncommon for mages to develop odd traits, but she hoped that would be the end of it since she had glowing veins to contend with as well.

"I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I suppose it could be worse." Taking some of her long locks in hand, she studied the blending hues.

"I like it! I almost wish me hair would do the same."

Evelyn snorted a laugh, "Please, everyone loves a redhead. I'd trade you if it were possible."

"If what was possible?" Miriam joined them with her tray of bland food. They quickly filled her in and the healer weighed in with her thoughts, "I believe there is a simple and pure beauty to one's natural hue. The Maker gifts us with it, and I trust His design for us."

Evelyn quirked an eyebrow over at her, as Rhetta still tugged at knots in her damp hair, "Well, then by all rights shouldn't I be the redhead, being the pyromancer? Wouldn't that fit me better than this?"

Miriam's pale blue eyes squinted as she watched her two friends from across the table, "Not necessarily. I think the blonde looks more like flames burning away at the dark."

Evelyn never thought about it that way. "Hmm, I like that." She smiled warmly at Miriam's insight and perspective.

Rhetta was ever focused on the physical aspects of the world, whereas her fellow high-born saw the spiritual and symbolic meanings in the mundane. Evelyn rounded out the group by simply being the rational middle ground, usually finding something to agree and disagree with on both sides. The trio was a diverse bunch away from their academic acquaintances, who had much more similar interests, yet the young women seemed to always gravitate toward each other outside of the day's lessons.

"Malefrath's hairy arse Evie, yer hair is so knotted, ye need to keep it in somethin' different than a bun or ponytail. A braid would be perfect! Then I wouldn't have to fuckin' un-tangle this rat's nest," she grumbled, still attempting to help salvage her friend's hair. The pyromancer shrugged and lost herself in thought as she attempted to detangle it as if an Avvar on their wedding day. Staring off into nothing, she didn't notice the tall Templar trying to get her attention by clearing his throat. Rhetta gave her a light smack on the arm, "Oi, yer other Templar buddy wants ye." Moving her eyes to the left, Cullen was speaking to one of the Sentinels, but pointing with a finger to meet him out in the hall.

"I felt I needed to tell you about something." Worry was etched in his features as she patiently waited. "Vale and Witfield they..." His gaze darted around the hall.

"Yes?"

"I think they have it out for you. The things they say, I can't imagine any of it to be true."

"What did they say?" Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest.

"I haven't heard all of it, but something about a murder and a cover-up back in Ostwick."

Evelyn's face scrunched up in disbelief, "How could I possibly be here if it were true?" He pinned her with a sour expression. She chewed the inside of her lip feeling her rage ignite at the affront. "They don't like me, they never have and it seems to only be getting worse. I'm a constant annoyance to them and Brax seems to think it's because they're jealous. Well, if they think I'm just going to let them make up lies then–"

"No, you can't do anything to them without getting yourself in deeper trouble. I just worry their words will reach my superiors and it will hurt your chances at becoming a Knight-Enchanter."

"Then what I am supposed to do, Cullen? Let them spread nasty rumors about me? It's different for someone like me, I could be made Tranquil if the wrong thing is said!"

His face softened, "Croft would never allow it, and besides, despite what I believed when we first met, you've made friends of mages and Templars alike. Let us defend you." It's true, Evelyn had formed strong bonds with a number of them who could quell any slander aimed at her.

Of all of them, Cullen was the closest, both sharing a determination to be the best they can be and do the Maker's work. He had come along after their talk in the Library months ago, apologizing for forgetting one of the first lessons of being a Templar: That mages were people too, despite evidence to the contrary. She often compared their friendship to that of hers with Henley, but the two were so different she didn't think it was fair. Cullen was serious and did things by the book. Henley was spontaneous and pushed boundaries on things and people. One wasn't better than the other, but she was grateful for it because she didn't feel like she was replacing her Ostwick friend.

She frowned, "I don't like others fighting my battles for me. If we were in Ostwick, my best friend would distract them and I'd burn their pants off." Evelyn snorted a laugh at the mental image of Vale and Witfield with crispy bottoms.

"Do that here and it's a death sentence," his tone harshened. "You and your friend are lucky rules are so relaxed in Ostwick for you'd already be branded here for that."

Evelyn shook her kinky waves, "My best friend is a Templar-Recruit like you, remember? Well, he'll soon be Knight, his vigil is soon."

His amber eyes floated down to her hand to the paper she was clutching, "Is that him?"

"Mmhm," she smiled again, "we write as often as we can. We met when I first came into the Circle. He was assigned to show me around, just like how we met."

He chuckled quietly, "Is that why you chose me to harass?"

Having never thought of it like that, she saw the humor in it, joining in with her own laughter, "Yes! The first Templar my age I meet is bound to become my friend. Sorry, Rutherford, but it was fate and now you're stuck with me... and all my crazy mutations." Evelyn inspected her lightening hair with a slight frown.

"Careful, I may be insulted, Trevelyan. Some of us were born with fair-colored hair." Running a hand through his, the lack of scowl on his face told her he hadn't taken it to heart.

"Yours hasn't been caused by magic though," without thinking she reached up feeling his thick locks of hair. Cullen slightly pulled back, his eyes darting about making sure they were unseen. "Relax, I wasn't going to set it on fire." The two had come in contact during physical training plenty of times for him to not take issue with such an innocent touch. And if she was being honest, she had always wanted to run her fingers through his inviting golden locks.

"I know, just..." he sighed keeping whatever he was going to say to himself, "anyway, just... if you happen to hear something don't burn anyone's pants off. Promise?" Again she chuckled to herself in her head, knowing his opposite – Henley – would've advised the opposite.

Cullen was being especially serious now which told her not to argue, "I promise. I'll see you at the afternoon session." He nodded giving her a reassuring wan smile before walking away down the hall. As she headed back into the mess hall with her friends, both mages were on high alert. Sitting back down she asked them cautiously, "What's going on?"

Rhetta had a wild look in her emerald eyes, "Shits stirrin' and it's got those two harlots names all over it. They started up 'soon as you left, the bloody cowards!" Her city-elf temperament to fight first and never ask for forgiveness was showing as she glared at Vale and Witfield across the hall.

The pyromancer sighed, feeling her mana swirling around within in defense. "It must be what Cullen warned me about. He told me to ignore it. I don't even know what they said."

Miriam gave her a weary sideglance, "I'm not sure that'll be possible for you and your temper once you hear..."

"Trev," Abraxas put an arm around her shoulder leaning in, "I just heard–"

"For fuck's sake, someone just tell me what they said before I get mad anyway!"

All three mages looked at each other, but her fellow Knight-Encahnter-in-training was the one to speak up, "Vale apparently received a letter from a cousin in the Chantry who visits the Circle of Ostwick. She just read it aloud." At her home's mention, Evelyn's whole demeanor darkened. "She claims you attacked and burnt alive a Mother over some mage named Sorin."

The Marcher shot up, fists clenched, and veins glowing, but Abraxas pushed her down with a scolding look. The three tightened around her to hide her flaming mana knowing that she couldn't help it. Magma dripped from her lips with every word, "She would dare utter that name!" It was a violation to her friend that his name ever be known to her, let alone escape her foul lips.

The cryomancer placed himself directly in her line of sight, "Trev, cool your temper before the Templars see." His fierce look focused her, as her glowing veins dimmed, but her emotions were teetering on the violent edge. "This is exactly the kind of reaction they're trying to get out of you!"

"He's right, E. Keep this up and yer sure to get the blighted brand." Rhetta cursed under her breath, as she continued to eye the two through her human shield as they watched them with wicked grins. Satisfied they riled her up, the two instigators left.

Miriam, always the voice of reason piped up, "How can anyone believe it's true if she's here? Surely, the penalty for such a crime is death. No one can justify this story without seeing all its holes."

"They can if they say her noble father bought them off and had her transferred here," Evelyn's eyes snapped up at Abraxas' words and even Miriam deflated, both knowing all too well the meaning of being nobility in the Circle.

"That's not what happened." The Marcher retold the story of the Mother's persecution of Sorin; that her mutation scared him; that no one was injured beyond the mages getting Silenced; and how they were imprisoned but let off because of a threat she made. She did threaten to revoke House Trevelyan's funding of the Chantry, but she didn't act upon it.

"That's terrible that a Mother would treat one of the Maker's children so! Sorin means 'sun', does it not? Poor boy." Miriam rubbed a thumb over her amulet of Andraste in the manner she did when she was upset.

"We were inseparable until I left to come here. He's like a little brother to me, and for Vale to speak of him and my father so..." Her fists clenched and her nails dug into her calloused palms. "Cullen said he had my back and not to do anything."

"Can ye really trust one of 'em to put their polished arse on the line for ye?" She knew Rhetta would never understand the kind of bond she and Abraxas formed with the Templars. Yes, they were tools for them to use, but Templars were also taught that certain situations required magic to solve and that the mages they could trust would be tested and trained to ensure their safety.

"We can trust Rutherford and Reid."

"Dane too," Abraxas added his Sentinel into the mix. "Let's just ignore this unless they push it."

The rest of the day, Evelyn walked on eggshells around the Tower. She swore more people stared and whispered after her than usual. The times she saw Cullen in passing she gave him a sharp look, but he made it point for him or Reid to be nearby to thwart the ladies from clashing with each other. Having volunteered to help sort books in the Library – as most Templar-Recruits had to do some kind of chore daily – Evelyn and her two mage friends met there in the evening to study and start on the portrait of her for Henley. The table they chose was in a busy area near where Cullen could watch them.

While Rhetta got to work on the drawing and Miriam studied, Evelyn concentrated on her letter:

Byron,

Don't get all broody on me—I know how you get when something's bothering you. I'd much rather picture you as you are in that sketch: confident and ready to stir up trouble.

On a brighter note, every year that goes by brings me closer to coming back to Ostwick! I've got zero plans to stick around here once I finish training as a Knight-Enchanter.

As for your vigil, you  will  be fine! Honestly, you're the best—and cockiest—Templar-Recruit I've ever known. The solitude will be rough, sure, but you'll power through it. It'll be worth it in the end, I promise. I just wish I could be there when you take your first dose of lyrium. Seriously, be patient with yourself. Let your body adjust. And for the love of the Maker, talk to Sorin. I know you two are stubborn as brontos, but you need each other, even if you refuse to admit it.

Anyway, I've got complete faith in you. I'll be thinking of you. And I miss you.

Evie

P.S. I hope my portrait cheers you up, and I really hope you're not too disappointed I didn't go bald while attempting magic. And yes, my hair really does fade to blonde now. Apparently, I'm full of surprises.

Evelyn set the letter down, reading it over one last time. Despite being on different continents, the need to have Henley and Sorin's friendship was like a burning ember in her heart, flaring hot when her thoughts drifted to them. The same frustration that gripped her since she arrived would surge forth, but with each passing year, it was lessening. She had accepted that she could control very little in her life, but she was still going to make the most of it.

Having finished her portrait, the pyromancer smiled at Rhetta's artistic ability to capture her realistically. With Miriam's approval, she excitedly folded the pages together to put in the post. With her task complete, the day's trouble came back to her, gazing up at her volunteer Sentinel. She had been so focused on her friend in Ostwick, that she forgot the ones doing their best for her here.

Realizing she owed Cullen thanks for going out of his way to be here in case the troublesome Templars appeared, she said goodnight to her friends and made her way over to him. Despite what the recipient of her letter would have advised in handling Vale and Witfield, deep down she knew Cullen was right. His assurances had tempered her fiery rage, and for that, she needed to thank him.

Approaching the shelf he was working on, she pretended to be looking for a book, "Thank you for everything. I fear I would've done something hot-headed if it weren't for your help today."

His countenance never changed as he diligently worked, "It's my duty, isn't it? Keeping mages safe, even if it's from themselves."

"While I appreciate you making light of it, it isn't. It's more of what a friend would do and I'm grateful. I'm glad I listened to you this time rather than explode like I wanted to. You really have that scolding frown down."

That got his attention, cocking an eyebrow over at her, "Better get used to it if you want to be a Knight-Enchanter." The faintest twitch of his lips told her he was partially joking.

"Pff, you're not a Knight yet, Rutherford, don't let it go to your head."

"I will be soon though. I was older than most when I entered the Order, but I surpassed all expectations. I'll have my vigil soon, maybe in a few months." There was excitement in his eyes brightening them. She wished every Templar was like him, so full of faith and reason. Aside from Henley, she now knew she could trust Cullen with her life.

The words from her letter came back to her, realizing maybe he needed to hear them too, "You'll make a great Templar, Cullen." There was an odd moment where time seemed to freeze between them. They gazed at each other with the fondness of a kindred spirit. Clearing her throat, in an attempt to ward away any awkwardness she knew he was prone to, she added, "And I only say that so you go easy on little o' me in the future and so you keep helping me with those two shitheads."

He chuckled earnestly, "I see, well if I need a mage's help I expect you to assist me, Trevelyan, without having to butter you up. Deal?"

"Deal, Rutherford."

Chapter Text

Dragon 9:27 (16 yrs)

Dear Sorin,

How are things going for you lately? Anything new happening in the Circle? Anyway, I hope you're doing well and not buried under too much study.

So, this is kind of random, but I wanted to ask you something. My friend Miriam asked about you the other day. And then—don't frown—she said she'd like to write you a letter. I have no idea why she's so eager, but honestly, it doesn't seem like a bad idea. She doesn't have a big circle of friends either, so it might be nice for both of you to have someone new to chat with. Would you be okay with that? Of course, no pressure to say yes if it's not your thing.

Looking forward to hearing from you! Write back soon, or I'll start sending you increasingly bad jokes.

Take care,  

Evelyn

Evelyn,

Things are as they usually are here. The days are largely the same—study, practice, and the occasional interruption. Yesterday, Henley approached me before his Vigil. He sat next to me in silence for some time. When he got up to leave, he patted my shoulder, grinned, and said, "Thanks for the support."

I didn't do anything. I find his behavior odd, but he seems content with whatever it is he thought I provided.

In other news, I've decided to write to my father. It's unsettling but also somewhat exciting. I don't know what to expect, but I'll share more details as this develops. For now, it's just an idea I'm trying to follow through on.

As for your friend Miriam—if she's important to you, she's welcome to write me a letter. I won't guarantee a reply, but I don't mind receiving one.

Sorin

Evelyn leaned against the wall in a secluded corner of the library, nursing yet another bump on her head from training. After over a year at Kinloch Tower, she was finally used to the vigorous schedule and training. Her stamina was increasing and her lean muscles were firming more and more. Her aches were neverending, but she knew later down the road it would be a benefit to her.

The days were long, rising with the sun for her morning sessions with the Templars, followed by meeting Miriam for the first Chantry service of the day. Then there was breakfast where they were joined by Rhetta. She lazily dragged her arse out of bed to feed after her late nights, unable to sleep until the moons were past their apex. Then she had to contend with 'Vile Vale' and 'Witless Witfield' as they began to call the two Templar-Recruits. They still had it out for Evelyn, making trouble when they could. The Marcher got used to dealing with their threats and thankfully had plenty of support from her friends – mages and Templars alike – and even Knight-Enchanter Croft, who would tell them to set the record straight at times.

She pressed her finger to the tender bruise, wincing at the pain. Her healing magic was utterly worthless, so the sensible course of action would be to either fetch a healing potion or seek assistance from another mage. However, the thought of trekking two flights of stairs to the infirmary seemed like too much effort, especially when she still had an assignment to finish.

Thankfully, she caught sight of the long, dark braid of her friend out of the corner of her eye. "Pst, pssst, Miri?" she whispered, trying to get her attention.

The Ferelden turned to face her, her face lighting up with recognition. "Evelyn?" she responded in a whisper, her expression shifting to concern as she noted her bruise. She closed the distance between them with a quick step."What happened?!"

"Training, as usual," Evelyn replied, leaning closer to her friend. "Could you... heal this bump?"

Miriam hesitated, her expression conflicted. "Oh, Evelyn, I would love to, but you know that I've been ordered by the First Enchanter to use my healing magic only in cases of emergency," she uttered, her tone apologetic.

Evelyn frowned, frustration at Irving bubbling within her. How long were they going to keep her from her calling? "But, Miri, I can't focus on my studies with this throbbing pain, and the walk to the infirmary would take forever... Isn't this clearly such a case?"

The young woman looked at her with a slight reproach. "How is that an emergency? It's just you being lazy."

"Oh, come on, I know you are longing to heal people; it's just that you are not allowed to! I am giving you a chance to be the healer you want to be and not breach any rules. If the First Enchanter finds out, we will tell him I was groaning in pain too loudly in here for anyone to concentrate on their studies. That you were doing everyone in the library a favor."

Miriam chewed on her bottom lip, clearly torn between her obedience and her desire to help her friend. "I suppose it won't be a great infraction on my part to help you," she continued as if trying to convince herself. "It could be a serious wound; who knows if there's internal bleeding involved!"

Evelyn's face lit up with relief. "Exactly! Thank you, Miri! I owe you one," she added in a hushed tone gratefully.

Miriam nodded. "Just... don't get scared," she warned, suddenly shy. "Once I start to treat your head, blood will flow from my eyes."

Evelyn chuckled softly. "I'm training to battle demons, if I were freaked out by blood, I'd be in serious trouble. And I've heard so much about it that I'm even interested to see what all the fuss is about."

With a deep breath, Miriam focused her healing magic, her hands glowing with a soft, golden light. Gently, she touched Evelyn's bruised temple, and as she began to channel her magic, a strange sensation washed over her. She had been healed so many times before, but never had it felt so gentle, so comforting. Usually, it was forced, like the injury was commanded to mend sharply. The Ferelden's spell felt like a tender touch, pleading and slowly guiding the wound to heal.

As Miriam's concentration deepened, the whites of her eyes began to flood with blood, as if the capillaries within them were bursting. Tears of crimson welled up, spilling in thick rivulets down her pale cheeks, the coppery scent thickening the air.

Evelyn's astonishment grew as she watched this surreal spectacle. It was a gory sight, yet it possessed an ethereal quality, as though the blood were part of the arcane ritual—not fueling it, like blood magic, but merely a manifestation of the power coursing through Miriam's veins.

The Ferelden's expression remained focused, determined, as the crimson flow intensified, now pulsing in rhythm with Evelyn's own heartbeat. And with each pulse, she felt her pain vanish, replaced by a soothing warmth.

Finally, with a gentle touch, Miriam withdrew her hands. The soft glow of healing magic lingered briefly in the air before fading away. As it did, the flow of blood from her eyes ceased, leaving dark stains on her cheeks, robes, and the floor.

Evelyn blinked, still processing what she had just witnessed. "That... was incredible," she murmured, awe filling her voice.

Miriam offered a sheepish smile, wiping the remnants of crimson from her face with the sleeve of her robe. "Incredible? Maybe not the word I'd use," she said, her tone bashful. "I'm just glad it worked—and that you didn't find it too creepy."

Evelyn chuckled, a warm expression softening her features. "Creepy? Not at all," she reassured her. "It was... fascinating. I've never experienced healing magic like that before."

A faint blush touched Miriam's cheeks, her embarrassment shifting into something like pride. "I suppose the Maker gave me this healing talent for a reason. Though why He decided my eyes should bleed when I use it... well, that part still baffles me." She knelt, gathering the folds of her robe to wipe the blood from the floor. "Maybe it's His way of keeping me humble."

With a thoughtful glance at the Ferelden's eyes, which were gradually returning to their normal hue, Evelyn hesitated before speaking. "I hadn't thought to ask before, but... does it hurt? Or affect you in any other way?"

Miriam paused, rising slowly, her movements deliberate. "It's not exactly pain," she replied after a moment, her tone reflective. "It's more of an unpleasant prickling in my eyes, like tiny icy needles stabbing from the inside. As for other effects, I suppose if I used this ability extensively, blood loss could become an issue. But I haven't pushed it far enough to find out."

Evelyn tilted her head, absorbing Miriam's words with a newfound respect. "If, despite all that, you still want to pursue healing, you really should make your case to the First Enchanter. Your resolve deserves recognition."

The Ferelden met Evelyn's gaze, and for a moment, her steady composure faltered, revealing a flicker of uncertainty. Then, with a deep breath, she nodded. "Perhaps I should. There's so much good I could do as a healer—and I think I owe it to myself and the Maker, who had blessed me so, to try harder."

"Then," Evelyn uttered softly, "when you're ready to make that case, know I'll stand with you. We'll make sure they see what I see in you."

Miriam's lips quirked into a wide, genuine smile, her eyes reflecting a spark of newfound confidence as she nodded in reply. "Thank you, Evelyn."

Spring had finally thawed the frozen Ferelden landscape. The fresh scent of blossoming fauna from the mainland was soured by Lake Calenhad's water. With very little blooming in and around the Circle itself – aside from the botanical garden – one could hardly tell the change in seasons. By Marchers' standards, it was still cold, yet everyone around her began wearing lighter clothing. Even their moods were slightly better, but again, Evelyn believed they could be warmer.

She wondered at the influence they were having on her; what if she had been trained in Ostwick? Would it have made her softer? The pyromancer had faced much in her first five years since coming into her magic. Perhaps she had already changed believing that Ostwick wouldn't have hardened her for battle – or life in general – as Croft was doing.

"There you are! I'm so glad my class was canceled, now I can see you in action finally!" Miriam was tagging along for her lesson in the mage's training yard, wanting to study out in the 'fragrant' air. Her sweet, tight-lipped smile was a welcoming sight for her morning training session.

"Just be sure to sit on the bench..." There were two long benches on the edge of their yard, and it was already filled with mages. "What the...?"

"They are all from my class, why would they all be here?"

Turning to follow their gazes, Evelyn saw why. "Ugh, they're here to watch Brax. Just hold on a second, I'll clear you a space."

"Oh, that's alright," the Ferelden said disappointedly. "I can just go to the Library—"

"Miri, you want a spot, I'll get you a spot." Before she could stop her, Evelyn whistled and barked at one of the girls to move. Flexing her molten veins slightly for emphasis, two of the mages fled, making a comfortable spot on the end for Miriam. "All for you," she bowed with a sweeping gesture.

"You didn't have to do that," her friend whispered, her sheepish gaze darting around at the other girls.

"If Brax gets to have his admirers here, I think I'm entitled to have one friend here too. Besides, he always has people here for him. No one bothers with me, but not today!" Giddy to have her friend with her, she flashed Miriam a bright grin before spinning on a heel towards the armor closet.

She didn't get far before smacking into a semi-armored form, "Watch it! Oh, Trevelyan." The sandy blonde shock of Cullen's hair greeted her.

"Why am I always hitting my head off you? Miri just healed my last bruise."

"Well, I wish you would stop, you're gonna ding my armor."

"As if. To what do I owe the pleasure of running into you for anyway?"

"Arlo ordered some of us to join you today for exercises." Looking around, there were seven other trainees – including Vale and Witfield to her dismay – stretching and awaiting orders from Croft who was speaking with Arlo most likely about the exercises they'd be doing. Evelyn figured it'd have to be some melee practice since none of the others had taken their Vigil yet to become a full-fledged Knight.

She couldn't help her sassiness, nodding towards Vale and Witfield, "Oh good, maybe I'll get an excuse to kick their pathetic arses." He looked at her with some admonishment, ready to retort but she pushed past him to get her practice armor on. She enjoyed the days the Templars joined them for practice; dummies were becoming a bore. That, and her usual sparring partner, Abraxas, was becoming predictable. At least Miriam would get a good show, especially if she got a chance at the two female Templars.

Pulling the leather straps of her breastplate tight, she tried to remember that she couldn't push it with Vale and Witfield. Any misstep and they would bury her in accusations.

As she anticipated for today's practice, the apprentices and recruits were paired up for melee sparring, but there was a twist. To give the future Knights a taste of more realistic battles involving arcane wielders, the mages were allowed to use non-offensive spells such as barriers and the fade-step. Evelyn smiled to herself – this could be her chance to get back at the two armor polish-eaters.

When it came time to decide the pairings, which were typically assigned by Croft and Arlo, Witfield unexpectedly requested to spar with Evelyn. The request raised eyebrows from both the Knight-Enchanter and the Templar, both of whom were aware of the recent rumors. This instance wasn't any different from all the others they had dealt with before. The animosity between mages and Templars was long ingrained in their culture. The instructor duo had been through it time and time again, and they prided themselves on rooting out such childish habits from their recruits. As Croft imparted to her, they were to be disciplined warriors, not members of the Orlesian Court. And no doubt with that sentiment in mind, they agreed to the pairing.

When the day's spectators realized what was happening, they suddenly had something more interesting to watch than Abraxas. By now everyone in Kinloch Tower knew of the feud, but for everyone who didn't believe the rumor, there were plenty of others who did. Had it been any other mage, they most likely would've laid low and rode out the storm – but this was Evelyn Althea Trevelyan, the human embodiment of fire.

For those who didn't know her well, she seemed like a privileged mage in need of humbling. They wanted a show, and arguably most wanted to see Evelyn brought down. But they were in for disappointment. She would sooner eat bronto dung than let that bitch claim victory.

Entering the sparring ring, Evelyn glanced at Miriam, her brow furrowed in that almost motherly way she had when she was worried. Cullen, a few feet away, looked no less concerned. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a small shake of his head, clearly warning her to tread carefully.

She gave a wink in their direction, acknowledging their concern but ignoring it. Through the strands of her hair too short to be pulled back in her braid, her eyes flicked over to Witfield. She and Vale exchanged looks that she couldn't quite read. Reid was standing behind her in the group, making Evelyn wonder if they were up to something.

Before the match began, both combatants were handed their respective potions to bring them to their full potential – a lyrium potion for Evelyn and a stamina draught for the recruit. Eda grabbed her flask with greedy hands, practically inhaling it, her full lips closing around the bottle with an eagerness that made Evelyn smirk.

As if that'll help you, Witless. You're still a shit fighter hiding behind a shield.

The mage followed suit, though as she swallowed, she noted the potion tasted... off. A bit more bitter than usual. She frowned but shrugged it off—her excitement about facing Witfield was too great to let a strange aftertaste spoil the moment. Once finished, she handed back the empty bottle and stalked into position.

For show, Eda bounced on her feet, loosening her muscles in a pitiful way as gravity worked against her in more ways than one. She twirled her sword about with some practice stabs that made Evelyn want to roll her eyes. Glancing at Croft, the Knight-Enchanter's jaw ticked, clearly annoyed by Arlo's tolerance of such a display, yet Templars were expected to intimidate and exude power... though this was just sad.

Cullen was pinching the bridge of his nose, seemingly unable to watch her, almost causing Evelyn's stoic poise to crack. In an attempt to focus on something else, the pyromancer took her staff from the rack, inspecting it in her hands, the weight familiar and reassuring. Rather than spin it about like a stage act, she followed her mentor's teachings betraying nothing to her opponent that could be used against her from her movement to emotion. As much as she'd like to flip her a rude gesture.

Witfield stood at the far end of the ring, her plate armor gleaming, her training sword resting easily on her shoulder. The smirk on her face was enough to make Evelyn's blood boil.

For someone I've seen swinging her sword like she's chopping wood, she's awfully confident.

"Ready to play, little mage?" She called, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.

Evelyn didn't bother with a reply; she stepped into the ring, her staff at the ready with deliberate confidence and fire in her eyes.

Arlo raised his hand to silence the spectators. "Remember the rules. No lethal force. Only defensive spells. The match ends when one participant yields or is incapacitated." He glanced between the two young women, lingering just long enough on Evelyn to make her grind her teeth. "Begin!"

Witfield moved first, as Evelyn anticipated. A surge of augmented speed closed the distance between them in an instant, her sword flashing in a downward arc. Evelyn barely had time to parry with a crackling shield of magic, the impact dispelling the shield in a burst of dazzling light but protecting the mage nonetheless.

"Not bad," Witfield shrugged, her grin widening as she pressed forward, her blows relentless. The mage sidestepped, sweeping her staff low at her opponent's feet. The Templar-Recruit danced back, unscathed, but Evelyn noted the flicker of annoyance on her face.

Good.

Suddenly, Evelyn felt a strange rush— the lyrium in her veins buzzed way too sharply, her magic swelling too quickly, too intensely for her to fully control. Her hands trembled slightly as she parried Eda's next blow, her grip on the staff tightening. Something wasn't right.

Yet the mage didn't have time to dwell on it as Eda came at her again, her strikes faster, more relentless. Evelyn barely managed to keep up, her movements feeling both sluggish and overly precise at the same time.

"What's the matter?" Witfield sneered, her shield battering against Evelyn's defenses. "Feeling the pressure?"

Evelyn gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus, but the world around her blurred in a way she couldn't shake off. She caught a glimpse of her hands—her fingertips glowing, veins lit up in fiery brightness beneath her skin, running up her arms and across her chest. That manifestation of her magic was familiar, but this time the light was accompanied by a terrible heat she had never felt before. An unbearable surge of power built in her core, burning and searing her from within.

"Offensive magic is not allowed!" Eda shouted as she raised her shield.

Through pain and panic, Evelyn turned, her wild gaze locking onto Arlo. "Silence me—NOW!" she bellowed, her voice cracking with desperation.

But it was too late.

A violent burst of flames erupted from her body, scorching the air and consuming everything in its path. The heat was blinding, pulsing out solar flares like the sun. Brought to her knees, Evelyn barely registered the sound of screams as she tried to breathe through her own panic.

One stream of fire struck Eda in the face, and she went down with a piercing scream, clutching at her helm as smoke and flames engulfed her. Other bursts shot outward, uncontrolled and furious, crashing into the crowd. A terrified yell rose up as people scrambled to avoid the blazing inferno.

"Get her under control!" someone shouted, and Evelyn heard the distinct sound of swords being drawn.

The Templars.

She stumbled back, her vision swimming as the flames raged around her. She could feel their abilities reaching out to dampen her magic, but instead of snuffing the flames, the fire roared even louder, defying the dispelling power of the Knights.

"No! No, no, no!" Evelyn gasped as she watched in horror, unable to stop the destruction she was causing. But the fire wasn't hers anymore—it was a monster, alive and ravenous.

Suddenly, a figure emerged through the chaos. Croft, fade-stepping into the blaze, appeared before her. His form shimmered with a protective barrier, holding firm against the blazing heat.

Without hesitation, he raised his spirit blade and struck her with the hilt, aiming directly for her temple. The impact was sharp and sudden, and Evelyn felt herself collapse. The flames flickered violently, then began to fade as unconsciousness claimed her.

The last thing she heard before the darkness took her was the echo of shouting—angry, frightened, and filled with accusation.

Chapter Text

A worn diary excerpt

Maker, guide my hand as I write, for my heart overflows with gratitude.

Evelyn—fierce Evelyn! She is the brightest flame in this darkened world, fierce as fire, yet as comforting as a hearth. Were I to stumble, were my faith in myself ever to waver, she would reignite my purpose. Surely, she is a gift from the Maker, sent to light the way and inspire me to be better, to strive harder. With her by my side, I feel as though I could face even the darkness of the Black City and not falter. How extraordinary she is! How precious this friendship is, a treasure beyond gold.

And yet, my thoughts turn often to Sorin of Ostwick, Evelyn’s companion from her youth. When I learned of his story and his name "Sun," I was overcome with both joy and sorrow—joy that he bears the very symbol of our faith and sorrow that his heart seems closed to the light of the Maker. He carries bitterness within him, a wound inflicted by an unworthy Mother who treated him unjustly, as though his soul were tarnished when it was not.

Oh, how he moves me! His letters, though infrequent, are rare jewels of thought, brimming with such depth that I am left in awe of his mind. Just today, his response to my letter made my heart ache with both pity and admiration. I had written to him of the Maker’s eternal love, of how He sees even the smallest sparrow. Sorin’s reply was short, but it burned in my thoughts:

"If the Maker sees so much, Miriam, perhaps He might look elsewhere and leave me in peace."

How profound this is! Does he not see? Even in his frustration, he contemplates the Maker’s omnipresence. How could he speak of being seen so readily if he did not, in his heart, believe it to be true? Oh, Sorin, you are a stubborn flame, flickering but not yet extinguished. I will not cease my efforts to help you see the light you already carry within you.

The Maker’s plan is a mystery, but I believe Sorin is a part of it. Evelyn’s fierce brightness, Sorin’s quiet brilliance—both are threads in the grand tapestry He designed. I only pray that I may be worthy of the roles the Maker has given me in their lives.

Cullen stood frozen amidst the chaos, his training warring with the shock gripping his chest. The flames were everywhere, consuming the training grounds in a ravenous blaze. Apprentices and Templar-Recruits fled in all directions screaming, while Eda’s wails pierced through the noise, her charred hands clawing at the helm partially fused to her seared skin. Other victims were lying scattered around the ground, their burns severe, and their cries desperate.

His heart pounded as he tried to make sense of the situation. Evelyn. How could this have happened? The most disciplined and controlled apprentice he knew had been utterly consumed by magic, her flames a force of destruction even the Templars struggled to rein in.

More Knights surged into the fray, their weapons drawn, their abilities reaching out to suppress the remnants of the Marcher’s magic around the grounds. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus as two senior Templars hauled Evelyn’s limp form toward the cells. Her head lolled, blood trickling down her temple from where Croft had struck her.

"Get those flames under control!" Knight-Lieutenant Arlo barked, his commanding voice cutting through the chaos. He and Croft moved in perfect tandem—the Knight-Enchanter, conjured torrents of water to douse the roaring flames, while Arlo unleashed a barrage of Spell Purges, steadily forcing the magical inferno back. Their stratagem was honed by years of camaraderie, perfectly demonstrated for all to see how such opposing forces could work together as one. With their combined efforts, the flames were finally extinguished and order restored. But the damage was already done.

“Healers!” one of the Knights shouted. “We need healers here, now!”

“Ser Arlo!” A voice rang out. Cullen turned to see Miriam, her robes singed but otherwise unharmed, as she was kneeling beside Eda. Her hands hovered over the young woman’s burns, unwavering determination in her expression. “I can heal her. I can heal them all. Please, let me help! If we wait for the infirmary staff, they’ll die!”

Arlo hesitated, his jaw tight. The stricture against allowing Miriam to use healing magic rang clear in Cullen’s mind, but the scene before them was dire.

“Permission granted,” Arlo said, at last, his tone begrudging but resolute. “Knight-Recruit Rutherford!” he called, fixing Cullen with a sharp gaze.

Cullen snapped to attention, shaking off the last remnants of his haze. “Yes, Ser!”

“You’re responsible for watching over her while she casts. If anything suspicious happens, you know what to do.”

“Yes, Ser,” he replied crisply. He grabbed one of the training swords lying nearby and moved to stand beside Evelyn’s friend.

Miriam didn’t flinch as he took his position, the sword ready in his hands. She closed her eyes, her concentration unbroken, and began her spell. A brilliant golden light radiated from her fingertips, illuminating the room. Threads of mana, like shimmering filaments, spread outward, weaving delicately through the air—one connecting to Eda, others extending to each of the injured.

Cullen watched, awestruck, as wounds began to knit together before his eyes. Burned flesh smoothed, scorched skin regrew, and the agonized cries of the injured quieted into gasps of relief. It was extraordinary, unlike any healing magic he had ever seen. But then he saw Miriam’s face—her pale skin streaked with sweat, her eyes wide and unblinking as crimson tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“Miriam?” Cullen took a step forward, but she didn’t respond, entirely focused on her spell. Her body trembled, her arms shaking as the flow of blood from her eyes turned into streams.

“Do not disturb her,” Croft muttered, appearing at the recruit’s side slightly out of breath. “Interrupting her now could harm everyone she’s healing.”

Cullen nodded in response. But the longer she worked, the more drained she appeared, her breathing labored, her bluish lips moving soundlessly as if chanting under her breath. Still, the magic continued to flow, and one by one, the injured were stabilized.

“Get her a healing and lyrium potion once she’s done,” Arlo ordered, his tone sharp and commanding.

“Yes, Ser.”

He stepped closer to the mage as the golden light of her spell began to fade. The shimmering threads of mana retracted into her hands, and she slumped forward, her palms landing in the pool of blood beneath her.

Cullen immediately knelt beside her. “Miriam, you’ve done enough.”

Her unfocused gaze lifted to meet his as it slowly regained its pale color, and she gave a faint nod before collapsing against him. He caught her with his free hand, steadying her before she fell completely. “Let’s get you seated,” he murmured.

The recruit carefully helped the mage to her feet, supporting her frail frame as he guided her back to one of the benches. Miriam sank down heavily, her hands trembling as she wiped her face with the sleeves of her robes. The blood smeared into faint streaks, and she rubbed her eyes, wincing slightly.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, his voice tinged with concern. He crouched beside her, studying her pale complexion and the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of exhaustion.

Miriam nodded faintly, though her hands didn’t stop moving. “My vision is blurry,” she admitted, her tone weak but steady. “But it’s… slowly coming back to me.” She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. “I’m just… very tired. Drained. But…” She opened her eyes again, her lips curving into a faint, grateful smile. “Thanks be to the Maker for His gift. He allowed me to save so many people today.” Her voice was filled with quiet reverence, the relief of knowing her magic had made a difference outweighing the toll it had taken on her body.

“Truly, He has had His hand in this to have brought you here today.” Cullen could almost laugh to himself about how just a few months ago he could not imagine conversing with a mage he hardly knew so casually… especially considering the circumstances. But Evelyn trusted her, even having just told him earlier that Miriam had healed her head. The blood was unsettling to any Templar, but perhaps such spiritual power required a price.

Remembering that she needed potions to recover, Cullen hurried to the mage's equipment cabinet. Fortunately, it was intact and contained the potions he needed, having been spared from the fire. Striding briskly back across the ring, he noticed Vale crouched near the ground, her hands reaching for something. He didn't see what it was, but as he passed by, his boot apparently caught onto it, sending it skittering across the dirt right into Miriam’s foot. Vale’s eyes flashed with frustration, but she quickly masked it, straightening up and pretending it hadn't happened.

Cullen paused for a moment, his gaze narrowing on her, then on the empty bottle he had inadvertently kicked, but he said nothing. He had no time to linger—Miriam needed him.

“Apologies, it must be one of the empty bottles from the fight.” Handing her the healing draughs, she sipped them delicately, unlike what he was used to seeing. Leaving her to it, he picked up the vial he kicked, absently looking at the smudged glass. It had definitely been Evelyn’s lyrium, as the substance was always bottled differently than other potions to avoid confusion.

“Master Rutherford, may I see that?” the mage asked, her brows furrowing as she scrutinized him. Snapping out of his thoughts, he handed the item over. She examined the bottle intently, turning it over in her hands before sniffing it several times, her expression growing more contemplative with each breath. Finally, she motioned him closer, her voice dropping to a whisper as her eyes darted around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “Evelyn trusts you,” Miriam murmured, her tone both earnest and cautious. “So I hope I can trust you to do the right thing here… I think someone tampered with her lyrium. It smells... off.”

“What do you mean?” Having never taken lyrium yet, he was a bit out of his depth.

“Lyrium has no smell, but this bottle has a bitter and earthy scent to it. Foul play would certainly explain Evelyn’s uncharacteristic outburst.”

He shifted his footing to obscure the way they examined the bottle with his body, for if it was purposely tainted and Vale had been trying to get to it… Maker, surely she wouldn’t have taken things this far? To try and get Evelyn punished so severely or worse… Perhaps he should’ve taken her more seriously when she warned him of Vale’s jealousy before.

“Do you know what it could be?” Yet, before she could answer, Reid joined them, keeping a close eye on everyone’s coming and going. His roommate’s heightened state offered no comfort, knowing he had an uncanny sense of trouble lurking. After surveying the yard, he looked at the two in silent question, “Miriam here believes someone tampered with Trevelyan’s lyrium.”

“Let me see it.” He held a hand out, and the mage placed the empty vial in his hand. Tristan’s eyes lit up immediately. “There is oil residue here, and it smells like… blah! It’s Ghoul’s Beard. Someone wanted to do her dirty.”

“I admit, I… don’t pay much attention in alchemy class to know what that means.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, but one could hardly blame him for drifting in Ser Lloyd’s class. The man’s deep and monotone voice could put an Archdemon back to sleep.

Reid crossed his arms, eyes narrowing under the shadow of his dark chocolate-colored hair, “Ghoul’s Beard is vile and completely unpredictable. The only thing that is assured when taking it is that it will fuck you up. A boy from home ate some on accident, and the poor sod itched until his skin was raw. He was convinced he needed to peel it off him to stop it.” He shook his head in warning, “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard stories of what it does to mages. It is certainly capable of causing this.”

“Who would do such a reckless thing?” Cullen questioned.

As the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter entered the training yard to assess the situation, his thoughts went to what would happen to Evelyn. He had heard her desperate plea to have Arlo Silence her, so even she was aware something had caused her to lose control. Yet, the Apprentice was now unconscious in a cell unable to defend herself.

While Greagoir and Irving received detailed reports from Croft and Arlo about the events, the infirmary staff finally arrived to tend to the wounded. Healers moved swiftly, their hands glowing faintly with restorative magic as they carried away the injured on stretchers. Among them, Cullen caught a fleeting glimpse of Eda, her body limp and her face a picture of devastation. Though magic had healed her wounds, her features would remain forever twisted. Despite his disdain for the fellow recruit, Cullen felt no satisfaction at the sight.

Once the infirmary staff had departed with the injured, the Circle's two leaders called everyone to attention. Their voices cut through the lingering tension as they lined the remaining recruits and apprentices in formation for an address.

First, Miriam was singled out. She was congratulated, though very briefly, for her healing prowess and swift actions that had undoubtedly saved lives. A faint murmur of agreement passed through the ranks, and even some of the Templars found themselves nodding. Though it seemed a pitiful display of gratitude, it was the best Miriam was going to receive from this lot with her mutation.

The Knight-Commander raised a gauntleted hand, and the murmuring ceased immediately. His voice, deep and authoritative, rang out over the training ground. “Today, the Circle faced chaos and calamity. Lives were endangered, and one of the apprentices had fallen to a condition we cannot yet explain. But make no mistake—order will be restored, and those responsible will be brought to justice.”

Cullen hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward from the line. His heart thudded in his chest, but he pushed the hesitation aside. "Knight-Commander, may I speak?"

The Knight-Commander gave him a sharp, appraising look before granting a curt nod. "Proceed, Knight-Recruit."

Cullen cleared his throat and held up a small glass bottle. "This is the potion Apprentice Trevelyan used before the incident. I suspect it was tampered with. It contains traces of Ghoul’s Beard—a known contaminant. It could explain what happened to her."

He stepped forward and offered the bottle. Greagoir took it from his hand, raising an eyebrow, while the First Enchanter examined it with interest. Cullen turned and marched back to his place in the ranks. As he settled into line, his eyes caught a movement to his right.

Vale shifted nervously, her arms crossing over her chest as her blue eyes darted from one side of the chamber to the other. The moment she realized he was watching her, she straightened abruptly, her expression a mask of indifference. Her gaze flicked away, but not before Cullen saw the flicker of unease in her features.

A spark of realization flashed through his mind as he remembered her attempt to pick up the bottle of lyrium from the floor earlier. Vale. Of course, it was her. She and her friend had made Evelyn’s life miserable for months. The cruel remarks, the rumors—Trevelyan had endured it all without fighting back, which was no easy task for her fiery temper. But Cullen had no proof it was Marrian who had tampered with the potion.

Meanwhile, Greagoir and Irving exchanged a grave look after examining the bottle. The First Enchanter tapped the glass with a glowing finger, and the faint shimmer of magic illuminated the bottle.

The Knight-Commander turned back to the gathered recruits and apprentices. "This confirms it. The lyrium potion was tampered with, leading to the chaos that unfolded today. This act is not only reckless but criminal." His eyes scanned the assembled. "I will offer this one chance to whoever is responsible. Step forward and confess now. If you do, you may yet spare yourself the full weight of the consequences."

The training yard was silent. The tension was suffocating. Cullen’s eyes turned to Vale once again. Her hands fidgeted before she clasped them tightly behind her back. She stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched and her chest rising with shallow, quick breaths.

No one stepped forward.

Greagoir’s gaze hardened. "Very well. If no one will admit to this crime, we will conduct a full investigation. Rest assured, the truth will come to light—and the guilty will be dealt with harshly."

Suddenly, Marrian stepped forward, her face flushed. "It... it was Eda!" Her voice cracked as she spoke, making the gathered recruits and leaders pause. "It was my friend... Knight-Recruit Eda Witfield who did this." Her eyes welled up, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks, but she wiped them away quickly, as though trying to regain control. "I tried to stop her. I really did. I told her it was wrong and dangerous, but she was... she was set on teaching apprentice Trevelyan a lesson." Vale’s voice broke, and her knees seemed to give way as she dropped to them, a sob escaping her lips. Her eyes, wide and pleading, turned toward the Knight-Commander. "Maker, be my witness, I tried to stop her. I didn’t want this to happen... but Eda was determined. She said apprentice Trevelyan deserved it—said she needed to be brought down a peg. I wanted to stop her, to denounce her action before Ser Arlo but... but I was too afraid to speak out. I... I was afraid." She trembled, as if the weight of her supposed guilt was too much to bear, her hands clasped as in prayer. "Andraste, forgive me. I was a coward when I should have stood up... and now poor Evelyn and so many other innocent souls are hurt, and my dear friend Eda will bear terrible scars. It’s my fault, too. I should have stopped her. I—" Marrian’s sobs intensified, her body shaking as she pressed her face into her hands. "Please, I beg you Knight-Commander. Let me atone. Let me do something to make it right."

Cullen couldn’t help his jaw from dropping open, feeling as though he was watching one of those terrible Orlesian theater plays people talk about. Everyone knew Eda was, well, she was called ‘Witless’ for a reason, she surely did not plan this alone.

At her confession, Greagoir excused them all except for Irving, him, and Marrian. Croft and Arlo remained as well, and more and more he became aware of their solidarity. The two instructors took their mentorship seriously, and their presence in handling all aspects of the incident involving their students. For a long moment, the six of them waited in an uneasy silence until the yard emptied.

Gregoir massaged the bridge of his nose. “Well, Irving, what are your thoughts? Would there be any reason for the mage to specifically take the herb? For magical enhancement perhaps?”

The aging mage clasped his hands behind his back. “Not unless she wished to inflict the most harm on herself. Ghoul’s Beard has been known to kill if the conditions are right.”

The color in Croft’s cheeks flushed, and he ground his teeth. “No students of mine have reason to take such things. Abraxas and Evelyn’s mana are suited specifically for battle. Before I agreed to take them on, they were vigorously tested, and if I suspected they couldn’t control it, I’d never have taken them on as apprentices.” He took a loud deep breath regaining some composure. The puckered scar that stretched across from over his ear to cheek relaxed slightly. “I do not give praise easily, but Trevelyan is as talented as primally-inclined mages come. Moreover, her noble upbringing has instilled an unwavering sense of duty.”

“I agree,” Arlo added, “the girl knows her place. Maker’s balls, she immediately knew something was wrong and asked me to Silence her! Had I not hesitated… anyway, the point is this was not her doing.” Cullen let go of the breath he was holding, the heaviness lifting from his chest that Croft and Arlo had Evelyn’s back. Their words would weigh more than he would’ve in her defense.

The Knight-Commander crossed his arms. “So then how did such animosity come to thrive between them? The Knight-Recruit here stated that Witfield wanted Trevelyan ‘brought down a peg.’ Why?”

Arlo let go of a gravelly sigh, “You know how these things are, especially with women. ‘Twas a petty squabble which escalated.”

“Permission to speak, sers?” As hard as he tried to simply let them figure it out, he was afraid Vale was steering this narrative too much. Gregoir nodded, yielding him the floor, “The trouble started when Witfield and Vale began spreading rumors about the mage.” He attempted to stay neutral, not wanting to reveal his friendly relationship with Evelyn. “We all heard them. She even read a slanderous letter in the mess hall to anyone who’d listen.”

The Knight-Commander being the competent leader he was, thankfully had Vale recite such rumors for him to hear. Her icy glare occasionally drifted to Cullen at having rightfully exposed her part in this drama. “Even if I had simply shared a letter from my kin aloud, I had no intention of acting upon such knowledge! As I said, I pleaded with Witfield to let it lie, but she could not.”

“I’ve heard enough and am ready to dole out the punishment.” All traces of congeniality were gone from Greagoir’s voice, “For poisoning a mage and endangering this entire Circle, Eda Witfield is to receive a dozen lashes and is expelled from the Templar Order.” Both he and Vale’s eyes widened at hearing the severest of sentences thrown at their fellow recruit. “Though it was not of any fault of hers, Apprentice Trevelyan harmed members of this Circle with magic and must also face the consequences.” Cullen held his breath, ready to argue in her defense at the sentencing. “She is to have a week in solitary confinement to fast and recite the Chant of Transfigurations. Brother Devons can be in charge of her reeducation in the dangers of magic.”

Though harsh, Evelyn was not being made Tranquil and not bodily harmed, which he supposed was a small victory. In his heart, he just couldn't reconcile the fact that she had done nothing, absolutely bloody nothing, but wake up and attend training, only to get caught up in Vale and Witfield’s scheme — and could’ve died! Yet, Evelyn was being punished. If her temper had gotten the better of her maybe he could justify it, but she had kept it in check.

His pained expression was ignored by all but the Knight-Enchanter, who stared explicitly at him. That look felt like both a reprimand and an acknowledgment, as though to say: You see this for what it is. Do not forget it.

“As for you, Knight-Recruit Vale,” the Knight-Commander continued, “ for spreading harmful rumors, disrupting the peace of the Circle, and failing in your duty to bring Knight-Recruit Eda’s actions to your superiors, you are sentenced to three lashes. Additionally, you will be responsible for latrine duty for the next three months.”

Vale’s eyes widened, her breath hitching as the pronouncement struck her like a physical blow. She stood frozen for a moment before tears welled in her eyes—not the crocodile tears of earlier, but something raw and real. They spilled down her cheeks as her lips quivered. “Please, Ser,” she whispered, desperation etched into every line of her face. “Let me atone in any other way. Anything but the lashes. They’ll scar—terribly. I beg you.”

Greagoir regarded her with a gaze colder than steel. Without breaking his stare, he turned slightly toward Arlo. “Make it five lashes,” he uttered evenly.

A shuddering gasp escaped Vale’s lips, the sobs coming now in heaving waves that shook her frame. She dared not plead again, knowing that another word would only make it worse.

While it didn’t erase the injustice of Evelyn’s sentence, Cullen found solace in seeing Marrian wounded where it hurt her most: her vanity.

With the Circle still in a state of distress over the morning’s accident, their class schedule was disrupted, and Cullen saw it as his opportunity to go see how his friend was doing. In the Tower’s infirmary, he found Tristian, Dane, Abraxas, Miriam, and Rhetta surrounding an awake Evelyn. Several Templars were stationed nearby but kept out of the way, probably due to the Sentinel’s close presence. Her eyes squinted against the pain of her concussion and her temple had a blooming bruise of deep purples and reds.

“Why is it you’re always hitting your head, Trevelyan? It’s a wonder your brain hasn’t oozed out your ears.” At his jest, she cracked a toothy grin. The witty sarcasm that she typically flaunted he tried to mimic for her sake. “How do you feel?”

She groaned, “Like Gavril-fucking-Croft hilt smashed me in the face. That was rather terrifying.” Though propped up in bed, he noticed her body was eerily still. As if sensing his concern, she added, “The rest of me is fine from what I can see, though I can’t feel it. I haven’t regained my mana yet since they Silenced me.”

“Aye, I keep ticklin’ her toes to make sure,” Rhetta imparted, though didn’t look at him. Of all of her mage friends, the elf didn’t seem friendly towards him.

Straightening, Abraxas’ clear blue eyes bore into him, “And what has the Knight-Commander decided?” The group fell quiet, all looking to him now. “Word hasn’t reached us yet.”

Taking a deep breath, he worked to keep his voice steady, “Witfield is to be publicly punished with ten lashes and then expelled from The Order. Vale, for her part in instigating and failing to inform the higher-ups, will receive five lashes and months of latrine duty. She threw Eda under the bronto to keep her from blame.”

"And Evelyn?" Miriam asked, clasping her hands around the pendant with the Andraste’s flames on her chest. “They knew it was not her fault, yes?”

He nodded, but his expression was still grim as he looked from her to the Marcher, “They know you had nothing to do with it, but your magic still hurt a lot of people. Because of that, you’ve been sentenced to a week in solitary.” He felt the other part of it was irrelevant now.

“Solitary? But…” If it were possible to witness someone’s faith sink into the Void, Evelyn had just shown him what it looked like. It pained him more than he expected it to, yet he knew not how to comfort her.

“I’m sorry, Trevelyan, I tried as did Croft and Arlo. Vale could do nothing but redirect the blame away from her.”

“I’m gonna ring that harlot’s neck!” Rhetta grit out, making the motion with her hands. “They cannit do this to ya! They could’ve kill ya and yet they are ‘bout to walk away like nothin’ happened!” She shook her head angrily, “That’s Templar justice for ya.”

“And yet,” Evelyn’s voice was weak, looking at Abraxas, “I must fit the mold.” He nodded, a resolve forming in their eyes at her cryptic words. “Thank you, Cullen, for speaking out. The others told me what you did for me. I’m sorry I’m such a pain in the arse.” Her guarded humor was back, and though she wielded it as a shield, it was for the protection of everyone but herself.

“You’re not that, you’re…” He became keenly aware they were not by any means alone, “I-I was just the one who spoke up first. Anyone here would’ve done the same.” A thought came to his mind that between his self-depreciation and her guarded humor, they made quite the delusional pair.

Something in the way she looked at him that day would never leave him. It made his world shift as he drank in her attention. Even surrounded by their friends, her gaze continued to flicker to him with a warmth – a warmth he didn’t realize he craved.

Days passed and though she was locked up, Evelyn never seemed to leave his thoughts – nor his dreams. Each morning he awoke to a sweaty and sticky mess of his bed after dreaming about her. It was getting to be a walk of shame to get a bucket of water and wash out the few pairs of smalls he owned – and dump another cold one over his head for good measure. It seems the incident had stirred some hidden feelings he hoped would pass before she got through her week in solitary.

Maker, how could he face her after seeing the things his dreams conjured…

Returning to his room in the barracks with wet hair and another bucket of water, Tristian was readying himself for the day and turned with a questioning look. “What’s been your issue this week? And don’t say nothing, I’ve bunked with you for years now to know this is new.” Tossing his bedclothes in the bucket aggressively, face blushing, his roommate got the hint, “You need to find yourself a girl… or pay one.”

Scrubbing the linen between his fingers with vexation, he side-eyed Tristian, “I’m not going to a brothel.” His father had warned him about such places, “I don’t want the Orlesian Itch.”

Reid rolled his eyes, “Not if they use their mouth, dumbarse.” Cullen sighed, frustrated in more ways than one. “Do you need coin? I can lend you some until we’re paid next?”

“No, I have the coin.”

“Then what is— oh. Who’s got you hung up?”

He forced his eyes to the ground, “No one.”

His friend scoffed, “Fine. Mage or Templar?” His eyes shot back up to him, and he pressed his lips into a hard line. Reid’s eyes narrowed in that roguish way, “If I know them, then I can help. I can probably even tell you whether or not they are available.”

Cullen’s face scrunched up in annoyance at the thought that he’d talk about such things with Evelyn or even know if she has…

“Maker’s breath, how could you know something like that?!”

The brunette tilted his head, his straight, straggly locks falling over his face, “I know you’re not blind to my questionable hobbies.” It was true, Tristan was involved with the Circle contraband trade, but he had never once involved Cullen in it so he turned a blind eye to his activities. If he didn’t know, he couldn’t speak of it, so he didn’t feel like he was betraying his vows. “I always have an ear to the ground, and I hear a lot of things…”

“Have you heard anything about… me in these things you hear?”

He shrugged, “I know Vale was interested, though I doubt that anymore.” They shared a short laugh and relief that he had dodged that awkward encounter with someone like her. “I’ve heard of some mages too,” when Cullen’s eyes widened, his friend chuckled heartily, “so it’s a mage you’re humping the sheets for!”

Going back to his washing, his reflection in the water showed him a face twisted with guilt. It was against Circle Law for him to fraternize with a mage. Would he so easily throw away everything for the pleasures of the flesh? Look how one misstep found Eda Witfield expelled from The Order. He would not be disgraced so, not when this is what he had always wanted. This was simply another trial to prove himself worthy of Andraste’s Scared Order of Knights. Moreover, he would endanger Evelyn’s future as well as a Knight-Enchanter. They both shared the drive to serve, which had been the foundation of their whole friendship in the beginning and to give in to base desire even once could see all that destroyed.

“You’re seriously not going to tell me who it is?”

Defeated and sobered by his thoughts, Cullen shook his head. He had never expected such a distraction to cause him such pain, but here he was moping over a bucket of wet smalls, longing for something that could never be. How pathetic.

Chapter Text

Letter left on Evelyn's bunk in her absence:

Dear Evie,

I trust this letter finds you in good health, unburdened by the weight of your training, and sufficiently entertained by the life of your friend who now wields both a sword and an entirely  un justified sense of self-importance. That’s right—me.

First, allow me to report that my transformation into a paragon of Knightly excellence is proceeding splendidly, though not without some hiccups. The armor, of course, remains a triumph of craftsmanship and, let’s be honest, raw charisma. I practically leave sparkles in my wake, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that I’m most likely destined to ascend from the Templar-Recruit to the Knight-Captain before your return.

However. Let us not dwell too long on my successes. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been following your advice and taking things slow with my new... responsibilities. And by slow, I mean I’ve only cried in a corner once after my first experience with lyrium. My stomach protested so violently that I half expected it to march out of me entirely, declaring independence. And the other effects—well, let’s just say I’ll spare you the more indelicate details. Suffice it to say, my first week of being a Templar featured far too much time considering which parts of me could betray me next.

But fear not! I am persevering. Small sips, deep breaths, and only the occasional reminder to myself that vomiting in a full plate is a logistical nightmare best avoided.

Speaking of things I cannot avoid—Sorin. I demand answers, Trevelyan. Who is this Miriam woman, and why does she have him writing letters? Letters! Plural! I’ve even caught him smiling, which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is an affront to nature itself. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. He almost looked... pleasant. As if the man who once growled at a puppy (yes, it happened) has suddenly discovered that the world is not all doom and shadows.

So, spill it. Is she charming? Sultry? Did she lose a bet? If you have a hand in this, Evie, I insist that you direct some of your matchmaking talents my way. If Sorin of the Eternal Frown can land a Miriam, surely there’s hope for a shining paragon such as myself.

In all seriousness, I am doing well. To my own surprise, the Templar life suits me, stomachaches and all. I won’t lie—it’s hard, and not just because I’m now expected to keep my boots polished and my morals straight at all times. But I’m finding my footing. Slowly. Thank you for your advice - and for being the kind of friend who can nag me to stay on track and believe in myself. The drawing you sent helped put a face to your words – a very becoming face, with all your hair still intact! That’s good; I always liked your long hair.

Write back soon.  Because I miss you

Your favorite (now and forever) Templar,  

Ser Henley the Irresistible

Evelyn tapped her foot excessively, its echo bouncing off the dingy walls of her cell. Any longer in this cage and she was going to go mad. For seven days she had sat in this hole that smelt like an Archdemon’s asshole. Her stomach growled incessantly, having been forced to fast. No doubt she had lost some weight and muscle, so she was going to have to work hard to put it back on. Croft certainly wasn’t going to cut her any slack, not after having to subdue her himself. Even so, she’d rather face his wrath a thousand times than sit in the dark of a small, dank cell.

When the door scraped open, she shot up to her feet, “Brother Devons! Please tell me it’s time?!”

The twenty-year-old Brother shook his head with pity. “Almost. The Knight-Commander wants us to complete one more session this morning.” Her anger rose, lighting up the windowless room. As she went to punch the wall, he held out a hand to stop her. “Rather than get mad, let’s get to it quickly. I reckon we can get done in time for the morning training session in the yard.” Sitting down eagerly next to him on her cot, she smiled at him so brightly it made him laugh softly.

When they were done, they stood in triumph but unfortunately missed part of the morning training session. Still, she appreciated his attempt to speed it along while fulfilling his duty. “Thank you, Brother Devons. I know I was a bit stubborn in the beginning, but it’s a credit to you for having the patience for it.” He had helped through all of it: the pain, guilt, rage, and loss of faith over the incident in the many hours she spent imprisoned. Devons told her of the fallout after Witfield’s expulsion and how things were tense for a time, but things had gone back to normal.

The Brother chuckled endearingly, “Though we dwelled in the dark, the Maker showed us that His light can still reach us here and illuminate the path ahead. His smile soured. “Now, I’ll fetch you a bucket. You smell like the back alley of a tavern on a busy night.”

Evelyn scoffed, “And how would you know that, Brother Devons?”

“I wasn’t always a Brother,” he winked and hurried out knowing how anxious she was to leave.

Once finished, he and a Knight escorted her out. The morning sun on her face ignited her smile, and she found herself spinning in the fresh air. At some point, she collapsed and was simply lying flat on her back in the dirt. She didn’t care, though, breathing in deep, savory breaths and drinking in the sunlight. Laying there for some time, shadows began blocking out the golden light.

“Hey…” she held up a hand so she could see who intruded on her frivolity.

“Andraste’s tits, Trev, is that you!?”

“Brax!” He held a hand down, helping her up. She hopped to her feet and hugged him.

“Fuck! Why do you smell like the bottom of the latrine?” Her fellow apprentice struggled to get out of her grasp while his Sentinel chuckled at them. “I’m never going to get this smell off me, Trev!”

“What’s the matter, pretty boy? You know your enemy’s innards won’t smell much better? Or cowards who shit themselves.”

Evelyn pointed and winked at Dane, “I missed your optimism too, big guy!”

Abraxas lowered his voice, “You know I got that thing tonight. I’ve yet to know a lady aroused by the smell of… Maker balls, it is really like Lake Calenhad’s putrid tide.”

“What a bunch of babies,” she scoffed. “So, where is everyone? The training yard should be full?”

“Arlo and Croft gave everyone a rest day.” She stared at her fellow mage with her jaw slack. “The old bastard assured us it had nothing to do with you getting out, but I’m shocked and appalled to admit that I do believe Croft has a soft spot for you, Trev.”

“That’s disturbing.” Despite her words, part of her couldn’t help but be gladdened by it. Gavril was cold as stone, but he cared deeply about his students and wanted them to succeed. His harsh instruction wasn’t to heap misery upon them but to prepare them for what was to come. “Well, if that’s the case, I have other people to accost!”

Leaving them, there was one person she desperately wanted to see. Waiting for her victim to pass in the quiet hall of the Tower, Evelyn waited in the cover of a small enclave. As soon as his dash of golden hair streaked by, she jumped out and dragged him into the shadows.

“What in the— Evelyn?! You’re out! And,” Cullen’s face scrunched up, “Maker, you stink!”

“That’s right, the stench of freedom, and I owe you a hug for everything you did!” She held out her arms, slowly closing the gap between them.

“It’s alright, truly, we can skip the hug. I have—”

“Class soon, I know. Now when you're sitting there and catch a whiff of yourself, you’ll think of me.”

“Don’t you dare!” He was partly laughing, holding out his hands to fend her off. “You really are a pain in the arse!”

“I tried to warn you!” Without hesitating, she launched herself into his arms, hugging him, “Thank you, Rutherford, I missed you!” The feel of his body flush against hers was a surprise, realizing they had never come in contact without armor on. An intense heat different from her mana settled low in her belly, feeling the taunt muscles beneath is clothes ripple.

Unable to throw her off, he eventually begrudgingly let it happen, wrapping his arms around her timidly, “I missed you too… up until now, that is.” Releasing him with a beaming smile, he tried to act put off, but she could tell he was holding back. “Maker, I smell like I rolled in a Mabari kennel. How long have you been out there nauseating people? Haven’t you had time to wash?”

“Pff, and miss a chance like this to thoroughly annoy everyone? I’m off to the Mess Hall to see if I can make everyone lose their appetite.”

“And here I thought you were raised to be a lady?”

She chuckled, “I’m only a lady when it suits me, and besides, it’ll teach anyone who wants to mess with me that there are repercussions.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you’re going to—”

She exaggerated her nod, “I saw Brax and Dane already. The big guy is going to let me sit with him and the other Templars saying he has to ‘watch me’. Vale will be there. Between the latrines she’s been cleaning and me, I’m going to see how many times I can make the princess gag.”

“Haven’t you learned anything from this?!”

“I have,” she smiled smugly, her voice lightening sweetly, “you smell like oakmoss.” All previous emotion fled his face in favor of quiet surprise. When his cheeks reddened, she added, “It’s nice.” His amber eyes stared at her, but a small tweak perked up a corner of his mouth. “Well, it was. You best be off or you’ll be late for class, Rutherford.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “I, um, yes, I should be going.”

As he went to leave, she called to his back, “I’m racking up quite the debt to you.”

Looking over his shoulder, he replied, “Well, I’ll gladly consider it settled if you just go bathe rather than start more trouble.”

She groaned, rolling her eyes, “What are you, my Sentinel? You’re no fun.”

“No, you just know I’m right. As usual,” and he walked away.

Nothing seemed usual though, and despite being apart for the last week, something was different between them.

Stubborn – having not listened to Cullen, knowing full well he was annoyingly right—she joined Rhetta and the others in the Mess Hall. Jumping up and making a scene over her return before recoiling at her stench, the elf was excited to fill her in on everything she missed. While the gossip was always juicy, the most exciting news was that Miriam had gotten permission to pursue the path of a Spirit Healer. Forgetting her revenge, Evelyn asked where she was, only to hear the petite Ferelden was spending more time in prayer lately. Feeling the need to congratulate her, she quickly grabbed a bowl of stew, wolfed it down, and ran out of the hall.

The Chapel was serene, its stone walls bathed in soft candlelight that flickered across the faces of Sisters, Mothers, and apprentices gathered in hushed clusters. Evelyn’s boots clicked softly against the polished floor as she stepped inside.

She spotted her friend almost immediately. Miriam knelt before the statue of Andraste, her hands clasped tightly before her, the faintest tremor running through her shoulders. Evelyn’s face lit up with a smile, but it faltered as she hesitated. She didn’t want to disturb her friend’s prayer.

So she waited, lingering in the shadows, her eyes fixed on the Ferelden’s bowed form. After what felt like an eternity, her friend finally rose, the soft rustle of her robes breaking the silence. She turned, and Evelyn’s brow furrowed. Miriam’s face was puffy, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

This was not the reunion she had imagined. She had expected to find Miriam jubilant and overjoyed at finally being allowed to pursue her dream of becoming a healer. Yet, the moment Miriam’s gaze landed on the pyromancer, her expression changed. A radiant smile broke across her tear-streaked face, and she hurried forward, her steps quick and eager.

“Evelyn!” Her voice was filled with joy as she reached for the Marcher’s hands, gripping them tightly. “Oh, thank the Maker, you’re free! I’ve prayed for your imprisonment to pass seamlessly for you, every single day. Oh! What is that—”

Evelyn’s heart warmed at the genuine happiness in her friend’s voice. “I’m a bit ripe, I know. It’s good to see you too, Miri! I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed the sunlight.” She squeezed Miriam’s hands, her voice light and teasing. “But it seems I’m not the only one with good news. Rhetta told me everything. You’re going to be a healer!”

The Ferelden’s smile faltered for a brief moment before she forced it back. “Yes,” she said softly. “The First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander… they decided to let me study after… well, after the incident at the training grounds.”

Evelyn tilted her head, studying her friend closely. “I’m so proud of you, Miri. But…” Her gaze flicked to the faint puffiness around her friend’s eyes. “Why were you crying?”

Miriam shook her head quickly, her grip tightening on Evelyn’s hands. “It’s nothing,” she said hurriedly. “I don’t want to spoil this moment. You’re free. This is your day. I won’t drag you down with my troubles.”

The Marcher frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Could you do the same if the situation were reversed? Could you see me crying and pretend nothing was wrong?”

The Ferelden’s eyes widened. “Andraste’s ashes, of course not! I couldn’t just ignore…”

She placed a comforting hand on Miriam’s shoulder to interrupt her. “Then don’t ask me to.”

Her friend hesitated, her lips trembling as though she was holding back words. Finally, she nodded. “Can we speak in private?”

“Of course,” the pyromancer replied without hesitation. “My room is closer than yours. Let’s go.”

The walk to her room was short, the corridors mostly quiet and empty at this late hour. Once inside, Evelyn gestured for Miriam to sit on the small cot against the wall. The Ferelden sat down heavily, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Evelyn pulled a chair close, sitting across from her, concern etched on her face. “I’m listening.”

Miriam took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on her hands. “I’ve been attending the healing classes for a few days now,” she began, her voice low. “Yesterday, we practiced a spell that channels mana into different parts of the body to detect any anomalies or hidden injuries. As a practice, we were divided into pairs.” She paused, her lips tightening. “No one wanted to pair with me.”

Evelyn’s eyes darkened. “Because of your quirk?”

Miriam nodded. “They’re still uneasy around me. So, I was paired with the Senior Enchanter, Wynne. She… she’s kind and wise, so I wasn’t very upset about this turn of events. And as we practiced, scanning different organs, she suddenly asked me if I had started my cycle yet.”

Evelyn’s brow arched, but she said nothing.

“I told her no,” Miriam continued. “I said I was just a late bloomer, that it would happen eventually. But she gave me this look—like she already knew—and said she was afraid it wasn’t the case. After the class, she asked me to stay behind. She scanned my stomach… again and again, like she didn’t want to believe what she was seeing.” Her voice wavered. “And then she told me… she told me my reproductive organs aren’t developed at all. That’s why I haven’t bled. That’s why…” Tears welled in her eyes. “That’s why I’m barren.”

Evelyn reached out, placing a steadying hand on Miriam’s knee. “Oh, Miri…”

The Ferelden’s tears spilled freely, her voice fracturing under the weight of her emotions. “I feel so stupid for being upset about this. Everyone is made the way the Maker intended. This is His will for me.” She wiped at her face, though the tears kept coming. “And anyway, mages aren’t even allowed to have children or… or relationships. I’d never break the rules. Never. But even knowing all that, I can’t stop feeling it—this sadness, this sense of loss. It just hurts.”

Evelyn moved to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “I don’t think it’s stupid. You’re allowed to feel sad. Even if… even if it’s the Maker’s will, that doesn’t mean you can’t hurt…” She trailed off, biting her lip. She had no idea what other words of solace she could offer. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say. I wish I did, but I… I just want you to know I’m here, okay? Even if I don’t really know what else to do.”

Miriam leaned into the pyromancer, wrapping her arms around her tightly. Her cold, calmy hands fisted her shirt uncaring of the smell, and Evelyn allowed her aura to console her. After a while, her sobs quieted into soft sniffles as she clung to her friend. “Evelyn,” she murmured, her voice still thick with emotion. “You are a hearth on a cold night. Thank you for sharing your comforting warmth with me.” She pulled back slightly, her tearful eyes meeting the Marcher’s with a small, trembling smile. “And thank you for being my friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Evelyn’s cheeks burned a bright red, clearing her throat. “Well, you know me, bright and warm, and… uh… likely to burn your house down if you leave me unattended.” She shot Miriam a sheepish grin, hoping the humor was welcomed. Her fierce protective spirit persisted though, “Seriously, though, you’re stuck with me now, Miri. No take-backs. Even if I’m more bonfire than hearth.” The Ferelden let out a soft, watery laugh at her fumbling attempt at humor, and Evelyn instantly felt more at ease. She smiled, “There we go. Laughter—it’s the best medicine. Though if that doesn’t work, I’m always happy to set some pants on fire for you. Very therapeutic, I promise.”

After a while, when Miriam finally left for her quarters, her steps slow but steadier than before, Evelyn remained seated on the cot. She glanced down at the damp spots on her shirt where her friend’s tears had soaked through. Her fingers brushed over them absentmindedly, her brow furrowing.

Grabbing the basin and a rag, she undressed and began to wash herself. Yet the distraction was unable to help feelings from dredging up she had long repressed on the subject. Even if she didn’t fully understand it, she too felt a loss at any chance of a normal life. As she got older and news of her siblings getting engaged and married reached her from her father, she tried to ignore the deep-seated envy that wanted to surface. It was just one more choice taken from her.

An odd thought struck her, and she wondered why mages shouldn’t marry Templars. Didn’t it make sense that together they were safest? Why on Thedas was it backward?

Frustration welled up in her, helping her scrub every speck of dirt off her. Was it that simple? No, of course not, because people feared and hated mages. That was why she was becoming a Knight-Enchanter, to show people that mages were not all monsters. Show them that mages and Templars could magically oppose each other and still be allies. Look at all the friends she had made in this country full of pig-headed people; and what if she were to pair with one, one like…

The first name that came to mind surprised her.

Cullen.

The warm tingling of his touch came back to her, along with the gratefulness of his recent efforts on her behalf. Confronting the stirring in her chest, she allowed herself to see him as more than a friend. It was hard at first, Cullen being his stubborn self, but she was too, perhaps to the benefit of each other. There was no denying the physical attraction that was becoming evident. Tall, strong, and handsome with his blonde hair and chiseled jawline, she had a hard time believing she was the only one to notice him. He was dutiful and helped her keep her fiery nature in check with his level-headedness.

He certainly was in the habit of doing her favors, and now she wondered if he treated everyone like this or if it was just her. Why was being with someone as devoted to The Order as Cullen forbidden?

“Because people fear mages, even the ones sworn to protect us do,” she muttered bitterly to herself, trying to push down her self-pity. Evelyn threw her dirty rag into the murky water after finishing and slipped on clean clothes.

Cullen was not a mage; he was normal. Who’s to say he wasn’t disgusted by her nature too? Magic is dangerous; the familiar mantra was ingrained in everyone, and though true, it was unfair for it to define her. In the past, Henley had never thought it of her, but Cullen had. Yet, she couldn’t help the way her heart fluttered for the Ferelden farmboy.

As months passed, such feelings refused to leave her, but at the mention of her Harrowing coming up in the next year, her focus came to rest in preparation for it. The nature of her primal mana would attract a strong demon and needed to be in top form to defeat it. While she was honing her abilities, other mages were pursuing more social endeavors. Rhetta was a constant gossip and creator of it when it came to who was fooling around with who. Evelyn held her breath each time she told them, fearing to hear Cullen’s name, but thankfully it remained out of the rumor mill.

At seventeen and never have even kissed a boy, she tried to convince herself it was for the better. She was training to be a Knight-Enchanter and under the strictest of codes. If she got caught, it would be the end of her. Literally.

“Are you still in a foul mood, Trevelyan?” She looked up from stretching in the training yard to see Cullen and Tristian approach with weary looks. The latter, having asked, crossed his arms, put off by it, but the blonde showed more concern.

“Was I?” She was, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

The other day, her potion class was out in the garden to pick ingredients, and Cullen happened to be on duty there. Thinking she’d get some time to chat with him, another mage – one Rhetta was always mentioning in her tales—was sniffing around him the whole time. Smiles were exchanged, and she giggled at things he discreetly said making Evelyn positively furious – especially since Cullen wasn’t that funny.

Last week, he approached her with barely contained excitement, his brilliant smile threatening to break free. “How many heretics does it take to change a lamp-wick?” he asked, his voice brimming with anticipation.

Trying to humor him, Evelyn suppressed the urge to sigh at yet another one of Cullen’s pitiful jokes and instead gave a noncommittal shrug. “No idea.”

His grin widened. “None, for they dwell in eternal darkness!” She forced out a chuckle, doing her best to make it sound genuine. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, even if his humor was predictably awful. Truthfully, she had a bit of a crush on him, but between Cullen and Henley, she was beginning to think she might fall for the one who could manage a halfway decent joke.

“Something bothering you?” Cullen asked so innocently, probably unaware he was even flirted with. “I never saw you take out one of the practice dummies like you did yesterday. Redcliffe probably thought we were under attack with all the smoke.”

“It looked at me wrong.” She sighed heavily, trying to let it go, completely powerless to do anything about who he chooses to like. While she had been made to accept a lot over the years, at times her inability to act plagued her. It wasn’t his fault after all, but her hot temper always got the better of her. “I was just having a rough day, I apologize if I took it out on you.”

Before more could be said, Arlo called Cullen over briefly to talk. The Knight-Lieutenant had come to trust her more after the incident, and she was allowed to socialize with the other recruits openly. Alone with Tristian, the shifty-eyed Ferelden gave her a pointed look. “I’ve been meaning to ask… is there something between you and Rutherford? Ever since you blew up the yard, he’s been acting strange.”

Her lips parted slightly at the revelation, “No, nothing. You know I can’t do any of that.”

He shrugged, “Brax does, and Dane knows and doesn’t say shit.”

“Well, I’m not Brax. If he wants to take that risk, he can. Can we drop it?”

“Drop what?” Cullen returned with a questioning look.

Evelyn set to playing with her braid, happy not to continue, but Tristian was unable to stop his big blabbering mouth. “Trevelyan’s the Circle’s new paragon of virtue, alongside you, that is. Won’t be surprised if you take the Vow of Chastity unless you finally grow a pair and fuck that mage you’ve been dreaming about.”

Cullen’s face reddened. “Maker’s breath, you can’t just say things like that in front of her?!” Reid shrugged, smirking, making Evelyn wonder what game he was playing.

Cullen is infatuated with a mage?! Her mana wanted to roar forth thinking of the incident in the garden, yet she pushed it down bitterly.

Deciding to quit the conversation to save them both mortification knowing she was next, the mage flipped her two-toned braid over her shoulder, “And, I’m gonna go—”

“Wait! I have news!” she stopped dead, pivoting back to look at Cullen. They’ve set a date for my Vigil.” Amnesia set in, and both she and Reid forgot all else when they heard his news. “The week after my name day, I start.”

Embarrassingly enough, Evelyn clapped her hands giddily, “That’s wonderful! You did it, Cullen!” The mage wished she could embrace him, but her new privileges didn’t extend that far.

Beaming back at her, he added, “I still have to pass my Vigil, mind you.”

“Pff, you will, without a doubt! I’ll even let you try out your new abilities on me. The first shot is free, but after that, you’ll have to work for it.”

Feeling like the third wheel, Tristan quietly slunk off to stand and talk with Abraxas and Dane, though they eyed the two of them slyly as they conversed.

“I fear I won’t be in fighting shape for some time afterward until I get used to lyrium,” his brow creased with some worry, and she knew he was thinking of the risks involved in taking it.

“As long as it’s what you want?” He nodded earnestly, conviction in his amber eyes, “Then I’ll think of every excuse I can to check on you, even if I have to get thrown in the cells again, at least it’s by your infirmary. I can call to you, sing you a song, whatever you need!”

He chuckled, shuffling shoulder to shoulder with her so the nearest on-duty Knight couldn’t see, “Don’t do that on my account, but there is one thing… will you keep this safe?” He pulled out a coin from his pocket, placing it in her hand. There was nothing special about it, making her cock an eyebrow up at him in question. “My siblings gave it to me for luck. They’ll strip me of everything once I begin and I couldn’t bear it if they took it. We aren’t supposed to keep such mementos, but I couldn’t part with it.”

Cullen had told her of his hasty entry into The Order, and they both valued family greatly. For him to trust her with such a prized possession that in all their years of knowing each other, he had quietly guarded until now made her heart soar.

“I understand. I’ll keep it safe. I may need some luck anyway if I’m to be without you.” His gaze softened, and she realized how sappy she sounded, adding, “You know, because you keep me out of trouble.”

Cullen’s lips twitched into a half-smile, though his ears reddened slightly. “Well, someone’s got to.” His tone was light, but his eyes lingered on hers a moment longer than necessary.

She chuckled and curled her fingers around the coin, feeling its warmth from his hand.

“Thank you.” He stepped back, his hand brushing hers for the briefest of moments before he squared his shoulders and turned toward the proverbial path ahead. “I’ll come back for it. And you.”

The words were clear but soft, as though spoken more to himself than to her. Then, with a final glance, he strode away toward the waiting Knights, leaving her with a fluttering heart and the small, unremarkable coin in her grasp—now heavy with meaning.

She stood there a moment longer, watching until he disappeared from view. Only then did she slip the coin into her pocket, patting it as though to reassure herself it was still there. “Good luck, Cullen,” she whispered under her breath and turned away.

Chapter Text

Dearest Cullen,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you're busy with your training, and I don't want to distract you from your duties, but I couldn't let this news wait any longer. There's so much I need to tell you, and I hope you'll understand.

I'm getting married, Cullen. It's happening sooner than I ever imagined, but it's the right thing to do. His name is Thomas, and he's the new apprentice to Joe, the butcher in town. I know you haven't met him—he came to Honnleath after you left for the Circle—but he's a good man, Cullen. Kind, hardworking, and he makes me laugh even when I'm feeling overwhelmed. Joe says Thomas has a natural talent for the trade, and he's already saving up to open his own shop one day. He's determined to provide for us, and I believe in him.

There's more I need to tell you, and once again, I hope you'll understand. I'm pregnant, brother. Thomas and I love each other; truly we do, but this wasn't how we planned to start our life together. We've decided to marry quickly to avoid any scandal for the sake of the child and our families. I know it's not ideal, but we're making the best of it. Thomas has been nothing but supportive, and I'm grateful for him every day.

I wish you could be here for the wedding. I keep imagining you standing by my side... But I know you're doing important work, and I'm so proud of you. You've always been the one who knew exactly what you wanted and went after it. I've always admired that about you.

Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine—better than fine. Thomas and I are building a life together, and I'm excited for what's to come. I hope you'll visit us when you can. I'd love for you to meet Thomas properly, and I know he'd like to get to know you too. You're my brother, and that means the world to me.

Take care of yourself, Cullen. I know the path you've chosen isn't an easy one, but I believe in you. You're going to do great things. Just remember to take care of your heart, too. Duty is important, but so is love. Don't forget that.

With all my love,

Mia Rutherford, soon to be Miller

Dragon 9:28 (17yrs.)

The cell was small, cold, and silent, save for the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance. Cullen knelt on the stone floor, his knees aching beneath the weight of his body and the rough robes of his Vigil. The fabric scratched at his skin like a thorny penance, a reminder of the path he had chosen. Or had the path chosen him? The flickering candle on the ledge above was his only companion, it's light weak, and uncertain, barely illuminating the stone walls that seemed to close in tighter with each passing breath.

He bowed his head and whispered the words of the Chant, his voice thin and strained, almost swallowed by the void around him. "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter..." The words trailed off, his mouth dry, his throat tight. Will he not falter? He had thought so. Until now.

The silence of the cell pressed on him, wrapping around him like a noose. He had always believed he would stand firm, like the Templars of legend, unshaken, unbreakable. The day he had left home to pursue this path, and all the days after, he had been so sure. So confident. But now, locked away in the isolation of his Vigil, alone with nothing but his thoughts and the slow, deliberate ticking of time, doubt seeped into the cracks of his certainty, like water through stone.

He was supposed to be preparing, focusing his mind, his spirit, but his thoughts… they wandered. Mia. His sister. She would be married soon, perhaps already, the ceremony unfolding without him. He had known this would happen. He had made peace with it, or so he had thought. It turned out knowing it in the abstract and feeling the weight of it now were two different things. Especially when their union came about the way that it did. Had he been there to keep an eye out for his sister, perhaps her virtue would not have been compromised. No one would’ve so much as looked at her without his permission, having grown into his current broad form.

Where were their father and Bran when this ‘Thomas Miller’ from Void-knows-where came sniffing around Mia? Working the farm, of course, because they are down a farmhand while I’m chasing this dream. His family would suffer without him; why didn’t he take this into consideration the day Ser Donnelly came to recruit him?

His parents would grow old without him. His siblings would marry, have children, and live lives he would only hear about in letters if he heard at all. And when they passed on to the Maker’s side, would he even know? Would he be able to mourn? Or would the duty of the Order demand so much of him that even grief would become a luxury?

He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Why now? The thought hammered in his skull, relentless. Why, Maker, do I question this now? Why do I falter? The cell was cold, but he felt the heat of shame crawling over his skin. He had longed for this moment, worked so hard, and pushed himself beyond what he thought he was capable of. He had proven himself time and again. This was supposed to be his triumph. He was to be a protector, a defender of the innocent, a shield against the wicked. He had wanted this.

Hadn't he?

A low tremor of doubt ran through him. His whole life had been spent pursuing this dream—his dream. Yet now, as he stood on the threshold of becoming a Templar, of fulfilling everything he had set out to achieve, the ground beneath his feet felt suddenly unstable, as though the very foundations of his faith were shifting beneath him. Had it been worth it? Would it be worth it to give up so much, to turn away from everything and everyone he had known, for this?

The candle flickered, the shadows around him twisting and shifting like phantoms.

Maker, give me clarity!

He forced the words of the Chant from his lips again, grasping at them like a drowning man reaching for a helping hand. His voice steadied, and slowly—painfully—the doubts receded.

For now.

By the second day, the hunger gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. His stomach twisted in on itself, a hollow ache that would not abate. His head felt light and his thoughts scattered, slipping through his grasp like sand through open fingers. He needed to focus, to pray—to anchor himself in the words of the Canticle of Trials. But the verses blurred together, their meaning unraveling before him. He mouthed the sacred lines, yet they felt empty, weightless.

Instead, his mind drifted, drawn irresistibly toward Evelyn.

He clenched his jaw, trying to push her away, but it was no use. She had always lingered in the back of his thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome, a presence he could not deny. She was his friend—his only true friend in the Circle. Or something more? His ill-advised lust. His inappropriate infatuation. Could he even call himself her friend while dreaming of lying with her?

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if doing so could banish the images that came unbidden—her laughter, light as summer rain; the way her eyes burned bright as she cast her magic; the way her fingers had brushed against his when he handed her his lucky coin.

His throat tightened.

She had promised to treasure it. A meaningless trinket for anyone but him, yet she had held it as though it were something precious. He had known, with a certainty that cut through all doubt, that no matter what happened, she would keep it safe.

Could it be that she felt something for him as well?

The thought sent a terrible longing curling through his chest, warm and aching, dangerous and forbidden.

Stop it! His fingers dug into his thighs, nails biting into the rough fabric of his robes. You are a disgrace of a Knight for thinking this during your Vigil! A disgrace, disgrace!

He forced his gaze to the candle, now half-burned, its wax pooling like molten gold at its base. He watched the flame tremble, its fragile light barely holding against the darkness.

"Andraste, give me grace," he whispered, his voice hoarse with shame. "Maker, cleanse me of this weakness."

By the third day, Cullen was utterly spent. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, his body and mind pushed beyond their limits. The candle that had once cast flickering light against the cold stone walls had burned down to nothing, leaving his cell shrouded in darkness. He sat slumped against the wall, his prayers no longer spoken aloud but reduced to silent, desperate pleas.

Maker, guide me. Show me the path I am meant to follow.

The silence stretched, as usual offering no answer—until, at last, something within him shifted. It was not a voice, not a vision, but a quiet certainty that settled over him like a long-awaited dawn. The hunger, the thirst, the gnawing doubts—they receded, fading into insignificance.

He thought of Mia again, of the joy in her letter. She was starting a new chapter of her life, and he was doing the same. He had always known this path would require sacrifices, and now he understood what that truly meant. He couldn’t be there for Mia’s wedding, just as he couldn’t let himself be distracted by his feelings for Evelyn. His duty was to the Order, to the Maker, and to the dream he had worked so hard to achieve. He thought of Evelyn one last time, the memory of her smile seared into his mind like a lingering ember. She had always understood him better than anyone. And just as duty drove him, it drove her. Were their roles reversed, she would not hesitate. She would not falter.

Neither could he.

The heavy creak of the door shattered the stillness. Cullen blinked against the sudden flood of light, his vision blurring. Slowly, he pushed himself up, legs trembling beneath him, stiff from days of stillness.

In the doorway stood the Knight-Captain, his expression unreadable. "Your Vigil is complete, recruit. Come, it is time to take your vows and drink of lyrium."

Cullen stepped forward, emerging from the dim confines of the cell, and sunlight spilled across his face. Its warmth felt unfamiliar, almost startling, after three days shrouded in darkness. As he followed the Knight-Captain toward the Chapel, a quiet steel had settled in his spine. He had made his choice. No matter the cost, he would see it through.

The Chapel was ablaze with candlelight, their golden glow devouring the heavy air with sharp and cloying incense. It burned Cullen's nostrils, but he breathed it in deeply, letting it fill his lungs. It was part of the ritual, part of the purification. The brazier at the feet of the statue of Andraste burned a furious crimson, unnaturally bright, the heat rolling through the chamber like a living thing.

The gathered Templars stood in solemn formation, their armor gleaming, their eyes fixed upon him. Cullen moved to the center of the chamber, his breath steady despite the weight of their stares. Two Templars approached, their hands firm yet reverent as they stripped him of the simple robe of the Vigil, leaving him in nothing but breeches rolled high to expose his skin. He felt vulnerable beneath their scrutiny, yet there was no shame—only purpose.

Brother Devon's voice echoed through the chamber, deep and resonant, as he began to recite the Chant of Light. He paced slowly around Cullen, swinging the censer in wide, deliberate arcs. The metallic clink of the chains provided a rhythmic counterpoint to his chanting, each note and movement weaving together in a solemn, almost hypnotic cadence.

The Templars encircled him, each movement precise and ritualistic. Several stepped forward, carrying vials of lyrium and long, thin needles. The liquid pulsed, cold and blue, alive with the Maker’s fire. Without hesitation, the first needle touched his skin, scratching the first link of a chain upon his flesh.

The sensation was ice at first—sharp and numbing, a cold that stole his breath. But as the chains were drawn, link by link, fire followed. The pain lanced through him, searing and unrelenting, as if molten iron had been poured into his veins. Cullen clenched his jaw, refusing to cry out. He would not falter.

Yet, intertwined with the pain was something else—a surge of power, raw and intoxicating. It coursed through his frame, making his heart pound and his senses sharpen. He felt stronger, invincible, but also angrier as if a storm had been unleashed within him.

The Templars worked in silence, etching sacred chains across his arms, his legs, and his chest—binding him to his duty, to his brothers, to the Maker’s will. The weight of them pressed down upon him, though they were no more than blood and lyrium upon his skin. But it was a burden he accepted without hesitation, even as his breath grew ragged and his vision blurred at the edges.

Brother Devon’s voice rose, the Chant now fervent, insistent. The sacred words filled Cullen’s ears, his bones, his very soul. The final link was scratched into his chest, the chains converging in a great knot above his heart.

The Templars stepped back, and the Knight-Captain approached, chalice in hand. The liquid within shimmered with the same cerulean light as the lyrium now burned into his skin.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," the Knight-Captain intoned, his voice solemn.

Cullen lifted his head, the response rising from within him, unwavering. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written."

The Knight-Captain held the chalice forward. "Vow before the Maker that you will be a shield against dangers of magic, protector of the innocent."

Cullen inhaled deeply. "I vow it before the Maker, who watches and judges."

"Vow before His Bride that you will be a sword that pierces the darkness, the slayer of the foul and the wicked."

"I vow it before Andraste, who burned so that we may live free."

"Vow before your brothers of the Order that you will stand with them until the Maker comes to us again or it is time for you to cross the Veil."

"I vow it before my brothers, until my last breath is spent."

The Knight-Captain nodded, his expression grim. "Then drink, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and may your path be righteous, your will unbroken, and your soul a beacon against the shadow."

Cullen took the chalice, the metal cold against his trembling hands. He raised it to his lips and drank deep.

The lyrium was bitter and metallic, racing through his body in an instant. His vision swam, the world tilting and spinning around him. The Chant of Light swelled, the voices of the Templars joining Brother Devon's in a maddening crescendo. He felt as though he were being pulled apart and remade, his body and mind reshaped by the power of the lyrium.

Suddenly, the pain, the power, the anger—it all coalesced into a single, blinding moment of clarity. He was a Knight now, bound by blood and lyrium to the Templar Order, to the fight against the darkness. And as the world slowly faded into black, Cullen knew that he would never be the same again.

Chapter Text

Evelyn,

How are you holding up after… well, after everything? I won’t pretend to know what it’s like to be poisoned by Ghoul’s Beard and then locked away like that, but I can imagine it’s not something you just shake off. Honestly, the thought of it still makes my blood boil. If I’d been there, I swear I would’ve—well, I’d have done something stupid and reckless, and it probably would’ve made things worse. But still, I wish I could’ve been there to stand by you as you did for me all those years ago.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if becoming the Knight-Enchanter is worth it for you. Being stuck in that strict Circle, dealing with all that harshness and politics of it.  To be honest, I hate thinking of you in that place, surrounded by people who would throw you in solitary for nothing. But then I remember how stubborn and driven you are, and I realize you’d probably wither away if you weren’t chasing something bigger. And I know you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t see this through. So, I’ll stop questioning it. Just promise me you’re taking care of yourself, alright?

On a lighter note, I’ve been writing to my father. Can you believe it? Me, Sorin, the man who was abandoned by the elven heretic, now exchanging letters with him like we’re old friends. It’s… surreal. We actually get along, if you can imagine that. And get this—he’s in Ferelden now, of all places. Denerim’s Alienage, to be exact.  Is this some kind of joke from the Maker that Miriam’s so fond of?  Two of the people I want to see the most are both in Ferelden and here I am, an ocean away.  Strange how life works, isn’t it? Oh, and Henley even helped him send me a gift—a green scarf. It’s nice. Soft. I don’t know why, but it feels strange to have something from my father...

Anyway, I should wrap this up before I start rambling. But before I forget—how’s Miriam? Her last letter felt off. There were also water drop stains all over it, and I’m not entirely convinced they were from the rain. Don’t tell her I asked, though. I’m just… curious.

Take care of yourself, Evelyn. And don’t you dare forget that you’ve got people out here who care about you, even if we’re far away. Write back when you can.

Sorin

Cullen

“Cullen?”

I must still be dreaming, Evelyn wouldn’t be here. Why does she still haunt me? His head lulled to the other side, “Leave me.”

“Cullen?” Her touch jolted him awake. “Hey,” she whispered softly with a bright smile. It was as if all his praying was for naught as he gazed upon her face; the first he awoke to after taking his first drought of lyrium.

He blinked back at her groggily, “Hey.” Dane and Abraxas were standing at the foot of his bed, looking about the room as if on sentry duty. “H-how did you get in here?”

“Stop worrying! How are you feeling?” She gently lowered herself onto his bed, sliding her hand in his. Her touch was different… His blood screamed to him of her intense magic, like she was a primed gaatlok bomb. The rising panic on his face caused her to take it away with a frown.

Dane interpreted his new internal alarm, “Their magic is going to bother you for a while until you learn to read what the lyrium is sensing. You’ll feel the way their mana flows within them and when they are readying to use it. If you’re around them long enough you’ll be able to pick out from a crowd, like I can do with Brax. I can even sense when he has used his magic. Nothing gets past you.”

Evelyn’s eyes studied him with concern, and he hated that he caused the frown on her lips, “Sorry, your hand was so hot. It felt like I was touching a heated iron.”

The Sentinel nodded, “And if you touched Brax, he’d feel like frostbite prickling your fingers, but it’s just an illusion. Though mages with dominant healing magic feel nicer.”

Abraxas cocked up an eyebrow, “Is that why you’re only interested in healers for the occasional roll-in-the-sheets?” Dane nodded enthusiastically, “And how do they feel?”

“Like being dipped in a tub of healing salve.”

"So, are you planning to dip into Bloody Miri's salve next?" Abraxas leaned casually against the wall, looking genuinely curious.

“Hey!” Evelyn and Cullen snapped at the same time, though his wasn’t as fierce as her protest.

Abraxas raised his hands in mock surrender. “Come on, it’s not like she’s here to hear it.”

Dane, meanwhile, shook his head vigorously, his expression one of disgust. “Not a chance. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. I don’t care what the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander say, this whole blood dripping from her eyes thing is just foul.”

Cullen and Evelyn once again responded in unison. “Drop it.”

The two men exchanged a glance before bursting into laughter. “Maker’s breath, you two sound like an old married couple,” Abraxas chuckled.

Cullen ran a tired hand down his face, though the tips of his ears became red. “Andraste preserve me, can we not?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes at them fixing the other mage with a fiery glare. Cullen’s eyes glided down the length of her long two-toned hair. Lost in thought, he wondered what it’d be like to touch it, to feel her. Despite it feeling as if his bed was on fire already with her sitting on it, a swell of rolling heat raced south making him squirm. Cursing himself for his weakness, his palms pressed down on himself as he managed to sit up to hide his strong reaction to her.

Dane could barely suppress his amusement, watching his struggle with balling up the sheets. “I remember my first month on lyrium. Get used to it, Rutherford, you’ll be pitching a lot of tents now that you’re on it.”

Evelyn’s braid whipped around looking him dead in the eye, concern lacing her voice, “Are you leaving on assignment already?” The new knight’s eyes widened, though he was thankful she did not catch the innuendo.

Dane shook his head at her innocence, while Abraxas, rasped out, “Wait ‘til Reid hears, he was right!” Knowing exactly what he was referring to, Cullen felt like he was about to melt into a puddle between all the forces at work making the room feel like an oven.

Still holding him in her gaze, she must’ve seen his color change and reached for the glass of water on his bedside table. Evelyn frowned, worry etched into her face as she pressed the cool cup to his lips. “I have no idea what you’re on about,” she threw back over her shoulder. Leaning over him, her hand accidentally pressed on his chest when she went to stabilize herself, causing him to sputter the water and groan at the pain and pleasure mixing together. “Shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you!”

The more she fussed the more he suppressed the need to just bear hug her to him. To smell her scent, to feel her heartbeat, and just…

The creak of a door and the presence of the Sister on duty put an end to the awkward situation. “Time to go!” Dane quickly ushered the mages out.

Abraxas dragged Evelyn along by the arm as she looked back at him, “Come on, Trev! Stop torturing Rutherford!”

Quickly rummaging through her pocket, she flipped him his lucky coin, “Your turn for luck!” It landed on his chest, but his eyes were fixed on hers as they fled from the Sister beginning her rounds.

The heat of her mana was still lingering on his coin. Willing himself to touch it, he clamped it in his hand, wanting to know Evelyn's mana as intimately as she did. The tingling coin carried the essence of the pyromancer, making him wonder what it was like to have such a force within them. Sympathy flooded him replacing desire, for not only had she faced prejudice against her mana, but she had to control the thing she must’ve resented for some time before it killed her. The sobering revelation gave way to the need to understand and protect her.

First and foremost, he needed to remember the vows he had just taken. He was to guard the people of Thedas from the dangers of magic; from Evelyn. He trusted her, but how many other Templars ‘trusted’ their charges before that blew up in their face? He owed it to Evelyn and himself to stop whatever was happening between them. For Maker’s sake, she snuck into the Infirmary just to see him and the way she cared for him…

Yes, he could be looking too far into her actions, and they could easily be interpreted as mere friendliness. But if she felt even a fraction of what he did, as her protector, he had to put an end to it. It was for her own good as a Knight-Enchanter. And if this was the only way to manage the emotions he harbored for her, he'd do it.

Evelyn

Ducking out of the Templars’ Infirmary, the trio made their way back to the Tower. Evelyn was about to head to the library—Croft had assigned her yet another literary challenge. This time, she was to locate a rare tome titled ‘The Principles of Lazurite Extraction for Knight-Enchanter Hiltcraft.’

As she walked, her gaze caught a familiar sight—the brown plait of her friend. Evelyn smirked; it had become second nature to spot Miriam by her signature floor-length braid. But her amusement faded when she noticed that the Ferelden wasn’t alone.

A Knight she had never seen before walked beside her. He was tall and broad, his posture relaxed and casual. If it had been any other mage, Evelyn wouldn’t have thought twice about the scene. But every Templar in Kinloch Hold—save for Cullen—avoided Miriam, their reactions ranging from wary to disgusted, to outright hostile.

With the boys preoccupied, muttering conspiratorially about needing to find Reid, Evelyn made a snap decision. Instead of continuing to the library, she veered toward the healer, intent on finding out more.

“Miriam, is everything alright?” the pyromancer asked, her tone light but her gaze keen as she glanced between the Ferelden and the unfamiliar Knight.

“Ah, Ser Miquella De Lafaille, this is my friend, Apprentice Trevelyan—the one I told you about!” Miriam’s voice was cheerful, though there was a flicker of something in her expression that Evelyn couldn’t quite place.

Now closer she could see that the man beside the healer was striking, with sharp, attractive features and warm, lively eyes that seemed to take in every detail of Evelyn with unsettling precision. His gaze lingered on her, as though piecing together her life story from the way she carried herself. Though his presence at her friend’s side made her uneasy, Evelyn masked her wariness with a polite smile and greeted him as his station demanded.

“No need for formalities,” his voice had a heavy Orlesian accent with a slight rasp. His gaze shifted between them both as he continued, “Please, Ser Miquella will suffice. I’ve only just been transferred here.” He paused, then made a small, elegant gesture toward the healer beside him. “This fine woman was the first kind soul I’ve encountered. It seems my heritage is… offensive to some.” His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of resignation in his eyes, as though he had long grown accustomed to such treatment.

Miriam’s expression softened with sympathy, and she nodded vigorously. “Yes, it’s awful! I was just telling him how you went through something similar when you were first transferred here. I thought it might help him feel less alone.”

The pyromancer smiled tersely with a small laugh, “Yes, um, Miri, I wanted to update you on our newly Knighted friend. If I could just have a moment…” She gently but firmly pulled Miriam aside, lowering her voice and casting a wary glance back at the Orlesian, “Miri, please tell me you haven’t already divulged to this stranger anything about us?”

The healer looked taken aback, her brows furrowing in confusion. “No, I was just being friendly. I thought I’d… make a good impression before he finds out about my mutation.”

Evelyn’s expression eased, but her tone remained firm. “I understand, but you don’t know this man.”

The healer crossed her arms, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice. “I think your survival training is making you a bit paranoid.”

“I know you believe every child of the Maker is good, but you and I know better than most that’s not always true.” Evelyn hated the way Miriam’s pale blue eyes dimmed at the harsh reminder of reality. Both had been born into nobility, yet both had faced the scorn of their families—though the Ferelden, had endured the added sting of being disowned. Evelyn grasped her skinny shoulders tenderly, craning her neck slightly to look her in the eyes, “I’m not telling you not to befriend him, I asking you to be cautious until we know more about him.” Her friend blinked a few times and offered a wan smile. “And Cullen seems to be alright, by the way.”

“Thank the Maker!” Miriam’s face lit up with relief, and the two turned back to Miquella, who had been waiting patiently.

“Good news about your friend?” he asked, his unfaltering grin warm as he watched them.

“Yes! He’s officially a Templar now, and no one deserves it more than he does!” Miriam’s enthusiastic boast brought a smile to Evelyn’s face, her earlier tension easing slightly.

She had missed Cullen fiercely, never letting his lucky coin out of her sight as if to do so would have some sort of effect on his Vigil. After Henley’s letters about what the lyrium did to him, she had been worried and enlisted the help of her pseudo ‘big brothers’ – Abraxas and Orin – to sneak her in. Finding Cullen pale and exhausted from the ordeal, she wanted so badly to comfort him but ended up doing the opposite.

Until that moment, she had never stopped to wonder what her magic felt like to the Knights. And if she was being honest, she hadn’t wanted to know. She knew what it felt like to her—a constant, hot, humming presence beneath her skin, as natural as breathing after seven years of living with it. But the look on Cullen’s face when she touched him had said it all. It wasn’t just discomfort; it was something deeper, something visceral. The memory made her cringe, the image now seared into her mind. No wonder the Templars feared her. To them, she wasn’t just a mage—she was a force of chaos, a Rage demon skulking through the halls of the Tower.

De Lafaille’s Orlesian-accented voice broke the brief silence. “It’s heartening to hear about your friend Cullen. The Order needs more good men in its ranks—men of integrity and strength. It’s a rare thing these days.” His tone was genuine, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “He’s fortunate to have friends like you both.”

Evelyn’s brooding thoughts were momentarily interrupted by his words. She offered a polite nod, though her mind was already racing ahead. She didn’t have time for this ‘woe is me’ wallowing— she still needed to retrieve that book from the library for her studies. Croft couldn't care less about her heart’s blues, and with her final test drawing closer, she couldn’t afford to fall behind. Every moment counted, and sentimental distractions, however seemingly important, were a luxury she couldn’t indulge.

“Thank you, Ser Miquella,” the pyromancer said, her tone polite but distant. She turned to the healer. “Miri, would you mind coming with me to the library? I need to grab a book for my research, and I could use the company.”

The Ferelden opened her mouth to respond, but the Orlesian interjected smoothly. “Ah, but I was hoping my new fair friend might show me around a bit more. I’m still finding my way here, and her guidance has been most helpful.”

Miriam hesitated, glancing between the pyromancer and the Knight. Her pale eyes flicked to the Marcher, silently seeking her opinion. Evelyn’s expression remained neutral, but she gave the slightest shake of her head, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. It was a subtle signal, but her friend caught it immediately.

“I’m sorry, Ser,” the healer said, her voice apologetic. “I promised Evelyn I’d help her with something earlier. Perhaps another time?”

Miquella’s smile didn’t falter, though his sharp eyes darted briefly to Evelyn. He inclined his head gracefully, his tone as smooth as ever. “Of course, I understand. Duty calls, after all. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He gave a slight bow, his movements elegant and practiced. “Until next time.”

As he turned and walked away, Evelyn couldn’t shake the feeling that his sharp gaze had missed nothing. She exhaled quietly, pushing the thought aside. “Let’s go,” she said to Miriam, linking her arm through her friend’s. “I need to find that book before it’s time for my training session.”

The Ferelden gave her a curious look as they walked. “You really don’t trust him, do you?”

Evelyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We don’t know him, Miri. And as I told you before, until we do, it’s better to err on the side of caution.”

The healer sighed but nodded. “Alright. But you have to admit, he seems nice. ”

“Nice doesn’t always mean safe,” Evelyn replied, her voice low. “Now, let’s focus on that book. I have a feeling it’s going to take a while to find.”

Over the next week, Miquella didn’t relent, continuing to favor the company of the duo. Granted Evelyn had seen firsthand the callousness of the Ferelden Templars toward the Orlesian taking some pity on the man. Between that and Miriam’s hopelessly smitten glances at the Knight, it was becoming harder to maintain the pretense that he was trouble. If anything, he was proving to be quite the opposite.

One morning, as the trio made their way down the winding stone steps of the Circle Tower, the healer, deep in conversation with Evelyn, misjudged her footing and stumbled. Before she could so much as brace for impact, Miquella was there, catching her by the arm with a firm grip.

“You alright, my fair friend?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

Miriam blinked, wide-eyed, then quickly nodded, cheeks tinged pink as she realized just how close they were. “Y-yes. I’m fine, Ser. Thank you.”

Miquella’s lips quirked into a smile, “Careful, or we’ll both be tumbling down next time.”

Just a day later, the three of them were enjoying a rare moment of free time in the courtyard when a group of Templars passed by, their conversation loud enough to carry. One of them made a pointed remark about Miriam’s mutation, his tone dripping with disdain. The words hung in the air like poison, and Evelyn felt her friend shrink beside her.

Before she could react, the Orlesian was already moving. He stepped forward, placing himself between Miriam and the sneering Knights.

“Shame on you, brothers, for speaking ill of her,” he uttered, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “She has more heart than most of us. If you take issue with the gifts the Maker has given her, then perhaps you should take it up with Him.”

The Templars exchanged uncertain glances, clearly unprepared for one of their own to defend Bloody Miri so openly. After a beat of silence, they muttered among themselves and walked away.

Miquella exhaled, the fire in his eyes dimming as he turned back to the mages. “Let them say what they want,” he said, voice soft again. “You’re worth more than their words.”

Miriam only smiled, lowering her gaze as a blush crept up her neck. Evelyn, watching from the side, found it harder than ever to doubt him. Miquella wasn’t just kind—he was protective, willing to stand by her friend even at the cost of his own standing among his fellow Knights.

And for the first time, Evelyn really wondered if maybe, just maybe, she had misjudged him.

Chapter Text

A worn diary excerpt

Blessed Maker, hear my trembling voice tonight. I write this by the faint glow of my chamber’s candle, its flame as unsteady as my heart. For so long, I have walked the path set before me untouched by the snares of longing or the whisper of wayward desire. My life was but Yours, my heart was but Yours, my soul bound in devotion. Yet now, Maker, my spirit wavers, for You have placed in my path a soul unlike any other.

Ser Miquella walks among us, clad in steel, yet his words bear no edge. Where other Knights see a curse upon my brow, he speaks to me as if I am more than my mutation, more than my magic. His voice is gentle, his manner kind, and in his presence, I feel something stir within me—a trembling, a warmth, a joy so foreign I scarce know what to name it.

I have never known the love of a man—not as a father’s protection, nor as a brother’s care, nor as anything more. So I wonder, Maker, is he Your blessing upon a lonely soul… or is he a test? Have You placed him in my path to see if I will stray? I declared to Evelyn with fervent conviction that I would never break the rules, never fraternize. And yet, my heart betrays me. It quickens when he speaks, trembles when he lingers. It is wrong to desire a Knight, and yet this does not feel wrong—it feels like longing, like a thirst I never knew I possessed. 

O Maker, in Your infinite wisdom, guide me. If Ser Miquella is but a test, grant me the strength to overcome it. If he is a temptation, let me turn away before I am lost. And if—if by some mercy—he is a gift, then show me how to cherish him without betraying all I have sworn to be.

I am Yours, Maker, now and always. Do not let me falter.

Cullen

The sun streamed brightly through their small silt window as if heralding the significance of the day—Cullen’s first as a full-fledged Knight. Having gained control of his body and mind after those initial weeks of lyrium consumption, he felt a newfound sense of empowerment.

This is what he had been training for since he was thirteen. Against the odds, he proved to everyone he was capable of the honor and today was the first day of the rest of his life. He had enough time to think things through and how he was going to handle his new responsibilities and relationship with a certain mage, and was resolved not to allow their feelings to interfere with either of their dreams.

Falling back into his usual routine, after the morning Chantry service he and Reid made their way to the Tower’s Mess Hall. The grounds were already active with lively conversations, but his eye immediately caught sight of the Marcher pyromancer. She was with Miriam and another Knight he had never seen before, apparently teaching her some fancy sword flourishes.

“Tristian, who is that Knight?”

His bunkmate didn’t even have to look to know who he was referring to. “Oh, Ser Miquella De Lafaille.” He grumbled. “The latest and greatest thing to come out of Orlais since they invented those tiny cakes, if you ask the ladies.”

“Why is he here?”

“He transferred to see more of the world, or so he says. He’s been attached to those two since he arrived.”

A frown pulled down on his face immediately. Cullen gazed back over at them laughing and chatting like they were old friends. Miriam was watching with a bright grin as Evelyn tried to mirror his movements. Her contagious energy always spread like fire, and the three of them were greatly enjoying each other’s company.

Cullen’s fist clenched, struggling with the waves of overwhelming emotions. They were supposed to aid Templars in battle by bolstering their conviction, not stoking petty jealousy.

The newly-minted Knight continued with his bunkmate towards the Tower doors until that foreign accent floated over carrying his name. More resplendent than the sun, Evelyn jogged over to him, making him grimace in pain and pleasure at her attention. “Ser Cullen, welcome back!”

The other two followed on her heels. Miriam was quick to introduce their new Orleasian friend, and for the sake of wrangling his pounding emotions, he forced himself to be civil.

“So you are the infallible Ser Cullen, these ladies talk of. Well met, Ser. The Maker smiled upon me when I ran into them upon my arrival. It’s good to know there are Knights here that do not see all the mages as dogs.”

“Well, to be fair I did force Cullen to be friends with me.” The memory danced in her eyes and rekindled it in his heart. Despite how hard he tried to fight her pull on him, with one move she had him figuratively on his knees. All the tension in his body fled with a long sigh as he gazed at her hopelessly.

Miquella chuckled, “I imagine that didn’t take too much convincing.” The man’s gaze was unsettling as if he saw straight through him and his secrets. It was worse on the mages, the Orlesian’s eyes roaming up and down invasively. How could Evelyn allow this Knight into their close confidence? Their friendship was no business of this Ser Miquella’s.

Cullen must’ve let go of a growl or something of the like because they all looked at him funny. “Um, it’s a lyrium headache,” he lied.

Reid scrutinized him with a hint of disappointment, “That better not keep you from going out to The Spoiled Princess tonight to celebrate?”

“Would it? If so, I have a perpetual headache,” he droned on. The Knights made it very clear that an outing to the local tavern was part of the initiation, but suddenly he didn’t feel like celebrating.

The outsider smiled annoyingly. “Ah, my first day as a Knight was a memorable one, as was the evening.” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively and Reid smirked along with him.

Evelyn and Miriam shared a questioning look, and Cullen took the first opportunity to escape that popped up in his mind. “Maker, do not speak of such things in front of Miriam!” He turned to Reid, glowering at him, “You know better than to be so inappropriate.” The healer smiled at him, even if there was a touch of confusion in her gaze. Gesturing with his arm, the group continued into the Tower.

Having been so distracted and focused on Miriam, he forgot about the other mage…

“I’m sorry if this seems bold, Evelyn, but your scent… it’s lovely. It reminds me of the bakery I grew up by.” The group paused on the steps to the Tower doors, looking back at Miquella like he had grown two heads. Evelyn blushed, but she wasn’t the only one, for it seemed Miriam’s cheeks worked to match her own.

“Oh, thank you.” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Attempting to dispel the awkwardness of the situation, she added with a polite laugh, “You won’t be saying that later after combat training!”

As they stepped through the doors the charmer added, “I’d be glad to test that theory.”

Cullen stomped on, gazing up at the dark ceiling of the Tower wondering why the Maker was testing him right out of the gate.

Before long, it was pretty obvious the Maker was trying to prove something to Cullen—patience? Restraint? Faith? He couldn’t tell, but every day since becoming a Knight had felt like another challenge; another push to see how much he could take without faltering.

Miquella always seemed to have the perfect compliment for Evelyn, and she’d light up every time. She’d laugh at his Orlesian jokes—which, honestly, were about as exciting as stale bread—and get so wrapped up in their conversations, that it was like no one else was even in the room. Each moment felt like another little jab at Cullen’s resolve.

And then, one afternoon, things finally hit a breaking point.

He was making his rounds near the library, when the sight around the next corner made him freeze. There, in a secluded alcove, stood the Orlesian Knight and Evelyn. The man was leaning in close, his hand brushing up the pyromancer's arm as he spoke to her in low, intimate tones. Evelyn was smiling, her expression soft and unguarded, and for a moment, Cullen felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Before he had time to think, he heard himself shout, “Back away from each other!”

Evelyn’s head spun to the source of the command with her hands raised. “Cullen? Is that you?”

With a hand on his pommel, he strode over. “Did you not hear me?” His helm was on, but he swore the Olresian looked amused by his interference. “Mages and Templars do not touch in Ferelden, Ser Miquella.” To the side, Evelyn was crossing her arms, “And you know better.”

“Forgive me, Ser Cullen, but you Fereldens treat mages like your overgrown hounds. Evie—”

“Apprentice Trevelyan,” he corrected.

He turned to the woman in question. “I’m off duty, and she assured me I could call her such.” The warm familiarity in his gaze was infuriating, especially when Evelyn flashed a small smile back.

“Wrong, Ser Miquella, we are always on duty. Your actions could have serious consequences for her.”

“My apologies, I thought we were alone.” Any doubt of the man’s intentions was erased.

The last thread of Cullen’s resolved snapped, he stepped closer to the Knight, glowering down and using his shoulder to separate them. The only other betrayal of his rage was the creak of his leather gloves on the hilt of his sword. “Step back.” The man didn’t seem to care about what Cullen said or the fact that he was taller, Miqeulla stood unbothered.

“Ser Arse, can I have a word?” Evelyn leveled him a heated glare from behind. Telling Miquella she’d catch up with him later, he obliged her and slunk off down the hall. Turning to return to his rounds, not wanting one of Evelyn’s haughty sermons, she followed and matched his pace anyway. “What in the Void was that about?!”

Spinning in a fury, he guided her into an empty classroom and flipped his helmet off. Running a hand through his mussed hair, he tucked the hunk of metal under his arm. “The man is going to get you branded, is that what you want? What if I had been Vale? Miquella’s inability to keep his hands to himself is a disgrace to his uniform and disrespectful to you!”

“And how many times have you touched me?” The defiance glistened in her eyes calling him out on his own sin.

“I haven’t touched you like that. There is a difference.”

“Is there? You’re not the same person since you took lyrium?” She stepped closer, searching his eyes for something – maybe a glimpse of the naive boy who thought he could be friends with his charges. He lifted his chin and pulled away from her, swallowing hard when her lips parted. The bite of her fiery mana calmed to a warm crackle when she was close; a pattern he was noticing more and more. His heart beat faster, unable to deny her pull on him, but he was in control – he had to be.

With lyrium bolstering his stubbornness to yield, she backed away slightly. Cullen hated what he had to do, if only she could understand it was for her own good! He realized that if he tried to explain it to her, he’d end up admitting his feelings and serve only to fuel her hopes of being something more.

Her voice reflected the hurt breaking through her tough facade. “Then I suggest you take your own advice, and back away before you get burned. I’ll leave you to your duty, Ser.” She turned, walking away like a wounded – but defiant – animal.

Days passed and the only view he had of Evelyn was her back. He knew she was doing it purposely, but if that helped her cope – to not see him – so be it. What he had done was to protect her— mostly. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

He was boring holes in her back during supper one night, when Tristian slid onto the bench beside him. “What the fuck did you do to Trevelyan? She’s apparently mad at me too now. Guilty by association or something like that. Sometimes I can’t keep up with all her haughty noble words.”

“She hasn’t even looked at me in Maker knows how long, let alone talked to me.” He grumbled. “I suppose she's still upset I got between her and Miquella in the Library. It was for her own good.”

“Was it? I mean if you’re dead-set on staying away from her then why hold her back from moving on?” After getting off of bed rest, he confided in his bunkmate of his feelings – even if Dane and Abraxas beat him to it. Reid’s nonchalant tone as he stuffed his mouth grated on Cullen – mostly because he was right.

“I’m only trying to look out for her.”

“Yes, by playing big brother and scaring off the competition.” His words struck a chord, thinking of Mia. “Clearly there is something still between you two. I mean look at her! She’s miserable and Miriam keeps looking at her like she’s one second from exploding again.”

“I did try to apologize, but she ignored me in typical Trevelyan-fashion.” He had tried to broach the subject a few times in passing and each time she slung some foul-mouthed insult at him. “She’s a bloody hot-head.” He muttered, stabbing at his meal with his fork.

“If you ask me, you’re going about it the wrong way. Who’s the only person she listens to religiously?” Reid raised his eyebrows, as if the answer was obvious. “Miriam. You want to get through to Trevelyan, you have to speak to her first.”

“Maybe you are right…”

The low hum of conversation in the Mess Hall barely registered as he absently pushed his food around his plate. But then, like a blade cutting through the noise, a familiar voice reached him—sharp, exasperated.

“Miri, for the love of Andraste, stop looking over my shoulder at Cullen.” His grip on the fork tightened at Evelyn’s words. “I know he’s staring at me.”

To her credit, he was staring rather intensely.

“B-but he looks angry today.” The healer murmured, her voice softer but no less clear.

Cullen exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to stay relaxed, even as irritation coiled in his chest. Was that truly how they saw him now? A man so consumed by his own temper that a mere glance in their direction sent them whispering?

“He’s always scowling these days. How can you even tell the difference?” Evelyn’s tone was flippant, but there was an edge beneath it. Then, with a scoff, she muttered, “The lyrium must be shrinking his brain.”

Cullen’s jaw tightened.

Miriam hesitated before pressing. “You still haven’t told me what happened—aside from him ‘abusing his authority.’ He didn’t… touch you?”

The fork in Cullen’s hand stilled.

“Maker, no! And he won’t now, either.”

Something about the certainty in her voice unsettled him more than the accusation itself.

The healer looked unconvinced, her fingers twisting anxiously around her amulet. Before she could ask more, Evelyn waved a dismissive hand. “The point is—”

Miriam suddenly sat up straighter, her eyes darting past Evelyn’s shoulder. “Oh! He’s coming over!”

Cullen didn’t even realize he was on his feet until he was already striding over to the mages. “Miriam, can I talk to you for a second? In private?” He asked as soon as he reached the two mages, gesturing toward the door without so much as a glance in Evelyn’s direction. The petite mage looked torn, her pale eyes darting nervously between him and the pyromancer. She hesitated, letting out a small, indecisive whimper. “It’s not going to take long.”

“Go on, Miri. He probably needs help taking the stick out of his arse.” Evelyn drawled with cold indifference. “Messy business.”

Cullen glared down at her, but she was too busy watching the bland pieces of stew plop into her bowl to care.

The healer’s hand was practically strangling her amulet. “I’ll be back. Please, just… don’t do anything.”

“Yes, mother,” Evelyn replied flatly, not even looking up.

Miriam followed Cullen in silence, her steps uncertain yet he didn’t slow his stride until they were well beyond earshot of Evelyn and the others. Only then did he turn to face her, his expression tense, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Miriam, I don’t know what Evelyn’s been telling you, but whatever you think of me, I want to make one thing absolutely clear—I have never done anything inappropriate toward her.” He stated firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Miriam’s brows knit together, startled by the intensity in his voice. “I… you overheard us?”

“I did,” Cullen replied, his tone edged with frustration. “Listen, Evelyn’s mad at me, but not for the reasons you might think. I stepped in between her and Ser Miquella in the library when he was behaving in a way that was… less than appropriate.”

Miriam’s expression shifted from confusion to something more guarded. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

Cullen exhaled sharply. “I mean he was touching her. He had his hands brushing against her arm, standing too close. I stepped in to stop him before it went any further.”

Miriam’s lips parted, but she said nothing at first, her breath hitching slightly. “And Evelyn is angry with you… for that?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, his voice tight. “Instead of being grateful, she’s furious that I interfered. As if I had no right to step in. As if protecting her was some sort of insult.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I need you to talk to her. She won’t listen to me, but she listens to you. Help her understand that I was not trying to exert control over her. I was only trying to—” He stopped, then sighed. “To do my duty and keep her safe.”

Miriam’s fingers twisted around her amulet, her knuckles turning white. Her voice came out almost strangled. “Do you think… Ser Miquella did this because… because he has feelings for Evelyn?”

Cullen gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Of course he does. It’s obvious. The way he looks at her, the way he’s always hovering around her—it’s not just casual interest. He’s infatuated with her.”

Miriam inhaled sharply. For a moment, she looked almost unsteady. Her lips parted, but she hesitated as though struggling with something. Then, finally, she gave a small, distracted nod. “I see.”

Cullen frowned, he expected her reaction to be that of concern for her friend, not distress, but he pressed on. “Please. Talk to her. Help her see reason. This whole mess has gone on long enough.”

The healer’s gaze was distant, her expression unreadable. But after a long, tense silence, she finally murmured, “I… I’ll speak with her. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you.” Cullen let out a slow breath, relieved that someone might finally get through to Evelyn. But Miriam barely acknowledged him, her mind clearly elsewhere. She nodded once more, almost to herself, before turning on her heel and walking away, her movements stiff and mechanical.

As he watched her walk away, Cullen silently prayed to the Maker that Miriam would succeed where he had failed.

Evelyn

Evelyn glanced up from her plate as Miriam returned to the Mess Hall and took her seat beside her. “So?” The pyromancer asked, keeping her voice even. “What did he want to talk about?”

The healer didn’t respond. She sat there, staring at a nondescript point on the wall, as if lost in thought.

Evelyn frowned. “Miri?”

“I’ll speak to you later.” The words were quiet, distant. And then, before the Marcher could say another word, Miriam stood and walked briskly away.

Evelyn stared after her, confusion coiling in her gut. What had Cullen said to her? The question burned, demanding an answer, but she forced herself to push it aside. There would be time later to ask.

Except ‘later’ never came.

For two days now, Miriam was like a ghost, slipping away the moment Evelyn drew near. The warmth of their friendship vanished—no more shared meals, no whispered conversations between duties. Every attempt she made to approach her friend was met with a polite but firm excuse: A patient to tend to; a task she had just remembered; an urgent prayer she couldn’t delay. At first, the Marcher told herself to be patient. Miriam would come to her when she was ready. But the longer it went on, the more her frustration tangled with concern.

Something had happened during that conversation with Cullen. Something that rattled Miriam enough to avoid Evelyn completely. But the thought of confronting him—of giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had stirred up trouble in her friendship—made her blood boil. She refused to let him think he had that kind of power over her.

Andraste’s burning tits, she thought bitterly. Like it wasn’t enough that he had the nerve to play chaperone, interrupting her conversation with Miquella at the exact moment she was trying—really trying—to decline his advances. Cullen’s interference had prolonged the awkward situation, and now Miriam was in danger of having her heart broken. It wasn’t as though the healer had ever confessed her feelings outright, but it was painfully obvious how smitten she was with the Orlesian. The last thing Evelyn wanted was to be caught between them.

And all the while Evelyn was on the receiving end of being ignored, Cullen lingered nearby, always present but never approaching—watching, as though waiting for something. Expectant. What the fuck was that all about!? It was enough to drive her mad.

And the distraction was costing her.

“Sweet Maker!” Evelyn hissed through gritted teeth, stumbling back as pain flared up her arm.

“Block with your staff, not your bloody arm, Trevelyan!” Croft barked, offering his usual level of sympathy for her mistakes.

Evelyn bit back a curse, flexing her fingers. The hit had been hard enough to leave her arm numb, aside from the burning sensation of a fresh cut.

“For fuck’s sake, go get that taken care of,” Croft muttered, exasperated.

She exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to the wound.

Turning on her heel, she made her way to the infirmary, jaw clenched as she hurried up the stairs. Ignoring the curious stares of those she passed, she pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The scent of herbs and clean linen filled the air. Enchanter Wynne barely spared her a glance before waving over one of her students. “Miriam, see to this.”

Evelyn’s breath caught. Finally.

The Marcher stood there, eyes pale and wary, shoulders stiff. But this time, she couldn’t walk away. Evelyn smiled, trying for casual despite the tension that coiled in her chest. “What luck that you’re here.”

“Mmhmm.” Miriam’s tone was as icy as the Frostbacks as she approached, a healing spell already flickering to life in her hands. Evelyn stiffened, the tension between them palpable. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Cullen had told Miriam something about her and Miquella—but what exactly had he said?

If Miriam found out that the Orlesian Knight was interested in breaking oaths with her, she’d never forgive her, despite being caught attempting to let him down easy. It had been impossible to get him alone, with Miriam trailing after him like a lovesick Mabari. And now, Ser Cullen the Arse had escalated the whole mess by dragging her friend into it, completely unaware of Miriam’s feelings for the man. Evelyn clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her skin. Cullen’s meddling was making things worse and worse, and she was left to deal with the fallout.

“I can’t heal you properly if your mana insists on fighting me,” the healer remarked, her tone sharp with frustration.

The pyromancer hadn’t even noticed that the veins on her arms had begun to glow orange. “Sorry,” she said hastily, forcing herself to calm her fiery essence. Normally, this was the moment Miriam would ask what was wrong, so attuned to her moods. But this time, she said nothing. She didn’t even look at her. The silence between them felt heavy, suffocating.

Evelyn took a deep breath, her voice softening. “Miri, something’s obviously been bothering you. Can you please stop avoiding me and just talk to me? Like we used to? Like friends do?”

A single, bloody tear streaked down Miriam’s pale cheek. “You are no friend.”

Evelyn blinked, stunned. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” Miriam’s anger wasn’t fiery or explosive—it was cold, like the sharp bite of the winter winds. “What friend sneaks around behind her friend’s back with the man she fancies? You know I like him!”

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. “What did Cullen say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter! How could you?!”

“Nothing happened,” Evelyn insisted, her voice low but strained, even as they stood behind the privacy of a screen.

“Yes, because Cullen caught you!” Miriam shot back, her voice rising. “You must think I’m naive! You’re only saying that because you were caught!”

“Lower. Your. Damn. Voice.” Evelyn’s words were sharp, edged with barely contained frustration. She tried to remind herself that Miriam was fragile, but right now, her friend was anything but. The healing magic flowing into her arm throbbed with a dull ache, and another tear fell from the healer’s eyes. “Miquella simply touched my arm,” she continued through gritted teeth. “I would not have let it go any further.”

Pain twisted Miriam’s features, and actual tears mingled with the crimson ones. “No! He was not for you! You have Cullen to string along—why did you need Miquella too? Why!?” Her voice cracked, raw with hurt and anger. “You’re not like me. You’re beautiful and bright. You could have anyone, but you chose the one man who showed me kindness. Why do you have to be the best at everything? Why do you have to take everything?” Miriam’s words seethed with a fury Evelyn had never seen in her before. It was unnerving, but years of training kept her rooted in place, forcing her to bear the brunt of her friend’s emotional storm. She stood still, her chest tight, as the healer’s voice rose once again. “I thought you were a blessing. I thought the Maker crossed our paths to ease my loneliness. But you’re no blessing—you’re a curse!”

The words struck like a blade, and Evelyn flinched, though she didn’t retreat. She swallowed hard, her own emotions a tangled mess of guilt, frustration, and hurt. “Take it back,” she began but Miriam was already storming off.

Throwing one last sharp glare over her shoulder, the healer declared coldly, “The only thing I’ll take back is Miquella,” before disappearing further into the infirmary.

Evelyn sank onto the cot, her legs suddenly unsteady, and let out a shaky breath. She glanced down at her arm. Miriam’s healing magic had left behind an ugly, jagged scar in place of the wound. It was too large, too bumpy to have been left by the clean cut of Croft’s blade. Her friend was far too skilled a healer for such sloppy work—no, this had been done on purpose. A deliberate mark, a reminder of the betrayal she felt.

Evelyn traced the edge of the scar with her fingertips. She wanted to be angry at Miriam, to let her fiery temper flare, but for once, the heat refused to rise. Instead, a heavy weight settled in her chest. Her friend had gotten hurt because of her inaction. She should’ve shut Miquella down sooner, made it clear that under no circumstances could she fraternize with Templars—no matter how much she daydreamed about a certain blonde Knight.

Modest in temper, bold in deed. The family motto echoed in her mind, and she let out a bitter laugh. No, her ancestors definitely had it backwards—though they probably hadn’t anticipated a descendant like her. When it came to fixing her relationship with Miriam, the motto was accurate. She needed to be patient, to approach the situation with care. But when it came to Cullen? Oh, she was going to do more than burn the pants off him the next time she saw him. 

Chapter Text

The letter is sealed with a plain wax imprint—no sigil, no identifying mark. The parchment is of decent quality but unremarkable, the kind any minor noble or merchant might use. The handwriting is precise, almost clinical, with no flourish or personal touch.

Progress unfolds as the seasons turn. The garden I have tended now bears fruit, and the thorns that once threatened its growth will soon be crushed beneath my heel.

It is time for you to remove the weed beyond my reach—the last, lingering blight that stains the pure soil of my garden. Let no trace of it remain when the moon is made new.

You know well the price of failure—and the rewards of success. Do not disappoint.

Burn this once read.

Dragon 9:28

EVELYN

Even in full plate armor with a helmet obscuring his face, Cullen was never hard to find. After spending so much time thwarting his attempts at apology, Evelyn had become attuned to his subtle tells—the way he stood, the tilt of his head—even as he blended in among his fellow Knights. She hated that she could pick him out so easily. Hated that she still cared enough to notice such small, invasive details about him after everything.

Pretending to read in the library, she watched the Templars on duty from the corner of her eye. She knew he was here. She’d memorized his posting schedule for this cycle. She hated that too.

Having been there for just ten minutes, already she narrowed the field down to three Knights. The easiest tell was the way Cullen liked to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword, with his left on the knob and his right hand on top. He also didn’t move his head, only watching his charges with his sharp amber eyes. But the surest way was how she could hear Cullen tense when she walked past. It was as if his pristine armor aged a century; so that’s exactly what she did.

Pretending to look for an elusive tome, the first Knight she passed didn’t flinch, but the second…

Evelyn heard the telltale squeak of metal and muscle clenching. Pausing at the shelf behind his back, she kept her voice low, but no less clipped. “I know that’s you, Cullen. I don’t need anything from you but to listen.” He let out a deep sigh, but she ignored it. Her frustration was making her nearly bite through her lip. “Maker, this whole situation is so fucked up!” Her voice was a harsh whisper, hiding her face partially in a book.

“I think what you’re looking for is down here.” Swiftly, Cullen rounded the shelf and the two of them tore off down the aisle.

Alone, but not inconspicuous, between the shelves, he turned on her, almost causing them to crash into each other. “Talk. But this is going to be a conversation.” She could see his scowl through the silts in his stupid bucket helmet.

Evelyn set her jaw at his commanding tone, raising her chin to rain fire down upon him – figuratively. “Good, then you can fully appreciate how utterly bullheaded you are!” She tapped her chin with a finger as if thinking for effect. “Let’s see, where to begin. How about with what you said to Miriam in the Mess Hall? Thanks to you, she believes I’ve betrayed her and refuses to speak with me!” She was struggling to keep her rage and, in turn, her mana in check. “She’s been pining after Miquella, and thanks to you,” she jabbed her finger at his chest but didn’t touch him, “she thinks I was trying to steal him from her!”

“Then what in the bloody Void were you really doing with him?” His amber eyes seemed to glow in the dim light like a lion’s at night.

“I was trying to explain that I wasn’t interested in him, and you interrupted! It’s hard enough as it is to get privacy, let alone Miriam away from the man, so I could do it without her getting her heart broken. But no, you had to stick your nose where it didn’t belong! I had it handled.”

“Handled? The only thing being handled was you!”

“As if you care! You’ve been different ever since your Vigil…” She let her words hang in the air, wondering if he’d grace her with an explanation. Silence. Her rage flickered, smothered beneath heartache. “That’s fine then. I suppose there’s nothing more to say to each other.”

She hurled the books back onto the shelf—the ones she’d only been pretending to read—their spines cracking against the wood. Cullen still said nothing, but his gaze burned into her relentlessly.

"You’re really not going to say anything, Cullen?" Her voice splintered on his name. Lately, even speaking it felt like swallowing glass. Just moments ago, she’d wanted to scream, to burn his precious Templar pants to cinders—or worse. But now, as his eyes finally broke from hers, the fight drained out of her like a snuffed flame. His silence struck harder than any blow she’d endured in her seventeen years.

She had been thrown from horses, humiliated by Gavril Croft, and forced to wrestle her own wildfire of magic into submission. Yet none of it had shattered her like this—like Cullen’s quiet annihilation of their friendship.

Because you wanted more. The truth twisted inside her.

"Some conversation," she muttered, the words brittle with hurt. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. Swallowing the ache in her throat, she turned and walked away.

The next day’s deluge matched her mood. Her cheeks felt tired from the weight of frowning, and her eyes burned from crying all night into her pillow. With the training yard a muddy swamp, Croft had his two students cleaning a caring for all their training equipment. The trio was held up in one of the storage closets in the yard, sitting amongst the staffs, armor, and other gear with the door wide open. The smell and sound of the spring rain was soothing, yet Evelyn’s nerves were frayed raw, her emotions swinging wildly between fury and grief, between the need to scream and the urge to collapse.

“Trev, since we’re alone, you wanna tell us what’s going on with you?”

She stopped conditioning a set of leather armor to roll her eyes. “As if you don’t know. I’m sure Reid has told you everything.”

Dane’s heavy frame shifted on the create holding him, groaning under his weight. But his reply was interrupted by Croft, who stepped inside, pushing back his wet hair over the scar on the side of his head.

“I’ve just received some news that couldn’t wait.” Wiping more water off him, his dark eyes came to rest on Evelyn. He nodded his head at her gravely, pressing his lips into a fine line. “You’re to have your Harrowing in three days.”

“Three?!” She shot up to her feet. “That’s all the warning I get?”

“Aye, and it’s all you need.”

Her mentor sounded so sure, but the certainty in his voice didn’t steady her. If anything, it made the walls feel closer, the air thicker. Three days…

Evelyn swallowed hard, fists clenching at her sides. Without the reassurance of shared confidence from her friends, the weight of Croft's expectations settled heavily on her shoulders. “Then I suppose I’d better make them count.”

Croft gripped her shoulder hard, jostling her about, even though he was trying to reassure her. “Accept the news. Process the shock. Then focus on succeeding. All of us will help you prepare. You’ll be more than ready, Trevelyan.” Releasing her and looking at their cleaning progress, his signature frown appeared. “Maker, this is as far as you lot got? This I expect from a prissy noble like her, but not you, Brax. When I come back, I better see this equipment fit for King Cailan’s guard!”

Cursing as he stepped back out into the torrential downpour, they resumed their work, this time with Dane pitching in after the mages ganged up on him for just sitting there.

While the banter flowed around her, Evelyn let Croft's words settle. She should be steeling herself, preparing mentally, yet one persistent thought undermined her focus: she desperately wanted to tell Miriam and Cullen. Yet, she couldn´t. The realization struck like a physical blow- her foundation was crumbling, her two pillars of strength absent when she needed them most.

A single tear splashed against the polished steel, its perfect roundness distorting her reflection. Evelyn stared at it with something between horror and fury, as if this betrayal of her own body was unconscionable. The droplet quivered, then streaked downward like a retreating soldier.

She scrubbed at the spot with violent precision, the rag biting into her palm. Pressure had been coiling around her ribs for weeks, tightening every time she crossed paths with Miriam’s glacial rage in the corridors, Miquella’s artfully vacant smiles, and Cullen’s silence that was so dense it warped the air between them. Now, her armor shone mirror-bright in the torchlight, but the fractures were spreading inward…

“Trev, you alright?” Brax’s ice-chip eyes scanned her like a malfunctioning rune. The longer his gaze held, the more her composure cracked.

“No…” She finally squeaked out and broke down.

Cold arms circled her, and Brax’s scent of mint and leather engulfed her, and she hugged him. “Listen to me. These emotions you’re feeling can bury you. We’re Knight-Enchanters. No one gets under our skin.” He pushed her shoulders back to look into her eyes, and she noticed his cold, hardened state. “No one fucks with us. We are tools to the Templars, no different than siege equipment. We have a purpose, they use us, and then they store us away until we are needed again. Even so, we are freer than any normal Circle mage. There is no room for feelings in our world.”

She sniffled, wiping her nose on her arm. “Easier said than done.”

"Listen, my mana turns me into an emotional iceblock—there’s only a handful of people in Thedas who don’t make me want to freeze their balls off." Brax lifted her chin with a knuckle, forcing her frown to ease. "You, being one of them, have a fiery mana. Makes you passionate. Fierce. Gives you the temper of damned gaatlok. So here’s the deal—turn that pity party into rage. Swap the snot bubbles for fireballs. Use it. Control it before it controls you."

“How?”

“Like this. Ready?” He leaned in. “Miriam thinks you’re a backstabbing bitch. How does that make you feel?”

“Hurt. Frustrated...”

“Wrong! She betrayed you. She took Cullen’s word over yours. You’re fucking outraged that after all these years, she threw you away for some Orlesian cockmonger she’s known for five minutes—who, by the way, had the nerve to come onto you first!”

Evelyn’s head bobbed as the heat of his words began simmering inside her.

“That’s the spark before immolation,” Brax murmured.

Flames burst to life in her palms. The ice mage nodded at the fire licking her fingers. “There’s your real language. Now, translate the rest: Cullen screwed you over, then spurned your weird excuse for a ‘friendship.’”

“Heartbroken. Numb—”

Brax shook his head, his stare drilling into her. “No. Disposable. Outraged. Rejected!” The last word came molten, her core rising with each emotion he forced her to name.

"There it is." Brax's smile was all teeth. "That's not heartbreak. That's your magic singing in your veins." He jerked his chin toward the torches on the walls. “So sing louder.”

“Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck their—”

“PISSWEAK!” Brax roared, surging to his feet and yanking her up with him. “I SAID SCREAM IT!”

“I'LL BURN IT ALL TO ASHES!”

Every torch in the armory exploded. Shards of hot iron embedded in the rafters. The group flinched, save for Dane, whose sword was halfway drawn before Brax flicked a wrist, freezing the scabbard shut. He winked at the Templar, and the Knight relaxed.

The pyromancer stood panting in the darkness, embers swirling around her like vengeful spirits. Only then did Brax smile—a thin, satisfied slit across his face. With a snap of his fingers, the tears still tracking down her cheek crystallized into dagger-sharp icicles. He caught them before they hit the ground.

“Congratulations, Trev.” He twirled the frozen shards between his fingers before driving them point-first into the nearest post. “You just converted self-pity into artillery.”

With two days before her Harrowing, Croft decided to focus the day’s lessons on combat. He told her and Abraxas to ready themselves to duel each other, and the two broke out their recently cleaned equipment. The cathartic releases of her emotions yesterday, paired with her fellow apprentice’s advice, staved off her dreams being plagued by Despair.

The sunny, pleasant Ferelden spring day awoke the hive of alchemy mages who had been swarming the large, flourishing garden all morning. Among them was her only female confidant.

While she and Rhetta found themselves in different political groups within the Circle, the two had solidified their friendship before choosing a school. While they agreed to disagree on that subject, when the two got riled up, sometimes you couldn’t tell which one was the pyromancer. And there was nothing that got the redhead going like Templars messing with mages.

“Oi, Evie!” Rhetta barked, scrubbing dirt off her hands as the battle-mage yanked her armor straps tight. Around them, mages bent over herb patches, plucking elfroot and spindleweed. The redhead’s green eyes darted sideways before she leaned in, voice dropping to a rasp. "Caught our Miri wit’ that Orlesian shitehawk by the infirmary this mornin’—all whisper-sweet an' pink as a spring maiden. Maker's saggy left ball, Evie, I'd swear they're makin' sheep-eyes at each other!" She punctuated this with a derisive snort, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Someone oughta put a boot up his arse 'fore this ends in tears—or worse, babes."

Evelyn wanted to feel happy for the healer—truly, she did. But as she jerked the laces of her vambrace tight, leather biting into the scar Miriam’s magic had seared across her forearm, her smile hardened. "You don’t have to worry about a—" Baby. The word clung to her teeth like spoiled honey. Rhetta’s puzzled squint stopped her cold. Damn it all. No matter how deep their rift ran, she wouldn’t out Miriam’s condition. She forced a shrug, fingers tracing the twisted flesh beneath her sleeve. "I mean, she’s the healer, isn’t she? Doubt she’d be careless." The pyromancer released a brittle laugh. "She got what she wanted, so good for her, you know. Really."

“Alright, fine, but ain’t it fuckin’ weird that Ser Shite was all over you first and now he’s makin’ calf-eyes at Miri?” Rhetta jabbed a dirt-stained finger at Evelyn’s chest, her nose scrunched like she’d smelled a rotten egg. “That don’t sit right in my gut. And let’s be real—Miq’s still a handsome bastard, even if his personality’s mouldier than a month-old loaf. But Miri?” The elf scoffed, shaking her head. “Sweet as sugar water, aye, but pretty as a rain-soaked nug. Either the man’s gone blind, or he’s up to somethin’.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Evelyn snapped. “Why should I? Miriam made it clear she doesn’t need me watching her back anymore.”

Rhetta’s face twisted into an angry pout, her cheeks flushing red. “Oh, piss on this,” she growled, kicking a clod of dirt so hard it shattered against the garden wall. “I could bear it if this was over a mage—if you two were scrappin’ over Brax or somethin’—but the fuckin’ Templar?!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “We’re really lettin’ those Chantry-fed pricks tear us apart? Really?!”

Evelyn’s jaw clenched, the mana in her veins flaring. "If those ‘Chantry-fed pricks’ were able to tear us apart," she hissed, "then maybe we were never worth holding together in the first place."

Rhetta’s face went slack for half a breath—then she exploded. "Eat a bag of rotten dicks!" She snarled, grabbing Evelyn’s tunic and yanking her so close their noses nearly cracked together. The smell of wet earth and freshly cut herbs rolled off her in waves. "Ye don’t believe that horseshit for a second.”

Evelyn didn’t pull away. Let the elf seethe. Let the world crack. "Let. Go." She gritted out, glowering down at the shorter mage.

Rhetta’s calloused fingers dug in harder, her knuckles white. "Make me, ya flamin’ bitch."

The Marcher’s eyes and veins sparked.

"Enough!" A sharp, localized force blast cracked into both their skulls, snapping their heads back with a brutal thwack. The two women yelped in pain, staggering apart as they whipped around to face the source of the interruption. "Trevelyan, get your damn arse over here—NOW! And you, girl, get to where you need to be and stop distracting my apprentice!"

The elf and human shared a loaded look before parting, but Evelyn did as commanded. Reaching Croft, Lieutenant Arlo was already there speaking with him. “If you’re lettin’ these two go at it, I’d like the new Knights to get a feel for their offensive magic. A bit of sensitivity training, if you will.”

The veteran mage twisted his lips in thought, staring at her, considering something. “Fine then. We’ll begin once you join us.” With that, the mages watched the bulky man stomp away towards his Knights.

Evelyn’s shoulders sank. If the pressure of her Harrowing wasn’t enough, Croft had just invited the Knights to feel her mana. There was something invasive about the ordeal, as if she’d be standing bare before them all. They’d feel her fire—her true essence— but she supposed she’d have to get used to it. If she passed her Harrowing, she’d get a Sentinel like Dane to keep her safe. There was a time she dreamed Cullen would be that Knight, but now it was a passing daydream.

Separating her and Brax on opposite sides of the sparring ring, the Marcher tried to focus on Croft’s words while their audience assembled to the left. “This is a test of raw magical strength, so you won’t need your staves. Your task is to overpower the other’s mana. In doing so, you’ll push the limits of your willpower. This is the measure of your perseverance.” His head snapped to hers, wanting this lesson to resonate with her upcoming trial. “This is the moment where you decide if you live or die in battle. Brax has practiced this a number of times, but you’ve yet to.”

Walking towards her, he instructed her on its mechanics. There was a very fine line that defined ‘control’ for Evelyn, and she was scared of what would happen if she pushed herself too far. She definitely didn’t feel like getting knocked out by the old mage again, like what happened with the Ghoul’s Beard incident.

He dug his thick fingers into her shoulder with a squeeze. “This could save your life in the Fade, so concentrate. It will also burn you out, so you may only get a few tries at it. Make it count.” Nodding, she touched her mana, priming it for release.

Going through her mental pre-battle list, Arlo’s voice invaded her preparations. “Knights! Here we have two mages that will test your sensitivity to the elements. I want you to split in half and stand by a mage for as long as you can. You will feel the uncomfortable effects of their magic, but try and withstand it to understand its nature.”

Unable to resist, Evelyn’s eyes followed the back of Cullen’s head as he went to stand by Brax. She huffed to herself, then another blonde caught her eye. Ser Vale came to stand near her, crossing her arms with disgust. Her voice was low, but no less venomous, “I got the best view to watch your arse kicking.”

If she was honest, Vale and her pettiness were low on her gives-a-fuck list. Evelyn did look forward to sending the Templar running with her mana, however.

“Mages, ready?” Croft then looked at Dane, always seemingly unfazed by every challenge of his austere abilities. “You ready, Ser? If they get too out of hand, you can show off your Andraste-given powers.” Dane readied himself, and the grizzled battle mage gave them the go-ahead.

Ice and fire exploded from their hands through the training yard. The opposing forces are battling for dominance. Evelyn could just see Abraxas over the stream of ice flying at her,

When a shard of ice sliced her cheek, Evelyn forced herself to focus harder on her foe. The other apprentice had two more years of experience than her and advanced spells. And what did Evelyn have?

Just then, a shine off a slightly curled blonde head of hair caught her eye. A flood of feeling overwhelmed her, and she knew then what she had was rage; an inner inferno hot enough to melt iron.

Yet, even as she started to fight back against Abraxas, he had already pressed his advantage. Evelyn struggled as the thick black smoke of her fire was pushed back at her. With one last surge of his mana, Abraxas’ frost hit her like an avalanche and sent her flying back a few feet.

“Stop!” Croft’s command was immediately heeded.

Panting and supporting herself up on her elbows, she shook off the lingering effects of the wintery magic. Fine cuts, as if sliced by glass, littered her body and marked her leather armor. Looking up, her eyes naturally met Cullen’s hardly-concealed concerned face before sweeping over to her sparring partner.

Abraxas just looked down his perfectly sculpted nose at her, waiting patiently for her to get up. “You alright, Trev?”

She held a hand up, waving off his speck of concern while pulling herself up out of the dirt. “Yeah, yeah, fine.”

“Trevelyan!” The gravel in the Knight-Enchanter’s voice echoed about the yard. She groaned, knowing she was about to get another beating of a different kind. “That was pathetic, and I don’t even think Brax was trying! Again! And this time, don’t embarrass yourself in front of the Knights! Bring the heat!”

As if Croft knew it’d light a literal fire under her arse, she couldn’t help her mind from revisiting the past week of tortuous exile from her friends. Cullen was now standing a few yards away with his arms crossed, staring at her with a scowl, as the Knights had switched mages.

Raising her hands at the ready, she squared off again with Abraxas. Frost drifted about his hands, reminding her of its bite. The ice that dwelled in his core whited out his irises, and the angular features of his face sharpened as if his bones were made of solid ice. Even if his face was an emotionless mask, his cockiness was visable in his stance.

Miriam’s words drifted into her thoughts, You always have to be the best. Was that truly such a bad thing? Evelyn couldn’t help the compulsion to want to humble him. To use his own lesson from yesterday against him.

If Croft wanted her to bring the heat, she wouldn’t disappoint him this time.

Feeding her inner inferno with all of her frustrations, she met his white eyes with her blazing orange irises. Forgetting Croft’s lessons about controlling emotion, she let the rage take her. Lava ignited in her veins while a slight snarl perked up her lip and nose. The air waved around her, and the Templars closest to her hissed like they had been burned, except for one tall blonde Knight too stubborn to yield.

Her opponent turned his head to the older mage, who narrowed his gaze on her but said nothing, content to see where this was going. Yet, Abraxas wasn’t frightened; instead, that wicked knowing grin spread on his lips.

Throwing her aching hands towards her opponent, thick, suffocating flames engulfed the yard. Billowing black smoke, not unlike that of a dragon, skirted the ground. She could see and feel the mana ebbing out of her veins to her palms. Gasps and curses were directed at her, but it only fed the inferno. She’d take their hate and turn it into a weapon.

Power—pure and raw—threatened to consume her. Evelyn was walking the line between greatness and death, pushing the bounds of her abilities.

The reach of the numbing frost receded as she ground her teeth. Everyone around the ring was beginning to slowly take more steps back, but she couldn’t see through the onslaught of her fire as to why.

“Trevelyan!” Croft’s voice pierced through her focus. He was the only one who dared approach. “Are you still with us?” Her orange glowing eyes flickered over in question. “Is Ser Dane needed?”

"No! I'm in control!" Her voice cracked under the effort, but she held firm—each ounce of her teacher’s doubt poured fuel on her rage. The flames roared like a living beast, swallowing Abraxas whole. Frost shattered before him, his defenses crumbling under the sheer, unrelenting heat. Evelyn’s breath tore from her lungs in ragged gasps, her muscles trembling, her vision swimming at the edges. But she clenched her jaw and forced her magic onward. Not yet. Not until he broke.

A sharp crack echoed through the yard as Abraxas’s ice shield splintered, and with a final, desperate surge of power, she sent him sprawling onto the scorched earth. His chest heaved, his garments now singed and smoking. The smirk was gone, replaced by wide, disbelieving eyes.

Silence.

Then, the murmurs began. Whispers of awe, of fear. The Templars watched her like she was something volatile, something dangerous. Even Croft’s expression was unreadable—approval warring with caution.

Evelyn’s knees threatened to buckle. Her hands shook, her mana utterly spent, her body a raw, trembling thing, but no one stepped forward to steady her. No one offered a hand. They just stared. Good.

The Marcher locked her legs, forced her spine straight, and lifted her chin. She didn’t need their help. The fire in her veins had been enough. It had always been enough.

Miriam’s words echoed again, but this time, Evelyn didn’t question them. You always have to be the best. And why shouldn’t she be when she had this much power? Enough to take out a mage two years her senior, and she was only scratching the surface.

She turned away from the stunned crowd, her jaw set, her steps slow but deliberate. Every movement was agony, but she wouldn’t falter. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She was a weapon. And weapons didn’t need anyone to care for them.

They only needed to strike.

Chapter Text

The parchment is crisp, the ink dark and unadorned—similar, utilitarian hand as the original letter, but with a single, deliberate flourish: a dagger-thin line scored beneath the final word.

The seasons heed your will. The weed you speak of has been marked—its roots shallow, its fate sealed. When the moon bleeds anew, no trace will linger in your garden.

Expect no further word until the deed is done.

Beside the letter, two items lie with deliberate placement:

A well-worn copy of “Herbs and Flora of Thedas: Their Virtues and Venoms,” its margins scribbled with notes in a cramped, unfamiliar hand. One page lies deliberately dog-eared, the entry on Hemlock faintly underlined: "Swift, silent, and without taste when brewed properly."

A scrap of parchment listing the Knight-Commander’s shifts at Kinloch Hold, the dates circled in faint red ink.

Evelyn

The moment had come.

Croft stopped her before she could enter the Mess Hall, and a good thing too, for she probably would’ve lost her dinner. “It is time.” He firmly gripped her bicep and led her up the many floors of the Circle Tower until they reached the top. There was no getting out of it. This was the hour of victory or death.

Aside from the ringing in her ears, Evelyn felt like the world had gone silent. Knowing eyes followed her, but unlike the other mages, her sentencing carried a weight of expectation with it. Even Miriam spared a moment to notice her, strangling her necklace. Was she saying a prayer or a curse?

Entering the domed chamber, Evelyn gaped at its expansive glass windows, making her feel as if she had ascended into the heavens like Andraste herself. The strong hand of the Knight-Enchanter helped her along as she dragged her feet, wanting to look around more.

At the center of the room stood the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander with the prepared draught of lyrium. There was a heaviness that hung in the air as she watched the Templars move about, keeping their muscles warm and ready. The clanks of their armor echoed around the room as they rotated their positions. If it weren’t for the lyrium, they would probably be dead and exhausted after hours of Harrowings.

She had heard that the lengths of Harrowings were based on the perceptiveness of the mage when confronting their demon. How fast could one see through the illusion of Desire? Find hope when Despair had taken it all. Find peace when Rage sowed nothing but utter chaos.

She wondered at the mage’s trial before her, seeing as the Knights seemed restless. Some hung their heads, others knelt in prayer. Yet, she had not seen the mage emerge from the room on her way up…

Evelyn missed a step in her stride momentarily when she caught the smeared blood across the chamber floor. Following it, she spied the Knight who had wetted his blade and his armor. Greagoir had stepped away from Irving to speak with him. “Well done, Ser Reid. Your quick reflexes saved us from a blood bath.”

Reid is here, Evelyn’s mind wandered, and she remembered Cullen would be here too… somewhere. She hadn’t seen him in days, and after seeing the aftermath of the last Harrowing, she could use some of his matter-of-fact reassurance despite her anger.

No. I don’t need him or anyone. Not anymore. Disposable. Rejected…

"Apprentice Trevelyan,” her head snapped to the voice of the Knight-Commander, “your instructors have all agreed the time of your Harrowing is now. While they have the utmost confidence in your ability to succeed, the choice is still yours: Begin the Harrowing or be made Tranquil?"

"I will take my Harrowing, ser."

"Are you sure? For if you fail, Andraste's Knights will strike you down before you wake." Greagoir's eyes narrowed. As if all were thinking the same thing, everyone’s eyes flicked down to the red-streaked floor.

"Absolutely. I would like to take my Harrowing, Knight-Commander, and fulfill my vows as a Knight-Enchanter."

"Very well, may the Maker watch over you in the Fade." Stepping down to ready the Knights, it was the grizzled mage she had become so fond of who approached with the glowing goblet.

"Remember, don’t hold back, bring the heat." His grin was more intense than it was comforting as he handed her the draught. She was relieved for his strength at this moment, for he had instructed her over the past few years to be a warrior, where soft and tender encouragement was a foreign idea.

Croft nodded to her, and she took a sip, slowly tipping the cup all the way up as if chugging a pint. The overwhelming high from the lyrium made her lightheaded, swaying before being steadied by her mentor and the Templar responsible for her safety while in the Fade.

Kneeling over her, the Knight leveled his sword above her neck like a butcher poised over a sacrificial goose. The cold edge gleamed in the dim light, but her gaze was fixed upward, past the shadow of his helm, into the flicker of his eyes. The lyrium in her veins burned bright, casting a glow that caught the gold flecks in his stare.

And in that moment, she knew him.

Cullen.

His eyes, always so expressive, betrayed what the steel-clad facade could not. They shifted like pages turning in a familiar tome: concern, resolve, aching affection. Hidden from the world, laid bare only for her.

Stop. Her thoughts hissed, brittle. It means nothing.

And yet—

The Fade’s pull surged, relentless. Evelyn gasped as the waking world shattered, and she plunged into oblivion.

Cullen

When Cullen saw Evelyn enter the chamber and realize that the mage before her had failed their Harrowing, it took everything in him to remain silent. He wanted to reassure her that she was strong and would not be tempted by any demon, but the subtle widening of her eyes showed the doubt peeking through her tough exterior. Nothing was a guarantee during Harrowings; there was always a chance of something going wrong.

As they rotated, he caught Vale trying to weasel her way over to the First Templar position and knew he needed to do something.

In a Harrowing, there was a succession in their order of defense in the case a mage became possessed. The Knight-Commander oversaw everything, and the decision to kill a mage before they woke from the Fade came from him. The ‘First Templar’ was the one to carry out such an order, or if the mage showed signs of possession, to end them, no questions asked. The other vital position was ‘Second Templar’, who stood by in case the demon killed the First Templar.

He knew the woman had it out for her, but his rational mind told him it would be a bold move to end her this way. But if he was wrong, and he had been wrong before…

Quickly, he knelt on the spot before she reached it. He heard her huff from behind but gave her no chance to speak with him, instead moving his head away to watch his infatuation approach. Cullen would’ve sighed in relief, but didn’t want to draw attention to himself or the fact that he had just potentially saved her life if indeed Vale was brazen enough to try and murder her—unfortunately, it would not be the first time something like that had happened in the Circle’s history. No one questioned when a Knight ended a mage; there was no oversight, no repercussions, and no questions asked.

He would not let Evelyn become a victim of one woman’s vendetta, all because of jealousy. Or for reasons he dared not dwell on.

With temporary relief flooding him that he was in charge of her welfare, he fixed his eyes on her, prepared to do what was necessary. Maker, could he bring himself to execute her if indeed she failed? No, she wouldn’t fail; this was Evelyn. No one was more dedicated, skilled at pyromancy, or deadly. She was fire itself, the living embodiment in every way. Even now, her body was giving off a comforting warmth that soothed his aching muscles after nearly two days of continuous Harrowings.

After taking her draught, he helped the Knight-Enchanter lower her down. She probably didn’t know it, but he slipped his lucky coin into her pocket. He couldn’t be sure, but before she journeyed to the Fade, he thought he saw the faintest glimmer of recognition in her eyes. That relief flooded her, that her physical body was safe in his care.

About a half-hour into her trial, her mana ignited, pulsing glowing magma through her veins. The dark chamber glowed with her soft light, bouncing off the Knights’ silverite armor. Though the picture of restful peace, he knew enough of his friend’s magic to ascertain she was using it. Flexing his hand on his sword, he knew this was it; she was battling her demon. The world around him blurred, and he mumbled silent prayers of protection under his breath. Evelyn’s face glowed like a wraith, and his breath hitched when a deep red stain began to spread beneath her pant leg.

Panic seized his chest, unable to do anything about it. Croft briskly crossed the dias to her and knelt across from him. His steely eyes moved back and forth in concern, then were pinned on Cullen, trying to ascertain the identity of who was watching over his apprentice. “Ser…?”

“Rutherford.”

A flash of relief spread through the grizzled battle mage at the reveal. “Good. I’m not interfering, just checking to see what demon she’s facing.” Moving to cut a slit in the knee of her pants, he moved over to examine the wound. “Andraste’s pyre,” he cursed out in a growl. In the opening, Cullen could see her skin had been burned, but not by fire. A deep, thick cut coiled around her leg. “That’s from a Pride demon.”

Another red spot spread on her forearm now as her mana blazed furiously, and then something incredible happened. Evelyn splayed large avian wings of fire. From the floor, her arms jerked outwards, hitting both Cullen and Gavril. Her back arched up as random bursts of fire exploded throughout the Harrowing Chamber, scorching the walls and sending sparks raining down like fiery snowflakes.

"Cut her down!" Vale shouted, her voice cracking. "She's failed the Harrowing! She's possessed!"

Cullen felt his stomach drop. His grip tightened on his sword so much that it hurt. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched Evelyn, his mind racing. Maker, this ain't true! How could this happen!? She was strong. She was ready! But the evidence was undeniable, crushing—the glow, the wings, the fire. It all pointed to one thing: Pride had taken hold of her.

“The flames haven’t hurt anyone! Hold position!” Knight-Commander Gregoir barked back. He had no patience for Vale after the expulsion of Witfield. “Ser Rutherford?!”

"Evelyn," Cullen whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames. He raised his sword. He could feel his heart breaking into a million pieces as he poised the sword for a strike, his blade trembling in his hand.

The Chamber fell silent for a split second as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then, with a sound like a thunderclap, Evelyn's eyes snapped open. They burned with a golden light, piercing and bright as if five suns were held within her gaze. She gasped, sucking in the air. The flames around her vanished, like dust in the wind. The Templars stumbled back, their fear palpable.

Cullen froze, his sword still raised. He stared at her, his breath caught in his throat. "Evelyn?!" he uttered, hoping against hope that she was still there.

She blinked as if trying to focus, her glowing eyes meeting his. Her lips parted, panting like her heart was running away from her. The Templars stared at her, their weapons still raised, unsure of what had just happened. Evelyn tilted her head, her glow fading until she looked like herself again—just a mage, just a woman. But the power she wielded moments ago lingered in the air, a silent reminder of what she was capable of.

Cullen lowered his sword, his shoulders sagging with relief. He wanted to say something, to ask her if she was truly okay, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he gave her a small nod, his expression a mixture of awe and lingering fear.

"I'm fine," she uttered, her voice calm and steady. "I passed."

Attempting to get up, Cullen shot up and held out a hand, but the stubborn mage pretended she didn’t see it, hissing in pain as she got up. When she went to take a step, her knees gave out and she fell forward. Catching her, Evelyn’s eyes fluttered shut in exhaustion, though she was barely conscious.

Cullen called out, “She needs a healer!”

“I’ve got her, Ser Rutherford!” Knight-Enchanter Croft swooped in, taking her from his arms. The rare show of concern for his apprentice stilled the Knights.

Gavril Croft had been ruthless and unrelenting when it came to her training, and here he was cradling her tall, bloodied form like she was his child. Perhaps in a way, she was now, as if getting too attached to his students before facing the Harrowing was a necessary shield against their failure.

“I’ll take her right to Wynne. Those injuries will need to be cleansed.” Evelyn made an attempt to say something, but was quickly hushed as he rushed her toward the door. “Well done, Trevelyan,” he imparted gruffly, but there was a father’s pride in it.

The pyromancer nodded against him wearily, but her gaze reached out once for Cullen before coldly focusing elsewhere. He wanted to congratulate her as she had upon completing his Vigil, but it was impossible now for more reasons than one.

Staring after her, a shove jostled him out of his brooding. Vale lowered her voice, “Keep defending her, and some of us may think there is more to your little friendship, Rutherford.”

“You’re lucky we’re short on female Templars, Vale, otherwise you’d be disgraced along with Witfield. You’ve no friends to throw under the Bronto next time.” He squared himself to her, glaring down into her helmet. “Trevelyan has more friends than just me to watch her back. Best bury whatever jealousy you have and focus on your Andraste-given duty.”

“Right, just like you, eh? Do yourself a favor and move on to more acceptable pursuits.” She leaned a shoulder in coyly. “Your own kind can satisfy without damning you to The Void.”

Before he could retort, Gregoir hailed him, “Well done, Ser Rutherford. That was a tricky situation to read, but you saved a damn good apprentice with your patience.” He shook his head in a bit of disbelief. “In all my years, I’ve yet to see a mutation like those wings. You did well not to panic… unlike some.” He shot a sharp look around as if making mental performance notes.

Cullen remembered waiting to feel their bite, but it never came. “The flames weren’t real, they didn’t actually burn or feel like anything. Do they mean something?”

His superior’s brow scrunched together in thought. Nodding to the First Enchanter, Gregoir imparted his question to him. “There have only been a handful of mages to ever have such a mutation. Those rare few have excelled, accomplishing great things. Many believe it bestows the ability to wield a higher form of magic.”

“Sounds dangerous.” The Knight-Commander narrowed his eyes. “She’ll need a Sentinel as soon as possible, Irving. As soon as she’s recovered, have her report to me.” The grayed mage hummed a low raspy note.

Stepping away and taking up a new position, Irving’s words rattled around in his skull. A higher form of magic? He couldn’t fathom the possibilities. What he did know was that it would make things more difficult for her, especially with Templars like Vale out there. Her Sentinel would have to be told about all this and do what was right for her. Could he trust just anyone with this? What if they choose Vale on principle alone because she’s a female? And what of another man guarding her?

Cullen’s fists clenched as that burning ache rolled through his chest. She hates you, remember? It’s better this way.

Yet, the more he told himself that, the less he believed it.

Chapter Text

Knight-Commander Greagoir,

I write to you with concerns regarding the recent mission to apprehend the blood mages responsible for the disappearances on the Imperial Highway. While the operation was ultimately successful, I must bring to your attention the erratic behavior displayed by Ser Eret Logan during the engagement.

Despite clear orders to hold position until the maleficarum were isolated and reinforcements were in place, Ser Logan once again allowed his fervor to overtake his judgment. He broke formation and charged the blood mages prematurely. His actions not only endangered himself but also forced the rest of the unit to engage before proper preparations could be made, resulting in unnecessary injuries among our ranks.

This is not the first time Ser Logan has acted impulsively when facing blood mages. While his bravery is beyond question, I fear his diminishing restraint may be a liability in such high-stakes situations. Given his many years of service and the toll that prolonged lyrium use takes on even the strongest of Knights, it may be prudent to reassess his current duties.

I submit this report with the utmost respect for Ser Logan’s dedication to the Order, but also with the conviction that the safety of our brothers and sisters must come first.

Yours in duty,
Ser Miquella De Lafaille

Evelyn

Evelyn stared up at the vaulted ceiling of the mage’s infirmary, wishing the answers to her problems would fall down and hit her like a brick. Instead, the potent brewing of tinctures and grinding of elfroot did, reminding her of her Harrowing and her meeting with Pride.

The demon’s voice curled through her memory like smoke, smooth and intoxicating: "You hunger for greatness, Evelyn—I can taste it. That relentless fire, that need to prove yourself not just capable, but peerless. The Circle seeks to dull your edges, to make you just another obedient little mage, trembling behind Templar shields. But you? You were never meant to kneel.

I have watched you. While the others waste their hours on petty spells and hollow politics, you grasp for something more. You could be legendary. A name that shakes the foundations of Thedas. Not just a Knight-Enchanter—a force. But they will never let you rise. Not truly."

The infirmary’s quiet hum faded beneath the remembered pulse of Pride’s presence, darkly alluring. She clenched her fists, the phantom echo of the demon’s whisper still coiled around her thoughts: "Yet with me? No limits. No fear. I would hone that pride of yours into a blade, sharpen your ambition until the world bleeds from its touch. No more hiding. No more holding back. All you need to do is reach out… and take it."

The temptation had been so great, greater than she would ever admit, even in the secret silence of her own mind. Pride had seen her too clearly, spoken truths that resonated deep in her bones. For one breathless moment, she had almost reached back.

But she had broken free. She passed the Harrowing after two familiar voices broke through to her subconscious, reminding her of what she was fighting for and who the first person she'd hurt if she let the demon win: Cullen. The thought was inconceivable, hardening her resolve even as Pride whipped her body with its dark magic.

She should have been elated, having proved herself stronger than the demon’s honeyed promises. Instead, the victory felt hollow, crumbling like ash in her hands. There was no one to share it with—no one who would truly understand. With all the whispers swirling about the higher form of magic she could command, the other mages kept their distance, eyes wary, while the Knights watched her with even sharper suspicion.

Sitting in the dank, cool dark of the Ferelden Tower, she had written to Sorin and Henley before her Harrowing. Upon waking from her spent state, she had two responses from her dear friends.

Evelyn unfolded the letters with careful fingers, the parchment rough against her skin. The ink was familiar—Sorin’s precise, angular script, Henley’s looping scrawl, both achingly dear. Their words spilled warmth, pulling her back to sun-warmed stone and the briny tang of Ostwick’s shores.

She traced a line where Henley had smudged the ink—probably laughing as he wrote—and could almost hear Sorin’s dry remark about Ferelden’s charming weather. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Maker, she missed them. Missed the way they’d shoulder against her in silence, understanding without words. Missed the certainty that, no matter how high she reached, they’d never look at her like something to fear.

Her throat tightened. She pressed the letters to her chest, as if she could imprint their comfort into her soul.

“Apprentice Trevelyan.” The voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

Evelyn looked up to see an older Knight she'd only ever noted in passing—tall, broad-shouldered, with an eyepatch emblazoned with a Chantry symbol covering his left eye. His black hair, streaked with silver, fell shaggily beneath his helm, and his thick beard gave him the look of a wildman dragged straight from the Hinterlands.

He inclined his head slightly, the motion more a formality than warm. “Ser Eret Logan. Your assigned Sentinel.”

Evelyn's fingers tightened around the letters from her friends, the parchment crumpling slightly as her disappointment settled like a stone in her chest.

Before her was a man she hardly knew—of, yes, but personally, no—yet was expected to trust with her life and her future as a Knight-Enchanter. Logan was a relic of the old guard—a Templar who preferred the hunt for maleficarum to the stifling confines of the Circle. Whispers followed him, tales of his brutal efficiency and the fits of rage that consumed him when blood magic was involved. Some said the blood mage, who took his eye, he had torn apart with his bare hands.

She could practically smell the lyrium on him—that metallic tang that clung to seasoned Templars. It made her magic itch beneath her skin in instinctive rebellion.

"Problem?" His voice was gravel wrapped in steel as he had probably felt her mana stirring.

Evelyn straightened. "No, Ser." Lie. Every instinct screamed that this partnership would be a battle in itself.

One corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Good. Let’s go.”

When they joined Croft, Abraxas, and Dane in the training yard, the Knight-Enchanter held out an arm to Logan, who smiled and shook it heartily. “Ser Logan! Good to see you, my friend!”

Of course, they were friends. She caught her eyes before they rolled.

“Likewise, Croft! The Knight-Commander put me in charge of your Apprentice here.” Croft’s eyes shot to Evelyn, and she could’ve sworn there was a hint of unease in them. “I’ll make sure to turn her into a disciplined fighter.”

The silver-haired mage’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Aye, I’m sure you will, Eret. I’m surprised you’d take on the Sentinel mantle. Did you finally eradicate the kingdom of all its maleificar?”

Logan shook his head. “Greagoir and I agreed a rest from the field would do me good. But you know how I can’t sit still, I have to do something. When he told me about your Spitfire here, I agreed to help train her.”

“Ah, I understand.” Croft’s gaze landed on her, seemingly lost for a moment. “Well, I suggest you begin by familiarizing yourselves with Trevelyan’s mana. I’ve no doubt you can handle it, Eret, but… she’s strong and spirited.”

Logan made a disgusted sound. “I know, I can feel it.” He then looked to his new charge. “Don’t worry, Spitfire, we’ll find a way to make you useful.”

Evelyn bristled at his remark, even if it was all she ever wanted since learning of her potent magic. This was still about survival, even if she had passed one of her biggest tests. Nothing could change that. Not Logan. Not the Maker. Not Cullen.

Cullen

“Ser Logan, how’s your charge warming up to you?” The Knight who asked jeered.

Cullen side-eyed the conversation from his end of the mess table with cold indifference despite his innards roiling. Logan had been assigned to Evelyn without so much as a word to the rest of the Knights. Typically, the Knight-Commander called for volunteers first, as while the position was highly prestigious, it was also gruelingly long days.

The battle-hardened swordsman turned his head more to look at the Knight with his one good eye. “Spitfire is coming along well. She’s a hothead, but I’ll beat that out of her soon enough. Mages like her need to be reminded of their place in this world. Especially if she’s to fight beside us.”

Cullen put his cup down too hard. The thought of a man like Logan trying to break her all because she was a mage sickened him. Evelyn didn’t need humbling—well, most of the time—Logan had it all wrong. She knew her place and her duty, and he knew she’d not take Logan’s instruction well after everything that happened with Miriam.

The healer had a calming effect on the pyromancer, making her think more rationally. Evelyn had been stuck with Rhetta, the elf who spat at him whenever he passed them in the Tower. With Evelyn stuck between her and Logan, the situation was starting to become worrisome.

Sure enough, Evelyn’s inherent fieriness pushed Logan too far one day.

Between shifts, he and Reid decided to work on their swordwork in the yard. He sensed Evelyn near—it being nearly impossible these days not to, as he secretly sought her mana with his Andraste-given abilities. A weakness on his part, but he told himself it was for her protection.

Ser Logan’s voice boomed through the yard, “What the fuck was that?! You just let the Knights counting on you die with that pathetic display!” His towering figure over hers made Cullen’s body tense, and his hands squeezed the hilt of his sword painfully.

“That’s what happens when I don’t tap into my emotions. My mana reacts to my anger and focus—”

“Magic doesn’t work like that.”

Cullen held his breath. Evelyn’s jaw moved like she was biting back one of her smart remarks. “Mine does. With all due respect, Ser, how would you know? You’re not a mage.”

“Bullshit excuses! Now, do it again!” He watched as Evelyn tried it his way a few more times before her frustration got the better of her, and shot a fireball the size of a melon at her target. Veins on fire as much as her target, her raptor glare bore into Logan, trying to prove her point. “Back it down, little Spitfire,” he growled, putting her in his shadow. Even Cullen sensed she was nowhere near her full power.

Not like at her Harrowing.

Evelyn stared back in defiance. “I’m in control, Ser—” She gasped and shuddered, hit with a light reprimand of Silence.

“No, I’m in control.” Logan held up a finger. “I better not have to ask again.”

Her flaming irises cooled to her normal woody brown before standing tall once more. Logan regarded her coolly before suddenly backhanding her harder than any Templar—or man—had the right to. Blood poured from her split lip as the momentum took her to one knee.

Cullen felt himself lurch forward, but Tristian’s arm stopped him. A quiet warning not to interfere. They had no right to get between a Sentinel and their charge as much as he wanted to.

“You don’t get to tell me, girl, how to train you. And you’ll obey the first time I give you an order.”

“Eret—” Croft tried to intervene.

“Stay out of this, Gavril. This is between me and Spitfire here.” Croft didn’t have much choice. He may be respected among Templars for his service, but he was still a mage. Powerless like the rest of them. “Get up!”

She obeyed, a stain of red dripping down her front, but no tears. Apparently, he was looking for a reaction from her, but got none, making him angrier. In one swift motion, Logan grabbed her by the front of her tunic and yanked her forward, then slammed his forehead into her face.

Crack.

It was a sickening sound, but it didn’t come from her…

Logan staggered back with a hissed curse, blood welling from a split above his brow.

"Maker’s balls, Eret…" Croft muttered, concerned.

The Sentinel wiped at the blood dripping into his one good eye, his glare molten. "She’s got a fucking rock for a face."

"A reinforced barrier for a face, Ser," Evelyn's voice was steel.

A few of the Templars watching coughed into their hands, but whether it was to hide laughter or shock, Cullen couldn’t tell.

Logan’s lip curled. "First clever thing you’ve done all session, Spitfire."

The pyromancer bared her teeth in a bloody grin. "Comes naturally when you always expect to be hit."

Logan took a step forward as if he was about to attack her again, but then he swayed, his face going ashen, his balance faltering as if the ground had tilted beneath him. Before he could collapse, Croft blurred into motion, fade-stepping just in time to catch him by the shoulder. "Easy, friend," he muttered, steadying him.

The older Templar batted weakly at his grip. "M’fine. Just... need a moment." His words slurred slightly, his pupils uneven.

Croft snorted, but his voice was low, almost gentle. "You just headbutted a barrier. You’re lucky you’re not vomiting on your own boots right now." He tightened his hold. "Infirmary, Eret."

Surprisingly, Logan didn’t argue. He let the Knight-Enchanter guide him away, though he managed a last glare at Evelyn. "Come, girl."

Evelyn wiped her bloody lip on her sleeve. "Right behind you, Ser."

Pretending to go back to his swordwork, Cullen watched as Brax approached her. The cryromancer pressed a cool finger to her lip, making her wince. When it passed, the tension in her shoulders relaxed, and she dabbed at the wound lightly with her sleeve. The two mages shared a resolute look before Logan’s voice cracked off the high outer walls, reminding her that she had to follow.

Turning, she walked like she was on her way to the gallows. Evelyn must’ve felt his gaze because her eyes—bloodthirsty and spiteful—flickered over to him. Cullen knew her well enough to know the wheels were turning in her head, strategizing how to save herself.

She had only Rhetta, Brax, and Dane to rely on, and none of them were a particularly good influence in any case. Now was the time, he needed to speak with her—corner her so she couldn’t escape and hear reason before her temper got the better of her.

He went to the Infirmary to find her waiting beside the closed doors for her Sentinel, with her arms crossed and back against the wall. Those drifting by kept their heads down, seeing her bloodied state and wanting no part of the trouble that always followed her. As soon as she saw Cullen, she rolled her eyes and stormed off as if knowing what was coming.

“Evelyn,” he called to her, but she didn’t stop, despite having heard him. “Evelyn!”

Maker’s breath, there wasn’t a more stubborn mage in all of Thedas…

Cullen reached for her hand, pulling her into one of the Tower’s many enclaves. “Would you just…” Naturally, she was fighting him. “...bloody stop so we can talk!”

“Why should I?!”

“Because you need to hear reason from a friend—”

“Friend?” She scoffed. “A friend, Cullen, doesn’t go behind my back and ruin friendships!”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen! I had no idea Miriam would react like that. I was trying to get her help.”

“Help with what?”

“Help in making you see reason—which has apparently abandoned you entirely!” She stilled, the fierce facade she put up fracturing. His eyes dropped to her split lip. “Whatever you’re planning to do to Logan, don’t.”

“Then you propose I do nothing?” Her arms flew out to her sides. “He thinks I’m an abomination.”

“I know.”

“That I’m revolting.”

“I know,” his voice growing quieter.

“Worthless.”

Cullen sighed. “I know.”

She gazed up at him with tired and pleading eyes. “Then what in the Void am I supposed to do? Let him break me?” Her voice dropped low, in warning, “You know I can’t let him do that.” They shared a knowing look at her predicament. “I’m stuck with him. He’s my Sentinel. Not even Croft can do anything about it.”

“There has to be something.”

She shook her head, her tone grave, “I’m not your concern, Cullen.”

He felt his face scrunch up. “Don’t do that. You can be mad at me all you want, but I’m not going to let you be branded over your hotheadedness.”

“Why? It certainly would make your job easier.”

“You were the one who decided we were going to be friends years ago when you first came here.” Her expression finally relaxed a bit. “You’re kind of stuck with me whether you hate me or not.”

He could tell she wanted to be mad at him, but was having trouble holding her ground. It didn’t matter that there was a rift between them, he knew there was something else there—something stronger—causing a constant pull, as much as he tried to deny it himself. But if it would save her from doing something he’d regret, he’d use it.

“You really haven’t given up on me, even after everything I’ve called you?” Evelyn had made it a point to make up creative names for him, she’d mutter in passing. How she knew it was him in his full armor while on duty, he had yet to figure out.

He gave her a dry stare. “You mean like Nug-humper.” Evelyn bit her bottom lip. “And Ser Curly-Arse-Hair.”

“That one was pretty clever, I thought.” Finally, she smiled, genuine and pure. It was a sight he’d been deprived of for some time. But as quickly as it bloomed, it faded. “I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”

“I know, I—”

Pounding feet and the sound of alarm had them both running toward the Infirmary.

The doors burst open under Cullen’s shoulder as Evelyn stumbled in behind him. The scene inside was madness given form.

Ser Logan stood in the center of the room, sword drawn and wild-eyed, his blade leveled at Miriam’s chest as she stood trembling before him. Twin streaks of bloody tears carved paths down her cheeks, that quirk of hers that looked so much like...

"BLOOD MAGE!" The older Templar roared, spittle flying from his lips. His forehead wound had reopened, painting half his face crimson. "I’LL HANG YOUR ENTRAILS FROM THE CHANTRY BELLS!"

Croft lay motionless near them, the telltale shimmer of The Wrath of Haven pulsing around his unconscious form. Beside him on the ground were a few other young Knights, dead. Ser Miquella and three other Templars circled warily, their blades out but hesitation clear in their stances.

But Evelyn didn’t hesitate. She pushed forward, hands raised. "Ser—"

"STAY BACK!" Logan swung the sword toward the pyromancer. His pupils were pinpricks, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I SMELL THE ROT IN HER VEINS! SEE IT BUBBLING FROM HER EYES!"

Cullen moved before he could think, placing himself between Evelyn and the blade. "Stand down, Ser Logan," he commanded. "It’s a mutation. Enchanter Miriam’s healing magic causes—"

"LIES!" Logan lunged at the healer.

“Maker!” she shrieked, her hands flying up in a desperate warding gesture. Evelyn's fire surged behind Cullen just as Silence detonated through the Infirmary. The magic died in midair; Miriam's barrier and the Marcher’s flames winked out.

Logan's blade met no resistance as steel parted flesh with a wet crunch, carving diagonally from collarbone to opposite hip. A geyser of arterial blood arced upward, splattering across the ceiling in a grisly constellation. Miriam’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as her torso yawned open, a grotesque second smile glistening with shattered ribs and pulped organs.

For one heartbeat, the world stopped.

Then Evelyn screamed. Not in horror, nor grief, but in a pure, unadulterated rage, a sound so raw it scraped the air like a blade across bone.

Cullen barely had time to turn before the heat hit him. A furnace-blast of pure fury, rolling off the pyromancer in waves. The blood on the floor boiled. The Silence shattered like glass.

And then fiery wings erupted from her back just like at the Harrowing. They unfurled with a roar, igniting the very air. Tables and cots charred to ash in an instant. The stone walls blackened. Templars stumbled back, armor searing their skin.

Logan’s laughter died in his throat.

Evelyn’s eyes, once warm brown, now pits of orange, locked onto him.

"Burn," she whispered.

And he did.